Jumping the Spartan King

Areus I grips his spear. This is a chance for Sparta to rise again, to destroy the Macedonians once and for all. We have been fighting them for decades, today is finally the culmination of all my dreams.

This is my version of Greece. 

The Macedonian's numbers are dwindling, their once proud and gleaming armor now tarnished with the crimson of their enemy's lifeblood. Each breath is a gasp for survival, every step a dance with the grim reaper. Yet, they fight on. Their eyes, once bright with hope, now glazed with the haze of exhaustion and the madness that comes with seeing too much death.

Even as they exhaust the Macedonians don't even take a single step back, but they continue pushing forward.

Madness, complete and utter madness!

King Areus I of Sparta gathers his troops in formation again and pushes into the Macedonians.

The Macedonian ranks are thinning, a grim reminder of the relentless attrition of war. Each fallen soldier leaves a gap that seems to suck the life out of their comrades, making their hearts beat a little faster, their breaths a little shorter. The once tightly packed formation now resembles a ragged group, frayed at the edges by the relentless Spartan assault.

Even so, there is no retreat, no surrender.

Damasos fights like a man possessed, his sword slicing through the Athenian lines with a speed that defies human capability. The Spartan allies watch in awe as he spins and ducks, his blade never missing its mark, leaving a trail of gore.

The Spartan King Areus I, noticing the chaos, seizes the opportunity and leads his men in a fierce counterattack against the weakened Macedonian center. His voice booms through the battlefield, a war cry that seems to shake the very heavens above.

"This is Sparta!"

The Spartans, though bloodied and bruised, find a second wind and surge forward with renewed vigor, their spears pointing like a forest of death at the Macedonian center.

But the Macedonians don't even care anymore, without moving, they strike hard and fast in small groups, even though their formation breaks, the men fight back with shorter weapons.

The Spartans find themselves surrounded by a swarm of desperate men, their swords flashing like a storm of lightning in the middle of the battlefield. The Spartan King Areus I fights like a bear, his Doru smashing through Macedonian shields and bone alike, sending warriors flying into the air like ragdolls.

But for every Macedonian that falls, three Spartans replace them. The ground is slippery with the blood of the fallen, making every step a treacherous dance of death. The screams of the dying are a constant reminder of the stakes.

After 4 hours of desperate fighting, only 200 Macedonians remain.

The Spartan King Areus I, his armor splattered with the lifeblood of his enemies, sees his chance to deliver the final blow. He charges towards the last stand of Macedonian warriors, his eyes alight with the fire of victory. His men follow, their spirits soaring like vultures over a battlefield feast.

The Macedonian survivors, though outnumbered and outmatched, stand firm. Demetrius and Damasos somehow regroup with each other.

Their eyes meet and they exchange a grim nod. This is it, their final stand. They fight not just for their own lives, but for the memory of their homeland, finally trampled under Spartan sandals.

No more shouting, no more yelling, this is another one on one as the other soldiers move aside to fight their own battles for some reason.

"Let's see the so called sons of Achilles." the towering form of King Areus I with his red flowing cape and bloodied armor grips his spear as he walks towards Prince Damasos and King Demetrius.

The two Macedonian leaders, their bodies a canvas of cuts and bruises, stand side by side. Their faces a mask of determination, their eyes a window to their souls, burning with the fiery resolve to protect what's left of their army.

King Areus I's spear pierces the air, aiming straight for Damasos' heart. The prince anticipates the move, sidestepping with an agility despite his weary frame. His sword arcs through the air, carving a crimson smile across the Spartan king's cheek, spraying a mist of blood and sweat. Areus I roars in fury, the taste of his own blood mixing with the iron scent of battle.

Damasos and Demetrius move in unison, their swords flashing in the sun like a pair of vengeful serpents. Their blades clash against Areus' shield, the impact resonating through the battlefield. The Spartan king's muscles ripple as he shoves the shield into the ground, using the leverage to send the two Macedonians stumbling back.

The prince recovers quickly, leaping into the air, his sword aiming for Areus' throat. The king's reflexes are lightning fast, and he swings his spear upward, catching the blade in mid-air and sending it skittering away. As Damasos lands, his brother lunges with his spear, a desperate bid to end the battle swiftly. Areus blocks the blow with a bone-crunching force that sends shockwaves down Demetrius' arm.

The two leaders of Sparta and Macedon lock eyes, a silent challenge passing between them. Areus, his teeth gritted, charges again, the tip of his spear aimed for Demetrius' chest. The Macedonian king raises his shield in a high guard, the muscles in his arms bulging as he prepares to absorb the impact.

Damasos sees the opening and darts to the side, his sword a blur as it slices through the air. The blade bites into Areus' unguarded side, eliciting a roar of pain from the Spartan king. The wound is deep, but not deep enough to bring the mighty warrior to his knees.

Areus stumbles, the force of the blow momentarily taking him off balance. His shield falls, exposing his torso to the prince's deadly intent. In that brief instant, Damasos' sword arcs upwards, aiming to split Areus' skull in two. But the Spartan king is not so easily defeated. He twists, the blade glancing off his helmet with a metallic screech, leaving a gash that sends a shower of sparks and a spray of blood.

