The Journey to Find Mimir

Chapter Five: That's News to Me

Finally, the food ran out. The fridge and cupboards were completely empty. Still, I could not get myself to leave the apartment. Part of me wanted to stay. If enough papers piled at the front door, someone would find me eventually. But hunger made me sick with nausea and somehow that was worse than starving. I would have to venture out. Dressing myself from head to toe in black, I drank water to fill my stomach, then left.

Dizzy with the weight of existence, I stepped out into the darkened streets of Eddaborg. Time had not been on my mind when I decided to journey out of the apartment. Now outside, it was clear that it was quite late. No grocery stores or restaurants would be open at this time. I leaned heavily against the brick wall of my apartment building. The single flight of stairs had left me feeling exhausted and weak. I could not return to the apartment without something in my stomach. The only places open this late and serving food were the bars. I racked my brain for the closest one. 

Nabbi's Tavern came to mind. My dad and I used to go once or twice a month to eat nachos and drink a pint of mead. On my 16th birthday we went there to get my first legal pint.

Happy memories from two years ago flooded in. I could see my dad convincing all of the laughing patrons to sing "Happy Birthday" to me twice -- first normally, then in Old Norse. As Nabbi brought out some special mead for my first legal pint, Dad insisted that it was actually Kvasir's Mead, the mead of honey and godly blood. Throughout the entire night he shouted, "My son Blitzen is a man, now!" to anyone who would listen. The memory of his outbursts, which used to make me cringe, pained me. For a moment I was paralyzed. I love him. He is gone. My grief is the weight of all the love I cannot give him. How can I walk with a soul so heavy? I did not want to go to Nabbi's Tavern. His ghost would be there, sitting in our favorite spot. 

Sharp pains of hunger roared in my stomach. Feeling sick with nausea, a return to the apartment no longer seemed an option. Maybe if Nabbi was in one of his moods, he wouldn't say anything to me at all. I crossed my fingers and turned my feet in the direction of the bar.

The low tunnel of Nabbi's Tavern offered a bit of comfort. A variety of expertly crafted chairs and tables filled the tavern, each as unique as the patrons that occupied them. Dwarves filled the place. They ranged from tall svartalfs like myself to short Nidavellir dwarves, who only came up to my hip. Quietly, I snuck in amidst the merry clamor of the patrons as they drank, laughed and playfully fought one another. I watched one dwarf pull another into a head lock; the two began to playfully wrestle on the floor. This was not an uncommon sight to see after patrons had finished a few glasses of mead. Nabbi was a fan of fights. Posters for THE MINI MANIAC, one of the best wrestlers in Eddaborg, plastered the walls of the tavern.

Dodging the two wrestling dwarves, I reached the polished oak bar. Nabbi had his back to me as he filled mugs of mead. I cleared my throat. 

"Greetings, Nabbi, son of Loretta." After weeks of silence, my voice felt wrong in my throat. "May I use this stool? What is its name and history?"

Upon hearing my voice, Nabbi had flinched. Slowly, he turned around to examine me. 

"Blitzen... Son of Freya. Greetings," he said brusquely. 

The sound of his voice, though quiet, sliced through the happy chatter of the tavern. Voices died. Every eye turned to us. For a moment, there was nothing but stillness and silence. My blood squirmed. Then, nine years later, the patrons returned to their previous activities, murmuring quietly to one another and stealing glances at me. One furious-looking dwarf got up and left. I wish I could have disappeared on the spot. 

Mr. Nabbi looked unaffected by this reaction.

"Please," he said curtly, "sit upon Posterior-Place, brother of Keister-Home. Famed among stools -- a survivor of the Great Bar Fight of 4109 A.M. and made by yours truly."

I quickly sat then leaned against the counter with my face in my hands.

Nabbi looked to ensure no one was listening, then leaned in. His bushy eyebrows were inches from my face. His shoulders were tense.

"Blitzen. Your father was an excellent crafter, even if he was crazy--"

"He's not crazy!" I snapped, looking up from my hands.

"I'm not looking to start something!" Nabbi snapped back. He looked at me, then sighed. "The papers are too harsh. Even I'll admit. But you've got to go now."

"What?" I choked out. "Not you, too!"

"It's not that," Nabbi said tartly. "You know the dwarf that left when he saw you walk in? That was one of Junior Eitri's closest friends. I am certain he is going to get him--"

"Hey, Nabbi!" called a slurred voice from behind me. "More mead!"

"You're drunk, Darri, go home!" Nabbi snapped. He turned back to me. 

"Blitzen, those articles Junior Eitri has been paying the papers to publish aren't enough. He wants revenge on you for trying to tarnish the Eitri family name. Word on the street is that he has been crafting some sort of powerful weapon to use the moment he sees you."

My brain went blank. I knew I should be focused on the "weapons being made to harm you" part of Nabbi's comment, but I let it blow past me without a blink in its direction. 

"Junior Eitri is paying the papers to publish those articles? The one's about my family?" My hands, which had been resting on the oak bar, tightened into fists. My voice did not sound like my own. "He's the one responsible for slandering our name?"

"Keep your voice down!" Nabbi shushed. His eyes flicked across the room, but the normal chatter persisted. "You know how stubborn dwarves can be! Hard as iron, tough as steel! And his dad left him loads of money, more than enough to pay off the editor at the paper."

He gave me a hard look. 

"Leave, Blitzen. It's not worth it. That dwarf is out for blood."

My heart was pounding a million miles a minute. The pain of losing my father churned into something poisonous. 

"Nabbi!" the drunken voice called again. "This is my only night to drink! My wife is out with friends, and my sons are-"

"You're cut off, Darri!" Nabbi called back, irritated. 

He returned to talking to me.

"Come back whenever, just not now," Nabbi said. "Junior Eitri will bring lots of back-up. And...  Well, look at you. You don't look like you can, well, you know..."

The words hung there like a noose. Clearly, my disheveled self was nothing intimidating. 

Shame was thrown into the boiling pot of my emotions. I fixed my eyes on the empty mead glasses behind Nabbi, staring straight through them. 

"I am not leaving." The words slid out of me like a deadly serpent. "I am going to sit right here until Junior Eitri comes. I don't care if he has one hundred men. I am going to face him, dwarf to dwarf!"

Nabbi nodded curtly. 

"Anything you want is on the house," he said generously. He filled a mug with mead and slid it over to me. "Take your time. It may be a while."