It was the kind of fall that never seemed to end. A cold wind snaked through his bones, his chest felt as if a boulder had come crashing down, and then—bang—sharp agony exploded through him, plunging everything into darkness.
Allen's consciousness shattered like fragments of glass scattered in a storm. Bits of his old life pierced through: the bitter tang of cheap coffee, piles of unpaid bills on his desk, the pitiful glow of his late-night subscription revenue. His forty-five years of humdrum existence flashed by in a single, humiliating reel.
His head throbbed as if a dozen needles were being twisted inside his skull. Hearing returned first: faint bird songs, and… wait—was that a soft snore?
The scent in his nose was a curious mix of herbs and burning wood, enough to make him sneeze.
And his body—oh, his body—complained on every front: the back of his head, his chest, shoulders, arms, even his toes seemed to be filing grievances. It was as if he'd been through an MMA all-star brawl.
Breathing deeply, he realized he was lying on some kind of bed—soft enough, but rough to the touch. Definitely not the Egyptian cotton he was used to. Someone had tended to his wounds; the herbal aroma drifted from bandages wrapped around him.
Finally, Allen opened his eyes, blinking against the light, and froze. The ceiling above was utterly unfamiliar. Turning his head, he took in the room.
Wooden beams carved with simple geometric patterns let in a slant of daylight through their seams. Stone walls made the space plain but spacious and tidy, with a whisper of ancient Greek aristocracy in its understated charm. Furniture of dark polished wood gleamed softly, like it was saying, "I may be expensive, but I won't brag."
The linen on the bed was surprisingly soft; the gauzy canopy swayed gently with the breeze. A table against the wall bore clay jars, wax tablets, and a few scrolls of parchment. On the walls hung a bronze shield and neatly arranged wooden swords. A worn banner draped in one corner, and a simple parchment map depicted rivers and mountains.
Allen gawked.
"...WTF? Where am I? A hospital? This decor is… 'Greek-style guesthouse' to the max. No electric lights, no antiseptic smell, not even a single socket. Just the scent of wood, herbs, livestock—and… a sense that someone's been taking meticulous care of this place."
Memories flashed—the soft slope, the sudden slip, the plunge…
"Am I dead?"
His eyes drifted to a chair against the wall. A small figure curled up there, asleep.
A girl, fast asleep, head tilted slightly, long brown hair spilling like a well-fed little creature. Her breathing was soft and even; her nose twitched, and a stray droplet of saliva clung to her lips. She wore a simple linen gown—definitely not modern clothing.
Allen froze, a name surfacing in his mind—Terani.
"…How do I know her?"
He tried to move, and pain shot through him, almost knocking him out again. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself calm.
"Calm down, Allen. You're a writer, right? Haven't you written every kind of scene imaginable? (Okay, that sounded a bit shaky…)"
He glanced down. His arms were firm and muscular, skin smooth and youthful, palms calloused. Not at all the body of a forty-five-year-old. He was tall—at least six feet—much taller than he remembered himself being.
Terani shivered in her sleep, pulling her shoulders in. Allen's heart softened—some modern gentlemanly instinct overriding his fear. He forced himself to ignore the pain, slowly lifting the thin blanket and tiptoeing over to cover her gently.
Phew… don't wake her up. This scene is chaotic enough already, he muttered silently.
The girl was still fast asleep, breathing softly, purring like a kitten in her chair.
Allen couldn't help smiling. "Yeah, you're welcome," he muttered, before tiptoeing back and taking another good look at the strange room.
A clay jar—probably water. A wooden chest stacked with folded linen clothes. An oil lamp in the corner, unlit. He whispered to himself, "No phone, no bulbs, no plastic…"
In his memory, he was supposed to be in Çanakkale, Turkey, strolling through the ruins of Troy and gathering material for his next novel. How on earth had that turned into some kind of "time-travel deluxe package"?
"Well then… welcome to antiquity, Allen. Let's just hope this isn't some messed-up reality show."
