[SP] A Man at War
Grey mist curled over the surface of the lake, quailing under the assault of the dawn sun, which rose over the opposite shore. The man turned the cold cup of tea held in his hands.
The clock in the kitchen ticked and tocked, loud in the manner that all over-priced clocks felt they had to be. The ticking rose in pitch, becoming a steady, robotic, beep, beep, beep. It was intrusive; he hated that clock. He had always hated it. But he couldn't find the heart to throw it away.
His wrist flicked out as he checked the time, and with a deep sigh, he turned and placed the cup on a nearby side table. He sank into his chair, lost in the thoughts and memories of the past.
The day passed as it always did - slowly and suddenly. The mist surrendered to the sun. The sheep arrived in the field by the lake shore to idly munch on the grass. Lunch was a sandwich hastily made. Another cup of tea appeared at his hand somehow. He didn't remember making it, and that one was cold now too.
Eventually the grey clouds turned a fiery red. One more day had ended.
He walked down the hallway towards his front door, past the many photos of a smiling, happy family. Soon, he told himself, he would find the time to take them down.
He sat to put his boots on. They were the cleanest they had been for a while. People told him that going for a hike again would help, but he was yet to find a day where the motivation took him. He grabbed his coat from the hook beside the heavy oak door. Three other coats were hung up on neighbouring pegs, little woollen hats sat above them. He hesitated.
His hand reached up to pull down one of those hats. He pulled it close to his nose and breathed in. Like a drowning man coming up for air, a breath had never been sweeter. Cold winter days with hot chocolates at the park, bike rides in autumn, jumping in puddles made from the spring rains with children's giggles leading the way.
He replaced the hat with a leaden arm. The scent was starting to fade.
Reluctantly, he put his coat on, driven by a routine that ensconced him. His only trip outside these days. The phone beeped in his pocket. He fumbled it out of his pocket. A security update. No messages. No missed calls. The front door creaked open and he walked out into the evening.
It was a short walk to the pub. They had lived in a village in the Lake District. A village that was quiet for most of the year, but each school holiday brought a stampede of necessary but frustrating tourists. His local was one that catered for both types of patrons, which crudely meant that a pint was a little cheaper for him.
Around the next corner, the pub came into view. Whitewashed roughcast walls, with windows that glowed orange in the evening gloom. A chalkboard promised fine ales and homemade food. Turns out every home uses a microwave these days.
Warm air buffeted him as he walked through the door, laden with scents of stale beer, sweat, and boiled vegetables. On the right-hand side, the usual scene lay before him: polished horse brasses shone from the exposed ceiling timbers; a crimson carpet carved by the threadbare path from entrance to bar; decades-old pictures of the local football team hung from the wall. He had never asked, but suspected the landlord was somewhere to be found in them. On the far side, away from the bar, a roaring fire blazed in the cast-iron hearth with bushels of herbs hung over it. The landlord kept that fire going regardless of how busy the pub was, it was one of the reasons he kept coming back.
Two men propped up the bar, with one standing behind it. They turned to regard him as he walked toward the polished oak surface.
One was in his usual outfit, a moth-bitten British Army jumper with frayed sleeves. One sleeve ended in a skeletal hand that gripped a pint glass with white knuckles. Beer foam lay across his bushy, white moustache. No one knew if the 'Colonel' had actually been in the army or not, he didn't talk about it, and no one asked directly. The rest of the village saw him less as a veteran and more a senile old man believing his old pub stories. Regardless, The Colonel had always had a cheery wave for his children, and so the man gave him an upward nod in greeting.
The other man was the local drunk. The same spot each day, the same drink. No one knew how he could afford to keep coming to the pub each day, but he was never drunk in public and never caused trouble. He kept himself to himself. After a short, unfocussed stare, he turned back to his drink.
Lastly, the landlord policed the bar; the only person who poured the drinks come high or low season. He surveyed his territory through small, black eyes set deep in his pockmarked face, sizing up any new patron with an up and down glance. A spotless black apron graced his neck and strained over his rotund midriff. He stood there, polishing a glass that already had a dazzling sheen - the high-pitched whine rising to a protesting scream.
The landlord lowered the glass as the man walked up to the bar. "The usual, mate?"
"Aye, yes please." A pint was poured, money was exchanged, and a short while later, he moved over to his table. Just by the fire, he sat in his usual chair, where he could stare at the flames, and enjoy the warmth.
The pub was silent, save for the quiet pattering of drizzle against the windows, and the crack of the flaming logs in the hearth.
Halfway through his pint, just like he knew it would, the pub's front door banged open. Heavy footfalls thudded across the carpet. The chair next to him scraped back, and the God of War thumped into his seat.
The chair groaned under the strain. The man felt the intensity of his new drinking partner, like a storm trapped in a jar. The god turned to regard him. Grey wolf furs were draped over his broad shoulders, damp from the rain, the smell of iron and oil smothered the pub's familiar scents. Woad tattoos swirled over his arms, depicting torcs, Celtic knots, swords and animals long since extinct on Britain's shores. Each visit had brought different images to the god's arms. Long, braided red hair framed a scarred face. Gentle eyes reflected the man's regard, out of place compared to the rest of the god's fierce presence. In a hand thick with scars, he held a pint of Guinness.
