40Doodles

It was clear that Yggdrasil had recovered from the damage left from its uninvited guest, but the Guardian was still nowhere to be seen. Sindri grumbled to himself. His house left a deep scar where it once stood, but small branches and glowing blue flowers were already beginning to grow over it. As if it was that easy, as if the very memory of his brother and his legacy could just be erased.

A few weeks spent in Asta’s home had reinvigorated him, but only just enough so he could function. If he could even call it that. He was finally clean and dressed in a shabby set of clothes. Asta had promised to make him a new tunic and a matching pair of pants, but she was often distracted by whatever the Hel she was working on her in basement. Sindri didn’t bother to ask. He simply didn’t care.

Instead, she offered an over sized tunic and dark blue pants from her late husband who, much to Sindri’s dismay, was thrice his width. No matter. A strong leather belt held it in place and it was good enough.

He walked towards the rounded edge of the branch and peered down. Yggdrasil’s trunk disappeared into the purple void, down, down, down until he could see nothing but a swirling vortex. He inhaled the familiar yet alien scent of the Realm Between Realms, a sickening concoction of fir and something ethereal, then walked along another branch. It smelled like mint here, but a deeper scent lurked beneath. The scent of ash, of a fire once raging.

Where was the Guardian?

A good hour passed until he finally, out of pure frustration, stood and placed hands on hips, grimacing into the strange air.

“Down here!”

He knew that voice. Sindri glanced down and spotted Ratatoskr’s small outline. He was quite a distance down the World Tree’s massive trunk. Something was wrong with his leg, but it was difficult to tell from his vantage point.

So Sindri shifted between Realms and appeared before the squirrel, eying him with a new intensity.

“My my, I barely recognized you!”

Ratatoskr was not in good shape, to say the least. Sindri glanced down and almost heaved at the sight of dried blood and even worse - the Guardian’s leg was bent backwards at the knee as if a Troll had twisted it with a murderous grasp. Sindri had to look away for a moment to regain his composure.

“Oh, sorry!” Ratatoskr laughed, almost bashfully, remembering his friend’s aversion to gore. “Unfortunately, I have nothing to cover it with except what I’ve already torn of my clothes, so…”

Sindri, his head still facing away, dared to move his eyes towards the Guardian. He grunted, “Are you…going to be okay?”

Ratatoskr laughed with what sounded like joy.

“Of course. I’ve faced worse injuries before, trust me.” He grinned in his strange animal way and felt the mood shift as the dwarf finally turned his head in his direction. Sindri wasted no more time with the pleasantries.

“Who did this to my home?” Sindri demanded, his once soft eyes now steely and hardened.

“Huh?" Ratatoskr stumbled. Sindri bared his teeth.

"You heard me." The dwarf hissed, surprising the Guardian with his fierceness. Memories of smoke and two deities filled his mind. They tried to protect Sindri's home from the monstrous boar, but it had been much too powerful.

The Guardian paused deeply before replying, "I think that’s a question for another time…” Ratatoskr glanced sideways at him, but yelped as the dwarf grasped his wrist. Hard. Ratatoskr twisted his fuzzy face into a look of total surprise. His jaw hung agape.

“No.” Sindri growled, pulling the Guardian closer to him. Ratatoskr felt his pulse quicken. This wasn’t the Sindri he once knew, the gentle dwarf who had refused to touch anything unclean, much less a creature with fur. This was someone completely different.

“No. Tell me…who. Did. This. To. My. Home.” He growled between clenched teeth, eyes dark, wide and furious.

Ratatoskr paused, struggling to find the words. He glanced up at the nest of branches where the dwarf’s beautiful home once stood. He remembered their conversation all of those years ago.

A mild-mannered dwarf had sought him out, much to his surprise, and asked for his blessing to build a home within Yggdrasil’s branches.

Of course! The Guardian had said, simply delighted at the thought of having some real company. It will be delightful to have a neighbor who isn’t so…rude. Looking at you, Bitter. The Guardian’s aspect grumbled a hearty fuck off before Ratatoskr led Sindri towards the place that would be the foundation for his home.