The bandages across his chest looked like linen. The one wrapped around his head felt different—finer, smoother, almost silky under his fingertips.
He was still examining himself when, quite suddenly, it was as though two doors burst open in his skull. Through one poured a flood of alien memories: sword drills, mountains and forests, the roar of wild boars. Through the other came his own life as Allen Buffett: forty-five years old, unemployed, too much coffee, nights wasted watching his online stats rise and plummet.
The two torrents clashed violently, splitting his mind apart. Allen gasped, staggered toward the tiny window, and shoved the shutters open.
Golden light, already slanting westward, poured in, striking stone walls and a heavy wooden table, lighting the whole place with a glow straight out of ancient Greece.
Outside stretched a quiet courtyard. He heard the faint clucking of poultry, saw pomegranate trees tossing their branches in the wind, the high stone walls beyond, and—further still—the glittering line of the sea. The breeze carried salt, smoke from a wood fire, and a tang of herbs, blending into a strange, oddly comforting fragrance.
I'm Allen Buffett, forty-five, middle-aged, laid off in a recession, scratching a living as an online writer… He blinked. Another name surfaced, wavering but insistent: Aeneas.
"Oh no. Oh, bloody hell. This is Troy!"
The name thundered through his mind like a war drum—Troy! Blood and fire, the Iliad, the horse, the flames, the slaughter—he knew it all.
Calm down! I'm Aeneas. Son of Anchises, lord of the Dardan Valley, and Aresya, priestess of Aphrodite's temple. Which makes me the divine son of Aphrodite herself. Pretty prestigious—at least prestigious enough to guarantee a chair at banquets. So… I must be that Aeneas. The one who eventually escapes with the survivors.
Which means I should be safe. Should. He almost laughed. Except… why the devil is Allen Buffett's memory stuffed into Aeneas's head?
Panic clawed at him. Troy. The Greek coalition. The sack of the city. No. I've got to get out. I need to run. Now!
His breathing quickened; his fingertips shook. Fleeing was the first, most natural answer—when facing total annihilation, even a tiny misstep could cost you everything.
The thought had barely settled when the door banged open. A beautiful woman swept in with two attendants at her heels. She looked about thirty-five, graceful, composed, the kind of woman who carried nobility like a second skin.
Her golden hair fell in loose curls, her blue eyes—normally serene, one imagined—were stormy with worry. When she saw the empty bed, the color drained from her face.
Then her gaze shifted. At once, her eyes found him frozen by the window.
Aeneas's heart gave a violent jolt.
The look in her eyes was far too complicated—astonishment, relief, a flash of joy, and yet, still, the weight of worry that hadn't lifted.
The next second she tossed aside what she'd been holding and flung herself at him, wrapping him in a fierce embrace.
"Mum…?" The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Allen's rational mind howled in protest—Hold on a second! She's at least ten years younger than me, upstairs in the head! This stunning woman is supposed to be my mother, Aresya?
"Aeneas! My child! You're awake at last—praise Aphrodite!"
Her voice broke; her hands flew to his face, stroking as if to make sure he was solid and alive. Her embrace was warm, her breath scented faintly of olive oil and crushed grass.
Allen's panic ebbed a little beneath the sheer force of her motherly presence.
"I… I'm all right now, Mother," he managed, though his voice wavered despite him.
She held him tighter still, murmuring, "The gods be thanked… you're alive." Her voice quivered on the edge of tears, but she fought through it with a trembling smile, clinging to him as though he might vanish if she dared to let go.
At last, Aresya drew back, cupping his face in both hands to study him. Her eyes glistened with tears, yet laughter glimmered there too.
"You never change, my little hero," she whispered, "but I'd rather you came home safe than brave."
Before Aeneas could answer, a new voice sounded from the doorway—gentle, steady, reassuring:
"Let him sit first. Give him something to eat. I'll tend to his wounds."
