Whispers of the Valley 2

Damon remained silent, and Lysander worried that the question may have upset him. Before she could issue an apology, his gaze flickered to hers.

"No. He did not die in war." He looked away, his expression a mix of sadness and, perhaps, humiliation.

"He fled battle, and when he returned to Sparta, he was publicly shunned. As all cowards are treated, he was forced to dress in rags and have his face shaved. Everyone who looked upon him saw his disgrace."

Men who failed to meet Spartan expectations, who cowered from the harshness of their training, were called tremblers. When identified, they were forced to shave half their beards—if they had one—and wear a multi-colored, patched cloak, their humiliation a spectacle. Cowards were mocked and despised, their standings in the community reduced to nothing.

For Damon to be the son of a coward, he had to earn back the honor of his family's name. It also explained why the trainers pushed him so hard relentlessly.

"What happened to him?" Lysander asked, her voice soft.

"He slit his own throat. The shame was too much to bear..... Do you think badly of me now?" he whispered, his gaze fixed on a cloud drifting overhead.

Lysander couldn't bear the thought of him harboring such self-doubt. Gently, she touched his cheek with the back of her hand, turning his face until he met her eyes.

"Never," she said, leaning closer, her voice firm. "You are not your father, Damon. You are brave, with a keen mind and skills that surpass even the most experienced youths. Nothing could ever cause me to think badly of you. Nothing."

He watched her, his expression unreadable. Dark lashes framed his eyes, and Lysander felt herself getting lost in their light-green depths.

"I treasure you," he finally spoke, his voice low. "Not a day passes where I do not thank the gods for placing you in my life."

Smiling, Lysander laid her head beside his and nudged his arm playfully. "Becoming sentimental, are we? I suppose I feel the same."

Her words were light, but her heart felt heavy with unspoken emotions. His confession was like a warm cloak around her, a moment of peace in the harsh reality of their lives.

"What of your mother?" she asked, breaking the silence.

His gaze roamed across the expanse of the blue sky. "She died bringing me into this world. Before the agoge, I visit her grave as often as I can."

In Sparta, only men who died in battle or women who died in childbirth were granted inscribed graves, both seen as heroes.

"So, if your mother died at your birth, how old were you when your father met his end?"

"Nearly seven," he answered. "I took care of myself until I joined the agoge."

He'd endured a hard life, and they were still just boys. It was no surprise he could fend for himself. Perhaps that was why he excelled in drills and survival exercises. He'd already lived them.

When they finally returned, they saw a crowd of boys huddled together, facing a scene. Lysander glanced at Damon, who shrugged, and they approached. Boys from their herd stood before Felix and other trainers.

Felix walked down the line, tearing off each boy's tunic, exposing their naked flesh.

"What is happening?" Lysander asked Damon, a knot of unease tightening in her gut.

He met her gaze, gently touching her arm. "Do not worry. This is expected. We are youths of twelve now, and this is the next phase of our training."

"But we were late, we…" Lysander looked around at the younger children. "We returned too late. I'm sorry. It's my fault."

She had only wanted a moment of freedom, a brief escape from their harsh reality.

"You!" Gaius grabbed her tunic, yanking her from the group and throwing her to the dirt. "You think to hide away like a coward?"

Lysander cried out as he kicked her stomach, instantly regretting the sound. Never show weakness. She quickly rose to her feet.

Gaius grabbed her again, raising his arm to strike, but Damon stepped forward, placing himself between them.

"We wandered too far," he said calmly. "Our tardiness is my doing, and I will take full responsibility."

"Damon, no—"

He shook his head, silencing her.

Gaius released Lysander's tunic, pinning Damon with a hard stare. "Both of you, in line now."

They took their place at the end of the line, where boys were still being stripped of their clothing. When Felix reached Lysander, he yanked her tunic off, and she forced herself not to flinch.

He slapped her bicep, then her chest and abdomen. "You're still a weakling," he growled, shoving a red cloak into her hands. "This will be your only clothing from this day forth."

"Do we get our tunics back for winter?"

He backhanded her. "You will not speak out of turn, boy."

Ignoring the sting, Lysander glared at him, trying to project strength.

"That cloak is all you get," he spat. "When you are a soldier, you must endure harsh conditions. Extreme heat and biting cold. You must learn to survive when exposed to all elements." He addressed the others, "From this day forth, you will have a minimal diet. On the battlefield, you may go moons without food, so you must learn to work through an empty stomach. You are, however, allowed to steal."

A cold smile crossed his face. "But if you are caught, you will be punished. Not for stealing, but for your lack of stealth." His gaze flickered to Lysander. "This is expected of you from now on. Live or die. You are the master of your fate."

He moved to Damon, and Lysander watched as he removed her companion's clothes.

Damon stood unfazed, his head held high.

Felix smacked his bicep, then his abdomen. "You're becoming strong," he said approvingly. "Good."

After their clothing was removed, trainers approached with blades. Linus, a younger trainer, grabbed the closest boy and chopped off his hair, then moved down the line, repeating the process.

I am very sorry for the error.

It was strange to have hair so short, a stark contrast to the long locks she had carefully maintained. But it was the required cut for trainees. Only when they became soldiers could they grow their hair long, if they wished.

When it was over, Lysander glanced at Damon, a pang of regret twisting in her gut. The golden locks she had often admired now lay at his feet, a symbol of their shared hardship.

He offered her a small, reassuring smile, a silent promise of solidarity.

Later that night, they discovered another change. They were no longer permitted to sleep on their usual mats in the barracks. Instead, they had to make beds from reeds, a task that felt like another test of their endurance.

At sunset, they walked through the valley alongside other herds of boys, the setting sun casting long, ominous shadows. Lysander plucked the reeds by hand, trying to ignore the ache in her joints and the sting in the soles of her feet. Along with their clothes, their sandals had been taken as well. Thorns jabbed into her bare feet, and with each step, the pain intensified, a constant reminder of their vulnerability.

The reeds grew in a marshy area, so the farther they walked, the softer the ground became, but it did little to ease the sting. The damp earth clung to her skin, a chilling reminder of the harshness of their training.

One of the boys tried to speak to her, but he snapped his mouth shut when she pinned him with a glare. Her mood was foul, a storm of frustration and pain, and she didn't wish to speak to anyone.

"They are not treating us this way to be cruel," Damon said from beside her, his voice calm, a stark contrast to her inner turmoil. "Although you may not believe it now, this is in our best interest."

"How?" Lysander turned to him, her voice a low growl. "How will this aid us in any damned way, Damon?"

Her anger did nothing to him. He had always been the calm one, the voice of reason, while she was the impulsive one, questioning everything. Ever since she killed Darius, something inside her had shifted, a hardening of her resolve. She'd once been a timid boy, fearful of everything, but she was breaking away from that flaw, forging a new identity in the crucible of their training.

"One day, when we are soldiers, we will face these conditions again. It is to prepare us," he said, his eyes fixed on the setting sun.

"What if I do not wish to be a soldier?" The question came out unexpectedly, a whisper of doubt in the face of their unwavering path.

Several times, she had asked herself the same question, but she had never uttered it aloud, knowing it to be ridiculous, a betrayal of everything she had endured. She wanted to become a warrior, to prove herself, to survive. But at what cost?