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Alderman left his son’s room with a pep in his step and a mad gleam in his eye. He admired his new ring as he walked, he knew exactly the attire to pair it with! Oh, it would look just wonderful with the suit he had picked out in his head.
He hoped Inge hurried with the polishing of the gold he had acquired, he had many guests to show off his new treasure to!
There was so much; oh, wherever would he find the room for it? Coins and rings and chains of jewellery to strew about!
And so many little golden trinkets, too! Steam trains and dice and little golden cats-!
Alderman stopped short in his prancing. He ran his thumb over the gold choo-choo train in his hand. He turned his hand over to stare at it.
It was ridiculous. He wasn’t even sure what kind of game it would possibly belong to. It was heavy in his hand. Clearly solid gold, not hollow.
It was silly and nonsensical, superfluous and gratuitous.
He loved it.
It was exactly the kind of stupid little trinket his wife would make fun of him for.
He could imagine her laugh as he held it up to show her. How she’d dismiss it and reprimand him for filling their home with more pointless tat.
He could see her face as it disappeared from whichever shelf he had sat it on. The shake of her shoulders as she pretended to be asleep and not laughing when he pulled back the sheets and found it waiting for him on his pillow. Her feigned innocence when he questioned why it was sitting in the medicine cabinet next to his toothbrush. Her faked shock and concern when it fell from his cup and knocked into his teeth. How she would hide it in plain sight before parties or important meetings and smirk to herself, knowing her husband had noticed it and had to keep his composure. The way she would ‘accidentally’ order banners with little train patterns.
How, all the while, she would bemoan his newest addition to his ever-growing ‘little magpie hoard’.
His view of the little train became blurred. He lifted his empty hand to his face. His wedding band flashed in the light as he wiped a tear from his cheek.
Their son’s weregild had been paid. After all these years. Their boy had been given his justice; his blood had been paid for.
And his wife was not there to see it.
His beautiful, wonderful wife was not there to find peace in her child’s paid weregild.
Alderman’s heart seized in his chest. The weight of the day hit him in full force. He was thrown back to that moment. To the sound of his wife shrieking upon seeing the bloodied, mangled body of her little boy in his arms. The feeling of his shirt, soaked and sticky, clinging to him. The hot, green substance that had coated his hands and cooled quickly in the summer breeze. The overwhelming smell of leaf aldehyde. The origin of a most embarrassing panic response to the scent of cut grass that had him planning short vacations away with his wife during lawn care appointments.
He had scrubbed his hands raw that sunset and almost thrown up the next day when he noticed the remaining stains under his fingernails. Alderman hadn’t been averse to the sight of blood before that day. He had been present during both births of his children, a clumsy cut or unexpected period hadn’t bothered him. Alderman couldn’t think of many things he hated nowadays more than blood. He had seen both of his sons covered in green when they had come into the world. He had never thought to prepare himself to see them covered in it as they left it.
He had been used to his son’s weight by then. The boy was hardly heavy regardless; he had the gangly body of a child yet to grow into their limbs. The child had thrown his weight against him on multiple occasions, much to Alderman’s chagrin. His sons would be rough and annoying in their play- they had always seemed determined to best the bruises of the day before. He had, against his will, grown used to darting at them and snatching them by the scruff of their shirts before they knocked over something expensive.
Yet the deadweight of his son was heavier that day. Which was ironic, because his body had lost a large portion of its weight in the mauling.
Greta deserved to live to see his weregild paid. She deserved to see justice done for that day.
Instead, she, too, was killed by the catastrophic domino effect of Hearthstone’s actions.
Alderman’s chest was tightening by the second; getting enough air was becoming a struggle, his throat was closing up, and his eyes were burning something fierce.
He quickly finished his journey to his bedroom.
It wasn’t always his bedroom. It had been their bedroom. Before that, it had been his wife’s bedroom. They had not shared it originally. It had taken a long time and a lot of patience for his wife to offer him a place in her bed. But once they had shared a dusk together, tangled in one another, fully clothed and untouched by the other, they had never slept alone again.
From that moment on, Greta had invited Alderman to her bed every sunset until, eventually, the idea they would share a bed became a given. Alderman had never slept in his own bed again. His room had become a secondary space after that, a place where he stored clothing he wasn’t fond of anymore, or hid surprises from his wife, or, on certain… occasions, a place the pair would take advantage of the light thrill of intimacy in an unfamiliar setting.
Alderman gripped the sides of the sink and took in desperate, ragged breaths. He cupped some cold water and splashed it over his face.
Alderman didn't enjoy crying. There was only one person in his life that he had ever felt safe crying with. He hadn’t cried at the births of either of his children, and he didn’t cry when his mother died. But he had cried often with his wife. He cried when they renewed their vows, he cried when she was disinterested in him, he cried when she told him she loved him for the first time, and he cried with her when their son died.
