Derrick said, rubbing his beard. ‘Hardlow sounds like a good man.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘So… what else is really bothering you?’
I hesitated for a moment before I answered. ‘Sir Garridan once told me that all I know in my life is death.’
Derrick didn’t respond, and before I knew it, I was launching into the full story.
***
I was fourteen. Life was becoming more and more difficult. Father’s age was beginning to wear on his body. He couldn’t yet be considered an “old man”, but the amount of hard work he did every day for years and years had made him look much older than he was. He never said a word, but it was painfully obvious. Knowing that he would remain silent about his declining condition, I quietly took on more and more work on the farm. Now older and a little wiser, I came to realize that all of the hard work I put into the farm would be good for my body, helping myself to get into the condition I needed to be in. Eventually, it began to show. By fourteen years of age, I was well built for my age, and my endurance was improving drastically.
Seeing Father in his physically deteriorated state was hard for me; every day, I would grow more and more concerned as he limped into the house after a day of work, clutching his back, groaning in pain. He would collapse into a chair, slumped, breathing in shallow breaths. Eventually, I took on dinner duties as well, and then sometimes (more often than Father would admit, I’m sure), I helped him to his bed. But still, the thought never entered his mind to stop working and let me take over… he wouldn’t even entertain the notion. On those nights, I would come back to the table in the kitchen area, sit and think about how proud I was of my father — he had worked so hard his entire life, not even stopping when he lost my mother, although I know the emotional strain had to be unbearable. He raised me as best as he could, and always did what he could for me, no matter how I was acting or what trials we were facing. I knew now that it was my turn to take care of him, and I did it with same grace and dignity that my father always exhibited, or at least, I tried to.
One day, in the winter months of the year 199, I came inside the house from the barn after a day of mending tools (or attempting to), only to find Father already inside, slumped in a chair. This wouldn’t have been too unusual, except that he seemed much wearier than usual — far too weary. His head was practically hanging from his shoulders.
‘Father?’ Seeing him like that made me immediately apprehensive.
His head turned slowly toward me. It seemed like it took a great deal of effort; more strength than he actually had.
‘Aidan… something’s wrong,’ he whispered.
Alarmed, I rushed over to him. The first thing I thought of to do was put my hand on his head.
His skin felt like it was on fire.
‘Father, you’re sick,’ I said, my tone urgent — I had never known my father to be sick, ever. ‘Come on, let me move you to your bed.’
Ordinarily, this plea would have been met with a great deal of protest, but this time, Father was almost unresponsive as I draped his arm across my shoulders. I had to practically drag him to his room; his legs were moving feebly as he attempted to walk, but they didn’t seem to be under him.
I laid him gently down on his bed then, after taking a short moment to catch my breath, I rushed to the kitchen to find a cloth I could soak in cold water, for his head. I had trouble finding a clean one, but after a frantic search, one turned up — in my room, of all places. After dousing it, I hurried back to my father and laid the cloth on his forehead. He sighed slightly in relief, but I knew that one cloth wasn’t going to cut it. Quickly, I went around the house and gathered up a few dirty cloths and cleaned them as best as I could. I had no idea just how right I would be — when I returned to my father, the cloth on his head had already
I hesitated for a moment before I answered. ‘Sir Garridan once told me that all I know in my life is death.’
Derrick didn’t respond, and before I knew it, I was launching into the full story.
***
I was fourteen. Life was becoming more and more difficult. Father’s age was beginning to wear on his body. He couldn’t yet be considered an “old man”, but the amount of hard work he did every day for years and years had made him look much older than he was. He never said a word, but it was painfully obvious. Knowing that he would remain silent about his declining condition, I quietly took on more and more work on the farm. Now older and a little wiser, I came to realize that all of the hard work I put into the farm would be good for my body, helping myself to get into the condition I needed to be in. Eventually, it began to show. By fourteen years of age, I was well built for my age, and my endurance was improving drastically.
Seeing Father in his physically deteriorated state was hard for me; every day, I would grow more and more concerned as he limped into the house after a day of work, clutching his back, groaning in pain. He would collapse into a chair, slumped, breathing in shallow breaths. Eventually, I took on dinner duties as well, and then sometimes (more often than Father would admit, I’m sure), I helped him to his bed. But still, the thought never entered his mind to stop working and let me take over… he wouldn’t even entertain the notion. On those nights, I would come back to the table in the kitchen area, sit and think about how proud I was of my father — he had worked so hard his entire life, not even stopping when he lost my mother, although I know the emotional strain had to be unbearable. He raised me as best as he could, and always did what he could for me, no matter how I was acting or what trials we were facing. I knew now that it was my turn to take care of him, and I did it with same grace and dignity that my father always exhibited, or at least, I tried to.
One day, in the winter months of the year 199, I came inside the house from the barn after a day of mending tools (or attempting to), only to find Father already inside, slumped in a chair. This wouldn’t have been too unusual, except that he seemed much wearier than usual — far too weary. His head was practically hanging from his shoulders.
‘Father?’ Seeing him like that made me immediately apprehensive.
His head turned slowly toward me. It seemed like it took a great deal of effort; more strength than he actually had.
‘Aidan… something’s wrong,’ he whispered.
Alarmed, I rushed over to him. The first thing I thought of to do was put my hand on his head.
His skin felt like it was on fire.
‘Father, you’re sick,’ I said, my tone urgent — I had never known my father to be sick, ever. ‘Come on, let me move you to your bed.’
Ordinarily, this plea would have been met with a great deal of protest, but this time, Father was almost unresponsive as I draped his arm across my shoulders. I had to practically drag him to his room; his legs were moving feebly as he attempted to walk, but they didn’t seem to be under him.
I laid him gently down on his bed then, after taking a short moment to catch my breath, I rushed to the kitchen to find a cloth I could soak in cold water, for his head. I had trouble finding a clean one, but after a frantic search, one turned up — in my room, of all places. After dousing it, I hurried back to my father and laid the cloth on his forehead. He sighed slightly in relief, but I knew that one cloth wasn’t going to cut it. Quickly, I went around the house and gathered up a few dirty cloths and cleaned them as best as I could. I had no idea just how right I would be — when I returned to my father, the cloth on his head had already
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