They Often ask me why do we Fight.
It is a question asked by those Who never stood inside of a shieldwall.
From the outside they see painted shields, sharpened axes an weathered faces.
They believe we are all driven by the same hunger for glory.
But they are mistaken.
I have walked beside these people for many roads, Shared their bread, There ale and their silence.
I have learned that every shield carries a different burden.
One fights to honour an oath spoken over a dying fire.
One seeks redemption for a mistake no prayer could wash away.
One hopes to become someone their children might one day speak of with pride.Another fights because peace has become a stranger.
There are those who still search for something they cannot name.And there are those who have already found it, but fear of losing it again.
None speak of these things when the fire burns high.
They Simply tighten the straps on their shields.When the horn calls, those burden are not cast aside.
They are carried together.That is wat so many failed to understand.A shieldwall is not made because warriors are fearless.It is made because fear shared among many becomes lighter.
At Doorenburg I watched this truth unfold one more.
The line closed.
The first blows felled.
Someone laughed.
Someone Prayed.
Someone Whispered a name I could not hear.
Yet no shiel moved.Then Came the advance.
Not the wild rush sung by poets who never tasted mud.
No.
It was slower.
Heavier.
Like the earth inself decinding to move.
Others joined us as the battle gres.
Warriors from distant camps.
Uncertain of their footing,Uncertain of the rhythm.
No one asked where they had come from.
A place was made.A Shield was locked
.A quite word was spoken.“Stay with us”By the end of the charge they no longer fought beside us.
They fought with us.
When the battle was over, Word travelled, as I always does.
Men spoke of the charge.
The shieldwall that didn’t break.
They spoke of warriors who welcomed strangers into their ranks as though they had marched together for years.
Those word found their way to Terborgh.
There Lord send sliver.
A fait payment.
Axes must be sharepend.
Mail must be repaired.
But I cannot help but think he paid for the wrong thing.
Steel can be boughtStrong arms can be hired.
Even Courage may be borrowed for a handful of silver.
But what cannot be bought is the quiet certainty that, when the line begins to falter, the shield at you side will be there.
That’s is why I remain.
Not for silver.
Not for songs.
Not even for battle.
I remain because, somewhere between the first locked shield and the final horn.We cease to be many wandering souls.
And for one brief moment.We become a single heart.
