Certainly, it could be said that stealth must be employed here- Spartans have never been known to be forgiving or kind. If there is one thing that I have learned while I remained among their midst, it’s that Spartans employ a kind of psychological control that I’ve never witness before.

From the rooftops I could see quite far, and yet I remained inconspicuous to the average person. Children played their games below, and their loving mothers carefully watched over them. It must be said that within Sparta there is a feeling of security and peace, and were I a citizen of this city-state I’d probably feel the same way, for everywhere one turns there is a muscle-laden bronzed man, clad in light armor and arms. From above I could see everything.

I had been born and bred to be quiet. I moved unseen, unheard, and my strike was swift and deadly. Some may label me as an assassin, but to be an assassin you must kill without moral or ethical attachment. I do not kill in that way. I kill with emotion, with reason, with attachment. I kill because I love those that I slay.

It is a tortuous gift, one such as a mine. Each time I kill I am overcome with a wave of emotions- love, anger, hatred, torment, sadness, and eventually, depression. Each is a stage that I must endure for the greater good. Each is a stage that I must endure for my own sanity.

The guards below had finally turned their backs. I could see hordes of them gravitating towards the city center- something must be going on right now. The soldiers pressed on calmly, as if this was a routine. Surely this did happen often, as all of the guards away from their posts at once could present quite an opportunity for more enterprising types.

A glance towards the city gates to the west confirmed my suspicions: the guards remained at the gates, steadfast in their resolve to ensure that the city remains enclosed and secure. Well, perhaps secure enough.

I placed my hands on the edge of the roof and swung my body over the edge. Now hanging, I placed my feet against the wall and thrust, while at the same time forcing my body to wrap around itself. As I fell I reached out and took hold of a lower ledge, bringing my free-fall to an abrupt halt. Now hidden between two buildings, I let go and fell the remaining few feet to the ground below.

Not a bad way to decent from a building.

People walked past the alleyway that I resided in without noticing me inside. No, what was there to notice about a man dressed as everyone else? Even so, from within the shadows I could render myself almost invisible.

I waited for the right moment to join the Spartan crowd. I could not help but watch the crowd as it passed by- mothers guiding their children, husbands embracing their wives. I continued to watch the crowd until a large group, possibly a large family or group of close friends, came marching past. I joined them unnoticed, and made my way with the crowd until I came to the clearing I was observing from the rooftops a few minutes prior.

The same mothers were there, along with their children, still idly playing and enjoying their lives. There was one child I had been observing in particular – a boy that was 5 or 6 years old at the most – and I had decided that today he would be the one I would choose.

I reached into my pocket and retrieved two circular orbs that had been given to me by a friend of mine in the orient. The orbs themselves were nothing spectacular, but rather it was what they could do that was most interesting. Apparently these orbs, when thrown upon the ground, exploded into a huge cloud of smoke. Enough smoke, apparently, to conceal a man crafty enough to use the distraction to his advantage.

And so I would. I thrust the orbs to the ground, ensuring that each hit approximately ten feet from each other, and rushed into the resulting haze. I grabbed the child and retreated into the crowd, which was now panicking due to the confusion. It was not for a few moments that I heard the cries from the mother. Her calls for her child echoed predominantly throughout the street, and had I not already scaled the walls of the building I was occupying earlier I would surely have been noticed and apprehended.

I set the child down, my left hand covering his mouth. He was afraid- his blue eyes pierced me, as if they knew what was happening next. My right hand reached towards the sheath behind my back and retried my freshly sharpened dagger. He began to breathe heavily, almost hysterically. Tears streamed down the side of his face. He knew he was going to die.

“Fear not child,” I whispered to him, “for in your death you shall find salvation. The Olympians do not waste the life of a boy. You shall find peace in the events of today.”

As I drew my dagger I entered my period of hyper-awareness: the mother still cried for her child, the crowd still screamed and scurried about like a bunch of chickens with their heads chopped off, and the boy was still crying. His years touched my hand, and I could feel the swell in my eyes.

I thrust down. The deed was done. The mother still cried, and the crowd still moved, only now the boy did not fret. His torment had ended, while the torment that would soon plague this city was just beginning.

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I awoke in a fog of confusion, desperately trying to remember where I was and how I may have come to be there. My body, still paralyzed by the seduction of unconsciousness, suddenly sprang to life when I became aware of my surroundings and the potential vulnerability of my situation. I lifted my head and was greeted by a sea of Trojan bodies and the unforgiving stench of death. Vultures had descended upon the fallen warriors and had begun devouring their exposed faces and wounds. No sign of human life was apparent. How long had I been lying here left for dead? Where were my Achaean brothers? How is it that all of these men had fallen, yet all of my comrades were spared?

I climbed to my feet, fearing in the back of my mind that I would collapse due to some injury I had not yet realized I sustained. I gazed as far as I could see in every direction before I came to the frightening realization that I had absolutely no idea where I was. In fact, I could hardly recall anything. The last memory I had was of saying goodbye to my brother in Alissos. How much time had passed since then?

I wandered amongst the dead, searching for a sign, hoping to know it when I came upon it. In the distance I heard a man crying out to Zeus. I followed his pleas and approached him with caution. He had been impaled with a spear straight through his belly and left for dead. The trauma and chaos of battle had a firm grip on him. Every attempt I made to get his attention was in vain. Against my better judgment I crept closer, and eventually I was inches away from his heaving body, hovering right above him. His eyes looked everywhere except towards me. When his gaze did cross mine it was as if he was looking straight through me. I concluded that he must be departing to the afterlife, and no longer aware of the mortal world. Respectfully, I left him to his fate.

With no direction to speak of, I resumed my wandering path, knowing fully well what would happen to me if discovered by the Trojans. Just as I began contemplating my own demise, as if out of thin air, a large man with a wild beard appeared before me. I reached for my sword, and a wave of regret washed over me as I realized that in my haste and confusion I had neglected to retrieve it.

“That will not be necessary, Nicholas”, he spoke in an unsettling voice. Hearing my name aloud caused me to realize how close I had come to forgetting it.

“Who are you?” I implored.

“Who I am is far less consequential than what I am”.

He then casually strode past me towards the doomed Trojan who had since begun sobbing. Then from beneath his robe he unsheathed a terrible sword and before it even appeared to be in motion the man’s head lay on the ground. The silence was deafening. My paralysis returned as he turned towards me and smiled.

“Come now, Nicholas, you’ve toiled long enough”, he stated in a matter of fact tone, almost mocking my inability to move. It was not until he produced his grim upside-down torch that the true horror of my predicament set in. Almost involuntarily, I then followed Thornatos into the darkness.

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I stood at the doorway of my neighbors home. In my hands I held a short-sword, a small but sturdy weapon, and upon the sword were the stains of those I had slain in the past. Those that I had slain in battle, in conflict, in justice. Today, my sword was stained with the blood of innocence, of ambiguity and of indecision.

Today, my sword was stained with the blood of my neighbor. Just moments ago I had taken this blade, of which I had so diligently sharpened just earlier this morning, and thrust it into his still-beating heart. Before he could scream I removed the blade and swiped at this neck, cutting his neck so severely that no words escaped his lips as they moved.

And I had done it all in rage.

I had done it all in triumph.

I had made a mistake.

I took his body and dragged it from the kitchen to the bedroom, taking the care to place him gently in his bed. Beside his body I placed my sword and my knife, now crimson in color. With those weapons I placed my dignity, my pride, my deservingness to live. I knew already what was to become of me, and while moments ago I had readily accepted my fate, I now questioned its necessity.

I closed his bedroom door and snuck out behind his house, taking great lengths to ensure that I was not spotted by anyone. Our village, Ramados, is small compared to the great cities of Athens, Troy, or Sparta, but it has always carried a certain importance that seemed to linger in the air. It was ever-present, and every man, woman, and child that inhabited the village carried that feeling with a certain amount of respect and pride.

