"Time for work," an elderly man whispered to his son who lay asleep upon a bed of hay. Twas still very early, as the streams of morning light flickered through the glass-less windows and glistened on the young boys face. He mumbled a few undistinguishable words as his green eyes came to life, and his hand brushed away strands of blond hair that lay tangled and mated above his eyes.
"Father, must we begin the planting today?" the young boy asked, a look of annoyance on his face. Being only of fourteen winters, the boy detested a full day’s work and desperately wished to swim at the docks with his friends. His adoration to his father was deeply thought for, but as a kid work was just another barrier between himself and the happiness of nothing to do.
"I’m sorry son, but if we don’t start today, then I’m afraid the crops wont be complete by the dead months, putting a heavy strain on both our food and gold. Besides, those muscles need some hard work and it will only take us a few weeks," the old man explained, taking his seat next to the bed, stroking his old and lifeless skin on his face, and gracefully running his worn fingers through his beard. Although his son denied it every day when asked, he knew the hair of his owning was the lightest it has ever been, dramatically saying to himself, "Old".
Yes, he knew it, and indeed felt it as well. Especially when he watched as his son ran and played with the other farmers boy’s, careless to sickness and injury and loving every minute of being free to what he wanted to do.
"Come now son, I have breakfast on the table, and then I have to hook up the buggy for our ride into town."
"Father."
"Yes Burrill?"
"Tonight, after we spend the day in the field, can we go fishing like we used to?" Burrill asked, a sincere and longing emotion placed solidly on his face and embedded in his voice.
Brevill thought long and hard, trying to remember the last occasion he had taken his son fishing, but sorrowfully could not.
"Aye Burrill. If you and I complete a good deal of work today, then I will take you fishing down by the river tonight," the old man proposed with a smile.
"Yahoo!" the boy yelled, as he jumped off the bed, and gave his father a hug.
"I love you father," Burrill whispered, still holding him closely.
"I love you to son," Brevill replied, lavishing every moment of the embrace.

After breakfast, which included a chunk of bread, a piece of dried meat and some dried fruit, the boy and his father hitched the horse to the wagon and rode into town for the planting supplies. Every year, for the past 6 years, he and his father made this same trek into the small town, to speak with many people, and arrange the seeds and utilities it will take to grow the years abundant and plentiful crops.
The sun had just risen over the horizon, and was allowing all the trees and grass to sparkle like diamonds from the morning dew.
Burrill stared forward and to the side, admiring the earth and its many beauties just as he always did on these journey’s with his father.
"Burrill, would you like to steer the horse this time?" Brevill asked, placing a hand on his sons shoulder.
"Would I!" he gasped, steering the buggy was something he had always wanted to do.
His father placed the stirrups into Burrill’s palms, and with his other hand, pulled his sons head close and kissed it, a look of fatherly love in his inspired and caring eyes.
Upon entering town, they were greeted by many friends the old man had had for a very long time and rode by various shops and pathways, all littered with farmers from around the town, readying their supplies. The horse stopped in front of a small building that was well known by all who inhabited the area, for this small building was the shop that stocked the plant seed. Farmer Wilson, the man that ran the store, was a very cheerful person, and many people came in and out of his shop every year, sharing various farming techniques. In turn, he told all that he learned to others, and that is why the plantations of this realm were so well and plentiful.
The man and his boy stepped down the sides of the wooden wagon and walked into the large open doorway at the front of the shop.
"Hoy there Brevill!" the shopkeeper yelled as the two walked in, ceasing his current task and admitting full attention to his customers.
"Hello there Wilson," the old man replied.
"What does the good farmer request?" the merchant asked.
"Oh just the usual I’m afraid. That is all I have the money for," the boy’s father replied, reaching into his pocket for the few gold coins that he possessed.
"Ahhh, I already have it ready by the door there. Two sacks of corn seed, and four sacks of potatoes," the shopkeeper pointed and explained.
"Aye, that’s it. Burrill can you start taking the sacks to the wagon while I pay farmer Wilson?" The old man asked.
"Sure Father," the young boy replied.
As Brevill went up to the counter, Burrill picked up one of the very large, and heavy, corn sacks and made his way outside to the wagon.
"Man this is heavy," he mumbled, as he lifted the sack into the wagon.
Jessica, the horse, began to jitter and neigh as if the weight of the corn sack was more than she could bare.
"What is the matter Jessica?" Burrill asked, trying his best to calm her, before his father was finished inside.
The sound of hoof beats could be heard in the distance, and quite suddenly, arrows hit the side of the wagon, and sunk into the flesh of the horse. Burrill looked in the direction they came to find a horde of knights galloping towards the shop.
"Father!" he yelled, running back to the to the door, "Father! Knights are shooting—"
But the boy never finished, for an arrow struck him in the back. He felt the ice cold iron against his inside flesh, as he fell to his side, barely able to glimpse the red streak of fire that hit the hay thatched roof of the building, lighting it into a burning blaze. One of the armored men picked Burrill up by his throat and the boy felt a sword pierce his flesh many times.
"Your kingdom shall fall," the knight whispered to him, letting Burrill fall to the ground on his back, pushing the arrow deeper and deeper into his heart, that already lay broken and terrified.
The old man ran out of the store, followed by the storekeeper, to find the knights hurrying away, their steeds thundering upon the ground and his son on the ground next to them, in a pool of blood.
Brevill bent down and embraced his son to his breast, tears filling in his horror stricken eyes like nothing he had ever experienced.
"My boy," he chanted, "What have they done to my boy!"