I hope this is a good spot for you, he had said smiling as Sindri walked a full circle around the massive branch surface. It was clear and open and perfect. The dwarf nodded and Ratatoskr bowed.

Then you have my full blessing. Welcome home. If you need anything, do let me know…

Now, Ratatoskr looked back into those same eyes and silently lamented the loss of his gentle dwarf neighbor. This new person frightened the Guardian with his cold fury.

“I don’t think that’s a conversation you’re ready for, Sindri…” Ratatoskr murmured quietly, nodding gently towards the dwarf, hoping he would relent and let go of his wrist.

Sindri did not.

“What?” Sindri hissed, drawing the Guardian even closer. Ratatoskr squirmed in his grasp, surprised to find how strong the dwarf’s grip was.

“Ouch!…Now now, let go of me. You’re doing yourself no favor by hurting me more than I already am…”

Sindri growled, but Ratatoskr was right. The creature’s leg was twisted and fractured and breaking his little wrist would provide no benefit for either of them. Yet, it felt good to be in control. It felt good to see Ratatoskr submit under the threat of more pain. It felt good…

Stop. Stop.

Sindri gently released Ratatoskr’s wrist, allowing the Guardian to lean back and give a relieved sigh.

He glared up at Sindri, but nothing could compete with the dwarf’s hateful gaze. It was starting to feel hot. Disturbingly hot. Was that steam coming from the dwarf’s nostrils? A strange flick of gold within his dark eyes?

Ratatoskr twisted, then hobbled up on one leg. He kept himself steady by grasping the surface of the Tree with his claws. “Ooh..” The squirrel paused, his voice carrying a tone of deep sadness. Sindri would never have expected him to be genuine until this very moment.

“Grief can turn us into monsters. That’s all I’ll say… for now. I’m afraid I’ve already said too much.” He hopped awkwardly onto a branch, minding his bandaged leg. Then he hopped up another, then another, then vanished.

“That’s all you’re going to give me?” Sindri called after him. He shot up from his crouching position. “Really?”

He could have easily squeezed into the fabric of the Realms to give chase, but it was a meaningless pursuit. Ratatoskr, with his very existence interwoven into the Tree itself, could easily find a hiding place that Sindri would never expose. He snarled instead and leaned against the Tree, chest heaving. After a few moments of stewing in his own rage, he disappeared into the thin air.

~~

It was night when he returned to Niðavellir. A small lantern hung from Asta’s doorstep, swaying in the warm breeze, its light flickering like a tiny sun suspended in glass. She was gone again, and Sindri wondered why she even bothered to stay here if half the time she was somewhere else. He didn’t give a damn where she went. He didn’t give a damn about her. Her home was at least a temporary place for him to rest while he figured shit out.

He didn’t need a key. He merely appeared in his room. The notion of a stranger who could appear at will in your home was surely disturbing, but Asta had yet to complain. She almost seemed comforted by his presence when she was home. That thought alone disturbed him. There was no comfort to be found in sleep, so he roamed the house like a lost spirit. He grimaced at the big red couch as he entered the living room, its crimson sheen dulled by the night and somehow even more hideous than when he last sought refuge in its cushions.

A small table caught his eye and he slunk towards it, thinking perhaps he would find something interesting to look at while his anger cooled.

It was a small frame of delicate brass work, little sculpted flowers interwoven within spiral filaments. There was a sketch portrait inside, bold ink strokes contrasting against the cream colored parchment. Sindri didn’t pick up the frame - it was far too filthy with dust - but leaned forward just enough to see it. Two dwarfs - one so obviously Asta with her long hair, and a thick dwarven man with a triple braid for a beard - smiled up at him.

They were young, the lines of Asta’s face smooth and supple. The dwarf man was beaming. Though Sindri had never seen this man before, the drawing of him radiated a familiar warmth, one he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Sindri looked down at his waist and grasped the edges of the overflowing tunic Asta had gifted him.

You can wear this, she had said to him as she pulled out what looked to be a wide sheet of dark green fabric. While I work on something new for you. I…don’t think you want to wear that old rag, huh? She laughed and nodded towards the tattered remains of his teal over-shirt. There wasn’t much left to be worn anyway. He simply nodded.

