This short story is an entry into the Free Kingdom Lore Contest. The contest is sponsored by Jon Warren. The judges will be three monarch candidates from the Free Kingdom competition: NiHZ, Seele, and Jon Warren.

Jomiah the peasant remembered the first time the recruiting serjeant visited the town center. His uniform, so resplendant, oozed tales of adventure and glory. The casual angle of his helmet and the 'so-what' placement of his hand on the pommel of his sword all spoke to a knowing attitude of the wider world that the young peasant craved. His presence was unannounced, and yet everyone knew he had arrived.

The young peasant didn't make his way to the town square, so much as he rode the wave of the crowd that was drawn by the unexpected (but welcome) intrusion to the monotony of village life. An enthusiasm typically reserved for faires and travelling bards infected the crowd as they poured through the streets.

Upon arrival, Jomiah realized with a start that a subconcious self-selection of the crowd saw him being pushed closer to the front. The old ladies and men found places of comfort in the square, leaning against cottage walls or resting upon canes and seats. Slightly in front of them were the middle-aged men and their wives, at a distance from the serjeant that was perfect for quiet and private discussions of the future and choices that it contained.

The youngest folk gravitated towards the front. The maidens ringed about in small groups, giggling to each other and casting furtive glances at the equally young men, who were beginning to line up, without coaxing or instruction. It was impossible to determine if the young men were concerned more with impressing the serjeant or the women, a conundrum as timeless as the chicken and the egg.

Jomiah lingered. A momentous decision lay before him. He dawdled for a moment, found his courage, and stepped forward to join the other young men lining up in front of the serjeant. He glanced at the ladies, but couldn't tell if they noticed his gallantry and self-sacrifice.

Within minutes he found himself standing in front of the recruiting serjeant, doing his best to stand ramrod straight, and square his shoulders in what he assumed was a soldierly manner. The serjeant glanced him over. His eyes danced up and down Jomiah. Up, down, up, and down. Freeze. Jomiah knew the man in front of him now knew what he did.

"Be hard to march with that bum leg, son. Much less swing a sword, carry a shield, dig a trench, or do anything else useful. I'm sorry lad..." and by the look that passed the serjeant's face, he almost believed he was. "Tend to your fields. You can help out just as much by feeding these lads." he said, pointing at the men that had passed the serjeants appraisal.

The shame washed over him almost as fast as his face flushed red. His eyes watered as he turned away from the serjeant and slunk away from the crowd as best he could. Despite no one actually paying attention to him, he felt the crowd drilling their stares through him. He slinked off and returned to his farm, to do as the serjeant said.

Which is what Jomiah did. The seasons came and passed. The harvests were brought in. The "King" became the "Mad King". The boys taken by the serjeant never came home. In the years to come, the serjeant had to come with others. Rather than the lads showing up, they had to go door to door. Jomiah farmed. Jomiah prayed. Jomiah married. Jomiah had children. Jomiah lived. Eventually, Jomiah died... however after many, many others.