Golden Legacies
Ebrus hated waiting. If you’re not spending your time doing something worthwhile, he thought, you’re not spending your time right. That’s the creed he’s lived by his whole life, the creed that helped his meadery rise from nothing and brought money to his pockets. He would be changing taps out and racking his latest batch of mead right now, in fact, if he weren’t still waiting for the doctor to arrive. Instead, the beardless dwarf was sitting in a small patient’s room sequestered away somewhere in the Mythrite clinic, counting the seconds as they faded to memory.
The door swung open and a slender male elf wearing a long white tunic bustled in. He shuffled through a handful of papers and gave a half-hearted apology for being late. Ebrus rolled his eyes and didn’t dignify him with a response.
The doctor set his papers on his desk and took the seat opposite of Ebrus. He then proceeded with the usual medical questions, which Ebrus blew off one by one. Had Ebrus felt unusually tired or strained lately? No, he said he was fine. His brother had said he had a terrible cough for some time. How was that feeling? Again, Ebrus said he was fine. The two went back and forth like that for what felt like hours, Ebrus growing increasingly frustrated.
At long last, the interrogation ended, and the doctor permitted Ebrus to leave, cautioning him to avoid anything detrimental to his health. Ebrus needed no further prompting to grab his leather coat and depart. He mumbled to himself as he navigated the clinic’s halls trying to find the way out, stewing over the circumstances that led him here.
He only bothered to come here so his brother, Bergrem, could stop pestering him. As far as Ebrus was concerned, he was the picture of health—aside from the slight cough that erupted every now and then. He told Bergrem it was nothing, that it hadn’t impeded his work. Yet after one stupendous coughing fit in the middle of dinner, Bergrem hovered around him like a gnat, begging him to see the doctor until Ebrus finally relented.
Damn Bergrem. Ebrus loved him like any brother should, but if he bothered to work a full shift at the meadery, maybe Ebrus could actually spare the time to go see the doctor willingly. Bergrem, however, spent his days lounging about or following his fiancé wherever she went, so Ebrus took it upon himself to man the meadery until the final hours of each day. Now, thanks to Bergrem, precious time was being wasted.
Ebrus finally made it outside. Thick clouds had blanketed the sky, releasing thick puffy snowflakes that floated gently down and covered the ground around Ebrus. He breathed deep, the chill mountain air filling his lungs before a violent series of coughs shook the entirety of his body. He knelt into the snow wheezing. When he opened his eyes, he found the snow stained with spots of black.
Eventually, he was able to collect himself and get to his feet. His chest still hurt, and a foul taste lingered in his mouth, but he shrugged it all off. The meadery was waiting for him. Only then, however, did he remember he left some critical spices at his house, not bothering to carry them to the doctors. With an irritated sigh, he started making his way home.
He set off down a cobblestone street, the snow softly scrunching beneath his feet. Most townsfolk were indoors trying to escape the cold, leaving Ebrus alone in his peaceful walk. The only thing that could make it better, he thought, was his pipe. So he fished it out of his pocket, pushed in some tobacco, and used his tinderbox to light it ablaze.
