Ruthlessness - PJO

𝒊. the mind

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A MAN WITH A MIND GREATER THAN LIFE ITSELF gets little rest.

When the Moon is up high and the Sun is sound asleep, the mind is awake. Much like the water in a rushing river, always moving along.

The warrior, the Son of Athena, Alexander, is the mind greater than life. When you are the mind, you get no rest at all. Especially not when the Second Trojan War fell upon your hand as yet another wife was stolen for the beautiful prince of Troy.

They were losing. Pythios, their greatest warrior and son of War, thought invincible, was dead. Dead at the dagger of Lysander in vengeance of the prince's brother. He was found the next day, seemingly killed in the depths of the night, with a pool of blood from under his heel. The Achilles heel.

It was haunting Alexander. He read through the Iliad front to back once, then twice, then thrice. Every battle, every death, and even every word was almost the same. Much like a mirror. Yet, the mirror could warp, changing the appearance of woman or man.

Prediction will always be one half of a coin, it could always end up completely different than said. History repeats, but not for everything.

For one, Alexander's advisor most definitely was no Odysseus. Every single plan Brontes had come up with only brought more death upon their soldiers. He was more like Charles Lee from a much more recent war than the Trojan.

Brontes criticized every single move Alexander made, claiming that he is not fit to be commander. Completely disregarding Alexander's parentage and mind.

No matter, Brontes was killed in a scrimmage when he had taken some men in secret to ambush the Trojans during the night. Like every plan he created with his half of a peanut mind, it backfired, with every man being slaughtered save Fritz, the only non-Greek soldier upon their ranks. Not one Trojan dared to kill him. Not because he is an intimidating German. Moreso because he is a stupid German that is fighting in the wrong war.

Alexander read through the book once more, trying to find any sort of pattern. Alas, like the blankets woven by his mother, there was no possible way to know what the exact pattern is.

His eyes moved toward his candle, burning as brightly as Apollo himself and casting shadows along his tent.

Everything was done during the night. Pythios and Brontes' deaths. Trojan ambushes. Alexander's plans.

Tonight, however. Not one idea came to his oh so praised mind.

The shadows moved. Only Alexander will ever see them. His eyes worked with his brain, showing him what he has thought up. Alexander has always been a visual thinker, it was just how his mind worked. No thought he has ever created has not shown up in the shadows, the formations of trees, in flames, a stroke of paint, even through the stars, it was all in front of him.

An owl formed.

Athena.

"Mother," Alexander began, his voice containing a slight rasp as he had not spoken a word for hours. "Please hear me. Answer my calls." He waited. When there was no sign, he continued, "What must I do? We are losing."

Patience wore thin as Alexander continuously prayed and was met with no answer. This was how it had been during the whole of the war. Alexander would ask her for help, and she would leave no answer whatsoever. His words became quick and aggressive after each unanswered prayer.

"You're my mother!" He turned around, looking in every direction with a small hope that she would appear in front of him. With a snarl, his arm swept across the small table, everything falling to the ground, including the still burning candle. "Damn it," he hissed as he made an effort to put out the small flame that was now on the floor of the canvas tent. He saw the fire grow bigger, but it was still only as small as an arrowhead.