Demi-God

Lucian's arm muscles bunched and released with the rhythm of his strikes, his breath steady as he swung his wooden sword against an imaginary opponent in the cool shade of the forest. He danced around a tree, using it as a makeshift enemy, his shield raised defensively.

Each movement was a carefully choreographed pattern, one he'd been perfecting since he'd been able to lift the practice sword his father had crafted for him. Lucian's eyes were narrow slits of concentration, and sweat made his tunic cling to his back. With each thrust and parry, he imagined facing a powerful adversary, a warrior as skilled and merciless as any Spartan hoplite. The thought spurred him on, driving him to push harder, faster, never mind the burning in his muscles or the sting of sweat in his eyes.

And then there is the spear. His favorite weapon. He would plant his feet, feeling the earth steady beneath him, and launch the weapon through the air with a powerful grunt. The spear would whistle, cutting through the leaves before thudding into the makeshift target he had set up—a straw-stuffed sack hanging from another sturdy tree.

He retrieved it and went again—lunge, throw, recover—each time pushing for a more forceful launch, a straighter flight, a deeper impact. He has never missed his target with his spear. It was his signature move. His father was even amazed at his skill in spear throwing as if Zeus himself blessed his arm with the might of a thunderbolt. This was where he felt alive, where his mixed heritage mattered not, and prowess could be measured in the accuracy of aim and the strength behind a throw.

"Lucian!" His sister's voice cut through the serenity like a blade. "You promised Ma you'd help with the harvest. She sent me to fetch you."

Lucian paused mid-strike, lowering his sword as he turned to face her. "Sorry, I lost track of time," he admitted, offering a sheepish grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Lost track or conveniently forgotten? The sun's climbing high, and we've still got a field full of wheat waiting," she crossed her arms, her brow furrowed.

"Sorry, Lexi. Let me just stash this away," Lucian hid his training gear under a pile of brush, making sure they were well-concealed from any prying Spartan eyes.

"Come on, brother. Every moment we waste gives the soldiers more reason to think we’re slacking off," Lexi said, turning on her heel and setting a brisk pace back towards their farm.

"Ok. Fine," he sighed, quickly catching up to her.

Lucian couldn't help but feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. The constant need to train in secret, to prove himself worthy of his father's lineage while staying beneath the notice of the Spartan authorities. Though he already knows that he can never be a citizen due to him only being a Half-Spartan, he still trains in hopes of joining the Spartan army and gaining freedom.

As they walked down the dusty road, fellow helots nodded their greetings, some hoisting heavy sacks of grain upon their backs while others tended to the fields alongside the path. The sun bore down mercilessly, baking the earth beneath their feet and drawing lines of sweat across their brows.

This is the reality of being a slave – not the glory of the battlefield or the honor of the warriors, but the unending toil of those bound to serve. Lucian felt a surge of resentment. It wasn't just for himself, but for his sister, his mother, and all those who struggled day in and day out without the hope of rising beyond their birth. But his father, a Spartan himself, did not treat him and his sister with the harshness one might expect from a man of his standing. Nicander, though distant at times, showed a sort of grudging respect for the strength his children displayed. It was this complex relationship that kept the fire of ambition burning within Lucian's chest.

"Look at old Phaedrus over there," Lexi commented with a nod towards an elderly man who waved at them with a gnarled hand, his back bent low over the crops. "He’s been working these lands longer than anyone can remember."

"Still strong as an ox," Lucian replied, returning the gesture. "I hope I can be half as tough when I'm his age."

"I feel bad for the old man."

"I know. Me too. All his life working and for what? To never taste freedom, to never have the chance to decide his fate? It's a damn shame," Lucian grunted, his gaze lingering on the old man a moment longer before returning to the path ahead.

"Would we be like his brother?"

"No. That, I promise. I’ll train hard and join the army, so I’ll earn enough to gain our freedom."

"Are they even recruiting?"

"The Spartans are always low in numbers. Though they don’t like it, they recruit soldiers from us slaves to fill their numbers."

Lexi shrugged. "Good thing that you’ve been training. I don’t get why we have to keep it a secret though. You're good enough to stand with any of those Spartan boys."

"I may be," Lucian said, "but our blood taints their precious lineage. To them, I'm just another half-blood slave, fit to till the earth and bow my head, but not to wear their red cloaks in battle. They fear what they cannot control, and a helot with the skills of a Spartan warrior is something they would rather not think about."

"Well, I think it's stupid. To look down upon people like us is just them being scared. Scared of having to admit that a slave might be better than a pure-blooded Spartan at something."

"It's the way things are, Lexi. But we'll change our stars, you and I. Someday."

Their conversation came to a halt as they witnessed a familiar yet sight—a cluster of Spartan soldiers stood towering over a younger helot who had collapsed to his knees, a heavy sack of wheat abandoned beside him. The crack of a whip followed by a pained cry shattered the murmurs of the field. The slaves looked at one another yet none dared to intervene. The soldiers' crimson cloaks marked them as off-limits as their authority was absolute.

"Lazy scum! You think your weakness is tolerated here?" one of the Spartans shouted, raising his whip again. "Get up and carry your weight, or by the gods, I'll have you thrown to the dogs!"

"Please, please my lord," the boy whimpered, clutching at his bleeding back, "I haven't eaten... since yesterday. I'm weak from hunger, not from laziness."