The snow had stopped when Ebrus returned home. He didn’t remember the walk up the residential hill of Eronia being as exertive as it just was. By the time he made it to his house—a simple two-story structure of wood and stone—he was wheezing again. Unwilling to listen to his brother whine even more, he forced himself to stop as he unlocked the door. After the key turned with a satisfying clunk, he entered his home only to find every table and chair in the sitting room covered in small packages wrapped in brown paper. Confusion swirled in Ebrus’s head before he spotted the mountain of beard and hair that was his brother on the other side of the room, wrapping one of the packages with an immense smile. Bergrem looked back at Ebrus, and his smile grew even larger. “Brother!” he exclaimed. “You’ve returned!” He set down the package he was working on and darted toward Ebrus. Before Ebrus could say anything, Bergrem wrapped his bear arms around Ebrus and pulled him into a crushing hug. Ebrus managed to slip out, but all the effort that took left him coughing and wheezing again, this time with more intensity. Bergrem’s face was suddenly taken by worry. “Don’t look at me like that!” Ebrus said, trying to hide his ailment. “The doctor said everything would subside with time. Alright? Now why in the Hells are all these packages lying about?” “Oh.” Bergrem retreated. “Brena says it’s a halfling tradition to give each guest at the wedding a small gift for coming, so we decided to split the task of wrapping the gifts between us.” Bergrem’s eyes lit up whenever he talked about his fiancé. “How many people are going to the wedding?” “Well most of the guests are Brena’s extended family, and we got confirmations from sixty-three of them so far.” Ebrus groaned and rubbed his face. He had no time for this. The meadery was waiting for him. Without another word or look at Bergrem, he moved through the sitting room and made his way toward the cellar. Brown packages spilled into the hallway, making the journey a perilous one. He finally climbed down the stairs into the musty stone cellar. The spice jars, however, were on the floor, shattered. Rage filled Ebrus’s mind and flared from his nose. He stormed back upstairs and into sitting room, shouting for Bergrem. His brother, who had returned to wrapping gifts, quickly stood, hugging himself in an attempt to withstand the oncoming storm. “Why are my spices scattered across the floor?” Ebrus shouted. Bergrem whimpered. “Well, you see—” “It’s bad enough that you don’t bother cleaning your messes, but now I have to buy more ingredients due to your clumsiness!” Ebrus pointed his finger at Bergrem. “I’m taking a big risk sidelining business to brew all this mead for your wedding. It doesn’t help that you’re sabotaging it by ruining my supply and laying injuries waiting to happen throughout the house!” An uncomfortable silence hung between them as Bergrem squirmed in his place. Finally he said, “I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry I broke your spice jars. I’m just really excited about the wedding. People say you only live once, so I’m just happy I get to spend my life with Brena. I want to make sure the wedding is a memorable moment for all of us.” “Well it won’t matter to me,” Ebrus said. “I’m not going.” “What?” Bergrem’s face froze in shock as Ebrus pulled open an end table’s drawer and fished out a pouch clinking with coins. “That’s right. As soon as I’m done making your batch, I have to get the meadery back on track to make up for lost time.” He started making his way toward the door before Bergrem blocked his path. “But Ebrus, it’s my wedding. It’s the most important day of my life. I want you to be there.” Bergrem’s voice began choking up as Ebrus simply walked around him. “You’ll have plenty of other people at the wedding. You’ll have Brena and her family. Hey, you’ll have my mead. I’ll practically be there in spirit!” He clasped his hand on Bergrem’s shoulder, but it brought no comfort. “I don’t want you there in spirit!” Tears formed in Bergrem’s eyes. “I want you there for real! You’re always at the meadery working. You’re never there to be with me and Brena. Why can’t you take a day off to be with your brother on his special day?” “Who else is going to earn us money? You?” Frustration bubbled up from Ebrus’s throat. “While you’re off doddering after your girl, I’m the one actually providing usthe means to keep going the way we are. So don’t come asking me to take a day off unless you’re willing to put in the work you should have been doing since we arrived in this damn town!” “I don’t care about the meadery!” Bergrem cried. “I want us to be a family!” “Well as your older brother, I always know best, so you can dance to raucous folk music with your halfling in-laws while I actually do something meaningful for us.” The moment those words left Ebrus’s mouth, he knew he screwed up. Bergrem stood there with his fists clenched and his eyes flooding with tears. The rage that had burned within Ebrus had extinguished and been replaced with the feeling of his heart wrapped in thorns. “Just try to be there,” Bergrem said, lips quivering. “That’s all I ask.” Before Ebrus could apologize, Bergrem rushed past and bolted upstairs. All alone, Ebrus exited the house and leaned against the closed door, silently cursing himself. He didn’t mean to snap like that, but how could Bergrem not see that all the work he did was for both of them, for their own wellbeing? His gaze shifted across Mythrite toward the hill that rose on the opposite end of town. Unlike Eronia, this hill was covered in luxurious manors surrounded by their own wall. This was Charlemaine Hill. All the moneymakers and powerbrokers in Mythrite lived there, and someday Ebrus and Bergrem would join their ranks. “One day,” Bergrem mumbled. “One day I’ll get us over there, Bergrem, and we’ll live like royalty; me, you, and your girl.” He absolved to at least try to attend his brother’s wedding, but to do that, he needed to work first. With his mind set, he started down the windy hill to the market to buy the spices he now lacked. Then he’d be off to the meadery.