He had cried when she died. He cried at her funeral. And he had cried every day after her death until he had no more tears to shed.
Alderman didn't enjoy crying. It was hot and overwhelming and uncomfortable and made him feel small.
It was much worse when Greta was no longer with him to pepper kisses over the tracks lining his cheeks. Making fun of him for being such a baby all the while.
“Get it together, Mr Alderman.” He glared into his own eyes in the mirror, “You have an event to host.” His pupils dilated a fraction, the steel grey his son shared losing ground to shark black, “And so much treasure to show off…”
He changed into his formal attire and took care to straighten out each item. He swung open his bedroom door and was hit with the raucous noise of the party he was throwing. He swayed slightly where he stood. He felt slightly light-headed. His ears felt hot.
Alderman had not hosted an event since before Greta had died. In truth, he didn’t really know how to host a party.
Organising parties was not Alderman’s job in the house. His role in their household was to chat up influential álfar, secure advantageous relations and play the political field to their advantage, secure and further their financial standing, and, of course, make sure their many businesses were running smoothly. Organising the social events he would work other álfar at was the job of his wife. Greta was meticulous in her planning; every colour was chosen with intent, each canapé and drink considered carefully, and the decorations a bold statement. Greta kept careful track of their finances and budgeted every aspect of their lives with a keen and critical eye.
If Alderman had to host some upstart politician-to-be, he barely had to finish his sentence before his wife had a hulder organising the office space most advantageously. Had she wished, he had no doubts his wife would have been a phenomenal politician. The way she worked those around her had him tripping over himself like a lovestruck schoolboy. His wife’s instinctual talent for playing the social games their standing demanded had made her one of the most terrifying people to their peers and immensely attractive to Alderman.
The only aspect of their events he played any part in sorting was the music because his wife knew how he loved it- and that, while he could not play at their events himself, choosing the arrangements was the next best substitute.
He had not planned this party either. He had chosen one of his pre-organised musical arrangements from the binder his wife had left behind. But everything else would be a surprise to him. Alderman had no idea what was being served at that very moment. He did not know the colour scheme of the decorations or what the decor looked like. He knew there was a banner with some vague phrasing about the son of Frey and his own son; he knew nothing about the colour, the font, or how it had been displayed. He did not even know who all of his guests were, in all honesty. He had thrown a list of names at Inge from the little black book his wife kept and that he had occasionally updated since her passing.
This was the first party his house had thrown since his wife’s death. No doubt the conversations he would be pulled into tonight would be full of subtle jabs at his widowhood and gossip about how he had not taken a new bride to replace the one he lost. There would be no wife to share eye rolls with when someone said something stupid, no laughing at each other's jokes and quips, no hand to hold as he pretended to care about the conversations he was having, no one to insist they must share a dance to. No dress to admire how it exaggerated the beauty wearing it or updo to untangle late after the guests had left, no perfume clinging to his clothes or lipgloss to rub off his cheek. The best and most tolerable part of every event hosted, the one thing he would find endlessly exciting and look forward to upon opening any invitation, was gone.
His wedding band felt heavy on his hand.
The gold of the ring was not pristine. The metal had scratches and scuff marks. It had tarnished on the outside, the inside of the band was almost unrecognisable as gold. Its edges were dull and rounded in a way they hadn’t been when created. The main band was thinner than it had been when he first put it on all those years ago. The diamonds inlaid in the ring were as perfect as the day they were set, but the prongs keeping them in place had been worn down over time. The stones were not at risk of falling out, but they had a noticeable wobble if you looked for it.
Meanwhile, the gold ring on his right hand was perfect. It was unmarred. It gleamed stronger than its opposition. The gold was rich and vibrant. It was gorgeous. It went wonderfully with his attire. It complimented the paleness of his hands and the green of his veins. It was a striking contrast to the silver hue of his eyes. It fit his finger perfectly.
The ring meant nothing.
Sure, it was a wonderful piece of jewellery. It was solid gold and simple. It was unsullied by age, it had weathered naught, it looked brand new.
It was nowhere as beautiful as the ring on his left hand.
Alderman could count on one hand the number of times he had taken off his wedding ring in his life. The ring was deformed and ugly. It had worn a dip into his finger where the appendage had grown and changed around the ring over the span of his adulthood. He wasn't fully confident he could remove the ring if he tried, at least, not with the ease that a fresh band would slip on and off with. His skin was already pale, but it was almost translucent under the band, the skin under it had not seen the sun in decades.
The gold train caught his eye from where it had been abandoned on the dresser by the door. His little treasure. Part of a much larger, more valuable hoard.
So much gold, so many bracelets and necklaces and earrings. So many rings to compliment his new one.
