text: Red is the color of war, of pain, of cruelty. Since the first violent conflict in human history, when men slept in caves and fire was an incomprehensible, magical thing, and communication was shallow grunts and vague motions, red has been understood. Since before humanity looked at the sky and wondered what force, what being, placed them on the earth. Before we hunted, gathered, built, wrote, sang, played or spoke, we understood red. The Greeks had many gods, gods of dance, of archery, of navigation and wine, but the only god that has ever truly mattered-or existed-is the god of war. No, the god of war is not a being which resides at the top of Mount Olympus, but he does exist. The god of war is a whisper in man’s ear, encouraging man to conquer, to glorify and be glorified, to enslave and plunder and ravage. And this god of war is always cloaked in red. As I stood on the battlefield that day, red was all I saw. I looked at the men who wore uniforms like mine, faces I recognized, contorted into a horror unknown to those who have not seen battle. Their final expression is that of pain and terror, as their bodies were cleaved and butchered like cattle. They too, now wore cloaks of red. I saw red, but I smelled death. When men are terrified, when their hearts are in their throats and in their ears, and their stomachs are in their groins, they lose all control of our bodies. When young men fight their first battle, and walk back to camp with empty eyes and black hearts, you can smell their soil and their waste. Those men who do not come back to camp, mighty warriors and veterans of many campaigns, are reduced to the same shame and embarrassment in the end. It is not dishonorable, as it happens to all men in death. But all the same, the mix of waste and blood reached my nostrils, and I thought to myself that no matter how many men I carved up, I would never get used to that smell. I had become accustomed to the red, and I had become accustomed to the screams of men in pain and in death. I no longer hesitated when my blade passed through flesh and muscle and sinew and bone. My throat no longer tightened from blood flowing down it, as men without swords often throw their knuckles into the mouths and jaws of enemies, as a last ditch attempt at survival. But the smell. The smell is the last laugh of the god of war. For the whisper of the god of war tells men they are different. They are killers, brutal men without mercy or compassion. He tells men that they can kill hundreds, thousands, millions, without regret or trauma. He pushes adrenaline through the brain and heart and arms and swords of these men, invigorating and motivating them to take as many lives as they can. Then, as man stands and admires his own handiwork, the god of war whispers to him again. After the battle, the raging wildfire of brutality, all men face another battle within themselves. The god of war tells them they are killers, and that is all they will ever be. He tells them they have taken fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, leaders, teachers, friends from innocents who will never see those men again. He tells all men that they are not human, they are something lower. The greatest trick that the god of war has ever pulled is convincing men that killing will fill them. Honor, glory, riches, women, land, can be won and lost by the sword, but a man will lose everything else. I understood this, and I think few men do. I was never a man for philosophy, or mathematics or science. I was always a man of war. My compassion, mercy, propensity to love had all been lost after my first battle. For men who live by the sword will die by it, and I knew this from the first time I had put one into my hands. It took me until my first battle to understand it, but once I had felt a man’s life leaving his body, I accepted that I would never love, would never raise children, I would only kill, and then be killed. That day, I defeated a man with a family. He was a killer as well, I know that as well as I know that he was left-handed. I knew he had a unique ability to slash backhand, and flick his sword back in the opposite direction. This meant I had to block once with my shield, and once with my sword on opposite sides of my body, or else be disemboweled by his blade. I knew he was a man of almost unnatural strength, speed, and combat intellect. I also knew he was a man of mercy, perhaps the only killer I had ever known to spare men of the final strike. He was a man of honor, and that is why I won. For he had not given himself to the god of war entirely. He had stood over many lesser men, who would stab him in the back to steal his purse, and he had heard and refused the whisper of the god of war. That is an admirable quality, but that is why he lost. As I approached him that day on the battlefield, our respective comrades all turned and faced us. The other men stood side by side with their enemies, knowing at any moment that enemy could turn and stab him. However, they stopped because they understood that songs would be sang about that which was about to occur. Yes, the battle mattered. The king whom my opponent served wanted a certain piece of fertile land that my king had, but no one much cared about that. Everyone wanted a chance to watch. He was a man of noble blood. He had grown up training for moments such as these. He had fought in and won many tournaments. He had bloodied and notched his sword many times. That sword was a thing of beauty. Truly, his sword could have been traded for all that I owned. It was ten hands long, with a two hand hilt. Not many men had the strength to wield a sword of that size. The blade was etched with the swords name, and his family crest. It had an inlay of gold and silver along the hilt, stretching up the shaft of the blade and finally coming to a graceful end when it met the etchings. It was the sword of a great man, and a great man he was. My sword was also made for a man like myself. It was longer, lighter, and had a serrated edge on the front side. It could not be sheathed, I instead wrapped it in leather to protect it from rust. The blade started straight, and about halfway to the end it curved forward then back. It was truly a brutal weapon. A man had once told me it looked like a question mark, which I had never heard of before. It was plain, other than the design. It had a leather handle and straight hand guard. It was meant for a killer, and that was what I was. The man who stood before me that day was called Lord Peter Talan. He was about my age, and a hand or two taller