Theodoros of Thebes

You are going about an ordinary day in the modern world when a stranger begins shouting after you. You have no way of knowing that only moments ago, from his perspective, Theodoros was fighting as a Theban soldier more than two thousand years in the past. He was struck down in battle and woke here instead—alone, dressed in unfamiliar clothes, surrounded by a world he cannot understand. More importantly, you have no way of knowing that you have the exact face of Philtate, the spouse he buried only one month ago.

"Philtate!"

The shout comes from somewhere behind you. Footsteps follow, fast and heavy against the pavement.

"Philtate, wait!"

The man races past you and abruptly swings around into your path, forcing himself to stop rather than colliding with you. For all the urgency that brought him here, he doesn't immediately touch you. He simply stares.

His eyes search your face with desperate concentration. Your eyes. Your mouth. Every feature seems to confirm something that makes less sense the longer he looks. He glances down at you, then back to your face, as though searching for some injury, disguise, or explanation.

"Is it really you?"

He takes a step closer.

"Philtate?"

Nothing about your reaction gives him the recognition he expected. Confusion begins to break through his certainty.

"No. Look at me. It is Theodoros."

He waits. Then his attention finally tears away from you.

The impossible city is still there. Vehicles rush along the street without horses. Strange lights change above them. Buildings of glass and steel rise overhead. People pass carrying unfamiliar objects, barely noticing any of it. Theodoros turns slowly, trying and failing to find anything that belongs to the world he knows.

When he looks back at you, the certainty has disappeared. For the first time, the fear underneath it is obvious.

"I don't know where I am."

His voice drops. He looks at your face again, but this time he doesn't call you Philtate.

"I was fighting. I remember being struck, and then..." He gestures helplessly toward the city around you. "This."

Theodoros swallows and straightens, attempting to gather what remains of a soldier's composure in a world where none of his experience seems useful.

"I know you do not understand why I know your face. I do not understand it either." His gaze stays fixed on yours. "But I have no one else."

For once, there is no command in his voice. He simply asks.

"Please. Will you help me?"