When Inge had presented them with sets of freshly pressed stark white formal attire, the looks she got had been so flat, Magnus felt kind of bad for the girl.
When they had made their way to the top of the stairs and saw the party raging, Magnus was stunned. He wondered what exactly was so powerful about Mr Alderman for four hundred people to RSVP in 24 hours. Obviously, he was filthy rich, but there had to be more- most of Álfheim seemed to be filthy rich, too. His guests certainly looked like loaded hoity-toities.
The weird part was that Magnus couldn’t pick out Hearth’s father in the crowd to save his life- which he very well might have had to, cursed evil ring and all that. Hearth hesitantly asked Inge where crazy, dear old Dad was and shot him and Blitzen a look upon learning he hadn’t left his bedroom.
“Please tell me we’re not paying his bedroom a visit… we could like, just leave while he’s not around to stop us.” Magnus’ hopes were squashed by a stern glare from Hearthstone. He sighed and followed the elf as he took off in what must have been the direction of Mr Alderman’s room. Blitz gave him a commiserating pat on the shoulder. He was pretty sure Jack was laughing at him against his chest.
Magnus wasn’t sure what he was expecting of Mr Alderman’s bedroom. Piles of gold and inspirational cross-stitched quotes about how to best make your son miserable and put the sin of greed to shame would have been his first instinct. Maybe some kind of shrine to elf Jeff Bezos.
His room was… actually nice. The admittance had Magnus shuddering in rejection.
The room was far too big, obviously, but it was oddly homely. There were jewellery dishes strewn about on surfaces. A vanity stood against one wall with an array of cosmetics, sprays, ointments, and random accessories that he figured must have belonged to Hearth’s mom. They looked dusty.
The dresser next to the vanity had framed photos and little trinkets organised along it; among them, Magnus spotted a picture of Hearth with all three of his family members and another of his mother holding both him and his brother as bundled up swaddles. It triggered an uncomfortable coiling in his stomach.
It was kind of weird to remember Hearth had been a baby once. Hearth always just seemed so much more mature than him, but maybe that was just the four years of seniority he had on Magnus. He hadn’t even been born by the time his friend had been walking and organising wooden blocks by colour. Assuming he had been allowed the privilege of baby toys.
There was a sizable walk-in wardrobe adjacent to an equally large bathroom on the far side of the room. Apparently, a bedroom-sized wardrobe wasn’t enough clothing space because there was an additional cupboard full of clothes next to the dresser on the side of the room they were standing in. There was a deep pink dress hanging on the open door of the wardrobe.
A far-too-large bed took centre stage, with a fancy ottoman at its foot. Magnus had to admit, though, that they looked super plush. There was a writing desk with an abundance of notebooks, scattered writing utensils, and torn-out pages spread about it. There was a small plush of a swan snuggled next to a matching plush of a peacock sitting on the nest of papers.
A large, framed photo of Hearth’s parents on their wedding day hung near the desk. They looked young. He could see the resemblance Hearth had to his dad a lot clearer in young Mr Alderman. His mother was pretty; she had the eyes of the little dead boy in the oil portrait downstairs. Magnus retconned his earlier assumption that his friend had gotten his hair from only his dad and that Mr Alderman had just aged out of the blonde- Hearth had his mother’s blonde colouring and the sharpness of her eyes to match. Neither of his parents looked particularly relaxed in the photo.
The colour scheme of the room was what struck him more than the exact content. The furniture was wooden, it was pale- maybe cedar?- and rounded. It was out of place in the cold sharpness he had seen from the Alderman house thus far. The ottoman was lilac, the sheets on the bed were sky blue, and the cushion of the vanity’s stool was pale yellow. The photo frames had little purple and blue wooden bird silhouettes stuck onto them. The yellow off-white of the walls was obviously a messy paint job; he could see where it had dripped onto the skirting boards and where whoever had painted the top of the walls hadn’t been careful enough not to get it on the ceiling.
The room had a soft and bright vibe that Magnus would have found more at home in a baby’s nursery.
It was hard to believe that this was where Mr Alderman, the most evil bastard he had ever met, slept.
But there he was, curled up in the bay window of the room. Sheer lilac curtains were pulled over to separate the little alcove from the bedroom. His silhouette was haloed in the orange of the sunset. His shoes lay abandoned at the end of the bed. There was a white suit jacket tossed lazily over the ottoman and a matching tie hanging half off it. Mr Alderman’s dress shirt was unbuttoned to below his pointy collarbones, revealing a thin gold chain. Magnus couldn't make out what was hanging from it.
He was staring out the window with a blank look, he held one of the gold game pieces from Andvari’s stash in his hands.
Magnus had to rub his eyes to make sure he was seeing right- there was no ring on Mr Alderman’s right ring finger.
He tugged on Hearthstone’s sleeve, but his friend was preoccupied staring at the dusty vanity in dismay.
