So there he stood, alone in the field. An enemy army to his front and no one behind him. The grass waved in the gentle breeze at his feet, zephyrs blew across his face. He waited and nothing happened. The army in front stood there, still and silently staring at the bronze clad warrior that was the only thing standing between them and pillaging an entire province.
They watched as he stood. A symbol of sacrifice and duty they knew none of them would make in his position.
The army stretched from his far left to his far right. An overwhelming force stopped by one man; one lone soldier.
He looked to his right, no one showed. Then he looked to his left, where an elderly man now stood clad in old ragged leather armor and a iron war axe that was used far before his time. His beard unkempt and skin wrinkly. The Lone Soldier reached out his arm and took the old warrior's arm, nodding in respect and receiving one in return. He again looked to his right. Two boys the age of his children, just teenagers now stood brandishing hastily forged swords and shields made of nothing but planks freshly nailed together. Four against an army. The odds were never in his favor to begin with.
The elderly man placed his hand on the soldier's shoulder plate, making him look in his direction. Three gypsies with blue and brown war paint across their faces holding hand crafted tools of war now stood there beside them. The Lone soldier's brow furrowed. He looked behind him once more and there stood a legion of his people, ready to defend what was rightfully theirs against the invaders. He looked to his right at the elderly man yet again. He had vanished and in his place, the war axe he once held was stuck in the ground. The soldier grabbed it, looking it over and on the handle, it read "Now fight. Fight like a thousand men are at your back!"
He then looked around him. He was the only one and in his hand, the axe became his own. The axe was now part of him just as the people of his home were. So now, he fights. He fights and the clouds roll by.