A fine collection of stacked barrels filled with sweet-smelling mead stood before Ebrus in the storage room of the Keghauler Meadery. He couldn’t help but feel proud. After two full weeks of hard work at the meadery, he produced enough mead to cater to the entirety of Brena’s relatives, all in time for the wedding tomorrow. He stood there for a time, admiring his work, before he heard the front door of the meadery open and slam shut. In preparation for a potential client, Ebrus took out a cloth handkerchief and coughed as quietly as he could into it. His cough had not gone since his visit to the doctor. In fact, it had worsened, requiring Ebrus to use a handkerchief to avoid showering the land with rust-colored spittle. Ebrus would let it all out before meeting with somebody to avoid appearing weak. After wiping his mouth, he entered the storefront of the meadery, which displayed various bottles and barrels of mead to attract patrons. His attention was drawn immediately to the male dwarf who stood at the front desk. The dwarf looked far older than Ebrus, with wrinkled skin, a balding head, and a braided white beard. His mud brown eyes lit up when Ebrus walked into the room. “You must be Ebrus Keghauler,” he said with a voice akin to gravel. “I am,” Ebrus responded. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” The old dwarf narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t recognize me? I’d say I’ve been quite busy in Mythrite recently.” It took a moment for the cogs in Ebrus’s mind to click in place. He soon realized he was speaking to Drudi Flintrock, one of the candidates running for Mythrite’s mayor. Flintrock was also one of the wealthiest men in town, one Ebrus aspired to be. “My apologies, Mr. Flintrock!” Ebrus threw up his arms as if greeting an old friend. “I’m afraid we haven’t had the chance to meet each other up face to face. How can I help you on this fine day?” “I’m here on business, Mr. Keghauler,” Flintrock grumbled, “and I’d prefer to get it over with sooner rather than later.” He took out a wooden pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. Before he could light it, Ebrus yanked out his own tinderbox and offered it to the elder. Flintrock smiled with thanks and lit it, inhaling then exhaling a plume of intoxicating smoke. Ebrus quickly took out his own pipe and matched Flintrock’s motions in imitation. “I’m hosting event for some well-paying patrons in Mythrite,” Flintrock continued, letting out another puff of smoke, “and I’m in dire need of a large quantity of refreshments for the occasion. I’d like to see your entire stock of mead.” “Well I’m afraid your timing is unfortunate,” Ebrus said. “I just finished a large batch of mead but it’s already going to—” “Show it to me,” Flintrock interrupted, his stony eyes staring blankly at Ebrus. They unsettled the young dwarf, compelled him to acquiesce to the elder. With few words, the two dwarves entered the storage room. Flintrock gazed at the mountain of stacked barrels with a thin yellow smile. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll take the whole batch.” Ebrus nearly erupted into a fit of coughing. “I’m sorry Mr. Flintrock,” he squeaked between wheezes, “but as I said, these barrels are already for a different event.” “Don’t be daft, boy,” the old dwarf snapped. “You know who I am. I can offer much more than gold for your product.” Ebrus raised an eyebrow before Flintrock continued. “It just so happens one of my guests is looking for a local establishment such as this to invest in. When you deliver the mead tomorrow morning, consider staying for the party. He can help turn your meadery into a regional brand.” Before Ebrus could process what he said, Flintrock made his way to exit. The elder dwarf kept talking. “I advise you to take this opportunity while you can, Mr. Keghauler. Trust me, I always know best.” He soon left the meadery, but not before dropping a pouch to the floor, one stuffed with coins. Left alone in the storefront, Ebrus thought long and hard about the choices before him. The coin pouch one the ground tempted him, the gold inside shining like a lure through the hazy smoke that lingered in the air. He had already upset Bergrem enough by not guaranteeing his attendance at the wedding. Yet the potential fortune Flintrock offered was too good to be true. Surely Bergrem would understand if it meant their prosperity? Minutes of deep thinking and idle smoking passed until Ebrus came to a decision, one that required a letter. He fetched some parchment, some ink, and a quill from his desk. Before he could begin writing, however, his chest constricted and he began hacking violently, unable to reach his handkerchief in time. When he finally recovered, the paper had been soaked in a small crimson puddle. His world began to spin.