The beer was placed on the table with a solid thunk.
His murmured words carried through the air like thunder roiling through silk. "How are you?"
"Surviving. Same as usual. You?"
The god grunted in response, unconvinced. They were quiet for a time, both staring into the flames. Occasionally, each would take a sip from their beer.
The God of War turned to his companion. "You felt some good memories today."
The man's face tugged into a smile, his eyes fixated on the flames. "Yes. Courtesy of my youngest. We were an outdoor family. Rain or shine, we would always have them outside, playing, finding something out in nature to explore. I had to hose her down after one of our adventures she was that muddy..."
The god grunted in something that sounded like amusement. "Good memories."
The man said nothing in response, so the god continued in a whisper. "A heavy shield is hard to bear, but you get stronger by carrying it rather than throwing it aside." He took a long pull of his Guinness. "Speaking of which, this will be my last visit to you."
His grip on the pint glass tightened. "Why?"
The god contemplated a short while before responding. "You are stuck." The god jabbed a giant finger into the table. "Trapped here." The finger then swung over to the man's temple. "And there."
They fell silent as the Colonel made his way past the table on his way to the restrooms. They took a moment to sip and watch the flames dance.
"You will need to be armed with three things. A shield, a weapon, and a purpose. I will give you each of these things so that you may continue your battle."
"Why?"
The god drew a deep breath, a look of contemplation carved into his face. "I was known by many names on these isles. Camulus, Andraste, Tyr, Mars. I am a God of War. That is my nature. And so I would see you keep fighting. I hold the battles and memories of countless soldiers. I would have you see through the eyes of three others."
The man shook his head. "I'd give anything for another chance with my own past. Another chance to live my memories. Be with them. To savour every second, every breath, every hug from them."
"You have your memories, savour those. I am giving you something different."
The man leaned back in his chair as a trickle of sweat marched down his face. The fire blazed brighter. His face flushed with the heat. The fire grew. He glanced back at the bar; the three other occupants of the pub were unaffected.
The fire grew and danced, spreading left, then right, burning away the worn carpet, the exposed timber, the tired jukebox. The god placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, keeping him in place as the flames filled his vision. "Witness."
***
The flames died and in their place were weather-worn walls. He was kneeling by a bedside and a simple bronze cross hung above him. His calloused hands were clasped together in prayer, his vision framed with a brown hood. His name was Brother Stoic.
After a bowl of hearty porridge, he spent the day in his garden. Those calloused hands tended to fragile plants and dug into the earth with reverence. Water babbled from a small tap into a stone trough and the air had never smelt so clean, laced with the scent of herbs. To Brother Stoic, God was not found in a musty church, but within the growth of living things.
Outside the monastery however, was war. Tribal boundaries were fought over, chieftains schemed and betrayed, while the High King of Britain attempted to pull them together, often through force of arms.
The next morning, the young prince arrived at the gates wearing a golden circlet. The High King was dead, a final betrayal by the warring chieftains. Fear for his life had chased his son all the way to the monastery.
The brother monks held a pitched debate behind closed doors as the boy was left forgotten, sitting silent in a grey hallway. Some monks wanted to turn him away, others saw leverage, only a few wanted to shelter the prince. Brother Stoic however, listened, and watched. He saw a child. Red-eyed with no tears left, trembling despite the warmth of the summer sun.
The debate waged on for days, and in that time Brother Stoic cared for the boy. He brought food, clean water, and warm blankets. He soothed him at night when the nightmares came. He sat nearby, silently, as the boy stared at the walls. That companionable quiet, the boy would later say, was the first peace he had known since his parents were murdered in their own court.
The debate raged on. He led the boy to his garden, now unkempt from his absence. He silently prayed with the boy in the earth, taught him how to tend to the delicate shoots, listened with him to the water dripping on the copper roof. They knew stillness and peace.
The debate had gone on too long.
The gates shattered inwards. A warband galloped into the courtyard, brandishing spears and torches. They demanded the boy. The monks stepped back. Brother Stoic stepped forward, arms raised high, eyes piercing the warband's leader.
He moved with certainty, wordlessly leading the warriors away to the far side of the monastery. In doing so with such steely determination, it gave the monks strength, and the boy the time to flee.
The warband eventually grew tired of following the silent monk. They jeered and beat him, and when realising their quarry had left, they captured and tortured him. Brother Stoic was true to his name throughout his final days.
He would never know, but years later that same boy, now a man, would bring the British Isles together not through war, but with quiet diplomacy, to fight back against Roman invaders, and become a king.
***
The image of the king disappeared in a blink and was replaced by the village pub. The fire roared at its usual size, the timbers no longer on fire. Besides the fire's crackle, a glass squealed under the landlord's ministrations.
Across the table, the God of War watched him, the flames still burning in his eyes. "He spoke nothing, but without him, the kingdom falls. No statues honour that man, but I remember him."
