Page 1 of Eryx
Prologue
“What happened then, Father?”
He smiled before lifting the blanket higher and tucking it in around me. “Sleep, boy.”
“What became of the man in the mountain? Did he ever leave the stream?” I needed to know or I would not be able to rest.
Nearly every night, he told me stories and I’d come to eagerly await them. Some ended too soon. Others left me with too many questions.
With a light laugh, Father sat back beside me. “After many days of hunger, Narcissus took the dagger from his belt and stabbed himself.”
“Why would he do such a thing?” I asked, appalled.
“To escape his misery,” Father answered. “The gods took mercy upon him, though. They gave him immortality by transforming his bloodied body into a white flower. So that all who visited the mountain would see his beauty once more.”
I smiled. “Flowers can be easily plucked. That does not sound like the act of mercy, but one of spite.”
Father’s green eyes looked weary and deep lines surrounded them. But his smile remained kind. “Let that be a lesson, Eryx. Neither gods nor men show mercy. This is a thing you must remember and hold true. The world is cruel and will devour the weak.” A stern expression washed over him. “Are you weak, boy?”
“No, sir,” I answered.
“Good. Now sleep.”
He stood and extinguished the light before starting to walk away.
“Father?”
An amused chuckled reached my ears in the darkness before I heard, “What is it ya want, boy?”
“Do all stories end in tragedy?” I asked, knowing sleep would not find me anytime soon. “Is there not one that ends happy?”
Father did not answer me at first, and I waited, eager to hear his response but dreading it as well. Not every ending had to be death. Could there not be love too?
“They are only stories,” he said at last. “Do not confuse them with life.”
“Then what about life?” I asked. “Can one’s life not be happy?”
“We are Spartans,” he responded in a grave tone. “We fight and die for our home so our people can live. We do not get happy endings.”
I said nothing more and he left without another word.
He was leaving for war in the morning. I did not know when or if I’d see him again. Perhaps that was one reason I’d asked him so many questions—why I hadn’t wanted the story to end. I closed my eyes, but his words refused to allow me rest.
The next morning, Father left with the army. He did not embrace me before he left. Just a quick ruffle of my golden locks before he turned his back and walked away. I watched after him, feeling both nervous and sad. I knew it was expected of Spartan men—going off to war and protecting our home.
Yet, it still brought sadness with it.
“Your father fights for his home,” the older woman beside me said. “There is no greater honor.”
Honor. The word filled me with an emotion I couldn’t place. Pride, perhaps, for I was proud of Father.
And with that, I smiled as the army left the city.
***
“Dry them eyes, boy,” my father growled, turning away from me. He gulped the rest of the wine in his cup before tossing it to the ground, causing it to shatter. I flinched at the sound, and he looked upon me once more. “Rid yourself of this weakness,” he spat. “You will be stronger than me, you hear? Better.”
When he grabbed my shoulders and shook me, I stared back into his eyes. Confused and hurt.
