The Hair Of Andronikos (Τα Μαλλιά Του Ανδρόνικου)

-From The Meletic Tales.

In the olive-green hills of ancient Messenia, where cypresses stood like silent sentinels and the wind carried whispers of forgotten battles, there lived a soldier named Andronikos. His fame had stretched beyond the borders of his city. In taverns and agoras, his name was spoken with admiration, but above all, it was his hair—thick, brown, cascading like a lion’s mane down his shoulders—that marked him and his presence.

‘The gods have woven strength into every strand’, men would say as he passed, his bronze armour gleaming, his hair loose and wild like the very spirit of Ares.

Andronikos believed it. He had come to believe that his strength was not in his limbs or in his mind, but in the mighty hair that crowned him. As long as it remained untouched, he thought himself invincible as a soldier.

He fought bravely in campaigns against the Spartans and Persians, defended villages and once stood alone against five men when his comrades fled. They called him, ‘a living talisman’.

One summer evening, after a minor skirmish near the border, he wandered into the town of Gerenia. The people offered him wine, figs and praise. A feast was held in his honour, and amongst the crowd gathered was a unique woman with sapphire eyes and a voice smooth as oil—Melita.

She sang at the feast and approached Andronikos after the music had faded into the night. Her smile lingered like honey on the tongue.

‘You are not what they say’, she said softly, her fingers touching the edge of his cloak.

‘What do they say about me?’ He asked.

‘That you are a storm in the shape of a man, but I think you are tired, Andronikos. Tired of being everyone’s strength on the battlefield’.

He was not sure how to reply. No one had ever spoken to him like that and with such audacity.

She led him away from the firelight. They drank in the dark, and her laughter wrapped around him like the softness of silk. They danced in shadow, and she whispered of other lives, other joys and dreams that did not involve blood and steel. He had never felt more alive.

Then the world turned unexpectedly. When he awoke, the sun was high and his head was pounding. His fingers reached up instinctively.

His hair—his long and treasured locks—were gone.

The floor spun. He staggered to a basin and saw himself reflected in a mirror. A stranger stared back—barren, stripped and weak of his strength.

He searched the small house. Melita was nowhere. The door was open. There was no note, no sign. Only absolute silence.

Villagers would later whisper that she had been seen leaving before dawn, her arms filled with something wrapped in cloth. Some said she’d taken the hair to a merchant who bought such things—for amulets, charms and the obsessions coveted of the rich for these things.

Andronikos did not stay to find out. He fled the town in shame, walking for days with no destination. He avoided cities, crossed hills barefoot and no longer wore his armour. He tore it off and threw it into the sea near Pylos.

He felt hollow. His strength, he believed had been stolen from him without his consent. He could not lift his sword with the same ease. He could not bear to be seen. What was a lion without its natural mane?

Eventually, he came to a remote hill where stood a weathered temple, its columns chipped and vines growing freely across its base. It was not dedicated to any god, but to To Ena—the One, as the Meletic philosophers called it. A temple of contemplation.

An old man sat by the threshold, carving lines into stone with patient hands. He was draped in plain cloth, his eyes deep but kind. His name was Idaeus.

‘What brings you to the temple, traveller?’ He asked.

‘I have lost something that was valuable to me’, Andronikos replied.

‘Ah. And what have you gained?’

‘I don’t understand the question'.

Idaeus smiled. ‘You have come far enough to sit in silence. That is something. Come. Rest’.

Andronikos stayed. The days passed, then the weeks. Idaeus rarely spoke, but when he did, his words lingered with meaning and wisdom.

‘Do you think a tree’s strength lies in its leaves?’ He asked once.

‘No. In its roots’.

‘Then why did you believe yours was in your hair?’

Andronikos had no immediate answer to that question.

The philosopher would walk with him in the mornings. They watched the wind move the olive trees and listened to the sound of distant birdsong.

‘There are those men who carry weapons and still lose every battle within', Idaeus said one dawn. ‘There are those men who drop their weapons and become truly free'.

‘But I am no one without the sword. I was… someone. Now I am… nothing, but the shadow of my self’.

Idaeus pointed to a flat stone. On it were seven words etched in the Meletic words: Observe life. Study what you see. Think deeply.

‘Is that all?’ Andronikos asked.

‘It is enough to begin. You see, to study yourself is the hardest campaign. Most men spend their lives fleeing their own thoughts. You came here, not knowing why—but perhaps your soul knew’.

Andronikos sat every day thereafter in silence. He watched the sun rise and fall. He began to notice things he had never paid attention to before—the breath of the wind, the tremble of dew on a leaf, the rhythm of his own heartbeat. Slowly, something within him had changed.

He began to feel his own presence, separate from his past, free from the weight of fame or failure. He remembered the values his mother once whispered to him—virtue, honour and humility.

As the seasons turned, his hair began to grow again, even though he no longer counted its length as was his usual habit.