Aeneas glanced up and nearly gaped. Two women were stepping into the room, and for a moment it felt as if he'd stumbled into the set of The Illustrated Beauties of Troy.
The first looked about twenty-five. She had a calm, luminous beauty, and her gaze carried the kind of quiet strength that made people feel both seen and soothed. She stood around five foot three, her light-brown hair plaited into an intricate braid. A silver emblem gleamed at her brow—surely a priestess of some deity.
Her robe was plain but practical, belted at the waist, with a small pouch hanging at her hip. In one hand she carried a basket of herbs: sprigs of rosemary and lavender, bright stalks of other plants still glistening with dew, all releasing a fragrance both fresh and earthy—mint tangled with something sharper, less familiar. A healer's basket, unmistakably.
She moved with the calm certainty of someone who knew her craft; her eyes, though kind, examined him with the cool precision of a physician. This one wasn't just dabbling—she looked every inch the attending doctor.
The second girl was younger, not yet twenty. Her features echoed her sister's, soft and fine, though her face betrayed a mischievous spark she was clearly trying—and failing—to smother.
Barely five foot one, she slipped in with a lithe step, meant to be demure but betraying something more like a kitten's playful bounce. She carried no basket. Instead, she clutched a length of gauze, pressing it half-heartedly to her lips as though it were a toy.
Her eyes darted over Aeneas's face, wide with curiosity, glittering with the expectation of a joke about to land.
Right, Aeneas thought grimly. She's not here to play doctor. She's here to enjoy the show.
Aeneas found himself staring at the pair of sisters for rather longer than was polite, then dropped his gaze—first to his young and striking mother, standing before him, and then to the little nurse still snoring in her chair by the wall.
Honestly, he felt as if he'd stumbled into some kind of beauty pageant with a "Greek mythology" theme.
The forty-five-year-old inside him—Allen Buffett—was mentally scribbling everything down. If this went into an online novel, the click-throughs would be off the charts.
To stop his thoughts betraying him, he wrenched his eyes away toward the sunset outside the window, pretending to be absorbed in it while secretly calculating the cost–performance ratio of this whole "time-travel package."
"So… Troy's local specialty is gorgeous women, then?" he muttered under his breath—only to realize, with horror, that he'd actually said it aloud. He scrambled to cover: "I mean—ah—thank the gods for sending me so many, er, professional helpers."
The younger girl gave a snort of laughter, pressing her gauze not just over her mouth now but over her eyes as well.
Even Aresya laughed, a sound bright and clear as windchimes. "It seems your injuries haven't robbed you of your sense of humour, dear heart."
She turned, still smiling, to make the introductions. "This is Oenone, a priestess of the temple by the Scamander River, skilled in the healing arts. And this is her sister, Hesperia, who has come to assist."
Oenone stepped forward, calm and serene. "Aeneas, let me see to your wounds." Her eyes sharpened with concentration as she examined the bandages across his chest and stomach.
Meanwhile Hesperia was quite plainly not concentrating on anything but him. Her bright eyes darted round the room, then back to Aeneas, alive with restless curiosity.
Oenone carefully unwound the cloth wrapped round his head, frowning as the fabric slipped free. "This… this isn't flax or wool. Nothing I know. Too fine, too smooth. And this ointment—its scent doesn't match any of our remedies."
She turned to Aresya, her brow knit. "Lady, these dressings and salves are astonishing. The wound is knitting faster than anything I've seen. Whoever treated him—what physician was it?"
Aresya's eyes flickered, and she said softly, "Perhaps it was the gift of the goddess herself."
Aeneas's heart lurched. The herbs, admittedly, meant nothing to him. But that cloth—oh, he knew it. Silk. And silk, in this age, ought to exist only in that far-off land in the East. What in the world is it doing here, in the Mediterranean?
"You vanished training in the forests of Mount Ida," Aresya went on. "We were beside ourselves with worry—like a pot about to boil over."
