Chương 8: Chapter Seven: You Are No Hero

Continuing onwards, the shadows lengthened and consumed them. Cyrus had never considered his village as tiny—small, maybe, though not to such extent—but as the hours dragged by, and the darkness completely covered everything behind them, it was as if he was understanding for the first time how vast the world truly was. It didn't take long for the stink of Lake Copais's marshes to vanish from the air, replaced by the thick scent of resin and tree sap.

The shapes of Boeotia's rolling hills—the familiar landscape Cyrus had known his whole life—quickly melted away, growing rise to much steeper inclines. But even through the sudden changes in terrain, somehow, Nicomedes's steps never faltered once. This was a topic of intense gripe in Cyrus's bleary mind as he watched the old man march on forward with confidence, leading the mule forward. Cyrus remained slumped atop the back of the mule.

He was constantly at the brink of wakefuleness, drifting in and out of delirium and sleep. In one of the rare moments of awareness that seized his brain, he managed to lift his head.

"How much farther?" Cyrus mumbled, though he did not really expect an answer.

"Stop speaking to me in such an unseemly whine," Nicomedes replied. Cyrus scowled at the edged retort. How was it even possible for a man to be so unhelpful? Lolling his head back, he stared up at the stars dotting the night sky. Then he frowned. Somewhere in the black distance, he could make out the silhouette of a mountain range rising up ahead of them, blotting out a wide swath of the sky.

"What lies there?" he asked, managing a nod at the general direction—albeit weakly. Nicomedes followed his gaze.

"Seriously, boy. Have you never left your village? How do you not know of Cithaeron, the spine between Boeotia and Attica?" Cyrus scowled. He wanted to protest the unfair labeling, but found no energy to do so. But he really did know what Cithaeron was! He had heard of the mountain range in passing, though he had to admit that most of his knowledge came from local tales of unfortunate travelers who never left its merciless slopes.

Yet, even with those dark stories, Cyrus was simply much too exhausted to even muster any worry about it.

"Are we crossing it today?" he asked. Nicomedes snorted.

"Today?" He shook his head vehemently.

"Boy, even the strongest of men—perhaps with strength equal to even Hercules—do not climb mountain passes in the dark. We rest at its foot until Eos brings the dawn. Then, we climb." Finally a sensible declaration, Cyrus thought to himself. Drained of all his remaining energy, he leaned back against the mule, letting his eyes flutter with exhaustion. The darkness of the night increasing and increasing, they passed through the rest of the walk, until at last Nicomedes drew the mule to a halt.

Cyrus sat up as best as he could—stiff muscles practically paralyzing him—and glanced around. He found that they were in a dense grove of scrubby pines. Sniffing the air, Cyrus took in the soft aroma of the wilderness, finding it much different from home. Nicomedes patted the animal's back, gesturing for Cyrus.

"Down," he ordered. Much too tired to argue, Cyrus slid down. As soon as the soles of his feet hit the ground, vertigo struck at him, making his limbs clumsy. He almost fell, if not for the flank of the mule, which he clutched to support himself. Tossing a woolen cloak at him, Nicomedes rolled his eyes.

"Sit down, boy. And rest. You are useless to me as you are right now." Nodding, Cyrus sank to the ground. The cloak was scratchy and rough, but it was warm. He wrapped it tightly around his shoulders, watching with numb eyes as Nicomedes quickly set to work. The old man first hobbled the mule, tying it to a nearby tree, before unpacking the provisions and spreading it out. Neither of them spoke. Yet the silence proved to be an awful companion.

Without anything to distract his thoughts, Cyrus found his mind meandering straight back to his family. Truly, what sort of terrible son was he? Even if he had escaped Leandros's wretched grip, he had done it all while feeding his parents a mountain of lies and falsehoods. They hadn't the slightest idea of the danger they might be in! Such a fool, he was. After daring to fight the son of a noble, now look at his pathetic state. Basically a pampered invalid!

Feeling his throat tighten, Cyrus had to stare hard at the dirt between his sandals, blinking rapidly. He'd be damned if he let the old man see him weep. Yet, deep within his tumultuous thoughts, he failed to hear Nicomedes approach. That was, until a flask thumped onto his lap, along with the pouch of olives and figs his mother had packed for him.

