Chương 2: Chapter One: Great Destinies for Great Men

"I am taught by suffering to endure." — Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus Cyrus lay slumped against the ancient olive tree, the coarse bark stabbing against his raw skin. The sharp, stinging sensation felt like it was the only thing grounding him. Clutching the gnarled roots beneath him, he breathed in, catching the scent of wild thyme and crushed olives. It was the only reassurance that he hadn't already been dragged across the River Styx into the gloomy depths of the Underworld.

He blinked, but it made no difference to his sight. To him, there was no sun, no sky, no shadows. Lord Helios had abandoned him. Panic bloomed to life inside his chest as he stared out at the obsidian void. He raised a trembling hand to his face, his fingers brushing his brow, where the sticky warmth of his wounds met his touch. His fingers caught in the tangled, sweat-matted curls of his dark hair, yet no matter how wide he opened his eyes, he couldn't even distinguish the outline of his fingers.

Was this it, then? By the gods, just a few days ago, he had been a kid worrying about mundane, everyday things. And look at him now—bleeding out against an olive tree, blind as a newborn bat, stripped of any dignity he had remaining. When had everything turned into such a disaster? A thin chuckle escaped his cracked lips. He just couldn't help it. The sheer absurdity of it was too much. Here he was. Cyrus. He cursed the Fates for that horrid name.

It had been his father's idea of a blessing, naming a baker's son after Cyrus the Great, founder of one of the world's greatest empires. Great destinies for great men, his father used to joke. Oh, how Cyrus hated the name. It had followed him his whole life, a taunting joke that somehow seemed to turn more humorous to the village boys every year. Cyrus, the great and powerful, the boys used to sneer, their voices filled with mockery as they shoved him until he fell to the ground.

Go on then, conquer something, your majesty. His chest felt hot with bitterness. He still remembered a certain nickname that one of the bullies had come up with, spitting the cheap insult at him with nothing but malice in his eyes. Cyrus the beggar, ruler of dust and dough. And perhaps they had finally gotten it right. Perhaps that was his truth. It is, isn't it? he realized. His grand empire was nothing more than the patch of bloodied ground beneath the olive tree.

His only loyal subjects were the crickets screaming in the dark. And he, the tragic king, lay here completely defeated. He had been mocked, maimed, and denied even the mercy of a quick death, left like the gristle scraped from a butcher's block, tossed away to be finished by whatever beasts cared to do so. Some legacy. Is this the great destiny you promised me, Father? The thought tasted like ash within his dry mouth.

For a second, he wondered if he had somehow angered a god, or been branded with some terrible curse. Ah, what a fool I am, he thought, trying to blame the heavens for a mess I made all on my own. He knew exactly when everything had gone so wrong. It had all started with the fire from his father's hearth. ❦ ❦ ❦ Cyrus leaned on the terracotta lid of an old amphora, watching listlessly as his father worked the dough into a smooth, springy round shape on the floured table.

Though Cyrus was thirteen now and tall enough to reach the heavy milling stones, he still felt small under his father's massive shadow.

"You must be careful with the artos," his father muttered, wiping his sweaty brow with his forearm.

"If there is too much air inside the belly, it shall come out empty. You wouldn't want the bread to become like your head, would you?" Cyrus scowled at the jab. His father didn't see it, far too busy with folding the dough over itself, all while making sure to generously dust the layers with flour.

"I'm no fool, father," Cyrus protested, ducking his head.

"No?" His father raised a skeptical brow without looking up from his work.

"Then why do you never listen when I tell you to stay away and do your chores, paidi mou?" Cyrus said nothing. Though he would never admit it, he liked sitting here, letting the hot breath of the hearth warm his face.

Finding a strange enjoyment in watching his father's rough hands move in such graceful motions, Cyrus relished watching the artos —made from wheat—was shaped first, then the coarser maza —made from barley—for the customers of lesser fortunes, and finally, the flat honeyed plakous, sweet and capable of practically melting inside one's mouth.

