Dreams of the Past?

So I find myself waking yet again to my recurring dream. It has come to me now steadily, at least once a week, for about the last two months. Each time I have the dream there is a new detail or revelation that is presented to me. It is always the same though when I wake, physical symptoms are present along with the overbearing feeling of anger. It is a righteous anger that I can feel in every fiber of my body, saturating me, and overflowing.

The details are so sharp that they can not be ignored. It is cool outside but not cold. The sun has not been up for long, and the dew still glistens on the grass and drops from the leaves. The season is changing. Some of the treetops are donning new colors. The air is still today and there are no clouds in the sky. This is rare because here there is almost always a present breeze, the trees whispering as it caresses their exuberant foliage. Though this time of year, the breeze is more like a vengeful banshee ripping through anything barring its way, while black clouds filled with malice bring torrents of rain that beat the ground into submission and flood the hills.

The sun is to the rear casting sharp and stretched shadows. To the left are rolling hills in a stretching field. The foothills of the mountain can be seen, almost looking like a blanket, with the expanse covered in a thick layer of evergreen trees. Beyond that, the giant watches over everything, ever-present with its diamond cap, nothing escaping its gaze. The vibrant forest to the right usually seems friendly and welcoming, almost like it is alive. The wind moves their branches almost like they are inviting you in and dancing with each other. An offer of refuge, peace, and warmth radiating from its depths. Today the forest is staring, cold, and as still as death. Oaks glare at the scene, suspended as they anticipate the event about to unfold.

There is a wide path extending east to west along the side of the forest. It is a commonly traveled path, trodden down to a nice firm packed earth and large enough to accommodate wagons traveling in either direction simultaneously. Far off to the west, peeking from behind one of the hills along the path, a glimpse can be caught of a stone structure. A promise of a city or village of some sort in the distance, too far for significant detail. On this path is where I stand.

I use the possessive “I” loosely because, at the same time, I am standing there experiencing everything personally, yet I am also viewing everything from an outside perspective, somewhat like a panoramic picture with crystal clear definition. Omniscience would be an excellent word for it except that only God is Omnipotent, so that would not be correct but close if you will. Also, the possessive is used loosely because the man standing in the middle of the path that I am seeing, that I am experiencing, is not me.

I have never met this man before in my life. Never before have I met anyone like him, but at the same time he is as familiar as I am with myself. From the outside, I can see every minute detail, the placement of a single strand of hair on his head or the individual scuffs and grains of dirt on his well-seasoned boots. Each is as evident as the looming mountain on the horizon. He is about a head taller than I am, a little more than six feet. He has thick brown hair, but it is cut short, no longer than an inch. His eyes are piercing and intelligent, they fall between the shade of olive and sage, dusted with flecks of gold. A short beard is present on his angled face.

His clothing is mostly quite simple. He is wearing sturdy-looking boots, dark brown in color. His pants look to be a dark green color, almost black. The shirt is the shade of parchment paper and has long sleeves but is thin. Over this, he also is wearing a dark grey cloak with a hood. Beside him, resting on the ground is a large traveling pack. The only thing that stands out in his garments, and does not seem to belong, is the brooch that holds his cloak on. It appears to be the shape of an oak leaf or something similar. The leaf is made of silver, with the veins trimmed in gold.

On a personal level, I can feel everything he feels. His emotions and thoughts are personal to me as if they are my own. Confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear are all strong emotions within him. Each emotion is different in its own respect but is all manifested from the same catalyst. None, though, are as strong as his overbearing anger. I can also see everything he can through our eyes and we are not alone.

Standing directly in front of him, about three paces distance is another man emitting an aura of mischief and evil. He looks quite similar in build and size. His facial features resemble the man I inhabit as well, possibly some sort of relation. The length of his hair is much longer and his eyes are darker. The eyes are devious and they dart from place to place, searching and calculating. His clothes are of better quality and darker in shade. The same oak-like brooch can be seen holding his cloak together.

In a loose, staggering circle around the two in the center, are twelve other men. Each is of varying size, shape, dress, and demeanor. Some of them seem to be quite calm, a few of them look to be scared, and the rest are doing their best to hold back the excitement. All of them, however, are holding weapons, swords to be more precise. Standing at least six paces distant from the men in the center, as if to give the two plenty of room.

