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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

There was a valley beyond Alberich Hollow. The tall grass was crisp and swayed gently in Nidavellir’s summer breeze. Sunlight dripped from full blooming trees like soft honey and the air was flush with the smell of lilies. Asta returned to her family home a few months ago with new vigor. 

It was a small homestead, but rich in farmland surrounded by lush trees that had long protected the area from the prying eyes of the Einherjar. Radsvinn’s Rig fell shortly before Ragnarök, freeing the land from its poison. Fruit and vegetables now grew in abundance, and not simply the massive pumpkins Nidavellir was famous for. Corn, tomatoes, apples, strawberries! It was all there for her reaping, and she was determined to share her bounty with the Realm. 

With her basket balanced skillfully on her hip, Asta set out to harvest. 

~~

Living off the land came naturally to dwarfs, but Sindri was struggling. Particularly with the heat. He hated the feeling of being so sweaty, how his loose robes clung to his flesh from both the moisture in the air and what dripped from his pores. Midgard was nowhere near this hot on it’s hottest day, and suddenly Sindri felt himself missing the chill of Fumblewinter. 

The thought alone felt like blasphemy. 

Luckily, he found a small creek to cool off. He splashed water onto his face and forearms, letting it wash away some of the grime and sweat that had caked his lithe face. It wasn’t enough to fully bathe in, and Sindri very much doubted his stomach could handle being in stale water anyway. The smell of it alone was enough to keep him from trying. 

As if to deliberately add to his torment, his stomach growled. How long had it been since he ate? Sindri couldn’t remember. 

He knew there was a small field nearby, abundant with new crops. The key to his hunger was there. He would be quick and quiet then move on to his next spot, wherever that would be.

~~

Asta inspected her apple. She held it up in the afternoon sun, noting its lush, red flesh and delicious scent. Gods, how long had it been since they ate food from their own lands? To enjoy the benefits of their own harvest? 

She grabbed another, then another and tossed them into her basket. All of the apples were bruise-free, shimmering, and ready to be devoured. She had to contain her own growing hunger. What should she make with them? A pie? A sweet stew? The possibilities were endless. 

She moved to her next selection, a healthy patch of tomatoes growing triumphantly on their mother tree, glistening red. She picked one, then her eye caught something…strange.

 There were smaller tomato trees to her side that had seemingly been crushed and bent. They were missing all of their fruit, the stems that once bore them twisted and broken. As if someone desperately hungry had ripped them away. She frowned and followed the trail of broken vegetation with her eyes. The path lead deeper into a disturbed underbrush. Asta quietly wondered what sort of animal would have made a home here. Certainly not the Grim, who preferred the hostile climate of the Aurvangar Wetlands and the taste of dwarf flesh over fruit. 

She hoped so, at least. 

She stepped forward quietly, intending to collect just enough to top off her basket. Now she felt…uneasy. Dwarfs were excellent at everything, including being prey for the various creatures of her Realm. Especially the Grim. Luckily for the dwarfs, a sharp sense of awareness gave them a fighting edge. Asta could feel the dark hairs on the back of her neck prickle. Something or someone was definitely watching her. 

Just a few more and she would go. 

She reached out for another and then -

“Oh, gods!” The dwarf woman nearly jumped out of her skin as she spotted a pair of dark eyes glaring out at her from the underbrush. A fast blur and the loud scattering of leaves, then a man stood before her. He was thin, haggard, and red-eyed. His beard was full like most dwarf men, but beginning to gray substantially. A dirt-caked cloak failed to hide his misery. She backed away in shock, her basket dropping to the ground, her hands raised. Her pickings also fell and rolled past her feet, strawberries, apples and tomatoes glistening like blood in the shimmering, summer heat. 

“Great Jarnsmida, I’m sorry! I was just leaving, I…”

The filthy man crouched and reached for her fallen basket. He grumbled and picked up a few of the scattered strawberries, shoving them eagerly into his mouth. She watched, noting how his hands were thin, the fingers with knuckles like the bumps on a tree. Then, he grasped an apple and crunched desperately into it, juices spilling down his mouth, into his beard. Asta could do nothing but watch the pitiful scene. 

“I’m hungry.” He growled, glaring up at her. 

Asta could tell. 

“I’m…sure…” She nodded softly towards him, still unsure how to feel. Fear? Pity? Both?  

Her eyes widened slightly as he straightened his spine - he was indeed quite tall for a dwarf and stood a full head above her. He tossed the spent apple core behind him and glared down at her. His reddened eyes narrowed with suspicion, yet he remained oppressively silent. 

Asta’s dark eyes lit up. “You’re the man from the tavern…I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you…” She dared a small step forward. The dwarf man shuddered, as if disgusted by the very proximity of her. 

He could have easily vanished, walked into another Realm to avoid conflict. But he was starving and this woman had food. Sindri then took a moment to examine her. Her hair was as black as Odin’s ravens, streaked here and there with strands of silver. She was younger than him, but probably not by much. Two loose strands of hair framed her narrow face. Yes, she was indeed the dwarf woman from the tavern, the one with the strange geometric stitches on her mantle. She was wearing a different outfit today, but it was her. 

The one who betrayed him with silence and inaction, just like every dwarf in the Realm.

 Sindri sneered at her. 

“Yeah. Your friends were bullying me.” He growled. Asta frowned. 

“They were my friends, but not anymore.” She offered him an apologetic smile, then bent to scoop up her dropped basket and goodies. Sindri leered at the apples and strawberries, his stomach howling. Asta took note, and curled her lip before speaking. 

“Listen…this is going to sound crazy but…I owe you for not stepping in. I should have said something.” She glanced up at him, meeting his cold gaze, his tired eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t offer you much, but…I can at least give you something to eat?” 

Sindri’s face twisted, but he considered. His stomach was yearning. The sweet flesh and juices of just one apple or a pitiful handful of strawberries wouldn’t be enough to sustain him. He needed more. His muscles, his bones, his core ached for nourishment. 

“You don’t even have to stay…just let me make you a quick meal, then you can go.” 

Asta didn’t expect him to agree. 

“Fine.” He said, his voice sharp like a spear. She shivered. This is crazy, the voice of rationality and reason echoed in her mind. You’re crazy for taking this man in. 

“…Alright.” She nodded curtly towards him but kept her distance as she began to lead a trail to her home. Sindri stepped forward then…hesitated. He watched her for a passing second. Her long black hair was fashioned in a large singular braid that trailed down to the small of her back, giving it the appearance of a dragon’s tail. The clasp near the tip was a type of bronze with swirling gold inlay.

As if sensing his hesitation, she turned. 

“You coming?” 

Sindri’s jaw tightened, but he resumed his pace. He lumbered silently towards her, but stayed behind her, away from her prying eyes. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t spare him from her prying questions. 