"When I was your age," his father harrumphed, using an iron poker to rake aside the glowing coals that covered the hearth, "my pater told me the secret to good bread was patience. Everything else, a man can be taught. Patience, no."

"Then how'd you learn it?" His father finally looked up at him, lips curving into a smirk.

"Ah, such stupidity. Of course I didn't. That's why our bread comes out so awful, and why the Fates cursed me with a son like you." He placed down the shaped artos onto the cleared floor, then lifted the heavy clay klibanos and lowered its dome over the loaf, sealing it in. Without pause, he quickly swept the coals back up around the dome's sides, until the whole thing began glowing with heat. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Cyrus scowled.

"That's hardly fair."

"Bah, you know it's true." His father pointed at the sacks of grain stacked against the wall.

"Now tell me, why do I still see your chores unfinished? How long will you sit there warming your bottom?" Cyrus huffed.

"I'll do it later."

"Such unruly disobedience," his father went on, shaking his head.

"The day you actually help me instead of asking useless questions, I'll sacrifice a goat to Hestia herself in thanks."

"We can't even afford a goat, Father. Hestia may be waiting for quite some time." His father unleashed out a booming laugh.

"Then you had best get to work, unless you want the goddess of the hearth to starve on account of your laziness! Move, paidi mou. The sight of you is souring my eyes." Cyrus sighed.

"Father, I really will do it later." Before his father could reply, the bakery's side door rattled violently. A voice bellowed from outside.

"Karpos!" came the shout, their tone impatient.

"Where is my maza? I'm still waiting for my delivery!" A curse curled out from his father's lips as he patted his hands against his apron.

"By the gods… damn their awful timing." He glanced at the hearth, which had just begun spitting out tendrils of grey smoke. Then, turning to Cyrus, he wagged his head.

"Watch the fire," he said.

"You must not let it go out, for the bread must never be left cold." Cyrus grinned. He had never been allowed to be left along with the hearth before.

"Of course, father." His father stared at him with clear suspicion, but as the pounding outside increased, his hand was forced.

"I won't be long," he assured, before stepping out into the streets. Now left alone, Cyrus turned towards the open flames. For a while, there was nothing to do but watch it. Contrary to his earlier excitement, he found the whole thing rather dreadfully boring after some time. After all, how long could a fire possibly hold a thirteen year old's attention? Needing at least something to pass the time, Cyrus took it upon himself to invent a small game.

Letting his eyes unfocus, he started picking out shapes from the flames. There, near the base, the flames appeared to curl and roll in a way that hinted at a wolf's open jaw. His eyes straying higher, another shape morphed and twisted before spitting itself into existence. This time, it was a tall, thin tongue of fire that swayed side to side, movements akin to a graceful dancer. Then a ship's sail presented itself before him, billowing in golden glory. A serpent, its mane coiling and tongue flicking out.

A crooked little man, his bony back bent with age. Cyrus smiled, propping his chin on his palm. It was a stupid, silly game, and his two other siblings would probably tease him mercilessly if they ever caught him at it, but it kept his boredom at bay. And so, he kept watching. It was somewhere around the fourth or fifth shape, when Cyrus first began to register a strange feeling beginning to develop deep inside his stomach. For some strange reason, his lower torso felt…

empty, a sudden and bizarre sensation that was baffling to the mind. A confused frown curving his lips, he felt incredulous. There truly was no way this was something as simple as hunger. He had eaten a hearty breakfast, and besides, he had never felt anything like this before. Yet the more he stared into the fire, trying to push away the feeling, the more the void inside his stomach seemed to deepen. Terribly insistent, it tugged at him, demanding attention.

Curling his hands into fists and hitting his stomach—as if Cyrus could punch away the feeling—did nothing. If anything, it only seemed to increase the ache. And all the while, he failed to notice himself leaning closer and closer to the kilbanos. His subconscious movements were only broken once the stinging to his face became unbearable, and Cyrus realized that he was barely an eye's length from the flames.

