Sunset.

The last light of the day was slowly but surely vanishing below the hills of Greece. The world was still, animals of the light winding down, making way for the creatures of the night. The day had passed like any other; Helios had risen in the east, and had driven the great chariot through the day and was now setting in the west. The snakes had hunted, and the rabbits hidden, but to one boy, this day, this ordinary day, had changed his world.

At the foot of a hill he stood, looking at the top, promising himself he would find rest at the summit, or see a town on the other side.

He had promised this same promise for many miles now; it was the only thing that kept him going. This well rehearsed lie gave him a small glimmer of hope, enough to begin the ascent.

And so, stepping off on his left foot, he began to climb. Each step felt heavier and heavier, each time he glanced at to the top it looked further and further away. Through his eyes, every shrub he passed looked the same. The veil of tears he had not let himself yet shed made every stone look the same. Every cloud, every blade of grass, every step of his path looked the same to the boy. And yet nothing was the same.

His life was in tatters. The world he had grown up in was now gone, he could never return to what once was.

Lost in his thoughts of grief and sorrow, the boy barely registered his arrival at the summit. He stood still for a moment, taking in his surroundings.

The top was a surprisingly flat plateau, dotted with shrubs and wild olive trees, and to his right was a small pool of stagnant water, left alone by even the wildest animals. The ground was covered made of dirt and gravel, with patches of long coarse grass every so often. He walked over to the end and looked down at the vast expanse below him. While not overly steep, the hillside was disappointingly bare. As was the rest of the land. He sighed. He had fallen for the lie yet again. There was no campsite at the top, no city at the bottom. To the boy the only living thing in the world were the plants and himself. No animals or men.

Men.

He shuddered at the innocent word.

Men had come to his home, men of fire and swords, controlling what seemed like the armies of Tartarus itself, and had laid waste to everything, living and dead.

His people, though hardy and strong, were no match for this force of darkness. He looked down at his hands, which were caked in dirt and blood. He dimly looked at his body, searching for cuts, and then he realised that the blood was not his, but his mother's.

The man stood over her, knife dripping with the blood of her neighbours. He walked towards her, backed by both the sight of the inferno raging behind him and the screams of pain and terror from the inhabitants of the now ruined city. She cried in fear, tears running down her cheeks, and tried to crawl away. But she could not get far with the debris covering the floor. What was once a living space was now a junkyard. Her right hand slipped on a stone, and she collapsed on her back. The man looked and laughed. His laugh was a pleasant one, light and bubbly, and would have been welcome if not for the rest of his face. His mouth opened in a lopsided grin and the sound came out, but nothing else showed the humour. His cheeks were taught and his eyes were lifeless.

The woman cried "Please! Please spare me! Go, I beg of you!"

But no response came from the Hyena.

"Please! Please, I beg you leave, please, please why, oh Ares, please Zeus, spare me!"

Her lamentations were suddenly cut short as the man moved faster than she could register, and leant down close. He whispered: "Poor choice of last words." His black knife slashed once, and she was no more.

Hours after the laughing man left, and hours after the raiders had moved on, the boy woke from his unconsciousness. He had been one of the first to fall, being knocked to the ground by a rider, who trusted that the horsemen behind him would trample the boy to death. But the boy awoke. His sleep had been plagued by the scene of his mother's death, over and over again. He scrambled up, and ran to his home, through the familiar streets that were now unrecognisable because of the collapsed buildings and people and animals littering the roads. He stumbled and fell twice, but that did not slow him down as he turned into his home.

The dream was correct.

His mother lay where she had been killed, among the same rubble he had seen. He clutched her body for a moment, and then he stopped, holding back his tears. He wanted nothing more than for his mother to wake up and comfort him, to tell him all would be okay again and he could cry his heart out. But it would never happen. His mother was dead, and soon was buried in a makeshift tomb, under the stones that had once been the walls she had once lived in.

