• Ten thousand brothers in arms stand with him as the enemy begins their charge.
    Does his spirit falter?
    Yes. He'd be a fool to not notice Death's finger on his spine, ready to take him.
    His arms are numb. His knees weak. His head heavy. His armor confining in the morning sun.
    Does he show it?
    No. Never. He'd never show his weakness-his mortality-to his enemy, or worse yet, to his brothers.
    As the messenger rides down the front lines, the days battle cry is heard in a passing shout.
    "All hold the front line!"

    The messenger's hoof beats fade and so to does his cry as he continues his rush to the far reaches of the battlefield.
    His helmet is lighter, his eyes are focused, staring down his enemy as they charge toward them.
    Staring down Death and War as they ride their terrible steeds on mortal men.
    A brother grips his blade and shield,
    "All hold the front line!"

    His weariness is replaced by an anger burning like embers. His sword is light. His shield arm strong.
    A sister stamps her feet and raises her shield,
    "All hold the front line!"

    Anger's flames are ignited, His legs stand strong, his armor is a second skin.
    More brothers bang their shields with their pommels,
    "All hold the front line!"

    He grits his teeth as the flame turns to holy fury, His spirit is a rock as the enemy bares down on them.
    The spears are lowered and beside him as he readies his shield, the cry of the enemy threatening to drown them out.
    He blocks the first blow as his brothers and sisters join him,
    "ALL HOLD THE FRONT LINE!!"