And just like that, after the battle was won – litres of his blood spilt – he walked on – to the next battlefield. And just like that, if the battle was lost, he vowed to come back – never any taller – never any stronger – Just in his battered state – to avenge the defeat – to bring glory to a gory king who never knew he existed. The king – the dear loved king who he idolised – the one with those green eyes which saw everything green – green, not as the expanse of grass before him – but the barren battlefield – greened by the impure blood of the other tin soldiers.
And just like that he fought on – and on – and on – swords flung at him from all sides – including his 'own side'. His own side – or the one he thought was his own – for he never had a side of his own – and also, always did. Every time he turned – whichever way he turned – his back felt a sharp sting – from the hammers, belts and arrows – the sting he was no stranger to – a seasoned hard-bound bag of sand – who ruffled every time it was hit – ruffled to the core – and in no time – reformed to get ready for more. And his king looked on – at times sending a bludgeon to the weak spot – the tender spot – ensuring he was seasoned fully.
Could he run away from battle – but run from which battle – and go where? Back to the loins he came from – to the place he was born – born to fight – or so he thought – thoughts of a warrior –here to please and appease – just waiting for one strong paw of the beasts to pin him down – the thought of being the gladiator – when in fact all he was – was an expendable, replaceable – but always available – a mercenary.