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, Mr. Keghauler,” the doctor said as he entered the patient’s room. The same elf from Ebrus’s last visit sat down opposite to him, his eyes glued to the papers he held in his hand. “Perhaps if you came in sooner and had been upfront about your condition, we may have been able to do something, but now things are looking quite bad.” “Just tell me what’s wrong, doctor,” Ebrus growled. His chest had not stopped hurting after the incident at the meadery, and his handkerchief was now brown with dried blood. For the first time, the doctor looked Ebrus straight into his eyes. “Put bluntly, you have a cancer in your lungs. In addition to the bloody coughing episodes you’ve been having, you’ll start losing your appetite and be at higher risk for winterchill fever. Eventually—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news—you will die.” Those last words paralyzed Ebrus. The whole world seemed heavier, as if the specter of death were on his shoulders trying to drive him into the ground toward an early grave. He was young for a dwarf, only seventy-two years. How could death already be so close? “How long do I have?” he asked the doctor, who shuffled through his papers. “At our best estimates, given your cancer’s progression, you have one, maybe two years left.” Again, Ebrus the doctor’s words compelled him into silence. The doctor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then stood up. “I’ll leave you some time to process this,” he said, exiting the room. Ebrus barely registered his absence, trapped in his own thoughts. He echoed the doctor’s words over and over again in his head but found no solution from them. The choice stood before him; two imposing doors that would close and lock behind him. Flintrock’s gathering was behind one. If he managed to convince that patron to invest in the meadery, he would earn enough money to finally move his brother and him to Charlemaine Hill. Once he passed, everything could be left to his brother, and he and his family could live the rest of their lives free of care. Would Bergrem want that? Ebrus looked to the other door and saw his brother back at the house. “I don’t care about the meadery! I want us to be a family!” Bergrem had said. That memory brought tears to his eyes. The family was about to be torn, and nothing could stop it. Ebrus wouldn’t be at Bergrem’s side for long? Shouldn’t they stay together, form the memories that would take his place? Time ticked away as Ebrus sat in the cold small room, staring at the two doors. Seconds turned to minutes, which felt like hours. Eventually, he gathered his coat and left the room. He decided what he would do. After all, he always knew best.
Ebrus stood along the edges of the crowd, adjusting the collar of his heavy red silk coat. Although he had worn it before, he didn’t remember it being so constrictive across his chest. He must not have been used to it, he thought. The last time he wore the coat was on the opening day of the meadery to attract new customers. Since then, he’d kept it stored away, to be used only for the most special of occasions. There was no occasion more special, of course, than his brother’s wedding. The festivities were hosted in an empty barn on the outskirts of town, the only place that was spacious enough to hold the vivacious crowd of dancing halflings. Ebrus stood along the sides by the food tables, surrounded by halflings of all ages and sizes bouncing up and down to the boisterous folk music. Their attire ranged from homespun dresses to simple cotton jerkins. It wasn’t the crowd Ebrus would have chosen, but even he admitted they were a fun bunch. The folk music was starting to grow on him. His gaze drifted toward the center of the barn, where Bergrem and Brena spun across the floor in merry bliss, weaving through the throng of dancers with a grace that Ebrus thought eluded his brother. Bergrem dwarfed the young honey-haired halfling woman in