[ WP ] The soldiers faced a simple choice : Lay down their weapons and die for nothing , or hold them fast and die for something .

Ler took deep breaths, a futile attempt to call his nerves. The screams of his comrades split the air, the clash of metal shook his frame, the cries for mercy filled his ears. Leaned on his spear, gasping for breath, as the noises got closer. 
 
 He could see now, the effect of the man. Just one man, an army in his own respect, that tore through their ranks as if they were tissue paper. Men dropped one by one out of view each accompanied by a scream, a call. 
 
 Ler shook, grew sick. His grasp loosened on his spear, he thought of dropping it. Of running. 
 
 A hand clamped down on Ler's shoulder and he spun, hauling his spear up. Behind him an old man stood, grave faced. 
 
 “ What do you want? ” Ler asked, terrified, as death drew closer. The man simply shook his head sadly. He looked at Ler, nodded, and ran screaming into the fray. Ler was horrified. Ler ran. 
 
 “ Wake up! ” a voice hissed. Ler opened his blurry eyes. A man, dirty, stood over him. 
 
 “ Grab your spear and fight, boy! ” the man growled. Ler looked at him and shook his head, shook it like the old man, the dead man. 
 
 “ No point. Going to die, ” Ler mumbled. The dirty man sneered. 
 
 “ Of course, we all are. It's just a matter of how we go, ” he grabbed Ler by the collar and hauled him to his feet. He thrust a sword into his hands. 
 
 “ Go! Do something! ” the man shoved Let forward. Let started to run. His body took over and his mind screamed in protest as his legs drew him back to the battle. He could see the demon of a man they were attempting to kill. Ler shuddered as he stumbled forward. 
 
 Ler remembered the old man and found wisdom in him. Screaming, Ler charged forward. The killer turned, and brought his own weapon, a simple spear about. Ler dodged away and brought his sword up defensively. The killer turned and walked towards him. He skipped and dodged, flicking his sword forward at the man. Then the killer struck, fast and angry, right through Ler's chest. He fell gasping. The killer walked away, further down the field to litter it with more bodies. 
 
 Ler lay dying, wondering if it had mattered, if he had made a difference. 
 
 “ Thank you, ” a voice whispered. Ler turned to see a boy, far to young to be in war, weeping. “ Thank you, ” he repeated, “ but why? ” 
 
 Ler might have told the boy that he had just ran forward like a madman. Might have told him there was no point. Might have told him he had had no idea what he had been doing. 
 
 “ To die for something. ”
