11. War Dreams
CHAPTER 11
War Dreams
435 BCE - Outside Athens
C opper 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 a statue 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 severed vessels. 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.
None of us could know how it would end. None of us could see the threads of destiny already beginning to weave their tragic pattern. For now, there was only this: hands steady with sacred purpose, hearts beating in ancient rhythm, and a bond between souls that felt older than time itself.
The battle horns sounded again, calling us back to our eternal work. Alexandros raised his sword, sunlight blazing along its length like divine fire. Valerius gathered his medicines, his prayers already beginning. And I... I stood between them, herbs staining my fingers, feeling the weight of both martial and divine power flowing through our united purpose.
Together, we descended the temple steps to meet whatever fate awaited. Together, we would face the day's battles, heal its wounds, honor its sacrifices. Together, we were more than just warrior, healer, and priest – we were something ancient and powerful, something that even death itself would struggle to break.
My hands shook as I fumbled for the bedside lamp, each breath too loud in the quiet darkness. The clock's LED display read 3:17 AM, its red numbers harsh against the softer glow of city lights through my window.
I needed water. Needed to wash away the lingering taste of copper and dust that felt too real to be just a dream. My feet carried me toward the kitchen on autopilot while my mind remained half-caught in ancient Greece.
Which is why it took several heartbeats to register that the kitchen light was already on. That someone sat at my counter like they belonged there, like this was any normal night instead of an impossible moment that threatened everything I thought I knew about reality.
Alex looked perfectly at ease in my kitchen at 3 AM, two steaming cups of tea placed precisely on the granite counter before him. His suit was as impeccable as always, though the jacket draped over one of my chairs spoke of a casualness that felt strangely intimate. The scene should have been alarming – a man in my apartment in the middle of the night – but instead it felt... familiar. Like something we'd done a thousand times before.
“You remember the battle now,” he said quietly, pushing one of the cups toward the empty seat beside him. Not a question. Not even really a statement. Just simple acknowledgment of truth we both knew .
My hands gripped the doorframe as reality seemed to tilt sideways. I should call security. Should demand explanations. Should feel threatened by this invasion of my space. Instead, I found myself noticing how the kitchen light caught his eyes, turning them the exact shade of the Aegean in my dream. No, not dream. Memory.
“How did you get in?” The words came automatically, but we both knew that wasn't the real question. Not even close.
Alex's smile held warmth and ancient knowing as he replied, “The same way I always have.”
The words should have sounded like nonsense. Like the ravings of a madman. Like something that would send me running for my phone to call the police. Instead, they resonated with the truth of that battlefield still fresh in my mind – of other nights, other conversations, other times when he had simply... appeared when needed.
My feet carried me forward without conscious decision. Muscle memory from a thousand other midnight conversations led me to the seat beside him, my body remembering what my mind was only beginning to understand. The tea was perfect – honey and lemon, exactly how I took it. Exactly how I'd taken it in the temple after long nights of healing.
“Tell me,” I said finally, my hands wrapping around the warm cup that anchored me to now while my mind reached for then. “Tell me why I remember things that couldn't possibly have happened. Tell me why you're here. Tell me... everything.”
“Everything is a lot to cover at 3 AM,” he said gently. The familiar cadence of his voice sent echoes through my soul – of battlefield commands, of whispered endearments, of promises that spanned centuries. “But I can tell you what you're ready to hear.”
I studied him over the rim of my cup, letting myself really look for the first time. The distinguished grey at his temples that had been there in every life. The way he held himself – casual but alert, like a warrior who never fully relaxed. The ancient knowing in eyes that had watched me die and find him again through countless lifetimes.
“The battle,” I started, then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “It wasn't just a dream, was it?”
“No.” He sipped his own tea – chamomile with honey, the same blend he'd favored in Greece. “It was memory. One of many starting to surface.”