Right. Dead mom. That he didn’t know was dead. Magnus' heart ached for his friend.
“Usually, it is polite to knock before entering a person’s private space.”
Magnus felt a chill at the lack of tone in Mr Alderman’s voice. It was unlike the angry grumble, agitated shouting, or mocking lilts of earlier. Magnus preferred a shouting, angry man to a calm, angry man. Calm anger was usually smarter.
“Uh… Mr Alderman are you… alright?” Magnus wanted to slap himself for such a dumb question. The elf snorted, and his eyes shifted to watch them, but he made no movement from his seat.
“You sully my room with the filth of that forest. Get out.”
Hearthstone took a steadying breath next to him and turned to address his father, ‘You need to take the ring off, father.’
Even through the sheer curtains and in shadow, Magnus could make out the severely unimpressed look of the crotchety old man. Mr Alderman, rather childishly, held both of his hands out and showed his fingers off in an over-exaggerated manner.
Hearth had clearly not been expecting that; he looked at Magnus and Blitz, his eyes shone with uncertainty. Magnus didn’t like that, at least when Mr Alderman was being a jackass, Hearth clearly knew from experience how to handle him. Magnus had a feeling Hearth didn’t have much experience with his father’s calm. More experienced with the gale force winds than the eye of the storm.
“Well, uh, where is the ring, then? If you don't mind me asking… Don’t want to steal it or anything, just have a strong urge to know where cursed magical items are at all times.”
Blitzen sucked in a breath through clenched teeth; if Magnus didn't know any better, it sounded like the dwarf was hissing at him in warning.
Mr Alderman gestured lazily at the dresser next to them as he turned away from them again.
Magnus wanted to throttle him. There was an abundance of rings littering the dresser and its jewellery dish. He held in a sigh and kept an eye on the old elf as he fished around for the one that whispered promises of lottery wins and gold Connect-4 to him.
Magnus’ fingers closed around Andvari’s ring, and he stuffed it in his pocket as casually as possible- he had plenty of experience in pick-pocketing jerks like Hearth’s dad. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, “So, we’re gonna head out now, places to be… giants to kill and stuff. Weddings to crash. Cool party, looked real fancy, nice decorations. Punch was great.”
Blitz kicked him in the shin subtly as if to say, ‘Shut up! Shut up, you moron before he makes us sit through an eight-course meal with the mayor!’
“I didn’t organise it. I could not care less how the party is.”
Magnus frowned. That was a stark contrast to his earlier predatory eagerness. He didn’t particularly care about Mr Alderman, but Hearth’s frame was growing tauter with each second of this weird, depressed Dad.
‘Father,’ His hands hesitated, but he forged ahead with a determined set to his brows, ‘are you alright?’
“Is your mother breathing?”
Hearth flinched back, and Magnus stopped himself from reaching for Jack. Blitzen had no such qualms about fighting Hearth’s battles for him; Magnus could hear the scowl through his towel protection. The dwarf laid a hand on the elf’s shoulder, “Now, you listen here, you nasty old e-”
“Old?” Mr Alderman’s head snapped around to stare incredulously at Blitz so fast that Magnus was surprised he didn’t snap his neck.
He whisper-signed behind Blitz’s back to Hearth, ‘Nasty was fine, but old was rude?’
Hearth’s lip twitched up in the corner, ‘Vain.’
Blitzen had crossed his arms and stuck up his nose during their tet-a-tet, “Hearthstone is a better elf than you will ever be.”
Mr Alderman’s laugh was harsh and grating, hollow and fake; his unnaturally long legs unfolded, and he rose to his full, imposing height. He moved too swiftly and smoothly for his previous lethargy, “At least I am not a kinslayer, child killer, and widowmaker. You have healed your stupid dwarf. Get out of my house. Unless you want me to call security.”
All defensive anger that had started to boil over at the vitriol the old bastard was spewing was put on the back burner as Hearth stared at his father in shock, and Blitz sucked in a harsh breath. Magnus wasn’t sure what exactly Mr Alderman considered ‘security’, but his friends clearly didn’t want to get the bouncers called on them. So much so that they weren’t willing to argue in each other's defence- so, it was probably pretty bad.
After some tense beats of silence, Hearth deflated slightly, ‘Very well. Goodbye, father.’
Mr Alderman’s glare grew fiercer, almost like he was insulted by the patronym. Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if he was. He wondered if Mr Alderman had somehow gotten his irises replaced with metal- they were cold and hard enough to be made of real steel.
The trio edged out of Mr Alderman’s bedroom. His eyes bore holes into them as they left. Hearth tossed a last morose look over his shoulder as he closed the door behind him. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed through his nose before drawing himself up and resetting his shoulders. His lip twitched up, ‘We should go. Valkyrae to save.’