“So…” she began, not glancing over her shoulder to look at him as they walked. Oh gods, here we go. Sindri wanted to tune her out, to listen to the birds and the wailing of insects. Anything would be better than this. 

“I’m Asta. I never got your name, obviously.” 

“Obviously.” 

Sindri’s reply was ice cold, dripping with a thousand knives. Asta briefly glanced back towards him, noting how he had draped his cloak over one shoulder, revealing a sweat-soaked tunic that was in desperate need of repair. His hair was greasy and clumped around his shoulders.

“Well. I just thought I’d ask what yours is?” 

“I’m surprised you don’t know.” Sindri growled, making an annoyed click with his tongue. 

Asta raised an eyebrow, focusing instead on the path ahead. His tone was starting to irritate her. 

“Why would I know your name?” 

She heard Sindri scoff. 

“You know of the Huldra Brothers, right? Famous dwarven blacksmiths?” He growled, and she could hear that he was catching up to her. The soft crunching of his boots on fresh grass drew close. 

“The who…?” 

She heard him stop. She turned, gazing at him pensively. His face was twisted in a scowl of disbelief. 

“The Huldra Brothers?” Sindri pressed. Asta’s face remained painfully flat. Sindri couldn’t believe it. No, it was impossible. She had to know who he - who they - were. 

“I’m sorry. My family spent time outside of Nidavellir for a while. I’ve heard of many famous dwarven blacksmiths of course, but that particular name doesn’t ring a bell.” 

Sindri wasn’t sure if his heart could shatter anymore than it already had. But he felt little pieces of it fall away at the revelation that she didn’t know them - know him - and another piece of his brother was forever lost to time.

He took a deep breath, then… “You’re…you’re not serious.” 

“I am, unfortunately.” Asta turned back towards the path. Finally, a small homestead was coming into view. Sindri followed, feeling more hollow than ever. They walked in an uneasy silence for a bit, until Asta spoke again. 

“Famous dwarven blacksmiths…the Hildra Brothers?” she inquired, not intending to set off Sindri’s already frayed nerves. 

“Huldra.” He corrected, and Asta nodded. 

“I’m not going to ask how you got that name…” she half-laughed, half-sneered at Sindri from over her shoulder. Sindri frowned but appreciated her apathy. He was far too exhausted and hungry to explain how he and Brok got their smithing name. 

“That’s for the best.” He murmured, catching a small chuckle from her. 

His feet hit cobblestones. They now trailed a small, hand-laid stone path towards the home. It was shaded with blooming trees and flanked by shrubs. Sindri could tell that there was a small backyard with an aged wooden fence wrapped around the parameter in a crescent moon shape. Asta adjusted her basket on her hip, and for a moment Sindri sensed that she was uneasy. 

“Mhm. So, you made weapons for the gods?” She asked, and Sindri wasn’t sure if he had the energy to answer. But he did, his pride getting the best of him once again. 

“Oh, sure. We just forged Thor’s hammer, The Leviathan, Draupnir…” 

 Asta’s eyes widened. She spun suddenly to face him and he was startled by the intensity of it. 

 “You forged Thor’s hammer?” She sounded breathless. 

“Yes.” Sindri growled. There was that spark of pride again! But the memory of Brok drowned it as quickly as it has surfaced. Of course he hadn’t forged the great and terrible Mjölnir alone. It was Brok who worked the bellows of the forge while he hammered molten iron into shape. It was Brok who commanded the thunder from the sky with his booming voice to descend into the hammer and enchant it with its power. 

Brok. 

His brother. 

Brok…

Don’t think about him.

“Yes…uh. My brother and I. We created Mjölnir.” 

Asta’s mouth hung open. Disbelief? Awe? Sindri wasn’t sure. 

She stepped back and cleared her throat, carefully re-balancing the basket on her hip. 

“That’s…wow. That’s really impressive.” It was more of a cough than a statement. Sindri narrowed his dark eyes and the dwarf woman returned to following the path ahead. Her shoulders were now squared with tension. He watched her carefully, noting how she now hung her head down and looked at the ground instead of what was in front of her. 

“Yeah. So…” Sindri found himself at her side. She glanced up at him, surprised. “Now you know who we are?” 

Asta nodded, but said nothing more. Strange, Sindri thought. There was no bark of dwarven laughter, no haughty words of “damn right, of course a dwarf forged those sacred weapons!”. That was the usual reaction. Her response puzzled him. He decided to drop it, for now. They were close enough to her home to change the subject anyway. 

He turned his attention instead to her modest home. It was beautiful but small, fashioned in the traditional dwarven manner of form entwined with function. A far cry from his own home that once stood proud within the branches of the World Tree, but a stable shelter nonetheless. His heart throbbed at the thought of his home, now nothing more but a smoldering pile of gray ash. 

Asta approached her door and gently opened it. She half-turned and gestured for him to follow. It was much cooler inside thankfully, no doubt a blessing from the shaded oasis that surrounded the home. 

“I’ll…make you something quick. I can have a fire going shortly. Do you have any preferences?” 

Sindri entered her home, but kept his eyes on her. She was acting different. Nervous. He supposed that wasn’t unusual. She was alone with a strange disheveled man, after all. 

“Anything you want to make is fine.” He growled, trying to silently lighten his voice so as to not add to her stress. “Thank you.” He threw that part in for good measure. Asta’s shoulders smoothed with ease. She moved towards an open kitchen where a darkened hearth sat. 

“Alright…well. It won’t take me long. You can hang up your cloak. Feel free to rest in the living room, there is a big comfy couch in there.” He could hear the grin in her voice and wanted to vomit. He shuffled tiredly into the living room anyway and indeed, there was a huge but gaudy red sofa awaiting him with open arms. 

He started at it from a moment. 

Mind if I give you the best advice you’ve heard all day, and possibly ever? 

Wasn’t it not so long ago that he was encouraging a certain young man to rest? A young man that had once been his friend and confidant? 

Sindri’s throat felt dry. 

Sleep. 

He stepped forward, but hesitated. 

It’s when all the troubles of your mind work themselves out. 

Gods knew he needed that. 

He sank into it, feeling all the old bones in his body sigh with relief. Oh, it felt good to lay on something soft again. He couldn’t resist sleep’s temptation and fell into a deep slumber. 

He didn’t dream. It was nothing but soft darkness, sweet nothingness. No feelings, no memories. 

No Brok. 

~~

Sindri cracked his eyes open. He felt groggy and hungover. A delicious smell perked his senses to lucidity, and soon he found himself in Asta’s empty kitchen. The stranger was absent but a full plate had been set out for him. He paused near the dinning table chair, inspecting the plate edge for any signs of beasties or rouge pieces of dirt. Once he decided it was acceptable, he finally sat. His plate was set with two large fried eggs, their golden yolks a bit runny and sprinkled with black pepper. A half loaf of fresh bread with butter and some kind of dark fruit jam was on the side. Finally, a slice of roasted meat, topped with a little bit of brown gravy and spices, made the centerpiece of his plate. She had also left him a goblet filled with cold fresh water, steeped with a few mint leaves.

