Is A Gamble Worth A Gander?
Ch1
Weak Hands, Weak Bodies
Our story begins in the dim, arid interior of a smithy. The soft roar of flames stoked by bellows, the acrid scent of charred metal, the rhythmic ringing of hammer on steel. A small shop occupied by two souls pouring their hearts into their craft. Swing by swing, twisting and turning the glowing metal. Shaping their art hit after hit, touching and feeling the hidden object within the lumps of ore, slowly bringing forth the sight in their minds. Tap tap tap, ching ching ching. Ringing steel singing along to the chorus of the smiths' hearts.
They beat away on their respective pieces, occasionally wiping the sweat from their brow. Though both are clearly talented, one is the obvious superior. An older individual, hands moving with the careful attention of a pianist's fingers, sits just to the right of the large forge-pit in the center of the shop. He stares intently at the glowing lump of steel gripped in his tongs, turning and turning as he brings the hammer down upon it. His dull, aged eyes still show a deep brown hue, glowing in time with the sparks flying off the now tiller-blade-shaped metal.
His muscles flex lightly in the shadows cast by the glow of the forge, timed perfectly with the expert movements of his hammer. His shadow dances along the wall beside him, cast in the fiery glow of the forge, showcasing a very averagely built older gentleman. Jet-black hair is wrapped tightly in a bandana, now soaked in sweat from the heat of his art. A gruff beard, shaggy from neglect of grooming, frames up his chiseled, jutting chin. Chaffed lips cracked from the heat are pursed tightly together in thought and concentration. This is the Master Smith. This is the teacher to the apprentice sitting not two meters away, busily working on his own piece in the dull glow of the forge.
Apprentice, that's what they call him because that is what he is. Apprentice, one who learns from his Master's careful, attentive teachings. Apprentice, hoping to follow in his Master's footsteps and become a great artist of metal-working. Yes, Apprentice is what they call him for that is what he is, or at least it's what he should be. After all, he is learning from a Master. After all, he is hunched over this anvil, in this dingy stone smithy, bathed in the fierce glow of a raging furnace as he shapes raw ore into various tools. The locals call him an Apprentice, his Master does too so that makes it true.
This is what he tells himself, tap tap tapping away on the gradually changing chunk of iron. This is what he tells himself, ignoring the slight throbbing pain building up in his wrists. He repeats it over and over again in his head, I am an Apprentice.
His brow furrowed tightly over deep brown eyes, glowing fiercely in the light of the iron taking shape before them. Long, dark-brown hair would easily reach past his shoulders if it weren't tied up into a formerly neat ponytail, now a vaguely matted mess of sweat and stray hairs on top of his head. A headband is wrapped tightly around his forehead, failing to catch the sweat nearly pouring from his every pore. A faintly maintained beard, what was once something of a goatee, now beginning to become shaggy, sits on top of a strong chin. Jaw clenched tight, lips pursed much like his Master's, the Apprentice deeply considers the iron before him, almost asking it what it is.
Who are you? What are you? What do you want to be? These thoughts run through his mind as the metal takes form with every swing of his hammer. He found it easier to work with something with which he could empathize thus, in his mind, he asked the metal the very same questions he oft asked himself. The very same questions that burned in him over his given titled, not rightly earned in his own opinion. After all, an Apprentice should be good at what he does. And he was to some extent. However, as the gradually strengthening throb in his wrists reminded him, one's talent alone wasn't enough to satisfy an evaluation. One's body had to be physically sound enough for his chosen profession. One's hands must be strong and resilient in order to force the will of shape upon the World's bones, the metal he sat there beating into shape.
The young Apprentice sighed deeply and set down his hammer before sticking the iron back into the forge-pit. He buried it under a few glowing red coals and began to tug the bellow-pulley, firing gusts of fresh air into the heart of the furnace. With each long, slow tug the furnace came alive with fiery fury, heating the various bits of metal within. Whooshing breaths of acrid smoke poured from deep within the furnace, fire rising in time with the eerie heartbeat of the forge. With each tug, with each breath of life poured into the coals, the Apprentice's wrist throbbed more intensely.
