Written in response to a silly idea and a lot of wine, this is an AU story of Michaela and Sully set in Sparta. My focus at university was Ancient Mediterranean law codes with a focus in Sparta. While the names have remained the same for the sake of the readers, I have knowingly manipulated history to coincide with this silly story.

Conflicted emotions stirred within him as he looked upon the terrain before him. The grand city lay a swift ride away, the closest he had been to it in over half a decade. There was no sense of homesickness, no compelling to run towards it with love or even hatred. Whatever it had been, it had not been home. Whatever it had held for him, the pleasant memories were few, far between, and marred by the existence of something that perverted all of the glimpses of his childhood. The red colour of the dyed fabric waved in the wind.

Whether it was waving hello or goodbye, he wasn't certain. The colour of blood. The colour of manliness – that was why they wore it. The colour of power.

Why in the names of the Gods did he return? He had run away from his past at the tender age of thirteen, with no intent upon returning ever. The healer-priest at the oracle had told him to return, the man whose name in Babylonian translated into "Dances with Clouds." He had told him to return to the place of his birth. A prophecy had to be fulfilled and nothing could be released from his past until he returned to his father's homeland, his homeland, to claim his future.

He had been sceptical at first. There was nothing left for him at his place of birth. Never had he felt at home. And that first time that he had stepped upon the field which would be his work location for the rest of his days, he could not believe that the Fates had deemed it necessary for him to be among his fellowmen in such a way. The most prominent career choice for men of his breeding and stamina held no desire for him. But here he was, once again. It was even easy to get back. He had stopped at his mother's farm, a five day's ride away, and still he managed to return earlier than he had anticipated. Poseidon's winds were pushing him towards this place, driving his horse with a determination that the man could not fathom.

Examining the rocks and ledges that surrounded him, he looked for a place in which he could live. Give his training that much credit – he knew how to survive, even if he did not want to. The days were warmer, but the nights still cold. He would need shelter at the very least.

The cold did not affect him. Nor the heat. The same garment that he wore in the winter was the same that he wore in the summer. And while he preferred to sleep under the heavy raindrops and wake to the morning dew crisping against his skin, Herakles the horse did not agree with such living conditions.

The sound of his foot crunching against the plants as he hiked a bit higher up was the only resonance among the death-like area. Seeds, rocks, insects, he would walk on anything, and yet he wore no shoes. Men from his training did not wear shoes. They weakened the man, or so the philosopher-king had said. No shoes, the earth made a fine callous in which to serve as a sole. Despite having left five years ago, there were still some habits he could not break and the toughened skin he could not bare to soften with a genuine leather hide.

Maybe that was why it was easy to come back. Or tolerable. He wanted nothing more than to disassociate himself with the civilisation that had raised him, yet he still could fight like one of them, train like one of them, eat and drink like one of them. Talk, think, insult, the Laconic way.

The bright azure eyes closed as the wind brought his trained nose the smell of the people that lived so close to him physically, yet so far away from him in every other meaning of the word. The long, lighter coloured hair helped him stand out among the crowd. Northern blood, the nurse had said. And the eyes were Hebrew blood. Proof he had been here when the Hebrew started their civilisation, all those years ago after he had left his tribes when the people had left the land of the Pharaohs.

A sense of peace seemed to wash over him, but only a fool would believe it was anything but anxiety.

"Hello, Sparta."

Thirty more seconds, she thought to herself. Thirty, nine and twenty, eight and twenty, seven and twenty… The numbers went over and over again, until she hit fifteen. It was at that point that she could not press herself anymore and the copper-haired body collapsed onto the well-worn road to the top of the mountain. She grunted upon the impact, though not in pain.

She was not permitted to feel pain, or at the very least express it. Indeed, she was not intended to feel. She would never cry in pain. Nor in heartbreak. Nor anything.

It was a simple reasoning. Spartan woman did not cry.