He could hardly contain himself and began to devour it. The food smelled delicious but if he was honest, Asta’s cooking wasn’t great. Brok had made better meals. The egg yolks were too runny and her meat was overcooked. 

It would do.

He ate and ate until he thought he would burst, then noticed something else. A small pie, about the size of an apple, gleamed from its place behind his cup. The crust was golden-brown and smelled of butter. He reached for the little hand-pie and took a great bite from it. Oh, this was good. Much better than her roast. The flavor was a sweet and tart blackberry, and filled his mouth with much needed ecstasy. Too bad it was gone within three bites. He stood up and wiped his mouth with his tattered sleeve. He drank all of the water from the goblet, set it down unceremoniously and groaned. It was time to go. He didn’t care about the strange woman and did not want to overstay his welcome, so he vanished within a blink, leaving only a cold ripple of air behind. 

Asta climbed the basement stairs carefully then grasped the rusted doorknob, hesitating. She had heard noises from the kitchen and assumed her guest was there. The dwarf woman peered into the kitchen, wincing as the door groaned. Sindri was gone. She frowned, then noticed his plate had been scraped clean. Not a crumb was left. Her heart sank, and she found herself quietly wondering where he went.

~~

The smell of dusk welcomed him. Blood red was Nidavellir’s sun as it sank below the forest canopy. Sindri returned to his little camp, but his tent had been shredded to pieces by some animal or a Grim. He didn’t want to stay with the stranger and her nauseating warmth. He would stay here, in his little hole. Until he rotted away. 

It’s what he deserved. 

He decided to make a shelter from branches and leaves, but as he worked a strange sound disturbed him. 

He glanced over his shoulder. Once. Twice. The noise stopped, then resumed. Sindri’s enhanced dwarf senses were firing, the little prey hairs on the back on his neck standing on edge. His hearing - not quite as good as it used to be - picked up on the dreaded sound once more. 

A boar snorting. 

At least, that’s certainly what it sounded like. 

Strange, he thought. Wild boars were plentiful in Vanaheim, but he had never encountered one from his native Realm. He supposed it was possible that Freyr or a rouge Vanir god introduced them long ago. It wasn’t entirely out of the question. He paused his work and crouched low. Boars weren’t as terrible as the Grim, but they could still be dangerous, especially if feral. He was ready to climb a nearby tree if it attacked, and the thought made him laugh bitterly to himself. 

The sound drew closer. 

He rested his open palm on top of his knife sheath. His breath quickened. 

A wail pierced the thick air, and Sindri spun to greet a horrid sight. 

Brambles crunched and the forest spread open. The beast made itself known. Sindri was almost blinded by its brilliance. It was indeed a massive boar, as big as Fenrir with a circle of shimmering golden hairs crowning its head like the rays of a sun. Its tusks were gold, but their ends were ruby red. At first, Sindri assumed it was from blood but no - the tusks were aflame with mystical fire. Its eyes - oh, it’s eyes - were bright white like two impossibly hot pits of celestial energy. They were dripping- no, weeping-leaving glowing trails down its face. 

Sindri fumbled, but managed to pull out his knife and hold it threateningly at the animal. The very same knife forged from his armor. The gold that swirled with Brok’s blood and his own agonized wailing. 

“Stay back!” He shouted. But the boar did not retreat. 

“I’m warning you!” Sindri shouted again, feeling an immense heat radiate off of the monster and onto his outstretched arms. 

The creature snarled and then charged. 

Sindri shouted wordlessly and leapt out of the monster’s path. He hit the ground hard, then scrambled for the nearest tree. But the boar was already turned, hot on his heels. He knew climbing a tree wouldn’t spare him from a creature that big, so he zigzagged into the deep underbrush, using his small size as best he could to his advantage. He could hear the beast huffing and puffing as it rummaged through the forest, smashing small trees and bushes in its wake. 

He ran. And ran. And ran. 

The sound of the forest bending under the weight of the monstrous boar followed him. He found a particularly thick patch of growth and laid flat, listening to the sound of his own heart beat, the blood pounding through his veins as a giant shadow passed over him. 

Sweat trickled down his back. He waited…listened. He heard nothing but his own labored breathing. 

Then…a wail and the smashing of small branches. Golden hooves trampled close. Sindri grit his teeth, clutched the soil and vanished into another realm. The warm dirt of his home realm was now the blistering cold snow of Niflheim. He stood and listened, his neck hairs trembling. The freezing, howling winds were a welcome sound. No snorting, no growling.

 At least…

He turned. White-hot eyes greeted him, and he screamed.  

Then he vanished again, this time the frozen wastes melting into the lava beds of Muspelheim. He was overwhelmed by the heat and in his haste had transported to a plateau flanked by a smoldering, glowing river. He glanced around frantically. No sight of the monster…until…

A golden mountain arose from the lava river, spraying a great blast of fire and molten rock. Sindri screamed and threw up his arms, feeling the incredible heat bake his flesh. The boar roared and swam towards him through the dense, hellish lava flow until he slipped between realms again.

Now he was in Midgard within the thick of the Wild Woods. It was fall. The tree canopy above was a curtain of overlapping orange, red, and gold. The air was crisp and carried the scent of a nearby bonfire, rich and smoky. It was cool, and soothed his skin. Gods, he loved the fall. Especially in Midgard.

If only he could…

The sound of loud trampling approached and Sindri whipped his head around. The boar screamed and rushed towards him. A blur of gold, white, and red. He slipped between realms again.

Alfheim.

Helheim.

Midgard again. The result was the same. Each time he would vanish, and each time the boar would pursue. And each time, it was closer to devouring him.

There was one realm he refused, until he could no longer.

Jotunheim’s smooth cavernous rock was cool under his trembling palms. He stood, hoping beyond all reason that this was the realm where the boar could not pursue. He was in a cave, embraced on all sides by red and yellow stone. Pinpoints of light broke in from holes within the rocky ceiling above. It was silent, as if the realm itself was taken aback by his very presence. Or…from the grim fact that this realm was now a grave for those who had perished under the might of a weapon forged by his own hands.

Sindri walked, finding a path deeper into the cave. In his time realm walking, Jotunheim was his least visited. At the time, he respected the Giant’s wishes for privacy and decided it was best to avoid the realm all together. Odin’s ire and lust for knowledge would have made him a likely target if he was a frequent visitor, and Sindri was not interested in courting the wrath of the Aesir king.

Former Aesir king.

A cruel smile tugged at the corner of Sindri’s lips.

