The Last Spartan – Chapter One

Writer owns none of the Firefly verse, and is not paid for his work. Lawyers take note.

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The old man walked across the strewn battlefield, picking his way through the

corpses strewn about the killing ground. Two great armies, meeting in close combat, left many to feed the ravens.

Such waste, he sighed, looking at the dead all around him. The armies had moved away from the plain, still in intermittent contact with one another. No one had bothered with the dead.

No respect for the fallen, he groused to himself. Shameful. In his time, no one would have left valiant dead so disgracefully on the battle field. It was dishonorable. Man had fallen far, it seemed.

As he paused to look over the destruction, a moan drifted to him across the field. Someone yet lived. The old man hurried in the direction of the slight noise.

He found the source, a young man with a terrible wound to the abdomen. He was large for a Greek, the old man noted. He wore the dress of a Spartan warrior, however, and none would dare wear such who had not earned it.

“Water,” the man asked hoarsely. “If you have it to spare.” The old man smiled at the formal request. Even wounded, probably dying, the Spartan did not abandon his raising. He gingerly lifted the man’s head, and lowered his own wineskin to the Spartan’s parched lips.

The soldier drank sparingly, and washed his mouth with the last mouthful before swallowing. Trained in rationing, the old man realized.

“Thank you,” the Spartan croaked. “A kind act, friend. The Gods smile upon you for it.”

“I fear it had been long since any deity has graced me with his, or her, smile Spartan,” the old man smiled in reply. “I am Neethos, by the way.”

“Janos,” the Spartan returned, gasping slightly. “My shield?”

Neethos nodded, and reached for the nearest shield, lying it near to hand, placing spear and sword likewise. The soldier nodded his thanks.

“A great battle, young Spartan,” Neethos said, taking a small rag, and damp