Nightmares of Battle

Tossing and turning, a man jolts up in bed, sitting up frantically, wiping sweat away from his face. His body, pulsating with deep quick breaths. He looks around his candle-lit room in worried fear. With the candles wick low and fading, he staggers to a bucket of water to wash his face. Within the rippling of the water, the man stared deeply into the reflection of his eyes.

As he stared intently into himself, he slowly ran his fingers along a thick raised scar on his right shoulder. His body carried many scars from battle though none carry more weight than this particular scar that grew heavier on his mind. A beast gave him that scare, a beast he had never seen before, a beast that brought terrors to his dreams and arose from the green hills of Ireland.

He could still feel the moment. He could hear every second from that almost fateful day. His men around him, raiding in the name of Odin. Taking what they needed to grow their new settlement. The Irish were familiar people and great fighters. He appreciated a challenge, he appreciated their will, and their fight is what brought him back, raid after raid.

He wanted to make a settlement in this new rolling green-hilled land. The soil was clean and bountiful for crops. He saw no problem claiming what he wanted along the waving coastline. But the Irish thought differently. They fought with honor, and they fought with pride to run the Vikings off the island. With every attack, the Irish forces weakened as the Vikings grew. For longship after longship from Norway would breach the sandy beaches of Ireland's green shores in search for new farmland, and as the Irish armies dwindled, they turned to other sources of strength and numbers.

As the man finished starring at his reflection, the rippling slowing, the darkness of night overpowering the low wick of the candlelight, sat back on his bed. He closed his eyes to envision himself back in Ireland.

It was a cloudy evening. The Vikings had only landed on shore a few days prior with no hostility. This area of land was familiar to them. The Vikings had been here before. They knew this was the perfect spot to set up an encampment with their long-boats. They made plans for structured huts and shops for trading. The Vikings scavenged the forest for wood and resources to build while watchful eyes watched them from afar.

As the Norwegian Vikings made their way into the forest for wood one evening, smoke from a campfire was seen off in the distance. As they made their way to the source of the campfire, night fell upon them. The Vikings had their axes and shields ready, and as they drew closer to the camp, they charged. Deep yells for Valhalla, for Odin, in the name of Thor could be heard echoing through the forest night like thunder. The land they wished to settle on would grant them their first successful raid for their new settlement. Or so the Vikings thought.

As the group of Vikings rushed the camp, weapons drawn and ready from the deep thicket of the forest bushes, halted dead in their tracks just as quickly as they ambushed the camp. The camp was empty. Several tents surrounded a small fire pit, yet the tents were barren. The Vikings looked around at each other, confused in the glow of the night's fire. No food, mead, wine, bedding, weapons, or pelts. No supplies of any kind. There were no men, no signs of livestock; No sign of anything, just tents, and a burning fire.

His men were confused but determined not to leave empty-handed as they started to roll up the tents. As the Vikings put down their axes and shields to roll the tents up, a wave of high pitch cries rattled the night sky. The Irish had set a trap. Hidden in the deep thicket of the forest well behind the tents, covered by the night sky, they rose from the ground in true warrior fashion, charging the Vikings.

Arrows ripped through the night sky as the Vikings dropped what tents they got rolled up. As they formed a shield wall, they grabbed their axes and rushed the Irish. They clashed axes to swords with them. It seemed the Irish had the upper hand, but with the might of Thor on their side, the Vikings started to prevail.

Just as it seemed they had pushed the Irish back, a new sound echoed through the dark forest floor. The Irish had a planned second wave of attack against the Vikings. The sound of hooves shook the ground like a massive earthquake as raging bulls came ripping through the remaining tents like butter. Their horns, sharp as spears, tore through the Vikings. The forest became filled with sounds of the men's screams, the sound of hooves shaking the ground, battle cries, and laughter of the Irish warriors. The forest floor dirt being kicked into the air by the bulls filled the night sky like fog. The Viking warrior stood circling as his men and bulls ran ragged around him. He fell to his knees, hands clenching his ax and shield, staring up at the sky filled with yelling rage to the gods. His men were being run down, thrown, gored through the air like rag dolls with every thrust of a bull.

The campfire was low, dying out from the dirt-filled air, and as the Viking turned his head, battle shocked with anger, he stared into the black eyes of a charging bull. As the bull charged the Viking, the bull seemed to run in slow motion towards him as he stared at his raging death. As the Viking tried to stand to his feet, clenching his ax in his right hand, shield in his left, a horn of the bull grazed off the top of the Viking's shield and tore into his right shoulder. As the Viking screamed in pain, the bull thrust the Viking into the ground before throwing him into the air as the bull whipped back. He crashed down by the campfire, his eyesight going in and out, his right arm unmovable. Gasping for air, he tried to tell his men to retreat to the longships. But just as the air from his lungs formed to words, all turned to darkness.

He sat there on the edge of his bed in Norway, still holding that scar. He should have died that night with most of his men in Ireland. Those who survived retreated to the longships grabbing his body and carried him to safety. They praised Thor for his recovery, for they knew he still had unfinished work in this life before being called to Valhalla. But recovery from physical wounds never fully heals the mental wounds. The piercing black eyes of the bull charging him in the darkness haunts his every dream. The sound of his men meeting their fate at the hands of an army of bulls, an animal no Viking expected to encounter on the battlefield, only drives the Viking warrior to fill his duty to the gods and conquer his woven fate in Ireland.

As he laid back down in bed, his eyes were growing tired once more, drifted off back to sleep. In the silence of the night, a penetrating bellow fills his head, a raging bull whose eyes were black as night charges him.