The Misadventures of a Spartan Polemarch

When Worlds Collide

Waging war on the entirety that had been Athenian Boeotia had not been easy. Honestly, without the help of that bird brained idiot dubbed a misthios he more than likely would not have made it out alive or worse, out as the new reigning champions of Boeotia. He could give credit where it was due, and that mercenary knew what the fuck he was doing. He had it cut out for him against Boeotia's best fighters. Their finest protectors, they were supposed to kill him. Hell he had believed at the first attempt the assassin would fall, but when the message had arrived that Drakon and Aristaios were dead, Stentor admitted that he might have underestimated the abilities of the man he wanted dead.
Now, that was far from Stentor admitting to his awe of said man's abilities. No, he would never admit that he found his hand to hand combat impressive. Or that his power over noise quite literally made Stentor jealous… Envious of how he managed to possess such skill and sound footing with a stature like that. However, he would never look that man in the face and admit that his skill in battle was unmatched. Stentor, far too full of himself, would never tell anyone let alone Alexios, that he was beyond impressed with him.

A spartan turned assassin, thrown over a mountain side nonetheless after killing a priest and nearly his younger sister, had become an amazing fighter. Excellent at stealth and range as well as hand to hand combat. It was unheard of. The Agoge worked young boys into men, pushed them to the brink of death. Alexios never walked the path of a young Spartan warrior. He had trained with their father often, yes, but he had never faced the bloodbath that was Agoge training. Often Stentor wondered what Alexios had been through to craft him into the brutish man he was. What kind of fights had he witnessed and won to compete like a skilled warrior. He fought like a God, swift on his feet, power coursing through his bones. It was apparent Alexios had faced far worse than simply falling from a cliff to his premature death. That sister of his was a deadly beast, brutal and merciless. It was amazing he had fought with her and come out alive to tell the tale. Beaten and bruised no less but undoubtedly alive. He was immortal it seemed and it boiled his blood, because that awe always overflowed until it exploded from him like javelins tossed from a ship. No matter his impressiveness in battle Stentor rebuked his existence. He was a fucking inconvenience and Stentor wished to be rid of him.

Alexios was supposed to be dead. He should have died. He should have died a long fucking time ago. Stentor was cursed, there truly was no other way to put it. He was cursed, for even by his own hand he could not kill that damned assassin. And he had tried. Twice. And for whatever reason the Gods continuously brought them back together. Nickolas might not have been dead, and Boeotia might have been his, and his position as Polemarch may have been secured by Alexios' help, but he would die before he admitted that Alexios played the role of helping him. Alexios was a goddamned thorn in his side, and fuck him if he was willing to deal with his shit anymore. Alexios needed to pay for what he had done, justice was required for his crimes, and Stentor wanted to be the man to make him pay. He wanted to watch that cocky ego, he often found intriguing, fall from his face in horror of his consequences. There were a multitude of things Stentor hated about Alexios. So many, hands and feet alone could not count, but that godforsaken arrogant confidence. An unbridled rage erupted inside of Stentor anytime he saw that face, or heard that voice. The way it made him clench his teeth so hard a twinge of pain blossomed down his neck.
And he would turn around only to be met by some half hearted grin that swept across Alexios' face. The way the man seemingly enjoyed making his life a living hell infuriated him beyond human understanding. A rage he believed only accessible by the gods. Surely Ares fought with the rage of a thousand Spartan warriors, but did he feel such anger for his brothers and sisters? That was if Stentor even considered Alexios a sibling of his. Alexios was akin to a homeless child that ran the streets and every once in a while someone would invite him in for a hot meal and a bath. And Stentor would never let him in his house.