The Soldier

The war had been raging for centuries. 900 years of bloodshed and carnage. Around him, allies and foes fell, their screams falling on deaf ears, the ringing of metal on metal long ago ignored. He fought as hard as his comrades, slicing through his enemies with as much strength as one could muster from fighting for nine centuries straight. The Immortal glanced around quickly, scanning the battlefield and gave a silent thanks that the form of warfare had not updated since the Dark Ages, and swords and arrows still flew. Within the second of his misplaced attention, the young-looking man was cut through the shoulder by a raging enemy with a long sword, held in the two hands of a large brute who looked as tired and defeated as the immortal. Before he fell, the man pierced his foe’s armour in the stomach with his own battle sword, before allowing himself to fall from the world in the sky like a fallen angel.

The plummet down to the Earth was slow, the distance shrinking as speed gathered. The warrior felt hot, and weak, but didn’t care, hoping to welcome the blissful death of falling millions of kilometres from Olympus to Earth. Despite knowing of his own immortality, or perhaps especially knowing, he still craved death. His armour felt hot against his skin, pressure around him pressing tighter as he fell through the many atmospheres surrounding the planet. He looked down to see the dizzying height still between him and his destination, relishing in the sight of open country, knowing that the sight of an armoured man falling from the sky in a densely populated area would raise questions his Gods would no doubt punish him for. The ground came quickly, and as he hit, he felt all of his bones crush and pain sear through his already beaten body. His heart dropped, though not from having every part of his body break at once, but from the knowledge that this would not be enough to kill him, he the unkillable who wants for death. The darkness consumed him quickly, leaving behind a broken, bloody man with his skin torn off in many places lying surrounded in his crater, smoke coming of his leather tunic and chainmail.

It was many months before the fallen soldier awoke once more, his body tired and bloody, but no longer broken and skinned. He blinked and looked around, wincing at the brightness of the half-moon shining above him, the stars twinkling brightly around her. As he slowly sat up with a groan, he craned his neck to be able to see over the crater but could not. He groaned and fell back down with a thunk!

As he stood again, the sound of a puttering roar can be heard, causing the tense immortal warrior to spin quickly in the direction and reach for his sword, only to find the weapon missing from its sheath, remaining instead in the guts of the enemy he used it to fell. The soldier cursed, for without his weapon, fighting off the beast creating those hideous sounds would be tedious, but, he thought, it could be done. The choking and puttering sound grew closer and louder, and the immortal wondered if the monster was ill, or dying, the sounds sounding remarkably alike with the racking cough of a dying animal. But, just when the man was preparing to fight, the coughing stopped, and a loud banging can be heard, followed by swearing of a tongue he had recently learnt: the modern English. He tried to remember what his superintendent had taught him and his fellow fighters, and the expressive need to learn a language their enemies had yet to decipher. He called up to get the angry sounding man’s attention.

“Ho!” He called. A sputter came from above, and as the soldier looked up his crater of failure, a face looked down at him, the face of a young man, who appeared no older than the fallen fighter, though most likely a considerable junior to the three-thousand-year-old “young” man.

“How the Hell did you get down there!?” Cried the young man, incredulous.

“I fell.” Said the soldier.

“From where, the sky?” The boy continued. The soldier nodded.

“That is indeed from which I fell, and if you shall, I may require assistance in returning there.” The young man laughed, and asked if the soldier was “high”, a term which confused the old warrior.

“I am low compared to where I was.” He replied, “Now, can I ask for your assistance in leaving this hole? I do not think I can make it out alone.” He glanced around as he said this, as if to make sure that he indeed did not think he could leave, with the smooth walls of the crater arching high above his head.