I promise it’s clean. No one has worn it in years, and I just washed it again for you. Here…She handed him the folded-up tunic. Sindri took it gratefully.

It belonged to my husband, Erik. She watched him slip the tunic over his shoulders and it spread over him like a summer dress. She laughed. He was a big man. Sorry. I don’t think you’ll fit anything of mine…and to be honest, I haven’t done my personal laundry in a while, so…

He thought of all the awful beasties in her clothes and shivered. It was a kind gesture, and he appreciated it even though he had to belt Erik’s old shirt around his waist to keep it from flowing too loosely.

The door opened and Sindri vanished from the living room to reappear in the guest room. Asta returned. He heard her carrying something heavy and wondered if he should offer help like a decent normal person. Two thuds and a bang later, the door to her basement was flung open with her hauling her prize downstairs. Sindri pressed his ear to the cool wood of the bedroom door, listening. She was dragging something down into her basement, each step down giving off a strange, almost metallic chime.

BANG - DING

Again.

BANG - DING

Sindri squinted. Whatever the material was, it was metallic with a heavy, brassy ring. Maybe he should…? No, she didn’t need him. He crept back into the room, intent on sleeping until another loud THUMP disrupted his thoughts. Quietly, he opened the door and rounded the corner.

The basement door was open, but Asta was gone, no doubt she was down in its depths. The moonlight splashed a pale ivory smile over the blackness of its opening, highlighting only the first few steps. Sindri listened. He could hear her, and she seemed to be finished moving whatever the Hel she had brought inside. She was climbing back upstairs now, her breath exhausted.

She had no idea she was about to run into him.

“Oh!” Asta cried out as she reached the threshold. Sindri stood before her, as silent and still as a statue. If he was honest, it disturbed him as well. The moonlight created a halo of white around his shoulders and messy ponytail.

“Gods… I didn’t know you were back…” she shut the door. A little too fast, Sindri thought.

“Hi.” He said flatly, eying the door behind her. “…Did you need help?”

“Oh? Oh! No…no. No thank you.” She gave him a pained smile.

She leaned against the door, as if a horrible beast would burst through it at any minute and the only thing standing between himself and his death was her.

Silence, then Sindri dared the question to leave his mouth.

“…Whatcha’ got down there?”

He could see a lump form in Asta’s throat. Was she sweating too?

“It’s a personal project. I would…appreciate it if you didn’t go down there. Okay?”

Sindri nodded, but his stomach twisted. He thought of how easy it would be to just appear in her basement and rummage through everything as if her privacy and autonomy didn’t matter in the slightest. The thought was cruel, and it made him sick that he even considered it.

“Okay.” He repeated, and he meant it. He thought once again of the Giants and their wishes for secrecy. When you have the power to appear anywhere in the Realms, nothing was hidden from you and those who wished to keep their secrets were at your mercy.

Asta sighed, then smiled up at him. She opened her mouth just very slightly; her thin lips dry with anxiety. “Thank you.” She breathed, her voice a soft whisper.

“I’m…going to head to bed now.” She maneuvered fluidly around him, knowing well his aversion to touch or even the proximity of her. That fact alone had never made Sindri feel regretful until now. She moved like he was a disease to be avoided, a leper to never be touched or adored. He knew it was well-intended. This strange woman didn’t want to hurt him. She offered him food, shelter, and new clothing (that she had yet to complete sewing), and what did he give in return? Icy words, a cold shoulder, a thankless glare? This isn’t right, and you know it. You’re better than this.

“Good night.” He said and watched her climb the stairs to her bedroom. She stopped, surprised by the mote of warmth in his words.

“Good night, Sindri.” She smiled down at him before vanishing up the dark staircase.

~~

Amber light spilled across his face. Morning greeted him with a new sense of renewal and vigor. He slept well, all things considered. The boar was nowhere near his dreams or thoughts in the few recent days, and he was grateful for its absence. He dressed again in the over sized tunic that once belonged to Asta’s husband. She was really dragging her feet on making him a new set, and he wondered grimly if he should nose around for fabric so he could make it himself. No matter. It bothered him less than he had originally thought it would.