The warmth of the copper-laced liquid that was pooling on her knee was only an afterthought to the rapid beating against her chest. She felt as if she could not breathe, her mind so muddled that the very basic human functions which were necessary for survival seemed to be overshadowed by the feeling of someone piercing her heart.

It was a dark day in Hades when Artemis had not protected the young girl a heart problem. No matter the sacrifices performed by her mother and father, she could never train with the other girls as she wanted. She could never fight, run, spar as they could. The metaphysical heart was in it, but her body was not capable of keeping up with her.

Of course her mother had informed her that she had wronged the gods in the womb. Her father had been only slightly more understanding, a remarkable demonstration of emotion which was rare. He believed that the pains in her heart meant something more. Something deeper.

That was why Michaela, daughter of Josef of Quinn, the second king of Sparta with Nikadros, spent her time learning the healing arts for both the battlefield and the red tent.

There is nothing wrong with having healing hands in Lacedaemonia. To keep life, even when death is glorious, it is not a bad thing. That was what her father had said.

This had better not be an indication to your failure to perform your sole duty to your country. Her mother had meant childbirth. It was spoken in the true compassion which Michaela had expected from her matriarch.

Before the battle in Argolis five years ago, Josef had said to his wife that if he died, she was to marry and bear more children. Her mother had said to her father that he was to come back with his shield or on it.

Every Spartan wife and mother said that to their husband and sons. To give up one's shield meant surrender. And it was known throughout the whole of the Peloponnesus that the Spartans did not surrender.

The battle had been a slaughter. It was a glorious victory, and many soldiers had found their mortality against the ill numbers and barbarians from the North. Josef, who had been leading the men, was among them.

Such occurrences were why Sparta had two kings among the twenty-eight counsel members. Josef had no male heirs and the next in line had taken his place. And just as her father commanded, Elizabeth remarried and gave birth to the sons that she never gave Josef. Three to the king, and one to his general whose wife was past the years of childbearing and had not blessed him with an heir.

Another Spartan custom. The essential act of sharing one's wife was not looked down upon. Michaela had once heard from an Athenian emissary that the Spartan women were considered "adulterers." She had no idea as to what this meant. The wife of the Athenian woman had asked her mother how it was that Spartan woman could speak in such a bold manner to her husband.

Because only Spartan women give birth to real men, had been her reply.

Despite having been a princess in her own right, Michaela had no desire for suitors. In Athens, she had been told, the wealth was amazing. One could be starving, one could throw money away. Then again, the very concept of money was difficult to understand, as was the concept of starving. Did the Athenians not have Helots in which to tend to the fields? No. And money? Did they not share? No. Athens was completely different from Sparta. There was no universalisable Greek Concept.

If she had lived in Athens, she probably would have died of childbirth by now. Her husband would neglect her for little boys and prepubescent girls. In Sparta, she was challenged physically and mentally.

More so mentally. She felt as if she had been poisoned directly over her heart.

One, two, three, four, five six, seven, eight, nine, ten. She repeated over and over again. Eventually, the pain in her chest weakened and she was able to see past it in order to stand. She was grateful that there was no one around to see her fall. A twig was caught in her hair, which she pulled out and threw dejectedly onto the ground where the imprint of her body would be invisible come morning. Spitting the bitter taste out of her mouth, she looked up. There was no pain in her thighs and legs. The rest of her body yearned for more.

But her heart. It couldn't keep up with her.

A sound startled her from behind. Snapping to attention, she controlled her breathing to listen. Was it an animal? She could smell nothing, but she was upwind of where the sound had come from. Listen. No more steps. Most animals were not conscious of a step on a twig. A human? It was a training road. The younger boys had to run up it. They were not allowed to slow or walk or jog, but a true sprint was required to the top. But they normally came in groups and she had rarely see a single person on the road. That was why she preferred it – the solitude from the house, her mother, her mother's husband, her "siblings", her nurses, the other girls. Katarine was with a child and the midwives swore it to be a boy. That was suffocating in and of itself.