Her lips curved in a smile, but her eyes still carried the shadow of that fear. "Then the golden eagle came—soaring, crying out—leading your father's men straight to you. It was the eagle that brought you back from the ravine."
Hesperia's eyes flared like lanterns, brimming with awe. "A golden eagle! Isn't that the sacred bird of Zeus?" She practically bounced on her toes, her slim fingers sketching shapes in the air as if she could catch the invisible bird.
Aeneas blinked hard. So… Mum the goddess actually sent her holy bird to fetch me? That's… ridiculously cool. And maybe just a little absurd.
But Aresya was still speaking, her voice threaded with reverence. "They found you lying there, wounded but alive, your head bound in this strange cloth, your body covered with this…"
She bent down and lifted the garment from the floor, cradling it in her hands like a relic.
It was a crimson cloak, sumptuous yet practical. The lining was rabbit fur, soft to the touch, the collar trimmed with swan's down white as snow, and all of it breathed a faint perfume of roses. Even a light brush of the fingers revealed the craftsmanship—every stitch too exquisite for anything ordinary.
"They saw you there, lying in the valley, wrapped in this cloak," Aresya whispered, her eyes shining with devotion. "It can only be the protection of your divine mother—Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty—watching over her mortal son in his hour of peril."
Aeneas froze, caught between wonder and doubt, his eyes flickering.
Divine mother? So the gods here are… real?
Hesperia edged closer, pointing at the cloak's hem.
"Look—swan's down, rabbit fur, and it smells of roses… Is this really Aphrodite's gift?"
Aresya's smile softened, her gaze glowing.
"Give thanks for the gods' protection. Zeus's sacred bird guided us to you, and this cloak—perhaps the goddess's blessing—raised a shield around you, along with that strange cloth and salve."
Aeneas lowered his head to the cloak, brushing a finger across the feather trim. It was probably just an extravagant garment, nothing more—but appearing out of nowhere when he was at death's door? It certainly felt like a miracle.
"Blimey… divine clothes, eh? Might just be the most expensive cloak in all Troy."
Hesperia's lips jutted into a pout, her voice barely above a mutter.
"I've served as a priestess to Cebren since I was a child, and the gods have never given me so much as a pebble. Talk about unfair…"
Her fingers ghosted across the fabric, as though to prove it was truly there.
Aresya only shook her head with a fond smile, her mother's love shining through.
Hesperia couldn't resist leaning right in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.
"Aeneas, do you… do you remember what happened? How you were hurt so badly?" she asked, half-excited, half-anxious, a kitten of a girl trying to paw out a secret.
Just then, a soft snore turned into a sharp gasp. Terani, roused by all the chatter, bolted upright. Her thin blanket slid to the floor with a whump, and her eyes glittered like twin stars.
"The boar! It was a wild boar, wasn't it? Young master killed a great boar!"
She nearly leapt onto the bed in her excitement, sleep all but forgotten.
Everyone burst out laughing. Aresya shook her head helplessly, though her eyes brimmed with indulgence.
"You little imp. Mind you don't jostle Aeneas's wounds."
Aeneas cleared his throat, dredging through broken shards of memory. His black-and-gold curls slipped over his brow as he drew a steady breath, like a bard about to launch into a tale.
The scene came back in flashes: towering trees, sunlight shattered into shards of gold through the leaves. Out of the thickets crashed a boar, massive and savage, its tusks glinting with cold fire.
The beast weighed over three hundred pounds, each step making the earth tremble.
"It… it burst out of the brush, glaring at me, eyes fiercer than mine," Aeneas said with a strained smile.
Hesperia clapped both hands over her mouth, eyes round as little moons.
"So what did you do?" she whispered, horrified yet breathless with anticipation.
"Well… I had nothing but a practice sword—you know, the kind that looks dignified enough but is really just for waving about to look heroic." He mimed the boar's charge in the air, his tone half grim, half comic.
"I dodged as best I could, then caught my chance—threw everything I had into the strike—and drove the blade straight between its eyes."
