Chapter 1: Prologue

“Taught never to retreat, never to surrender. Taught that death on the battlefield in service to Sparta was the greatest glory he could achieve in his life.”
- Dilios

Part 1 

"Father..." 

Socrates, a young Athenian boy stood beside the door as he watched the blood splatter to the ground followed by a heavy thump to the ground; the source of the thump was a body of a well-adorned clothed man, his father. 

Looming over the body were two cloaked figures, bathed in the darkness. 

The moonlight from the window shined in, just barely making out their figures and the corpse between them on the floor. The light glistened on the blood-dripping knives, tightly gripped by both figures. 

"What about the boy, sir?" 

One of the figures whispered as he turned his head over, looking straight at Socrates standing by the doorway. 

"No, leave him. We must go." 

The other figure sheaved his blade and jumped out of the window, followed by the other figure. 

Still in a daze of drowsiness but overwhelmed with a slowly rising feeling of dread and suspense, Socrates loomed over the corpse of his father, he glanced to the side, and saw his mother still in bed. He noticed a red stain on the blanket along with a hole. Blood was soaking within the blanket and on the mattress, she was stabbed while asleep, and her throat was slit. 

He looked back at his father, multiple stab wounds to his stomach. 

Despite these wounds, Socrates's father pointed his gaze sharply at Socrates. He coughed out blood, and with a harsh grating voice, he spluttered out: 

"...P-Per...Persians... They... Them... It was..." 

As the last of his remaining air left his throat, his head slumped down and thumped onto the marble ground.

He was no longer. 

No sounds were made. Only silence for the passing minutes, other than the beautiful symphonies of the crickets outside, the peaceful gusts of winds flying inside the room, the distant sounds of conversation between men in nearby bars, and the crisp young melody of a child's agonizing, harrowing scream that could be heard throughout the entire city of Athens. 

Part 2 

Athens, quite a vibrant city. Home to the most modern of architecture, exquisite art, and dances. If pitted against a competition of culture compared to other Greek-City-States, surely Athens would win by a landslide...

"...Yet filled with fucking boy lovers. Surely they'll win a competition of how many boy lovers they've got roaming 'round their city by a landslide! Fucking Athens, Peter, why are we in this stinking city? Fucking boy lover shithole. boy lover boy lover boy lover boy lover boy lover boy lover boy lover boy lover-" 

A woman wearing a rich light-blue short dress complained out loud, though to the discontent of surrounding Athenian men walking along the streets. 

She had beautiful long blonde hair and blue eyes, although her arms were slim for the average Spartan Lady, who was often thicker from their intensive training regime. She was more on the lean side and could easily outrun 99% of the people in Athens and probably nearly every Greek-City-State. 

Despite being on the lean side all around, her chest was more the opposite; huge, to her bitter annoyance. 

She cursed the size of her breasts, it interrupted with her training, a lot. 

Miss Spartan I-Have-No-Public-Manners was complaining to a man walking beside her.  

"Orders, Iris, Orders." 

Athenians were known to like other men, including young boys. This was a source of ridicule for Spartans to make of Athenians. Which explains Iris's continuous public display of grumbling. 

Peter and Iris were Spartiates. They were higher-class Spartans just below the Royal Family. 

"Orders, what orders?" 

The men around lewdly gazed at Iris's bouncing chest as she turned over to Peter, frowning. 

Peter was a well-built man, which was expected of a man of Sparta to bare minimum standards. He had a clean-shaven face and shared the same genetic characteristics as Iris, blonde hair and blue eyes. He had curly hair that was combed and oiled for the occasion. From his chin to below his eye was a thick long scar, sustained from battle.

He stood 2 heads taller than Iris, and a head taller than the average Greek man. Exceptionally tall. 

He wore a white pure Chiton, with a material clearly higher-class.(Ever seen Greek statues? See those rags or cloth they wear on themselves? That's basically a Chiton)

"Father made a promise with an Athenian government official. Most of the details aren't necessary, but we do need to do one thing." 

Peter smiled as he raised his finger, continuing: 

"-We need to pick up this Athenian's child and bring it back to Sparta." 

Part 3 

"I almost see home! Sparta!"

A few days after his parent's death, Socrates was handed over to these two very weird people. Well, Socrates only thought the woman was weird. 

They were in a carriage traveling to Sparta. 

And, the woman who shouted about seeing home was Iris. 

"Eh? Why aren't you happy?" 

Iris nudged him with a smirk on her face, completely oblivious to what transpired to Socrates a few days ago. 

Socrates just looked over at Iris and quietly growled at her. 

"You're pretty handsome aren't you, for an Athenian." 

Iris poked his cheeks, at Socrate's bitter expression. Again, oblivious. 

Socrates was indeed handsome, among his peers it was obvious that he'd grow into a splendid-looking man; to the thanks of his father's genetics. He was a boy with short brown hair and dazzling emerald eyes with hints of purple that sparkled with every movement. His face was pure. 

Despite being a tall boy, he was very skinny. The tall and lanky type. If one were to put on Spartan armor on him, it would look like the armor was wearing him more than the other way around. 

He was just as tall as the already impressively tall Peter. 

But these galvanizing features didn't impress Peter as it did Iris, who sat in front of Socrates with his arms crossed, frowning. 

"You saw your parents killed in front of you, you saw the men, and you didn't give chase? You did not fight? Athenian boy, is this what is taught in Athens? Cowardice? Or just your cowardice?" 