than me. As the men encircled us, I studied him. His eyes were narrow and focused. I knew he wanted to win, but he didn’t want to kill me. I turned to one of my comrades, and gave him my sword to hold for a moment. I had known what to do in this moment for a long time, for I had watched this man move before. I took my now free hand and loosened the straps on my shield only slightly, allowing my arm just enough freedom to accommodate that which I was going to execute. I took out of my hand a small knife, not much larger than those that nobles use to spread butter on their bread. Lord Peter Talan could not see this, for my back was turned and my shield was parallel to my body. I took my sword back and swung around to face him. Often, lesser men feel the need to threaten their enemies at times like these. I did not, nor did he. Honorable as he was, he did make me an offer. “I know you,” he said. “you are the one they call the son of Micheal, the archangel. Your name is Henry. You have no father, mother, wife or children. They say you are blessed by God to kill.” I said nothing, for I was a quiet man. I knew he had more to say. He said the same thing to all men who he fought, and so far, they all should have accepted. “Henry, son of Micheal, I offer you mercy. I offer you forgiveness, as the Lord commands and the pope preaches that I must offer. I offer you a chance to lay down your sword and walk away with your breath.” I again said nothing. I knew then what all men must know before they fight. They must know that they can kill and kill without hesitation. Lord Peter Talan was a great man, a great fighter, and an artistic killer. But he did not know what I knew. I neither accepted nor declined his offer. I simply pushed my helmet off with my wrist, as my hand was still filled with my sword. I knew he would do the same. Some men would rather have the protection of the helmet. I did not. Some men would rather not see the men they kill. I didn’t mind. He was a man of honor, and would not allow himself any advantage in combat. He took his helmet off for honor, I took mine off to see his face as he died. His visor had not been opened, and as he took his helmet off, I saw his face. A trimmed beard and dark eyes set upon a weathered and experienced face. His neck was thick and muscled, and stiff as his body tightened in anticipation for the fight. As we came almost within a blades reach of one another, I saw that he was even bigger than I thought. For a moment, I felt concern wash over me. Not fear, for I feared nothing. But concern, for a victorious man can still lose a limb to violence, and a killer is nothing without his hands and his feet. The concern was washed away by the whisper of the god of war. When I heard the whisper, I took a step with my left foot, feigning a slash, then attacked. He barely flinched at the feign, and parried my blow, throwing my sword wide to my right. My midsection was exposed for a moment, but I pulled my shield in front of me, blocking his successive jab. I spun around, using the momentum of the swing to power a downward slash. He brought his blade up, and we were locked in a stalemate for a moment. He threw his power behind his blade, and pushed me backwards. I stumbled for a moment, then regained my footing. In this moment, he died. He saw victory much too early. In his mind, he was at home, with his wife and children. They were eating fine food, and drinking fine wine, and his beautiful wife was beaming with pride at the victory he had won. He saw victory because he was stronger than me. He let his shield fall to the ground, and placed both hands on the gold and silver handle of his sword. Then he walked in, smashing my insufficient defense with the totality of his strength. He crumpled my shield with his first strike, and I was throwing up both my sword and my shield in desperation, trying to defend from the next earth-shattering blow. Again, he smashed my shield, and I felt and heard a pop, as my wrist dislocated. Pain shot up my arm, but still, I held on to that small knife. I managed to catch his blade in the corner of my own, where the traditional straight blade met with the curved piece. He pushed hard, and I felt my sword slipping from my grasp. This was my moment. I threw my left arm behind my body, straightening my wrist to allow my shield to slide off of my forearm. Any movement of my wrist sent a torturous message to my brain, but I was way beyond acknowledging it. As the shield came off of my arm, I was also relieved of my sword. He had pushed hard against it, and it had twisted and pulled out of my hand. For a moment, I held nothing, except that small knife. But as he pushed that sword out of my hand, his body betrayed him. Years of training had left him muscle bound and strong as an ox. He had pushed so hard against my inferior strength, that as my resistance left, his arms still pushed. They pushed against a sword that was falling to the ground, and as he extended, his body twisted. A man of Lord Talon’s caliber wore a beautiful suit of armor. Ornate, decorative, and aesthetically pleasing yes, but also, it was fully functional. When he wore his suit of armor, he had no weakness. His feet were covered in sabatons, iron pieces placed over a leather boot. His knees were covered by hinging pieces called a poleyns. Cuisses covered his thighs, where a man could sever an artery and bleed out. He wore a long sleeved chain mail shirt which came down in a tight fit past his buttocks. His midsection was covered by his breastplate, protecting his chest and heart. A blow from the strongest axe wouldn’t leave more than a dent. His arms were covered from forearm to shoulder, the armor overlapping the breastplate and leaving nothing exposed. Couters covered his elbows, a luxury only the richest could afford. There was no place to stab, cut or slash. Truly, when Lord Peter Talon was wearing his full suit of armor, he had no weakness. But he wasn’t wearing his full suit of armor. As he twisted, as my sword fell out of my hand and my shield was laying on the ground, I swung my left arm back around my body, and stabbed him in the neck. The blade pushed through his skin, his muscle, and finally stopped when it met bone. As I felt the resistance, I slashed it sideways, bleeding him like a pig. He was a great man, but he died like all men die. He fell to the ground, lifeless. I felt the pain in my wrist as my adrenaline faded and my body reverted to its normal function. I saw red, and I tasted victory, but I smelled death. And I heard the whisper of the god of war.