comparison, but he held her in his arms so softly it was certain there was nothing but love between them. The sight made Ebrus smile, although it was accompanied with a tinge of sadness. He took a sip of mead from a goblet he collected, but as the sweet liquid traveled down his throat, his chest seized up. Ebrus grabbed the edge of the table to keep him from falling as an endless parade of roaring coughs escaped his mouth. Fortune allowed him to reach for his handkerchief in time, protecting the other guests from his foul ichor. As Ebrus recovered, some of the halflings around him looked at him with concern. Some approached, asking if he was alright. He put on a scowl and motioned them away. They had no reason to be worried for him. His expression softened, however, when he saw Bergrem break from the dance and rush over to him with a loving worrying across his face. “Are you okay, brother?” he asked, resting his hand on Ebrus’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should go home to rest.” “What? That’s nonsense!” Ebrus replied, masking the pain in his chest with a wicked grin. “Today’s your wedding day! I wouldn’t miss it for anything!.” “Are you sure you’re well enough?” Bergrem looked skeptical. “Of course. Trust me, I always know best. You know that.” Ebrus put his own hand on Bergrem’s shoulder, and soon the brothers were enveloped in a soft hug. The embrace pained Ebrus, but not because of the disease killing him inside. He had not yet told Bergrem of the full extent of his condition. How could he bring himself on the day of the wedding? Best to tell him another day. Let today’s memory be greater than all the gold in the world. Eventually, the brothers parted, but before Ebrus could return to his own business, he felt his brother grab his hand. He turned to see Bergrem with a wide smile on his face. “Come dance with me, brother.” Ebrus relented, took his brother’s arms, and migrated with him to the center of the barn floor. It had been years since he danced, let alone with someone else. Yet that didn’t matter today. Ebrus gave into the rapid movements and folk music, losing himself to the celebration. He would make this day one of the happiest memories his brother would ever have. Indeed, it would be one cherished for all time.
The snow had stopped when Ebrus returned home. He didn’t remember the walk up the residential hill of Eronia being as exertive as it just was. By the time he made it to his house—a simple two-story structure of wood and stone—he was wheezing again. Unwilling to listen to his brother whine even more, he forced himself to stop as he unlocked the door. After the key turned with a satisfying clunk, he entered his home only to find every table and chair in the sitting room covered in small packages wrapped in brown paper. Confusion swirled in Ebrus’s head before he spotted the mountain of beard and hair that was his brother on the other side of the room, wrapping one of the packages with an immense smile. Bergrem looked back at Ebrus, and his smile grew even larger. “Brother!” he exclaimed. “You’ve returned!” He set down the package he was working on and darted toward Ebrus. Before Ebrus could say anything, Bergrem wrapped his bear arms around Ebrus and pulled him into a crushing hug. Ebrus managed to slip out, but all the effort that took left him coughing and wheezing again, this time with more intensity. Bergrem’s face was suddenly taken by worry. “Don’t look at me like that!” Ebrus said, trying to hide his ailment. “The doctor said everything would subside with time. Alright? Now why in the Hells are all these packages lying about?” “Oh.” Bergrem retreated. “Brena says it’s a halfling tradition to give each guest at the wedding a small gift for coming, so we decided to split the task of wrapping the gifts between us.” Bergrem’s eyes lit up whenever he talked about his fiancé. “How many people are going to the wedding?” “Well most of the guests are Brena’s extended family, and we got confirmations from sixty-three of them so far.” Ebrus groaned and rubbed his face. He had no time for this. The meadery was waiting for him. Without another word or look at Bergrem, he moved through the sitting room and made his way toward the cellar. Brown packages spilled into the hallway, making the journey a perilous one. He finally climbed down the stairs into the musty stone cellar. The spice jars, however, were