The trees shielded the blunt of the harsh Alfheim sun, but it still glinted off the polished rune like a spotlight direct to the face. Hearthstone, however, wasn't affected by it — he still turned it over and over in his hand, studying the symbol on the stone intently. It looked like an M, but it had much more meaning than just that: it was Ehwaz, the rune of horses and/or transportation. It seemed simple enough. If he was lucky, maybe he could summon a full-out winged horse. Or a saddled pig.

But that was thinking optimistically. This would be his first time casting a rune since picking up his first book on rune magic. Hearth was scared, of course, but there was a first time for everything. And there was no time like the present.

Plus, he was near the little memorial he had made for — for Andiron. The name stuck in his throat as if he had spoke it with emotion. Hearth tried to avoid looking at it, but the runes he had set there just kept pulling at his vision. He knew deep inside that maybe he shouldn't have picked that exact spot in the woods to try using runes for magic, but he had originally thought that maybe the connection he felt to that area would give him strength for this. Maybe not.

He took a breath and flipped the rune into the air, catching it. He knew he was stalling. Just do it, Hearth thought, inhaling again. He was prepared for this. Hearth had studied day and night — when no one was around, of course — for this moment. He was ready. He had to be.

Because if he wasn't…well, the alternative wasn't as perky as a saddled pig.

He steeled his nerves and hefted the rune in his right palm. Closing his eyes, he channeled his willpower and as much strength as he could draw from his veins. Hearth tried to imagine a donkey in front of him — you know, something discreet and simple and not a hulking eight-legged horse — to give him a better picture of his goal.

When he could feel the veins in his neck popping with the effort, Hearth threw the rune in front of him with as much power as he could muster, still mentally sending signals to Ehwaz to cooperate and give him his donkey.

Ehwaz, however, worked a little too well.

Hearth knew that as soon as the world pulled, contorted, and spun around him. Instantly the ground beneath his feet was gone, and even through the huge gray and red blotches patching out his eyesight and the distraction of screaming nerves pulsing behind his forehead, Hearth could tell he was no longer in Alfheim. His body seemed weightless in its burning, searing agony, especially around his chest and in his skull. He didn't know what happened to Ehwaz, but that was the least of his worries. Maybe the concentrated energy went haywire and burned it up.

Pain flared in his ribs as something hard and stiff abruptly slammed against his spine. Hearth could only groan, however, unable to muster up the strength to cry out. He had used too much uncontrolled power, too much force and energy. Though his thoughts were hazy and his eyelids were as heavy as bricks, Hearth realized what must have happened. The temperature was cooler, stuffier. There was no sunlight warming his back. Using Ehwaz, the rune of transportation, the amount of energy he poured into his casting had done way more than summon a donkey. It had teleported him into a whole different world — and by the feel of it, Hearth was in Nidavellir.

Which brought up a new life threatening problem (because he just needed more of those). Elves needed sunlight. Hearth was an elf. Nidavellir, unfortunately, had never even seen the sun. Hearth could already feel his blood cooling, his heart slowing, forgetting about repairing the breaks that Hearth knew were cracking in his ribs. Although Ehwaz had received enough power to transport him here, apparently it didn't get enough mental focus to give him a decent landing. Not to mention it had very rudely drained his entire supply of willpower and strength.

He had to get his bearings, though. Hearth slowly tried to sit up, his body already numbing, and realized he was sprawled on a roof. He tried not to think about the immense rock walls rising up about him, the ceiling of stone high above his head. Claustrophobia was not going to be helpful right now.

Slowly Hearth got onto all fours and tried to crawl to the edge of the roof, wanting to see how far up he was. That proved to be a mistake, because as soon as he realized that he was on a tall structure about three or four stories above ground, his vision tunneled and spun as a wave of vertigo surged through his body. Swaying, he lost his balance, and promptly tumbled off the edge of the roof.

Fortunately, a balcony jutting out from the story below him broke his fall. Unfortunately, Hearth landed on his face.

He couldn't move. He couldn't do anything, for that matter. Not move, not think, not breathe. His lungs were closing up with both panic and the lack of sunlight (and probably many other technical things inside of him that occurred between the outpour of raw energy and the two consecutive rib-breaking falls ), and he let out a feeble moan that no one could hear.

Except someone did hear. And as Hearth's eyes slowly dimmed, the light going out for what he assumed was forever, he thought he could feel urgent, rushing vibrations in the floor that quickly got stronger, as if the source was nearing him. Teetering on the edge of darkness, Hearth vaguely felt someone rolling him over. Something warm and calloused pressed against his barely beating pulse against his neck. The last thing Hearth saw before he slipped away were two wide, alarmed brown eyes staring right into his own.