A spray of blood as King Areus I stabs his spear into Damasos, but it misses his torso and embeds itself on his shoulder instead.

The Spartan king, grinning through his teeth, pulls his spear out with a sickening suction sound, and swings it again, aiming for Demetrius' neck. The Macedonian king anticipates the move and ducks, his own spear darting forward to impale Areus' leg. But Areus is too fast, and the weapon only grazes his thigh, leaving a gash that makes him grimace.

Damasos retreats to his brother's side, looking at King Areus I with weariness. 

"You fight well, Spartan," King Demetrius says through gritted teeth, "our souls will be back in Greece. This is a mercy, letting us the dead let go of our grievances... but let's see if the living can keep it."

The Spartan king's eyes narrow, his respect for his adversaries growing despite the bloodlust. "Your valor does not go unnoticed," Areus acknowledges, "but your defiance ends today."

No more speaking! More fighting!

King Demetrius charges, his spear a blur as it slices through the air. Areus meets him with his own weapon, the two spears clashing with a sound that echoes through the battlefield like a funeral bell tolling for the defeated. The force of their impact sends shockwaves through their arms, but neither man yields. They dance around each other, their movements a ballet, each step measured and precise. The Spartan king's spear finds its mark, piercing Demetrius' side with a wet thunk.

Blood sprays from Demetrius' mouth, but he continues fighting, he continues resisting.

King Demetrius, despite his injury, fights with the strength of a thousand men, his spear weaving a dance of death. Prince Damasos, his sword a crimson extension of his arm, joins the jumping, his eyes never leaving Areus' for a moment. The Spartan king seems unfazed, his massive form moving with the grace of a predator, his spear a blur of steel and power.

Their weapons clash in a symphony of steel and gore, sparks flying like the rage in their eyes. King Areus I's spear finds its way through Demetrius' guard, tearing into his flesh. The Macedonian king grunts, his legs buckling under the pain, but he doesn't fall. Instead, he uses the momentum to swing his spear around in an arc, aiming to disembowel the Spartan king. Areus leaps backward, the wind of the weapon's passing whispering a promise of death against his thighs.

Prince Damasos, driven by the pain in his shoulder, sees red. His sword, once a tool of precision, is now a blunt instrument of rage. He hacks and slashes with wild abandon, his movements erratic but powerful. The Spartan king's shield is a constant in his vision, blocking his every strike, but Areus' spear is always there, a reminder of death! 

Fight on!

Fight on and die!

King Demetrius, his body racked with pain, his breaths coming in gasps, roars like a cornered beast. His spear, stained with Spartan blood, whips through the air like a serpent with a vendetta. Kill it says.

Each thrust is a declaration of how far he is from Alexander, each parry a testament to his unyielding spirit that yearns for Alexander.

The two leaders of Sparta and Macedon are locked in, their spears a blur to the normal eye.

King Demetrius, fueled by agony and fury, fights with a ferocity that seems almost inhuman. His spear moves in a whirlwind of rage, each strike carrying the weight of a thousand grieving souls. He lunges, twists, and spins, his weapon a crimson streak against the battle's backdrop of mud and blood. King Areus, the embodiment of Spartan discipline, meets his opponent's wild attacks with calculated precision. His spear darts and thrusts, a deadly dance of steel that mirrors the chaos around him.

"I will burn my life for Macedonia!" King Demetrius shouts as he loses all rationality, like a rabid dog his speed and strength almost doubles as all the muscles in his body move into the offensive.

The Spartan king meets his charge with a roar, his own spear a whirlwind of death. The ground around them seems to shake as the two colossi clash, their weapons a blur of steel and fury. The air is thick with the scent of iron and sweat, the taste of coppery blood lingering on their tongues.

They look like they flew into each other with their spears pointing forward. 

The two kings are a blur of motion, their weapons flashing in the sun. Areus's spear stabs, Demetrius's spear blocks. Demetrius's spear thrusts, Areus's spear parries. The dance of death is all that remains between them.

Damasos, driven by the agony of his shoulder, fights with a desperation that borders on madness. His sword carves through Spartan flesh with ferocity despite his injury. The Spartans, though they outnumber him, give him a wide berth, wary of the beast.

'I must buy enough time for Abreas to escape and link up with Aloeus so they can escape to Iberia, to Euenios.' Damasos thought about his twin in Iberia... before fighting on! No more remeniscing!

The battlefield is a quagmire of mud and blood, the once proud Macedonian banners now trampled into the earth. The Spartan phalanx, though thinned, still stands firm, a bastion of steel and discipline amidst the chaos. The air is filled with the cries of the dying, the clang of metal, and the grunts of warriors pushing their bodies to the brink.

From the skies, a carrion bird circles lazily, watching the unfolding drama below. It sees the remnants of the once-mighty Macedonian army, now a mere handful of warriors standing against the relentless tide of Spartan steel. Their movements are desperate, their eyes wild with the knowledge that the end is near.

Huh... it seems today is the end... the end of the Macedonian Empire.