This story is not dedicated to one particular army, or once cause. This story was written for memorial day, but it is not written solely for the American soldiers. This is for anyone who's every fought for something, be it for racial equality, for their families, or for what they knew was right. This is for anyone who's ever run into battle knowing that they might not live to see the dawn. This is for fighters of small battles and world wars alike. This is for the allies and the enemies, for they all laid their lives down for what they believed was the right cause. I am only thirteen (fourteen in twelve days) and I have yet to lay down something truly important, but I hope that someday I will be able to look back at my life and be proud of the battles I've fought, big or small, and what I've had to put at stake to get where I am.
All rights go to Merlin for the small references I put in.
The smell of blood and carnage were fresh in the air, and they stuck in the back of the soldier's throat, causing his stomach to churn in disgust. As the lines continued their doomed march, a cold sense of dread descended on the soldiers. Armor clanked in methodical rhythm and horses whinnied and stomped their feet in the cold, but all the warrior could hear was his own elated heartbeat, echoing his terror. The knights of Camalot and their king were in front, issuing orders that he could barely hear, so loud was the clanking. Finally the legion came to a halt. As the king began his speech of intended encouragement, the soldier's thoughts drifted to his two little girls, one turning seven, one turning fourteen, the youngest sobbing and the oldest trying to look brave (with her tears giving her away) and his beautiful wife, her face stained with tear-tracks as she saw him off. He closed his eyes.
As the resounding "FOR THE LOVE OF CAMALOT!" tore through the night, the soldier opened his eyes, and let his own voice join the cry. There were some things worth dying for.