Demi-God

The door banged open with a force that rattled the walls, and before Drakon could even grumble at the disturbance, his bed shook under a swift kick.

"Get up, you old goat," Stephanos's voice cut through the room like a sharpened blade.

Drakon's eyes snapped open. "What's crawled up your ass and died?" He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, and reached for the wine on the table without looking.

"Lucian's fight, that's what! We need to go watch him," he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.

"Fight? What fight?" Drakon squinted as he stood, taking a swig straight from the bottle, feeling the familiar burn slide down his throat.

"Gods be damned, if you spent less time with your head in a jug and more time actually training your pupil, you'd know these things," Stephanos gestured with his hands. "He’s fighting in the arena today. To pay off debts."

"Debts?" Drakon's brow creased, and he set the wine down with a thud. "What debts?"

"Look, Lucian got into it with some locals. I covered the damages so he wouldn't end up in chains, but now he wants to settle up by fighting. Says he owes me."

"Fine, I'll be there," Drakon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Your heart doesn't exactly seem to be leaping out of your chest with joy."

"It’s nothing," he muttered. "Probably just something I ate... or drank."

"Whatever it is, shake it off," Stephanos said, his patience wearing thin. "You should be excited to support your pupil."

"Excited doesn’t win fights. I’ll show my face, cheer him on. That's what you want, right?"

"Damn right it is. And maybe try to look like you give a shit, for his sake," Stephanos turned and stomped toward the doorway. "We leave shortly, so don't crawl back into your stupor."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

As Stephanos's footsteps receded, Drakon let out a heavy sigh and started to dress. Each piece of clothing he put on was a layer of armor—rough-spun tunic, sturdy belt, worn leather sandals that had seen better days. He glanced at the wine bottle, contemplating if he should take it or not.

"Better to have and not need," he mumbled to himself, tucking the bottle under his arm as he shuffled out of the room.

——

Drakon stepped out of his chamber, the cool morning air did little to clear the fog in his head. Slaves moved through the halls, their presence barely registering in his peripheral vision as he took a swig from the bottle. The wine was sour on his tongue, but it was a welcome distraction from the memories creeping into his thoughts.

Yesterday played behind his eyes—the street kids, the way they looked at him like he was some kind of savior when he gave him his winnings. He rejects that label. He hasn't earned it. He's not a hero, just someone trying to do what's right.

He tried to push those images away; those sad little dirt-filled faces, what was done was done. But questions gnawed at him like hungry rats: What happened to them after he left? Where were those children's parents? Were they still huddled together in that same dark alley where he'd found them?

He took another gulp, the liquid stoking a fire in his chest. Drakon should be making his way to the underground arena, standing in Lucian's corner as any good mentor would. Yet, his feet carried him towards the door, driven by a nagging sense of responsibility—or perhaps guilt.

"Dammit," he berated himself, "can't you stick to one mess at a time?"

Still, the thought of the street kids out there, alone and unprotected, wouldn't leave him. A little detour wouldn't hurt, he reasoned. Just a few minutes to check on them and then straight to the arena. No one needed to know. Before he could second-guess himself, his hand was on the door handle, turning it and stepping out into the city.

His eyes fixed on the empty space between two ramshackle stalls that served as makeshift homes, the very spot where he had left the street kids. His hand tightened around the neck of the wine bottle as Selymbria swirled around him. People haggled loudly over prices and children chased each other through the narrow alleys, but the kids he saved were nowhere to be seen.

"Probably scavenging," Drakon whispered, taking another swig from the bottle.

He knew he should feel relieved they weren't lying in the same heap of rags he'd found them in, but something like disappointment knotted in his gut. He should move on, forget about it. But as he stood there, there’s this nagging feeling that something’s missing.

Then, a flicker of movement caught his eye—a child, darting past with rags for clothes and bare feet slapping against the stone ground.

"Shit," he grumbled, considering the implications. Could be nothing. Or could be fate taunting him.

With a resigned sigh, he trailed the child at a distance, his instincts making him blend into the crowd despite his imposing frame. He watched the child weave through the mass of people, moving toward the part of Selymbria few willingly visited—the slums.

The buildings here leaned precariously, as if they shared the weariness of their inhabitants. Walls sported cracks and holes, some patched with whatever materials the desperate could find. The streets narrowed until they became little more than paths, littered with insects and the occasional scavenging dog that eyed Drakon.

