The Stoic Spartan Page #2

A “stoic” Spartan experiences the 5 stages of grief after the death of his friend.

• Short story

								

I don’t know what that expression was. I never learned to read any other except contempt and curiosity.
So I leave the tent.

I return to find him in a fetal position, hugging his stomach. Is he sick? Oh, how could I nearly forget he is human? “Boy, are you hungry?”
“Yes!” He whined.
“Alright.” I leave the tent momentarily to the centre campground, fetching food from the refectory. “Eat this. It is all we have.” I return with a lukewarm wooden bowl, hunkering to his level to offer it.
“What is this?” He studies the content.
“Mélas zōmós,” I explained. “It is made of pig’s blood.”
“How gross.” He cringed after a whiff, tongue prodding.
“…it is.” I can’t argue with him. Nobody can like mélas zōmós without hating it first.
“Is this what Spartans eat?” He spits. Suddenly, I feel every muscle in my body flex. If he finishes his sentence— “No wonder they’re so willing to die.”
I couldn’t add to his comment. Back then, I would resist the insurmountable urge to laugh. Today, I am left ghastly. When these words were first uttered, exactly in that order, it would have left Crispinus flocked unconscious at eleven years old.
This cannot be a coincidence. This unknown boy knows something I knew. Something isn’t right.
I watch keenly as he slurps the soup.
Could he be him?

“Why do you leave every morning?” The boy asked me the next day.
“I am a warrior, it is my duty,” I said as I strapped on my chestplate.
“Can’t I leave, too?” He stands up, earnest. I glance at him, reading his audacity to request me such, truly unaware of his situation.
“No.” I sighed. He shan’t ask me anymore.
“Why not?” I glare at him. He doesn’t flinch.
Is he stupid or brave? “Because you’re no warrior.”
“Then, why am I here?” How should I explain to a child the importance of becoming a warrior as Spartan? Should I even indulge his curiosity? He is here to indulge mine.
“Enough, boy.” I steer away, but unexpectedly, I feel a tug on my arm.
“No, why am I here? Why can’t you tell me?” He keeps tugging until I stumble. How has he become so spoiled? Did I not intimidate him enough? Have I fed him too much? “Why must you be in denial?!”
Denial? He called me in denial? What halfwit!
“Enough, Crispinus!” I shout. The boy flinches, and I feel his grip loosened. He steps away. Did I scare him again?
“…Crispinus.” He resounded. Oh, did I utter that? It was a mistake. He looked too much like him. I made a mistake. How could I fudge this badly? Have I been weak?
He mutters, “That is my name.”
What?
“Commander, might I interrupt?” I jolt awake from my once again wandering mind, upon a voice outside. If silence is contagious, what of this halfwit boy?
“No.” I said, uncertain if to my calling, or to the boy. But my voice grew a little too soft, as if convincing myself otherwise.

“I’m hungry!” As soon as I returned, the boy requested. Rather potently, this time.
“Alright—“
“I don’t think one shall do.” He interposed before I could finish. Usually, I would teach boys like him a lesson about prudence, “I want two— no, three bowls!” But his requests become demands, blithely. I was too concerned with providing him food, and how I no longer shall hunker to his level to offer the bowls.
Perhaps I overlooked this more than I should, but by digesting an inhuman amount of sustenance, his body doesn’t grow in size…but in age.
He was pubescent yesterday.
Now, he is adolescent. Again, in height, muscles, and hair, he looks precisely like Crispinus once did at fifteen.

"Don’t you ever sleep?" I asked him one day. Curious, as I don’t ever see him sleep.
"I don’t need sleep.” 
If one needs food, one needs sleep. These are deplorable weaknesses of the human vessel, inescapable, no matter how strong a man is. Thus, I laugh. "Yet you need food.”
"I need blood," He husked.
"Are you being funny, boy?" I laugh even louder. Much like Crispinus, he has the humour to crack my face.
"Crispinus." He restated. My smile falters. Why must he utter that word again? I told him it was a mistake. "My name is Crispinus."
"No, it isn’t." I give him a warning look. He was funny, but he could become inordinate fast.
"It is." He stands up, defensive of his statement.
"Don’t lie, boy! You said you don’t know!" I stand, defensive of mine.
"I know now! I remembered!" I should’ve known he was a wicked boy.
"Are you messing with me?!" I snatch his arm, shaking him.
"No, I am Crispinus!" Yet, he remains proactive. How dare he? Is this funny to him? Does he know the furtive effect he has as Crispinus’ imitation? He must have known, otherwise, he wouldn’t have impersonated his every trait!
"Crispinus is dead!" I clamoured.
"No, I am alive!" He clamoured back, tears running down his freckled cheeks.
Is he…crying? 
Did I make him cry?
I realize I’ve never seen a boy cry, especially he a boy. Crispinus didn’t cry, not in his life, even in his death. This is the first time, and I watch as he huddles. 
Tears have never looked this mesmerizing, twinkling like stars.
Dear god, am I weak?
I am weak…

“I’m hungry.” It has only been hours since our dispute.
“Be quiet.” I had shushed him five times.
“I’m hungry!” He badgered. It’s as if the more he angered me the hungrier he gets.
“I’m hungry! I’m hungry! I’M HUNGRY!” He hollered, and something about how his voice cracked, growing baritone each time, ignited my flame.
“Why must you be a brat!”
“Why must you be so angry?!” He staggers closer. “Why do you keep me here? Let me go!”
“No.” I step away, compelled to acknowledge how his height has reached mine.
“YOU MUST LET ME GO!” Atlas, the voice of a man escaped his throat. It was unanticipated, and this realization mollified me.
“No, just—“ Earlier, he sounded exactly like him. To the day he died, how he whimpered his last breath away. I cannot hear it. “Be quiet. Please.” I backed down, slumping into my seat. I understand. He wanted to challenge me. He’s won. I’ve exhausted my spirit and cannot be angered any further. 
Because I’m not right. “…why must you keep looking like him?” I muttered in my weariness.
“Like who?” He hunkered to my level, our eyes meeting.
“My friend, Crispinus.” But I avert mine. I’ve become weak, and a coward to boot.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He died in battle.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a warrior, he fought bravely.”
“Why?”
“Enough—“ “Why must a warrior die in battle? Why must they fight bravely?” 
“Because it would bring to the rise of Sparta.”
“Why must Sparta rise? What would you achieve?”
“I achieve honour,” I answered everything almost instantly, as if I had memorized it.
“What is honour? Is it something you can eat?” I hesitate for a moment, I know I am to answer the obvious. But something about his genuine pestering makes me wish I could say something else. And his voice, god, his voice…it resembles his in death.

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