Satisfied with the rosy-pink glow of his chosen piece of iron, the Apprentice picks up his tongs and grips it once more. Lifting the glowing, seemingly living ore he winces as the worst pain yet jets up his finger, through his wrist and all the way up his left arm. Briefly considering the dangers of another accident, he ignores the pain and brings the metal over to his anvil. At least, that's what he intended to do…
A sudden gasp, a deep lungful of acrid, smoky air and his nerves are all on high-alert. His senses come alive, the pain blooming like cherry-blossoms in spring throughout his left wrist. He braces himself for the disaster, watching helplessly as his hand loses all semblance of strength, fingers unfurling from the tongs. The rosy-pink-glowing billet of iron begins a freefall from the formerly tight grip of his tongs, plummeting to the tune of nausea rising in the Apprentice's gut. Completely helpless, too slow to react, too smart to reach for it with his right hand, he simply watched.
The tiny smithy was very quickly filled with the deep, bellowing curses of a Master Smith, yelling as his left foot was nicely cooked by white-hot iron.
Ω
"God damn it all! Ow!"
The man leapt to his feet with the speed of a bolt of lightning, yanking his foot out from under the glowing bit of iron formerly cooking it. With all the practiced dexterity of one who works with the accident-prone, he hopped once on his good foot to his right. One little skip and he was positioned nicely over the quenching-trough. Without a moment of hesitation he thrust his foot into the water, a look of relief spreading across his face as a wet-spot formed, and gradually widened, on the crotch of his pants.
The Apprentice very audibly swallowed a lump in his throat as he watched his humiliated Master stand there, foot plunged deeply into the cooling waters. Contemplating the meaning of Apprentice he simply sat there in silence.
About an hour passed by. The Master had told him to go outside and wait by the woodpile while he changed himself. So he obeyed, head hung low as he sulked outside in the frigid air. Though the air was actually a seasonally appropriate temperature, after being in that oppressively hot smithy it felt cold as the grave to the young man. He took a deep chest-full of the cool autumn air, the scent of oak and pine carried gracefully by a lazy breeze, and released an equally deep sigh.
It had happened again, he'd done it again. Not out of some kind of malign intent, mind you, but all the same. Though intent did not play into it, neither did it change reality. The fact remained, staring him in the face like an ugly, blistering wound. After all, he was an Apprentice. One who'd just badly burnt his all too forgiving Master for the thirteenth time. Not the best track record no matter how you slice it, he knew he should've been released from service after the first incident.
The Master, however, was an exceedingly kind man. Not only had he agreed to mentor this frail young man but he'd also shown such compassion as to overlook his near-constant mishaps. Accident-prone was not enough to describe the curse that had followed this young man into the shop…
"Hey, Linc…" came a sudden, gruff voice, snapping the Apprentice out of his angst-ridden thoughts, "You're not just gonna mope now, are ya?"
He cocked his head to the right and looked up at the smiling face above him.
"Don't ya think you should at least apologize?" croaked the older man.
"I'm sorry, Harvey. I went and dropped another one…" the Apprentice softly droned.
"Hey! I didn't mean me, ya dunce!" Harvey cackled, "I meant that you should apologize to that poor piece of iron that just got dropped onto some old man's nasty foot!"
The young man couldn't help but chuckle a little at Harvey's tension-diffusing joke. Though, in all honesty he knew the older man was a bit serious. He'd imparted the habit of thinking of the ore as alive upon his Apprentice well. Therefore, it was only proper to apologize to that poor piece of iron. After all, it had hopes and dreams too. It wanted to be shaped into something useful, given birth through the forge's flaming womb. It wanted to live a full, happy life of service like any other working man.
"Right…" said the Apprentice, "I'll have to apologize to it too. But, are you okay?"
"Lincoln Ansley…" began the Master, his voice suddenly turning stern and serious, "Do you have any idea why I told you to wait out here?"
He'd really done it now. There were only two reasons Harvey would use his full name. One was if he'd done an exceptional job on a piece and Harvey was busy making a lucrative sale to a customer. In that case his full name was a badge of honor he wore proudly. The other, however, was a situation that always flooded his blood with adrenaline and filled his heart with fear…
"Yes, Sir, I have an idea…" Lincoln replied sheepishly, straining back the tears edging into his eyes.
"Understand me first, Linc." Harvey began, "You're a good guy. You work hard, you have talent and you're always going that extra length to press your limits."
He could sense but on the edge of his Master's tongue, though it was left unvoiced.
"You have a problem though, young man." Harvey continued, beginning to stroke his forehead with frustration, "It's been six years. You're working hard as ever, I know, but your body… I don't know if you have the physical constitution to handle this work."
Yep, Lincoln knew it was going to go there. This wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. This wasn't the first time his body had failed him. This wasn't the first time he'd had the will and the resolve but lacked the physical health to keep going, to keep working.
