Dvorak - Symphony No. 9 (From the New World) Mvmt 1

The mist rolls over the hills, silent and mysterious as the small group travels onward. They shuffle slowly across the countryside, weary and worn. A stronghold welcomes them in, providing shelter and a warm meal before they must be on their way. A scraggly child asks about one's scar. And they begin to tell the story of how they arrived.

The sky opened up, pelting the troops with harsh water and wailing winds as the battle raged on. Our heroes sneak around the major points of conflict, worming their way behind enemy lines. They are seen, but not caught as a chase ensues around the camp, disrupting all the others. A young man waves his friends into a tent as he draws his sword, allowing them another moment to get away from the slowly advancing enemy soldiers. The young hero grips his sword tightly, stealing his nerves for what is to come. A memory flashes past his eyes, a warm summer day with his family before the war came. His younger siblings run around him, dragging him into their game of make-believe. The thunder claps and lighting flashes, bringing him out of the trance. He raises his eyes, water pouring down his face and smudging his vision. He raises his sword, running at the soldiers. The metal seems to clash in time with the thunder claps. The young hero snatches a glimpse of his companions fighting their own battles, they were caught after all. Determination settles into his gut, weighting him into this moment. He draws his sword above his head, chaos surrounding him and his adversary. He plunges his sword into the chest of the larger soldier, earning him a slash across his own.

His companions cry out as he falls forward, the mud turning darker every second. Clashes and cries of victory surround him. The reinforcements have arrived into the camp. Tension builds as others join in the messy battle, hardly paying heed to the bleeding young fool on the ground, silently crying over his fallen adversary's life.

A triumphant cry echoes through the valley, signaling the defeat of the enemy. The young hero smiles as the clouds slowly begin to part, a soft rain still falling from the sky. He smiles, closing his eyes to the sun. As he slowly leans back, the pulsing pain almost becomes too much, but a hand on his shoulder brings him back. They help him stand to rally the rest of the rag-tag army to head home. Their job is finished.

The scraggly child is joined by many more around the group as they finish their tale, each in awe of the heroes before them. The youngest member is tucked behind them all, as if they are all protecting him. He fingers the bandages peeking out of his tunic. Yes, the battle does make a good story, he smiles, but nothing is ever as simple as a story.