The First Oracle

Clear Skies Go Dark

"Rise up, warriors, take your stand at one another’s sides, our feet set wide and rooted like oaks in the ground…learn to love death’s ink-black shadow as much as you love the light of dawn. ‘Here is courage, mankind’s finest possession, here is the noblest prize that a young man can endeavor to win." — Tyrtaeus. Spartan Poet.

My father was the King of Kings; Respected by all but known by none. His strength was unrivaled by any mortal man, he was strong. Built like a bull; all muscle. I hadn't known him, but tales of his greatness echoed through the streets of Sparta, and his name was spoken with hushed reverence. As his son, I inherited his legacy, but I could only imagine what it was like to be him.

Growing up in Sparta meant that I had to live up to the expectations of the people. They valued moral character above all else– courage, respect, and responsibility  were the cornerstones of our society. Those virtues came at a price, however... Those who failed to fit the mold weren't likely to find themselves welcomed for very long. Sparta was a place of both honor and harsh judgment. For better or for worse.. that was just how Sparta was.

Though, regardless of affiliation or polis, there is a certain sense of blissful ignorance to children, rather they be from Hellas or far away Egypt. They believe that the world is perfect, and nothing could ever go wrong. Children spend their years laughing in the face of death; it's such a foreign concept to them; how could someone just.. cease to exist? They never understand the true severity of death. They shouldn't have to, either.

But for Spartan children, this innocence is taken from us at a young age. They are exposed to death at such a young age, in fact, that they don't laugh in the face of it through some sort of misunderstanding; no, they laugh in full understanding that, one day, it will come to claim them too. They laugh at the inevitably of death, not through some sort of naivety. We taunted it, toyed with it. Danced on the thin line between life and death with a smile on our faces. It was our way of embracing the harsh realities of our world.

In Sparta, death was not the end. It was a continuation of life, a passage to grand Elysium- where the brave would be remembered forever. And as the son of the King of Kings, I knew that I had to be brave enough to face death head-on, without flinching. For in Sparta, the measure of a man's worth was not in his wealth or his status, but in the way he lived.. and how he died.

My life began in turmoil, much like many other lives in Sparta did. Abandoned to fend for myself on the unforgiving streets of Sparta. The Fates had dealt me a harsh hand, leaving me to wonder if stability was merely a myth- more mythical than the heroes we held so dearly.

My only solace was what I interpreted as a boon from the Gods. I was taken under the wing of a man named Phoinix, the Eurypontid King of Sparta. His kindness was a rare gem in the harshness of Sparta, a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.
The Ephors may have disapproved, but Phoinix's compassion outweighed their ice old hearts and stern displeasure.

Regardless, they had to temporarily put their personal opinions to the side. They knew a dark storm was brewing, and it was on the horizon. They knew if I was disappointing, there were always slave girls to carry more promising warriors.

Till then, they'd give me a chance. It was that or risk the shortage of warriors for when the Storm inevitably struck. Sparta needed more able-bodied men.. I have witnessed the unspeakable atrocities of my people, I am not ignorant of the blood on our hands. It is not that of our enemies, but of our own kin, the weak and the disabled. In Sparta, only the strong are deemed worthy, the rest are discarded.