He quietly shifted between Realms into the upstairs washroom. Asta’s bedroom was down the hall, and he could hear great, rumbling snores erupting from it. He managed a small smile, utterly surprised that such a small and meek dwarf like Asta could sound like a roaring dragon while she slumbered. It was a fond picture in his mind then – Asta, a small dwarf as a long and lithe dragon, black scales glimmering in the stippled sunlight of her forest hideaway, reptilian body coiled over a massive pile of…something metal?

He shook his head, banishing the thought. It was early, and he was still waking up.

He turned the spigot and water gushed forth. Running water was a luxury in the other Realms, but here in the dwarf realm with their ingenuity and creativity, it was blissful commonality. They had long since eradicated waterborne diseases with their inventions of waste management systems and water purification. Midgard was especially heinous at this, and Sindri remembered how he had struggled to adjust to the lack of available clean water. The first years living solely in Midgard was especially rough, not counting the raiders, wolves, Trolls, dragons, gods, half-gods, and other creatures that either sought him out for a favor or as a snack.

Maybe it was good to be home.

He let that thought settle for a moment before glancing up at the mirror. It was dusty, but he could make out his reflection. His beard was overgrown and scruffy, desperately in need of a trim. He wondered if Asta kept a collection of Erik’s beard grooming tools but quickly pushed the thought away. Using another dwarf’s personal hygiene tools without proper sanitation was…filthy. Instead, he combed his tired fingers through his beard, doing his best to claw the thick hair into a presentable shape. The water helped little.

He pondered if Asta kept beard grooming tools for herself. Plenty of dwarf women grew beards. Asta seemed to be lacking, though Sindri recalled spotting faint sideburns underneath the loose ribbons of hair that framed her face. It was only until the reign of Odin that dwarven women were forced to cut and shave their beards to appease the strict “traditionalist” culture of the Aesir. It was like trying to hammer a circle into a square. Dwarven women mourned their beards, but the punishment for resisting was imprisonment.

Sindri decided not to shift between Realms, instead walking into the hall and down the stairs. Asta was still snoring in her bedroom. His stomach growled, and he grimaced. The sight of Asta’s kitchen didn’t help to distract his hunger. He was a terrible cook, but remembering the desperate hunger from his time living in the wild inspired him to try something. He rummaged through her kitchen. He found a cutting knife, eggs, bread, a block of cheese, and dried herbs. Sufficient. Though, surely the sight of a stranger wilding a knife in her kitchen would be disturbing to the dwarf woman that still slumbered above him.

He set a wood chopping block down, preparing his station until something blue glimmered in the corner of his vision. He turned and was greeted with a ghostly image of his brother, frowning and leaning against Asta’s hideous red couch.

“So, ya finally get the balls to get out of the woods, eh?” The specter taunted. Sindri ignored it. It wasn’t real.

Brok - or his imagination, rather – trotted into the kitchen and leaned close to Sindri, close enough that the taller dwarf leaned away.

“This kind lady takes ya in, and you ain’t making her sumthin’ until now? Pssh. You’re more of an ass than I thought, brother of mine.”

Sindri continued to ignore it. He hummed quietly to himself, in a pathetic attempt to drown out the hallucination’s vitriol.

“Ya’been treatin’ her real unkindly, little canker throat. I ain’t never seen you act so cold… well! Maybe when we fought all of them years ago…”

Sindri looked around for the knife. He could feel his hands start to shake but breathed deeply to steady them.

“That ain’t no way to treat a lady,” The shimmering image of his brother spat. “You’re better than that, smart guy! Or…maybe I just thought I knew ya better.”

Sindri grasped Asta’s kitchen knife and for a cold moment imagined plunging the blade into Odin’s waist. Odin wasn’t here. Odin was dead.

Brok was now on the other side of him, examining the sad cheese, eggs, and bread Sindri had gathered in a half-hearted attempt to make breakfast. The apparition sneered.

“The fuck is this? You can’t go out to the city and make ya’lls a half-way decent meal? Fuck!”

The corner of Sindri’s mouth twitched. He sighed loudly. The trembling in his hands returned. He grabbed the block of cheese and slammed it down onto the cutting board.

