Dream [006] ☼
[Warning: Contains bullfighting and some blood. // Filter: Public]
The atmosphere was tense in the arena.
Spain stood, silently, and watched the door carefully. It was almost his time to go onto the sandy pitch; he could hear the anxious yells of his people as they watched the bandilleros weaken the bull with sharp, spear-like poles. The crowd was anxious; a few displeased ‘boo’s could be heard. They wanted to see the final act in the bullfight. They wanted to see the matador.
And then it was time, and Spain stepped onto the field, resplendent in deep maroon, delicate, complicated gold embroidery glittering in the sun. He gave an experimental swish of his bright red muleta, the cheers of the crowd increasing in volume in response. One last, quick glance was paid to the sword at his side; reassured at its position, Spain finally faced the bull. The large black animal watched him warily. Blood trickled down its flanks where the picadors and bandilleros had scored hits, but it still stood strong and, truly, seemed unaffected by such paltry wounds.
The bull’s eyes fixed on Spain and the crowd watched breathlessly. Then the bull charged.
Spain shifted, prepared, stepped back and around the bull as it rushed past, horns nearly grazing his stomach.
“Olé,” voiced the crowd exuberantly.
Baffled, the bull stopped. It turned, paused shortly, and charged again.
Again, Spain shifted, keeping his muleta outstretched for the bull. It came thundering towards him, head lowered, sharp horns nearly glinting in the sun, but Spain watched it come, motionless and unflinching. Again at the last second, he twisted slightly, moving just out of the bull’s path.
“Olé,” yelled the watchers.
Spain turned, shaking sweaty hair out of his eyes as he faced the bull once again. It snorted, black eyes glistening, pausing for a long moment.
The crowd waited expectantly, and Spain waved the red cloth invitingly, tauntingly.
The bull charged.
Spain stepped lightly to one side once again, movements seeming to be almost lazily slow, but in reality, careful and coordinated. The bull brushed past, leaving smears of blood on Spain’s uniform.
“¡Olé!” came the resounding cry, all around him.
The bull came around once again, determined to catch this pesky fly with his horns. Spain faced the bull, mouth tightening grimly. This was it. He would end the fight now.
The bull crashed towards him, hooves pounding the sand as it rushed him. Spain stood calmly, watching with complete concentration.
The bull drew closer and closer, and still Spain did not move. He waited and waited, waited until the bull was close enough for him to see the dark, glistening blood dripping down its sides.
Then, movements quick, practiced and precise, Spain stepped to once side, pivoting and allowing the muleta to fall from his arm. In the same movement, he drew out his sword, and as the bull passed him, Spain stabbed the sword into the bull’s shoulder blades, straight into the heart. The bull stumbled forward, carried by its momentum, ripping the sword from Spain’s hand.
Then, finally finished, it collapsed, and Spain alone stood in the dusty, bloody arena as the spectators cheered.
--
[Again, Spain doesn't wake up from his dream. He merely smiles a little, turning over.]
The atmosphere was tense in the arena.
Spain stood, silently, and watched the door carefully. It was almost his time to go onto the sandy pitch; he could hear the anxious yells of his people as they watched the bandilleros weaken the bull with sharp, spear-like poles. The crowd was anxious; a few displeased ‘boo’s could be heard. They wanted to see the final act in the bullfight. They wanted to see the matador.
And then it was time, and Spain stepped onto the field, resplendent in deep maroon, delicate, complicated gold embroidery glittering in the sun. He gave an experimental swish of his bright red muleta, the cheers of the crowd increasing in volume in response. One last, quick glance was paid to the sword at his side; reassured at its position, Spain finally faced the bull. The large black animal watched him warily. Blood trickled down its flanks where the picadors and bandilleros had scored hits, but it still stood strong and, truly, seemed unaffected by such paltry wounds.
The bull’s eyes fixed on Spain and the crowd watched breathlessly. Then the bull charged.
Spain shifted, prepared, stepped back and around the bull as it rushed past, horns nearly grazing his stomach.
“Olé,” voiced the crowd exuberantly.
Baffled, the bull stopped. It turned, paused shortly, and charged again.
Again, Spain shifted, keeping his muleta outstretched for the bull. It came thundering towards him, head lowered, sharp horns nearly glinting in the sun, but Spain watched it come, motionless and unflinching. Again at the last second, he twisted slightly, moving just out of the bull’s path.
“Olé,” yelled the watchers.
Spain turned, shaking sweaty hair out of his eyes as he faced the bull once again. It snorted, black eyes glistening, pausing for a long moment.
The crowd waited expectantly, and Spain waved the red cloth invitingly, tauntingly.
The bull charged.
Spain stepped lightly to one side once again, movements seeming to be almost lazily slow, but in reality, careful and coordinated. The bull brushed past, leaving smears of blood on Spain’s uniform.
“¡Olé!” came the resounding cry, all around him.
The bull came around once again, determined to catch this pesky fly with his horns. Spain faced the bull, mouth tightening grimly. This was it. He would end the fight now.
The bull crashed towards him, hooves pounding the sand as it rushed him. Spain stood calmly, watching with complete concentration.
The bull drew closer and closer, and still Spain did not move. He waited and waited, waited until the bull was close enough for him to see the dark, glistening blood dripping down its sides.
Then, movements quick, practiced and precise, Spain stepped to once side, pivoting and allowing the muleta to fall from his arm. In the same movement, he drew out his sword, and as the bull passed him, Spain stabbed the sword into the bull’s shoulder blades, straight into the heart. The bull stumbled forward, carried by its momentum, ripping the sword from Spain’s hand.
Then, finally finished, it collapsed, and Spain alone stood in the dusty, bloody arena as the spectators cheered.
--
[Again, Spain doesn't wake up from his dream. He merely smiles a little, turning over.]