A Night of Shining Armor

The edges of Oliver’s vision were blurring into hazy rays of color, like a shifting chromatic kaleidoscope with a filmy lens. That’s how he knew he was in another dream. That and the telltale lack of beaming warmth on the slivers of his skin that were unshielded by his heavy armor.

No sun would be reaching him here. It would have been a thought that would normally make Oliver shudder, break out in a cold sweat, or find the brightest torch he could and wield it like a sword—instead, his thoughts were trapped in the linear progression that seemed to accompany these visions: Where am I? What do I need to do? What do you want?

There was no sweat, cold or otherwise, to wipe from his brow before he lowered the visor of his helmet back into place as he came to terms with his surroundings. Where am I?

Because this was another dream, there was no thought spared for the false-sun shining down upon the coruscant stadium where he found himself. In the raised platform steps of the stands, the audience glimmered in and out of focus under the false-sun like a collective mirage, somehow both present and not. The rancorous and discordant sounds that normally accompanied attendees of these events was there only when he listened for them. He discerned scattered bits of applause, whooping and chattering, and the far off and undefined baritone of an announcer from some location he wasn’t able to pin down with his filtered vision. Mostly, he heard the heavy, huffing breaths of a beast that Oliver knew, somehow, was eager to meet him.

Well, perhaps not somehow. Oliver knew because of where he was standing: dead center of the pit. Oliver knew because of what he found himself clutching between gauntleted fingers: a folded crimson fabric.

Okay. He hesitated for a moment, and an impatient huff bounced around the inside of his helmet, so close and real he could have sworn he felt the damp heat of the bull’s breath. I know what you want me to do.

All at once, Oliver brandished the flag, snapping it to attention with a pivotal, synchronous flick of his wrists. Under the false-sun, it excelled at its purpose, catching the light like a beacon.

As it unfurled its length into a vermillion ribbon, Oliver found a smile alight on his face. Let’s see if I’ll do it.

Without pause, a loud, metallic click rang out and the perceptual flicker of a cacophonous crowd hushed completely into silence. Oliver held his breath.

A previously hidden gate revealed itself as it came into the dream’s reality with his choice, the movement of it swinging on its hinges snapping his head to the left to eye it carefully. While it opened with an eerie ease for the sheer size of it that demanded attention, he found that he had none to give as he bore witness to what stood behind it.

The bull, for indeed it was a bull, was massive, taller than Oliver himself even though he stood an impressive six-foot-four—five, even, with the combination of his recent growth and newly acquired armored boots. Still, it towered even at a distance. And with a blink, that distance was threatened as the bull began to stamp its great cloven hooves behind the bronzed gates, waiting for mere centimeters to allow it through the smallest of openings. Its midnight black eyes revealed nothing to him, gleaming threateningly in half-shade.

Oliver’s feet were so planted that they may as well have been rooted to the spot, caught deep within the red fabric of his unconscious mind as the unknown benefactor of these dreams looked on approvingly behind the glare of the false-sun.

The bull charged.