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Sparta walked into the andron, just as fashionably late as ever. His cloak was wrapped around him, his back as straight as a spear shaft, as he pushed open the door into the room for the rest of them poleis.
All the heads turned to look at him. There weren’t many representatives here — just Thebes, Corinth, Chios, Samos, and Athens. Including him, there was an even mix of Delian and Peloponnesian poleis.
"General Lysander held us back," he said as an explanation, striding over to the oval table and taking the empty seat at the end — directly opposite Athens'.
This andron was typically used for grand symposiums, the table covered with the finest cloth and cups of the richest wine across all of Hellas poured for the attendees to enjoy. But this was no symposium, and the table lies bare, leaving only a bowl of fruit at its center, untouched.
Thebes and Corinth were to his right. The two were conversing rapidly, in low tones. Corinth had given him a nod in acknowledgement before returning to his chatter.
Samos and Chios, to Athens' right at the other end of the table, stood. After a quick exchange with Athens, they nodded and left the room.
So this was how it was. It appeared that it's the three of them against Athens. How unfair. And how comically so.
Athens looked terrible, like Aphrodite herself had cursed him with an appearance that only ghouls from Hades can match. His hair was a mess, dull gold curls unkempt, with deep, purple circles hanging under his leek green eyes. Sparta did not mourn the loss of the usual spark in those eyes.
It was apparent that Athens received the heaviest brunt of the war. Numerous scars must have opened up, carved their way onto his back. It was the case for all of them affected in this costly war — Sparta was no different. He wondered what battles left the deepest scars on Athens, and where they would be on the other polis' body. Then he thought how well deserved these wounds are.
Thebes and Corinth stopped talking. This was business.
"What… has your representatives decided for the future of Athens?" Corinth slowly asked, his stare bordering on a glare. He got straight to the point, something that Sparta noted with disdain and respect.
Sparta had prepared for this. He and Athens were there when Lysander and Theramenes negotiated the conditions for Athens' surrender. It had only been a few days since they last saw each other at the acropolis, but discussion between them at that time was impossible. This was their first up-close, man-to-man, polis-to-polis meeting.
"Lysander has agreed with Theramenes to spare the polis," Sparta responded simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. This was to be a short meeting, to debrief on the war, among them poleis. Dragging it on would be futile. "There will still be punishment, however," he coolly adds upon the annoyed looks on both of Thebes and Corinth's faces.
Thebes looked at him, then at Athens. Her eyes narrowed. "And why is that?" she prodded, referring to Sparta. "How can we be so sure this… decision is made without bias?"
Sparta bit down a snark response. How dare she try to bring he and Athens' personal relationship into a diplomacy talk? That had no place here.
"I can only offer the reassurance that our leaders have made this decision fairly. The walls of Athens will get torn down, and their military would be reduced. That was what Lysander had agreed on. I had no hand in that choice." Sparta sweetly said. He stole a glance at Athens.
Green eyes as dull as the grass were watching them like an owl. Sparta's gaze slid away, back to Thebes, who was regarding him with a skeptical and cynical look. Smart. But annoying, and a pain to deal with.
"And why shouldn't we destroy them?" she asked.
Sparta smiled unkindly, his eyes curving up. "Athens had done us great service during the war against the Persians. We will honor the sacrifices that the polis has made during our greatest time of danger. They helped preserve the Hellenic world and didn't bow down to the 'king of kings'," he nonchalantly answered, as if the fact was as true as the sky was blue. Thebes wouldn't know about sacrifice and not submitting, right?
Thebes did not grace him with a proper response.
"It should've been burnt down," Corinth suggested, "with its people enslaved. Wouldn't you like that, Sparta? Another major accomplishment for the Spartans, Ares' chosen warriors?" The words were mocking, yes, but they also contained a sense of amity. Corinth would be the second-closest polis to Sparta, something as close as a friend that personifications would consider each other.
"Keep my name out of your mouth, Corinthian," Sparta rolled his eyes, used to the teasing from the other. Acid bubbled in his guts at the way his name sounded from Corinth's lips. "If we burn it down, it will only be rebuilt. The Persians have tried that, and I'd rather not have their philosophers spew more flowery language while working. Wouldn't that be tiring?"
Corinth laughed. Sparta smiled and refused to meet Athens' glare. Oh, Sparta loved that glare. It would get his blood rushing, eyes widening, especially when they would spar against each other. The exhilaration! Only something you’d hear of in one of those fancy dramas that these other poleis would host, however seldom Sparta is forced to go.
“And what about the rule? The government put into place?” Corinth added after a moment’s consideration.
Athens’ face darkened.
“The Athenian democracy,” he began, savoring the way Athens kept his head down like a lamb being led to slaughter, a prisoner in chains, resigned to his fate, “will be dismantled. A puppet government will be put into place, ruled by a group. We will take apart the very government they’ve prided themselves for.”
“That sounds more like it,” Corinth hummed, tossing a drachma in the air and catching it. The light from outside glinted off the metal. “What’ll happen to the spoils?”