Yes, this was what Lincoln believed to be just another in a long line of these like-themed conversations. Unfortunately, this one was about to set off a series of events that would flip his world over on its head. He watched Harvey furrow his brow and open his mouth to continue…
"Lincoln, you're the hardest worker I've seen in many years, which is why what I'm about to say hurts…"
"Sir, I-!" Lincoln tried to plead his case, but Harvey stuck his hand up between them to silence him. Obediently he shut his mouth.
"Listen, this is the last straw kid. I'm sorry, I really am. Not just for you, but I'm losing an amazing employee, so I'm sorry for myself too ya know?" Harvey took a deep breath and continued, "I took a look at my foot after changing pants. It's burnt to the bone. I should probably be on my way to the apothecary right now, but you deserve a proper warning."
The Master paused for a moment, his eyes glazing over with deep remorse as he looked away from Lincoln. He turned his view to the forest in the distance, admiring the orange and red hues of the autumn foliage. It helped him to collect his thoughts and set his mind at ease for what he was about to say, for what he was about to do. He took a last look upon the gorgeous leaves of the forest, inhaling deeply of the equally pleasing aromatics wafting on the breeze, and turned to face his Apprentice.
"I, Harvey Grahm, as your acting Master Blacksmith, hereby release you, Lincoln Ansley, from service as my Apprentice."
Both the men's hearts sunk low into their gut. A bond had formed over the years between the two. The kind of bond that forms between brothers-in-arms and others that live and work together day-in and day-out. It was breaking the old man's heart to have to do this, but he knew that if it continued he was going to do him more harm than good. After all, even if he taught Lincoln everything he knew, what good would it do him if his body got worse with age? How could his Apprentice, after becoming a master himself, hope to realize his hopes and dreams with such frailty?
Harvey knew it would only get worse with age. After all, he'd only recently celebrated his own fifty-fourth year. His guests, besides Lincoln, included a myriad of aches and pains, most of which had not been there just the previous year. Therefore, before too much of his life was invested in this doomed effort, Lincoln had to find something that his frail hands could do. Harvey knew this, so he swallowed his sorrow and continued.
"I'll have your severance-pay to you by tomorrow and expect you to be packed and ready to return home by such time." Harvey's brow was so scrunched with frustration at this point he looked ready to kill someone. A truly unusual look for him, "I hope you understand why I'm doing this, Lincoln."
"I do, Sir." Lincoln managed to wheeze out through the insane thumping of his heart, "I'm truly surprised you kept me as long as you have…"
"Well, I hope you realize it was a little out of selfishness on my part…" Harvey replied, a tinge of shame in his voice.
"I, Lincoln Ansley, thank you for the mentoring you have provided me, Master!" Lincoln began, ignoring Harvey's previous statement entirely, "I am honored to accept your decision to sever our contract. I will obey your final orders with all haste and be ready to leave by first light tomorrow morning!"
Lincoln assumed an almost military stance and gave his former Master a polite bow.
"Alright, now that the formalities are over, could you help me limp over to get this foot treated?" Harvey asked with a grimaced smile creeping nervously across his face.
Lincoln straightened up and agreed immediately, taking a brief look at Harvey's foot. He was suddenly struck with a mixture of awe and terrifying shame. He'd not registered exactly how bad the wound was when Harvey had first mentioned its severity, but upon seeing the bit of bone exposed through the burn it clicked. He was filled with awe for the resilience to pain his former Master must have, to stand on that grisly injury and give him such a speech. Such consideration to warn him beforehand rather than to just dump it all on him after treatment.
Had Lincoln been left on his own to contemplate the situation, awaiting the return of his Master from treating an injury he'd caused, it would have left him miserably sick from worry. He never was one for being tough in times of trouble. Sure, he could push himself to give more and more effort. Sure, he could push far beyond his limits at times. Yet always, inevitably, his constitution would fail him and his anxiety would peek through again and again. Harvey knew this and spared Lincoln that misery at the cost of his own.
Ω
Autumn was upon the world once again, softly embracing all of nature with the myriad of colors and soft, nippy breezes it brought along with it. Birds sang merry songs as their fragile wings cut elegant patterns of flight through the cool air. Squirrels pattered to and fro, gathering supplies to stow away before winter's cold grip came to set the land to sleep. Leaves rustled carelessly in the breeze, alive with the activity of the creatures of the woodlands. Brooks and creeks trickled merrily along their paths, cut through the living earth over centuries of rains, babbling gently a happy little tune.
