The Stoic Spartan Page #4

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

• Short story

								

Your absence made everything so meaningless, yet so meaningful. Dare I say it? “You were my dearest friend,” And I spoke it all. Everything I was never allowed to think— no, allowed myself to think. I’ve gone and unveiled my truths.
These battles, these deaths, does it all lead to this, Crispinus?
Does it all lead to nothing? Just time and reaction to what's left. I will be stuck here…until I finally die, too. If it had been me, if I had been the one to die and you survive, this is it. 
Atlas, what now? What do I have to do? What shall I do, Crispinus? You have to tell me.
“That is for the living to decide,” I heard your four voices answer one last time. Perhaps it’s my tears, but I can no longer see you in the corner of my eyes, your big silhouette becomes blurry, making you appear smaller than you were. Or perhaps you were always small, I just let you grow. “One day.” You said as you disappeared. “Until then, why must you die?”
I will…I will remember you till the day I die. 
And with your death, strengthens my life. 
Let us pray I die at all.

“You’re a coward.” A Spartan warrior said. He once called me ‘Commander.’ 
I nod. “I know…I’m sorry,” I mean it, from the bottom of my heart. 
“If you wish to go, you have to go through me.” He challenged. This again? 
The more I know, the less I understand. How many more lives must be taken for the world to understand? Why should it feel this harsh to live for reward and punishment? Must I earn something to be something? 
To be born human and not be human, what a waste. 
When does it take a miracle to be human? 
“Let me live. Even as a coward.” I begged for my life.
“Don’t make me do this.” He seems empathetic, yielding his weapon. 
“I can finally eat something tastier than mélas zōmós.” I was sincere. Right now, I am every bit guilty of imagining what my life could be beyond Sparta, Athens, and war. “You’re free to take me, or report of my treason to the Polemarch. But I won’t give away my life so easily anymore.”
“You’ve gone mad. You’ve been injuring yourself and those around you.” Ah, as I’ve suspected. 
Perhaps I’ve gone mad. I only laugh. The warrior shrivels at my humour. 
“Tell me, Spartan warrior, do you remember Crispinus?” I asked.
“Who is Crispinus?” He asked, tilting his head. I was nearly disappointed. It all led to this indeed.
“He was my friend. He died in battle.” We both have the same fresh wound on our necks, inflicted by Crispinus. Crispinus was meant to be an honourable warrior, after all, that’s why he, a Spartan, shall die, no? Yet in honour, I am the last person on earth to remember his honour. He doesn’t remember, because I’ve gone mad. “I deeply mourn his death.”
“A warrior—” “A warrior should never be weakened by death, only strengthened.” I restated.
There is silence. 
He no longer speaks, knowing it is futile. Thus, I can only await the wielding of his spear after.
Howbeit, he only steps closer to me, speaking more.
“Are you alright, Nikolaos?” Unexpectedly, he queried. My name…when was the last time someone called me that?
“I’m—” I was taken aback. Though, soon, I realize what has happened. I study him. Atlas, all I can do is unstrap my chestplate…and let in the unsurmountable urge to smile. And while raising my arms in surrender, I answer, “I’m going to be alright, Haris.” 
Perhaps this time, he could mistake it for a challenge.
For I can see him wield his dory spear, and the photon of the blade flashing in the corner of my eyes. 

“Excellent work, Warrior.” The Polemarch addressed, from his tall horse he blesses a warrior with his graceful presence, who is kneeling before him.
“Yes, General,” Haris answered his calling, his head down, bloodstained dory spear resting by his side, trailing the ground from the entrance to the underside of his fingertips in deep red ooze.
“Your loyalty earns you the title of Commander.” The Polemarch has personally named him the title of ‘Commander,’ the most honourable feat a Spartan could ever achieve. Not every Harmost achieved the title directly from him. Therefore, Haris bites back the insurmountable urge to grin, his heart pumping in his chest. He is lucky to have been the one who remained. For it leads to this; victory, pride, and glory. 
It awaits any man who would kill for it.
Atlas, in the end, to remain the brave Spartan he’s proven himself to be in the eyes of the other warrior peers watching him around, he can only say one thing.
“I am honoured, General.” 
Everyone will now call him ‘Commander.’ 
Will he get used to this? He has to. It feels right, it should be right.
It must be right.

Haris journeys back to his tent.
And to his surprise, there is a child in the corner, sitting rigid with his knees to his chest.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes