Nightrain
Senior Registered
With objective humility, I must honestly say that a certain memory could have been someone else's taken from a book that I read years ago while I was first researching reincarnation. But, it felt as though I owned this memory, however briefly it appeared in my mind -- perhaps, triggered by the author's memory of being killed during a Viking raid.
I was about 8 years old standing outside with a long heavy sword in my hand. The weather was typical of a scandinavian country; and I was cold as I held the hilt of the sword in both hands as the tip rested gently on the dark bedrock, interspersed with dark green moss. I was facing what seemed like a very angry and frustrated adult, but was actually an adolescent boy, himself; who had been assigned the lowly task of teaching me to use the sword.
I was exhausted, looking for a safe patch of soft moss to fall on. I raised the heavy sword in his direction, and he slammed it hard with his. I managed to keep the sword up, and he kept hitting it hard on the left, then on the right and back again as my hands and arms ached trying to parry each swing. He put all of his might into each swing of his sword, and I could no longer hold the sword up. He was so angry that he yelled and said terrible things to me, then walked off in disgust. I felt very bad about his anger, but he didn't knock me down this time.
I was about 8 years old standing outside with a long heavy sword in my hand. The weather was typical of a scandinavian country; and I was cold as I held the hilt of the sword in both hands as the tip rested gently on the dark bedrock, interspersed with dark green moss. I was facing what seemed like a very angry and frustrated adult, but was actually an adolescent boy, himself; who had been assigned the lowly task of teaching me to use the sword.
I was exhausted, looking for a safe patch of soft moss to fall on. I raised the heavy sword in his direction, and he slammed it hard with his. I managed to keep the sword up, and he kept hitting it hard on the left, then on the right and back again as my hands and arms ached trying to parry each swing. He put all of his might into each swing of his sword, and I could no longer hold the sword up. He was so angry that he yelled and said terrible things to me, then walked off in disgust. I felt very bad about his anger, but he didn't knock me down this time.