Page 33 of Never Quite Gone

CHAPTER 11

War Dreams

435 BCE - Outside Athens

Copper and dust filled my mouth as I knelt in blood-soaked sand, my hands moving with certainty born of sacred training. The soldier beneath my care groaned – a spear wound to the shoulder, deep but not fatal if I worked quickly enough. Around us, bronze clashed against bronze, the sounds of battle mixing with prayers and death-cries in the hot Greek air.

“Hold still,” I murmured, reaching for the herbs in my healer's bag. The soldier bit down on leather as I cleaned the wound with wine. Not ideal, but better than the impure water from army skins. “The medicine will help with the pain.”

The herbs filled my senses as I worked – sharp thyme to cleanse, sweet lavender to calm, bitter yarrow to slow bleeding. Each one had been blessed in temple springs at dawn, their power enhanced by sacred ritual and practical knowledge passed down through generations. Between my fingers, they became something more than simple plants – a bridge between divine healing and mortal medicine.

A shadow fell across my work, and my heart recognized its shape before I looked up. Alexandros stood like astatue of Ares come to life, his armor catching Greek sunlight like captured fire. Blood and dirt streaked his face, but his eyes – those impossible blue eyes – held the same warmth they always did when looking at me.

“The eastern flank is falling,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of command that sat so naturally on his shoulders. “We need you there, Elias. Their healer was taken by enemy arrows.”

I tied off the bandage with practiced efficiency, helping the soldier to his feet. One of his companions supported him toward the rear lines where my apprentices waited. Only then did I meet Alexandros's gaze properly, letting myself feel the full force of our connection.

“More wounded?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. There were always more wounded in this endless war.

“Too many.” His hand found my shoulder, the touch electric even through layers of armor and cloth. “Valerius is watching from the temple. He'll send more supplies if we need them.”

I glanced up toward the sacred hill where our healing temple stood watch over the carnage. Sure enough, my mentor's familiar figure stood at the highest point, his priest's robes catching the wind. Something in his posture spoke of concern rather than just observation.

“He should be resting,” I said, worry coloring my voice. “He was up all night with the fever cases.”

“You know Valerius,” Alexandros smiled. “He won't rest while his healers are in the field.” His expression shifted to tactical focus. “But there's no time – the eastern line needs us now.”

We ran together through the chaos of battle, his warrior's grace matching my healer's speed. How many times had we done this? How many battlefields had we crossed side by side, his sword guarding my work, my hands mending his warriors? The familiarity felt deeper than the two years we'd known each other, like something written in our souls rather than just our memories.

A cry for help pulled me toward a fallen archer. The man's leg was badly mangled, blood pulsing in a way that spoke of severedvessels. I pulled sacred herbs from my bag, began the chants that would focus their power while my fingers worked.

“Hold them back!” Alexandros shouted to his men, forming a defensive ring around my work. “Give him time!”

My hands never shook as I packed the wound with blessed herbs, as I stitched torn flesh with thread soaked in sacred oils. This gift had always been steady, had marked me for temple service from childhood. Each motion was both practical and divine – medicine and magic intertwined as they had been since Asclepius first taught healing to mortals.

“Breathe,” I told the archer as I worked. “Focus on the temple. On Apollo's light.”

Through the chaos of battle, I heard Valerius's voice carried on the wind, chanting the ancient prayers that strengthened our healing work. His presence was a comfort – he had taught me everything I knew about bridging the mortal and divine, about using herbs and faith together to fight death's gathering dark.

“Elias!” Alexandros's warning shout yanked my attention back to immediate danger. Enemy forces had breached our defensive line, bronze spears gleaming as they charged our position. My hands, stained with herbs and blood, reached instinctively for the short sword at my belt. The weapon felt familiar in my grip, though healers were not meant to be warriors.

The air grew thick with smoke from nearby fires, screams and battle cries mixing into a terrible chorus. Through the chaos, I saw Valerius descending from the temple hill, his medicine bag bouncing against his hip as he ran to join us. My mentor's face showed the same determination I felt – death would not claim more lives than necessary today.

“The surgical tools you asked for,” he called, tossing me a wrapped bundle. “Blessed at dawn. Use them well!”

Alexandros moved to cover Valerius's approach, his sword flashing in the Greek sun as he cut down an enemy soldier. “The line's breaking,” he shouted. “We need to fall back to the temple!”

Time seemed to slow as I gathered my wounded archer, as Alexandros's men formed a protective ring around us. Valerius reached our position, his healer's hands already moving to help support the injured man. Together, we began the fighting retreat toward sacred ground.

The battle swirled around us like a storm, bronze and blood and screaming. But in our small pocket of relative calm, three souls moved as one – the warrior, the healer, and the priest, each playing our parts in this eternal dance. Alexandros's sword cleared our path, my hands worked their healing, and Valerius's prayers wrapped around us like divine armor.

We reached the temple steps as the sun touched noon-height, its light turning marble columns into spears of gold. The wounded were laid in shaded porticos where apprentice healers waited. Alexandros's men formed a defensive line at the base of the sacred hill, buying us time to work.

“You've done well,” Valerius said quietly as he helped me organize supplies for the next wave of injured. His eyes held pride and something else – a weight of knowledge I didn't yet understand. “Both of you. The gods are pleased.”

Alexandros simply nodded, his warrior's focus still on the battle raging below. But his free hand found mine for just a moment, a brief touch that carried volumes of unspoken meaning. Valerius pretended not to notice, but his small smile spoke of understanding.

The day stretched ahead, full of more wounded, more battles, more tests of skill and faith. But here, in this moment, we were exactly where we needed to be – three souls bound by fate and choice, fighting death with all the tools we'd been given.

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