Such a serene little scene was one of the secret treasures of the small villages and towns that dotted the countryside here and there. These were scenes that those in the larger cities could never treasure, for one cannot treasure what one does not have to look upon. One cannot steal away an unknown image to lock into their mind's eye. Yes, this was a treasure of the countryside, one that was very deeply treasured by one in particular.
A set of deep, emerald-green eyes took in the sights unfolding this midday. A small, button-nose carefully considered the scent of leaves freshly turned color, the delicate aroma of brooks and creeks babbling along. A small set of ears, carefully framed by vaguely-blonde hair, took in the songs of the birds, the chirps and barks of the squirrels, the tune of the tiny rivers churning along. An incredibly small frame hid a heart, soft and hurt from illness and sorrow, which swelled with each joyous sight, sound, and smell. Pale skin, peeking out from a modest dress, lit up in time with the peeking of the sun from behind lazily moving clouds.
The young girl took in her surroundings, thanking whatever was responsible for this beauty called life. She sat upon a wide, open field, her hair occasionally dancing along with the autumn winds. Despite her circumstances she was quite happy to be alive. Despite everything in her life that would crush others under the weight of sorrow, she was thankful to all the Gods she knew of that her life remained. She was so thankful she got to wake up and enjoy the beauty another day.
"Lillian!" called a familiar, baritone voice, "Lillian, it's dinner time! Come on!"
The happy young girl, Lillian, stood up slowly and brushed off her plain, modest dress. A few blades of grass that had stuck to her posterior were shaken loose before she took off in a light skip toward a small cottage in the distance.
This isn't her home per se, but Lillian is grateful for the roof over her head and food in her belly it provides. She's grateful to the family that provides such things, knowing she cannot do much to repay. She's happy to be blessed enough to have such fortune in her life. After all she is an orphan now. So even if this place isn't her real home it is inhabited by people that care enough not to let her starve to death in the elements. So Lillian does feel very blessed despite her losses.
α
Such a good, happy girl she is, despite the circumstances of her life. Being born so sick and so frail, barely surviving her infancy. She'd always wanted to learn to help around the house growing up, but her body was just too weak to allow it. That and she had such a kind, caring family as to never have to lift a finger to see to her necessities. They would, of course, allow her to exert what independence she could. So, in truth she had learned a little of how to cook simple, short meals and how to do simple, light cleaning. This she did without hesitation as much as she could, never being asked to, not only for her old family but for the new as well. These blessings were so myriad she felt almost a divine calling to do what she was able to.
Lillian certainly wasn't cheap to raise either, though not for being spoiled with lavish gifts. No, Lillian was expensive to raise because of all the business her frailty brought the small town's apothecary. From the word go, medicine and doctors were her constant companions. The fees that came with such were, for a time, what she felt was the weight of her sin of being born. Her parents were such caring people, so kind and loyal to their beloved daughter. Never in a thousand lifetimes could such harsh consideration be passed upon her by them. No, they were all too happy to work themselves to the very limits of their own bodies to bring in the money to keep Lillian seeing doctors and taking the medicines that let her survive her first eight years.
No, instead these harsh thoughts came from Lillian's own mind. She saw these ridiculous visits from doctors and the expensive medicines that accompanied every meal she didn't deserve as judgement for the sin of her birth. This is what she felt of herself, for her parents were far too loving. As was her beloved brother. Oh, those three paragons of duty and love shined brighter than any sun to Lillian's eyes. As if the crushing guilt could never get any worse, it all came crashing down in the harshest manner possible.
Yes, her already miserably guilt-ridden existence was presently strained by the absence of one of the paragons that shined upon her life. Her brother had left to apprentice with a Smithy in a town on the other side of the mountains. He'd left because he could not find enough work here. Of course, he did work nearly fifty hours a week as it was, yet this did not slake his thirst for money. Not greed-driven but duty-bound, his near lust for money drove him to work as though possessed of some malignant spirit.
She could remember it all so clearly, the day he was recruited by that man and left. He was so excited when he came home to explain it all. He'd been slaving away at the local wood mill when a blacksmith spotted him while passing through. Unbeknownst to her brother, the man had watched him for quite some time as he worked like a demon-driven machine. So impressed he was, this blacksmith, that he offered her brother to become his apprentice right then and there. Of course he accepted without any semblance of consideration.
Thus, he left. Six years ago, Lillian's brother left for a world far away, over the mountains and out of sight. Though he still held true to his self-imposed duty, this confirmed by the nearly clockwork arrival of a courier every month. Always the same message, always the same delivery.