“But that's impossible.” The protest sounded weak even to my own ears. “People don't just remember past lives. They don't dream about ancient battles and wake up knowing how to use medicines that haven't existed for centuries.”
“Don't they?” His smile held gentle challenge. “Tell me, what herbs would you use for a wound that's showing signs of infection? Not modern antibiotics – the old ways. The temple medicines.”
“Thyme and garlic to cleanse,” I answered without hesitation. “Yarrow to slow bleeding. Honey as a base to hold it all together. But I shouldn't know that. I've never studied ancient medicine. I've never?—”
“You've never needed to study it,” he finished softly. “Because you already know. Your hands remember, even if your mind doesn't. Just like they remembered how to modify those architectural plans without training. Just like they shake sometimes for no reason you can explain.”
I stared at my hands wrapped around the teacup, seeing them stained with ancient herbs instead of modern surgical soap. “The temple,” I whispered. “It was real? All of it?”
“All of it.” His hand moved as if to cover mine, then stopped just short. Always giving me choice. Always letting me set the pace. “The healing, the battles, the sacred springs. Valerius teaching you the old ways. The soldiers you saved. The nights we...”
He trailed off as I tensed slightly. Not ready for that part yet. Not ready to acknowledge the way my heart recognized his voice, the way my soul knew his touch even across centuries .
“Why now?” I asked instead. “Why are these memories surfacing after all this time?”
“Because it's time,” he said simply. “Because some patterns need to be broken, some cycles need to end. Because Vale is remembering too, though he doesn't understand what he's remembering yet.”
The name sent a chill down my spine. “Vale? What does he have to do with any of this?”
Alex's expression darkened slightly. “Everything. And nothing. He's as bound to this cycle as we are, though his role has changed through lifetimes. In Greece, he was your mentor. Your friend. Until...”
“Until what?”
But he shook his head. “Some memories need to surface on their own. Pushing too hard too fast can do more harm than good.”
I wanted to argue, to demand answers to questions I was only beginning to form. But exhaustion pulled at me – physical and emotional, modern and ancient. My tea had gone cold while we talked, the kitchen clock ticking steadily toward dawn.
“This is insane,” I said finally, rubbing my temples. “You realize that, right? That this whole thing sounds completely insane.”
Alex's smile held gentle amusement. “More or less insane than the fact that you just remembered exact details about ancient Greek battlefield medicine that you've never studied?”
“That could be explained by... I don't know. Subconscious absorption of information. Maybe I read something somewhere and forgot about it.” Even to my own ears, the explanation sounded weak. “Or maybe this is all an elaborate prank. Maybe you've been researching me, finding ways to...”
“To what?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “To break into your apartment at 3 AM to make you tea exactly the way you like it? To somehow implant memories of battles and temples and healing techniques that aren't in any modern medical text?”
Put that way, it did sound ridiculous. But wasn't it more ridiculous to believe in past lives? In reincarnation? In the idea that Alex and I had known each other across centuries?
“You have to admit,” I said, studying my hands wrapped around the teacup, “this is a lot to take in. Past lives? Ancient memories? It's not exactly standard medical curriculum.”
“No,” he agreed easily. “But then again, neither is knowing exactly how to modify architectural plans without any training. Or recognizing Greek artifacts you've never seen before. Or feeling at home in temple galleries you've never visited.”
Each point hit uncomfortably close to truth. I'd been rationalizing away those strange moments of knowledge, those inexplicable feelings of familiarity. But now, with the battlefield memory still fresh in my mind...
“How do you know all this?” I asked, not sure I wanted the answer. “How do you know me?”
The question hung between us in the pre-dawn quiet. Outside, Manhattan slept while two men drank cooling tea and navigated impossible truths. The distance between us felt both infinite and nonexistent – Alex close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, but separated by death and time and Michael's ring heavy on my finger.
“You know how,” he said gently. “The same way you know about the herbs, about the temple, about everything else you're trying so hard not to remember.”