“Ay, it’s improper to cut the cheese in the presence of a lady…” the ghostly specter jeered, and Sindri’s face became warm.

“Go away.” He murmured under his breath, but Brok’s shadow doubled over and filled the kitchen with his familiar, hearty laughter.

Sindri lifted the knife and -

Shit.

He hissed with surprise. The blade opened a small but oozing gash across his ring and middle finger, drawn through flesh like a red paint stroke. Without thinking, he stuck both fingers into his mouth and sucked tentatively, then withdrew them with repulsed horror. Gods, he would never have done that years ago, much less allow himself to touch the unclean surfaces of a stranger’s home without protection. Suddenly, he felt overwhelmingly filthy. He trembled, feeling his breathing become quick and unsteady. He grasped his wrist and glanced around for a cloth – finding one, he wrapped the wound hastily.

Deep breaths.

He glanced around, but the shadow of his brother was gone.

When the trembling calmed just ever so slightly, he peeked underneath the cloth to assess the damage. The bleeding had stopped, thankfully, but the wound was deep and in risk of infection. He stared at it for a second longer – was his blood…shimmering?

He was roused to a noise at the long staircase. A small figure made its way towards him, grasping the brass handrail. Asta practically stumbled her way down the stairs. Sindri noticed that her hair was free and wild, winding down her back like a twisting black river. Her eyes were sunken, dark-ringed, and exhausted. If Sindri had to hazard a guess, she had not slept very well. She was dressed in a long flowing nightgown with bright blue knitted slippers shaped like chickens. He raised an eyebrow.

Before she could address him, he spoke.

“Do you, uh, have any yarrow? By chance?”

Asta’s dark eyes noticed his wrapped wound. “Oh,” she said sleepily. “Be right back.”

Sindri felt terrible for sending her back upstairs. She went, dragging her chicken slippers with her and returned a minute later with an oval container.

“What happened?” She yawned but seemed more awake now that she knew he was injured.

“I…” Sindri stammered. “I was trying to make us – make you – something to eat but…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. He felt too stupid and ridiculous. A former blacksmith losing control of a simple kitchen knife? Absolutely unthinkable.

“That’s sweet of you, but that stuff is pretty old. I don’t think it would have made a good breakfast anyway.” Asta grinned, but Sindri squeezed his eyes shut for just a moment, letting the disappointment hit him and twist his guts.

She opened the lid of the container, revealing a chunky yellow-white paste of beaten yarrow flower, a bit of water, and a drop of honey. He took it carefully and, using his free hand, scooped a dash of herbal poultice and slathered it into the gash. Asta offered him a clean cloth and he secured it tight, sighing with relief. That should at least prevent infection and speed up healing.

“I’ll be right back. I have something else for you.” Asta disappeared up into her bedroom for a second time, then returned dressed in her casual, dark-green tunic. She carried a folded pile of cloth to him. Sindri knew what it was and took it gratefully. He lifted a piece up, revealing a dark blue tunic sewn to his approximate size.

“Took some time last night to finish these. Sorry if they’re a bit off…” she smiled. So that’s why she was tired. Guilt gnawed into his stomach, like a feral mouse determined to nibble away the wooden foundation of a home. “I’ve never had to make clothes for someone who didn’t let me take measurements.”

Sindri opened his mouth to apologize - taking measurements would have forced her to touch him, and his flesh crawled at the very thought - but Asta merely smiled warmly.

“It’s fine. I think I got close enough. But let me know if you need them adjusted.”

Sindri nodded, then excused himself politely as he returned to the guest room - his room now, he supposed. Was he ever planning on going back to the Realm Between Realms? He didn’t know, but his heart ached at the thought. It seemed so wrong to return there, and now without his home? The home that he built with his own hands? Returning felt impossible and yet he longed for it deeply.

There is nothing for you there. Banish the thought.

Sindri dressed into his new clothes. They were clean and impossibly soft. There was a round mirror mounted to the wall where he took the time to really look at himself. The tunic fit just right, but the pants were a little off. No matter. Sindri secured them with a belt, and wondered if it had belonged to Asta’s husband.

