the old soldier

the old soldier walked into his war room. he closed the door gently, then hung his coat and hat on the bent coatrack, an act which he repeated for what felt like eons. the room was quiet. the chairs, once occupied by bristling minds and men, sat vacated around a stolid wooden table.

he looked around, listening to the shadows. he had lost this final battle. he had approached this battle like all the others, with a staunch acceptance of the possibility of defeat, and a faith in the possibility of victory.

he knew that this was not his time. there was no longer a place in the leadership pavillion for the ideologies he espoused. he knew this upon entering the warzone. and enter he did, shoulders back, head up, prepared to dodge everything "they" threw at him.

he reflected on his most worthy opponent. there was a glory in conceeding to this man, who might be able to change the country, as he himself had wanted to do.

in this proud surrender, he did not see defeat, just a new order, time for him to move on.

he sat in his chair, stained and worn from many skirmishes, hands clasped together, head down in prayer.