Tired. We were all tired. My hand ached with the cold that day, gripping tightly to my sword, but the battle had just begun. The Philistines, Godless savages they were, sent in their childish front-lines to thin us out before kicking down the door, so to speak. And we held our ground, though suffering blows, against their first wave. Midway through, the laymen took to hiding as they always do, ducking into caves and shallow wells.
Cowards, but then again, they can be; they have us to hide behind. King David's Mighty Men of Valor and Strength, the songs call us and we walk in it with as much honor we scoundrels can muster.
As I see the weaker ones folly to shelter dark and damp, I grit my teeth and squeeze my sword. David beside me glances my way and curls up his ever-youthful grin. He reminds me, not of who they are, but of who I am in his ranks and kingdom. It is what I need to hear, bringing me back to focus on my duty at hand; to ward off the enemy without halt. I strike down another goblin and count my brothers still standing. Mighty.
With the first flank past and done, we take heavy breaths and wait with readied arms. David spins his sword through flicking fingers, he bounces from foot to foot, dancing with eagerness to move, swing, dodge, and strike. My king, a boy at heart, was born for the ventures of war and their woes seem to take no toll on his spirits as they do other men. His eyes shine with brilliance, daring death to deal its hand against his. Lions, bears, kings, and giants; none have slowed him and now he stands in the field with his Men and God at his side. Mighty.
We waited and our hearts pounded in anticipation, all in unison it seemed. But it was more than heartbeats. It was the air, the ground itself that shook in rhythm. They were not even in sight yet and the whole earth trembled at their coming. We were all tired. My hand ached with the cold that day, gripping tightly to my sword, but the battle had just begun.
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