“No.” I pushed back from the counter, needing physical distance from the certainty in his voice. “No, reincarnation isn't real. It's a nice story people tell themselves to feel better about death, but it's not science. It's not possible.”
“Says the man who just remembered exact details of an ancient Greek battle he never fought in.” His smile held no mockery, only patience. “The surgeon whose hands know techniques that haven't been practiced in centuries. ”
“That could be explained by... by genetic memory maybe. Or some kind of collective unconscious thing. Jung wrote about?—”
“Jung wrote about archetypes and shared symbols,” Alex interrupted softly. “Not about knowing exactly how to mix specific healing herbs, or recognizing people you've never met, or dreaming in languages you've never learned.”
I had been speaking ancient Greek in the dream - not just understanding it, but thinking in it, the words as natural as breathing. “There has to be another explanation,” I insisted, but my voice sounded weak even to my own ears.
“Does there?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine. “Why? Because it doesn't fit your modern medical understanding? Because it can't be measured in a lab or proven in peer-reviewed studies?”
“Because people don't just get reborn!” I gripped my teacup so hard I was afraid it might break. “They don't just remember past lives over tea at 3 AM because some...” I gestured at him helplessly, “some developer breaks into their apartment and starts talking about ancient battles!”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “Most people don't. But we're not most people, are we? We never have been.”
The battlefield memory pressed against my mind. It felt more real than the kitchen around us, more true than anything except the operating room where my hands never shook.
“Why me?” I asked finally, my voice barely a whisper. “Why this? Why now?”
“Because it's time.” He reached across the counter but stopped short of touching me. “Because some souls are meant to find each other, no matter how many lives it takes. Because you're starting to remember anyway, whether you want to or not.”
The sky began to lighten outside my window, reality pressing in around our bubble of midnight truth. I should feel afraid, I realized distantly. Should question my sanity. Should throw this man out of my home and call security and pretend none of this was happening .
Instead, I found myself memorizing the way his hands moved as he gathered his jacket, comparing them to hands that had once wielded a sword in my defense. The same elegant strength, the same controlled power, the same tendency to reach for me before catching himself.
“I still don't believe this is real,” I said, but the protest sounded weak even to me.
“You do,” he replied gently. “Part of you does, anyway. The part that remembers. The part that knew me the moment you saw me in your ER.”
At my door, Alex paused. “The memories will keep coming,” he said softly. “Not because I'm forcing them, not because of any tricks or games. But because they're yours. They've always been yours.”
Then he was gone, leaving only two empty teacups and the lingering scent of honey and lemon to prove he was ever there. My hands shook as I cleaned up, my mind full of bronze and blood and questions I wasn't sure I wanted answered.
But for now, in the grey space between night and day, between what I thought I knew and what my soul remembered, I let myself consider impossible things. The weight of herbs in my healer's bag. The way battlefield sand felt under my knees. The precise angle of Mediterranean sun through temple columns.
I touched my empty teacup, fingers tracing patterns that matched Greek designs I shouldn't know. Everything felt both sharp and hazy – the immediate reality of my kitchen overlapping with older truths trying to surface. My wedding ring caught the growing light, and guilt twisted in my chest. Not just for Michael, but for older loves, other endings I couldn't quite remember.
The first hints of rush hour traffic drifted up from the streets below, modern sounds pulling me back to the present. Soon I would need to shower, dress, become the Chief of Emergency Medicine who dealt in observable facts and measurable outcomes. I would need to face Vale across conference tables, pretending I didn't feel ancient warnings whenever he was near .
But something had shifted in the quiet hours between dreaming and dawn. Whether I believed in past lives or not, whether I accepted these impossible memories or not, I couldn't deny the simple fact that I knew things I shouldn't know. Remembered things I couldn't possibly remember.
And somewhere deep in my soul, in a place that existed before modern medicine and scientific certainty, I recognized the truth in Alex's eyes. Even if I wasn't ready to admit what that meant.