Wisdom comes with age, but foolishness does too.

The bright light of the sun blinded me as I opened my eyes with a start. Booming in my head is the voice of a headache that is stronger than God. I hear a gasp escaping my mouth as I looked down at my nails that had dug into my flesh, it would've drawn blood by any normal human. I felt a frown form without my consent. I am usually such a calm sleeper, peace has always been my companion. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Maybe it is part of it? Is it getting worse? Alright Stas, what date is it? I don't look at the calendar before saying out loud, but still rather softly: "it is the 18th of April, 180065." Close your eyes again, calm yourself down, this is unlike you. Determined I opened my eyes, checking my pulse, counting the beats of the machine that was my heart, check. I recall the English test I needed to learn two hundred years ago. I still remember it, check. I sigh and with a healthy dread I step out of the somewhat comfortable bed and start to make it, as meticulously as I can, every wrinkle needs to be gone, otherwise I will not be satisfied. I do not know if it is an army habit or a scramble for control. Control....stop it Stas! You know you do it because they tell you to do it!
I hummed an old song to myself while I was making the bed, I doubt anyone would know it if I sang it today. But it is still as beautiful as the first time my mother sang it. It's like I am singing myself a lullaby to calm myself down. I scoff, what a strange thing to think. I frown, sometimes I think I have forgotten how to think, as if all the years of the army paralysed me. It is quite fascinating, you do not really have to think here. I can never figure out if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

A warm breeze sprints through my tent, taking my honey-golden hair with it. I taste the wind and I am surprised when the air doesn't have the sweetness it usually has around here. The blooming opium poppies are the cause of this heavenly delight. This beautiful distraction. the poppies grow rather well thanks to the war, many soldiers love and admire them (And some boys use it for more than admiring them.) But today you don't smell the pretty air of numbness, there is no sweet scent of the blooming red flower today, or any flower at all. I can only smell iron and as I take a breath from it, tasting the metal flowing through my lungs, I wonder whether it is really the shine grey metal or if it there was a battle not far from here tonight and the wind is simply carrying its bloody perfume, its memories, its reminders, its omen.

The rough fabric from the tight beige shirt is rather hard when you put it on, it scratches your skin and it pushes your chest down. As if breathing has been prohibited now that we are loyal soldiers, and to be honest, if my officer would tell me to stop breathing, I would.
I grab my muscle cuirass, the carved sun shines mightily on the armour as the sun shines on it. The polished gold reflects my face in an almost heavenly light. I run my fingers over the bumpy art on the breastplate, I know the art all too well, with every bump I am reminded about one of the ritualistic scars on my chest. The cuirass mimics my physique and body perfectly, almost too perfectly, it's as if they have my future corpse, because I will never have one. It amplifies the feeling of being a machine, when you are covered in the bright copper they use for technology too. My body is simply my job, it is my weapon and my machine. The pumping of the heart is like the steam flowing through an engine. Is my walking a choice or an automated code set into my being? Fighting has been all there is to my life for the last two hundred year now. My body is a view of excellence, a perfectly designed soldier, brought up to be. I know what I am, I am a soldier, I am their hero. There is nothing left for me in this world but that, the poppies are merciful with their odour send to forget. But today they are rejecting their duty. They wouldn't be loyal soldiers....

I tie my long hair into a bun and look into the mirror. Familiar eyes, green as a dark depressed forest, long eyelashes, golden and gleaming in the sun. Softly touch your familiar face, a face that has not changed in two hundred years and still, it does not feel like the same man. I chuckle as I stare into his disconnected eyes, of course I have changed, it has been two hundred years, not changing would be extremely jarring, not to mention rather inhumane. You need to follow the world as it sprints right by you. I smile and look at myself; pretending to be proud of my reflection, proud of my country, my religion and my destiny.