He thought of the Light then, of the afterlife. A realm of paradise and bliss that his brother would never experience. But Erik? Asta’s husband was in the Light, wasn’t he? He didn’t know how Erik had passed from this world, nor did he care.

Knowing that he was in the Light and his brother was not, and could never be, made his eyes burn with tears.

~~

Asta was frying a few slices of bread in her cast iron when Sindri returned to the kitchen. She was frowning, and he could see why - the bread was awfully stale and would not yield a decent meal.

“There’s supposed to be a pop-up market by the Forge today,” she spoke indirectly to him, assuming he had caught wind of her terrible, burnt bread. “There is a big celebration for the Lady. Plenty of folks will be there, and lots of food I’m sure. Won’t take me very long to go up there and get fresh food. I can grab you something while I’m there.”

It was a nice offer. Sindri smiled, just a little bit.

“I can come with you.” He shrugged, surprising himself. Asta’s dark eyes met his, a glint of her own surprise shining in them.

“Erm…only if you want me to, that is.” He added.

Asta was beaming. This time her smile didn’t irritate him. He merely felt a cool indifference.

“There is a train-cart by Dragon Beach that can take us there. Let me put this away, grab a few things, and we can go.”

Sindri nodded. Asta grabbed a satchel for herself and offered a spare to him. He took it, slinging the leather strap over one shoulder. He felt a bit silly, but wondered if it was another relic of her long-gone husband.

They left shortly after, heading towards the transport on Dragon Beach that would take them to the mountains of the Forge.

~~

The market was alive.

Really alive.

It had been decades since Sindri had experienced such a busy market. Dwarfs of all sorts buzzed to and fro, many chatting, heckling with vendors, or arm-wrestling on barrels toppled over for just the occasion. He was surprised - and perhaps a bit shocked - to see dwarven children dashing between vendors and their parents. Two little boys waited eagerly at a vendor's stand while she prepared them fried sweets on a long stick. He thought of Brok. He followed a deeper smell, and noticed another vendor with racks of smoked, spiced chicken set out to entice buyers.

It worked on Asta, who exchanged two coins of hacksilver for two sticks of the smoked chicken meat. She handed one to Sindri, who accepted it eagerly. Then she purchased two of the fried honey cakes, sharing her spoils with him. They sat on one of the many tables set out and ate together in silence.

It was warm, but pleasant. Niðavellir was finally past it’s warmest days and entering harvest season. A cool breeze whispered from the peak of the Forge. The market itself was not within the gated confines of the Forge, but on a crest just below the summit of the mountain top. Sindri wondered if the Lady would somehow make an appearance. While she was bound to the water, her magic was vast and who knows what tricks she had up her sleeve? His brother’s reverence for her reflected his own.

Asta seemed to be staring intently at something.

Sindri finished the last few crumbs of his honey cake, heartbroken that there was nothing left. The market was calling. He wanted to explore a bit, see what his people had to offer. He followed Asta’s gaze but couldn’t make out what she was staring at.

“Wanna go look around?” He offered, tightening his grip on the satchel she had lent him.

Asta looked back at him. She was smiling, but it was different, as if the expression caused her some unspoken pain.

“I’ll catch up to you.” She waved her half-eaten stick of chicken meat at him, as if say “I’m still finishing this off”. Sindri nodded, stood and quietly melted into the crowd. He thought no more of her strange behavior, and instead focused on navigating the maze of bodies.

Not one soul seemed to notice him. He was grateful, and a little resentful. They would have recognized Brok, even before his…change. Brok, who would have hooted a loud “get yer ass over here Sindri and say hello!” to all of his friends. Did he really look that different? Had he changed so much?

He rounded a corner and noticed a particularly interesting vendor stand. It was elaborate with thick, purple cloth draped over its sides and top to shield the owner from the sun. Golden trinkets dangled from its makeshift ceiling, sparkling in the bright afternoon light. A sign with golden runes read, “HAKHAR’S BEARD OILS”.

The owner - Hakhar, he assumed - was chatting with a dwarf woman who had one of the longest and thickest beards Sindri had ever seen. It was bright yellow, folded into many braids and reached her knees. He quietly reached up to pet his own, as if it needed reassurance in the presence of such fierce beauty.

