Titan's Chariot, The Rolling Father.

[zianorak]

In the little village of Titan's Chariot there was not much that went on without the entire village knowing about it. If there was to be a ship arriving in the sole dock, the villagers would, of course, flock there to welcome them. Any event like that was considered a cause for celebration and excitement. In small villages such as that, they would always be on the look out for excitement, that would distract them from their everyday life.

One such occasion was the return of a young woman that had grown up within the village. Her name was Byrin, a shapely, red headed girl, who had left years before for some distant city. She kept that city to herself, so that she would have something to keep the other villagers intrigued. Many of them went out of their way to catch a glimpse of her, or to talk to her. One man had cornered her with a coup of chickens, offering to sell her one, then interrogating her about her "adventures."

Byrin did not mind the attention, she had gotten used to the villagers reaction to strange and new things. However, she was not used to them all looking at her with admiration or interest. It was a new and terrifying idea. She had returned home to take care of her sick father, who was getting much worse. The villagers, knowing about his condition, had all decided to give the ailing man and his daughter food to live on. They dined every night on wonderfully tasting foods, but her father did not seem to be getting any stronger.

Byrin left the house, wearing a long dress that just barely swept the ground. The pale green color making her matching eyes sparkle. She glanced up at the clear sky, praising the warmth. she was glad that she had left her father's window open, so that he could get some fresh air, and view the brilliant blue sky. She causally walked to the small market, a narrow street of only a few shops, to get some essential herbs and ingrediants.

In the early morning, such as it was, not many people walked about. She was happy for the respite from the constant attention, and she desperately hoped that a ship would be docking soon. She walked along the outskirts of the village hoping to avoid any of the early risers, as she headed to the village shops, she stopped at a small garden. It was grown by an elderly woman in the village, and not very well at that, but it had many flowers and fresh herbs. She entered the garden, moving to the middle, and sat down.

She sat her basket to the side and closed her eyes, leaning her head back to the sun and sighed. It was so strange to be home again, to return to a place and notice how much it had changed. She felt trapped here, and she was ashamed for the feeling. Her father was dying, and soon he would be gone. It was terrible to think of him as the chains keeping her there, but that was what he was. He had always tried to hold her back, to keep her from growing, but she loved him for that.

She thought about what she would do, if he died. No, not if, but when he died, she thought to herself. She knew that she would not stay here, she thought she would go out, on an adventure of some sort. That had always been an important part of her dreams, to go somewhere far away. All she had to do was wait. Wait for her father to die, and for someone to help her escape from this prison.

[zianorak]

Byrin opened her eyes, looking around curiously. She had fallen asleep in the warmth of the sun. She still sat in the garden, the basket sitting next to her. She had drempt about adventure, and finding it off in the distance. She reached for her basket, but a sudden noise just behind her made her wheel about. Her muscles, toned from training, remained loose as she faced the possible threat. What she found, however, was not a threat, but the caretaker of the garden.

The little lady was just that, little, both in height and weight. She could easily have been lifted off the ground, and it seemed that even the wind might carry her off. She worked tirelessly, picking out weeds and cutting away the dead of the plants. Her very white hair was pinned up, and it seemed to have several streaks of dirt in it. Byrin figured that she had ran a hand through her to make sure that it was still in place, and did not notice that her hands were filthy. As Byrin watched the older woman she could not help but smile.

Slowly the little woman turned her head, fixing a hard blue stare onto Byrin. The woman released the ugly little weed that she struggled with and touched a hand to her cheek. Dirt smudged onto her weathered face, and stuck into the deep wrinkles. She seemed to struggle with words as she looked at Byrin, her mouth moving in silent words. A moment passed in which Byrin thought the woman to be praying, but then the woman stopped her quivering lip and moved closer.

"Erya?" the old woman asked, she almost seemed short of breath. Byrin took in a quick breath. This woman had asked her name, wondering if she might be Erya. Erya was Byrin's mother, and she was happy to think that she might look like her. However, Byrin shook her head.

"No, I am Byrin. I am Erya's daughter," she explained, speaking kindly but loudly. She wanted to make sure she was heard, fearing the woman to be hard of hearing.

"I see, but where is Erya? She used to help me here, to help me in the garden," the woman replied. Her eyes brimmed with tears, as she considered how desolate the garden seemed, how wild looking.

"She..." Byrin could not bring herself to say the words. Could not bring herself to tell this woman that her mother, probably one of the only people who cared for this woman, was dead. She took a shaky breath and managed to say, "She went on an adventure."

The old woman nodded, accepting the explanation. Her next words seemed tired, filled with more breath. As if she had just missed a step and her lungs were struggling to regain the stolen breath. "She always said she would do that, I'm proud of her. She was a good friend."

The woman's words died then, she stopped talking, looking off at the garden. She then turned to face Byrin once again. Her blue eyes connecting with the green eyes of Byrin. The woman's face tightened, and her lips drew together in a grimace. Byrin gave her a concerened look.

"Are you okay?" Byrin asked quietly.

"I'm sorry dear, it was time. His last sight was that of a bird on his windowsill, a bird that reminded him of...You," she answered, leaning in. She no longer sounded breathy, but more calm and reassuring. Byrin knew what she was saying, she understood and in a flood of tears, she ran. She was running home, to cry on her father's bed, to hold him one last time. She forgot about the old woman, and she did not wonder how she had known. All that she cared about, was that she had missed his passing.