Demi-God

Lucian could feel the weight of the makeshift shield strapped to his arm, the balance shifting with each strike. His breath came out in measured huffs, fogging in the cool air of the dappled forest.

"Hyah!" he grunted, driving the point of his spear into an imagined foe, pivoting on his heel to face another, sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip on the shield. "Too slow."

The forest was quiet today, the usual chatter of birds and rustle of small creatures absent as if they too had learned to respect the intensity of Lucian's training sessions. He needed this after a hard day’s work in the field.

He resumed his practice, lunging forward with the thrusts of his spear, then switching to the sword. Swing left, swing right, just like his father has taught him. Keep moving, keep pushing, never give your enemy a chance to retaliate, he said.

Then, a slurred tune sliced through the air. Lucian froze, head cocked to the side, listening. It was a song that’s disjointed and off-key, wafting lazily amidst the trees.

"Who's there?" Lucian called out, but the singing continued unabated, the words incomprehensible but oddly merry.

Cautiously, he approached the source, stepping over gnarled roots and pushing aside low-hanging branches. There, at the base of an ancient oak, sat an old man. A dirty tunic hung from his frame, and an empty bottle dangled from his fingertips. His eyes were closed, head lolling back against the trunk as he crooned to the sky.

"Hey! Old man!" Lucian said, approaching. "What are you doing here?"

The old man cracked one eye open, looking up at Lucian with a bleary gaze. "Hmm? Here?" He hiccupped, then chuckled. "Got absolutely plastered last night, didn't I? Woke up to birdsong and a bitch of a headache."

"Where did you come from?"

"City, I suppose," Drakon took another swig from his bottle, the liquid sloshing audibly. "Don't remember much else, though."

"Who are you?"

"Name's..." The old man paused, his expression struggling for recollection, then brightened. "Drakon!"

But as the name left his lips, Drakon's head lolled once more, and he toppled sideways like a felled tree, snoring before he even hit the ground.

"Hey!" Lucian nudged him with his foot. "You can't just sleep here."

No response, just the steady cadence of deep snores.

"Great," Lucian grumbled. He glanced around, half-expecting an ambush, but the woods remained still, save for the occasional bird fluttering from branch to branch.

With a final look at the unconscious old man, Lucian stashed his weapons beneath a pile of leaves and brush. "I have no time for this," he muttered, shaking his head as he walked away from the peculiar sight. "I need to get back home."

Dawn had barely broken when Lucian returned to the forest clearing, his eyes falling on the slumped figure of Drakon, who was exactly where he'd left him—sprawled out at the base of an ancient tree, snoring like a sawmill. Lucian's lips twisted in a half-smirk as he stepped over the old man, pulling his sword and shield from their hiding spot.

He launched into his drills, the rhythmic shuffle of his feet dancing through the dust. Each thrust of his spear sliced through the air with a sharp whoosh, muscles rippling under taut skin. Left, right, left, right—his movements were fluid and aggressive like a storm crashing against the shore.

Hours passed, and with each strike, Lucian's mind cleared, focus narrowing to the wooden weapon in his hand. The sun had climbed higher when he finally stopped, chest heaving with heavy breaths, sweat making rivulets down his back.

Eventually, a groan came through the clearing with Lucian glancing over to see Drakon stirring, the man's hand shielding his eyes from the intrusive sunlight.

"Where... where am I?" The old man’s voice was rough, confused.

"Still in the forest," Lucian replied, not missing a beat as he transitioned into another series of attacks against an imaginary foe.

"Ugh..." Drakon lurched forward, retching onto the grass beside him.

Lucian halted mid-swing, watching him. "You okay there?"

"Fine," he grumbled, spitting out the last remnants of bile. "Don't need your worry."

Shrugging, Lucian turned back to his training, dismissing the incident as he resumed his rhythm.

Time slipped by until Drakon, having regained some semblance of composure, propped himself against the tree trunk and watched Lucian work. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he said, "Your form's all wrong, kid."

Lucian paused mid-thrust, sparing a glance at the old man, but said nothing, resuming his exercise with a shake of his head. He thought nothing of it, as he was thinking that the old man was just trying to get under his skin.

"Your form," Drakon repeated, louder this time, uncrossing his arms and standing upright. "It's wrong."

"Learned it from my father," Lucian snapped back. "And he didn't teach me anything wrong."

"Then you’re a fool," Drakon retorted, a smirk playing across his features.

Lucian stopped, pointing at the blunt tip of his sword. "If you're such an expert, why don't you come here and show me how it's done?"

"Thought you'd never ask," the smugness in Drakon's voice was unmistakable as he stepped away from the tree's support and moved to face the young man.

"Wait, shouldn't you have a weapon?"

"Against an amateur?" Drakon chuckled. "I won't be needing one."

