I knew it was futile to ask, it’s nearly impossible for someone like me. But I needed to know, to clear the doubt in my mind, so I can push forward. With a shaken voice I asked, “I can be a hero too, right?” -- Anon Guest
The Great Golden Leader looked down at me, cloak and hair flowing in the wind. She was a vision of muscular perfection and might. Her magnificent dark skin marred slightly by a few battle-scars. Her armour gleamed. "You?" She said. "You are not only small, but you are a farmer. You are destined for no more than turnips and pigs."
Those around me laughed. Many pointed. Some of the meaner ones chanted "Swineherd! Swineherd!" to accompany the laughter. I cringed in my place, blush burning my skin. I knew then that pigs and turnips were all that would ever be expected of me. Pigs and turnips were all I would ever be worth.
Certainly, they had their worth. The armies of heroes needed their food. They needed their rations of ham and bacon and pork. They needed their turnips and flour and oats. They needed farmers to feed the heroes and keep the realm safe. That was the way things were, and the way they would always remain. They all believed they were right in this belief and, in my defence, I believed it too. Then the pox hit.