Get back, Meet someone

The walk back was longer than Renee expected, not because the distance was greater, but because each step seemed to weigh twice as much. The pickaxe, which had once fit on her back like a natural extension of her body, now weighed in her hands like a block of lead, an anchor pulling her down, into the earth, into herself.

She did not ask Moradin for guidance. She did not whisper his name nor wait for a sign. Instead, as the rain faded to a thin, persistent drizzle, she asked the question that truly mattered.

"Who is he?"

It was not a question about what Dwalin wanted. It was a question about what Dwalin was. About what had shaped him, about what had made him so certain of his truth, so relentless in his conviction. Renee did not want to know how to defeat him. She wanted to know how to understand him.

And then the vision came.

She did not feel it arrive like the others. There was no vibration from the pickaxe, no pressure behind her eyes. Only a moment of absolute silence, a second when the drizzle stopped in midair, and the world around her dissolved like mist in the sun.

Renee was in Nidavelir.

She knew it was Nidavelir because it could not be anything else. The realm of the dwarves, carved into the heart of an immense mountain, rose before her in all its subterranean glory. It was not dark, as she had imagined. Sunlight streamed through openings carefully chiseled into the stone ceiling, and that light spread through the halls like golden water, reflecting off polished walls, worked metals, gems set into the columns. Each ray of sunlight seemed to have been invited in, as if the mountain itself knew that light was a gift and treated it with reverence.

Renee walked among the halls, and no one seemed to notice her. The dwarves were too busy with their work to pay attention to an invisible visitor. In one hall, they carved statues of figures she did not recognize, but whose beauty made her hold her breath. In another, they forged tools, not weapons, but instruments of construction and creation, each hammer blow precise and full of intention. There were dwarves drawing maps on fine skin parchment, dwarves weaving fabrics that changed color with the light, dwarves carving runes into golden plates that seemed to sing when touched.

It was a world of pure creation, of work that was not labor but celebration. Every movement, every tool, every spark of fire seemed to carry a purpose beyond utility. It was an act of love, of devotion, of connection with the divine that had created them.

Renee followed a narrower corridor, away from the main halls, and then she saw him.

Dwalin.

He was not forging. He was not carving, nor drawing, nor weaving. He was walking beside an older dwarf, whose back was bent and whose hands trembled slightly. The older dwarf's face was a mask of worry, his eyes sunken and brow furrowed, as if he carried a weight that was not physical.

Dwalin placed a hand on the other dwarf's shoulder and guided him into a private room, a small side chamber with polished stone walls and a crack of light entering from the ceiling, illuminating a stone bench and a table where glass vials and scrolls rested.

Renee followed them, invisible, and saw Dwalin sit before the older dwarf. He did not pick up any vials. He did not examine any symptoms. Instead, he simply listened. The older dwarf spoke, his voice low and hesitant, telling something Renee could not hear clearly, but which seemed to weigh on him like a mountain.

Dwalin tilted his head, and his blue-gold eyes, which in the forest had been so piercing, were now soft, almost tender. He replied with words Renee could not distinguish, but which made the older dwarf release a deep sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for a long time.

The older dwarf smiled. Not a wide smile, but a small one, fragile, like a flower blooming after a long drought. He squeezed Dwalin's hand, nodded in thanks, and left the room with his shoulders less bent, his eyes less heavy.

Renee watched Dwalin, who sat for a moment, looking at the table, at the vials he had not used, at the scrolls he had not consulted. He had not healed that dwarf's body. He had healed something deeper.

Then Dwalin raised his eyes, and for an instant, Renee felt that he saw her. But it was not a look of recognition. It was a look of awareness, as if he knew he had been observed, even if he could not see who was observing him.

The vision dissolved as suddenly as it had come.

Renee was back on the empty street, the fine drizzle falling on her face, the pickaxe heavy in her hands. She stopped, gasping, and felt her heart beat hard in her chest.

She did not know what the vision meant. She did not know if it was a memory, a message, or an echo of something Moradin wanted her to see. But she knew what she had seen. Dwalin, the fanatic, the one who wanted to destroy the pickaxe, the one who believed Earth was a distorted shadow, was also a man who healed souls.

A physician. A therapist. Someone who did not just fix bodies, but who listened, who soothed, who understood the weight others carried.

This did not make him less dangerous. But it made him more human. And somehow, that was more frightening than if he were merely a monster.

Renee continued walking, her steps slower now, her mind full of unanswered questions. The city was deserted under the fine rain, the streets empty, the windows dark. She was not far from her dormitory, but each step seemed to cost more than the last.

And then she saw him.

A man, sitting on a wooden bench near the entrance of the building where she lived. He wore worn clothes, a patched coat, and a wet hat that covered part of his face. He could have been a beggar, a wanderer, someone homeless seeking shelter from the rain under the awning. There was nothing extraordinary about him at first glance.

But Renee felt something. A chill on the back of her neck, a sense that something was out of place, like a wrong note in a song she knew well.

She slowed her pace, the pickaxe pressed against her chest, and watched the man.

He did not look at her. He did not seem to notice her. Instead, he hummed softly, a melody Renee recognized from somewhere, though she did not know where. His voice was hoarse, tired, but the melody was sweet, almost sad.

"Alright. I'll die. See how I die..."

Renee stopped. The words echoed in the fine rain, and she felt a chill that did not come from the cold. It was not a beggar's song. It was a song from someone speaking of their own death as if it were a spectacle, as if they were announcing something that had already happened or was about to happen.

She looked at the man, and for an instant, in the dimness of the awning, their eyes met. His were dark, deep, and there was something in them that Renee could not identify. It was not threat, but it was not indifference either. It was... expectation. As if he had been waiting for her.

The man smiled. A thin smile, without joy, that did not reach his eyes.

"Good evening, my lady," he said, his voice calm, as if greeting an old acquaintance. "The night is silent for walking alone."

Renee did not answer. She pressed the pickaxe against her chest, took a step back, and then another. The man did not move, only watched her with those dark eyes that seemed to see more than they should.

She turned and quickly entered the building, climbed the stairs without looking back, and only when she closed the dormitory door did she feel she could breathe again.

She leaned her forehead against the wooden door, the pickaxe still in her hands, and felt her heart race. She did not know who that man was. But she knew he was not just a beggar.