on the floor, shattered. Rage filled Ebrus’s mind and flared from his nose. He stormed back upstairs and into sitting room, shouting for Bergrem. His brother, who had returned to wrapping gifts, quickly stood, hugging himself in an attempt to withstand the oncoming storm. “Why are my spices scattered across the floor?” Ebrus shouted. Bergrem whimpered. “Well, you see—” “It’s bad enough that you don’t bother cleaning your messes, but now I have to buy more ingredients due to your clumsiness!” Ebrus pointed his finger at Bergrem. “I’m taking a big risk sidelining business to brew all this mead for your wedding. It doesn’t help that you’re sabotaging it by ruining my supply and laying injuries waiting to happen throughout the house!” An uncomfortable silence hung between them as Bergrem squirmed in his place. Finally he said, “I’m sorry, brother. I’m sorry I broke your spice jars. I’m just really excited about the wedding. People say you only live once, so I’m just happy I get to spend my life with Brena. I want to make sure the wedding is a memorable moment for all of us.” “Well it won’t matter to me,” Ebrus said. “I’m not going.” “What?” Bergrem’s face froze in shock as Ebrus pulled open an end table’s drawer and fished out a pouch clinking with coins. “That’s right. As soon as I’m done making your batch, I have to get the meadery back on track to make up for lost time.” He started making his way toward the door before Bergrem blocked his path. “But Ebrus, it’s my wedding. It’s the most important day of my life. I want you to be there.” Bergrem’s voice began choking up as Ebrus simply walked around him. “You’ll have plenty of other people at the wedding. You’ll have Brena and her family. Hey, you’ll have my mead. I’ll practically be there in spirit!” He clasped his hand on Bergrem’s shoulder, but it brought no comfort. “I don’t want you there in spirit!” Tears formed in Bergrem’s eyes. “I want you there for real! You’re always at the meadery working. You’re never there to be with me and Brena. Why can’t you take a day off to be with your brother on his special day?” “Who else is going to earn us money? You?” Frustration bubbled up from Ebrus’s throat. “While you’re off doddering after your girl, I’m the one actually providing usthe means to keep going the way we are. So don’t come asking me to take a day off unless you’re willing to put in the work you should have been doing since we arrived in this damn town!” “I don’t care about the meadery!” Bergrem cried. “I want us to be a family!” “Well as your older brother, I always know best, so you can dance to raucous folk music with your halfling in-laws while I actually do something meaningful for us.” The moment those words left Ebrus’s mouth, he knew he screwed up. Bergrem stood there with his fists clenched and his eyes flooding with tears. The rage that had burned within Ebrus had extinguished and been replaced with the feeling of his heart wrapped in thorns. “Just try to be there,” Bergrem said, lips quivering. “That’s all I ask.” Before Ebrus could apologize, Bergrem rushed past and bolted upstairs. All alone, Ebrus exited the house and leaned against the closed door, silently cursing himself. He didn’t mean to snap like that, but how could Bergrem not see that all the work he did was for both of them, for their own wellbeing? His gaze shifted across Mythrite toward the hill that rose on the opposite end of town. Unlike Eronia, this hill was covered in luxurious manors surrounded by their own wall. This was Charlemaine Hill. All the moneymakers and powerbrokers in Mythrite lived there, and someday Ebrus and Bergrem would join their ranks. “One day,” Bergrem mumbled. “One day I’ll get us over there, Bergrem, and we’ll live like royalty; me, you, and your girl.” He absolved to at least try to attend his brother’s wedding, but to do that, he needed to work first. With his mind set, he started down the windy hill to the market to buy the spices he now lacked. Then he’d be off to the meadery.
