"A hospital," I said gently. "You were found unconscious near the park. Someone brought you here."
He stared at me, uncomprehending.
"A...hospital," he repeated slowly, as though the word itself were foreign to him. It was then that I noticed the way he spoke. There was an accent in his voice, deep and rough, yet strangely smooth. I couldn't quite place it, but it sounded...ancient.
His gaze wandered around the room again, taking in everything at once. The humming machines, the wires trailing from his chest, the steady beeping that filled the quiet. Nurses and doctors moving through the ward.
His breathing quickened.
"And these devices?" he asked hoarsely. "These strange contraptions...what sorcery is this? What are you doing to me?"
"It's not sorcery," I said quickly. "They're machines. They help us keep you alive."
The worse seemed to strike something in him.
His expression darkened.
"Alive," he echoed under his breath. His Adam's Apple bobbing.
For a moment, he fell silent. His gaze dropping to the IV line in his arm. His fingers twitching like he might rip it out.
Then he looked back at me, something unsettling flickering behind his eyes.
"If I yet live..." he said slowly, "then where is the battlefield?"
My stomach tightened. "The battlefield?"
His jaw clenched.
"Yes," he said, the word heavy with certainty. "The Britons."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
"The last thing I remember..." His voice faltered, and his eyes unfocused slightly, as though he was chasing a memory just out of reach. "We were marching north. There was an ambush in the forest."
His breathing grew uneven.
"There was a man," he whispered, his hand clenching weakly at the bedsheet. "A Briton."
A long silence stretched between us. Then those dark eyes lifted to mine again. Wide, searching. "Tell me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "What happened to him?"
"There was no one else," I said gently, careful not to provoke him. "You were found alone. Injured. And dressed...strangely. You were lucky to be alive. It looked like you'd been struck with something sharp. A—"
"Sword," he cut in, his eyes narrowing at me. "I was struck with a sword. I was meant to die, and yet here I am. Alive."
He held my gaze, something dark and restless moving behind his eyes.
"Now," he said, his voice tightening, "tell me where I am—"
"Well, at least tell me your name," I said, cutting in. "We've been calling you John. John Doe. That's what we usually call unidentified patients."
I had encountered patients like this before, ones who were convinced they were someone else, from another time entirely. The best thing to do was usually to go along with it, until they were calmer.
"Marcus Valerius Corvus," he said, before clearing his throat. "Marcus Valerius."
Right. Even his name sounded ancient. Either he was deeply convinced that it was his, or he was simply determined to stick to the story.
"I'm Elena," I said, extending my hand with a small smile. "Elena Wright. It's nice to meet you...Marcus."
His gaze dropped to my hand.
For a moment, he didn't move. Something like trepidation flickered across his face, as though the gesture itself was unfamiliar to him. His eyes traced my fingers carefully before lifting back to my face.
Realizing he wasn't going to take it, I cleared my throat and awkwardly withdrew my hand.
"Well," I said lightly, pretending that it hadn't happened, "you should try to get some sleep."
I adjusted his blanket over him and checked the IV line again. "The painkillers should kick in soon," I continued. "They'll probably make you drowsy."
Marcus watched me quietly while I fussed with the machines beside his bed. The steady beeping filled the small space between us.
His eyelids were already growing heavy.
Just as I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"Elena."
I glanced back.
His eyes were half-closed now, struggling to stay open.
"Why," he murmured slowly, his words slurring with exhaustion, "do you you seem familiar to me?"
The question lingered in the air, but I didn't answer. Instead, I switched off the bedside lamp, leaving only the soft glow of the monitors and stepped quietly out of the room.
I could barely keep my eyes open by the time I made it back home that morning, eager to collapse into bed and forget the world for a few hours.
But the moment the door clicked shut behind me, Pippa, my flatmate, practically sprang toward it.
"You'd never guess what happened," she said, hopping on one foot to lace up her boots.
Pippa Cheung. Her parents had immigrated from Hong Kong years ago. Her father is a historian at a university in London. So naturally, she had followed in his footsteps having spent most of her childhood wandering in museums, staring at priceless artifacts behind glass displays.
Now she was living the dream, working on an archeological dig just outside town.
"What?" I asked, far too tired for whatever excitement she had brought home with her. I shrugged off my coat and tossed it onto the back of the sofa.
"You know the park? The one near the Roman site we've been excavating?"
I nodded vaguely, rubbing my eyes.
"Well, one of the students nearly tripped over something sticking out of the soil this morning. At first we thought it was just another piece of scrap metal someone dumped there years ago."
She grinned, her eyes practically glowing. "It wasn't."
"What was it?" I muttered, already halfway down the hall toward my bedroom.
"A sword."
That made me pause.
"A Roman sword," she clarified, clearly enjoying the dramatic reveal. "A big one. Not decorative either. Proper iron blade, heavy as hell."
I turned slightly.
"And that's not even the strange part," she continued, lowering her voice as if she was sharing some conspiracy. "It wasn't buried with the rest of the site. It was just...there. In the middle of the park. Like someone had dropped it."
"That's odd," I said.
"Exactly! And we found more things nearby. Bits of pottery, fragments of armor, a couple of small artifacts from ancient Britain. Our survivor thinks it might be from some kind of skirmish that happened outside the settlement."
She was talking quickly now, pacing the room as she pulled on her jacket.
"We're cataloguing everything today. Honestly, it's one of the most exciting things we've found since the dig started."
I straightened slowly.
A sword. Ancient Britain.
Marcus's words echoed in my head.
I was stuck with a sword.
My exhaustion faded just enough for unease to creep in.
"Pippa," I said carefully, turning back toward her. "What kind of sword was it exactly?"
She opened her mouth to answer—
But my phone rang and I nearly jumped. The sound cutting through the flat sharply.
I frowned, pulling it out of my pocket. The hospital's number flashed across the screen, causing my chest to drop. Oh god, are you kidding me? I just got back.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Elena?" Julie said breathlessly. "You need to come back. Now."
My stomach dropped.
"What happened?"
"It's your patient. The John Doe."
Marcus.
I blinked, brushing my bangs back as I tried to steady my breathing. "What about him?" I asked.
"He woke up again," she said quickly. "Detective Garrick came by earlier to question him, and—"
Shouting erupted in the background. Something crashed to the floor.
My grip tightened around the phone.
"He tried to attack him."
I was already reaching for my coat.
"I am on my way."