"Why show me this?"
The god was silent.
The man stared into his empty pint glass as his world dissolved, only to be replaced by the robotic beeping of the intensive care unit.
"Ready?" said the god.
The man raised his empty glass and forced a smile. "I'll need another of these before we do that again," he said. The god merely nodded, and raised his empty glass.
Another exchange of money, and the man returned with two more pints for the table. "You'll get the next one right?"
The god grunted in what sounded like agreement.
As soon as he landed in his seat, the fire roared once more. The man glared at the god. "At least wait until I've had a sip."
***
The flames died, revealing a flat. Cheap walls that looked like cardboard bordered the room, their magnolia paint peeling off in strips. The overhead light was on, but too feeble to reach the corners. A coffee table squatted in the middle, covered in half-finished cups of tea, long gone cold. The sweet, greasy stench of Chinese takeaway festered in the air.
A man sat on the sofa. Not him, but someone close. An old school friend. The source of the jokes and all the harmless trouble they used to get up to. Never without a grin, his name was Tom.
Tom still looked the same. Grey coming through at the temples, a few more lines around the eyes, a bit thinner perhaps. He wore the same hoody he had always worn, his thumb absently stroking the frayed sleeves. His phone was gripped in his hand, its screen glaring up at him. He swiped a couple of times, then sighed and set it down.
The god stepped into the vision. "He wanted to call you. But you're no longer here. You stopped fighting years ago."
Tom. Memories came streaming back, a year before the accident. They were at another friend's barbecue. The sun shone in a blue sky; a football chased by a multitude of kids; cheeks hurting from the laughter and reminiscing over old times. Slapping each other on the back, promising a pint soon, both knowing it would be another year or two before someone else organised a meet-up. It was the last time he saw him.
In the flat, Tom walked over to a cabinet. Photos littered the top. Friends and family all laughing and smiling with a younger, happier version of Tom. He picked one up, a photo with Tom, the man, and his old school friends.
The picture trembled as Tom reached out to touch the man's face in the picture. "Miss you buddy, see you soon." He placed the picture back on the cabinet, out of line with the others. Then he slowly walked to the bathroom.
The man glanced at the God of War. "Stop," he breathed. "Stop," he said again, louder. The god did not heed him. Tom did not heed him. The bathroom door closed, and Tom was gone by morning.
The man blinked. The flat was replaced with a funeral. Everyone he knew had turned out to say their final goodbyes. He watched each of his friends stand up to give tribute to their friend, the one who was the life of their party, their glue. The words rang hollow, they were not said when it counted.
"Why did none of them call?" he shouted at the god.
"I know not" came the rumbling response. "But are you any better? This could be happening to Tom now. To any of your companions. Do you not hope for someone to reach out to you?" The god looked up into the grey sky. "Silence takes more men than war." The god held out a hand. "Come. Onward, to the last."
***
The pub returned, but the fire was no longer lit. Instead, the iron hearth contained a basket of flowers. He whirled around in his seat. The landlord was not behind the bar, rather a young couple bustled around each other, pouring drinks for a small crowd of patrons.
In the corner sat himself. Older now, more grey than not, and god, he looked worn. He wore jeans, a thick green cardigan, and the same leather boots, a bit more creased and splattered with dried mud. Opposite sat a younger man, red-eyed and unsure. His older self didn't do anything special, just asked how he'd been. The words flowed out of the younger man like a broken dam.
"Not a hero that will be remembered, there will be no statues, but you will be enough. Enough for a lot of people."
***
A blink and the pub returned. His pub. Complete with a roaring fire, and a pig-eyed landlord. The chair creaked as the God of War shifted next to him.
"Like the monk."
"Yes, like the monk."
The man's pint was still held in his grasp, his face felt tight like tears had long since evaporated. He pulled his hands away to rub his face.
"Your guilt over your family's final moments crowds out all other thoughts."
"I couldn't fight for them."
The oncoming headlights. A flash of pain. The beeping machines. The chemical-thick air. His whispers of futile encouragements in their ears. Had he really been heard? Had any of his impotent whispers done a single thing?
"You were enough. You were there. Even as they faded one by one."
The man took a shaking gulp from his glass. "I have bad thoughts at times..."
"We all do." A giant stabbed a thick finger against his temple. "The mind likes to imagine, to find new ways of escaping. But broken blades still cut, and salted earth allows crops to grow again in time."
The god stood up and placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. "You have lost everything. That does not mean you have no fight. It means all you have left is the fight. You fight for the next breath. The next moment. Stack those moments, those wins, and things will get better."
The god stood with a rattle of chains and made his way to the front door, slowing only to nod an acknowledgement at the old man in a British Army jumper. A small nod was returned.
***
Not too far away, feeling like he was near the end of his battle, another man stood on a shore. Cold wind blew from the sea, whipping his hair. His coat pockets were filled with rocks, and the waves lapped at the top of his boots. He stood there, battling with the emptiness of his thoughts.
On an overlooking cliff, a hulking god with wolf furs hanging from his shoulders looked down, willing the fight to continue for one more breath.