Random imaginings

A band of 20 soldiers march past my shop. Their metal armor glistens in the sun, only being obscured by their green and tan cloaks, marking them as soldiers from Arathiea. From their direction, they must be marching to the Eastern war. Most of them are barely older than my sons, yet all of them march like they were born wearing their armor. Their commanding officer is young and princely, but already the strains of command are showing in his face.
"Mirin, get me two casks of water and the tray of fresh bread we have," I call out to my eldest daughter. While she goes about doing as I asked, I run out to the commander. "Good sir," I exclaim, "do you have time to take on what fresh provisions we can provide? We can only give you freshly baked bread and well water, but it is the least we can do."
The commander nods, and orders his men to halt. We give them what we can and then see them off.
"Why did you help them, da?" Mirin asks. Since my wife died, she has been the one looking after my younger children.
"They remind me of my old friends. We were young when war broke out, yet they still went off to fight for all of our freedom. Such sacrifice should be met with kindness and respect." I close the doors of my bakery and begin to prepare for dinner, pushing the memories of my fallen friends out of my mind for the time being.