The sinister man is speaking to me. Yet, I can not hear anything that he is saying. As I watch his lips, face, and tongue move, something seems out of place. I can not seem to follow his lips to make sense of what he might be talking about. I realize that his movements and patterns do not match with English speech, he is using a different language. Throughout his monologue, his eyes continued to dart around and squint as if looking for a reaction. His hand also never left his sword, stashed neatly in its scabbard upon his hip.

We never moved, not so much as a twitch, while listening to the accusing man. Accusing, that is what he is doing. Not that I can hear him, but more like an understanding filtered through my host. The man is accusing us of something that we did not do. We do not say a word as he lists the false testament. Initially, I believe he is here to arrest us, but more understanding comes filtering through. He never intended on making an arrest, the man was indeed waiting for a reaction. Finally, he finishes his monologue and we utter a single word. I can not hear it, but I know what it means, “No.”

All Hell breaks loose as the man explodes into action. The sword comes free of its scabbard in the blink of an eye, he leaps forward and swings the sword in an arc to where our head rest, all in one fluid motion. At the same time we leap back, reach inside our cloak, and rip our own sword out to join the battle. The man’s sword zips past our neck, missing it only by inches. Our sword, free of its sanctuary, vibrated with the need for combat. The sword was a hand and a half with a full fuller. The balance was remarkable and fit comfortably in the hand. The hilt was bound in cord and had a simple pommel and cross guards.

The man continued his attack with the same momentum and another wild swing. Our blade came up swiftly to intercept the man’s blow, deflecting it safely to the side. Before he had another chance to bring his blade around for another attack, we stepped forward with a vicious kick to his chest. The man started windmilling his arms as he stumbled backward. Just as fast, we leaped forward bringing our sword around in a blinding arc, the man’s chest left gaping and his life spilling out before he hit the ground.

Everybody else started moving at once as if this is their signal to join. Using the momentum and speed we already set in motion, we closed the distance to the closest of them in a flash. Knowing that we do not stand a chance surrounded, we need to make sure we break out of the circle. That man did not have a chance, as he was cleaved on an angle from his neck to his opposing armpit before he could even lift his sword to defend himself. Immediately we pivoted to the right, anticipating the movement of the next assailant looking to spill our blood.

He was moving slowly, trying to guess our next move to his advantage. As he raised his blade to attack, we quickly dove forward with a sweeping slash from left to right, spilling his guts into the dew. As we leaped forward we felt a quick tug at the left side of our back, followed shortly by a burning sensation. We quickly reversed our swing and spun fully around to address our new threat. The blade caught him just under the left armpit and buried half deep into his chest. His arms were both raised to deliver a chopping blow in order to carry out our sentence.

We pull our blade from his chest as we quickly back towards the west. We can see all of them now, no chance of them sneaking behind us. We are right where we want to be, with the only disadvantage being the morning sun on our face. Three of them are down leaving nine left to deal with. The rest of the attack was clumsy at best, tripping over their fallen friends and losing their own life in the process. The battle was quick, lasting maybe slightly more than a minute in total. Nevertheless, it felt like an eternity.

Afterward, we are left standing alone, staring at the product of the violence. The man is very angry. Confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear are all strong emotions present within him, but the most powerful is his righteous anger flowing through his soul. He is very tired, but he knows that this is only the beginning.

This is where my dream always ends. I am left laying in bed, flat on my back, thinking about what had just happened. My body aches as if I was actually there. I feel confusion, pain, sorrow, and fear. But most of all, I feel the ever-present anger, it is overflowing, saturating the soul. The anger is righteous. What I have yet to figure out is what the anger is directed towards. The anger that he felt and I feel is not towards the attempt to take his life, it is against something much greater. Something is hidden from me. Something he knows.

What is he angry for? Why is that anger so powerful that I can almost feel the energy from it in the air? Who is he? Who are the men that are attacking him? Where does he go now? Maybe the next time I dream the answers will be revealed to me as each time I do there is something new. Today the revelation in my dream was his name, Brendan. Goosebumps.