Inside ALEXEIN: A Rewritten Mantinea, and a Brain-Melting Day!


Inside ALEXEIN: A Rewritten Mantinea, and a Brain-Melting Day!

Today was a rollercoaster of emotions while working on ALEXEIN, Volume 1: The Golden Dawn. I meticulously checked historical timelines, ensuring accuracy and tightly weaving the narrative with the historical events, and my brain nearly short-circuited several times!

The intertwined scenarios—the events in Macedon, Thebes, and Persia—were incredibly complex and fascinating, and I was often challenged to find the right balance.

But I’m thrilled to say I uncovered a critical mistake in my initial draft and have been able to completely rewrite a key scene: the aftermath of the Battle of Mantinea in 362 BC.

This section details the death of the legendary Theban general Epaminondas and its profound impact on the political landscape of the time. It was incredibly challenging; many different accounts needed to be thoroughly researched to accurately represent this pivotal historical moment and adequately describe the impact of this general's death on those around him.

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Epaminondas, his face pale yet expression resolute, placed a hand upon the wound, his gaze never leaving the battlefield. “The victory is ours, Pelopidas,” he whispered, his voice strained yet unwavering. He then fell, his body succumbing to the fatal blow.

The world fractured around Pelopidas. One moment, the roar of battle filled his ears, the clash of bronze a loud symphony of violence; the next, a suffocating silence descended, the sounds of conflict fading into distant echoes. Epaminondas, his lover, his closest confidant, his partner in both war and life, lay dead. The battlefield, the clash of armies, and the desperate struggle for dominance faded, leaving only the raw, searing pain of loss.

Pelopidas, his grief a physical force, grabbed Epaminondas’s body, his fingers tightening around his lover’s lifeless form. He gathered his strength, channeling his emotional turmoil—the crushing weight of his sadness, his rage, his profound sense of loss—into a terrifying, unstoppable force. 

His voice, raw with grief and fueled by an incandescent fury, cracked the silence. Tears streamed down his face, yet his voice rang out, clear and commanding, to the other members of the Sacred Band.

“Kill them ALL! Kill them until the last of them falls!”

Pelopidas 's grief transformed into a weapon, fought with reckless abandon, a fearless fury born of loss and a burning desire for vengeance. Nothing mattered now except revenge for his lover. 

He was a man possessed, every action driven by an overwhelming emotion. He became a killing machine; Pelopidas grasped carried Epaminondas’s dead body on his left arm, sword in his right, the union of death, his every strike precise and merciless, leaving a trail of fallen Spartans in his wake. His warriors, inspired by his rage and their shared grief, fought as if possessed, their movements mechanical, their purpose singular—to annihilate the enemy.

Pelopidas thought, his mind clinging to Epaminondas's final words: "Ensure Thebes's dominance. Maintain our power. Let this victory serve as a testament to our strength and unwavering resolve." I will ensure that this victory solidifies Thebes’s rule for years to come. I will make sure that they never forget this day.

They fought on, their grief fueling their relentless assault; their tears mingled with blood, creating a crimson tide across the winning battlefield. The ground ran red, stained with the blood of the fallen and the tears of the victors—a haunting, unforgettable testament to a victory purchased at an unimaginable cost. The echoes of Mantinea, a complex and poignant blend of triumph and tragedy, would resonate through history. The brutal and emotional reality of the battlefield and its impact on those who fought within it could never truly be understood or described.

They fell, one by one, before Pelopidas's relentless onslaught—a terrifying dance of death fueled by grief and rage. Consumed by the loss of Epaminondas, his mind was a battlefield of its own, the only light a burning memory of his lover's unwavering resolve and tactical brilliance. 

He fought not as a man but as a force of nature, his movements precise yet brutal, each strike a stroke of deadly grace. Pelopidas, a whirlwind of destruction, seemed to sense the enemy's presence before they even saw him; a fleeting glance, a momentary perception, and another life extinguished. 

The world itself seemed to shift, the horrific scenes of death and bloodshed somehow vibrant, almost beautiful in their stark, brutal intensity. He experienced this killing ecstasy, a euphoric rush that transcended mere emotion, a sensation of connection with something primal and terrible. 

He was Moros, the personification of impending doom, his presence a harbinger of death, his actions fueled by the fury of Ares, the god of war—a god who embodied the brutal, chaotic, and utterly merciless aspects of the conflict. 

The carnage became a grim procession, a macabre march of death that moved beyond mere rage and into a terrifying realm of sublime destruction. Each fallen soldier—Spartan, Theban, or whatever—was merely a step further down this scary path toward a devastating, overwhelming annihilation. 

Pelopidas, lost in this terrifying dance of death, felt no fear, no hesitation, no remorse—only a terrifying, chilling, euphoric energy that seemed to come from another world. The weight of death felt both horrifying and strangely exhilarating.

The Sacred Band, Pelopidas’s killing machines, stood amidst the carnage, their faces grim and unsettling, their movements stiff and mechanical. They had eradicated, yet their rage remained, a simmering fire beneath a mask of grim exhaustion. 

Pelopidas, his grip on his sword and shield so tight that they seemed almost an extension of his own body, wiped his tear-streaked face with his blood-soaked arm. He was lost in this horrifying escapade, a maelstrom of violence and grief; Epaminondas’ lifeless body lay beside him, a constant, chilling reminder of his profound loss.

With the enemy's final breath, a terrifying silence descended, broken only by the wind’s mournful cry. The emptiness that filled Pelopidas was horrifying, a gaping void where love and life had once resided. The sense of loss was overwhelming, so profound that it made him laugh—a broken, convulsive sound, tears streaming down his face. 

The mounds of the dead seemed unreal, a grotesque and delusional landscape of death. He stood there, hollowed out, the world reduced to a shallow, almost meaningless dance of destruction.
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This rewrite has added significant depth and emotional weight to the narrative and will significantly impact the following chapters, providing a solid foundation for the future storyline.

#ALEXEIN #TheGoldenDawn #HistoricalFiction #AncientGreece #Epaminondas #Mantinea #BattleOfMantinea #Thebes #Sparta #Rewriting #HistoricalAccuracy #Research #WritingProcess #EmotionalWriting #HistoricalDetails

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