battle

You will remember where you have been: by wound, by ache, by racing heart. But you will charge into the low lying fog, that ever lies before you, with sword drawn, with fear twisted into concentration, as every step falls heavily into an emptiness, filled with every possible danger. And your sweat you will wear as a jewel, to remind you of the fractions of moments passing forgotten, as you dwell on the wound, or fear the fog. You die when you do not live.