It was the same dream. Again. The dream ... puzzled him. He did not understand.
It was the same. Every time. And yet ... it never ended. Never came to any kind of conclusion.
A strange dream. And he KNEW it was a dream, if only because he had been in it so many times before. But strange, nonetheless.
In the dream, he was fighting - with swords - against someone he could not see. Light shone in his eyes so that his vision ahead was impossible, yet he could turn away and see the shadows of himself and his tormentor on the great wall beyond. Like an ancient Hollywood movie.
Yet he knew this was not a movie. And though a dream, it had the feeling of real.
Thrust and parry. Done by watching the shadows. He could not see. So he watched the shadows, and this guided his fight.
He knew this was a fight to the death. He knew that if he could see, if he could KNOW, he could win. He would not die. If.
But the fight never ended. He would wake before his opponent's blade pierced hm, or before his pierced his opponent. He would feel his blade touch, just touch, the chest of his opponent and he would wake.
The next time, it would start all over again.
He did not understand what the fighting was about, nor did he know whom it was he was fighting.
He was afraid he would lose.
He woke. As he always did when the fight 'ended'.
"The same dream, my love?", she asked.
"Yes, Juanita, the same."
"What does it mean?"
"It means I lose another night's sleep. Else? Nada. Except, perhaps, I have another chance to tell you I love you."
"And I love you, too. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow ... is another day, and perhaps your battles will be done."
"Yes. Perhaps. Or perhaps not. But maybe, tomorrow, I can know ... who. That, in itself, would be a victory. To know one's enemy ... a victory."