The Spartan spat at the ground. "Excuses of a slave," he sneered, pointing his spear. "Hunger is no reason to falter."

"But it’s true my lord. I’ve been working for hours as you ordered."

"You helots are all the same, always using your pity to get away from work!"

"Oh please, my lord. I don’t do that."

"Lies!"

"Uhm..should we...do something?" Lexi whispered, glancing at her brother.

Lucian clenched his fists, feeling the anger boil within him. But he knew better than to let it show. "No," he said, though every fiber of his being screamed otherwise. "We'd only bring trouble on ourselves, and Ma needs us."

"Come on, Dimitrios, leave him be," another soldier intervened, patting his back. "He's just a kid. And if you kill him, that's one less hand for harvest, and we'll be the ones to hear about it from the Ephors."

Dimitrios glared at his comrade but lowered his whip. "Fine. Get out of my sight you filthy slave!"

"T..thank you my lord," the boy stammered as he clumsily gathered his sack and continued his way, his eyes downcast to avoid further inciting the wrath of the Spartans.

"What are you others looking at?" Dimitrios barked, turning his gaze on the rest of the helots who had momentarily paused in their work. "Back to it unless you all want a taste of my whip!"

The other helots quickly averted their gaze and resumed their labor, trying their best to keep under the soldiers' radar.

"Damn Spartans…" Lexi muttered under her breath as they continued walking, trying to ignore the cries behind them. "They treat us like we're less than dirt."

"Keep your voice down," Lucian warned, though he shared her sentiment. "We don’t want any Spartans hearing us."

"To hell with them! They can punish me all they want; it won't change the truth."

"I know you're angry. We all are. But anger won't keep us safe."

"Whatever, let’s just go," she said, brushing off her brother's concern with a flick of her wrist.

"One day, Lexi. One day things will change."

"Sometimes I wonder if that day will ever come," she sighed.

"It will."

The two of them walked on, shoulders squared against the weight of their reality, hearts heavy with unspoken dreams of freedom.

Lucian and Lexi halted as the ground began to tremble under the march of armored feet. Dust rose in a haze as a phalanx of Spartan warriors advanced down the road, their bronze armor glinting sharply under the sun's unforgiving gaze.

"Quick, kneel," Lucian said, dropping to one knee and pulling Lexi down beside him.

The soldiers passed by them in a wave of crimson cloaks and gleaming shields, each emblazoned with the fearsome lambda symbol. At the center of this display of power rode a man on a horse whose very presence demanded awe—the King.

"By the gods, look at him," Lexi whispered.

"Shh," Lucian cautioned, though his own gaze was fixed on the regal figure.

King Pleistarchus sat astride his steed. His helmet bore a crest that soared above the heads of his men, and his cloak was a deeper red than the others. It is said that to gaze upon a Spartan king in the full regalia of war was to witness Ares himself descending to the battlefield. Pleistarchus's eyes, visible beneath the brim of his helmet, surveyed the land and his subjects with steely resolve.

The clanking of metal and the rhythmic stomp faded as the procession moved past, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a heavy silence. Lucian and Lexi rose slowly, brushing the dirt from their knees.

"Why'd he bring so many soldiers?" she asked, watching the last of the Spartans disappear into the distance.

"Rumors are spreading about Persian scouts being seen near our borders," Lucian replied. "They're likely just making a show of force, reminding us all who's in charge."

"Persians? Here?"

"It's possible. If the Persians are bold enough to come this close, war might be closer than we think."

"But we're just farmers. What could they possibly want from us?"

"Sparta, what else?"

"I see. Who was that king, anyway?" Lexi pressed, squinting into the distance. "I can never tell them apart with those damn helmets on."

"That was Pleistarchus," Lucian said. "He's one of the two kings."

"Two kings? Why the hell do we need two kings? Isn't one enough of a pain in the ass?"

"Old tradition," Lucian explained, resuming their walk. "Sparta’s always had two—keeps a balance of power or something like that. One looks after home, the other leads in war. Though these days, it seems like they both thirst for battle."

"Wouldn’t mind seeing them on the front lines for once instead of sitting pretty while we break our backs in these fields."

"Careful, Lexi," Lucian warned with a sidelong glance. "Words like that can get you in more trouble than you're looking to find."

"Can't help it," she muttered. "Just makes me sick how things are."

"I hear you there."

Alexia furrowed her brow in thought. "Who’s the other king again?"

"Oh, that would be King Leonidas."

"Leonidas? I know I’ve heard that name before."

"He’s the one who's been pushing for more aggressive policies against the Persians. If war comes, he'll be the one leading the charge. They say he’s a great warrior. Some say he’s descended from Hercules himself. "

"Is he that one that I saw in Sparta when we went to the market last month? The one giving that speech in the agora?"

"Right, that was him," Lucian nodded. "Trying to rally the city. Sparta has been tense ever since those Persian messengers came demanding earth and water."

"Earth and water…what a joke. Who would want those?"

Lucian chuckled, "It’s not really about earth and water. It's a sign of submission to Persia. Giving those means you’re bowing down to their king, Xerxes. Sparta’s response… well, you know how that went."

"Yeah, they threw the messengers into that pit. Not exactly what you'd call diplomatic."

"Nothing about Spartans is diplomatic," Lucian replied. "They’re raised for war. Diplomacy is for the Athenians and their silver tongues."

"I like the Athenians better. I wish we could live there."

"If only it were easy my dear sister. If only it was easy."