"Pretty confident there old man."

"Not really, just telling the truth."

"Is that so? That remains to be seen," Lucian assumed a defensive position.

"We’ll see about that."

Lucian squared his shoulders, letting his shield drop slightly in front as he clenched the hilt of his sword tighter. In a split second, he lunged forward, aiming the tip of his sword at Drakon's chest. But the old man was no mere stationary target as he sidestepped to the right. Without wasting a beat, Lucian swung wildly, first to the left then to the right, his shield arcing through the air in tandem. Drakon moved like water, flowing away from each strike, his feet barely making a sound against the leaf-strewn ground.

"What the hell?" Lucian thought. "I can’t even land a single blow at him. What’s going on? The old man moves like he's possessed by Hermes himself."

But Drakon had only begun to display his prowess.

"Is that all?" he taunted, a casual wave of his hand. "I’m disappointed. I expected much more from a young person like you."

Gritting his teeth, Lucian reset his stance, trying to calm himself from the man’s taunting. He needed to be fast, agile even. He can’t just keep swinging at him in the hope he lands a blow. He’ll tire himself before the fight even ends.

There was more to fighting than raw strength; that much his father had tried to drill into him; a fighter also needs to focus. And that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Drakon yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "By Ares himself, what are we waiting for? For the gods to come kick you in the ass? Let's end this."

Lucian attacked once more, this time leading with his shield to close the distance quickly. As he neared Drakon, he thrust forward with his sword, but again the old man was not there. Lucian pivoted, following Drakon's movement, his sword slicing through the air toward where Drakon now stood. But it was a feint, a trap laid to him. In the split second Lucian overextended and Drakon's foot lashed out, connecting with Lucian's exposed midsection. The breath whooshed out of him as he was catapulted backward, tumbling across the forest floor, a plume of dust rising around him.

Drakon stood calmly, brushing a speck of dirt off his sleeve. "Now, how did I defeat you with just one kick?"

Lucian, clutching his throbbing abdomen, pushed himself upright, his pride stung more than his flesh. "You were too fast," he managed to gasp out between labored breaths.

"Wrong," Drakon corrected him with a shake of his head. "When you swung your body together with your shield, you left your stomach open. I simply took advantage of the opening."

Lucian stared at the old man, the lesson sinking in. It wasn't just about speed or power; it was about seeing the whole picture, anticipating the opponent's next move. Drakon had read him like an open book and predicted his moves.

"Still think you can take me?" he asked, his arms folded across his chest with an air of nonchalance.

"I've taken down three Spartans before."

"Ha!" Drakon snorted. "Pups playing at war, probably. Fight someone with real experience and it's a different game."

"You keep saying that, but you don't look much like any Spartan I've ever seen."

Drakon's lips quivered into a wry smile as he sauntered over to a nearby branch, comfortably taking a seat. He uncorked a bottle of wine and took a swig. "A Spartan I am—or was. It's a long story."

"Long story? "An exile, then?"

"Perhaps," Drakon's answer floated on the wind as he gazed off into the distance.

"What's an 'ex-Spartan' doing out here?"

"Visiting an old friend."

"An old friend? What are you talking about?"

That's when they heard it: "Drakon. It's been a long time!"

Both men turned to see General Brasidas astride his horse, flanked by two bodyguards.

Lucian, recognizing the general's stature, immediately dropped to one knee, head bowed in respect. But Brasidas waved his hand. "Rise up, boy. No need for formalities here."

Dismounting, the General approached Drakon and embraced him. "It's good to see you, old friend," he said, clapping the old man’s back.

"Likewise."

Lucian gestured towards them. "How do you two know each other? If you don't mind me asking."

"Drakon here used to be my finest soldier," Brasidas said as they started walking down the road, Lucian followed behind.

"You're what?" he asked.

"My soldier. He used to fight under my command before... well, before circumstances changed."

Drakon shot the General a knowing look but said nothing, preferring to take another swig of his wine.

"Then how did he lose his citizenship?"

"I was thrown out for being too violent," Drakon said. "Something like that. I’m not really sure."

Brasidas chuckled. "Not just that. Drakon, as skilled as he is, can be brash, arrogant... and also a notorious womanizer that he bedded Lysander's wife."

"You’re kidding?" Lucian raised his brow.

"No, he really did. I was there when Lysander was chasing him with a spear down the streets of Sparta, screaming curses that would make the Oracle blush."

Drakon shrugged nonchalantly. "She was lonely and beautiful. I couldn’t resist. Who am I to deny such a woman?"

The dust from the road clung to their sandals as Brasidas, with furrowed brows, turned to Drakon. "So, what's the urgency that brings you back to Sparta? Are you here to chase women again?"