"Eat," Nicomedes gruffly said.

"And stop sulking. It pains my eyes to see such a pathetic sight." Cyrus scowled.

"Who said I was sulking?" The old man crowed.

"No? Then is there something within the dirt that this elder's eyes cannot perceive? For you are simply looking at it with such intensity!" Cyrus's eyes flashed. This damned— Yet he managed to hold his tongue, the image of the slave being sent flying by a single tap arising in his mind. Nicomedes studied him for a while, before letting out a grunt. He slumped down, lounging atop the ground.

"Wallowing isn't good for boys your age. Very well. I will offer you a distraction. Three questions, boy. Ask what you like, and I will answer honestly. Then we sleep, for we need rest for tomorrow." A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Cyrus's head snapped up.

"Three questions?" Nicomedes's expression twisted with impatience.

"Don't make me regret this, boy. Hurry and ask." Cyrus straightened, wide awake, just to wince as his ribs protested at the sudden movement. But shaking the pain off, he raced through the assortments of questions he had withheld. He decided to start with—even if it might not be smartest of questions—the thing that was bothering him the most.

"How did you do it?" he asked.

"That slave… you just hit him with your finger, and he went flying back." Nicomedes's eyes glinted, spreading out his hands.

"I used something called pneuma." That same word again.

"That's not an answer," Cyrus protested.

"Patience, whelp," Nicomedes said dryly.

"But very well. Consider it like this. What do you know of humanity's birth?" Cyrus frowned.

"Prometheus the Titan, right? He gave life to us." Nicomedes nodded.

"Yes, at least you know that. See, your body is not merely flesh and blood, boy. Beneath the meat and bone, there is a second self. When Prometheus first shaped mankind from mud, he molded us in the image of the gods, but we were only cold, lifeless clay. But Athena—having already granted life to all the other beasts of the land—refused to breathe life to us men, seeing us only as crude and ugly.

But unwilling to betray his creation, Prometheus stole the divine ember from Olympus and planted it into our forms, giving us life as well." The old man beat his chest, right where the heart was.

"With that divine ember, came a special ability. We humans found ourselves able to control something called pneuma —the fundamental life force that flows through all living things." Nicomedes shook his head, then went on.

"However, most men carry only the faintest of the divine ember. They cannot control such energy." He arched a brow at Cyrus.

"But in rare men, that ember is more powerful." The old man's lips twitched in amusement.

"And when it awakens, a man may learn to shape and use the energy." Cyrus stared at the dark ground. Pneuma. He pictured an ember buried beneath his own ribs, asleep for thirteen years, until now. A giddy warmth blossomed inside his chest, so fierce and passionate that the corners of his lips twitched upwards.

"So... am I a hero, then?" Before Cyrus could catch himself, the words slipped out. Immediately, he flushed with shame. He had just sounded so painfully childish. Nicomedes barked in amusement.

"A hero?" The old man shook his head with disdain.

"Look at you, boy. If you were a hero, you would be the most miserable one ever to grace the face of Gaia." Cyrus pulled the wool blanket tighter around himself, wishing that he could vanish.

"You are no hero, Cyrus," Nicomedes muttered. He then paused, shaking his head.

"And you have wasted your second question, boy," Nicomedes added, his voice dry.

"Only one question remains." Cyrus winced, feeling even more shame enveloping him. He couldn't have been a bigger fool if he had tried. Nicomedes sighed.

"Besides, 'Hero' is merely a title bestowed by other mortal men." The old man picked up his waterskin and downed it.

"Those who use pneuma... they call themselves cultivators," Nicomedes said, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. Cyrus blinked, his shame momentarily morphing into confusion.

"Cultivators? Like… farmers?" Nicomedes nodded.

"And what does a farmer do, boy? He works the land, tilling it until it gives life. Power is no different." Cyrus frowned.

"But how do I learn to work this 'land' of mine?" Nicomedes huffed.

"I'm taking you to a place where you can learn it right now."

"Which leads to my last question, then." Cyrus straightened.

"Where are we actually going?"

"To a sanctuary hidden deep within the peaks of Mount Helicon," Nicomedes replied.