“Of course,” The lad replied, “I think I have some rope in the car. Hang on a sec.” The head disappeared, leaving a fuddled soldier to ponder the meaning of how he was to hold on to a “sec”, whatever that was. He was broken from his musing when a thud landed beside him, and a coil of long blue and yellow rope landed beside him, though the soldier had never seen such rope before. Long, thin and colourful, as compared to the thick, brown roped used for hauling he’d seen back home in Greece when he’d been young, and in Olympus during his fighting days. Gingerly, he took the rope between his hands, and began his ascent, much to the shock of the boy.

“I was going to pull you up,” he said, as he helped the man over the edge of the hole, and hauling the rope up after him, “But it seems you didn’t need it.” As the boy began to wrap the thin rope up in an eight formation, which the soldier decided to ask about later, they watched each other curiously.

“So…where are you from?” The young man asked, taking in the clothes, features and accent of his new-found friend.

“Err…Greekland--Greece.” He corrected, thinking of his lessons in language. “I lived in Athens.” The boy frowned.

“Athens? How? I thought that place is just a ruin, like the Colosseum, or Macchu Picchu.”

“I wouldn’t know. I have yet to be there since my death three thousand years ago.” The boy balked, then laughed.

“Oh you are so high right now, aren’t you? No way your three thousand years old.” The boy let out a snort of laughter.

“Well,” began the immortal, “I was born three thousand years ago in the city of Athens, to my mother and father, Ionius and Philleia, a blacksmith and his wife. I lived a good life and followed in my father’s footsteps and began a career in smithing. Unfortunately when I was eight a soldier came and beheaded my father and raped my mother before dismembering her. Still, I grew up okay. I died when I was nineteen, after my young love’s father caught me with her. He had me flogged and I died of infection.” He shrugged, while the other boy looked horrified.

“You’re on something for sure.” He said. The Immortal sighed, and yawned, which caused the boy to yawn too.

“Come on, I have to put fuel in my car, then we can go. If you want, you can come to my place. You freak me out a little, but I don’t think you’re gonna murder me in my sleep or anything.”

“Many thanks, friend. I do not know of which you mean by ‘car’, however.” The warrior followed the boy as he led him back to a small blue metal contraption with semi-transparent walls. The boy opened part of the box and tossed in his rope, before going around the back, opening a door, and removing a weird container of sorts, and pouring it into a small flap on the side of the odd contraption. The soldier was becoming increasingly baffled by the box, which appeared to be an overgrown, overcomplicated food-box. The boy looked up and smiled, before opening one door and holding it, giving a gesture and a “get in”. The soldier cautiously did what he was told, sliding into the box and finding a small, uncomfortable seat, much like a soft and squishy throne. The boy closed the door and walked around to the other side, opening it and getting in. He started the box, startling the soldier as he realised the box is the “monster” he believed he heard earlier.

“My house is up the road a few k’s.” The boy explained, “I was out of town, visiting my sister, and it took a while getting back, which is why I’m driving on the roads so late. Normally I wouldn’t risk it.” The boy continued talking, with the soldier nodding and listening, though hardly understanding what “preggers” or “kicked the bucket” meant. He had kicked a bucket many times, and nothing had ever happened to him. As they pulled into a small yard, the immortal spotted what must be the boys living quarters, a large house compared to that of his father’s, and about the size of his army’s barracks for foot-soldiers.

“Yeah, this is it. The crib. Nothing fancy but suits me well. I wish it were closer to town though.” The boy shrugged and climbed out. The soldier went to, before realising the door made no sense to him. Was he supposed to shift the crank at the bottom? Or pull the lever just below the clear wall? The soldier tried the crank, and the wall began to move, lowering down to allow the soldier a small amount of room to get out. He was confused, because the way the boy had done it had opened the entire wall of the box, but this only opened part of it. He shrugged and climbed through the hole in the wall made by pulling the crank, dropping to his feet beside it, only to hear laughing and looked to see the boy standing a few paces ahead, laughing himself red-faced. He approached the confused soldier and showed him how to open and close the car door properly, without having to clamber through what he called the window.

“Come on it. I’ve got some pies I think we can cook for tea, and we can chat.” And the boy led the fallen soldier inside.