Writing battle scenes is an interesting venture for me.
Some writers manage to convey the overall big picture of the battle field they are writing, troop movements, tactics, general’s eye view of the conflict. Me though? Every time I start to write a scene of battle, no matter how large the battle, my vision narrows down to only the eyes of a single warrior, feet on the ground, weapons in hand, enemy before them. Rather than seeing the fight from the outside looking in my mind’s eye puts me inside the fighter, and even though I seldom write first person perspective, when in the moment I see it in the character’s viewpoint as opposed to being a third party storyteller.
Like most men my age, older side Gen-X’r here, I had plenty fights as a kid and as a teenager. Fist fights, ground fights, smashing at each other with sticks and rocks. But those were always with the explicit childish knowledge that it was never final, it was never deadly, and you always went home and put ice on the bruises, maybe cried to mommy and everything got better, and usually the next day the two pugilists were back to playing games and goofing off with each other as if nothing ever happened.
But also, like most men my age, I have never been in mortal combat. Due to a blown tendon during Marine boot camp I never even completed basic training. Because of that I have often wondered as I write such scenes whether I myself would be able to survive such an encounter, be it fighting against terrorists, gang bangers, professional soldiers, or in the case of this story ancient Nephilim Giants.
God willing, I will never know the answer to those things. Sometimes though, God wills otherwise. At any time, particularly it seems in this increasingly volatile world in which we find ourselves, that the perception of peace and safety can morph into a terror of violence in the space between heartbeats. As simple as turning a corner to find yourself in a place you oughtn’t have been, standing in line at the convenience store when some knucklehead decides to rob the place, or going for a walk in a place only to unwittingly discover you’ve walked into a protest march that is seconds away from exploding into a war between parties you know nothing about, we can find ourselves very quickly in a situation from which there is no walking away for both parties.
Situations where only the one who is mentally and emotionally prepared to fight to the bitter end will see their family members ever again, and even that may not be enough to win, or even survive.
When the hammer of war shows up, am I ready to wield it until the threat is gone? Will I be able to push the attack to the razor edge between victory and death?