A fine collection of stacked barrels filled with sweet-smelling mead stood before Ebrus in the storage room of the Keghauler Meadery. He couldn’t help but feel proud. After two full weeks of hard work at the meadery, he produced enough mead to cater to the entirety of Brena’s relatives, all in time for the wedding tomorrow. He stood there for a time, admiring his work, before he heard the front door of the meadery open and slam shut. In preparation for a potential client, Ebrus took out a cloth handkerchief and coughed as quietly as he could into it. His cough had not gone since his visit to the doctor. In fact, it had worsened, requiring Ebrus to use a handkerchief to avoid showering the land with rust-colored spittle. Ebrus would let it all out before meeting with somebody to avoid appearing weak. After wiping his mouth, he entered the storefront of the meadery, which displayed various bottles and barrels of mead to attract patrons. His attention was drawn immediately to the male dwarf who stood at the front desk. The dwarf looked far older than Ebrus, with wrinkled skin, a balding head, and a braided white beard. His mud brown eyes lit up when Ebrus walked into the room. “You must be Ebrus Keghauler,” he said with a voice akin to gravel. “I am,” Ebrus responded. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” The old dwarf narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t recognize me? I’d say I’ve been quite busy in Mythrite recently.” It took a moment for the cogs in Ebrus’s mind to click in place. He soon realized he was speaking to Drudi Flintrock, one of the candidates running for Mythrite’s mayor. Flintrock was also one of the wealthiest men in town, one Ebrus aspired to be. “My apologies, Mr. Flintrock!” Ebrus threw up his arms as if greeting an old friend. “I’m afraid we haven’t had the chance to meet each other up face to face. How can I help you on this fine day?” “I’m here on business, Mr. Keghauler,” Flintrock grumbled, “and I’d prefer to get it over with sooner rather than later.” He took out a wooden pipe and began stuffing it with tobacco. Before he could light it, Ebrus yanked out his own tinderbox and offered it to the elder. Flintrock smiled with thanks and lit it, inhaling then exhaling a plume of intoxicating smoke. Ebrus quickly took out his own pipe and matched Flintrock’s motions in imitation. “I’m hosting event for some well-paying patrons in Mythrite,” Flintrock continued, letting out another puff of smoke, “and I’m in dire need of a large quantity of refreshments for the occasion. I’d like to see your entire stock of mead.” “Well I’m afraid your timing is unfortunate,” Ebrus said. “I just finished a large batch of mead but it’s already going to—” “Show it to me,” Flintrock interrupted, his stony eyes staring blankly at Ebrus. They unsettled the young dwarf, compelled him to acquiesce to the elder. With few words, the two dwarves entered the storage room. Flintrock gazed at the mountain of stacked barrels with a thin yellow smile. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll take the whole batch.” Ebrus nearly erupted into a fit of coughing. “I’m sorry Mr. Flintrock,” he squeaked between wheezes, “but as I said, these barrels are already for a different event.” “Don’t be daft, boy,” the old dwarf snapped. “You know who I am. I can offer much more than gold for your product.” Ebrus raised an eyebrow before Flintrock continued. “It just so happens one of my guests is looking for a local establishment such as this to invest in. When you deliver the mead tomorrow morning, consider staying for the party. He can help turn your meadery into a regional brand.” Before Ebrus could process what he said, Flintrock made his way to exit. The elder dwarf kept talking. “I advise you to take this opportunity while you can, Mr. Keghauler. Trust me, I always know best.” He soon left the meadery, but not before dropping a pouch to the floor, one stuffed with coins. Left alone in the storefront, Ebrus thought long and hard about the choices before him. The coin pouch one the ground tempted him, the gold inside shining like a lure through the hazy smoke that lingered in the air. He had already upset Bergrem enough by not guaranteeing his attendance at the wedding. Yet the potential fortune Flintrock offered was too good to be true. Surely Bergrem would understand if it meant their prosperity? Minutes of deep thinking and idle smoking passed until Ebrus came to a decision, one that required a letter. He fetched some parchment, some ink, and a quill from his desk. Before he could begin writing, however, his chest constricted and he began hacking violently, unable to reach his handkerchief in time. When he finally recovered, the paper had been soaked in a small crimson puddle. His world began to spin.