"I need an audience with King Leonidas. There's news—bad news," Drakon’s eyes narrowed, a seriousness overtaking his usually indifferent demeanor.

"Bad news? By Zeus, what is it?"

He sighed before continuing. "Persians, a great force of them, are moving through Greece. And they're in talks with Thrace."

"Thrace?" Brasidas grunted. "And how did you know this?"

"Uhm, to be honest, I learned this while I was bedding this woman…"

"I’m sorry? A prostitute told you this?" Brasidas raised his hand.

"Yes," Drakon's head shook while the General's hand made contact with his forehead with an audible slap. "Anyway, she told me that one of her regulars is a messenger for a Thracian warlord. The guy got drunk, loose lips and all that. He mentioned the Persians are offering gold, land, and titles in exchange for safe passage and support when they march on Greece."

"You think they'll bend the knee to King Darius?"

"Can't say for sure," Drakon replied with a shrug, "but it seems so. The Thracians have a beef with the Athenians, and this could be their chance for payback. Plus, Darius’ gold is tempting."

"This alliance," Brasidas sighed, "it would be disastrous to us."

"Wait, Persia is invading?" Lucian chimed in. "Then we must stop them!"

The two halted, turning to face the young man.

Brasidas cracked a wry smile. "Ah, Lucian, there was something I meant to tell you that’s why I came to the forest."

"You knew my secret hideout?"

"Yes. I know everything that’s happening in the field. But that’s not the point. The king has agreed to enlist you in our ranks. But being a slave, finding someone to train you, that’s a little bit of a hard thing to do."

"Why is that?"

"Well, you see, no Spartan would want to train a slave."

"Train him?" Drakon interrupted, slapping a firm hand onto his friend’s shoulder. "I'll do it. The boy could learn a thing or two."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, why not. The boy has spirit, and we need all the swords we can get if Persia's on the move."

"You’re training me?" Lucian pointed to himself.

"Yes, what’s wrong with that? You got some moves there boy but you got no style or rhythm. With the right teacher, you could be the best."

Brasidas arched an eyebrow, considering the proposition. After a moment’s reflection, he nodded. "Very well. You'll be under Drakon's tutelage."

Lucian didn’t know how to react to the news except a simple nod. What else does he have to lose? It’s the only way for him to be included in the Spartan army, a chance for him to get his family’s freedom.

"I won't let you down," he said.

"That's what I like to hear," Drakon grumbled.

"We start next week. And make sure you bring me something to drink."

"Great," Lucian slouched his shoulder. "Just great."

——

The grand throne room stretched out before them, its marble floors reflecting the glistening light that poured in through tall windows. Towering pillars lined the space, creating an imposing atmosphere that seemed to swallow up any noise. Drakon and Brasidas marched towards the raised dais where Leonidas sat upon his throne, surrounded by his loyal advisors. His body was protected by a suit of armor. His unkempt, curly black hair framed his face, highlighting his defined jawline and full beard. One hand rested on his shield, while his spear leaned against his throne.

An elder stepped forward, upon seeing the former soldier, raised his hand in protest at Drakon’s approach. "Out! No place for exiles here!"

"Nonsense! Drakon comes not as a Spartan but as a friend," boomed Leonidas, rising to his full imposing height.

"But your highness!"

"Be quiet or be gone," Leonidas' voice was firm and brooked no room for argument. "Drakon came for me, I’m sure. Not for Sparta."

He beckoned the old man closer, and the two embraced briefly.

"Leonidas," Drakon began, pulling back to look the king in the eye. "It’s been a long time."

"A long time indeed, my friend. Now, what brings you here?"

"The Persians, my king. They grow bold. They intend to invade Greece, and Thrace might ally with them. We should consider uniting with Athens if we're to hold them off."

"Athens..." Leonidas' gaze hardened like steel tempered by fire, a hint of concern beneath his stoic exterior.

"Athens? Are you insane?!" an elder interrupted. "They are not our allies. They are our enemies!"

Leonidas held up a hand silencing the elder. "If what my friend here said was true, then I will consider his proposal."

"The Athenians are crafty, but they share our desire to keep Persia at bay," Drakon continued. "If we have any chance against our enemies, we will need their help."

"Their numbers will surely be a great help," Brasidas said.

Lucian stood a few paces behind, a silent observer to the weighty discourse unfolding before him.

"Uniting with Athens," Leonidas repeated, finally looking up. "I never knew this day would come."

"Me too, my king."

"I will speak with the Ephors and the Gerousia. We must deliberate on this matter with great care," Leonidas declared. "I’ll send out some scouts to confirm your intelligence. If the Persians' threat is as you say, we'll need to act swiftly."

"Thank you, Leonidas," Drakon said with a nod. "I wouldn't have come if it wasn't urgent."