Vir of the Troupe
The Harvest did Wither
"Whatever brings you peace, Vir!" His father's face flashed red. "Think not of the harvest. Think not of the years we spent raising you. No, run off with your troupe. I will not look on your face again."
"Father…" Vir's voice cracked.
"I will hear no more of your excuses. If you are to leave, then leave me with all but the clothes on your back."
Vir's father crossed the room, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. His feet dragged as he was led to the door and pushed out into the cold. The door slammed behind him.
"Father! Father!" He banged on the door. His father did not reply. He sat a while longer on the stoop, listening to the stirrings inside. A creak here, a creak there, but never a father's call.
Dawn came and it was time to leave. Vir's feet felt like anchors as he walked out of his father's gate for the last time.