But still, his gaze remained utterly riveted—completely immovable—and a roaring crackle seemed to pack his ears shut, dampening the rest of the world. He opened his mouth, meaning only to take a deep breath to shake himself out of the daze. But as he inhaled, a thin ribbon of flame tore itself free from the hearth. It rushed toward him, vanishing like a rogue snake between his parted lips. Cyrus felt the searing heat slide down his gullet.

Then, abruptly, as if it had never existed, the strange empty feeling vanished. Letting out a cry, Cyrus stumbled backwards. But in the scramble, his mind an utter fog of panic, his hands slipped out from under him, sending him sprawling onto the floor. And with his heart feeling ready to rip out of his chest, Cyrus watched in shock as the flames around the hearth began to shrink. He slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

The strong orange quickly dulled, becoming a lifeless red, guttering lower and lower with each second that passed. Until finally, letting out one last flicker, the flames died out completely. Tendrils of smoke spat out from the blackened coals. Sitting stiffly on the floor, Cyrus could do nothing but stare at the cold hearth. His mind whirled, and dozens of thoughts ripped past him, but none could even begin to comprehend what had just happened.

The only sign that the whole thing hadn't just been a strange dream was that the gnawing emptiness in his stomach was gone now, replaced by another feeling. This time, it was one of deep warmth, yet awfully heavy, like a hot stone. Like he'd truly swallowed fire itself. Tentatively lowering his hand from his lips, Cyrus expected to find his lips blistered or at least covered with ash. But no. There was nothing. Not even the smallest of injuries or burns.

But before he could even begin to gather himself, the door to the courtyard creaked open.

"Cyrus?" His mother's stern voice called out.

"Your father asked me to see if the fire is still going okay." Panic enlivening his heart, Cyrus scrambled upright.

"Mother! You won't believe what—" She arrived before he could finish, and with eyes failing to look at him, she instead stared straight past to gaze at the hearth, where the dead coals rested, still sputtering weakly. She stiffened." Ea! How could you let it go out?"

"Mother. Listen to me! Something—""Such waste!" Interrupting his attempt at explanation, she stepped past Cyrus, her mouth open in a rant.

"A fire, you cannot even manage to keep lit? By the gods, a little child could do this much!"

"Mother, please listen! The fire went into my mouth—" With a spin of the heels, her hand arose and slapped him hard, snapping his head sideways. Cyrus's cheek burned, the words dying and withering away on the saliva of his tongue.

"Don't you dare stand there and lie to me," she snapped.

"Fire, into your mouth? Fire? Do you think I raise fools?"

"I'm not lying," Cyrus insisted, even as he pressed a hand to calm his stinging cheek. His mother's expression hardened.

"Enough." She waved a dismissive hand at him.

"Stories, I do not have time for today, Cyrus. Relight the fire before your pater returns."

"Mother, I'm telling you the truth—"" Enough, I said." She turned on her heel, smoothing down her peplos.

"Fire, in your mouth. By the gods, what next will you think of? Relight it immediately!" Then she was gone, just as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving Cyrus alone once more. He lingered there stiffly, cheek still throbbing where her hand had struck him, his numb eyes staring at the cold, blackened hearth. He felt bitter. Could she not have at least heard him out? Not even a pause of deliberation? Was it truly so deplorable for her to even just consider if he had really been telling the truth?

Sulking, Cyrus reached for the flint, then struck it, releasing bright sparks that dove into the kindling like little birds, before erupting into a proper flame. Was it even real? He couldn't help but wonder. Or did I imagine all of it? There was only one way to know for certain. Glancing nervously toward the inert door to make sure he remained alone, he turned back to the hearth, heart hammering with elation. Cyrus slowly opened his mouth, taking a deep breath.