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The morning air was full of the first chill of autumn as Gyldro Angleiron continued his steady march down the hillside of Rivington. Every morning, Gyldro would rise just before the sun, pour two cups of strong black coffee, drink one, and then set out for his morning walk. He would walk down the worn cobblestone streets of Rivington until he reached the hilly cliffs leading down to the Rivington side of the Chionthar River. Each morning, without fail, he would walk the three and a half miles down to the edge of the river and walk alongside it before turning and walking the three and a half miles back to his shop. This gray morning in late Eleint was no different.
He hated his morning walk. He hated being in public, even though it felt as though he was the only person awake in the city. He hated how his body had begun to ache with age. He hated how the physical exertion would make his mouth dry and he hated how his breath took on the essence of bitter coffee. He didn’t know why he kept walking, each morning, rain or shine.
But he didn’t hate every part of it. Gyldro prized himself on his honesty and if he were being honest with himself, there were several things he liked about his morning walk. He liked the solitude he normally enjoyed this early. He liked how the sun began to rise halfway through his walk, peeking through the darkness to gaze upon him in all of its rosy splendor. He liked to pretend that the sun was whispering “Good morning, Gyldro!” He liked hearing the birds begin to chirp as he turned to walk back. But most of all, he liked to remember.
Gyldro did not like talking about himself and he did not like to share his secrets. Not out of any sense of security; he had no secrets that would turn the heads of the city patriars or titillate the rich noblewomen who traded confidences like precious gems at their galas. No, he kept his secrets to himself because he loved how it felt to speak his own truth with no voices to overrule him and no naysayers to tell him that he was wrong.
His most precious secret turned in his mind this morning, just as it did every morning.
He had reached the edge of his walk. The river was calm and the sun had risen. It was time to turn around. Gyldro walked back up the path, grunting softly as he made the steep incline. Why on bloody earth do I keep doing this to myself, he wondered. He knew the answer, but of course, complaining felt good. Even if he was only complaining to himself.
He made his way up the hill and back onto the dirt path. Given the rain they’d had this past tenday, he could hardly call it a dirt path any more - the streets were positively overflowing with mud. But Gyldro did not let it bother him as he took his regular strides down the well-worn path.
As he stepped down, his foot slid, causing him to lose control and slip. Gyldro flailed about for a few seconds as he caught his balance. Rage was instantly born from the seed of that humiliation and he glanced down to find the culprit. It was a flyer for the circus which had just come to town. In a fit of rage, he stomped down on the discarded advertisement again and again until the flyer was in shreds and his boots were covered in mud. Bloody circus and the freaks who work there, he thought angrily. Nothing but swindlers, tarts and crusty jugglers!
He closed his eyes and breathed. Come on, in and out, you’ve got this, in and out. He was always so angry, the emotion raging against the cork-top of his soul waiting for its turn out of the bottle. He tried to cool his rage before the other feeling took control. That overwhelming, all-consuming sadness that clung to him as close as his own shadow.
He already knew what Mama would say. “Gyldro, you have to move on. You have to stop punishing yourself. You need to speak with someone, a professional. Gyldro, you need help." He’d heard it all before. Every time he opened up to her she would respond with concern. And every time he would ignore her advice and avoid responding to her letter for months. Then they would talk again and he would guard his true thoughts until finally he would inevitably share too much of his sad heart and the entire process would begin again.
His entire life was nothing more than finding his own footsteps already laid out in front of him and watching helplessly as he tread the same path over and over again. He was always thinking about what would happen next. Once, he had dreamt about what his future held. Now he knew for sure.
It had been twenty-five years ago on a warm summer night when his future had come to him. Gyldro had just turned twenty-six years old and he had decided to spend the evening at The Moaning Manatee, a local tavern that was typically cleaner than the rest. Gyldro had ordered a red ale and sat off in the corner, prepared to have a drink or two and then return home. He didn’t expect to meet anyone, let alone speak to anyone. That’s when he met him. Him. Dexell.
Now, Gyldro Angleiron always valued honesty and he knew that he was an ugly man. He had made his peace with this fact long ago. By twenty-six, he also knew that the world was an unkind place for ugly men. He did the only thing he could do - he accepted it. So when a beautiful stranger sat down across from him and flashed him a white smile and gazed at him with dark, sparkling brown eyes, Gyldro couldn’t understand what was happening. He immediately feared the intent behind that dazzling smile, but he couldn’t look away. Dexell’s beauty fascinated him. Beauty always had.
They had spent the entire night talking. He was charming and interested in him. After a while, they weren’t even drinking anymore, just talking. And when the hour grew too late and the tavernkeep closed the bar, Gyldro and Dexell walked and continued talking. He had told him everything - how much he loved being a blacksmith but that he hoped to be a writer one day, too. How he loved the trills of birdsong. How much he missed his Mama. Dex had told him everything in turn - how Dex loved coffee more than anything. How much he loved springtime and how even then, in summer, how he longed for it. How much he liked Gyldro’s eyes.
They walked all over Rivington, all the way down to the bank of the Chionthar, and they talked the whole way. And when the sun finally came up and Dexell leaned forward to kiss him, Gyldro was shaking so fiercely that he had blamed the chill from the river as the cause. It was the first and only lie he had ever told him.