Had the Giants, in their gifts of prophecy, witnessed the fall of Odin at the hands of a dwarf? At the vengeance of his brother’s hammer?

Sindri didn’t know.

He crept along, finding nothing, hearing nothing, not even the whispering of the wind on the mountainside of the Giant’s Fingers.

The path opened into a wide room and the walls came alive with stylized carvings of Giants long passed. There were many with stoic faces, each one finding his gaze and holding it captive. Even eyeless, the statues wept in their loneliness.

He followed a curved walkway to a platform where the entire wall was carved and painted. Tattered fabric hung there, clearly once meant to conceal a piece of the mural. He stopped, taking a moment to let his tired eyes soak in every detail, every chiseled and brushed piece of prophecy. He saw Thamur. Kratos and Atreus fighting Baldur. He saw little Atreus holding what seemed to be his father, dead. The figure of Atreus looked up pitifully to the sky, as if weeping. He thought of his own parents, long passed on into the Light and how Brok would never, ever be reunited with them. His eyes roamed to the right, tears stinging the corners of them.

He found the carving of Laufaye the Just, holding her axe and pleading to her people.

Leave it to the dwarfs to clean up after the Giants!

“This is your fault.” Sindri mouthed the words. He glared up at Faye, at the giantess who promised to protect them. No, it wasn’t Faye’s fault. He knew that very well. But his anger, his rage, it all screamed inside of him, devouring his guts, his mind, his very soul. Where else could it go? It was going to eat him alive.

He felt the edges of his vision blacken.

Leave it to the dwarfs to clean up after the Giants!

Sindri reached out his hand and carefully laid his palm upon Faye’s stone likeness. Her axe - the weapon he and Brok forged so long ago, a weapon they hoped to set the course of history in the Giant’s favor - shown brightly in the dim sunlight. It was beautiful, even in the Giant’s artistic carving style. A true Huldra Brothers masterpiece.

“You never said goodbye to me.” Sindri whispered to her, feeling his eyes become hot.

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Maybe you never got the chance. But…” He sniffled, and retracted his hand. Then brought his fist down on the Giantess’s stone outline. And again. And again. Until his wrist ached and his knuckles were bleeding.

“But you always treated me like I was… disposable…like your little tool shed!” He wailed at the statue, and the dead Realm did not respond. Not a breath, not a whisper. Only the pained sobbing of its dwarven guest.

“I thought we were friends! Friends aren’t supposed to treat each other this way…” He wept loudly now, and if the residents of Jotunheim were still around to hear him they may have wept in kind.

Sindri didn’t know what to do or what to say next. This wasn’t Faye’s fault. None of this was her fault, and he knew that. But where else could this anger go? It poured forth from him like a tainted river, destroying any dam in its wake, drowning anyone or anything that was unfortunate enough to stand in its way. He couldn’t stop it. It was too massive, too powerful. He didn’t want to stop it.

He blinked, then coughed. Then coughed again.

He grasped his chest, trembling.

There was pain where is heart rested, a low throb with each new beat.

Leaning with one hand against the stone wall, he felt his throat began to burn. He was hacking his lungs up now, and groaned with shocked horror when a loud cough produced a spattering of blood across his fingertips.

He sucked in a long breath and backed away from the mural, glaring accusingly up at it. It was mere seconds of relief until he started another coughing fit. He covered his mouth with both hands and felt something heavy leave his throat.

He could feel his own warm blood in his palms. He slowly lowered them from his face and gazed at the strange object cupped within them. Blood and bile and - what? Liquid gold?

What the fuck?

Steam hissed from the little ball of vomit, the liquid blood and gold dripping off his palm just enough to reveal what it was made out of.

It was a small, fractured piece of his former gorget, just big enough that he could make out the details of fine swirling filaments. He made a pathetic sound as terror struck him in the heart. He knew this piece, not because it was his armor, but because it was the last piece of armor to be tossed into a forge.

He had wanted to melt it down all at once, to cast the memory of his brother’s murder into the fires of craftsmanship and spite. But no, he instead fed his armor into the forge piece by piece until it was a molten, golden slurry. His gorget was the last to go. It held Brok’s blood just on the center, and Sindri had watched as the dried essence of his brother swirled into the bright liquid gold as finally, finally, it went with the rest.

He flung it onto the ground and turned, intending to flee, to go somewhere else to hopefully escape this nightmare.

But the dreaded snorting of wild boar approached.

Sindri spun around and was greeted by a massive shadow upon the adjacent wall. He didn’t wait for the creature to reveal itself - he could already smell the musk of feral animal and ash. Gasping for any relief, he returned to Nidavellir. He scrambled through the brush, but the creature was hot on his heels once again. It roared. He could feel its breath on his back, on his neck.

He wasn’t quick enough this time.

“No! NO!” He screamed. He glanced down and, to his horror, saw that his legs had been consumed by the monster. Molten gold poured forth from its great maw like saliva. There was no pain, only fear. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling hot tears spill forth. He prayed for it to be over, to be devoured quickly, mercifully.

He anticipated the end, then all went suddenly quiet.

He opened his eyes…

The boar was…

Gone.

Just…gone.

Sindri sat up.

The sun had fully set. The moon was out now, a sickly pale grin hanging above him.

…Had he dreamed it all?

He put a trembling hand to his sweat-damp forehead. His heart was hammering away in his chest, the frantic beating of a blacksmith preparing weapons for a god.

~~

It didn’t take long for Sindri to return.

He felt like an idiot.

Oh, sorry I ate and left. I’m back now. A monster chased me through the realms and I’m too scared to go back. I have nowhere to go. Can I stay with you?

Fucking idiot.

Sindri’s jaw tightened. He eyed the little lantern on her door. It glowed in the summer night’s heat. He breathed through his nose, then knocked.

Asta peered out from a crack in the door, her eyes suddenly bright at the sight of him.

“Oh.” She gasped, smiling warmly. Sindri grimaced. He wanted to shove away her affection and condemn it, but he remained silent.

“Back already?”

Sindri’s eyes flickered over the exterior of her home, then back to her. It reminded him so deeply of his own house, now nothing but smog and ember. Hers was much smaller, but still possessed the fine craftsmanship of dwarven excellence.

“Yes.” He sighed, his own voice so unfamiliar. “I…” He paused. Oh, he really didn’t think this through. He blinked and felt a beads of sweat trickle down the back of his neck, hot and sticky. Was it the summer heat or raw embarrassment? Fear from what just happened? He didn’t know, nor cared.

“It’s…fine.” The dwarf woman smiled up at him. “You can stay the night if you want. I’m guessing you do?”Asta’s eyes roamed over him, noting his exhaustion. Sindri nodded stupidly. She opened her door fully so he could peer into the living room. The familiar setup was there. Her big ugly couch, her even smaller kitchen with an attached dining room. Dried herbs and spices hung freely from a rack near the kitchen window now, pushing the earthy scent of rosemary throughout the home.

