I lived in grapes and I’ll die in grapes.

“Dad,” a tender voice called from my bedside. “You can’t be buried in grapes, that’s just weird.”

I looked over to where my little daughter Samantha, now a young woman freshly graduated from college, held my hand. Her brown eyes peered at me with laughter, but I could see the tears welling up behind them. She leaned over and adjusted my pillow, her hair brushing up against my cheek. She always smelled like the wildflowers of our home in the Okanagan, but all I could smell now was the acrid scent of the hospital.

“If people want to wine about it, let them.” I deadpanned, and then coughed as the act of speaking irritated the tubes in my throat. “Where’s your mother?”

“Ugh, that was awful. Mom is talking to the head nurse. Should I tell her you’re awake?” She turned to the door.

I shook my head and looked out the window beside my bed. It was a beautiful sunny day outside, and I could hear some geese honking on the lawn. I always hated the vicious buggers when they crapped all over my vineyard, but their warbling was a nostalgic sound. A few clouds dotted the sky, and a slight breeze ruffled the reddening maple trees outside the window.

Indeed, it was a good day to die. Well, it was a terrible day to die, but it was a good day to die. Terminal brain cancer in your late forties sucked. I barely got to watch my kid graduate and now the metaphorical rug got pulled out from under me. It happened so fast – I was out picking grapes under the hot sun when I had a dizzy spell and collapsed. The last few weeks were a blur of doctors, tests, tears, and making final plans. The company would be going to my vice-president for a tidy sum, Samantha got the car and my darling redheaded wife got everything else. Including the crushing pain of suddenly losing her husband after twenty years of marriage.

Sorry dear. Looks like we won’t be spending our fifties going on cruises together.

I laid my head down and closed my eyes, reminiscing.

First was mead. A fun thing to pass the time in business school that rapidly turned into a side hustle. A girl I met at a frosh party, sprawled on a blanket in a cherry sundress with a slight flush from an Earl Grey Mead. Caroline, her lips pulled back in a honeyed smile.

Then came beer. Playing percentages with hops while experimenting with bitters, sours, and ales. I chose a name, and Caroline drew the logo, a goofy buck-toothed moose for Beavermoose Brewery. The originals were stashed in the attic at home. Caroline quit art school and started working for me full time. We were married in the spring.

\\\ I wish that beeping would stop… I’m so tired…\\\

Then came whiskey. The shrieking from the still as it exploded was nothing compared to the screech of a very pregnant Caroline when she found out. I had to promise to stop; our future child would need a father. Samantha was born in November; three kilos and a full head of hair. She was the light of our lives, and the end of our sleep.

Then came champagne. The moment we made it big, when our Beavermoose IPA got lauded on live TV by a hockey star. Some influencers started reviewing it, and suddenly – we were big. I bought a ten acre from a retiree, and we converted a barn on the property into a microbrewery. Soon I had staff and bills, God so many bills. I’m dying, why am I sitting here thinking about bills? Must be the geese… The whole company celebrated the night we shipped our first full flat to the liquor stores. Caroline and I popped some bubbly and then we had a crazy thought.

\\\ It’s getting hard to breathe. Where’s Caroline with the nurse? Why is Sammy yelling? \\\

From that thought came wine. I tilled the field alongside the apiary and planted some grapes. Our little slice of paradise in the Okanagan Valley was perfect for growing them, and I visited a few neighbouring vineyards to get some ideas. Our first few bottles weren’t going to win any awards, but the beer and the mead kept the money flowing. Soon, fifteen years had passed, and I had one of the biggest wineries in the valley. The Beavermoose logo still sat over the old barn, but the new storage shed filled with casks of fine wine proudly proclaimed Veritas Vinum Vineyard.

\\\ I wasn’t… joking about the bury me in grapes bit. Sammy? Are you there? \\\

\\\ It was our veritas… our truth…. I hope….\\\

\\\ Carol are…. \\\

\\\ Sammy? \\\

\\\ … \\\

—

“Doc!” A gruff voice called next to my ear. “He’s wakin’ up!”

My eyes peeled open, and a splitting headache immediately snapped them back shut. Gawd! I knew brain cancer hurt, but that felt more like my sinuses being ripped out! The acrid scent of the hospital had… changed. It smelled quite strongly of sulphur. The sound of the geese was replaced with the sound of... hammers? What was going on?Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Gods damned fool! What was he thinkin’, stickin’ his head into a freschie?” another voice on the other side of the bed grumbled in a gruff … Scottish accent? No, that wasn’t quite right.

I groaned as a wide calloused hand was placed on my head and a soothing feeling spread from it.

“It was touch and go there for a while, but it looks like the aetherstone did the trick,” said a slightly higher-pitched and more cultured voice. “He should be fine after a bit of rest.”

“Thank ye, Doctor.” Said the second voice. “We’ll add yer bill to his indenture and see that yer paid from the mine’s accounts.”

“Of course, Grim. Send a runner to Healer Bastion if he gets worse. I’ve done all I can and would be the next step.”

There was a weird inflection on the word ‘Healer.’ Heaaaler? HEAler? [Healer]?

“That bad?”

“I lost him for a moment there. If he’s awake, then the worst of it should be gone. He’s either got the Blessing of Barck or the luck of fools.” The sound of a door opening and closing was followed by footsteps, before a wide hand pulled roughly at my beard.

I don’t have a beard. Sammy made me shave it when she was four because she hated it. How long had I been unconscious?

