~a~

At age 7, as is customary in Sparta the boy was taken from his mother and plunged into a world of violence. Manufactured by 300 years of Spartan warrior society to create the finest soldiers
the world has ever known. The agoge, as it’s called, forces the boy to fight. Starves them, forces them to steal… and if necessary, to kill. By rod and lash the boy was punished taught to show no pain, no mercy. Constantly tested, tossed into the wild. Left to pit his wits and will against nature’s fury.

It was his initiation… his time in the wild… for he would return to his people a Spartan… or not at all.

The wolf begins to circle the boy. Claws of black steel. Fur as dark night. Eyes glowing red… jewels from the pit of hell itself. The giant wolf sniffing, savoring the scent of the meal to come. It’s not fear that grips him, only a heightened sense of things. The cold air in his lungs. Windswept pines moving against the coming night. His hands are steady. His form perfect. And so the boy, given up for dead returns to his people, to sacred Sparta, a king!

…It’s been more than thirty years since the wolf and the winter cold. And now, as then, it is not fear that grips him, only restlessness. A heightened sense of things. The seaborn breeze, coolly, kissing the sweat at his chest and neck. Gulls cawing, complaining, even as they feast on the thousands of floating dead. The steady breathing of the 300 at his back, ready to die for him without a moment’s pause. Everyone of them ready, to die.

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!