I’m trying my hand at this whole writing prompt thing. As in, I’m writing a prompt for other writers. The idea behind this prompt comes from a similar prompt I read when I was in elementary school: a large chunk of the story is given, you must write the ending. While this chunk is rather large, the intended story is probably four times the size but I’m not going to place any type of limits. You have a setting, conflict, and a protagonist. Do with it what you will, if anything at all. My expectations are non-existent.
Marathon
Somewhere down the line Lycentius had convinced himself that he was on a mission to warn the City of Marten of the impending invasion, as opposed to fleeing from the battle like some kind of coward. It was something he had to have convinced himself of, because no proper Cordan, worshipers of the God of War Corda, would ever think of deserting their king. Lycentius still thinks himself a good man, a proper Cordan, and has somehow planted in his mind that warning the Martenians was what he was meant to do this entire time. With his bronze shield on his back and using his spear as a walking stick, the disgraced Cordan hurried down the long road between the Cliffs of Helles and the City of Marten.
The road was deserted, the good people of the Archipelago having abandoned it in fear of the invaders. Regardless, Lycentius came across a withered man lounging in a large pot, chiton stained brown and red from the dust and dirt. The withered man rolled his head in the disgraced Cordan’s general direction, limply beckoning him closer with a bony hand.
“What’s a firece Cordan hoplite like you doing here, so far from that proud city?” he asked, cloudy eyes unfocused and wandering. Lycentius stooped low and waved a hand in the withered man’s face, to no avail.
“How do you know I’m a Cordan?” Lycentius asked, soliciting a toothy grin from the man in his pot.
“It’s the sandals.” he replied “Only a Cordan would wear studded sandals.” Lycentius scrunched his toes, listening to the hard studs on the bottom scrape against the pebbles.
“I heard many of these sandals marching down this road not too long ago.” The withered man drank from a wine skin, red wine running down from the corners of his mouth and dripping onto the cracked ground. Lycentius licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue, having roasted under the sun all day and drank the last of his wine when he discovered a rip in his wine skin.
“The battle was lost then?” the withered man asked.
“Yes, I’ve been sent by my king to warn the Martenians and later Corda.” Lycentius shifted his weight and the back of his head felt itchy. The withered man waved his wine skin in the hoplite’s general direction.
“Gratitude.” he said, taking the wine skin. “Some for my brothers, who lay slain.” As much as it pained him, throat dry with aching thirst, Lycentius poured some of the remaining wine onto the ground. He brought the remainder to his lips and sucked the wine down, just barely not quenching his thirst.
“The might of Corda could not stand against these invaders.” the withered man said, disgusted, “What hope do the Martenians have? They’ll hide behind their walls and surely starve before long. Then Corda will be next, all the brave boys dying as Cordacus intended. Or perhaps they’ll become messengers.” Lycentius could feel blind eyes staring deep into the core of his being. “Perhaps they could find some redemption atop Mount Celestus.” Mount Celestus is a great mound of rock that anchors the domain of the gods to the Archipelago, a rocky cliff surrounding the entirety of the mass jutting out of the sea.
“Perhaps they may even find the one child between Marta and Cordacus.” the withered man continued, leaning back into his pot. Cordacus, God of War who had burst fully formed from the heart of his father Celes, and Marta, Goddess of Victory who was born of salt and sea, had been feuding since their inception. If they ever had a child, they were surely a force to be reckoned with and a powerful ally. Almost immediately, Lycentius fabricated another history to hide his shame.
“That is my quest.” the hoplite said, “To warn the cities of the invasion and to find the child of the war gods. Surely they would help those whom had sworn allegiance to their parents.” The withered man, resting in his pot, closed his blind eyes and waved the disgraced Cordan off.
“A marvelous idea, almost as if Cordacus had thought of it himself.” The withered man rocked his pot back and forth, the faint sound of it scraping against the rocks anathema to the hoplite’s ears. Lycentius walked further down the road and stopped to turn back.
“I almost forgot to ask you-” Lycentius trailed off, man and pot nowhere to be seen. Even the sound of his pot scraping the rocks had vanished abruptly, if unnoticed. Lycentius gripped his spear tighter in his hand, turning back down the road, and continued down the long road between the Cliffs of Helles and the City of Marten.
Somewhere down the line, he had convinced himself that he wasn’t fleeing from the shame of having deserted his king and was instead on a quest to find a weapon forged by the war gods Marta and Cordacus. They say this weapon lays in secret on Mount Celestus, the anchor of the gods, and the Cordan hoplite needs a ship and a band of heroes to retrieve it. He had convinced himself of this falsehood so thoroughly because no proper Cordan would think of deserting a battle alive and, by all means, Lycentius was a proper Cordan and a good man.
Perhaps he could find Corda’s salvation – or rather, his redemption on the peak of Mount Celestus. Perhaps he would die a cowards death, it is what he deserves after all.
illuminatus.blog 