Facing the Bull

The first night in Qesir has been a long one and it doesn't have the courtesy of being over yet. An illusory Dragon, organized bandits, and gods know what else. I'm no stranger to brawls and disasters but something about this strikes me differently.
 
My companions are still spread out and recovering from the attack as well. Pari is still limping after her stupid stunt. Teremun is keeping a prisoner restrained. Noct has run off to find our Kobold friend… it's a lot to process as I stand there, looking over the pickpockets that didn't survive the battle.
 
The adrenaline is starting to die down now, my body registering all the pain it had been ignoring. My gambeson is soaked with my own blood from several stab wounds. Noct's magic had saved my life yet again, but the pain was not so quick to fade.
 
Was this just how it was going to be from now on? Throwing myself into battle with no garuntees of coming back out? I supposed that was what heroes did. Noct was certain to try and spin tonight's events to some grand tale of my bravery and combat prowess. Noct had been relentless in the pursuit of the shared dream thus far, spreading the name of Bellamy Bashira to every ear that would listen and some that wouldn't…
 
That was all according to plan… but…
 
My hand comes away from my gambeson, the leather glove stained with my blood. Even on my first official night doing anything vaguely heroic, I had come so close to failure.
 
----
 
I was reminded of a memory, a few years ago now. When I had faced a rampaging bull. It had been a day like any other, walking the streets and going about my business. Tymbren was a busy place, people mulling about the streets and living their lives. At first I paid little attention to the bull. A passing glance told me enough, it was on a lead with a farmer placating it with feed probably leading it to someone that had bought it or to a pen in some part of the city. It was not the biggest bull I'd ever seen, not yet in its prime. Not an uncommon sight.
 
But disasters happen. The farmer would later tell me that a bee had stung the animal. At the time, all I knew is that the docile beast had suddenly broken it's lead and was charging through the streets. People were running and trying to get out of the creature's way. I was quite intent on staying by the side lines… but I looked up and saw a mother and her daughter, fleeing the creature.
 
Some people have terrible luck. The little girl tripped, hitting the dirt. Right in the path of the raging Bull that was closing in fast. The mother, realizing that she didn't have the time to pick her daughter up, did the protective parent thing and but her body between her child and the Beast in a vain attempt to shield them from harm.
 
I immediately knew neither would survive collision with a raging bull.
 
At the time I was not so inclined to self sacrifice and heroism as I am now, but instinct is a funny thing. I was moving before I had the time to think about it. The smart thing probably would have been to tackle the mother and child, try yo get them out of the way… but I'm not the smartest person as history will prove.
 
No, my dumb ass decided to take the bull by the horns and try to stop it.
 
My hands tightened around the horns of the raging beast and I tried to stop it. Immediately the full weight of the creature collided with me, a shockwave of pain throughout my body. It's head impacting my chest and thankfully only breaking four ribs. Still I held on to its horns, locking eyes with the animal that only seemed to grow more furious as I struggled with it.
 
Six seconds is a very, very long time under certain circumstances. Each second holding that bull was a new thought, experience, and emotion.
 
One second.
I knew that this animal was probably going to kill me. By goring or stomping, if I let go it was going to do everything in its power to kill me.
 
Two seconds
Every muscle in my body screams in protest, quaking with effort.
 
Three seconds
My shoes are sliding through the dirt, I'm being pushed backward. I'm losing. I'm going to die.
 
Four seconds
My heel catches in the ground. The beast and I are in stalemate. I have traction. I have leverage.
 
Five seconds
I take my chance, I can do this. One last push, all my strength to twist the horns of the Beast and pull it's head to the ground.
 
Six seconds
My strength prevails as I pull the creature off balance. It hits the dirt with a mighty thud, I can already feel it furiously trying to lift it up as I struggle to keep it pinned.
 
What happens after those seconds is a blur, others rush to my aid to hold down the bull and subdue it. It finally accepts defeat and calms down. I am fretted over by an apologetic farmer. Thanked by a worried mother. It's hard to focus through pain and exhaustion.
 
The feat I accomplished was difficult but not impossible… but it was one I would take advantage of. The tale of wrestling a bull to the ground was great for telling in taverns when sharing a drink with friends and strangers.
 
But over time, the story was embellished. The Bull became bigger. My victory over it easier. More impressive, more dramatic. There was nothing wrong with a few additions to the story if it got me a free round of drinks.
 
But in the back of my mind there is a doubt… of if I could face that bull again. What if the bull was now as large and strong as my embellished tales? Would people expect me to be able to perform in the manner I had in those stories?
----
 
I think now of the bandits I fought tonight. I had been victorious in battle, but only barely.
 
I knew Noct would use this to spread the legend… but their story was likely to be grander than the truth. Exaggeration. Embellishment. Just like the bull I had fought, the bandits would be retold as stronger and more skilled. My battle less of a struggle.
 
People may even be inclined to believe in such a tale. To expect of me such feats of bravery and skill.
 
But I wonder how, how long until stories exceed my abilities? How long until the Bull grows too large to defeat?