“This’ll keep it soft and smellin’ amazing.” Hakhar’s bass voice assured the bearded dwarf woman, who appeared to be eager to make her purchase. She exchanged a tiny velvet bag of hacksilver for one comically large bottle of oil and made off quickly with it. Sindri watched her spirit away her prized oil, her beard glistening in the daylight like honey.

He peered around the vendor’s stand, inspecting small bottles of oil and combs of various sizes. Dwarfs were always so particular about their hair, especially their beards if they were fortunate enough to grow one. Dwarf men, women, and those beyond simple labels were always finding different and novel ways of grooming their beards. He smiled a bit, then went to met the vendor’s gaze until a strange sight froze him in place.

“Ya see sum’thin’ ya like?” Hakhar, once a dwarf man with a pot belly and gray hair, was now a figure with the head of a boar fixed between his shoulders. The boar head snarled, it’s tusks aflame. Sindri felt cold sweat trickle down his forehead and spine. Fear and panic shot through him like frozen lightning.

“Um…” he winced, looking away then back again at the vendor. He was normal now, and eying him harshly. Sindri swallowed. His heart was still pounding. He blinked a few times, as if trying to readjust his vision.

“Um, yes. Actually.” Sindri reached for the little bag Asta had loaned him and pulled out a few coins of hacksilver. He passed them shakily along to the vendor, who counted them and grunted with approval. “That one, please.” Sindri pointed towards the smallest bottle on the table.

“Hampr seed? Good pick, smells great and will keep yer beard feelin’ soft. Harvested from the finest fields near Alberich’s Hallow. Comes with a free comb!” Hakhar beamed. Sindri took the little bottle into his bare hand, smoothing the cool surface over with his thumb. He actually hated the smell of hemp seeds, but it had been Brok’s favorite.

“Uh huh.” He nodded towards the vendor as the dwarf man drawled on about the superiority of his oils. Sindri merely thanked him but before he could blend back into the bustling crowd, Hakhar locked eyes.

“Say…you hear ‘bout the Metallic Division officially seceding from the Eight Divisions of Niðavellir? They want to become their own governing body now…crazy, ain’t it?”

Sindri stared at him, eyes anxious slits. In all fairness, Hakhar may as well had spoken gibberish. Sindri had spent so much time outside of Niðavellir he hardly knew who was what and what was who anymore. The Metallic Division? Eight Divisions of what?

“Sorry?” Sindri peered back at Hakhar, who studied him for a moment before continuing.

“Oh, you been gone a while eh? Yeah, when Asgard fell, Niðavellir formed the Eight Divisions after the remaining eight Realms.”

Sindri felt his lips pucker just slightly and a confused “mm?” drawn from them. Hakhar continued.

“Aye. the Magic Division, the City Division…” Hakhar started to count on his chubby fingers.

“That’s two…oh! the Bestiary Division…”

As he counted on, Sindri glanced to his right where the mountain of the Forge peered down like an overbearing deity. The bearded face, sculpted into the mountain wall centuries ago and left unfinished, seemed to twist its rocky lips into a disappointed snarl. The air suddenly felt thick. He felt the little prey hairs on the back of his neck prickle just slightly.

“…The Dwarven Defense Corps. Not technically a division, but they count…”

He was still talking, and Sindri was only barely listening.

“And, of course, the Metallic Division. Now I guess maybe ther’ fixin’ to not count.”

Hakhar shrugged. Sindri glanced back at him, worried he may meet the dreadful gaze of the boar again. But thankfully, he did not. Hakhar merely frowned. Sindri thanked him again for his wonderful oil and departed quickly.

He took a moment to browse the long chain of vendor tents before returning to Asta. Jewelry, clothing, art, and food were laid bare for purchase. Curiously, not a single vendor sold armor or weapons.

When he finally returned to their table, Sindri noticed Asta was reading a long, browning piece of parchment paper. From its jagged sides, he could tell someone - perhaps Asta herself - had ripped it free of a post. Her eyes were squinted harshly.

She jolted when he addressed her. “Hey.” He said simply, catching her eyes widen slightly as he sat down next to her.

