The Journey to Find Mimir

Chapter One: Alone

I knew my dad was dead before the dwarven patrol knocked on my front door. He had been gone for two weeks, leaving on the same night he lost the making to Eitri Junior, our family's greatest rival. Instead of taking the traditional prize -- the loser's head -- Junior had decided on something different. 

The city of Eddaborg was dark outside the apartment window. My dad had packed his satchel with supplies and wrapped himself in the green cloak I had sewn him for his birthday. He grabbed my face with both hands, just like when I was little. His eyes were determined. His hands were worn from years crafting.

"Even if it is that mad dwarf's punishment, it's not a punishment at all. I know that this is what I am meant to do," he said. "It is part of my destiny. Like words carved on the World Tree. As if Odin, god of wisdom, told me himself."

"I want to come," I said firmly. "What if you need help?"

"I won't," he said. "I am just going to be checking if the wolf's chains are loose. I will only get close enough to see him. Ignore everyone who says this is dangerous. I will be back sooner than you know it."

"What if something goes wrong?" I replied, feeling panic rise. "Then Ragnarök will start, and I will be dead anyway! Let me come."

"I promise it is safe," he said.

"If it's so safe, then why can't I come with you?"

He gave me a small smile.

"I would never forgive myself if something happened to you, Blitzen."

He pulled my tall frame down into a hug, then walked towards the door. He turned in the threshold to look at me one last time. My eyes took a picture of him.  

Bilì. Son of Ljómi. The greatest inventor in all of Nidavellir, the land of dwarves. Creator of the Troll Trackers, JustCheckYourPocket™ and the mood ring. My dad. My closest friend.

The green cloak wrapped snuggly around his shoulders. The chain of the HeartChart necklace could be seen around his neck, slipping beneath his shirt. A small smile appeared from behind his dark, curly beard.

"Don't follow me."

We stood there nine days.

"I love you, Blitzen."

"I love you, too, dad."

The door shut behind him. 

For two weeks, I waited in the apartment. I only left to buy food for when dad came home. I only cleaned so the place would look nice when he returned. The rest of my time was spent making clothes. Three new coats. Six hats. I learned to knit gloves. I sewed and stitched; I sliced and embroidered. 

All the time, my eyes were on my half of the HeartChart. It was one of my father's greatest inventions. His half, the necklace, was worn over the heart. My half, a small box that fit in my palm, played dad's heartbeat and recorded the rhythm. It was designed for heroes, or for those with ailing health. My dad was never supposed to need it. 

The careful, steady tick of his heartbeat calmed me. I slept next to the box at night. I brought it with me to the store, ignoring the usual stares from the rest of Nidavellir. I'm already one of the tallest dwarves, the loudest dresser, and the son of the disgraced Bilì. What more is a ticking box?

I awoke one morning to silence. In the quiet dawn of mossglow, I did not realize that something was wrong. Then panic took over. I grabbed the box. I turned it over in my hands. Once. Twice. Silence. My father's heart had stopped beating. The necklace that couldn't be removed detected no noise. My father was dead. I knew it in my heart. I stayed in bed with the box on my chest. That's where I was when the dwarven patrol arrived.

After the quiet, steady tick of my father's heart, their boots were too loud, too irregular, in the small apartment. They knew of me already, yet gawked at my sewing machine, the measurement tapes, and the two bodices I had for sizing. As usual, I could hear them thinking: How did the great Bilì have a son like this?

The dwarven patrol head began talking, but all I saw was his mustache move; his words were drowned by the ringing in my ears. Then, he handed me a paper bag. I opened it. Ice cold truth trickled through my veins. 

The HeartChart necklace. Broken. Just a little strand of chain. Like a golden line of tears down a cheek. 

My father's green cloak. The one I had sewn for him. Shredded into pieces. 

Blood. Just a little. On the hem. Just a little. On the hem. Right there. 

I stared at the last pieces of my father. I cradled them in my lap. 

The ringing in my ears was deafening. Those dwarven patrol boots were still there, rumbling in the background. Hands on my shoulders asked me to look into the eyes of a stranger, but all etiquette was out the window. I didn't care if they gawked at my sewing. They could have trashed the room. They could have burned down the apartment. I would have sat on the couch and burned along with it. 

Finally, the boots left. The ringing stopped. I was left in an apartment that no one would ever come home to. 

Bilì.

My dad. 

My only friend. 

Gone.

I had always felt alone in Nidavellir. 

Always felt out of place. 

My lack of crafting skills. 

My love of fashion.

My height.

But dad had always been there. Now that he was gone, I was truly, utterly alone. My heart panicked at the emptiness in my chest. 

Who, in all the Nine Worlds, could be lonelier than me?