“I’m afraid it’s not good, Mr. Keghauler,” the doctor said as he entered the patient’s room. The same elf from Ebrus’s last visit sat down opposite to him, his eyes glued to the papers he held in his hand. “Perhaps if you came in sooner and had been upfront about your condition, we may have been able to do something, but now things are looking quite bad.” “Just tell me what’s wrong, doctor,” Ebrus growled. His chest had not stopped hurting after the incident at the meadery, and his handkerchief was now brown with dried blood. For the first time, the doctor looked Ebrus straight into his eyes. “Put bluntly, you have a cancer in your lungs. In addition to the bloody coughing episodes you’ve been having, you’ll start losing your appetite and be at higher risk for winterchill fever. Eventually—and I hate to be the bearer of bad news—you will die.” Those last words paralyzed Ebrus. The whole world seemed heavier, as if the specter of death were on his shoulders trying to drive him into the ground toward an early grave. He was young for a dwarf, only seventy-two years. How could death already be so close? “How long do I have?” he asked the doctor, who shuffled through his papers. “At our best estimates, given your cancer’s progression, you have one, maybe two years left.” Again, Ebrus the doctor’s words compelled him into silence. The doctor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then stood up. “I’ll leave you some time to process this,” he said, exiting the room. Ebrus barely registered his absence, trapped in his own thoughts. He echoed the doctor’s words over and over again in his head but found no solution from them. The choice stood before him; two imposing doors that would close and lock behind him. Flintrock’s gathering was behind one. If he managed to convince that patron to invest in the meadery, he would earn enough money to finally move his brother and him to Charlemaine Hill. Once he passed, everything could be left to his brother, and he and his family could live the rest of their lives free of care. Would Bergrem want that? Ebrus looked to the other door and saw his brother back at the house. “I don’t care about the meadery! I want us to be a family!” Bergrem had said. That memory brought tears to his eyes. The family was about to be torn, and nothing could stop it. Ebrus wouldn’t be at Bergrem’s side for long? Shouldn’t they stay together, form the memories that would take his place? Time ticked away as Ebrus sat in the cold small room, staring at the two doors. Seconds turned to minutes, which felt like hours. Eventually, he gathered his coat and left the room. He decided what he would do. After all, he always knew best.
Ebrus stood along the edges of the crowd, adjusting the collar of his heavy red silk coat. Although he had worn it before, he didn’t remember it being so constrictive across his chest. He must not have been used to it, he thought. The last time he wore the coat was on the opening day of the meadery to attract new customers. Since then, he’d kept it stored away, to be used only for the most special of occasions. There was no occasion more special, of course, than his brother’s wedding. The festivities were hosted in an empty barn on the outskirts of town, the only place that was spacious enough to hold the vivacious crowd of dancing halflings. Ebrus stood along the sides by the food tables, surrounded by halflings of all ages and sizes bouncing up and down to the boisterous folk music. Their attire ranged from homespun dresses to simple cotton jerkins. It wasn’t the crowd Ebrus would have chosen, but even he admitted they were a fun bunch. The folk music was starting to grow on him. His gaze drifted toward the center of the barn, where Bergrem and Brena spun across the floor in merry bliss, weaving through the throng of dancers with a grace that Ebrus thought eluded his brother. Bergrem dwarfed the young honey-haired halfling woman in comparison, but he held her in his arms so softly it was certain there was nothing but love between them. The sight made Ebrus smile, although it was accompanied with a tinge of sadness. He took a sip of mead from a goblet he collected, but as the sweet liquid traveled down his throat, his chest seized up. Ebrus grabbed the edge of the table to keep him from falling as an endless parade of roaring coughs escaped his mouth. Fortune allowed him to reach for his handkerchief in time, protecting the other guests from his foul ichor. As Ebrus recovered, some of the halflings around him looked at him with concern. Some approached, asking if he was alright. He put on a scowl and motioned them away. They had no reason to be worried for him. His expression softened, however, when he saw Bergrem break from the dance and rush over to him with a loving worrying across his face. “Are you okay, brother?” he asked, resting his hand on Ebrus’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should go home to rest.” “What? That’s nonsense!” Ebrus replied, masking the pain in his chest with a wicked grin. “Today’s your wedding day! I wouldn’t miss it for anything!.” “Are you sure you’re well enough?” Bergrem looked skeptical. “Of course. Trust me, I always know best. You know that.” Ebrus put his own hand on Bergrem’s shoulder, and soon the brothers were enveloped in a soft hug. The embrace pained Ebrus, but not because of the disease killing him inside. He had not yet told Bergrem of the full extent of his condition. How could he bring himself on the day of the wedding? Best to tell him another day. Let today’s memory be greater than all the gold in the world. Eventually, the brothers parted, but before Ebrus could return to his own business, he felt his brother grab his hand. He turned to see Bergrem with a wide smile on his face. “Come dance with me, brother.” Ebrus relented, took his brother’s arms, and migrated with him to the center of the barn floor. It had been years since he danced, let alone with someone else. Yet that didn’t matter today. Ebrus gave into the rapid movements and folk music, losing himself to the celebration. He would make this day one of the happiest memories his brother would ever have. Indeed, it would be one cherished for all time.
Comments