7. What Once Was
CHAPTER 7
What Once Was
Ancient Greece – 432 BCE
T he sacred spring bubbled beneath my hands as I prepared the morning's medicines, its waters blessed by Asclepius himself. Dawn painted the temple in hues of rose and gold, transforming ordinary marble into something divine. The Aegean's breath carried the essence of my healing gardens—crushed thyme, wild lavender, and the sharp sweetness of feverfew.
My fingers moved with the surety granted by years of service, grinding herbs with practiced reverence. The position of chief healer was both blessing and burden, granted by the gods themselves. In these troubled times, with war darkening our horizons, the weight pressed heavier still.
“The warriors return today,” Sofia murmured, her priestess's robes rustling like owl wings in the morning stillness. Her words, though gentle, pierced me like Apollo's arrows. How could I forget? The campaign against Sparta had raged through countless moons, and soon our temple would overflow with the battle-worn and dying.
But it was not only duty that quickened my pulse. One warrior's face haunted my dreams like a visitation from the gods—Alexandros, whose eyes held the storm-tossed might of Poseidon's realm. Our meetings before the campaign had been brief as summer lightning, yet they had branded themselves upon my soul.
“The gods test us in strange ways, Elias,” Sofia observed, her dark eyes carrying wisdom beyond her years. “Even the greatest healing can begin with a wound.”
“Speak plainly, Priestess,” I replied, though we both knew her meaning. “These remedies require focus.”
“As you wish.” A smile touched her lips. “Though perhaps it is not my words that trouble your focus.”
Before I could respond, the first cries reached us—wounded being carried up the temple steps on makeshift litters. The day of reckoning had arrived.
The temple filled quickly with the aftermath of war. Blood stained the sacred marble as soldiers groaned prayers to gods who seemed to have abandoned them. I moved among them as Asclepius had taught me, my hands steady as I cut through ruined flesh, cleaned festering wounds, and stitched skin with threads blessed in the sacred spring.
They called me blessed, these broken warriors. They whispered that my touch could call men back from Hades' shadowed realm. But such whispers were dangerous—the gods were jealous of their powers, and I was merely their instrument.
“Chief Healer!” The cry came from the temple steps. “We have another!”
My heart seized in my chest as they carried him in. Alexandros lay still as death upon his shield, his golden armor dulled by blood and grime. The wound in his side wept darkness—poison's cruel kiss marking flesh I had dreamed of touching under far different circumstances.
“He has fought the fever for three days,” said the soldier who bore him, voice heavy with the weight of too many losses. “We feared to move him, but...”
“You did right to bring him here,” I said, my voice steady though my soul trembled. “Quickly now—bring fresh water and clean linens.”
Piece by piece, I removed his armor, each layer revealing more of the man beneath the warrior. My fingers traced the poison's path through his flesh, marking where darkness had taken root. Though I had treated countless such wounds, none had ever felt so vital to my own survival.
His eyes fluttered open as I worked, green as the sea after a storm. Even clouded by fever, they held me like a prophecy fulfilled. “I knew,” he whispered, the words carrying on barely a breath. “I knew I would find you here.”
The words shouldn't have shaken me—fever often brought strange utterances. But something in his voice resonated with truths older than memory, deeper than reason.
“Be still,” I commanded softly, though my own heart raced like Apollo's chariot across the sky. “Save your strength.”
“I've strength enough for truth,” he murmured, his fevered gaze holding mine with fierce certainty. “I saw you... before. In dreams sent by the gods themselves.”
Sofia appeared at my side with fresh bandages, her presence both comfort and witness. “The Fates weave as they will,” she said softly, her words carrying weight beyond their meaning. “Some threads are dyed in blood.”
I didn't respond, but my hands lingered on Alexandros's wound longer than healing required. Every touch felt charged with divine purpose, every breath a prayer to gods I didn't dare name.
