Good-bye.

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The tribal people had had an "alliance" with Olivia's village for hundreds of years. The other tribe was much larger and stronger then the village, and could wipe them all out anytime they wanted to.

The village was at their mercy.

However, the village Olivia was with, was the only other tribe of people for miles and miles and miles.

This was, for the reason, that this tribe agreed never to go on an endless slaughter on the defenseless people.

As long as, when the tribal king's son came to age, he could choose any girl in the village as his bride.

Though they were at peace with each other, the villagers were still in utter fear of them.

Because, in that tribe, they were cruel to women.

Whipping them, breaking back labor, even having a hand chopped off if they could not fulfill their duties.

Every girl in the village feared to be picked.

And Olivia had been the most interesting and unusual girl the tribal prince had ever seen.

She was, as the women would mumble, the chosen one.

The old woman weeped on her shoulder, as the older man tried to argue with the head warrior that this girl carried disease because of the land she had come from, and was an awful choice.

He knew that someday, she needed to get back to what ever land she came from to be with her people again.

But the warrior ignored the mans pleads, and shoved him aside, and called out to the old, sobbing woman.

She looked down and shook her head, tears still streaming from her old, wrinkled eyes.

She made both hands on Olivia's shoulder.

She looked up into her eyes.

"Good-bye." She whispered, and squeezed, once, then let go, and walked away.

The warrior walked up to Olivia, and took her by the arm with one hand, squeezing with such strength she wished to cry out in pain.

With his free arm, he pointed to her, looking into his son's eyes.

He nodded.

The old warrior looked down at Olivia, then back up, and handed her swelling arm to another man.

They marched off into the night, Olivia tripping as they went.

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