The Journey to Find Mimir

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Crack in the Mask

I found Hearthstone sitting on the edge of the Vimur River. His shoulders were slumped. His backpack was next to him. I stopped at the tree line before walking over to him. The pouch of runestones was in his lap. I could see him examining one, turning it over and over again in his hands. It looked like he needed some time to himself.

Dusk deepened from golden glows to a soft orange light. The wind was picking up, bringing in dark clouds from beyond the valley. I had the tent, so I began to set up camp. I kept glancing to where he was on the banks of the river, but he hadn't moved. When I was finally done, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. I walked out to Hearthstone and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me.

At first, I could not figure out why his eyes looked more dull than usual. Then, I realized that the whites of his eyes were tinted green, the same way mine turned red when I'm upset. Green tear-stained tracks lined his cheeks. Hearthstone had been crying. 

"Buddy?" I asked. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

Hearthstone shrugged, then looked out over the river. Waves crashed rocks and churned ice inside the little pools. The edges of the river were covered in ice.

I pulled out the notepad, wrote, then tipped the page in his direction.  

Do you want to talk about it? 

Hearthstone was still holding tightly to a runestone. His knuckles looked completely white from gripping it so hard. He looked at my question for a long time before finally putting the runestone back into the bag. I noticed that the design on the rock looked like a little fish swimming upstream: ᛟ 

For once, I recognized the symbol. Othala. One of the most popular runestones in Nidavellir. It means inheritance, or home.

For a moment, my heart hurt as I thought of my dad. Othala was the design most often requested to be engraved onto his custom jewelry. In a world where tradition and family lineage are embedded to society, it is obvious why this was seen as a symbol of love and dedication to be given from one dwarf to another. 

Hearthstone took the pen from my hand. He stared at the paper for a long time. Then, he began to write.

My dad is Alderman Alderman, Head of House Alderman. I am descended from the House Sibling Alderman. My family has lived on the family property for generations. My father and the other house descendants make all decisions for Alfheim. The district does not know, but he oversees everything in the House Alderman district: the police force, the election of Lord Mayor, the laws. He controls all. 

For a moment, all I could do was sit there in shock. Hearthstone wasn't just the son of some rich, anonymous elf like I had originally thought. His family owned and ruled over a fourth of Alfheim. That was an insane amount of power. I looked at Hearthstone through new eyes. In a way, Hearthstone was like a prince -- or at least the son of a powerful politician. 

I took up the pen.  

Why didn't you tell me?

I do not like people knowing who I am, and where I come from. Also, my parents do not know that I left.

You ran away?

The pen hovered.

Yes. 

Then: I had to leave. 

He held the pen in his hand, staring at the white paper before writing again. 

Alfheim is a world of perfection. Everything is just so. There is a lot of pressure to exist without a single mistake. To look a certain way. To talk a certain way. To be a certain way. The descendants of House siblings have extra pressure to be perfect. We are in the spotlight. I was never up to my father's standards. He was never happy with-

Hearthstone stopped, then made a familiar sign near his ear.

Deaf. 

This lit a fire in me. I held out my hand for the pen, to write something scathing about his father, but Hearthstone shook his head. He continued on. 

My father kept trying to make me hearing. But I was born deaf. No money or power could change that. Father does not like being told no. He likes tradition. He wanted to keep the Alderman bloodline the same as it has always been. Usually, the House Siblings have only one child. It keeps the bloodline pure and prohibits power struggles between the children. But my parents decided to have another sibling. My brother--

Hearthstone froze. A single green tear fell down his cheek. I didn't know what to do. I hesitated, then lightly touched his arm. 

"Hearthstone, it's okay," I said. "I'm right here."

Hearthstone looked away. He swiped away another tear from the corner of his eyes. Then, he let go of my hand and continued to write. 

His name was Andiron. Father was happy because he could hear. He stopped trying to change me as soon as he knew Andiron was not like me. For a long time, our family was happy. I knew that Father loved Andiron more, but it was fine. With Andiron around, he never hated me. And as long as I used my whiteboard to talk, he was happy. 

Whiteboard to talk? I wondered briefly. Didn't the whole family use ASL?

Hearthstone continued on. 

But something happened to Andiron when I was eight and he was seven. He-

Hearthstone stopped writing. His entire body was tense. Every muscle in his face had frozen, given him a completely neutral look. Hearthstone looked like a statue. The only sign of life on his face were the watery green tears dripping down his cheeks. He didn't have to write more. Judging from his reaction, I knew what had happened. 

This time, I pulled him into a hug. He sat there, stiffly. I pulled away and took the notepad. 

I am so sorry about your brother. 

I tried to write more but couldn't seem to find the words. To my surprise, Hearthstone shook his head with the tiniest no. He took the pen. 

Do not be sorry. The goddess was wrong. I deserve no sympathy. Everyone knows Andiron is dead because of me. I am in debt to him and my parents. I owe them. I have been paying my whole life and I will never stop paying. No matter how much I collect, it will never be enough.

Hearthstone's shaky writing was getting hard to read. My heart dropped when I deciphered his final words. 

The wrong child died. Father reminds me every day. We both know this to be true.

And with that, Hearthstone shut the notebook. He handed me the notebook, then walked into the tent. I could hear him zipping himself into the sleeping bag. 

I sat on the bank of the roaring Vimur River, watching the water continue to flow in a never-ending stream, crashing over the rocks again and again. My mind ran in a million different directions. I read our conversation until the evening light was gone, trying to divine an answer to a single question:

What had happened to Hearthstone?