![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Nov. 17th, 2008 05:50 pmIn all the years he's been alive, he rarely remembers dreaming. Oh, there have been the odd occasional things to be sure, but he's rarely been privy to the kind of epic dreams he's read about in books, seen on film, heard described. Maybe it's just a difference in species, or maybe it gets back to the differences between species. Not being human has its perks, to be sure, but there are still those things he wishes he could experience and can't. He's got desire in spades, but understanding? That's elusive.
So when he wakes up from a vivid dream, it takes him a moment. Where has he been? What has he been doing? And who was there? Little by little, the dream comes back to him in all its glory: it was a retelling of the last battle, the one where he lost the horse and he still can't believe he lost it. His cousin was so disappointed but so was he. Although for once, his own survival was not assured and that made things a lot more interesting. It gave a whole new appreciation to the phrase the stakes are high.
In his dream he feels the jolt as the lance pierces his horse's chest. He feels those proud, powerful hooves stumble and fall; he feels his own armor-clad body -- the three crescent moon crest on his shield glinting in the light of the nearby bridge on fire -- as it's thrown from the horse's back. He lands against a nearby tree and only rolls out of his horse's way at the very last moment so his legs aren't crushed. Reaching up, he grabs a nearby branch and steadies himself, swearing beneath his breath, rushing to the great beast's side as it draws its last breaths. The steed looks up at him with a mournful and critical eye then falls silent.
To lose a horse is a grievous error. It's close to the worst thing he could have done. To lose this horse... it almost pains him. But the moment passes and he picks up his own lance again and resumes the charge on foot: a warrior does what he must do and in this case he must keep fighting.
This night has forever changed the tenor of his peoples' battles. There's no time to look for the human on either side, although he did see Eddi earlier safe (what a joke) at Phouka's side. Out of all the beautiful, lyrical creations to have sprung from humans, he believes Shakespeare has defined it best: What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Now there's a human being who had a way with words. One might think he, too, was touched with a gift from faerie.
Shaking off the dream, he reaches for his guitar and strums softly. It's such a human thing to do, to take comfort this way, but no law of his people says music can't be appreciated and shared and used in times of trouble as well as times of joy.
I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
(It's time to go home.)
So when he wakes up from a vivid dream, it takes him a moment. Where has he been? What has he been doing? And who was there? Little by little, the dream comes back to him in all its glory: it was a retelling of the last battle, the one where he lost the horse and he still can't believe he lost it. His cousin was so disappointed but so was he. Although for once, his own survival was not assured and that made things a lot more interesting. It gave a whole new appreciation to the phrase the stakes are high.
In his dream he feels the jolt as the lance pierces his horse's chest. He feels those proud, powerful hooves stumble and fall; he feels his own armor-clad body -- the three crescent moon crest on his shield glinting in the light of the nearby bridge on fire -- as it's thrown from the horse's back. He lands against a nearby tree and only rolls out of his horse's way at the very last moment so his legs aren't crushed. Reaching up, he grabs a nearby branch and steadies himself, swearing beneath his breath, rushing to the great beast's side as it draws its last breaths. The steed looks up at him with a mournful and critical eye then falls silent.
To lose a horse is a grievous error. It's close to the worst thing he could have done. To lose this horse... it almost pains him. But the moment passes and he picks up his own lance again and resumes the charge on foot: a warrior does what he must do and in this case he must keep fighting.
This night has forever changed the tenor of his peoples' battles. There's no time to look for the human on either side, although he did see Eddi earlier safe (what a joke) at Phouka's side. Out of all the beautiful, lyrical creations to have sprung from humans, he believes Shakespeare has defined it best: What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Now there's a human being who had a way with words. One might think he, too, was touched with a gift from faerie.
Shaking off the dream, he reaches for his guitar and strums softly. It's such a human thing to do, to take comfort this way, but no law of his people says music can't be appreciated and shared and used in times of trouble as well as times of joy.
I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
(It's time to go home.)