“The poison runs deep,” Sofia observed, helping me clean the blackened flesh. “It will take more than ordinary healing to draw it out.”
“Then we shall use extraordinary means,” I replied, reaching for herbs I rarely dared to mix. The combination was dangerous—as likely to kill as cure. But something deeper than medical knowledge guided my hands as I worked, something that whispered of destiny and divine will .
“You risk much,” Sofia warned, though she did not move to stop me. “The gods ? —”
“The gods led him here,” I said firmly, crushing the sacred herbs with practiced motions. “To my hands, to my healing. I must believe there is purpose in that.”
Alexandros's fever-bright eyes found mine again as I worked. “There is always purpose,” he whispered, words meant for my ears alone. “In every life, in every meeting. The gods know... even if we forget.”
His words sent shivers down my spine, but I forced my hands to remain steady as I applied the poultice to his wound. “Rest now,” I instructed, trying to sound like the healer I was rather than the man I struggled to be. “Let the medicines do their work.”
As unconsciousness claimed him once more, I found myself offering prayers to gods I hadn't known I believed in—not just for healing, but for understanding. For somewhere in the depths of my healer's soul, I knew Alexandros spoke truth I didn't yet comprehend.
Sofia's hand touched my shoulder lightly. “Some healings transform both healer and patient,” she said softly. “The gods do not grant such gifts without purpose.”
I watched Alexandros's chest rise and fall with each precious breath, knowing my life had shifted like the temple's shadows at midday. Whatever the gods had planned, whatever destiny they had woven, it had begun here—with poisoned wounds and fevered truths, with hands that healed and hearts that recognized what they couldn't possibly know.
Night fell over the temple like a goddess's veil, transforming marble columns into silver shadows. The chaos of battle-wounds and dying men gave way to cricket-song and soft groans. My hands remained steady as I worked, though exhaustion pulled at my limbs like lead weights.
Alexandros lay before me, his fever still raging despite my best efforts. The poison's dark lines had begun to recede, but victory remained uncertain as Athena's favor. I dampened a cloth in spring water blessed by morning prayers, my touch gentle as I pressed it to his burning brow.
His eyes opened slowly, green as the sea at dawn. For a heartbeat that felt eternal, we simply looked at each other. The temple seemed to shrink until nothing existed beyond the space between us, as though Chronos himself had paused time's endless march.
“You saved me,” Alexandros whispered, his voice rough as sand yet carrying the weight of prophecy. His hand moved with deliberate weakness to cover mine where it rested against his forehead. “I dreamed of this—of you. Of your hands bringing me back from darkness.”
My breath caught in my chest like a trapped bird. Every instinct honed by years of healing told me to dismiss his words as fever-dreams. But something deeper—something that felt old as the stones beneath us—recognized truth in his delirious certainty.
Sofia's earlier words echoed in my mind: The gods weave strange threads. Perhaps this was one such thread, pulling taut between us with divine purpose.
“I'm just a healer,” I said softly, though the words rang hollow as an empty amphora. Even as I spoke them, I knew they carried only surface truth.
“No,” Alexandros murmured, his fingers tightening weakly around mine. “You're more. I've known you... before this life began.”
The moon climbed higher, painting the temple in shades of silver and shadow. Other healers offered to take my place, to watch over the fevered warrior while I rested. I refused them all, claiming my hands knew this work best. But the truth burned in my chest like sacred fire—I couldn't bear to leave him.
Alexandros's sleep grew restless as night deepened, his dreams pulling strange words from his lips. “Elias,” he called out suddenly. “I've seen you before. Across battlefields. In dreams where time flows like water.”
My heart stumbled against my ribs as I dipped another cloth in cool water. “You're feverish,” I whispered, pressing it to his forehead even as my own skin burned with something that had nothing to do with illness. “The poison speaks through you.”
“No.” His eyes opened again, fever-bright but holding clarity that defied his condition. “The poison stripped away the veil. Now I remember... I remember everything.”