He helped tend the temple grounds. He read the scrolls of Meletic teachings, learning of the Nous and the Logos, of balance between body and soul. He learnt that true strength came from self-mastery—not domination.

One morning, Idaeus sat beside him and said, ‘Tell me, what have you discovered?’

Andronikos thought for a while. Then he answered, ‘That I was afraid of emptiness. I filled it with a name, a sword and a myth, but the emptiness was never a curse. It was space—waiting to be filled with true meaning’.

Idaeus nodded. ‘What will you do with this meaning that you have revealed?’

‘I shall carry it. Like a torch. Not a sword to praise my honour’.

Andronikos did not return to the army. He journeyed from village to village, not as a warrior, but as a messenger. He spoke not of battles, but of Meleticism. He spoke of the soul—not the body. He listened to people’s grief, their longing, their confusion and helped them see that what they feared most was often within their power to transform from within them.

‘The hair of Andronikos’, became a different tale. One told by firelight not to inspire strength of arms, but strength of being.

When asked if he missed his old life, he would smile and say, ‘I do not miss a reflection. I have become the man behind it. This has made me a better man. I have discovered my true self'.

He no longer needed his hair to feel whole, even though it had returned with the years. When children pulled at it playfully, he would let them.

‘Does it give you strength?’ They’d ask.

‘Only when I forget who I am’, he would reply.

In his travels, he often carried with him a simple carving—Meletic words etched in wood, like the stone at the temple: Observe life. Study what you see. Think deeply.

Years later, he returned once more to that temple on the hill. Idaeus had passed away. The vines had thickened, but the silence remained intact.

He stood before the threshold, placed a hand on the old stone and whispered, ‘Thank you’.

Then he turned and walked back down the hill, not as a soldier, but as a man whole in himself. A Meletic not by name, but by practice. Not a hero of war, but a companion in understanding.

The wind moved through his hair—not as a crown, but as a reminder that all things grow again, when rooted in the truth.

The towns he once strode through in armour now greeted him with quiet warmth. Farmers offered him olives, mothers asked him to speak to their sons. In one village near Kardamili, he was invited to sit at a feast. There, a boy named Pheres approached him.

‘Is it true you once fought with only a dagger against ten men, and that you killed many Persians and Spartans’, the boy asked with his eyes wide open.

Andronikos smiled. ‘Perhaps, but what matters is how one walks away from the fight, not how they stood within it’.

The boy frowned. ‘Everyone says you were the strongest’.

‘I was strong in body, but the strength of the body without the strength of the soul is like a horse without reins—it runs wild’.

Pheres tilted his head. ‘So how do I grow strong in the soul?’

‘By learning stillness. By asking questions with awareness. By doing good when no one sees. That’s harder than any swordfight that any man can claim victory.’

The boy nodded slowly. That night, as the stars lit the sky and the cicadas sang their ancient tune, Andronikos shared stories of Meletic thought—of To Ena, of awareness and of the quiet virtues that shaped a good life.

He wandered onwards. In a fishing village on the coast, he stayed with an old widow who had heard of him through passing travellers. She fed him dried figs and flatbread, and listened to his teachings.

‘There’s peace in your words, but there’s sorrow too', she told him.

He looked out to sea. ‘Not sorrow. Memory. I once clung to what I thought I was. That clinging hurt me more than any blade that pierced me’.

She nodded, as if understanding. ‘A woman’s worth is often tied to youth. A man’s to strength. Both vanish, and what’s left must be true’.

He stayed there three days, helping her mend nets, sharing thoughts by the fire, then departed with an offering from her.

Eventually, he reached the edge of Arcadia, where the hills rolled like sleeping giants. There, in a grove of cedar and myrtle, he met a group of Meletic wanderers—young seekers who had heard of the temple and of the man once called the hair of Andronikos.

They sat together beneath the trees, shared dates and wine, and asked him what the path required.

‘No path can be walked with haste. You must befriend silence. Question everything, especially yourselves. Live simply. Observe deeply. To Ena is not found in words, but in awareness. This is the Meletic path', he told them.

A woman amongst them, with clear eyes and braided hair, asked, ‘What if we fall from this path and fail in our attempt?’

‘You will. Many times, but the fall is also part of the walk. What matters is whether you rise with understanding, not just with will’.

They sat for hours, and by dusk, it was decided they would travel together for a time as companions of one another. Her name was Melaina.

Andronikos became a trusting guide. He did not lead, but listened. When one grew impatient, he reminded them: ‘The soul unfolds in seasons, not minutes’, When another despaired over their flaws, he would say, ‘To see the fault is already a kind of moral virtue’.

Together, they crossed dry plains and cool rivers, offered aid to those people in need, and taught where they were welcomed. In a city scarred by greed, they spoke of temperance. In a town ravaged by envy, they spoke of the value of humbleness.

One day, they came upon a lone statue—weathered and half-buried. It depicted a warrior, head high and sword raised, his hair carved in curling detail.