“What’s that? A flyer? More folks advertising their wears?” He asked, chuckling. Being in the market, with his own people, had lifted his spirits. But only slightly. He remembered their cold mistreatment of his brother, the accusations of blood magic, and banished the thought to the darkest depths of his mind.

“You can say that, yes.” Asta replied, but her tone was quiet. Sindri had to lean forward to hear her, and while he did he could read the paper. His eyes cast down, reading harsh runes.

THE METALLIC DIVISION THE FUTURE IS NOW JOIN US OR BE LEFT BEHIND

“That’s a bit ominous.” Sindri chuckled darkly, finding Asta’s gaze. She was frowning so severely Sindri thought her lips may fall off.

“They’ve gone too far.” She huffed. She stood up, crumpled the paper and tossed it to the ground. Sindri raised an eyebrow, then watched her march towards the crowd. He crouched and retrieved the wad of paper, carefully unfolding it so he could read it himself.

“You know these guys?” Sindri called after her, but Asta didn’t respond. Then he turned the paper, and was greeted with an illustration on the back side. It was, described plainly, a massive brass gear.

In the center…

Sindri’s eyes narrowed.

In the center was a hammer. But not just any hammer.

“It’s Mjölnir…” Sindri gasped, his tired eyes widening with bewilderment. “Look! It’s Mjölnir…” But Asta didn’t look.

“Hey…” Sindri caught up to her. This strange behavior was more than starting to irk him. Perhaps there was a reason why she wasn’t talking, and Sindri was determined to find out.

“Why are they using Mjölnir in their insignia? It’s not their work, and frankly I am offended…” He trailed off, but Asta clearly wasn’t paying much attention. Or she was pretending not to. Sindri paused and watched her. Her shoulders were squared, tense. Her eyes were narrow and wary.

“Asta.”

Her name from his lips got her attention. She glanced at him, but then quickly looked away.

“Why are they using Mjölnir in their insignia?”

“…” Asta pursed her lips, opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She continued to walk forward, faster now.

“Uh, hey.” Sindri sped up, easily keeping up with her. She was much shorter than him, and his long legs gave him the advantage of speed.

“Is this the group of friends you were with at the bar?” he pried, to which she seemed perturbed. “Who are they? What do they even…do?”

Asta was silent for a long, cold moment before answering.

“They make machines.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that Sindri was taken aback. Well, duh. He could have figured that one out.

“That’s not really what I’m asking.” He growled, titling his head. Her pace was beginning to slow. Asta stopped and clutched her satchel to her chest, glaring up at him. Her thin lips were drawn into a tight scowl. He sighed and folded up the poster, placing it into his own satchel next to the coins of hacksilver she had lent him.

“Look…I just want to know why they’re using Mjölnir in their insignia. It’s not their work. My brother and I…we forged that hammer. They did not. They have no right to use its image in any of their work…”

Asta nodded. “Yes, I know. I was…shocked when you told me who you are when I met you. I honestly couldn’t believe it…”

Under normal circumstances, Sindri would have preened. Yes, he was the famous Huldra Brother who helped forged Thor’s terrible hammer. He was the dwarf who put Niðavellir in the god’s graces. He was the dwarf who’s magnificent weapons helped initiate a genocide of innocent beings. But something was very wrong about this entire thing, and it made Sindri feel sick.

Asta opened her lips to continue, but Sindri didn’t hear her over a new roar of the crowd. There was panic. The entire market seemed to surge forward like a great ocean wave, dragging Sindri and Asta along with it. It rushed towards the summit of the mountain of the Forge, bubbling in its shadow. Dwarfs were running to get a look at the front of the group and bumping into each other in the process.

“What’s going on?” Sindri growled, his voice barely audible over the buzz of the crowd. Asta stood on her tiptoes. Her head bobbed back and forth, but she undoubtedly caught a glimpse of the scene. Her eyes grew wide, and a look of shock struck her face.

“What is it?” Sindri peered over her shoulder but was met with a sea of fellow dwarfs. He couldn’t see a damn thing.

Asta’s face went pale.

“A funeral procession.”

End author's notes: