Left arm. Locked. Right arm locked. I felt it, clasping to me like invisible armour. Torso, in place. Shield, ready. I looked up with eyes of steel. Mabel was praying from the front. There was a sea of heads between her and I: men's heads, the heads of warriors.
I closed my eyes. I think the idea was for all the women in the church to pray for the men so that they would rise up and step in to the things they're called to... that we are called to.
My feet were firm against the carpet, my back straight. There was a pounding, thumping rhythm deep inside my head: feet striking the earth, the sound of war coming closer, the sound of battle. An unheard shout went up, I heard the flutter of a banner and the tightening of the grip. I heard the clicking of weapons and the shimmer of a sword. Behind us, the women and the children were praying, hoping for something greater to rise up in us, something to match the fight, a strength to protect the community, to protect them, as the warriors we were always called to be.
I flicked open my eyes and looked around. One man looked at me and nodded back, knowingly. Where the flames are fiercest, where the fight is hardest, where the darkness reaches in, that is where we will be, us men of old, us fighters for freedom.
I made fists with my hands, the armour creaking around me. Someone else was praying now, about not being afraid to look foolish. I stood there under an invisible helmet, with weapons that no-one can see, feeling a fresh determination to step into my identity as a warrior, and I smiled.
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