Insignia: Scars of Lumierna

Twenty-Two

In the late afternoon, the front door to the bakery closes behind Stirling with a soft click as he steps inside the shop.

"Stirling," his father calls out to him from behind the hut-shaped oven.

He pulls away from the oven with two loaves balanced on a wooden paddle. Stirling stays mute as he aimlessly wanders over to the wooden work table. Giles turns around it as he tilts the paddle letting the loaves slide off onto the surface. Stirling watches as the flour on the table wafts into the air as each of the loaves disturbs its resting place like a dragon disrupting the dirt as it lands.

"Stirling, I need you to be home. I can't do all the work on my own all the time. You can't keep running off to go play anymore. You've been too old for that for quite some time now. You have responsibilities here as a baker," Giles lectures.

Stirling bites his tongue as he refuses to meet his father's eye, remaining focused on the loaf closest to him. He doesn't want to take over this shop, to live this uneventful life. "What do you need me to start with?" he finally manages through his gritted teeth.

"Since you've been slacking off. We've run low on supplies. We need to make a run before the sun sets. I need you to pull the wagon," Giles states.

Stirling lets out an exaggerated sigh. "Joy, wagon pulling." He mutters sarcastically under his breath.

The wheels of the small creaking two-wheeled wagon bounce over every pebble in the dirt road sending the wagon into a constant vibration as Stirling pulls it along, following behind his father through the market. Each hole in the road sends a jarring sensation shooting through his arms as it clashes with the uneven surface.

Stirling chuckles to himself as he pictures the two wheels popping off the wagon as it hits its final straw, the wheels rolling off free through the market crowd. People comically leap out of the way of the out-of-control wheels gaining speed with no stopping in sight until they've left this town for good.

"Almost done," Giles informs Stirling as they stop in front of a shop he recognizes as the man who normally sells them the yeast and flour.

He stares at the pig feet pickled in the jar at eye level to him on top of a display set up with small clay compartments with types of grain, rye, and oats he has to offer. He remembers coming here with his mother and she would let him dig through the barrel of potatoes and pick out the ones she would prepare for dinner. He used to think the grocer's store was fascinating with all the variety of items set out front and hanging from the walls and above his head. Now it just seemed unorganized and random.

He never knew much about the man other than he would have the sacks of yeast they needed, but he wondered if he owned his own farm, where he grew his own products, or did he have a deal with a farmer, or multiple farmers, where he could purchase their product and sell it at a higher value.

Probably the latter, he assumes the obvious. People can't have multiple jobs.

Growing bored, he leans against the slanted wooden frame of the wagon. It sits tilted forward with the two handles jutting out of the front and sticking into the ground on either side of him. As his father haggles over prices, boredom fills his young mind, compelling it to wander. Stirling scans over each shop barely regarding what each one was selling; not like he had any coins to bargain with anyway.

Then he stalls. It isn't the shop he delays on that caught his eye. He couldn't care less about the cooper making barrels. His eyes jump back to the shop right before it, a leather works shop. Strips of leather hanging out front blow lightly in the soft breeze over a table of finished products for sale. Those strips are exactly what he needs. That, some rope, a metal ring, and a fastener, then he will have himself a harness.

He can feel the wagon shudder as the hefty bags of yeast and flour are hoisted and dropped into it, but his mind is on the leather strips. How is he going to be able to afford them? Even if he was paid for his work around the shop, it would still take him months to save up enough to even buy just one of those strips. He also knows there is no way his father is ever going to pay him.

He would say something along the lines of, If I start paying you, then you can start paying me for all the food you consume and the roof over your head. If you want to make money, start learning how to take over this shop.

Stirling rocks his body to assist in standing up from the wagon causing it to roll backward on him slightly throwing his momentum off. Slipping, he lands back against the wagon again, his weight pressing the wagon's handles into the ground acting as breaks.

"Stirling, stop wasting time. Let's go," his father barks as he walks away.

Groaning, Stirling regains his footing and lifts the two handles to upright the wagon. Hunching his shoulders, he mechanically follows his father pulling the wagon behind him.

I have to steal them. The idea runs through his mind. It's my only option if I want to get airborne anytime soon.

With his feet slipping in the trampled earth, Stirling struggles with his last steps as they reach the bakery. He feels as if the vindictive wagon has a mind of its own and is personally throwing on its brakes to spite him. Each complete turn of the wheels feels like a feat on its own. His knees wobble, giving him a heads up before they buckle beneath him, sending him tripping to the ground at his father's feet. The items in the wagon slide forward as the handles crash to the ground at his sides.

"You're weak," Giles growls. "That's not even close to the amount my father had me pull when I was your age, and that would be after I spent the morning working my ass off maintaining the shop."

Stirling keeps his head down as he curls his fingers in, the dirt bunching in his fists.

His father continues to belittle him. "What's that dream you used to have as a kid? Oh yeah, to join the Cavalry. Even if you were allowed to join, you would still have to give that dream up. You would never be able to pass their fitness requirements. I've heard some of those Riders have pulled their injured dragons to safety."

Stirling glances up, his father silhouetted by the sun resting on the rooftops. "You've listened to tales of the Cavalry?"

"No, definitely not. But us men, we do like to talk at the tavern," Giles bellows.

Frowning in annoyance, Stirling sits back on his knees, his trousers caked in damp dirt. He holds back any ill thoughts as he uses the cart to lift himself to his feet. Soon he will be soaring through the sky and moments like this will be insignificant.

He'll be soaring over the bakery with everyone gawking up at him. He'll run his hand through the once unreachable clouds and see distant lands. Even if his father shouted to the heavens, he'll be too far above Wyverna to hear his father's lectures.