Consciousness slowly came back to him, but Hearth wasn't entirely sure if he wanted it. He gradually became aware of his own body — his stiff back, his aching sides, his throbbing head. Funny, though, he didn't feel like he was about to die. It actually felt like he had been healed, or at least, in the process of being healed. Maybe he had already died and this was Fólkvangr.

He was almost certain his theory was correct when he opened one eye and was met with a bright light. He nearly closed it right away again until he realized that it wasn't the light of Alfheim, and it didn't seem like it'd be the light of Fólkvangr, either. It was controlled and gentle, more gold than white, and it radiated a soft heat that did much more than warm Hearth's body. It was just like sunlight, except…somehow different.

Sunlight, Hearth thought, confused. How was sunlight this gentle? In fact, now that he thought about it, how was there sunlight? He recalled that he was in Nidavellir, the full set of memories beginning to return. He shifted, moving his head, both eyes fully open. They traced the source of light, startled when he found out two things. One was that the light came from multiple rows of concentrated…well, light, running vertically from his feet to his head. Two was that the sources of light actually stopped, about two inches or so from being parallel to his arm.

Hearth was utterly baffled at that point. Where was he? What was this? He turned his head again, feeling padding cushion his head, and nearly froze. Those same brown eyes, which Hearth could now see were dotted with flecks of gold, were staring at him as if they had never left his face. This time they weren't alarmed. They were a little guarded, but most of all, mysteriously relieved.

Hearth furrowed his brow and stopped focusing on just those strangely captivating eyes so that he could examine who they belonged to. The person sitting beside him was a dark skinned dwarf dressed in a white collared undershirt and black slacks sat at his side, his long hair pulled back in a thick swath of dreadlocks. A scruffy beard lined his jaw and chin, and when Hearth really looked hard, he could see that the dwarf was biting his lip, clearly tense.

Hearth wasn't sure what to make of this. The golden glow of the lights casted a bronze sheen on the dwarf's face, which looked quite heavenly, and did nothing to help his concentration.

For a few moments the dwarf looked at him anxiously, his eyes scanning every inch of the elf's face, until finally he sat back, his mouth open as he closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Hearth assumed he was sighing until a couple of seconds passed, and the dwarf paused and then looked down at him, appearing a little puzzled. Hearth cocked an eyebrow to figure out why until the dwarf's lips moved, undoubtedly asking a question.

At this point, Hearth wasn't exceptional at reading lips, but from his limited ability and the general situation, he knew the dwarf was asking him something that certainly attributed to his deafness. Exhaling through his nose, Hearth signed, Deaf. Can't read lips well.

Judging from the hybrid look of both understanding and confusion, Hearth figured that the dwarf had no clue what he was saying but got enough of it to realize that the elf was deaf.

He looked at Hearth for a few seconds, his brows pushed together as if he was trying to think of a solution. Finally he twisted his jaw and held his hand out to Hearthstone.

At first Hearth was clueless as to what the dwarf wanted, but then he realized that he wanted Hearth's hand. The elf hesitated, not entirely open to this idea. The dwarf looked conflicted, and the emotion in his eyes shifted until they resembled hope and assurance. At least, that's what Hearth thought they looked like. In any case, he uncertainly lifted his hand nearest the dwarf and carefully laid it in his palm.

The dwarf's fingers subconsciously curled around the curves of Hearth's hand, causing the elf to shiver a bit, not used to the physical contact and trying to decide how much he liked it. It felt foreign rather than wrong; the sense of safety more foreign than the touch.

The dwarf didn't seem to notice the accidental shudder as he lifted his other hand and slowly opened Hearth's fingers up to expose the elf's palm. Then, to Hearth's surprise, the dwarf began to trace shaky letters into his hand. Instantly all of the elf's concentration went to reading those letters rather than flinching away from the tickling feeling. No one had ever tried that tactic of communication — since no one exactly cared to talk to him — but Hearth could feel well enough to know that the letters were: B-L-I-T-Z-E-N. Blitzen.

Hearth tilted his head. Blitzen? he thought.

The dwarf seemed to expect the mental question, as he pointed to himself with his free hand and then quickly traced 'Blitzen' into Hearth's hand again.

Hearth managed a small smirk. At least the dwarf knew how to somewhat sign I'm Blitzen.