“… I have a guest room this way. It’s small, sorry about that.” She led him down a hallway and towards a room. It was indeed small, but it would do. Asta leaned against the door frame as he inspected things.

“This was my parents’ home before they passed. I grew up here.” She chuckled a bit, but it was clear that Sindri wasn’t listening. He was acting strange, fidgety. As if this entire situation wasn’t bizarre. Sure, invite a strange man into your home who almost slit the throat of a former friend. Great idea.

She watched him lift up the blankets of the small bed, as if expecting to find a nest of cockroaches.

“It’s clean.” She assured him. He looked back at her, his expression a strange mixture of convinced and skeptical.

“Okay. Well. Like I said, make yourself at home. The wash room is upstairs to the left. My room is next to it if you need me.”

Sindri didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at her. She wondered why he was trembling. It wasn’t cold.

Asta quietly left him to get settled in. It was late, and she was dreadfully tired. This entire day had been strange, to say the least. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and went into her bedroom. The window was open and the night breeze whispered to her, beckoning sleep. She sat on the bed’s edge and loosened her braid. It was starting to make her scalp feel tight. Her hair spilled down over her back and she could breathe again.

She heard Sindri climb up the stairs and shuffle to the washroom. The gentle sound of running water echoed throughout her home. Good, she thought. That man is filthy and needs a bath.

She gently shut her bedroom door but before she retired, she swore she could hear the sound of soft weeping.

Chapter Text

“A boar?” 

Hildisvini was skeptical. He carefully observed the two gods. They seemed to be telling the truth, and he did not doubt them. Yet…the story seemed absurd on its very face.

Vanaheim’s jungle air swelled with the scent of crisp orange and purple flowers, both sweet and tart. Late summer was in full bloom, and the Realm beamed with triumph. Insects hummed and the rushing from Goddess Falls rumbled underneath scattered cobblestones of the ruined temple. It now housed this vagabond group of gods and mortals, huddled together to solve a new, pressing mystery.  Freyr’s camp no longer served as their gathering point and the memory of his loss clung to the hollowed ground like a thick mist. It was too painful to return. 

“A giant boar? I have never heard of such a thing, especially outside of Vanaheim.” Hildisvini’s frown curled downward, his eyes flickering to find Freya’s. Freya shook her head. Her armor glistened in the marriage of campfire light and the bright sunlight that filtered in through the crumbling temple walls.

“It’s true, I saw it with my own eyes. It attacked Sindri’s home. We were lucky to make it out alive…” 

“I do not doubt you.” Hildisvini placed his hands on his hips as he studied Freya’ sketch of the beast with concern. The boar had a particular halo of spikes around its head, as if its mane had been struck with a bolt from Thor’s hammer. 

“I don’t reckon it was a giant giant boar. Certainly not from Jötunheim, at least I don’t think so. What do you think?” Mimir gazed up at Hildisvini from his place on a half-decayed round table. It was more like a bedside asset than a true gathering table, but it was all they had and it would do. The Vanir god narrowed his eyes. 

"You’re looking at me as if you expect me to know this boar.” Hildisvini grumbled towards Mimir, who then seemed to then understand the error of his words. 

“Er…not to assume that you know all boars…” He corrected but it was too late. Hildisvini titled his head to the side and rolled his dark eyes. He shrugged, carefully picking up Freya’s sketch. It was drawn on worn yellow paper, but she had captured the details of the beast with a practiced hand. 

“Is it still there? In the Realm Between Realms?” Beyla, who had been listening over the crackling fire, inquired. Her black horns shimmered in the flickering light. She was hard at work crushing a blue flower to a fine pulp with her mortar and pestle. She had acquired a handful of young Aesir and Vanir students and spent her free time teaching them Elven alchemy. 

“Dear…” Byggvir leaned towards her, unsure if his wife had overstepped an unspoken boundary. His chilling bright eyes cast a sorrowful glance towards Kratos and Freya. He did not know Sindri, but the news of the dwarf’s loss and now the destruction of his home troubled him greatly. He too knew the stinging bite of grief. Beyla glanced sideways at him but smiled. 

“We do not know. The Gateway collapsed after we made our escape.” Kratos grumbled. 

“Aye. I’ve never seen one fall apart so quickly, either…” Mimir affirmed. His golden, glowing eyes found Kratos. 

“Dunno if it was Ratatoskr’s magic that did it, but if it was…it may have well saved us lot. That…thing…was heading straight for us. Damned if he weren’t an angry fellow, aye?” 

Kratos grunted in affirmation. He recalled the last flashes of the beasts’ sneer before he vanished into the Gateway, into the safety of Vanaheim’s jungle. Yet, the creature’s gaze remained imprinted on his memory. Its eyes, hateful and bright, had been fixated on him. 

If he were a god that knew fear, he would have shivered.  

“Now we have no way back to the Tree…to Sindri’s home…” Freya sighed, a heavy mourning coloring her voice. 

“Sindri’s home is no more.” Kratos corrected in his typical no-nonsense Spartan fashion, to which Freya looked perturbed. 

“Yes. I know that, Kratos. I was there too.” 

“There are other Gateways. Why can you not simply use those?” Byggvir inquired, to which Freya gave a frustrated sway of her arm.

 “We tried that for a whole month…” Freya growled, emphasizing the time they spent trying to force their way back to the Realm between Realms. 

“The Gateways refuse to open. Not even my magic can open them. I’ve tried just about everything I know. Nothing is working. Kratos and I…once we jumped out of the Gateway, we spent days, weeks… trying to get back to Sindri’s home. We tried the Gateways by Freyr’s camp, the River Delta, the Southern Wilds…I thought for sure I could get that one to open…” she grimaced, remembering how she had summoned a particularly powerful spell, its lavender tendrils wrapping around the stones of the Gateway, trying desperately to hold it together only to have the magical stones crumble to the ground. 

“Realm-locked…” Mimir grumbled. An uneasy silence followed, until the head spoke again. 

“Damn. The last person to posses such powerful magic was…well. Pardon bringing up bad memories, but the All Fucker himself…” 

“Odin is dead, Sindri made sure of that.” Freya growled, though she couldn’t stop the whisper of a vengeful smile that traced her lips. 

“Hm…” Kratos strode towards a large gap in the temple wall and was hit with a sweet smelling breeze. Birds and insects hummed all around them. It was hot and humid, but the shade of the temple provided some reprieve. 

“Can we be so sure…?” Mimir’s inquiry made another tense silence. While the silence lingered, Kratos turned his thoughts to his son. He wondered where Atreus’s adventure had taken him, if he was successful finding any of the lost Jötnar spirits. 