“That is to be determined.” Close enough to a truth. It wasn’t like Delphi was here to play peacekeeper, or lie detector, or an entity higher-than-thou, however much Sparta personally respected her. Only Apollo himself would know how eerie her constant presence was.
Thebes chewed on her lower lip before responding: “fair enough. I assume there’s nothing more given to you?” She tipped her head to a side.
“If Lysander was cruel enough to have me sit through all of that, yes. But he is merciful, so no. That is all,” Sparta stated, and there was a sheen of finality in his words.
Corinth slapped his hands on his knees and stood. “Well, that concludes it. I don’t know why we all got invited over. This could’ve been conveyed through a messenger.” He walked over and clapped Sparta on the shoulder twice, squeezing it harshly. For a sailor who played the lyre in his free time, Corinth’s grip strength was awfully strong. But nothing they couldn’t handle.
Sparta scoffed and shoved his hand off, to which Corinth heartily laughed. “Glad to see none of the war changed that attitude of yours.”
“And neither it did you,” was the response. Corinth jerked his chin toward the door. “Let’s go, Thebes. I’ll see you —” the Corinthian pointedly said to Sparta — “later, definitely.”
“Looking forward to it.” Sparta tracked Corinth and Thebes as they headed toward the exit, himself getting up as well. When the pair reached the door, Sparta murmured, “have fun.”
The door closed before he could see Corinth and Thebes’ reactions. Well. That certainly placed a target on Sparta’s back, once he saw Corinth later on. In his defense, it was such a delight to tease him about Thebes. Whatever truly went on between the two would stay between them.
Before Sparta could turn his back to the table, a clear voice rang out: “wait.”
His hand lingered on the table surface, but Sparta ultimately turned, his cloak whipping around him. “I will seek you out after I report to Lysander,” and he didn’t catch the look in those green eyes.
***
Athens had opened his door before Sparta could even lift his fist to knock.
“Icarus,” Sparta greeted, a cat-like smile on his face, voice bright like he was greeting a friend he hadn’t seen in years. “Ever since you plummeted toward the sea, tell me, has sailing lost its appeal?”
Athens started to close the door. Sparta held a hand out, stopping it, and barked out a laugh.
He stepped inside. Athens let him, shoulder leaning on the door frame as the Peloponnesian polis closed the door. Sparta had discarded his cloak for a simple chiton, but his movements were still so militaristic, so regal.
“There wouldn’t be any proper ships to command, nor do I think I'll be permitted to touch the seas again,” Athens mumbled, continuing the allegory. His voice contained a distant sense of yearning, though there was a hint that his seas weren’t the only thing he would mourn. “I only have you to thank for that.”
Sparta walked toward the desk pushed to the wall of the spacious room, grabbing a fig from a fruit bowl and biting down into it. He sat on the klismos near the bed, facing Athens. The last flames of Apollo's sun chariot shone through the window to Sparta's back, casting a radiant, fiery amber glow onto Athens’ face.
“What a shame, then. Well, your hubris has always been your downfall, Icarus," Sparta shook his head, his words twisted with mocking pity and cruel humor. “I've just… hastened it. Your intelligence is unmatched throughout Hellas, poor little esteemed Daedalus trapped in his workshop, but your ego even more so. Enlighten me, dear Athenian, did you feel the wax dripping down your arms, during the war? Were they slowly rolling, or did you just simply ignore the burn?”
Athens heaved a sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “If you reference Icarus one more time, I will be kicking you out,” he warned, staring at him.
Now that they were out of the public sight, Athens appeared even less put together. Forget Sparta’s previous words — Hades, even the ghosts of Asphodel couldn’t match just how terrible Athens was currently. It wasn’t the state of his person, either; no, it was his room, too. The polis had always been organized, but those skills clearly failed him.
“Then what about other myths? Shall I compare you to Bellerophon with his pegasus next? With your mighty navy and islands as your horse, trying to reach Olympus itself? You’re without your horses now, left to wander the remains of your mighty empire and pieces of your pride.”
Athens glowered, his posture defensive and defeated. “I suppose your intelligence is unmatched too, on the very opposite end of the line.” There was no real hostility to his words. Athens was just tired, to the very ichor that flowed through his veins, to the very last bone in his semi-immortal body. “I'm not here for constant criticism. I'm well aware of everything you’re telling me.”
They were both tired.
He was a little angry, too. At Athens, at their respective leaders, at the war, at everything they’ve been thrown into. But upon Athens’ pathetic look, as Sparta convinced himself, he couldn’t find the means to pour salt on the wound any further. They could fight — and they would; always, steadfastly would — another day.
Sparta's shoulders slumped a little, and he crossed his arms, forearms hugging the fabric of his chiton close to his body. A new scar ran up Athens’ collarbone, starting from his left shoulder and curling around his neck. “Perhaps it serves you right to understand a little humility, Athenian. What battle was that from?”
The thought slipped out before his self-control could reign it in. Athens’ brows scrunched, the skin creasing between his brows, and he frowned.
Sparta played it off like it was intentional, finishing off his fig. He continued staring at Athens, whose eyes and thoughts were unreadable, waiting for a response.
“Where?”
