Unspoken Thoughts

Lysander had questioned herself more times than she cared to admit, doubts gnawing at her in the quiet moments. Can a woman truly become a Spartan? The thought clawed at her, a whisper she buried beneath the grit and sweat of the agoge. She wasn't built like the others—her frame smaller, her strength harder-won, her secret a constant weight pressing against her ribs. Could she ever be enough?

Damon stopped mid-step, his brow furrowing as he turned to her. "Lysander, we don't have a choice. There's no other path if we want to stand as equals in Sparta. Don't let the trainers hear you say that—being a warrior is our life. It's the highest honor: fighting for our land, our home… for each other."

She turned to walk away, grass crunching under her bare feet, but his hand closed around her arm, firm yet gentle, pulling her back to face him.

"Release me, Damon," she said, her voice tight.

"No." His green eyes searched hers, intense and unyielding. "What's really wrong? This isn't you."

The words she needed danced just out of reach, tangled in the storm raging inside her. How could she explain the shame of lagging behind him and the other boys—her arms trembling under a shield's weight, her strikes lacking their power? How could she confess the nausea that twisted her gut at the thought of killing again, the ghost of Darius's lifeless eyes still haunting her nights? Those weren't the marks of a soldier, a Spartan—or a man. Her secret burned hotter, a coal lodged in her chest. I'm not what they think I am.

"I'm nothing," she blurted, frustration spilling over. She kicked at the tall grass, then gestured to herself, voice rising. "I wasn't cut from the same cloth as you, Damon. All of this—it's harder for me. Look at me."

"I am looking at you, Lysander." He stepped closer, taking her chin between his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was steady, warm against her skin. "Know what I see?"

She shook her head, shame flooding her at the vulnerability she'd let slip. Spartans didn't falter—not like this.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath mingling with hers, still loosely holding her chin. "I see someone kind, who pauses to find beauty in this brutal world. Someone who watches birds soar and wonders where they go, what it's like to fly free among the clouds. I see a mind that questions why the sky's blue, where the sun hides at night. But most of all, I see my truest companion."

Her heart thudded, loud in her ears. She leaned back, staring into his eyes—green and endless, pulling her in. "None of that makes me a warrior."

"A true warrior fights for what's in his heart." His fingers trailed along her jaw, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver through her, before he stepped back. "You don't see it yet, but when battle comes, you'll be brave. Your heart's bigger than any I know."

The words settled over her, heavy and warm, but they couldn't silence the doubt gnawing at her core. If he knew the truth, would he still say that?

Four days had passed since Lysander had eaten more than a handful of figs snatched from a low branch and the meager scraps doled out at meals. The agoge's training had sharpened its edge—self-reliance now meant stealing to survive, as Felix had decreed. But failure brought a whip's lash, and Lysander hadn't mastered the art. Four days straight, she'd been caught, her back a map of welts and shame. How can I steal like a man when I'm not one? The question mocked her, her smaller hands fumbling where others succeeded.

Days still held lessons in reading, writing, and poetry, but those faded against the growing brutality of athletics, warfare, and survival. Spartans prized soldiers, not scholars—military might was all that mattered. In their rare spare moments, she and Damon clung together, a tether in the storm. He'd offered to steal for her, his voice soft with concern, but she'd refused. She had to prove herself—worthy of her father's name, Leontius, a hero etched in Sparta's songs, and worthy of the lie she lived.

"Return with your shield… or on it," the saying went. Right now, she was a disgrace to both.

That morning, she'd spotted a piece of bread on the older men's feast table, its crust golden and tauntingly close to the edge. The men were distracted, laughing over wine, their voices a dull roar. Heart pounding, she'd crept forward, fingers brushing the prize—until a meaty hand clamped her wrist, yanking her up and slamming her to the stone floor.

"See this thief!" the man bellowed, his laugh booming as the others joined in, a chorus of mockery.

Ten lashes followed, the whip biting into her back with a sickening crack. She'd bitten her lip bloody to stifle her cries, but the humiliation stung worse than the leather.

Now, sprawled on her reed bed, the pain was a living thing—each welt a fire that flared with every shift. The rough stalks dug into her skin, offering no relief. Her eyes watered, but she blinked hard, forcing the tears back. Spartans don't cry. She took shallow breaths, unsure what hurt more—the lashes searing her flesh or the hunger clawing her belly. She swallowed air, desperate to fill the emptiness, but it only sharpened the ache. Weakness crept in, and she wondered how much longer she could endure.

"Lysander, why won't you let me help?" Damon's whisper cut through the dark, soft and urgent.

He'd placed his bed beside hers since that first night, a constant presence. His hand found her wrist, gripping gently—careful not to touch the ruin of her back. She knew he meant to comfort her, but the gesture felt like a spotlight on her failure.

Pain pinned her still, breathing shallow, words locked in her throat. She couldn't face him—not like this.

"You don't know how it hurts me to see you suffer," he said, his voice smooth and rich, threaded with sorrow. "My friend."

A tear slipped free, tracing a hot path down her cheek. She gritted her teeth, choking back the flood that followed, fighting the wave of despair threatening to drown her.

"Leave me be, Damon," she rasped, barely audible.

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Outside, night creatures chirped their restless songs, and she closed her eyes, picturing the tall grass swaying in a warm breeze—a fleeting escape from the barracks' cold walls.

"As you wish," he murmured, and the quiet swallowed him whole.

"You're lying," Lysander scoffed, shaking her head at Damon's tale. "That didn't happen."

"It did! The boy's name was Adonis," he insisted, a grin tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, trudging on through the valley. The sun blazed overhead, relentless, its heat baking her skin beneath the thin red cloak. She veered off the path, seeking shade under a sprawling tree, and Damon followed, leaning against the trunk with an easy grace.

They'd trained all morning—sparring, running, enduring—and their bodies ached, but the pain was different now. Lysander felt it less keenly, her muscles hardening, the burn a quiet triumph. I'm getting stronger, she thought, savoring the sensation. She might not be a warrior yet, but she could fake it—had to, if she wanted to survive.

"Tell me again," she said, resting her head on a low branch, glancing at him. "I'll keep an open mind this time."

Damon grabbed the branch beside her and swung up, legs dangling near her face. Always showing off, she thought, a smirk tugging at her lips. Not to be outdone, she snatched the opposite branch and hoisted herself up, matching his height.

"Years ago, there was a Spartan boy named Adonis," he began, leaning back against the trunk, feet swinging lazily. "Twelve, maybe thirteen. He stole a fox to kill and eat, but Spartan soldiers came his way. He knew getting caught meant punishment, so he stuffed the fox under his tunic. It clawed and bit him—tore into his flesh—but he didn't make a sound. When the men questioned him, he stood there, letting it chew through his stomach rather than admit the theft. Legend says his face never betrayed the pain."

Lysander grinned, shaking her head. "It's just as ridiculous the second time."

He laughed, the sound bright and unguarded, cutting through the day's heaviness. "Maybe. But it's a good story—courage, even if it's mad."

She studied him, his golden hair shorn short, his eyes catching the light. That story—absurd or not—mirrored the agoge's demands: silence through suffering, strength over weakness. She'd learned that lesson too well, hiding her truth beneath a boy's mask. But with Damon, the mask slipped, and she feared what he might see if it fell too far.