‘That’s you’, someone whispered.

Andronikos stared at it for a long time. ‘It was’, he said with a sincere expression.

They waited, sensing something in his silence.

‘That man knew little. He fought for applause. He feared being unseen. Now I know—if I walk with truth, the world sees me whether it claps or not in praise of my victories'.

A hush fell. Even the wind grew still.

Andronikos picked up a stone and placed it at the statue’s feet. ‘For the man I was. May he rest in peace, because he no longer strives the battefields’.

They walked on.

As the years turned passed, the companions disbanded one by one, taking the teachings to new places. Some wrote, others taught. One became a scribe. Another returned to her village and reformed it through Meletic virtues.

Andronikos, now grey at the temples, returned once more to the temple of the hill. The vines had grown wild. The roof had begun to crack, but the stone inscription still stood: ‘To To Ena, the One'.

He sat alone before it and closed his eyes. He thought of Idaeus, of Melaina and of his battles and his pride. Of his pain. Of his shedding. He smiled.

He reached into his satchel and drew out a scroll. Upon it, in a steady hand, he had written the principles of Meleticism as he understood them—not as commandments, but as invitations: Observe life as it is, not as you wish it to be. Question your certainty. Practise temperance. Cultivate humility. Seek the One in all things. Speak less, mean more. Honour the silence between thoughts. Live not for praise, but for presence. Let stillness be your teacher. Grow what is within, not what is shown.

He placed the scroll within a stone niche, sealed it with clay, and whispered, ‘For the next who forgets themselves in life’.

Then he sat in the fading light, and the wind passed once more through his hair, soft and silvered.

Not as a glory, but as a grace. It was a sign.

He lingered there until night fell. The stars emerged, scattered across the sky like messages of the cosmos. Each one a spark of something ancient, unknowable, yet intimate. He remembered the days when he looked up and thought they were meant to guide heroes. Now he saw them differently.

‘You shine not to bless ambition, but to remind us that we are small, and still mortal. You guide us when we are lost', he murmured.

A rustle in the grass stirred him. A young traveller approached by the name of Timos—quiet, hesitant, holding a scroll much like his own.

‘Is this the temple of To Ena, the One?’ The youth asked.

Andronikos rose slowly, smiling. ‘It is indeed. You have found the right place'.

‘They said I might find a teacher here who could assist me’.

‘Perhaps, but the true teacher waits within you', said Andronikos.

Timos nodded, not fully understanding, but sensing something true in the words. They sat together in the dark, and when morning came, they shared bread and silence.

Thus, the path continued—not as a destination, but as a motion. From one soul to another. From root to branch. From silence to understanding.

Andronikos did not seek any legacy with his feats and laurels as a soldiers , but in each person who paused to listen, something stirred. A remembrance. A return to Ena.

Andronikos descended the hill slowly, as if each step pulled a root gently from the soil of his former self. The wind brushed along the path, stirring the edges of his cloak. No longer did he walk with the bearing of a warrior—but with the gait of one whose battles had turned inwards, and been resolved in the quietude.

A group of travellers passed him, heading upwards, burdened with questions. They asked if the temple still stood. He nodded, but said nothing more. Not all answers required words.

In the village below, a child pointed at him and whispered, ‘Is that the man with the golden hair?’ An old woman smiled and replied, ‘No. That is the man who grew back more than hair.’

He settled in a nearby town, not to lecture, but to live. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened. He helped mend roofs, carry baskets, and plant vines, but what they remembered most was how he looked at them—not to judge, not to lead, but to see. To remind them, by his being, that they too could return to themselves.

When he was died—when the temple stones bore only the hush of time and the hush of the wind—the scroll remained. Found again, years later, by another seeker who, like Andronikos, came not in search of glory, but in search of something quieter. Something that could not be named.

They read the words and sat in silence, and the temple endured. So too did the way of Meleticism. What was once a tale of a man who had allowed his vanity to comform to his ego had been replaced by a man who had discovered his true self.

In time, Andronikos found peace not in the clashing of swords but in the gentle rhythm of daily life. His laughter no longer echoed on battlefields but in quiet gatherings beneath olive trees, where stories were shared and silences understood. The village children would gather around him, not for tales of war, but for lessons on kindness, patience and the unseen strength within each heart. Although his hair had grown long once more, it was no longer a symbol of pride, but a humble reminder of a journey inwards—a journey from false strength to true virtue. And so, his legacy lived on quietly, like a soft breeze stirring the leaves of an ancient grove.

Years later, a scroll appeared in a Meletic hall, unsigned. It simply read: Strength, like hair, grows back—but virtue does not need to be grown. It only needs to be seen, and lived.

Some say it was his. Others say it was not, but the tale of Andronikos passed on—not as a myth of might, but as a memory of transformation. His locks returned, yes—but the man who once wore them was gone.

In his place stood one who no longer needed them to know who he was, and the wind moved still—soft, quiet, eternal, as did To Ena, the One.

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