He kept his pace deliberate, avoiding the detritus and filth. Here, the laughter of the market was replaced by muttered curses and the occasional wail of a hungry infant. The stench of too many people living too close together was almost overwhelming even for him.

"Damn place is a cesspit," he mused silently, noting how the shadows seemed to creep out from every corner, even under the midday sun.

Women with hollow cheeks and dull eyes watched him pass, their gazes sliding away when they met his gaze. Men slouched against walls, regarding him with curiosity before recognizing something in his stance that told them he was not to be trifled with.

He caught sight of a ramshackle dwelling, barely more than a lean-to with walls of mismatched wood and a roof that seemed more hole than thatch. He crouched behind a pile of discarded crates, his hands gripping the splintered wood as he observed.

Inside the hovel, Melissa and her siblings bustled about, as she stirred a pot over a small fire.

"Theron, fetch some more water," she called out to her younger brother. "And try not to spill it this time."

The boy, no more than eight, grumbled but complied. "It's not my fault the bucket's got more holes than our roof."

Drakon watched as the child stumbled past his hiding spot, the empty bucket swinging in his small hands. He felt a twinge in his chest, a feeling he couldn't quite place.

"Lydia, stop playing with that doll and help me mend these clothes," Melissa instructed her younger sister, who looked to be about six.

The little girl pouted. "But Mel, it's boring. Can't we play a game instead?"

Melissa sighed, her young face creased with worry beyond her years. "We can play later, Lyd. Right now, we need to make sure we have something to wear that isn't falling apart."

Drakon had seen countless battles, faced death more times than he could count, but this... this display of childhood stolen by poverty twisted something inside him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. "What am I doing here?"

He knew he should leave, that getting involved would only complicate things. But as he watched Melissa take charge, acting as both mother and sister to her siblings, he couldn't bring himself to move.

A thunderous knock at the door made Melissa flinch. She opened it to reveal the landlord's imposing figure. His bulky frame filled the doorway, his face twisted in a scowl.

"Rent day, girl," he growled, pushing past her into the house. His gaze swept over the sparse furnishings and the huddled children. "Where's my drachma?"

Melissa reached into her pouch. "Here," she said. "This month's rent and the last, as promised."

The landlord's eyes lit up at the sight of the coins. A forced smile stretched across his face, revealing yellowed teeth. "Well, well. Looks like you rats learned your lesson. Was about to throw your asses out on the street." He pocketed the money. "Where'd you get this, eh? Steal it from some merchant?"

"No. Someone gave it to us."

The landlord barked out a laugh. "Gave it to you? Why the fuck would anyone give a shit about a bunch of nobodies like you?"

"Maybe because there are still some people in this world who don't have hearts as black as yours."

The landlord grabbed Melissa's arm. "What did you just say to me, you little bitch?"

"Let me go!" She shouted, trying to wrench her arm free, but the man's grip only tightened.

He jabbed a thick finger in her face. "You're lucky I'm letting you stay in this fucked up house at all, if not for your parents." He released her arm with a shove, causing her to stumble back. "Too bad they died in that botched heist they were planning. Killed by the guards before they could even pull it off."

Melissa's heart clenched at the mention of her parents. She wanted to scream, to lash out, but fear kept her rooted to the spot.

The landlord turned to leave, laughing. "Pathetic," he spat, slamming the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Melissa's legs gave out and she sank to the floor, tears streaming down her face. "Mother, Father," she whispered. "I'm trying to be strong, like you always told me. But I don't know how much more I can take before I break."

She felt small arms wrap around her. Her younger siblings, Theron and Lydia, pressed close, their own eyes brimming with tears.

"You're not alone, Mel," Theron said. "We're here. We'll help you."

Lydia nodded. "We're family. We stick together."

Melissa hugged them tightly. "I know," she murmured. "It's just... it's getting harder each day. How are we going to survive?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Melissa closed her eyes, trying to draw strength from her siblings' embrace. But deep down, love alone wouldn't be enough to keep them fed and sheltered.

Drakon kept watching them, trying not to cry, but the sight of these children, bearing burdens too heavy for their frail shoulders, brought a sting to his eyes. He wanted to shield these innocent souls from the harsh realities of life, but he knew better. Sparta needed him. Lucian needed him. He couldn't abandon his duties, no matter how his heart ached. Life is cruel, and only the strong survive. These children would have to find their own path, as he had done so many years ago.

Just as Drakon was about to turn and leave, a small voice called out, "Old man? Is that you?"

He froze, then slowly turned back, scratching his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, averting his gaze. "I'll be on my way."