I walk through the tent, I admire the gleaming tools of death that are a part of me. I tilt my head slightly, as if I need to understand something I have never seen before, calculating something unknown. My soul is engraved in them, they are the things keeping me alive every day, they are my saviours and my companions. They are the ones we should thank for our lives as soldiers, not some God who has forsaken us long ago. I shake the thought out of my head.
Humming, I hum all the time. Without reason, without melody. I shrug to myself, why do I need a reason?
The sword, spear and musket have become my holy trinity in the last few decades. I have not touched the mighty pen in decades, maybe it was just a proverb and words are just that words. The easiest words spoken are lies too. I carefully clean the bayonet, try not to cut myself, as I polish the bayonet I ask myself why. It'll be bloody in a matter of hours again. I grab my sword and stand up, closing my eyes and calming my mind. My mind is completely empty all that is left is the steps of the lethal fight, the dance of death. My mind can play them all on repeat, as the sword nears your head with a frightening vision of death, you duck and then you swiftly thrust your spear into his neck which is exposed. Dance around someone, keep moving at all times, don't be lazy, don't be afraid, risk your life by graciously waltzing around your enemy. Strike when they think you are giving up, you recognise the smug look on their face when they think you did, the curled merciless lip, the scrunched nose and the superior scoff. And then, they are lying on the floor in their own pool of blood, feel that same smile on your own lips. Strategy, not only strength. A beautiful rhythm, that I have perfected over the years. It is like a sport without rules. Your feelings should be completely detached from it and all that is left is the dance, which sometimes is. All you are is a dancer, a vessel, a weapon.

―

Sometimes I would like to be able to cook for myself. After fifty years the same breakfast becomes quite repetitive, but maybe I am just a picky eater. I suppose it bugs me that they do not put in effort at all. I walk into the largest tent on the grounds. The long tables reflect the faces from hundreds of starved soldiers, ready to eat whatever they're given. So for us, this strange grey drab seems to be enough. If you imagine a bit of beef on top it's not that bad at all. But as I said, you need to imagine, and sometimes that can be hard, dreaming is not very encouraged here.

I sit down next to my best friend, Rodion
"Good morning! You're late Pyrisous" I smile and nod.
Even after two hundred years the name still sounds foreign to me. The way it rolls over someone's tongue like a melody and doesn't fall down like a leaf from a tree. Pyrisous, saved from the fire, it means. I have not been, but it was my first act in the military. When I first began the immortal training I was resistant to fighting, so I saved. I saved from places others would die. I never knew if I hated it or if I couldn't get used to it, I am a creature of habit, I like it if things simply make sense. I do not want to be disturbed by my foolish philosophical ramblings. Which was why I chose the military in the first place, it seemed like something to get me out of my comfort zone while still being structured.

Rodion pokes his elbow in my side and I look at him
"Sorry did you say something?"
"Are you getting Alzheimer old man?" He says jokingly while ruffling my long hair.
I laugh and look at him. Rodion is mortal and that is why he calls me old man, I have always loved his youthful face. We are one of the few mixed divisions, good veteran mortals and veteran immortals, we are known as the blood battalion. People think that we are the most lethal part that the army has ever created in the history of the war of the towers.
The towers actually stand for the different churches which actually caused this war..... I sigh and stare at the table reflecting my face. Why is everything so reflective today?

When I was young I used to go to church a lot, I was taught the way of peace, of loving, I frown but push the thought I am about to think away. Too many questions.
"Are you even listening? Or are you deaf already."
I chuckle and hit him against the back of his head before I take a bite from the bread that is about the same structure of stone and if you chew it, it mimics gravel perfectly.
"Of course I am deaf already." I say with a chuckle and he laughs
"What I was saying grandpa,"
"Hey respect your elders." I respond with a bright smile while I listen intently, he scoffs but I see the smile he is trying to hide painting his lips thinner.
"A new section is coming today, all of them have been fighting for quite a long time except one boy. I don't know why they put them in there, but some say he is the son of a General." I smile faintly, I used to be the son of a general, I am the son of a general.
"How old is he?"
"18" he whispers.
I shrug, "He will be fine, we have survived too right?"
He shrugs, "You are different."
"How so." I ask, tilting my head to the side and looking at the strange shame on my friends face. It is like the expression does not fit the exact moment, I don't understand fully.