Reaching down slowly, she grasped a rock and held it in a position which would give her two advantages. Upon the throwing with her weak hand, which subsequently would give her a better aim, the stronger arm could come against and attack and prepare the throwing arm to be used in defence. The multitude of potential attacks had already rushed through her mind. It was no different than when she healed – a multitude of outcomes and she would formulate the correct course of treatment to injured person.

She did not speak. Patience was taught to her no matter what and she waited. The feeling of someone watching her pressed into her skull and she moved silently, slowly around the area. Right before she completed the circle, she saw eyes in the bushes before her.

Bright, blue eyes. It was a spell, surely. No one had eyes like that in Sparta. A jinx, the curse of some god, something, but these eyes could not belong to a mere mortal. Something she had once seen in a dream.

"Michaela!" Came a voice from behind her, snapping her out of the trance as she looked over her shoulder.

David's head poked up above the rocks as he came into view, the white tunica wrapped around his war-hardened figure. He was older than her by six summers, and he had the scars to prove it. His first battle had been the one that had claimed the life of her father and since then he had decided to take it upon himself to watch over her. Not as a brother or father but as a dog who watched over a bone that he had already claimed but had yet to bite into.

She had no desire to have him ever taste her.

"What are you doing here?" She snapped, irritated that she had not been left to deal with the eyes of the gods alone, or at least a potential fighter.

"I should be asking that of you. You look as though…" He stopped and examined the slightly reddened face, the sweat that clung to her skin. "You have been running again, haven't you?"

"So what if I have?" Irritated by her weakness and his sudden arrival, she glared at him through the multicoloured eyes. The gods had claimed her, or so the priests had said. They wanted her to serve the gods. She had decided upon her own path.

After all, she was never keen on becoming a prophetess. It had done little good for Cassandra of Troy.

"Your father wants you. Emissaries from Cyprus have arrived and you are to look presentable."

"He is not my father," she growled lowly, but David did not hear. Raising her voice slightly, she rolled her shoulders back and looked at him with the convection of her father's blood. "So what if they are?"

David was irritated. "You could pretend you care about your country."

"The only concern of the Cypriotes which I prefer to worry myself with is their goddess."

"The goddess of love," David's eyes reflected amusement.

"The same goddess who was the consort of the Hebrew god in Mesopotamia." She walked towards David, stopping as she spoke the next sentence. "She had a belt made of the hands of her former lovers."

"We need to have word," David began.

"I am sure that you will fascinate yourself. Or, if you are not willing to listen, ask your friend. Preston always hangs on every word you say."

With that, she walked without him towards the capital of Lacedaemonia.

Multicoloured eyes. When she had first come up the side of the mountain in the afternoon air, he had been stricken dumb, afraid to breathe for fear of the air to sweep her away.

He had seen her collapse. Falling to the ground and her carefully knotted hair splaying across the moss and dirty covered rocks. What was she doing? This was the running rock for the boys and girls. She was beyond these years and the fact that she was alone had confused him. Had the gods deemed that one of their own would fall? But he had foolishly moved and he saw the concentration, the agility, all of it despite the obvious fatigue that was attempting to battle for the right of being in control of her. A Spartan woman, through and through.

When the male had arrived, he had pulled back silently. Grateful for being upwind of both of them, he listened. He could not help but crack a smile at her mention of Aphrodite. If only she knew how they would celebrate Adonis' death and resurrection near Pathos. The concern of the man over her physical wellbeing reminded Sully of a Spartan soldier concerning himself with his shield. A dent? Oh, that was fine. But nothing to compromise the integrity of it's strength. The man made Sully feel uncomfortable; he was a reminder of why he could never live this life again. Sighing, he pulled back. He had claimed her through tone and body language and some strange feeling of hope that Sully could not explain. He flinched when that emotion surged through, but at her reaction to David's words, he felt hope.

Maybe the Cypriotes and their goddess knew more than he was willing to let on.