But Melissa was already running towards him. "Nonsense, it's okay!" she exclaimed, reaching out to grab his arm. "You can come inside if you want to."

Drakon paused, glancing back as if he could see the arena where Lucian was about to battle. He had promised Stephanos that he would be there, but Melissa's pleading expression made him question his priorities.

Finally, he conceded, allowing the girl to lead him towards the house. "I guess a few minutes won't hurt."

As Drakon stepped into the cramped dwelling, the full extent of the children's poverty hit him like a physical blow. The interior was sparse, with only a few threadbare blankets and a rickety table to furnish the space. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the walls, illuminating dust motes and the worn, hopeful faces of Melissa and her siblings.

She gestured towards the table. "Please, sit down. We don't have much, but we'd be honored if you'd share a meal with us."

Drakon lowered himself onto a wobbly stool, his large frame making the fragile furniture creak. He watched as Melissa and her siblings moved about, preparing what little food they had. The sight of their thin arms and sunken cheeks made his heart clench.

"I can't believe you actually came to visit us," Melissa said, her voice filled with joy as she stirred a pot of thin gruel. "We thought we'd never see you again after that day in the square."

Drakon shifted, guilt gnawing at him. He hadn't intended to see them again; his presence here was more accident than design. But looking at their faces, he couldn't bring himself to admit the truth.

"Well, you know," he mumbled, scratching his beard, "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd check in on you kids."

Theron placed a chipped clay cup in front of Drakon, filled with water that was slightly cloudy. "We're so glad you did."

As he watched the children work together to prepare their meager meal, he felt a deep, aching sadness. The resilience they showed in the face of such hardship was both inspiring and heartbreaking. He thought of his own childhood in Sparta, harsh as it was, and realized these children faced challenges that even he couldn't have imagined.

Melissa set a small bowl of gruel in front of him. "It's not much," she said, "but we'd be honored if you'd share our meal."

Drakon looked down at the thin, watery porridge, then back at the children. He felt a lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by their generosity in the face of such dire circumstances.

"Thank you," he managed to say. "This is... very kind of you."

He watched as Melissa served her siblings before she turned to him. "We never got your name, kind sir."

"Drakon," he replied, taking a small sip of the gruel.

Melissa's face lit up. "Drakon. It's good to finally know the name of the man who saved us from being arrested."

"It was nothing."

As they ate, Drakon's eyes swept over the children, noting their gaunt faces and threadbare clothes. A question burned in his mind, though he suspected he already knew the answer. "Where are your parents?"

Melissa paused, her spoon hovering over her bowl. She glanced at her siblings, a shadow passing over her face before she turned back to him. "They're... they're dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What happened to them?"

"Our parents were jewel merchants from Thebes. They moved us here to Thrace, hoping for better opportunities." Her voice grew quieter. "But Father... he got into debt. Couldn't pay it off." She stirred her gruel, lost in memory. "He decided to do a heist, to steal from a local poppy dealer. But they got caught. They died during the attempt."

"And since then?"

"We've been on our own," Melissa continued. "Stealing when we have to, gathering what we can. I've tried to find work, but..." She shrugged. "No one wants to hire a child."

He felt a surge of anger at the unfairness of their situation, in a world that would leave children to fend for themselves in such dire circumstances.

"You've been very brave," he said. "All of you."

Melissa gave him a small, sad smile. "We don't have much choice. It's survival or...That’s why when you gave your drachmas to us, it was the first time that someone gave a damn about us." She started to cry. "I…I was so happy that there are people left in this world that are good. Without the money you gave us, me and my siblings will live on the streets, fending for ourselves. Who knows what will happen to us?"

Drakon wanted to speak, to offer some comfort, but found himself at a loss for words. Perhaps silence was the better choice. He watched her, allowing her tears to flow freely.

He understood her pain. Life could be harsh, especially to young ones like her. His own childhood in the Agoge training had been brutal. Boys were forced to become self-reliant, but her situation was different. She faced not only physical hardships but also the emotional weight of losing her family and the responsibility of caring for her siblings.

As he observed her, memories of his own struggles surfaced. The training had been merciless, designed to forge strong warriors. Yet, what she endured seemed far more challenging. It wasn't just about survival; it was about bearing the burden of loss while still being a child herself.

He felt sympathy and admiration for her strength. Despite everything, she persevered. He wondered how he could help, what words or actions might ease her pain. But for now, he realized, his presence and understanding might be enough.