"It will be a four days' journey from here. It is the home of the Helicon Mist Sect, an ancient and secluded school for cultivators." Cyrus frowned, trying to picture it.

"A sanctuary? Like a temple?"

"Perhaps," the old man grunted. Cyrus's brow furrowed.

"But Helicon is to the northwest. If that's where we're going, why are we dragging ourselves south toward Attica?" Nicomedes looked exasperated.

"Because the noble's hounds are not stupid, boy. They will expect us to run straight for safety. We went over Cithaeron to make them think we are fleeing for Athens. But once we enter Attica, we will immediately cut back into Boeotia. Now," he added, his voice dropping to a gravelly warning, "shut your mouth and go to sleep." Cyrus opened his lips to protest, the sudden cut-off of his questions sparking frustration within him, but Nicomedes held up a finger. The old man's eyes flashed with authority.

"Not another word, whelp. You must rest for tomorrow. Wrap yourself in that wool and close your eyes." Cyrus swallowed down the flood of questions burning at the back of this throat. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to be satisfied with today's revelations. He knew better than to push the old man any further tonight. Easing himself down onto the hard earth, he winced as the bite of the cold dirt sparked a flare of pain up his bruised ribs. He shivered, wiggling as he tried to find the least painful position.

He then dragged the coarse scratchy wool blanket up to his chin. Despite the throbbing soreness in his side, he didn't utter a word of complaint. He simply lay back, staring up into the vast expanse of the stars above. ❦ ❦ ❦ Dawn broke, Eos shining her dull, grey light over the darkened silhouette of Cithaeron. Nicomedes roused Cyrus with a firm kick to his ribs, the old man's gnarled features completely unsympathetic to the fresh wince he produced in the boy.

"Up," the old man said bluntly.

"It is time to go." Once packed, they began the climb in earnest, and Cyrus quickly understood exactly why Nicomedes had refused to attempt the trail in the darkness. The path, if it could even be called that, was horribly steep and treacherous. Each step demanded too much from Cyrus's battered body. More than once his legs buckled beneath him, and he had to have Nicomedes briskly haul him upright again. The mule, despite carrying all of their supplies, picked its way over the loose earth with confidence.

In the end, it took the entire day to cross, Lord Helios having completed his round, disappearing behind the western peaks by the time the path before them began its long, winding descent down. Boeotia disappeared behind them at last, swallowed by the distance. The days that followed blurred together. Looking back after the journey, Cyrus would remember little beyond the throbbing ache in his feet and the unfamiliar roads he marched down.

Just as the easier roads to Attica opened up before them, the old man yanked them back, turning away from safety. They plunged back into Boeotia, cutting a fresh path straight towards Mount Helicon. They passed no real villages, only a scattering of isolated camps. At one of these, Nicomedes traded a few obols for a night's shelter and food, relying on the customary law of xenia —hospitality—to open the doors for them.

Nicomedes proved to be a demanding companion on the road, sparing little patience for complaints and even less for rest. Yet each evening, without fail, the old man tended Cyrus's healing wounds. Gradually, the dark, purplish bruises scattered across Cyrus's body faded away, turning to a sickly yellow. And by the third day, he found that he could walk beside the mule instead of atop it, truly feeling his strength slowly return to his limbs.

As they continued along their journey, the air grew cold and crisp, carrying the earthen scent of moss and stone. Nicomedes stopped, glancing upward. His aged eyes almost seemed reverent, strange compared to his normally indifferent expression.

"Mount Helicon," he said.

"The sacred domain of the Muses." Cyrus looked up as well. Truly, the mountain loomed large over them, its lower slopes thick with olive groves, while higher up, dense groves of oak and pine disappeared into the thick mist clinging stubbornly to the highest peaks. They pressed onward through the biting cold, racing against the dying light. Finally, at long last, Nicomedes drew their weary mule to a halt. They stood at the end of the world. Or at least, what seemed like it.

Directly ahead of them was a vast valley, a sheer abyss plummeting hundreds of feet into a ground of sharp, shadowy rock. Nicomedes turned to face him, smirking.

"Welcome, boy," he said, spreading out his arms in a grand gesture.

"To the Helicon Mist Sect."