#lunda

“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.”

End Author's Notes: