Beelathorn dreamt.
Of an old man working on a bee farm. Sweat beaded at the man's forehead, yet a smile was on his face. His hands were like sandpaper, rough from years of working without protection, yet they held a deep affection as he worked to clean the beehives.
"Are you paying attention?"
Beelathorn nodded, and the man patted him on the shoulder. "Beautiful, aren't they? In a colony, they all work for the greater good of the whole," the man said. "Even the Queen, as important as she is, cares for each and every worker bee in her colony. After all, where would she be without them?" he whispered.
"Here, every cog is important. Everyone has a purpose."
Beelathorn opened his mouth to reply, but it was a young boy's voice that came out.
"Like you, Papa? If you weren't here, the bees wouldn't be happy, and they wouldn't make the honey."