If he was happy. 

The boy had wanted to take Fenrir along on his journey, but the prospect of being accompanied by a giant wolf to foreign realms seemed downright dangerous. 

Just then, Kratos felt his heart quicken. 

“The wolf.” He turned to the group, walking towards Mimir’s pitiful table. 

“Hm, brother?” 

“Fenrir. The wolf can create realm tears.” 

“Aye! But, just one problem brother…” Mimir’s tone carried a sense of deflated hope. “Fenrir is in Jötunheim taking a long nap. Last we saw him, he was snoozin’ so deep I don’t think anything or anyone was going to wake him any time soon…” 

“It has been two years since we visited the Realm of the Giants…” Kratos corrected, reminding Mimir of the time past since bloody Ragnarök. “We do not know if the wolf is still there. He may have awoken, and traveled elsewhere…” 

“Oh, I very much doubt it brother.” Mimir’s tone was gentle. He knew Kratos was grasping at straws. “Creatures like Fenrir can nap for centuries and feel as though they slept only for an evening. My opinion? He’s still there, deep in his slumber.” 

“Hm…” Kratos grumbled, defeated. He thought of the Giantess that held his son’s heart. Of her smile, and her fire. He wondered if he missed her. Freya cast a pitiful, but solemn, glance his way. 

“And if the beast was here in Vanaheim, we would know.” Hildisvini assured. He set down Freya’s sketch with a quiet sigh. The Queenly goddess turned and reached for the worn paper. Why had this creature been so difficult to draw? Her memory was sharper than any blade forged in the hot pits of Muspelheim, so much that she could recall every detail.

Every strand of blazing fur, the strange curling symbols of its tusks, the way it looked at her…

The way it looked at her. 

A shiver traced her spine. 

“Freya.” Kratos’s voice broke her trance. She turned to address him, but was interrupted by the presence of Sif as the Aesir goddess swayed into their small encampment.

“We’ve been working on the Gateways.” She announced, her wise lips pulling back into a smile. Surprised murmurs arose from the gathering.

The goddess’s gold woven hair shimmered in the dappled sunlight, spilling down across her shoulder and over a new dress. It was an elegant patchwork design of forest green and teal, reflecting the new sacred union of the Aesir and the Vanir gods. Green patterns raced up her shoulders and back, as if the roots of the sacred tree itself encased her.

Hildisvini greeted her with a nod. “Any progress?” He asked, his voice carrying the weight of new hope.

“…A few ideas have been proposed. As for actual progress, it’s yet to be seen. Unfortunately.”

Hildisvini grumbled, but Freya could not contain her smile. She approached Sif with a respectful nod.

“Well, not my ideas.” Sif grinned. “Thrud has a few ideas and has been trying to stabilize the Gateways using the power from Mjölnir. I have no idea how she comes up with these crazy thoughts…” She gave a warm, motherly laugh. “…But she seeks an audience with us. And Kratos…she requests you be there.” She glanced towards the Spartan, noting how his worn face seemed to soften at the mention of his son’s friend and confidant.

“Ah!” Mimir chimed in, his voice giving rise to a lighter atmosphere. “Perhaps Thrud wants to show you her new skills? She’s been training hard with the Shield Maidens, and word is…she respects you highly.”

Kratos reached for Mimir’s head to once again bind him to his waist belt, then nodded towards Freya, Sif and Hildisvini as if to say lead the way.

~~

“This is where I’m struggling…”

Durlin curled his lower lip as he flipped through a rather large but impressive tome. Drawings of schematics and machinery graced its pages, drafted with a precision only a dwarf could weld.

“You want to bring back machines, while our lands are just recovering from severe pollution?”

He glanced up at a woman with an unconventional hairstyle. Three long, thick braids hung to one side of her face while the other side appeared sheered cleanly away. If Durlin wanted to share his opinion, he’d lecture her on the blasphemy of shaving. Her clothing was equally strange. Instead of a cloth mantle, she wore a fitted armor gorget with a rather large smoky quartz gemstone as its center piece. The metal shoulder mantle curved around her thick collarbone, creating an intimating “V” shape.

She smiled, but it was cold.

Freezing, even.

“We believe in progress.” She said, her voice imbued with an uneasy flatness.

“The rigs had purpose. But they were faulty and abused by a tyrant. Our lands are fertile again, but how are we going to feed everyone?” She paused, ice cold eyes boring into Durlins’. He leaned back and glanced over at his side to his follow dwarven city councilpersons. A few seemed rightfully skeptical. Two or three seemed downright disgusted.

“There are solutions that don’t involve building potentially dangerous and toxic machines…” A dwarven councilwoman began but was interrupted.

“Our machines are safe and produce very little pollution.” The strange, blue-eyed dwarf interjected, but the council remained skeptical.

“Remind us of your names again?” A councilperson grumbled, no doubt doing his best to irritate their strange guests.

“Malmr.”

Someone stifled a laugh. Durlin raised an eyebrow. What sort of parent would name their child metal? Malmr merely continued in the face of her adversaries, then gestured towards a large dwarf man at her side.

His thick, black hair fell free to the small of his back like a dark river. His bushy eyebrows failed to conceal his sunken eyes, which were blazing green. His beard was bushy and magnificent, and fashioned into a tight but formal fishtail braid at the front. The long braid boasted a precious gold clasp at the end, inlaid with swirling designs. Durlin was almost jealous.

“This is Ra’Geer, my chief engineer. He has personally designed every machine we have on offer.” The woman - malmr, metal - smiled. It felt as if it didn’t belong on her face, as if the very movement offended her lips. Ra’Geer’s face was as stony as hers, but at least held a mote of dwarven warmth within, like a flickering candlelight.

“Right, right.” The councilman snorted. “Continue.”

“These machines can do the work of an entire community. We are growing crops at an expedited rate - potentially enough to feed another Realm if they so asked - but lack the ability to process them. Doing all that labor by hand would be absurd…” Malmr said, her voice stiff but fat with confidence.

To this, Durlin nodded. Of course. A practical observation.

“We can build three test machines near Alberich Hollow. That land is now overabundant with crops. It’s a food explosion…”

Another council member, an older woman with a great braided beard, interjected.

“That land is under strict protection and is being monitored closely for any soil disruptions. It’s our most fertile and nutrient-rich soil so far…”

“Yes,” Malmr nodded. Durlin could finally hear some emotion in her voice. Excitement? It was difficult to tell.

“Which is exactly why it’s the perfect location for our machines.”
The council grew silent, and the corners of Durlin’s mouth twitched. He leaned back, sighing. Dinner was curled up in a little jar of water just behind him. It was as if the very presence of Malmr and Ra’Geer had spooked the tiny kraken. She refused to come out, even if he beckoned her with her favorite treats.

