Flash Fiction: Ancient Warrior

Wrinkled, crooked, liver-spotted hands, fingernails cracked and yellowed with age, grasp a familiar form.  It is a weapon that has served him well in the past, though this is not the same piece.  He has used many such, used them until they are worn to nothing, and then taken one up yet again.

He breathes a ragged sigh, wonders if he has the strength for one more foray.  But he thinks of all that is at stake, and how often he preached that if no one else would fight, he must, so that someone will.  He inspired others with such a speech, how could he let them down now?

Resolutely, he puts pen to paper…

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