It is hot out here. This is not the heat of the cooking fire nor the soothing warmth of a woman but the sweltering, evil heat that dries your mouth and burns your skin. I feel trapped inside my armor, a sweltering prison of sweat and musk, surrounded by countless others in the gaze of the imperious sun. I turn my eyes skywards and curse the bright thing, the passionate angry little light that drives away the clouds and drives away my passion for war.
We've been marching now for what seems like ages, the sweat collecting and coalescing with the dirt on my feet like a disgusting soup. But there is no time to rest, no time worry about trivial things like the irritation of the iron against my flesh or the ache of my worn out legs.
I smell it.
A faint scent, like a whisper in the dark or the last patch of light at dusk, it creeps into the back of my mind. It coils its away around my consciousness slowly, a cunning viper, a scent I know all too well. The only smell I've ever known now, the only smell I've ever loved.
The silky, soothing smell of fresh blood.
And it happens, a chain reaction of human instinct. The strong become stronger, the weak cower and shiver in fear. Everyone catches it all around the same time but in vastly different ways. It is a primal knowledge, what has driven mankind for centuries now, the driving force behind where we are as humans today. Some, I sense their pace quicken, the loads on their backs suddenly forgotten as they become engulfed in the blood lust, their only purpose. Others, I know only all too well as their swords become boulders, their skin becomes gravel and their flesh turns to mud. It is fight or flight in its purest form, humanity in its finest hour.
But no one looks back.
No. The iron at my side as weightless as air, I turn, my position at the front all the more prominent. I shout at them, the hoarseness in my throat allowing a more guttural, commanding tone. The iron in my heart becomes molten as it chugs, driving the promises of glory, of honor, and of redemption from my lips, beautiful soothing music to their ears. No man looks away, and there isn't an eye out on that dreary, hot field that doesn't meet my own. I barely think of the words, I've become a poet I feel but I've said the same words innumerable times now, it is more muscle memory than anything.
But the iron drives its purpose forth.
The cowardly are suddenly vicious dogs, snarling, yelling and blood thirsty. The strong, the experienced are now the silent ones, stone cold sentinels made out of pure, unmalleable iron. Their eyes are dark steel, their weapons now extensions of their body, their only expression of self. There is not a man at this moment, this singular moment in all of time and existence that isn't ready to die and fight for what they love or for what they believe in.
As we near the top of the hillside, the din of combat hits me full force. The clash of metal, the yells of anger, of torment assaults my senses The unmistakable smell of blood floods my mind, a deluge of ecstasy. There is no humanity left in my soul now as I raise my arm towards the clouds, the bright evil spot all but forgotten. And as I let out one last burst of primal rage, urging the men behind me to fight with me, every man just an extension of my will, a piece of myself whose sole purpose is to be my sword and shield
I am simply, unremarkable, unmalleable, and untouchable.
I am iron.
Story