Sparta beckoned him to come closer with a curl of his finger. The scar wasn’t faint, but it certainly wasn’t scabbed over either.
After a moment’s consideration at the action, Athens pushed himself off the door and sauntered toward his bed. Sparta tracked his movement, sharp, siren-like eyes that perhaps would’ve read as coquettish in another context, would’ve been romanticized in epics and tapestries of later times.
Athens sat down on the edge of his bed, directly across from Sparta's klismos. Using the opportunity of proximity at this moment, Sparta stared at Athens. His thigh was pressed against Athens’ knee, and neither of them pulled away from the particularly outlandish and bold physical contact.
Athens returned Sparta’s curious gaze with wary, the circles under his dull eyes prominent against his pale complexion. The tan he’d earned from days spent outside, debating in the acropolis, sailing out at sea — that tan was fading, following the conclusion of the war and the inevitable, immobilizing illness that would creep up on him. It only was a matter of when.
The Spartan slowly reached out and traced his fingers along the scar, his touch faint and gentle. Athens stilled under his cold fingers, chin tipped higher. The Delian polis swallowed, the bump in his throat bobbing, his eyes flitting from Sparta to his arm.
Sparta’s hand trailed up from Athens’ collarbone up to his neck, hand cupping Athens’ cheek and thumb grazing the corner of his lips. Almost longingly, like how Athens would mourn the loss of his seas and Sparta his beloved home polis and to simpler days. The air in the room held its breath.
Athen’s golden lashes fluttered, chapped lips slightly parted for air. The Athenian’s eyes were of the most pure, brilliant green. It matched the tint of the Earth Mother Gaia so clearly, like a pair colored by the three Fates themselves. They change color in and out of the light, he’d found.
“Here,” Sparta said after bringing his hands back down to rest across the length of the scar. He hesitantly retracted his hand, and Athens’ gaze dropped to the floor. It did not shake, and he did not grieve the shattered contact.
Athens sucked in a slow, shaky gasp, unable to stop the shudder that ran through his body, the ghost coolness of Sparta’s touch now gone.
“The famine,” Athens finally mumbled, eyes lifting to meet his. There was no accusatory tone to his words, and Sparta did not apologize.
He nodded, satisfied with the answer.
Before the silence could start to settle over them, Athens broke it. “During the meeting today…” he paused, and Sparta could see the mental calculations the other polis was doing in his head, “you were lying. To Thebes and Corinth, about the spoils. Weren’t you?”
Those leek green eyes could really read through Sparta's soul, hmm?
“You have an awful lot of questions for someone who stood back during Lysander and Theramenes’ discussion,” Sparta deflected, cutting eye contact.
“And I could’ve said that aloud earlier, but I didn't. That day, When Lysander was here, I… had my reasons for keeping back.”
“Which wasn’t like you.”
In fact, Athens was kind of… plain reluctant to be at the forefront of the debate. It was something very abnormal for a polis whose presence demanded attention, and whose arrogance was above Mount Olympus itself, the sun and pegasus be damned. What intrigued Sparta's attention even more was the behavior of the Athenians. They were proud of their personification, hailing him as the next Hercules or Zeus and all, but they kept him back that day.
A dip in the brow. “You don’t understand, Sparta.”
And yet.
Just as quickly as Athens had allowed Sparta to come close and touch his scars, that permission was taken back. Back to normal operation. Now, Sparta was Icarus; Athens, his Apollo. “They will realize. Corinth and Thebes and the others. Your polis was never meant to sustain such an empire. We can both see that you’re only going to follow in my footsteps, and history will be doomed to repeat once more.”
He wryly laughed. “And isn’t that how Hellas operate? We are factionalized, polarized, split down the core like a fig. We fight with each other over and over and over again. No one ever learns. Not you, not me. Athens, truly, what is your point?”
Fists curling on the bedsheets, a pop of the vein in the hand, a grit of the teeth in the jaw, a too-quick flutter of the lashes. Athens, Athens, Athens. There was something gravely unspoken between them today. This, in this very moment, was not the Athens who would match his every step on the battlefield, know his fighting style in and out, return every vitriol word he’d spit with even more hostility.
Cold flashed down his spine, like a gentle murmur straight from Thanatos’ lips, whispering of certain impending doom. A strange fear washed over him that the Athens he knew, whom he could stand toe-to-toe with, would not truly cross xiphos with him for some time.
Oh, how Sparta yearned. And he was never one to want and chase after something silly like this; all of his desires related to the adrenaline rush on the battlefield, drinking in the fear from enemies’ eyes like pomegranate juice, enveloping himself with people to cut down and more glory to achieve. If he knew how, he’d be mourning the loss.
“Don’t you have meetings to attend?”
And toward the brilliant wine red sea did Sparta fall, a flurry of metal feathers cutting every inch of his skin, the glaring apathy from Apollo blinding his sight.
“I do,” he lied.
“Go. I would hate to hold you for longer than necessary.” Athens pressed his knees together, the weight on Sparta’s thigh gone. What about the ground was so interesting? Sparta thought, but he kept his mouth shut.
He did not slam the door behind him when he left.