Disclaimer: The lyrics at the beginning were originally by Martika, and then used again by Eminem. As for the rest...I never actually mention anyone's name so I'm good. Even if I wanted to, I make no money from this.

Toy Soldiers

"Step by step, heart to heart, left right left, we all fall down...like a toy soldier

Bit by bit, torn apart, we never win, but the battle wages on...for toy soldiers..."

He is the one who could best even his grandsire at chess at the tender age of eight. The one who convinced his father that he should learn more than just soldiering. Who spent his free moments, few as they were, shadowing the healers and haunting the cooks. Absorbing knowledge like a sponge, from the saddlers, the weavers, the provisioners. The one who snuck from the barracks as a cadet to the smithy's shed so that he might learn how to re-shoe a horse or repair a broken or notched weapon. He is the one who did not laugh when the sword master said to be a good swordsman, one must first be a good dancer. The one who begged the sword master to teach him not just swordplay, but also staff fighting, knife throwing, and hand-to-hand combat. He is the one who, despite being left-handed, learned to use a sword and bow with his right hand as well, just in case his dominant hand or arm were to be injured.

He sits now, with his men around the fire. They are chatting in their usual manner, talking of home and family, passing a needle and thread as they do. He accepts the needle without pause and begins mending a hole in one of his shirts with a stitch he learned from watching his mother as a young boy. No one bats an eye at seeing their leader darn his own clothing. None question his judgment when he takes a turn at the watch like everyone else. He listens intently to one of his men, knowing that even though he is senior in rank, the man before him, at nearly twice his age, has far more experience in matters of war than he does. He listens just as intently to the green cadet who is too frightened to sleep and longs for home. And he too longs for home…they all do. He closes his eyes only for a moment, and just for a moment, the war is gone. Then he opens his eyes again. He picks up his sword and puts his lips to a folded parchment from home.

He is a man who is the first to charge the enemy and the last to leave the field of battle. The one who, despite being a seasoned warrior himself, will still lose his lunch after a particularly bloody skirmish. Who won't leave the field until all of his men, alive or dead, have been attended to. Who still openly sheds a tear for the fallen. A man who is humbled by his position in life. Out-ranking all but one, when a great deal of the standing army have been fighting since before he was even born.

Someone who stood at the wedding of one of his men and was quite honoured to even have been asked. Who at the end of that same wedding, was found in a corner carving up apples for the children and telling them stories, the littlest asleep in his lap.

A man who never gave an order he couldn't fulfill himself. Never gave an order he wouldn't fulfill himself. A man whose men would've followed him to certain death if he but asked. And when news of his passing came to them, every soldier wept. Mourned his loss; wept because they had not been given the chance to repay him for the countless times he had saved them all from death. Each more than willing to have stepped before him and sacrifice themselves.

Some are taught to lead.

Some...

...are born to it.