"Your Brother says he misses you all and wishes you well." the courier would always say, like a doll reciting its lines, before handing them a sack of various sizes and shapes of coins.
Like clockwork, always so consistent was the faithful brother, the bag held one-thousand Valis. Always would this self-imposed payment come, to support his beloved family. Such a good man he grew to be. Six years it went on like this, twenty-four seasons of the courier's monthly deliveries. With each one, Lillian's heart grew ever heavier with the guilt.
With the absence of the faithful brother, the recent tragedy only sunk that much deeper into her heart. For, in this most recent year, a plague had swept the tiny village she inhabited with her faithful family. A minor plague admittedly, for only one other outside Lillian's family was taken. However, as if some sick form of repayment, Lillian caught the plague. So weak was her body it festered within her, growing ever stronger as she grew ever weaker, until it finally rendered her unable to leave her bed.
As always her faithful, loving parents were right there to tend to their ailing daughter's every need. Never a thought given to their own wellbeing, almost inhuman in their lack of concern for their health, they nurtured Lillian carefully back to health. This, of course, was a fatal mistake. The sickness had grown so strong in Lillian's weak body it easily overtook them not long after her recovery. She was given back her health only to watch her parent's lives be given up in exchange.
This was very nearly the fatal blow to her fragile, guilt-ridden heart. However, almost as if the last act of a dying angel, shortly before her father drew his last breaths he beckoned Lillian to come see him. She had obeyed without a moment of hesitation. Drawing near to her father's side, she had to strain to hear his haggard words…
"Listen, my little Tiger-Lilly," he faintly whispered, a familiar nickname he'd given her at birth, "I'm sorry, but we won't be here to keep taking care of you anymore. Your mother has already gone on ahead and I'm going to be chasing after her shortly."
The old man had to stop and catch his breath, short as it was, before managing to continue with wheezing whispers.
"Please don't think badly of yourself, Tiger-Lilly. Your family has loved you so much since you were born. We still do. I will even after I leave, your mother still does and I know your brother always will."
Once more shortness of breath has caught him in its grip, a sudden bout of coughs wracking his ribs. His whole body rocks as the coughing produces crimson streams of spittle from the old man's lips. A few minutes of this and he manages to pull himself together, his breathing now ragged as ever. Once more he opens his mouth to speak.
"Tiger-Lilly, my time's almost up, so please listen well and hide my words in your heart." He says, his eyes beginning to gloss over with the shimmer of death, "We gave you everything we have because we love you. We put all our effort into helping you fight this frailty because we're a family and families always stick together and hold each other, no matter what."
Lillian listens intently, her face contorted with sorrow, as her father imparts his last few words upon her aching heart.
"Never give up on your family, Tiger-Lilly. That means yourself too. You're part of your brother's family, so giving up on yourself is the same as giving up on him. No matter how bad it gets just keep your faith in your family tucked away, protected, in your heart…"
Pain gripped her as she watched him continue to mouth as though he were still speaking. Yet, breath had failed his words and the light was very quickly leaving his eyes. Lillian leapt up and wrapped her arms around her father, giving him a final, parting hug she'd never know if he felt. She cried very loudly, very hard, for a very long time after that…
She'd been nearly inconsolable for the month following this, moving along as though an empty shell. A cousin of distant relation, living on the outskirts of the village, had come to take her to live with him and his family. She never uttered a word to them as her few belongings were transferred. She never dropped a single tear when they buried her loving parents in the days after their passing. No, she had shut down for a time.
Yet her father's last words played on repeat in her head, in her heart, in her dreams. His words echoed over and over along her consciousness. She had intended to listen, and though she did it was not something she was aware of. Yes, his words had been engrained upon her heart yet it was a subconscious action. It was subtle, and as the weeks passed she found the weight of guilt lifted as her pondering continued. It was slowly, ever so slowly, eaten away by the final act of her loving father until nothing was left of it.
Lillian was not blessed with a particular beauty, nor was she given a healthy body, nor was she even given a particularly academic aptitude. However, she was given the gift of understanding. The dying words of a loving father had unlocked this and in doing so healed her heart of its crushing guilt. Unreasonably fast though it may seem, this is how she became the happy girl that now inhabits her body.
Yes, this is how Lillian became the happy young girl skipping across her cousin's field to join in on another bustling dinner.
