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another-bryk-in-the-wall · 4 years

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Sunshine (Brasidas one short)

Author’s note: what’s up, my name is Tani and I love a guy who died over 2000 years ago. pls enjoy this little fic I wrote before THAT mission in AC Odyseey. You know which one.

Warnings: mentions of war and injuries

Enjoy!

In the end, he survived. Barely, but he survived. After the battle finished, after Deimos and Kassandra were carried off by members of the cult, after the last Athenian soldier fell, Brasidas opened his eyes again.

“He is alive! Brasidas is alive!” one of the other soldiers yelled to the survivors as they ran to his aid. Due to his size, four men had to carry the military officer to the nearest camp to treat his wounds.

A few days later, under the influence of questionable herbs, Brasidas left Messenia for Sparta. A few soldiers accompanied Brasidas, ready to help the recovering warrior. The last few stadia, they had to carry him, his arms wrapped around their shoulders as if he was drunk. Gently, so unlike Spartans, they laid him down onto his bed, tucking him in for sleep to come.

The following morning, Brasidas woke early. No people in the streets of Sparta. A few birds sang their songs in the distance, the sound of a goat bleating so far away. For Brasidas, this was his peace. As much as he loved fighting for Sparta, a bit of him longed for the stability of a home. But that wasn’t possible for the warrior. He had an army to lead, a war to win. Living for Sparta, dying for Sparta. His bloodline chose this life for him, and he loved every single day.

Brasidas wouldn’t call killing Athenians a hobby, but it was not something he hated doing. The only thing he disliked was the feeling of blood under his feet, as he walked through the soaked fields, covered in bodies of the weak. The splattering with every step granting him more power. A God among men, the only saviour of Sparta. So many looked up to him, so many wanted to be like him. But he knew, he wouldn’t be like this forever. After every high comes a fall. And his injuries were his latest fall. Crashing down from the highest of the mountains, Zeus laughing as he gave Brasidas another chance.

Brasidas sat up in his bed, rubbing his pounding head as flies swirled in his vision. The knock out he had received from the mysterious man had done more harm than he’d like to admit, a bit of dizziness lingered. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make the flies go away. When this finally happened, he dared to put his feet on the floor of his little house. Nothing too fancy, as he was always somewhere else, hardly ever in Sparta. The big world of Greece called to him, and he shouted right back, back to the Gods, back to the kings - he’d make them proud.

The world stoppedspinning when Brasidas stood, which he took as vast improvement from his state. A step, another one, one by one, slowly, carefully, not wanting to risk falling down and dying in his own home. What an embarrassment that’d be! Such a glorious Spartan military leader. dying in his own four walls because of a stumble. Brasidas shook his head - he would rather live under Athenian rule than die as an idiot!

Brasidas walked to the front door with small steps, holding onto the walls for support. At his front door was a little basket, filled with some fruit, a bottle of wine, and bread, probably from the family next to his house. He’d have to thank them at some point, Brasidas thought, and he bent down to pick up the basket. In the little bit of green behind his house, he sat down in the grass, a bit wet from a rainshower during the night. The sound of the raindrops hammering against the roof of his home had lulled him to sleep, a comforting sound in strange times.

For once he wasn’t wearing his warrior clothing. It was still in Messenia he suspected, being cleaned and repaired for the great leader of the army. His cloth was a simple himátion, thrown over his body as the moist grass slightly wetted his sandals. For once his feet weren’t wet with blood, Brasidas thought, and a soft chuckle escaped him. He grabbed the bread, tore it in half and started to munch on it. He had barely eaten in the past few days since the battle, and now his stomach was trying to eat itself. The first few chews made his mouth explode with flavour, as if he had taken a bite from ambrosia, given to him by the Gods.

And for a moment, he felt at peace. No war was happening, to Athenians to slaughter. Just his bread, some fine wine, and the Greek sun shining down onto his braided hair. And Brasidas felt - he needed to enjoy this. There wouldn’t be many fights left, many sunsets to rise for him. He was getting old, and no leader dies of old age. But Brasidas was ready. Ready to fight every single God for Sparta.

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