The memories are what will get you, in the end. Seeing Dexell first thing in the morning, every morning. Those sleepy brown eyes that would turn mischievous when they focused on him. Dex’s strong, dark arms around him. His soft, full mouth whispering, “Good morning, Gyldro!” The way they sat at their table together and drank their coffee, silent and steady and sure. The way Dexell would always insist that Gyldro was beautiful too, and how he would insist further if Gyldro denied it. He remembered basking in that feeling. Being loved. Cherished. He felt that he could get used to it.
He shouldn’t have.
Six months. After years of longing and feeling like life would pass him by entirely, he had found his soulmate. He found the one person who made the sun shine for him day and night and who banished every shadow within him. Six months was all he got before it was taken away from him. Dex loved the spring so much and they never had the chance to experience it together.
Dexell was a half-elf. It was one of Gyldro’s favorite things about him. This beautiful man who loved him was guaranteed to outlive him. He was promised a lifetime of love. He was supposed to have those strong arms to carry him through the darkness of this life. Six months. He only got six months.
And what does he have to show for it now? Nothing but a broken heart, a lifetime full of regret, and a single coffee mug that matters more to him than a million gold pieces.
When Dex was taken from him, Gyldro could do nothing but sink into the crater left behind. He filled his heart with despair over the loss and when there was no room left for tears he found only a churning rage that never went away. Kindness had only served him heartbreak. He was done with it.
He had tried to get over his despair, his loneliness. He had swung his hammer until his anvil sang sweeter than any birdsong. He had drank and cried and drank some more. He had ventured into the Feywild and yelled into the wide abyss and heard only the echo of his own name return to him. He had submitted a letter to the Fulfilled Heart in hopes of finding his perfect match, knowing full well that he’d already found and lost him.
He was walking up the hill to his shop when he saw her. Exxvikyap and her glittering golden and green scales, standing just outside the Rivington General, fumbling with her keys and humming some sweet song. Those early rays of dawn were hitting her just so, making her shimmer like some rare comet floating down from Elysium.
He remembered the first time they met, when she had answered his listing in the newspaper. She was so beautiful and something in his heart stirred just to see her. He wanted to ask her out to a bar, just to drink and talk and get to know her. But then he remembered the pain of rejection and the horror of loss. And so he hired her instead.
Just as he prayed that she wouldn’t see him, Exxvikyap turned and her face broke into a brilliant smile. “Oh, Gyldro! Hi! Good morning, Gyldro! Such a fine morning, don’t you think?” She pulled her key out and opened the door. “I just wanted to get here a little early, just to sort the stock!”
“I’m not paying you extra,” he grumbled. Exxvikyap just laughed and waved to him once more as she entered the shop. She was a great employee, better than any he’d had before. He didn’t need to check on the inventory. She moved stock swiftly and there were even repeat customers now. He knew it was entirely her doing. It would be a loss when she finally moved on to smithing herself. Selfishly, he hoped that day was further out than he knew it was.
The rest of the town had come alive, which meant it was time for Gyldro to get on with his morning. He walked up the creaky stairs of his forge and crossed over to head back into his small, one bedroom house.
He stopped walking just as he reached for the doorknob. He hated this part, more than any of the rest of it. He hated walking back into that sad house that was not a home and feeling so empty. He hated seeing that other cup of coffee sitting on the table, cold and untouched. Dexell’s cup. He didn’t want to go inside and have to dispose of the cold coffee. He didn’t want to clean the cup and worry every second that his hands might break it. He couldn’t bear it, not one more day.
His mind turned once again to Exxvikyap. He let himself think about how marvelous it was to hear her voice. How radiant her scales seemed in the dawn’s new light. She made him think about all of the wonders still untouched out there. The urge to love and be loved in turn swelled within him, savage and hopeful.
As Gyldro gripped the doorknob and prepared to open his door, he made a promise to himself. This is the last day I allow myself to ruin my life, he thought. I will get better and I will live a life worth living. I will start writing again. I will change. I will be happy.
Gyldro Angleiron saw the value in very few things, but he always held vows to be sacred. He vowed this to himself and opened the door.
Dexell’s mug sat still on the counter, a pool of water encircling it on the wooden table where the condensation had dripped down. He walked over, picked up the mug and swiftly opened the window to toss the old coffee out. He held the mug as gently as a heart as he walked over to the kitchen basin to rinse it out. An image of Dexell sprang into his mind; his husband washing the dishes after supper, a cloth draped casually over his shoulder. A warm smile on his full lips. A shared secret. A sacred vow.
He was still lost in thought when he saw movement from the corner of the room. It was a person. Gyldro turned, his heart beating in concern as he faced the intruder. Is it the Flaming Fist? Have they found out about the Ironhands in the basement? Gods damn it all!
He only saw a face. An attractive face. He blinked, taken aback by this face, this attractive stranger in his home. He hesitated for just a moment. For just a moment he wanted to believe that this person might be here for him. A lovely stranger who answered his letter. A beautiful person who wanted to speak to him, get to know him, love him. He let himself believe the fantasy for just one moment.
“Who - what… I mean, how can I help you?” he said, trying and failing to make his voice sound friendly. He was as gruff as ever.
The stranger smiled and he could feel his heart skip a beat. Was it from fear or love? He needed to know, but he knew the truth. It wasn’t for him to know.
Gyldro turned away, just for a moment. He reached for the small rag he kept by the basin to dry the wet mug in his hands. He was going to dry the mug and then turn back to the stranger.
He didn’t see it when it happened. All he felt was a swift crack against his skull. He felt his knees falter and give way. He felt the mug drift away from his grasp as though in a dream. He felt his body hit the floor just as the mug did.
They both shattered.