“…And these machines won’t pollute the soil in any way?”

“They are powered by electricity. The energy source is clean.” Ra’Geer took his moment to speak. His voice was deep and rich like molten brass.

“A clean power source doesn’t necessarily mean there won’t be any pollution…” The councilwoman’s eyes met his. A clash of earthy brown against sharp green. She stroked her beard, as if to remind him that he wasn’t the only one with fabulous hair.

“Of course.” Ra’Geer nodded, but there was now strain in his voice.

“…and from what I can see…” The councilwoman looked through the blueprints after they were passed to her, thumbing through the pages of complex schematics and wiring systems. “…These machines are quite large. We would need a lot of raw materials to build them, yes? And they run on…” she squinted, then continued. “Induction motors? Rather big ones from what I can see. What are these motors built from?”

“Steel for the core and copper for the wires. I am aware of your hesitation. It would take a few month’s worth of mining from the Applecore and the Jarnsmida Mines to gather enough raw materials for their construction, but we believe that the benefits of these machines will outweigh the costs of the mining.”

“Hmm…” The councilwoman mused over his drawings. Durlin watched her, fascinated.

“These are going to require a lot of energy to run…why not steam engines?” She glanced up at Ra’Geer, posed for a challenge. “There are thermal vents in the mines and we can…”

“We’ve gone past simple steam engines. They are inefficient and wasteful. We are going to need power…” The dwarven engineer raised a gloved hand and squeezed it into a tight fist. His knuckles bulged within the leather of his glove. It looked positively unnatural.

Power.

Durlin shivered.

“Yes, but…” The councilwoman stroked her beard. “You want us to mine the entire Applecore for these motors while a simpler approach would do?” Her voice became pointed like a knife, and Ra’Geer seemed to physically tense from its assault.

“We’ve built motors before - small ones, yes - and we’re very aware of electromagnetic induction without the use of magic.”

“I know…but the resources.”

“We know electricity! Dwarfs made Mjölnir. The element is our birthright. It belongs to us, not to the gods. It’s time we bring it under control for our own good!” Ra’Geer’s voice boomed like thunder, rattling their bones.

Durlin leaned forward and raised both hands.

“Let’s settle down and take a breath.” He grunted, hoping beyond all reason that his minor authority would be enough to cool the bubbling argument. It typically didn’t work, but thankfully his contemporary sighed and fell silent.

“Brixa,” he addressed her, but she did not look up from the paper.

“Do you have experience with engineering?”

Brixa, the old bearded councilwoman, nodded and smiled. She closed the book of schematics and glared up at Ra’Geer.

“My grandfather was Durinn, designer and builder of the World-Mill.”

Ra’Geer’s jaw fell.

“Durinn the Generous?” He asked, breathless.

“The one and only.” Brixa nodded. “If only he lived to see our Realm like this…his life’s work, his vision…it’s all now becoming a reality. Niðavellir is lush and fertile, just like Vanaheim and the growing seasons of Midgard. Just like his hope for our future…”

She paused thoughtfully.

“Odin knew we were more than capable of designing, building and maintaining great machines that would secure our independence as a Realm. Which is why he sabotaged my grandfather’s work and made him take his own life. Before that, he spent many years tirelessly mining the Applecore for materials just for the upkeep of the World-Mill. It was a marvel, yes, but it was mostly inefficient and costly to operate. Something the stories never recount. Thankfully, Odin was mostly unaware of this…”

Durlin leaned in close, his breath on edge. He was not aware of this fact himself.

“Regardless, what I’m saying here is… you have three machines each the size of the World-Mill that run, not on pulleys or cranks or even steam engines, but fully fledged motors. Motors crafted from precious material like steel and copper. Motors that take a lot of time, effort, and demand to upkeep and repair. Motors that…” she was interrupted by Ra’Geer, who seemed to once again take her criticism as a personal insult.

“A three phase induction motor is the most efficient…”

“Where are you going to get the electricity to run these…?” Brixa hissed. “I’ve looked through your schematics and none, not one, identify the power source…”

Ra’Geer stiffened. He looked as if he hadn’t expected to encounter this question, and that its very existence was scandalous.

“Look, I think you’ve made your point.” Durlin waved his hand. A short silence fell over them, to which Ra’Geer seemed relieved.

“I see the benefit of these machines in principle. But in practice? I just don’t know.” He grumbled.

“You’d rather dwarfs spend all day harvesting by hand?” Ra’Geer sneered, the very idea offending him.

“I’m not saying that…” Durlin remarked, glancing back at his council and specifically Brixa for some backup.

“We don’t have to. We have much smaller devices and a few Seiðr magic techniques that are in current use for harvesting. It’s not as fancy and maybe not as efficient as your giant processing machines, but it’s working. We have what we need, so far.”

“We can no longer depend on magic, and you know this.” Malmr insisted. The gemstone within her strange mantle shimmered. Durlin knew she was right. But this? He would not be dwarf who reintroduced the smell of smoke and toxic waste into their lands once more.

“No.”

Durlin broke the silence. His four dwarven council-folk mirrored his own reaction - incredulity, aghast, disgust, horror.

“No. No.” He repeated firmly. “Not here. Not in Niðavellir.”

Ra’Geer leaned forward as if to speak but Malmr raised her hand.

“Very well.” She stated flatly and extended her hand towards Brixa, who promptly handed over the heavy tome of schematics. Malmr returned the worn book to Ra’Geer, who suddenly looked very tired.
“Then there is nothing more to discuss.”

Durlin watched, an eyebrow raised, as the two dwarfs promptly exited the great hall without another word. He was left with his council and a sinking pit in his stomach.

~~

“Starting the party off without me, eh?”

Lúnda swung the doors of Ræb’s Tavern open, beaming. The air was warm but pleasant inside. Candlelight flickered in the air like fireflies and the room swelled with the scent of fresh lemon balm left on a rack to dry for future cocktails. The red light of dusk bathed the windowsills.

“Lúnda! Gods, haven’t seen you in a pinch. You still shacked up at Sindri’s place making weapons for the big oaf and the saintly Queen of the Realms?” Durlin grinned and stood to greet her, though he was quite buzzed and stumbled a bit. He wasn’t expecting at all to see her this evening, and her presence was a delightful surprise. A much needed respite from his former guests a few hours ago.

“Boy…do I have news for ya’ll…” Lúnda laughed and took her usual seat at the bar. Durlin sat next to her, motioning for Ræb to refill his cup. Ræb only offered him a grimace that meant slow down, dumbass. He took the mug, wiping the rim clean. But Durlin had no intention of slowing down. He was going to get sloshed, damn it! It was a weird day, and he deserved it.

“Right, well, same here. The strangest group of dwarfs called for a council meeting earlier today…fuckin’ weirdos if ya ask me.”