“Be still,” I instructed, trying to sound like the healer I was supposed to be. “Save your strength for healing.”
But his hand found mine again, his touch sending sparks through my flesh like Zeus's lightning. “Some truths are worth spending strength to speak,” he said, each word careful and deliberate despite his weakness. “I knew you would be here. The gods themselves showed me your face in dreams.”
I wanted to argue, to explain away his certainty with rational words about fever and delirium. But deep in my healer's soul, where intuition guided my hands through the most difficult cases, I recognized something I didn't dare name.
“The threads of fate are not for mortals to unravel,” I said finally, echoing priestess-wisdom though my voice shook.
“Yet here we are,” Alexandros replied, his smile carrying shadow of some deeper knowing. “Weaving our own pattern despite the gods' designs.”
The night stretched around us like a sacred offering, broken only by the soft sounds of sleeping patients and the eternal song of crickets. I continued my ministrations—checking his wound, applying fresh poultices, monitoring his breathing—but each touch felt charged with meaning beyond mere healing.
“Tell me you don't feel it too,” he whispered as I changed his bandages. “This connection between us. Like something written in the stars themselves.”
My hands stilled against his skin. Truth hovered between us, demanding acknowledgment. “I feel...” I began, then stopped, uncertain how to voice something that defied mortal explanation.
“Everything,” he finished for me, his fever-bright eyes holding mine. “You feel everything.”
The moon's light streamed through the temple's columns, turning the space around us into something sacred and strange. In that silvered moment, I allowed myself to admit what I'd known since they first carried him in—this was more than healing. More than duty. More than anything the mortal realm could explain.
“Rest,” I commanded softly, though my hand remained caught in his. “Dawn approaches, and healing requires strength.”
“I've strength enough for truth,” he murmured, echoing his earlier words. “And the truth is, I've been searching for you across lifetimes. Even if I didn't know it until now.”
I sat beside Alexandros, my body heavy with exhaustion but my heart lighter than it had been since they brought him in. His fever had broken in the night, and now clarity shone in those sea-green eyes.
“You stayed,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. The surprise in his tone spoke of a man unused to others keeping vigil.
“Of course I stayed.” I began gathering my medicines, trying to maintain professional distance. But before I could rise, his hand caught my wrist, his touch sending sparks through my flesh like divine fire.
“I dreamed of you,” he said, his words low but intense. “Before we ever met. I saw your hands healing warriors, saw your eyes across battlefields. The gods themselves showed me visions.”
My heart stuttered in my chest. “How do you know all of this?”
“I... I don't know,” he admitted, frustration coloring his tone. “In my dreams, I saw visions. They told me to seek you here, that I would find safety in your hands.”
I froze, my own dreams rushing back like a tide—dreams of a warrior with eyes like the storm-tossed sea, dreams that had haunted my sleep for years before he appeared in my temple. Sofia's words whispered through my mind: Some souls are too big for one lifetime.
The moment stretched between us, heavy with unspoken recognition. But before either of us could speak further, a familiar voice echoed from the temple entrance. Valerius, my mentor and friend, approached with his usual measured grace.
“The gods have blessed your healing, Elias,” he said warmly, his experienced eyes assessing Alexandros's improved condition. “Though I never doubted they would. Your gift grows stronger with each passing season.”
“I learned from the best,” I replied, grateful for his steady presence. Valerius had guided me since I first came to the temple, teaching me not just the art of healing, but the sacred responsibility it carried.
“Your warrior's recovery is remarkable,” Valerius observed, genuine pleasure in his smile. “Perhaps when he's stronger, you might share your treatment methods with my own healers? Such knowledge should be preserved.”
“Of course,” I agreed. Valerius had always encouraged the sharing of healing wisdom between temples. It was one of many reasons I trusted him so deeply.
“I owe my life to Elias's skill,” Alexandros said, his voice carrying both gratitude and something deeper. His eyes met mine, and that now-familiar spark of recognition passed between us.
