"Drink?" My youngest brother, Otr, asked, smiling down at me. He clasped the handles of two tankards full of ale in his hand.

I gestured for him to sit down at the table where I was spending the evening half-listening to the idle chatter of some kinsmen, my chin in my hand and my eyes focused on nothing in particular. The hearths were stoked high and the heat on the backs of my legs and neck was wonderfully comfortable. The sound of dice rolling across wood and the occasional wail of an infant all melted together into a pleasant background of sound, lulling me into a sleepy, if dreamless, state. I sat up and accepted the tankard.

"What is it like down in the forges?" Otr asked, genuine interest showing on his face, after we had exchanges a few polite words.

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. No one had dared breach the subject with me. It was courteously left out, rather as a misshapen hand or ear is politely overlooked. The courtiers and the few of my kinsmen I'd spoken to behaved as if I'd never been gone a day. The tension under the exchanges, however, the avoidance of my eye or a throat cleared once too often, told me that my exile was always at the forefront of their minds.

Only Regin had had the audacity to speak of it directly, and I did not know if that troubled or relieved me.

And now Otr.

But I straightened my back and indulged him, telling him about the forges, from the Lowermost to the Uppermost as the world slid by around us. It was oddly soothing to be able to speak about it, to recount what had happened in all those years. I related not only what I'd experienced and felt, how I'd struggled and finally understood what a blessing it had been.

He didn't interrupt me while I spoke, but asked well-considered and diplomatic questions in the pauses while I took long sips from my tankard. His bright, twinkling green eyes never roamed away, nor did they stare holes in me as I related the saga of my youth.

Once I paused and asked him outright, "Why do you want to know all this?"

His answer surprised me for a second time.

"Mostly because I'm sure no one will ask you, and it will become quite difficult for you to keep silent after a while. Or at least I imagine it will. But also because I'm curious. One hears so many rumours."

His honest words led me to be somewhat suspicious, but I would soon learn that Otr has an uncommon gift. He is able to see into the characters of his kinsmen and understand how we are feeling, how we are led to behave, even when it is a mystery to ourselves. That gift has made him a beloved king, an excellent law-speaker, and has earned him my trust a hundred times over.

But at that moment, I did not know anything of him other than what I could see: a young dwarf of approximately the same age I was when I was sent Underfloor.

Our beards were almost of the same degree of sparseness, and we would both have to wait a while until we could proudly display four, thick blond braids cascading over our shoulders. (Him, due to his youth, and me, due to my smith's hair.) He was robust and playful, but of such a gentle nature that I could almost disbelieve we were close kinsmen were it not for the physical resemblance.

I continued my stories and we spoke and drank for a long while. That is, until, following an impulse that came from some unknown, dark part of myself that wanted to delve into secrets others wished to keep hidden, I said: "Tell me about Regin. He seems to be father's favourite."

Otr licked his lips and tilted his head to the side, gazing at me for a few moments before he spoke.

"Regin is the most dutiful son a king could wish for. But I wouldn't advise you to follow his example, no matter how much you might be tempted to. Now, tell me what happened after you dunked the head of this dwarf who was making trouble into the water trough?"

I should have assigned far more weight to Otr's carefully-chosen words, but they seemed only more pleasant conversation in a long and wandering evening full of pleasant conversation. I took his advice at surface value: Regin was a dutiful son, and I should not try to pretend I was, as that certainly wouldn't be believed.

That was not what Otr meant, of course, but I have never been able to cajole out of him how much he actually knew of what was happening under our very noses, and how much he only guessed at.

That's been the only sore spot between us all these years, as he refuses to this day to give me a direct answer. Perhaps it is also not so much an issue of not wanting to, as not being able to.

What did Odin have in mind for Otr? He crafted such detailed, insidious plans for Regin and myself, why wouldn't he have created a special, insidious wyrd for Otr, as well? Was it his curse to observe, but not believe? Or to see, but not see? I can't say, and it would seem, neither can my brother.

One thing I do know, however, was that it was far from a winter chill that settled like an avalanche of snow and ice onto the King of the Mountain, crushing him under its weight. He grew visibly weaker and more shrunken by the season. I began to fret over what the next winter would bring and if I would be ready to be crowned by that time.

The affairs of the Mountain were largely tended to by courtiers and overseers. Sometimes, on days in which my father was not well enough to show himself to his subjects, I would wander past the throne dais and think on how I would fill it when he was no more. I had been trained as a smith, not a king. I knew little of how the minute affairs of the kingdom were arranged, and it seemed that I would not be able to learn enough from the overseers I pestered with my questions before the king would leave us.

When he was not there, the throne was gently lit by a large, golden candelabra in the shape of a crown. From it hangs a rain of gemstones and crystals that reflects and casts the light of the candles into the half-circular recesses behind the throne in a thousand different hues. It is a beautifully crafted thing and I wondered why my father had always chosen to hide in darkness, observing us all, and not in such a wonderful light. Was that a part of his understanding of kingship, or something else? Was that what I was to do, as well?

I scratched my fledgling beard in thought, but could find no answer.

Did I never call into question that I would be the next king? No. I didn't doubt for a moment that I would succeed him. I still believed that I would be granted what was mine by rights and tradition.

Was that foolish?

It pained me in an usual and unaccustomed what to acknowledge that I would not be able to solidify a good relationship with my father before his death. He stayed nestled under thick blankets in his bed for days on end, and showed himself less and less.

On the days in which he did mount the throne and rule, he seemed little interested in exchanging more than a few words with me. The coughs grew worse, and he often was forced to lean back and breathe deeply before continuing on, but that was not the reason. Whenever I approached the throne in the vain hope of a private discussion, it always ended the same way.

"I have pressing business to attend to, Fafnir. What is it?" he would say, a clear note of irritation in his voice after he'd glanced in my direction for not more than a moment.

"How are you today, Father? May I sit and speak with you if you are feeling well enough? It's been so very long and-"

"Another time. As you can see I'm busy." With a wave of the hand, I was dismissed.

And that was perfect for Regin.

My brother was constantly at our father's side, arranging his blankets or hurrying to fetch another cup of hot, spiced wine when a renewed coughing fit erupted and the king gripped the armrests of the throne.

He clucked and doted, reassuring the dying man of a speedy recovery, and he was also the one tasked with relating messages to the courtiers and overseers on the days in which the king was too weak to appear personally. That was the first impression I had of him, a busy dwarf with his cloak of wolf fluttering behind him as he strutted his way through the halls and tunnels on important business.

With a sad smile and a light touch on my arm, my mother said, "Regin has more knowledge and has always been a diligent, dutiful son. You will soon be given your duties, Fafnir, of that I'm sure." But I did not want to believe her words, no matter how kindly they were meant.

I was never summoned nor tasked with anything. I was left to wander the royal hall and side tunnels, filling my days as I saw fit. I carefully approached Regin on the matter several times, but he seemed to forget my existence when he was not shooing me away from the throne or telling me leave off bothering the king.

In a lack of anything to do, I took to the Upper World again, spending my days on the slopes of the fjords and on the rocks with the goats and sheep. With Otr, I visited the wild western ocean that laps against the rocky edge of the Mountain Kingdom.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" my brother said, tilting back his head and breathing in the salty breeze. "There is nowhere else I love more than here."

Although I had never spend much time there, the beauty of the ocean with its grey waves and pitching gulls was not lost on me, and I sat many sunsets there with Otr, either in lively discussions or in silence. But, with the swift approach of winter, and the storms it brought crashing over the Mountain, we were driven inside again and into close quarters with Regin.

And that was when the real trouble began. 

(word count to this point: 17,280)