He pointed to himself and then slipped his hand out of Blitzen's, switching the position so that he's holding the dwarf's hand palm-up. Trying to steady both hands, attempting to hide how nervous he is, he wrote the letters H-E-A-R-T-H-S-T-O-N-E into Blitzen's palm. He traced them slow and as clear as possible, not sure how easily the dwarf could translate that.

Blitzen nodded slowly, taking Hearth's hand again and then wrote the elf's name into his palm as a sign of confirmation. When Hearth was satisfied that Blitzen knew who he was, he withdrew his hands, defenses still more or less up.

Blitzen, though, still looked as if he wants to know more. Much more. A quizzical look followed a short period of comfortable silence (at least, Hearth thinks it's comfortable silence, not exactly knowing the difference from his regular silence to a relaxed one). Suddenly Blitzen jumped up, face abruptly bright, and he rushes away.

Instantly the air is let out of Hearth's chest — air that he didn't know was there. Apparently some time during their mock conversation, he had grown comfortable with the dwarf, almost fully enjoying his presence. Maybe it was his eyes of friendliness and strange concern, or the way the edges of his mouth quirked upwards when they exchanged names, or the overwhelming security that Hearth had unexpectedly felt when Blitzen handled his palm with a combination of firmness and tenderness. Whatever it was, it caused Hearth to enjoy the dwarf's being there, and even though he was under the impression that Blitzen's disappearance was temporary, he felt substantially more alone and more vulnerable than he had a few seconds ago.

Only about a minute passed before Blitzen came back, carrying a few sheets of blank paper and a ballpoint pen. Hearth watched as his companion scribbled something down and then showed it to the elf. In neat, curvy handwriting, the paper read: We can write for now. Until you teach me sign language.

Hearth was both pleasantly surprised and horrified with that at the same. He was surprised at Blitzen's clear desire to learn ASL, which implied a hope of communicating with the elf more efficiently. He was horrified that he would have to write until then, which brought him back too many memories of his father, who had forced him to write on a chalk slate if Hearth wanted to communicate.

He made himself nod, swallowing down the bile in his throat and reminding himself that this dwarf beside him was undoubtedly the one who saved him and is as different from his father than Nidavellir was from Alfheim. He tried to sit up in hopes for a better angle to write, only to be stopped by a flare of burning in his side. Hearth let out what he assumed to be a sharp, startled cry of pain, confirmed by the way that Blitzen's arms immediately surrounded him, steadying him and lifting him up tenderly. Hearth slowed his breath, inhaling deeply and letting it out, doing his best to ignore the pain. The dwarf's hands helped where were are, one slung across Hearth's back and clutching his far shoulder tightly, the other sturdy around his near bicep.

Hearth thanked Blitzen with a grateful smile, which he returned with a nod and an odd movement of the eyebrows. Before Hearth could begin to psychoanalyze the latter, he quickly bowed his head, took the paper, and began to write.

He hadn't written his words for a little while — as he generally avoided confrontation with his father when he could — so now that he was, it was like a lost practice. His handwriting is shaky and clearly unused, and the final message is sloppy and can be obviously traced back to a quivering hand.

Hearth's message was concise and covers his biggest questions: Where am I? Why did you save me? Who are you really?

Blitzen took the paper, examines it quickly, and wrote his response in less than a minute. Third floor in a row house in Nidavellir, it reads. I'm Blitzen — just call me Blitz, it's easier — and I'm a dwarf. I crafted this tanning bed for you, which is why you're alive. I know elves need sunlight.

But why? Hearth wrote when Blitz failed to answer his second question — or, rather, chose to ignore it.

Blitz hesitated before answering again. Don't know. Granted I'd save anyone who looks half dead on my balcony, but I don't normally put this much effort into it.

Like the sun bed?

Tanning bed, Blitz corrected, repeating the term again, a hint of amusement in his little smile. Besides, I don't normally see elves. And you were really out of it. Do you know how close you were to dying?

Hearth trembled a bit as he regarded the question. Think so, he writes.

Ribs broken, concussion, lungs weren't properly responding, plenty of sprained muscles, and in danger of internal bleeding. Also really weak; I could tell your mind was injured too. The tanning bed helped a lot, but I patched you up some. Your ribs are somehow fine now, too. And concussion is gone. Blitz paused before asking, Why?

Hearth knew what Blitz was asking, and he answered as simply as possible. Casting magic. Used up too much strength. Ended up here. Now it's his turn to hesitate. Thank you, he writes.