My neighbors house was a few minutes away from the banks of the town river, and luckily for me the path to the banks was shrouded by olive trees and incredibly tall grass. Moving within the grass I soon found myself at the banks of the river, unnoticed. I was still covered in his blood- I could feel it eating away at my skin, as if to remind me of the horrible thing that I had done.

Yes, it was horrible. Every moment of it was pure agony, for both myself and for him. Every thrust of my blade, every sound that he made- it all reverberated within my mind, as if it were a never-ending loop. Even as I frantically washed myself in the river I could see myself forcing my silver into his golden flesh. I could see my blade piercing his skin. I could see my blade ending his life.

I felt weak suddenly, and without warning I found my knees collapsing. I crashed into the water, and as the river was only a few inches deep at the particular spot that I was washing myself at, my head hit the riverbed. It was at that moment that I lost consciousness.

I awoke some time later. My head throbbed, and fresh blood ran down the right side of my body. My blood, coming from the now-open wound on the side of my head. Funny- in the water I can not tell the difference between my blood and the blood of my neighbor. The same, sickening crimson wafted down the stream.

I ripped off my clothes and desperately began to scrub them. The blood, my blood, his blood, it would not wash out. It remained ever-present in my clothes, seemingly refusing to dilute or fade. There it remained, as rich and colourful as the moment that it had gushed from his neck. It was terrifying, yet strangely wonderful at the same time. Despite my actions I could not help but find this fact sickeningly beautiful.

I was marked. Others would know, and I would never forget.

I heard a rustle in the grass behind me. It was faint at first, as if someone was making light footsteps, but then it grew louder. Whoever was there did not care if I saw them or not. I turned to face the sound, and to my surprise I found not a man but instead a wolf. It’s fur was a brilliant white, absent of any stains or impurities.

I turned and resumed my washing. If this creature wanted my life it would have taken it already. Not only that, but absent of a weapon, I’d be powerless to stop it anyway.

“Do not turn your back to me.” The sound was ominous. In the pit of my stomach I felt a sudden stabbing pain, and suddenly I began to realize what was happening.

I turned around again, and before me stood a powerfully built man. In his right hand he held a spear- it’s head was made of a golden metal, and I could see (despite being nearly twenty feet away) that it had bee recently sharpened.

As recent as this morning, perhaps.

“Who are you,” I asked, already knowing full well that before me stood Ares, the good of bloodlust.

“You know who I am. What you do not know is why I am here.” Ares pointed his spear at me, its bronzed tip gleaning in the sunlight. “I watched you slay a man today.”

“I know,” I hung my head, and at the same my mind began to race. What was going to happen now?

“I watched you massacre a man today.” Ares placed his spear back at his side and, folding his arms, he looked at me square in the eyes. “I watched you murder one man, and completely destroy another.”

Destroy another? What did he mean? I began to extrapolate the possibilities, but I was interrupted before I could truly begin.

“You have descended into madness. You have cast away your civility. You are no Greek. No, you are something else entirely.”

Before I could respond I felt an intense pressure in my stomach, followed by an unbearable heat and then insurmountable pain.

I let out a savage cry.

“Feel your pain, madman! Feel what you have wrought upon another!” Ares remain resolute. After a moment, he removed the spear from my stomach and thrust it into my still-beating heart.

I let out another cry, though this one was muted by the blood that was entering my lounges.

“Do you see now, madman, what pain that you have caused another?” Ares bellowed, suddenly appearing much taller than I had remembered him being just moments before.

I collapsed to the river bed, nodding my head. I see now what I have caused another man. I see now what I’ve done.

In death, I caused him pain. In my death, Ares granted me freedom.

Yes, I truly am mad.

With my last ounce of strength I forced a smile, and with my last breath I thanked the God of War for his grace.

The expression on his face told me that I had not grasped his point.

And then I died.

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