Ω
Lincoln's room at the smithy was nothing to be too proud of, especially now that he'd packed up all of his personal ties to it. However the small room had been a faithful guardian for these last six years. Perhaps three by four meters with a two-and-a-half meter height, its roof and four walls had faithfully guarded him from winter's icy grip and springs cold rains. The dingy ceiling had faithfully withheld the sun from scorching him during summer. Yes, he would miss room where he'd rested many tired nights after working so hard for his former Master. Thus, with a final look around the room, along with a twinge of melancholy, he gave a brief bow. Standing straight he turned and walked out for the last time.
Upon leaving the room he walked down a small flight of stairs into the smithy where he'd toiled away his last six years. With a solemn feeling in the pit of his gut he let his gaze drift slowly around the room. From the tentatively arranged tools hanging on their respective hangers in the far corner, to the still glowing forge directly across from him in front of the far wall. Framed by two fully equipped anvils, set up for a single person to be able to work without having to bother the other, the forge cast its eerie heart-beating glow across the shop. Shadows of the various tables, troughs and the anvils danced along the floor and walls.
Lincoln took one more deep nose-full breath of the all too familiar aroma of charred metal, burnt charcoal and hard-earned sweat. It was a comforting smell since he'd begun his training, always making him feel as though he'd truly earned every last Valis to pass into his pocket. The dull throb that followed the end of every day's work, snaking through his every muscle, always brought a sense of accomplishment to his heart. This feeling would in turn help ease the burden of parting from his family.
Now, though, it was over. His own frailty had finally caught up with him and cost him dearly. Harvey had finally had enough of his random goof-ups and released him from their contract. It was only just now sinking in that it had all come to an end. So here he stood, taking in the sights and smells of the home he's so faithfully worked within for these last six years.
Just to top it all off and put the icing on the cake, he'd entirely forgotten it was his birthday today. He'd planned to go to the local pub and live it up last night, before the brilliant episode with the iron billet.
"Happy Birthday…" he muttered under his breath.
With one last, painful glance across the tools of a trade he'd no longer work, Lincoln turned and walked out of the shop for the last time.
As he stepped outside the cool, crisp autumn air greeted him, sending a shiver down his spine. He grabbed his shoulders and rubbed them a little to warm himself up. It was morning, just barely before the first light of day. He'd kept true to his word and was all set to leave.
Taking a few steps along the path from the Smithy door to the road, he noticed a faint silhouette of a man leaning on a tree. Turning his head for a better view it became clear what this was. Harvey stood there, a cigarette burning dimly in his lips, with a weak smile across his face. Holding up his right hand he motioned Lincoln over to him.
"G'mornin, sonny. Already packed I see." The old man began with a friendly tone, "Ya know though, I'm pretty sure yer forgetting something…"
"No," Lincoln replied, "I wasn't gonna leave without my last pay. Politeness aside, I do have a family back home that needs this money."
"Not the money, you idiot!" Harvey spat, his tone turning slightly irritated.
He took a long drag on the cigarette before dropping it on the ground and stomping it out. Then, being careful not to put too much pressure on his left foot, the old man leaned down and picked something up off the ground before offering it to Lincoln.
"Happy twenty-eighth, ya moron…" he chuckled.
"Oh… Well, thanks Sir." Lincoln replied.
"Listen up, kiddo, our contract's dissolved. There's no more need for the formalities." Harvey replied as the young man accepted the offered gift. He produced a small box from the long, light-brown coat he had draped across his shoulders. Opening the box he pulled out a cigarette and a match. He shut the box and deftly struck the match along its exterior, lighting his new cigarette with a few puffs. He gave a deep exhale, releasing a small cloud of smoke before speaking once more.
"Your severance is in that box, along with a little gift. Dunno why but it just seemed appropriate, so I hope it comes in handy at some point down the road." Harvey says, flashing a polite smile, "So, this is goodbye kiddo as I'm sure we won't see each other again. I've hailed a carriage for you, just down the road a ways. Take care, alright?"
"I will Sir!" Lincoln beamed, a wide smile plastered across his face, "Thank you so much for everything!"
And with that the two parted ways. Lincoln slowly trod down the road, away from the town, towards the awaiting carriage. With each step the Smithy grew smaller and smaller in the distance. It was sad, yes, and yet almost a relief now that it had finally happened. He'd known staying forever was not an option, and he eagerly awaited returning home to regale his parents with tales of this venture. Thus, with a swelling sense of eagerness within his heart he broke into a light jog towards the carriage, former Master's parting gift under his arm.