Blitz looked over the elf's shoulder as he wrote, and instead of writing down You're welcome, he guides Hearth's face towards his with two fingers and fixes him with a fond gaze and a smile of growing devotion. He dipped his head once before abruptly dropping his fingers away from Hearth's chin, who would've stayed staring at the dwarf forever. He had never seen that kind of promise or gentleness in someone's face, at least not directed at him.

He's so bewildered that he can't think of anything to say, so he just turned away and had the decency to blush a little green. I should go, Hearth eventually wrote, looking at Blitz again. Deciding more words could be used now, he continues, Thank you for your hospitality. Thank you for helping me heal.

As he handed the paper to the dwarf, he swung his legs off the side of the tanning bed, intent on leaving while Blitz was distracted. However, he was too slow, and Blitz's wide, firm hand caught him by the wrist before Hearth could leave. The refusal was as clear in Blitz's eyes as if he had written or signed it, and Hearth froze with the fierceness of his eyes. The dwarf shook his head furiously, his hold momentarily tightening.

Blitzen held Hearthstone there for a little while longer, letting go only when he decided the elf wouldn't run off. Just to be sure, his hand wrote rapidly albeit messily. He held the paper up to Hearth with one hand, the other one clutching his forearm. No, Blitz had wrote. You stay. Not entirely healed yet. And, I want to learn sign language. Please stay, Hearthstone.

Hearth pursed his lips, so new to the concept of being wanted, the idea of his presence being enjoyable. They both stand there, neither making any moves, both studying each other's face intently. Hearth's eyes scrutinized Blitz's face — his set jaw that made Hearth certain he wouldn't take no for an answer; his scrunched, stubborn eyebrows; his pleading eyes of dark mocha and hickory.

Blitzen had just saved his life. How could Hearth possibly leave? Not to mention that this was the first person to fight so hard to keep the elf. And now that Hearth was clearly deciding on staying, he felt a strange fire in his heart to pay this dwarf back for as long as he lived.

So Hearth nodded, a whisper of his smile ghosting across his lips.

Blitz grinned so widely that Hearth thought his face would split in half. The dwarf then reached forward and took Hearth's hands in his, stepping closer so that if Blitz was eye-level with the elf's collarbone. The height difference was more obvious now — give or take abut a head — but didn't stop Hearth from instinctively doing what probably surprised him more than Blitz: he bowed his head and touched their foreheads together as he squeezed Blitzen's hands, hoping that the dwarf got what he was trying to say. That was confirmed when Blitz matched Hearth's grip with his own, nodding slightly.

When they stepped back, Hearth a little dizzy from the uncharacteristic urge to show thanks in that way, Blitz grabbed the paper and jotted down, Now that we're set, will you teach me sign language? This is gonna start hurting my hand.

Hearth nodded, still reeling from the growing friendship from the dwarf, but had enough sense to follow Blitz towards a more comfortable part of his living quarters. As soon as they sat down on the couch, Hearthstone took Blitzen's hand (although he felt like they had held hands way too many times for one sitting, but whatever) and traced the letter A into his palm. Then he held up a fist with his thumb pressed against the side of his hand, making sure Blitz understood what the sign is. He waited for the dwarf to reciprocate the sign, and he had to reach forward and move his thumb to the right place. Hearth cracked a smile as he nodded, satisfied, and then wrote the letter B into Blitz's palm.

As Hearth began to teach Blitzen the alphabet, he subconsciously reflected that by accepting the offer of a second home and an undoubtedly lasting friendship, there would come a time where he would have to confess his hard past and many of his deepest secrets to the dwarf should they ever somehow get that close. For the time being, Hearth would temporarily hold Blitz at a distance and avoid getting too close to him, but if he proved to really be all for the elf, then Hearth would lower his defenses. The hesitance came with years of rejection from his family, which Blitz would come to understand.

In the meantime, Hearth would teach Blitz sign language until they could hold swift conversations as if they were really talking. Blitzen's willingness alone was a sign that for some reason, the dwarf wanted to know more about Hearthstone. Maybe the Norns had decided that it'd be really funny if a dwarf and an elf became best friends, but Hearth wasn't exactly arguing. Blitz was the first to show Hearth any sort of affection (except for that one servant girl, but that was a whole different story). He certainly didn't have to save the elf's life. To build a tanning bed, to inconvenience himself, to devote himself to learning ASL for Hearthstone — who knows?

Maybe Blitzen would be the one.

END