Valerius's gaze moved between us thoughtfully. “The gods work in mysterious ways,” he said softly. “Sometimes they bring souls together for purposes beyond our mortal understanding.”
After he left to attend his own duties, Alexandros and I fell into easy conversation. He told me of battles and campaigns, of strategies and sieges. I shared knowledge of healing herbs and sacred springs, of the delicate balance between science and divine inspiration.
Our discussions ranged from philosophy to poetry, from the nature of destiny to the proper brewing of healing teas. There was an ease between us that defied explanation—as though we'd known each other for lifetimes, though this was our first meeting.
Sofia watched our growing connection from a distance, her dark eyes heavy with knowledge she wouldn't share. “Be careful, Elias,” she warned one morning. “Some flames burn too bright for mortal hearts to bear.”
But as I met Alexandros's gaze across the healing space, watched him grow stronger day by day beneath my care, I knew it was too late for caution. Whatever sparked between us—this recognition that felt older than time itself—had already taken root.
“Tell me about your dreams,” he asked one quiet afternoon, his voice carrying only to my ears. “Do you see them too? These visions that feel like memories we shouldn't have?”
I hesitated, but truth demanded voice. “I dream of battlefields I've never seen,” I admitted. “Of a warrior with eyes like yours, fighting beneath strange stars. But that's impossible—we've only just met.”
His smile carried mystery like an oracle's prophecy. “Perhaps the impossible is simply truth we're not yet ready to understand.”
That evening, Sofia found me in the temple gardens, her presence as steady as the stars above. “You care for him,” she said simply, no judgment in her voice. “More than a healer should.”
I focused on gathering herbs, avoiding her knowing gaze. “He's my patient.”
“He's more than that,” she replied. “I see how you look at each other. Like you've known each other forever.”
Before I could respond, footsteps approached - Alexandros, moving with growing strength through my herb garden. The moonlight painted him in silver, transforming him from warrior to something divine.
The sacred grove welcomed us like old friends, its ancient olive trees whispering secrets in the evening breeze. Alexandros's hands found my face, his touch gentle as a prayer. “I've waited lifetimes for you,” he whispered, the words carrying truth I couldn't explain but felt in my very bones.
I pulled him closer, our connection electric as Zeus's lightning. His lips met mine with the inevitability of tide meeting shore, and the world fell away. There was only this: the press of his body against mine, the taste of destiny on his tongue, a love powerful enough to span centuries.
For now, there was only us, only this moment, only a love that felt older than time itself ? —
I jerked awake in my bed, sweat cooling on my skin as reality crashed back. My heart thundered against my ribs as I tried to orient myself. Manhattan's pre-dawn skyline glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread out forty stories below my penthouse. 5:27 AM. Almost time for work.
But the dream clung to me like incense, so vivid I could still feel Alexandros's hands on my face. Still taste his lips on mine.
Moonlight silvered the modern furnishings of my bedroom, transforming sleek surfaces into something ancient and strange. For a moment, the shadows played tricks, turning my minimalist space into marble columns and sacred groves.
My head throbbed as I tried to make sense of the dream. It had felt so real. But that was impossible. I'd never been to Greece. I'd never known anyone named Alexandros. And yet...
I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to sort fantasy from reality. The dream was already fading, but something lingered - a sense of connection I couldn't explain. My hands shook slightly as I reached for my phone.
5:45 AM. Time to get ready for work.
Work. Yes. That was real. Concrete. The ER would be waiting, with its predictable chaos and measurable outcomes. Not like these strange dreams that left me feeling off-balance, yearning for something I couldn't name.
I deliberately didn't think about how Alex's eyes had seemed so familiar in that board meeting. Didn't think about why my hands had trembled when he'd looked at me. Some things were better left unexamined.
But as I turned away from the window, the lingering scent of herbs and olive trees followed me like a ghost I couldn't quite believe in.