Kryptic ↟ Deimos

sixteen: have violent ends

THE WINDS ARE kind and by midday the Adrestia docks in Epidauros. Kassandra and Lesya depart the trireme and bid Barnabas and the historian farewell. They will sail for Korinthia as it is the next destination for the Eagle Bearer after meeting with the physician, Hippokrates, in Argolis. Night looms overhead as they reach the western gate of the polis. It has been a long and tiresome trek from the small port, and one taken mostly in silence. Lesya had never been much for conversation and neither was Kassandra —despite their similarities and differences, both women held mutual respect.

People in the streets gawp as they pass by. It is not every day you have the opportunity to look upon not one, but two Amazonian warriors. Finding Hippokrates clinic is easy enough —a line of sick and injured civilians guides their path. Kassandra stops shy of the arching entrance into the clinic's courtyard and looks over her shoulder at Lesya. On the wind, there is a familiar voice of an old crone —Chrysis— and the disgraced champion of the Cult will go no farther.

The Eagle Bearer pushes past those awaiting treatment to a chorus of grumbling and weak shouts, but no one dares impede her path for more than a second. Lesya takes to the shadows at the edge of the clinic and listens to the raised voices. Chrysis is threatening someone who sounds no more than a boy. Typical. She keeps low and out of sight —listening as Kassandra and the Priestess of Hera exchange low and harsh words with one another. What is said causes Chrysis to leave in a fury, two guards flanking her side.

Shortly after, Kass emerges from the clinic too. "Hippokrates is not here," the misthios grits out, pacing with a wrapped parcel in hand. Traveling this far had been a waste. "He's near the Heraion of Argos treating patients." Had they known; half a day's journey could have been spared. 

Lesya nods, giving a small shrug —she has her own things to attend to in Argos and she can tell the Eagle Bearer is eager to be on her way. "Go, I'll meet you at the Sanctuary of Asklepius by sundown tomorrow." Kassandra appears skeptical given what happened in Athens, but even if she has a budding premonition of why Lesya wishes to stay, she would not be able to stop her from acting. She turns from the clinic and traces their initial path through the city back to the western gate.

Ikaros perches on the edge of a rooftop, peering down at Lesya though Kass is out of sight. She glares at the golden eagle. He still does not like nor trust her, but she supposes the feeling is mutual. Ignoring the lingering bird, she plucks a small scroll from her belt, moving closer to a brazier to read over it again.

My Eyes —the letter reads— efforts by the Worshippers to resurrect the first true servant of Kosmos, Agamemnon, have failed. All traces of their dark rituals must be hidden by shadow. My eyes in Argos are led by a cunning little banker named Midas. He will clean their mess. Lesya looks up at the Temple of Poseidon —housed within is the treasury of Argolis— returning the scroll to her belt. The Eyes see all yet they would not see her, only feel the cold bite of her blade.

Posted at each side of the temple's pronaos is a guardian clothed in the dark steel armor of the Cult. Lesya ascends the crepidoma with her head lowered —fingers flexing in anticipation. "Halt!" One of the guardians shouts. She lifts her head and takes a moment to relish in their fear when recognition washes over them. Before either of them can draw a sword, Lesya unsheathes the dual blades on her back and releases them in a single fluid motion. The Cult guardians fall concurrently —one of them with a blade rising from their eye and the other from their neck.

Footfalls echo off the smooth marble floor and vaulted ceiling. Two slim trails of blood drip from Lesya's blades, reflecting black in the firelight. She stops at the shadow of the great statue of Poseidon. Forgive this desecration she thinks, drawing in a long, slow breath. It is a necessary evil to spare Hellas from war and corruption.

Midas blows out a tallow candle at the feet of the dais, rising from his devotions and trembling as he turns. "Enyo." His voice cracks, eyes darting to the blades held within her grasp —painted scarlet with the blood of his guards. Lesya steps forward and he backward, knocking over the candle and spattering hot wax over the floor. The look in her laurel eyes is one of harsh fortitude. "You–" Midas lifts his arms, cowering "–you would spill blood in this sacred place?"

Lesya laughs —she has killed men in sight of the gods before, this will be no different. "The gods have spilled more blood than Deimos and I combined," she says with a shrug, "I doubt they'll even blink." A cry for help is on Midas' tongue but turns to a sharp gasp when she thrusts one blade above his right clavicle and the other beneath his left arm —twisting them both.

The Cultist cries out, both his arms limp. Blood begins sluicing down her left hand and arm in warm pulses. Snarling, Lesya rips both blades free. Midas staggers on his feet before falling back against the altar and statue. He fumbles to press a hand to the wound spurting blood beneath his arm, staining his fine robes, and the temple floor as a deathly pallor overtakes him. When she turns to leave the naos, a corpse lays at the feet of Poseidon and a golden artifact weighs heavily in her bloody hand.

HE IS LEANING against a marble column next to one of the felled guardians, arms crossed with a grim smile. Seeing her here is enough proof she had followed through on the lead he had given her in Athens. "Enyo," Deimos calls, pushing off the stone and stepping into the moonlight. A dark chlamys hides his golden plate.

She stops midstride and turns on her heel. A part of her is unsurprised to see him —they'd made a habit out of finding one another as of late. "What now?" Lesya asks, stepping up to the champion. He looks down his nose at her —the smirk playing on her lips is infuriating.

"You're going to get caught," he hisses. Deimos expected her to be discrete, not leave a mangled corpse at the feet of Poseidon. The others would know it had been her who brought about Midas' downfall. She is destruction and chaos made flesh —his counterpart.

"Am I?" She challenges. "And will you be the one to drag me back to Phokis?" Lesya knows the answer before she asks. He had sacrificed much to help her to safety and keep the truth hidden from the others. They beat him and worked him like a dog, but he never broke under the pressure and pain. If she returns to Phokis, his suffering will have been for nothing. She cares too deeply for him to let that happen.

Deimos averts his gaze. "Be careful," he utters. He can only watch her back for so long before the Cult realizes what he is doing. Kleon already sees him like a rabid dog, if they learn he had been the one to supply Lesya with Midas' whereabouts it would result in retribution.

Lesya guides his tawny-gold gaze back to her —bloody hand resting on his cheek. Her smirk softens into a smile. "You followed me to Argos to tell me that?" Deimos does not answer, but there is a deep longing in his dark eyes. It makes her heartache and causes that unsettling feeling to rise in her stomach and throat again. She takes another step closer to him, rising to her toes, and places a soft kiss against his cheek —a raised scar tickles her lips.

"Tell them I did it," Lesya whispers, her words a gentle caress against his lips and jaw. "I want them to know it was me and that I'm coming for them all." She would not stop till every Cultist had met her blade or Kassandra's spear. They all deserved death for crimes committed against the Greek world —for what they did to her and Deimos.

His lips twist into a smile —there is something beautiful about the dark glint in her laurel eyes. "Of course, you are," Deimos replies, stepping back into the shadows as she turns to descend the crepidoma.