He climbed out of his city and looked over it, the once great and formidable warrior, fallen to a dishonourable dawn attack.

The boy turned his back on his home and headed out into the wilderness of his homeland.

Sparta was burnt.

His home was rubble.

His mother, teachers, friends were dead .

The boy had yet to reach his sixteenth summer, but he was old, so old in his loss.

Who could do this? What monsters could have taken so much in a single day? And why, why was he left alive?

The boy looked at the blood red sky, and let out a howling scream of rage and frustration, he yelled for his home, for his family. He cursed the gods and all who had the power to stop such despicable acts. He screamed and howled until his voice was hoarse and his throat was dry.

This all fell on deaf ears. No one cared. The animals were either going to sleep or waking up. The creatures of death had not noticed his leaving and had long since returned to whatever hellhole they had crept from to gloat and count their pillaged goods.

The gods did not care for him.

He was alone.

His eyes closed and he stretched out, baring his chest to the sky, silently praying that Zeus would strike him down where he stood, if only to reunite him with the dead.

But no blow came.

He fell to his knees and hung his head in shame. This was not how he was raised. Spartan boys do not cry. Spartan boys do not beg for death. Spartan men hunt for revenge.

-X'sP-

He woke up the next day to find his surroundings drastically changed. The pool that he had drunk from was now clear, the grass soft and plentiful, and the trees and shrubs were trimmed.

"Good morning" said a voice.

Instantly the boy was up on his feet, looking around wildly for the source of the noise until his eyes rested on a woman standing in front of him. She was tall and beautiful, her brunette hair flowing gown her shoulders, framing a smiling face. Her dark green eyes glowed with power and she was cloaked in a green and yellow short-sleeved dress, which reached down to her bare feet. I her hand she held a single stalk of wheat as though it were a scepter.

"Who are you?" he croaked, his voice still affected by his yelling the previous evening.

"Names have power young man, and mine more than most, but you may call me Demeter."

"My lady" he cried, falling to his knees in respect. "Please, forgive me for my curses last night, I had just lost so much and-and needed to-"

"Say no more. We understand the circumstances and as such have let it be. Those were the cries of a young boy who has lost everything, and you are forgiven."

"Thank-you my lady." Getting to his feet he queried "If I may ask, why are you here?"

Demeter walked to the nearest olive tree, and picked and ate one of its fruits. "That is a question for you to answer. I am here to point you in one of two directions. One path leads to rest and warmth, a new, peaceful life, filled with joy and laughter." As if to illustrate her point, a smooth gravel path led off down the right side of the hill.

"The other is harder. Longer. Filled with pain, but with a greater reward." Another path, this one rocky and overgrown with weeds formed to the left.

"Choose."

He looked at each one. Inspected the ground it was made of. Looked to try and see the end.

"Which do the gods want me to choose?" He asked after a long period of silence.

Another moment of quiet was made, only to be broken by the laughter of the goddess.

"Oh my boy, this choice really is yours to make. The fates were given two life-strings on the day you were born, not unheard of, but still rare. This choice is yours alone to make, and either one is accepted by the gods." Her face calmed and turned serious, and she gave her last instruction.

"If I may offer you one piece of advice. There are wars coming. Terrible wars. You could be the deciding factor in many of them. The left path will lead you to these wars. There will be glory and revenge there." And with that, she disappeared in a flash of hot, bright light.

This was the turning point in his life. The boy knew that. Whichever path he chose would irreversibly change the course of his life, for better or worse. He knew the gravity of the moment. No matter where he went, one day he would look back and curse himself for not picking the other path. He sat, facing the way he had come. It was nearing midday, and the sun was beating down hard on his back. He thought what he wanted most in the world, and he knew it was his mother. And before he could come to a final decision, he registered that he was already walking down the path to his left.

The path that led to revenge.

A thousand miles away, a man stood watching as the boy made his way to his future. He waved the image out of existence and through his black beard he muttered: "Good luck, Perseus."