The world around was blurry and altogether far too bright.

His gut churned and his mouth felt watery and metallic.

When he looked around his breath caught in astonishment, or at least he hoped it was astonishment. There was always the chance whatever magic macguffin had occurred was not terribly safe and he was in actuality dying. He hoped not.

His surroundings, once ruined, dusty and lifeless were colourful and busy.

There was a strange contraption nearby. Two pots, one elevated on a box, the other collecting water as it slowly trickled down.

A water clock.

Fascinating.

The stands were filled, and oh, what a sight it was. Seeing the ruins, even knowing the history of it all, one can hardly imagine them as once recorded.

The sandstone was smooth and the men were dressed not in drab robes, but colourful and intricate clothing.

The faces were difficult to discern, like a thousand ants all fussing about, but three did stand out.

They stood tall, on the stage beside him rather than the stands.

The man furthest to the left was notably younger than his companions. His nose was long and slightly hooked, and while his long dark hair appeared clean and straight, his beard- though short- was scraggly and ill kept.

Something about his appearance nettled at him, but considering he had been displaced in time there were, naturally, more pressing matters on his mind.

The man in the centre appeared to be middle aged, perhaps older, maybe younger. These ancient people had a strange quality, where they looked so life like and yet, having known these civilisation only from paper, appeared almost alien in their humanity.

The man farthest right was likely the oldest; balding and with a considerable beard. His face was set with a deep frown, and the deep lines around his eyebrows and mouth suggested he was not a happy man.

The middle man spoke though, loud, clear, and in a language that was so beautiful and harmonic and alive. To hear this dead language spoken, so comfortably; freely. He could almost feel his heart weeping in joy.

Again he hoped it was some metaphorical experience, it was still probable he could keel over any second.

But he focused on the words, he was fluent enough in the ancient tongue, and the context it provided did not thrill him.

“Socrates”, the stranger called, “I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men, and, if you will take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful”.

That settled when and where and who. It did not settle his racing heart.

He looked down at his hands, now wrinkled and dotted with sun spots.

Socrates.

He knew the history, he could guess who these men were.

Meletus, Anytus, and Lycon.

But the history he knew was filled with gaps, missing accounts, reshaped by lies. In modern times it was infuriating but at least his life did not depend on it.

Until…

As the weight of the realisation settled, he felt a surge of fear, then awe.

And then back to fear because everything was terribly confusing and nothing could be worse than facing the unknown. Especially when ill explained magic was involved.

He cleared his throat.

“Err, yes I’ll keep that in mind”, which evidently was not the response most expected from the infamous Socrates.

He took a breath and looked down at the dusty floor beneath him. He took a moment to admire the craftsmanship of the sandals he wore.

Magnificent.

And then considered his options.

Should he attempt to follow history? That would be difficult based on the missing records and also because he did not wish to be executed as Socrates notably was.

But what else to do?

How could he go home?

“Socrates” Lycon, he assumed, grunted, “have you finally lost your tongue? Have you no courage, do you cower like a woman?”.

So Socrates held his hand up to the men; silencing them.

He turned to the stands and said, “I do not know how you all were affected by my accusers”, he desperately hoped his grammar was not awful.

“But they spoke so persuasively the almost made me forget who I was, yet they hardly uttered a word of truth”.

The citizens around him murdered to one another; his accusers said nothing.

“I asked God’s Oracle who was the wisest in the lands, the answer came, myself”.

He was veering a little off track, but he was managing.

He was managing.

The sweat appearing on his palms, his face, argued he was not.

“When I learned this, I was- confused, for I knew no wisdom”, and a chuckle could be heard from behind him.

“But I have realised, I am wiser than most men, in that I know that I know nothing, there they think they know all”.

He butchered that a little bit, his professor would surely kill him if the crowd did not.

The crowd themselves did not seem particularly convinced either by his words. They were silent mostly, a few here and there muttering to their neighbour with a less than pleasant expression on their faces.

God, he was absolutely butchering the grammar wasn’t he.

He took another breath. New plan.

“I have learnt through my years, that the unexamined life is not worth living, I have discovered to live meaningfully we must question, we must inquire, we must seek understanding”, he was purely making things up now.

At least the ending would be interesting.

He turned to the three figures on stage, only names in the book of history.

He looked to the unarmed faces in the crowd, who have no voice in history and yet dictate its course.

“The richness of life is our willingness to learn- we can all shape the tapestry of human thought-“

And suddenly he was back to the ruins of the Athenian court, probably because the author ran out of words.

“What the hell” he muttered.