“Wake up sleepy ‘ead! You won’t want me to call Healer Bastion. It’ll add years to your indenture. Doc Opal was bad enough! Oy, Pete!”

Well, Pete was my name, so rise and shine. I squinted my eyes to peer at the two men sitting beside me. What struck me first was the beards. Each of them had a massive beard; real lumberjack and then some. They each had a wide nose peeking out above equally big moustaches. The one named Grim had a bristly straight-edge moustache, but the other guy had a handlebar that practically reached his eyebrows.

Seriously, this was some epic facial hair, and I don’t use the word epic lightly. Then it struck me, both of them were wearing what looked like padded leather armour. Handlebar even had an iron helmet on. What the heck?

I sat bolt upright and looked around, the motion giving me a new stab of pain in the sinuses. We were in what looked like a carved stone room. The walls were slate and the floor was made of worked blue stone with patterns carved into it. The ceiling overhead was the same slate as the wall and a metal lantern hanging over my bed gave off a soft yellow light. Where was the window? Where was Sammy?

“You okay, Pete?” Asked handlebar, leaning closer. “You should know better than ta stick your head in a freschie. There’s a bonus for findin’ a vein, but ya really shoulda let tha [Whisperer] check the air first! Yer lucky the sulphur didn’t kill ya! The whole cave was full of it!”

Wow, those were certainly words. At least my head was starting to hurt a bit less. There was something about these guys that was stirring something in the back of my mind. Something about the beards, and the accent… Oh my God! These guys looked JUST like dwarves! They were short and squat, with whiskers nearly half their height! Was this a cosplay convention or something?!

That was when I glanced at the mirror and a short, squat, reddish-brown-bearded dwarf peered back at me from the bed with bleary black eyes.

I may have passed out again.

—

Grim sighed as labourer Balin Roughtuff, No. 30865 helped labourer Peter Samson, No. 30895 spoon some porridge into his mouth. He’d almost run to fetch the Healer before Balin stopped him. Pete’s breathing had been fine and he seemed to have fainted from exhaustion. He eventually woke up again, but seemed listless and confused, muttering about ‘Sammy’ and ‘Karul.’ Nobody in the camp had those names. Perhaps some people from his past?

Not even a week into the new year, and already a major accident. Barck’s Beard, that didn’t bode well for the rest of the year.

As the foreman for the Dwarven City of Minnova Reform Mine, Grim’s job was not the most glamorous. At least it paid well, and he’d even received his first Blessing! Most of the indentured not-quite-prisoners were paying off bills from fights in the city or were vagrants without a copper to their name. A few months to years in the reform mine would see them leave with a small purse, some skills, and if they were lucky, a Blessing of their own. Some were back the next day, but most found work in the local mines.

He could certainly understand Pete’s desire to stick his head into a freshly made tunnel. When Pete’s pickaxe had caused a small crack to widen into a fresh cavern, Pete had joyously called the whole crew over. An indentured miner who found a new vein or – Gods forbid – a gem cache, could become rich overnight. The Ordinances were quite strict about fair compensation! Chapter 32, Section 4, Subsection 12c in fact!

Which meant there was no reason for the damn fool to stick his head into the tunnel to check! Grim had gone to ask the [Whisperer] to check the local aether for to find the small crew clamouring around the unconscious form of Pete. He had called for Doc Opal, who declared it to be sulphur poisoning, and the rest of the day was a nightmare of paperwork. Pete was a simple vagrant, and Grim didn’t really know him well, but his death would have meant a review by City Hall.

Grim went to the cupboards. They had propped Pete up in Grim’s own chambers, and he wanted a stiff drink after today’s debacle. Both the [Whisperer] and the [Speaker] had checked the tunnel and found nothing but a large sulphur deposit. Sulphur had some uses, but it wasn’t as though the populace of Minnova were falling all over themselves for soap! Daily baths were an elvish perversion, like that grape juice they called ‘wine.’

Grim poured himself a fine amber ale. It was a fresh batch of True Brew from Browning Brewery, and it had quite a kick! After a moment’s thought he poured some for Pete and Balin too. They’d all had a rough day, and Pete would be all the worse after Doc Opal’s bill got added to his indenture. Grim filled a trio of large iron tankards studded with fine oak wood and passed them off to Pete and Balin.

“To Minnova, the Firmament, and the luck of fools!” He and Balin bellowed, though Pete simply raised his mug. Grim downed his drink and revelled in the fresh nutty flavour. Balin’s eyes twinkled beneath his bushy brows as the alcohol hit him.

Pete spat his beer in a spray across the both of them, soaking their beards, and yelled in a deep baritone, “WHAT THE HELL!?”

—

I could barely follow what was happening. I was a dwarf? I was an indentured labourer? In Minnova? Where the hell is that?

At least my name was still Pete. I could barely process it as handlebar, I mean Balin, fed me some basic gruel. Don’t fantasy dwarves eat rats? Is this rat porridge? Am I being racist right now? Or is that speciest?

The dwarf named Grim passed us each a massive tankard of what looked like an amber ale. He and Balin made some kind of toast to dirt and then pulled. That’s right, dwarves were supposed to be big drinkers, and master crafters of beers and ales, right? At least I could drown my sorrows in fine alcohol.

I shot the drink back myself, before spitting it out in an atomized arc.

“WHAT THE HELL!?”

Dwarves drank WATERY BEER!?