Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ the stubbornness of spartans

brasidas comes for you when you think no one else will. 

ANTHOUSA WEEPS WHEN she hears the news. The Monger has taken another of her girls. She won't stand for it any longer. Something must be done. Determined to stop the brute's reign of terror over her city, she goes to the Spartan general under the guise of night. Anthousa has her disagreements with Brasidas, but he is the best hope she has of seeing her girl returned safely.

The Monger's men leer at you, but they do not dare touch you before their leader has his fill lest they are on the receiving end of his wrath. So you tremble in the dark, hands, and legs bound waiting for the inevitable and praying to the goddess you so devoutly serve to send someone to save you from this fate.

Shouting interrupts your restless sleep. The rogues are leaping from their tents and bed mats trying to stamp out the flames overtaking the camp. Spears come from nowhere, embedding in men's chests and backs. Some flee, others are stupid enough to stand their ground against the attackers in the night.

A group of Spartan soldiers emerges from the smoke and flame. Hoplites take to finishing off the Monger's men, but the Spartan commander is searching for something or someone. You cry out, rolling away from the fire licking at your back, and into the greaves of the Spartan. He kneels, and you recognize your rescuer at once.

Brasidas cuts through the rope bindings, pulling you from the ground and into his arms —heading toward the entrance of the camp, calling for his men to fall back. A pale horse is waiting in the tree line, and he places you on the beast's back and mounts behind you, taking the reins.

You and Brasidas are acquaintances of a sort. He and his men had come into the city after a victory for the night. Most of the men were quick enough to pick their girl and head off, but Brasidas had taken a spot next to you and reclined —starting to talk about his home near the heart of Lakonia. You listen to him with a smile, wondering if you'd ever get to see the city you were born in again. After that first night, he starts coming more often —sometimes alone— and wants only your company. And so an unlikely friendship buds between a Spartan general and hetaera.

Upon reaching the Spartan camp, Brasidas eases you from horse and back into his arms. He takes you to his tent and kneels placing you delicately upon his bedroll. The light of a brazier catches a small scrape on your cheek and he frowns. "Never been so happy to see that stern face of yours," you remark softly, smiling. The General has a proud and stern face, marred only by the slim scar crossing his cheek —his earthen eyes smile at you, even if he doesn't.

When Anthousa told him it was you the Monger had taken rage clouded his judgment. Brasidas prides himself on being a reasonable man. Able to see past his emotions and make noble decisions for the betterment of his men and Sparta, but by the gods, when the hetaera mentioned your name he was ready to summon an army.

Brasidas rests his war-roughened hand on your cheek. "Are you hurt?" He asks. He can see the bruises and scratches on your wrists —he'll tend to those in a moment, but some hurts do not show themselves physically. You shake your head. The Monger's men hadn't hurt you, not in the way Brasidas means.

He shifts, bringing a bronze washbasin forward. "I would ask you not to fret over me, General," you tell him kindly. You're but a hetaera —a servant to Aphrodite and men. It is unfitting for a man of his status to stoop to your level. Brasidas is not like other men you remind yourself.

"But," he gently chides, shaking his head and wringing water from the washcloth, "this is my choice." You offer no more protest as Brasidas wipes the dirt from your face and the flaking blood from your wrists. He's tender and attentive —unbecoming of the Spartan label perpetuated by most of the Spartiates. The bruises on your wrists and ankles are not large, nor are they especially painful —in a few days they will fade, and it will all become a bad dream.

The dirtied rag plops into the basin. You hold his warm gaze —surprised by the swell of confidence that rushes over you. "What else would you choose to do?" You inquire. Brasidas' eyes dart to your lips. He's dreamt of what they must taste of for weeks, though he shies away from desire —it's the decent thing to do. Now though, he will not back down.

"Let me show you," he whispers, leaning forward. His beard tickles your cheek and then his lips meet yours. One of his hands slides back into your hair, the other down to your waist. You stroke your hand along his cheek. He groans slightly, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss —drinking in the soft sigh that passes through your lips.

He draws back, forehead resting against yours —unable to hide his soft smile. You comb your fingers through his beard and boldly steal another quick kiss from the Spartan, and Brasidas is happy to oblige. "Get some rest," he breathes, kissing your forehead before hopping to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Brasidas doesn't answer, but you already know —he's too stubborn and honorable to stay the night, even if it is only to lie next to you. You frown, not wishing to see him go so quickly. "It's rather chilly," you muse before he leaves the tent, a poor excuse.

"Then I'll fetch more wood," he responds —practical as always, thinking like a soldier.

You almost laugh. "Brasidas," you call, tone almost chiding. Alas, he turns back, seeing you've made enough room on the straw bed mat for him to fit. He fails to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The General pulls his bracers and greaves off, scaled cuirass following —he'll let his guard down for the night, for you.