I still dream of home. Of golden wheat fields, of crayfish in the river, of the cottage where I was born. I wonder, if I returned today who would remember me? There was once a time where I thought I could abandon my journeys, to give up and retire to a quiet place. I find that I can't stray from my path. It has turned me into what I am now: strong, and longing for home. But I feel that I've made too many friends, and it’d be a shame to let them go. Is there someone out there who can take my place? A hero, perhaps. That would be a weight off my shoulders.

It was a fine day for wood chopping. Father had given me a small axe with a blunt edge. I didn't know what to make of it. I wanted his axe, the big and mighty one. And he gave me sticks to cut, not the thick logs that made his biceps stretch and ripple. How can he expect me to become strong like him when I'm given sticks?

“Hold it tight, Edward.” Father wrapped my fingers on the axe handle. “Now hit it hard.”

I swung my axe. The sticks cracked, but they didn't splinter the same way the logs did.

“I want a sharp axe,” I said.

Father laughed and ruffled my head. “One day when you're older.”

I frowned. How old did I have to be? I remember it well, how I cracked my sticks and how Father split his logs. There were only drifts of cloud in the sky, and long grass in the paddocks.