"Shut up!" 

The wooden seats violently creaked as Socrates balled his hands into fists. A hot raging fire of anger seared all across and within his body. His frustrated face burned as he tensed his arms, pushing his feet down and throwing himself right onto Peter. 

As a man who saw war as something as habitual as a chore, Peter skillfully grappled the raging youth into submission. 

With shallow fast breaths, Socrates struggled to get up with Peter's knee pushing down on his chest. The pressure forced Socrates to push his stomach in, raising his chest to make room for air to come in. He struggled as Peter held his hand around his neck.

"Fucking- Let go of me, you bastard-" 

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Socrates spluttered out with clear anger, yet there was an undertone to his emotions. Anguish and guilt, regret and pain. Pure dread resonated beneath the anger. 

Socrates's beautiful emerald eyes which would have dazzled in more content days looked empty, devoid of all emotion aside from pure bitterness and frustration. 

It was the eyes of a broken child, hell-bent on vengeance. 

Peter mused as he stood up, sitting back. 

This boy...

The men with those eyes are the type who are completely satisfied with dying after having their vengeance, as there is nothing else to their life. It wasn't the first time he's seen those eyes, nor was he unfamiliar with them. 

Socrates got up and sat back down, crossing his arms defiantly. His nose was bleeding from the takedown, and a large bleeding scratch ran from his cheek as he glared daggers at Peter. 

It was clear he was not emotionally stable. 

"You okay?" 

Iris grabbed a handkerchief and wiped off the blood from Socrate's nose and face. 

Socrates just sat there, his attention spent only on his mind as he thought about many things, including his parents and his situation. 

"According to what I've heard about you, you're a pretty smart boy, Socrates. Genius-level smart, actually. It says here that you're top of your class in every subject... Except for physical education, which you placed last in especially physical endurance." 

Peter pulled out a paper, which seemed to have information on Socrates. 

Socrates silently nodded. 

"-Your father even suggested you enter a completely political career, investing you into Governmental-Democratic-Positions. Since apparently, it suits you very well." 

"...Yes." 

Socrates was an extraordinarily intelligent boy, he preferred to read books more than what was good for him and was familiar with the politics of Athens. In the right direction, he could grow into an excellent military general or country leader, or a wonderous world-changing philosopher of sorts. He did take quite a liking to Philosophy. 

By modern standards, his IQ wouldn't be less than 160. 

"Do you want to know why you're with us Spartans?" 

Socrates nodded. 

He had no idea why he was there, but it was in his father's will that Spartans would pick him up after his death. 

But that hardly mattered. 

There was only one thing he cared about. 

Revenge. 

He wanted to kill those Persians, murder any Persians. The ones who were responsible for his father's death. 

After his parents died, everything became grey and numb. He hardly felt anything anymore, aside from horrific grief and anguish. He could barely stand up or speak for the few days following those deaths. 

Peter cleared his throat: 

"Your father is a very good friend of my father, brothers sworn by oath. Your father, Aristotle, is a very powerful man within Athens. As a consequence, there is no one he can trust. You understand where I'm going with this, Socrates?" 

"I understand, you mean to say father entrusted me to the Spartans rather than untrustworthy power-hungry Athenians. Now that my powerful father is dead, things are going to be very dangerous for me. People will try to use me to further their goals, or kill me." 

Socrates spoke in a clear manner, he had calmed down and sat up straight. 

He spoke as if he knew the answer even before the question, which, Socrates already did. He knew it was going to happen, but he was too anguished to dwell on it much more to make a plan against it. At most, he wanted to run away. 

Despite what transpired just earlier, Socrates was wise enough to rein in his anger, and save it for any Persians that came across him. He spoke to Peter respectfully, especially after he was beaten down by him. 

"Yes." 

Peter replied dryly. 

"..."

"..."

Socrates sat awkwardly in silence as he stared at Peter, who only glared back. 

"Yo yo yo, Peter, shouldn't you tell him what's gonna happen to him once he reaches Sparta?" 

Iris smirked as she beckoned to Peter. 

Socrates silently listened with natural curiosity.

In response, Peter also smirked. 

For Socrates, the price of being saved from political turmoil in Athens is a warrior life in Sparta. 

Socrates was to be sent to the Agoge, a Spartan education center that trained boys into men. The agreement stated that Socrates was only to be taken in if he promised to become a Spartan Warrior, an occupation well sought after with Sparta's small population. 

The Agoge was the perfect factory for soldiers, harsh discipline and beatings of boys to harden into men. Boys would march, or drown. Fight for scraps, or starve. They would fight or die. 

Socrates will be trained into a full-fledged warrior, the principles literally beaten into him. 

Peter and Iris couldn't help but laugh in pity, Socrates wasn't going to have a good time. 

They knew that many Spartan boys heavily disliked their Athenian counterparts. 

They knew for sure, Socrates would be subject to heavy discrimination and bullying. 

Not only will he struggle physically and mentally from the stress of the Agoge, but socially too, from his to-be-peers. How he copes with that, is a solution Socrates must figure out. 

"-You'll find a solution, especially with that smart head of yours." 

"..."

Socrates sat there, his body frozen, rooted into place. He gulped in the face of the challenges he was going to face when he'll reach Sparta. 

Unfair...

That was the only word thought in his mind. 

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