The warrior, Asterix, glanced at their surroundings before quickening his stride so that he fell in step with the old man. "Where are you taking me, Getafix?" he asked.

        Getafix, the village druid, had asked him to accompany him to the forest. Asterix had assumed it was because the druid wanted to collect mistletoe to brew his magic potion. Now he realized that the path they were taking was not a familiar one, and Getafix's sickle still hung on his waistbelt instead of in his hand.

        They reached a clearing before Getafix finally spoke. "I brought you here to talk, Asterix."

        He sat down on a fallen log and patted the spot beside him. Asterix complied, his short legs dangling over the edge.

        "Talk?" Asterix repeated. "What about?" He cast the druid a cautious glance. "If this is about the menhir that crashed against the roof of your hut this morning. . ."

        "No, Asterix," Getafix sighed, obviously recalling Obelix's frequent habit of playing fetch with his dog Dogmatix using a stone menhir. Never mind that Dogmatix wasn't even half a foot in size or width, or that the menhir was at least seven feet in height and was capable of crushing a grown Roman. . .

        "It's not about that," Getafix continued, "although I *would* like a word with that best friend of yours when we return. No, this is about something else." He paused. "I would like you to take my place."

        Asterix tilted his head, frowning. "Are the Goths seeking to capture you again? I'd have thought that they had learned their lesson by now. Besides, I don't think I can disguise myself to look like you." He placed the flat of one hand in mid-air, on a vastly higher level than the other, indicating the difference in their heights.

        Getafix shook his head, smiling slightly but soberly. "No. I mean I wish to make you my prentice." He paused, gazing at a yellow flower posing next to the log, not acknowledging the stunned expression on Asterix's face. "I would like you to inherit the village druid title after me."

        Asterix finally found his voice, spluttering as it surfaced from his throat. "P-p-what? H-who? Ti-wha-me? Wh-how--?"

        "Yes." Getafix nodded sagely.

        Asterix clapped a hand over his mouth, waited until the spluttering stopped, then removed the hand. "What are you *talking* about? Prentice? Me? You're joking." A thought suddenly occurred to him, and his eyes shot wide. "Are you ill, Getafix?"

        His anxiety was not unwarranted. Once, when Getafix had been poisoned and briefly rendered mad, the entire village struggled in his absence. It was then that the villagers had realized how badly they depended on Getafix's wisdom and magic potion -- his very presence, basically. It hadn't been a pleasant experience.

        "Are you *ill,* Getafix?" Asterix demanded.

        The druid shook his head. "No, Asterix, but we must face facts." He studied the flower further before bending over to pluck it from the grass. "I am old, and as long as my life has been, it won't last forever. We both know that. Sometimes I think we are the only ones who do."

        Asterix didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to listen to Getafix speak so calmly and naturally about it. "Getafix, I don't understand. . ."

        "Yes you do." The old man sighed. "Between a chief who is convinced that the sky will fall on his head, a bard who can't sing, a menhir-delivery man whose only purpose in life is to eat boar and beat up Romans, and villagers who fight between themselves over the smell of fish just because they like pounding people, we are apparently the only sane ones in this village." He paused. "It is not an especially reassuring thought."

        Asterix took off his metal cap and ran his fingers through his hair. "I understand what you're saying. . . I mean, I can see your point. . . but why me? Why pick me? I'm not well-versed in potions or magic knowledge. I fight, not brew."

        "Yes, but --"

        "Why not get an apprentice from the next village so that you can tutor him to take your place?"

        "Asterix --"

        "It would be more sensible in the long run. He would know what he was doing. He wouldn't be lost."

        "*Asterix.*"

        "And he'd be able to fully devote himself to the job!" Asterix knew his mouth was running away with him, but he couldn't help it. Nor could he comprehend it. He was a fearless, confident warrior who had gone against Romans, Goths, Normans, and the like, but right now he was experiencing something akin to panic.

        It wasn't that Getafix's proposal was sending horrors down Asterix's spine. It was the fact that the druid was speaking so factually about his inevitable demise. Asterix couldn't imagine the village -- or the world -- without Getafix's presence. The druid had always been there to counsel the villagers, to lend his wisdom when needed and never lose sight of the important things. But that didn't mean he was a pushover, because he was capable of erupting when pushed too far. A sulking Getafix was not a good thing.

        And the times when Getafix had to go away on trips or was just incapacitated. . . everything just went *wrong.*

        Asterix pictured that world without Getafix, and knew it contained little comfort.

        Getafix spoke now, not gently -- he wasn't the type to pussyfoot around -- but calmly, as if there was no use talking him out of it. And as Asterix listened, he knew that was the case.

        "Asterix, listen to me," he said. "I know you are a warrior. I know you like to fight and be merry just like the rest of the men. But I also know you treasure peace. You will not act rash just so that you can have someone to hit. I know you think and plan first before taking action, and that you are always aware of the consequences."

        He held the yellow flower out towards Asterix. "And I know that I trust you. I trust that you will not forget the power and responsibilities that are a druid's, especially one of this village."

        Asterix slowly took the flower from those long, pale fingers and studied it. Then he studied Getafix's eyes, and in that moment knew that as soon as Getafix had taught him every single thing he had to know, the old man would finally be released from the enormous burden he carried on his shoulders. He would then be able to leave, to pass on, and not be wracked with worry over the future of the village.

        It was hard to play mentor to an entire community.

        Getafix looked away. "It is a high price I'm requesting, I know. I'm asking you to give up fighting and devote yourself to a life of passive diplomacy. It is not something you're used to. I admit there have been times when even I have questioned whether it's something you would even want." He bowed his head. "But you are my friend and my trusted confidante. I wouldn't ask it of you if I didn't think you were capable of doing so without being unhappy."

        No, he wouldn't. Asterix knew Getafix too well. Getafix was a practical man; he never asked for the impossible.

        Getafix drew in a breath. "I know it sounds as if I am not giving you a choice, Asterix, but I am. I would be honored to have you as my pupil, but I will understand if you refuse. I will not hold it against you."

        Asterix glanced at the druid, the wise old friend he had known since forever, and remembered all the principles the druid had held onto so tightly. Principles that he sought to pass on to Asterix and the villagers, and succeeded. The friend who Asterix had always wanted his future children to know, because Getafix was a good man. One of the best.

        Asterix let the flower fall. "No."

        Getafix looked up. There was no recrimination in his eyes.

        "No," Asterix continued, "it is I who would be honored to have you as my teacher."

        Getafix gazed at him, and beneath his long, thick, white beard that grazed the ground, the druid smiled.

        He rose to his feet. "Come, then." He dusted the seat of his robe as Asterix jumped to his feet too. "Let us get started. I'll show you the correct way to cut mistletoe."

        Asterix chuckled, remembering the times Getafix had cut himself with his sickle while collecting mistletoe. Usually the accidents occurred whenever menhirs, Romans, or some such object got thrown into the tree he was in at the time.

        "So, Getafix," the blond warrior -- druid prentice now -- said as they trudged deeper into the forest, "when will I get my own sickle?"

        "We'll see if you qualify for it," said the tall, wizened man as he eyed his smaller companion. "But first we have to see if you look good in white robes. . ."