Kazi did not like mountains. They reminded of a memory that he would much rather forget; of blood and tears and the misery of the world. Thermopylae was a narrow pass he had once visited, gravelly and light-brown. In the distance were the limestone mountain ranges that ached his heart. Kazi Hossain sat cross-legged, sitting across the man known as Ephialtes. From his armour, it would be difficult to tell him apart from any other Spartan. Bronze as well as equipped with a helmet, Ephialtes' importance couldn't be picked out by those that were uneducated.
Because he was who mattered. The mountain did not matter. The hot spring that Heracles was rumoured to bath in did not matter. The gate to Hades did not matter. None of it was important. None of it was what made Gate 12 tick. Kazi understood that more than anyone.
He was seated on the ground.
So was Ephialtes.