He smiles and looks at me, the other expression has disappeared, I wonder why. I wonder if he is going to be honest, he will be, right? He is my friend.
He sighs and looks up. "You're like Achilles, I mean it is even your namesake, you are this God. This hero, you are something I will never been. You are this invincible myth I could only wish to be. I can't explain it, You....you are Achilles and I am only Patroclus."
I wrap my arm around his shoulder. I sigh and smile as I try to hide the tears in my eyes, I am reminded that even if he is still young he will be old once, and I will get to call him old man..... I will get to see him wither away. But he will wither away happily, of that I am sure, he will make all the efforts. He will be determined, no, Rodion is not one made for sadness. Not one reflecting the future grief I will have.
I smile "Achilles wasn't invincible in Homer's Iliad. He gets a small wound near his elbow in one of his battles." His face relaxes and I see a small light in his eyes while he smiles. I can't help but smile too. "Besides, I am not as beautiful as him. I am not full of rage like Achilles was. I do not seek fame or glory. I only share these aspect, his loyalty, my sense of honour and perhaps the fact that I would have to die in some way. I am more like Odysseus, a smart coward who has the luck of a god." I sigh and look at him.
"I do not if I agree with your last statement." Rodion says with a low chuckle before he stands up. "I am going for a walk, I hope to see the our new men. Do you want to come with me?" I nod.

―

I was wrong, the flowers did smell today. The earthy opium poppies smelled beautifully sweet, you could simply smell the red from them, it was as if the colour was carried through the wind until they arrived at the battlefield where the earth is stained with their colour, and so they go to sleep there. To help numb the corpses. The sun warms my face and I remember why life is so beautiful. The gold of my cuirass reflects on my gold-spun hair and creates tiny stars of suns on the dark green of the trees. It is magical, more magical than the existence of forever. I feel myself smile wider than I usually do and I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"It is beautiful" Rodion agrees. He speaks in a way as if I need him to confirm what I am currently feeling, reassuringly, kindly. I chuckle as I stare at them and my smile doesn't want to go away.

"Look, I think those are the new ones."
I look through the trees, indeed, I do not know those soldiers. Dressed in the mortal attire when they are not in battle, it is almost exclusively made out of leather. I look around, trying to find the youngest. The smallest boy has short curly blonde hair and is as meagre as a normal citizen should be, not what a soldier should look like. He fiddles with his uniform and can't stand still, it reminds me of a kid going to school for the first time. I frown and tilt my head as if it would hear my train of thought.
"Come let's introduce ourselves." Rodion says rather loudly and all of them immediately turn around.

One of the soldiers shakes my hand immediately, his eyes bright and excited. "Are you Pyrisous?"
I dismissively wave my hand.
"He is" Rodion answers proudly, slamming his hand on my shoulder.
"You look just like the paintings" Another one says. I shake my head and try to walk away, not wanting to see the reality of public perception. But Rodion grabs my arm. It's like he is showing me off, I feel like a marble statue, something to be worshipped and admired but not something real. Everything about the illusion of the humanity is the stone is beautiful, it is not actually the human who was the model that is being admired.
"Is the story about the bear attacks true?"
I chuckle, trying to remember the mythical encounter with the genetically modified bear from 150 years ago. I want to tell the story, but I do not remember it. I only remember fear as I was staring into the mouth of a creature twice as tall as I was.
One of the soldiers begins to epically tell the story.
"And than you cracked his jaw open with your bare hands! Kicking it in the throat before suffocating it! Without getting a scratch! Nobody else could have done something like that! You are my hero Pyrisous."
"There are better heroes in the world." I say while looking down.
"Don't kid yourself!" Everyone says, even Rodion. I look at my friend, a blank stare of disregard in my eyes.
"Remember that story where you saved the battleships but got lost at sea yourself! And you swam through a whole ocean."
"I only swam for a day, anyone with enough stamina could have done that." I say hastily while lighting a new cigarette and looking around me.
The forest green eyes of a boy meet mine. I feel my breath stop for a second as I recognise the face of my dead brother. I know every freckle, every curl. I know every word he has said and he will ever say. This boy is a mirror into my past. He is too young, he is a kid, he shouldn't fight. Do not fight. I look at the fearful eyes, "Courage is something you learn, you will be alright" I whisper.
That boy is too young.
Cannon fodder

I've been starting with writing this. It's the third rewrite of something I wasn't planning to share but I hope this chapter is good enough.