Disclaimer: I don't own Sharpe or any other characters, but I do own the opinion that they are awesome!
The Last March
The old man lay on his bed in a farmhouse in Normandy. He had spent the last week there, coughing up blood and black flem, the result of years of breathing in smoke from fires and guns. He was surrounded by his beautiful wife and two children, dreaming of his life.
He dreamed of fire and smoke, cannon firing and drums rattling. He dreamed of cavalry and infantry; of forts, bridges and ridges. He dreamed of battle and blood; of flags and eagles. He saw it all again: the battles he won, the battles he lost; the men he killed and the men he saw killed. But mostly he dreamed of his men, his chosen men. But they were all dead now, all gone.
As he lay there, dreaming of the past, a bright light filled the room. His home and his family faded away. He stood at the beginning of a road that wound its way to the mountains in the distance. He was dressed in a pristine green jacket, his sabre at his side and trusty rifle slung on his shoulder. He started marching down the tracks, and slowly figures materialised around him. Men also in green jackets, marching proudly behind him. And at his side, the last figure to appear, was a tall Irishman, his most loyal friend and soldier. Together they marched into the sunset. Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe strode forward, young and carefree once more, heading once again to death or glory. The last march.
It's not as good as in my head but I'd like to know what you think. Please Read & Review (it's the green button at the bottom, in case you didn't know).