Category : Books-Fiction

Sub Category : Fantasy

'My father was a great military man, more of a tactician than a warrior, which is why he was surprised when he was thrust on the front line with just a sword and a shield. The generals commanded on great stallions and the foot soldiers were on ... well ... by the end their knees. 
    The great Kingdom of Koronis fell by the the army of Elatus. My father had been on the winning side more times than the limbs he had left but everything comes to an end. In a little fishing village near Meditrine. That's where his army was led to, to stock up, rest and prepare for the next days battle. They gave him the job of time keeper, he had to stay up through the night to keep watch and when morning broke choose the perfect time to advance up Staxton Hill and meet the Ischian fleet in the burrowing valley.
    He got it wrong. 
    It wasn't his fault; the hills hid the sun until it could glimpse through a tiny crevasse forked into the hillside.  And by that time the fleet had reached the village.
    His army weren't ready and they knew it. Those villagers were told the men would come and leave within a day, instead more arrived and they were even less polite.
    They massacred the whole lot of them. When they saw my father and his men unarmed and defenseless, they took it upon themselves to kill the villagers first. Those deemed more worthy to die first, I think they call it gloating.
    So there you have it, my father the disgraced war veteran. Resp-              onsible for the deaths of everyone in that village near Meditrine.
     And it may well say that on his tombstone when they get round to burying him but that's not entirely true. It's not his fault, it's their fault, them who started the war - that senseless loss of life.
And the other things not true either, not everyone died who lived in that village. He saved one, that disgraced war villain who couldn't even count time.
    A 10 year old, no older than that. Small for his age, his boots were strapped to his kneecaps and had clearly been worn by past users long long gone. He wore a cape fastened tight to his torso in a way which showed whoever tied it was scared he might lose it some time or some place along the line. It was dark blue so I don't see how he could have in the fazed green marshes and boglands surrounding him. His marble black hair which poked out from under his hood shon against the dullness of background, it looked odd seeing something so dark in such a grey place. 
    I can't fathom it, the height of innocence mixed into the middle of the cruelty of war. And as it turns out neither could my father. He abandoned his men and tracked him down, just a little serving boy who'd brought him a bucket of water for the night. He was his first thought, out of everything. Some would call it insignificant, some would still blame him for the fall of an empire, but that's not important, is it? He did his best and it wasn't his fault.
    So he stole him away. Away from the spears and the knives,  the arrows and the lances and the swords and the crossbows and ... his whole life. That thing wrapped up in a burning village. 
He led him to safety, took him up this big hill on the west side,  this hill here in fact, the very one we stand on. Can you see boy?'
    I point him in the general direction of where I'm leading him to.
    'Can you see where we're headed to yet? That little spring at the top.'
    He nods begrudgingly. He doesn't want to be here
    'I do hope I'm not boring you boy. I've told this story so many times. I've not had a complaint yet!'
    He nods.
    'Your name is Asclepius isn't it?' He nods again. 'Yeah, well his was Ophiuchus. Such a small boy he was. Hardly had enough time to ask for his name - had my father. Time was always his weak-      ness. Not enough of it to go around
    And he was bleeding - Ophiuchus, the boy I mean. My father did well to smuggle him away from the enemy but a stray dagger in the back of the leg is always difficult to stop. But he carried him out, a lone child from the wreckage.  He put pressure on the wound and stopped it bleeding. He treated him. And yet they call him a villain.'
    'A wound just like yours boy, see that one there.' He screams in pain that that's fine, a knife wound like that is destined to leave a scar.
    'And he helped him, if he'd left him to flee quicker he'd have died. Like you if I leave now. And he carried him to the top when he fainted.' I pick him up; his hood drops and dangles from his limp head.
    'He used all his strength, all his might,  all those who criticised him said he'd lost. And when they reached the top the child stirred, as if he knew they'd arrived.'
    Asclepius did the same, stirred in my arms when he shook him. The sight before us was immaculate, the stunning view of sweeping hills flowing as it was liquid into the horizon was overshadowed spectacularly by the still spring water, entrapped between two risen banks on all sides to form a perfectly still, perfectly undisturbed lake. A small patch of ground in the middle was its only moving part as the grass was covered by the lapping waves, only present in the middle. The outer layers were as still as could be.
   'And here we are. Do you know what they call this hill? I think they call it Epidaurus, after the Greek city. And it was here they rested ... permenantly.'
   'Here let me help you boy, Asclepius! Can you hear me?' He collapses onto the floor, blood pouring from his open wound. 'And it was just like this, that was my father's problem, how do you stop the blood flowing. Bloods dirty,  it gets everywhere.' I clean my knife from the staining red.
    'He was a good man my father, and once he knew he couldn't do anymore he laid him to rest. He picked up the child and laid to rest in the water. He looked over him as he was submerged and for the briefest of moments his eyes flickered, as they looked back at my father though a sheet of thin liquid. It was like looking between two world's.
    And then he was gone, my father went to the banks and made a permenant home for himself on the sand, as he put an arrow through his head.
    See over there, no of course you can't - but that's where it's supposed to be isn't it. His final resting place. But there's no grave there, no sign he ever existed. The only memory of exists as his torment: there's the man who let an entire empire perish. His king, his people, his family rejected him. Apollo struck him off the records. But they don't know he spent his last minutes saving a boy from his death, the greatest act of kindness imaginable.
    Because the boy rose again, out of the springs of eternal life, he climbed high and high to take me to the waters which revived my  life.
    Because that boy was me. I was the one he saved. Your people may tell you he was a coward who let countless men die, but that wasn't his fault, his heart was good and out of everyone he plucked me out of my village and breathed new life into me. He took me to the waters which healed my wounds and for that I owe him my life. He may not have actually been my father but he did what a father is supposed to. He gave life. 
    And what was his reward? Be berated by his side, cast out of an enemy of the kingdom who surely fell to rot in the depths of hell. Well now he'll get his reward as he rises from the ashes like I did.'
   I pick up Asclepius, his hair blackened like the raven which swarmed around me as I lowered him into the pool of water, submerging him head to toe. Bubbles swarm around him, clouding the boy from my view.
    'He never even found out my name. Ophiuchus - it means the bringer of life. I rose from the dead with a bleeding wound and no air. No one around. It gives immortality, it's the only explanation. And maybe, Asclepius, it may accept a sacrifice. One blood for another - yours for his - a man - a hero who deserves to live - who deserves recognition -'
    His eyelids flicker as I press him down. 
    I'm not mad - this really did happen just as I remember it - I swear it. Not a word wrong.
    Cause it wasn't his fault. 
    It wasn't his fault.
    It wasn't his fault.
    It wasn't my fault.