"Wow!" Hesperia squealed, slapping the table so hard she nearly knocked the water jug flying.
"Between the eyes? That's incredible!"
"With a wooden sword!" She clutched her chest in mock awe, her voice brimming with girlish admiration.
"That's strength worthy of Heracles himself! I—I can hardly picture it!"
Her cheeks glowed pink, her words tumbling out in breathless excitement.
Terani was beyond herself, hopping about as though the air itself were quivering with her energy.
"Young master, you're amazing! You really killed a wild boar!"
Her voice rang sharp and bright, like a string of little bells, and her eyes all but spat sparks.
"I'll tell the other trainee priestesses—soon all Troy will be singing of your bravery!"
Aeneas gave a helpless shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking in amusement.
"And the result? Yes, the boar died—but not before it smashed into my gut and sent me tumbling off a cliff. Turns out 'bravery' comes with risks."
He winked, self-mockery dancing in his tone.
Oenone, watching from the side, inclined her head with calm dignity.
"Brave indeed… but perilous," she said, her voice low and velvety, edged with a healer's cool reason.
Aresya's reaction, however, was nothing of the sort.
She darted forward, seizing her son's hand so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her voice trembled between reproach and fierce maternal love.
"Aeneas! You were reckless!"
Her eyes locked onto his as though to chain him in place.
"How could you face such a beast alone? If something had happened to you—" Her voice broke, the fear beneath her anger laid bare.
The warmth of her love washed over Aeneas, stirring both guilt and tenderness. He knew full well his soul wasn't hers by birth—he was Allen Buffett from another time—but her care was real, achingly real.
"All right, Mother," he murmured, softening his voice into reassurance. "Fine, I promise. Next time I'll at least wear armor first."
Terani stuck out her lower lip, refusing to yield.
"Bravery means taking risks! I'm not scared of wild boars—next time I'll go with you!"
Her small hand gripped the star-shaped pendant at her chest, as if bolstering her courage—and perhaps sending her young master a secret message of loyalty.
Aeneas couldn't help laughing. He glanced at Aresya, teasing:
"See, Mother? Your maid isn't afraid at all. Clearly the story of my adventures must go on."
The room erupted with laughter, light spilling across every face.
When the treatment was finished, Aresya patted Aeneas's shoulder gently.
"Rest well, Aeneas. Wait until the wound heals before you practice again."
With graceful steps she gestured for the others to follow her out, her skirt hem whispering against the floor, carrying her presence with it.
As they filed past the bed, Oenone paused. Tilting her head, she smiled with sisterly mischief.
She reached out and tapped his bandaged abdomen—the muscles beneath firm as bronze.
"Next time, don't use this to stop a boar's tusks, handsome warrior."
Her words were soft, laced with warmth, half in jest, half in warning.
Hesperia and Terani stifled giggles. Hesperia hid her mouth behind her hand, eyes curving into crescent moons. Terani bounced on her toes, sneaking glances at Aeneas's reaction, her little pendant flashing like a star.
Aresya only shook her head, smiling despite herself.
Aeneas flushed, managing a stiff nod. "Got it."
But inside, Allen Buffett's modern soul was running riot.
Wait… did she just flirt with me? These ancient girls are this forward? Well… not bad, actually…
His heart thumped faster, his mind conjuring absurd little modern skits, and his face turned redder—though to everyone else, it only looked like a shy boy's embarrassment.
Oenone shot him a sidelong glance, eyes glinting with mischief. She chuckled lightly.
Hesperia gave a snort of laughter and skipped out like a playful kitten.
Terani's gaze stayed glued to his stomach, her sparkling eyes all but saying, I should've touched it too…
Aeneas felt an unexpected warmth swelling inside him. These people, these moments—they were oddly comforting, oddly joyful.
He brushed a hand across his bandaged arm, smiled, and thought to himself:
All right then. This is daily life in the ancient world. Welcome to Troy.