Just the very mention of his strange audience made Durlin want to forget.

“No kiddin?” Lúnda replied, her musical voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. Durlin took note and merely nodded.

“Who wants to start?” Ræb sat between them with two mugs, handing each a respective drink. He hesitated before handing Durlin his fresh cup, but finally forked it over after a frustrated groan from the city executive.

“Weell…” Lúnda began. “I ‘suppose I can. Buckle in boys, cuz it’s gonna be a weird one.” She laughed in that famous hearty dwarven way but Durlin could hear the sadness, anger, and pain behind it all. It soaked into everything. He felt it too. But he wished to drown his own sadness in a lovely river of booze.

“Bout a month ago, I was hangin’ out in Brok’s old forge in Nilfiheim, doin’ my business, then…I dunno. I felt…weird. So, I went back to the Realm Between Realms and whadda know…Sindri’s house. It was just…gone.”

“Gone?” Durlin blinked. The horror of that revelation made him feel a bit sober. He hated it.

“Yeah. It was horrible. Something BIG tore into it…and then burned it to a crisp. I looked ‘round for that cute lil’ squirrel fella but I couldn’t find him.”

“And Kratos and Freya?” Ræb asked, feeling a knot tighten in his throat. He too had been shaken by Brok’s murder and Sindri’s decent of what he could only describe as madness. If he were an honest dwarf, he would admit that he was very worried about the former blacksmith.

“They’re both in Vanaheim now, and thankfully they’re okay. They were there when that thing took Sindri’s house. I guess they tried to fight it off, but it weren’t havin’ any of that so…they made a dash into the Gateway. Now none of them Gateways ain’t workin’.”

Cold silence soaked into the wood of the tavern, until one of the dwarf men huffed.

“Oh. Well, can any of them realm walk?” Durlin asked, unsure why he bothered. He doubted it. Hel, very few dwarfs could. It was unlikely that gods or humans could squeeze themselves between the tightly woven fabric of the Realms.

“Nah.” Lúnda laughed, slapping her palm across a knee. “I’ve officially become the dwarven messenger of the gods.” She grinned, but it was sad.

“Well, shit.” Durlin groaned, then burped. Ræb shuffled away from him and closer to Lúnda. He got a whiff of Durlin’s burp-breath and decided one sniff was enough.

“Seen Sindri around?” Ræb asked.

“No…well. I did hear about an, uh…incident over at that new tavern at Dragon Beach. Dunno if it was him or not though. Ya’ll heard about it?”

Durlin and Ræb both shook their heads, but the barkeep scoffed. “If they’re trying to take my business, they’re in for a rude awakening.”

“What do you mean incident?” Durlin pressed.

“I’m not really sure, most of what I heard was that there was a drunk fight and some dwarf pulled a knife on another one.”

“Not uncommon…” Durlin mumbled into his mug as he took a slow, steady swig. Ræb shot him a heavy side-eye.

“…But the description wasn’t too far off from Sindri. Tall, lanky, brown hair…dunno. It coulda’ been him. Coulda’ been someone else. I haven’t seen him…oh dear, been a while. Been a while.”

Been a while.

Durlin silently grasped those words, even though they hung thickly in the air. They dripped over him like syrup, sticky and acidic.

At least they knew he was still alive. Durlin feared the deepest for Sindri in the months following Brok’s murder. Would he throw himself over a cliff? Into a river? Grief does terrible things to a man.

“Well…” Lúnda sighed and slammed her now empty mug down on the bar, making both men give a reflexive jump.

“I’ve told my bit, now tell me yers. I wanna hear what this weirdo group was all about.” She grinned, brining dwarven warmth into the room once again. Durlin suddenly found himself unsure if he wanted to recount his experience, but he took a deep breath.

“A local group wanted a meeting with the City Division Council. I, being the excellent steward of our city, happily obliged them.” The words began to flow freely. “But when we got to Town Hall, only two of’em showed up. And they showed up late. Bastards…”

He sipped at the rim of his mug, but it wasn’t as deep.

“Yeah, cuz we know how good you are at keeping track of time.” Ræb teased, and Lúnda snorted. Durlin ignored them. It felt strangely wrong to laugh at the memory.

“The two that showed up wanted to build these huge machines. I’m talkin’ huge. We would need to mine out most of the Applecore for just the copper alone. Said it was for…uh, harvesting, I guess? But I don’t know. I don’t think any harvesting machine would need to be that huge.” He paused to let his thought settle the air.

“Anyway…they wanted to build these machines to help with the surplus of crops. But honestly, we looked through the schematics and Brixa - you both know Brixa - said they would be a resource sink. I agreed, and they both fucked off after that.”

“Hm.” Lúnda pursed her lower lip. Raeb crossed his arms.

“They had weird names, too.” Durlin sneered. “Rah-Ge-ear. Tall and scary looking. Grumpy. And…get this, the other one- she was named malmr.”
“…metal…” He heard Lúnda whisper under her breath and nodded.

She added, “Well, to be fair, that’s a fitting name for a dwarf though I ‘suppose it prolly ain’t her birth name.”

Durlin shrugged dismissively.

“Scared Dinner right good when they came. She hasn’t came out of her tank since.”

Another silence matched his words, and he felt his sobriety unwinding.

“This group?” Ræb pushed. He now stood behind the small bar, ready to fetch Durlin another drink. “What did they call themselves?”

Durlin paused, took a sip, then spat the name as if it was poison on his tongue.

“The Metallic Division.”

~~

Ra’Geer slid open the carriage window. He watched as they passed by the serpentine streets of Niðavellir until they trailed towards the quieter roads that lead towards The Forge. It was a short journey, but the day light was dwindling and Grim would soon prowl the mountainside.

He turned and watched as Malmr removed the metal plate from her scalp. It was covered with a thin layer of fake hair to better blend into her flesh. She inspected it with cold eyes, then traced a finger along its underside. Metal. Copper. Wires. Perfection.

“Do you need assistance?” Ra’Geer always asked if she did, even if he knew the answer would be the same.

“No. Thank you.”

Malmr replaced the metal plate, blending it perfectly into her scalp, as if it wasn’t even there.

“The Thought Enhancer is a costly device. Are you…sure you want to continue to use it?”

Ra’Geer was tired of asking this question, more so than the last. The expected answer came once more.

“Yes. The benefits outweigh the cost.” Malmr’s eyes glazed over with a strange, glistening sheen. The blue of her eyes seemed…more intense, a deep dark ocean of radiant ultramarine.

Ra’Geer merely nodded, then glanced out of the carriage window again. The mountainside of The Forge was now in view, the last rays of sunshine filtering just over its peek, painting the ashen rock with splashes of crimson.

Malmr’s voice addressed him, though Ra’Geer did not look back to her as she spoke.

“We have work to do.”

Chapter Text