Kryptic ↟ Deimos

eighteen: value of a moment

Sitting back up, he stares at her —unabashedly— trying to memorize everything. The curve of his lips, the pattern of freckles on her cheeks, how her brow furrows when she focuses on a task. Deimos knows they walk along a path narrower than a knife's edge, teetering between life and death. Enyo has come close to death twice, each time he has found her in a pool of blood —terrified at the thought of losing her. Lost in thought, he does not notice she has set aside the razor until he feels the soft-tingling of lemon balm. Tawny-gold eyes slip shut when her fingertips brush over his smooth neck and jaw again —opening only when he feels the soft caress of her lips against his.

Deimos wakes on the deck of the ship in a cold sweat —heart pounding. Sitting up, he wipes the sweat from his brow then runs his hands over his face, pausing at the coarse stubble on his jaw. Pushing aside the memory, he rises and moves to the bow of the war galley. The horizon is still dark, as is the churning sea. A flash of lightning erupts in the clouds, illuminating the faint outline of land in the distance. Before morning, he will be back in Phokis —waiting to do the Cult's bidding once more.

AT SUNDOWN, LESYA and Kassandra veer off the road and into the forest. Thieves and renegades often patrol the roads during the night. Besides, if they leave at sunrise Korinth will be on the horizon before midday and neither of them has slept in two days. The Eagle Bearer stares into the flames but her gaze soon moves up to Lesya —she is fletching arrows as a distraction. Kassandra bites down on her bottom lip again, albeit the question on her tongue still slips out. "What is my brother like?"

The question hammers a stake through Lesya's chest —she drives the last arrow into the ground and studies the lines of her palm. "Deimos is not your brother," she tells Kassandra. Deimos is a weapon, a demigod, a lie, just as Enyo had been. Even Lesya knows deep down that Deimos is beyond saving, but Alexios is not. Alexios, for a moment she is lost to distant memories, tender touches, and soft kisses, Alexios is a good man.

"I will save him from the Cult," the Eagle Bearer states —she will see her family reunited, no matter the cost.

A melancholy smile pulls at Lesya's lips —she will save Alexios, not Deimos. Kassandra's question remains unanswered. Drawing in a slow breath, Lesya struggles to find words. "He's angry and erratic. Proud and stubborn," she remarks. Those traits were not unique to Deimos, but few harbored them the same way as him. The misthios finds herself fighting back a small smile —she can hear the affection in Lesya's voice when she speaks of Deimos.

"He has the capacity for kindness, though. We looked after one another for years." She thinks of the times he tended to her wounds —even if they were minor. He had always been gentle, careful, and attentive. When she closes her eyes, Lesya can still feel the soft caress of his hand against her cheek and the tingle of his lips brushing against hers —I miss him. "He was all I had," her voice cracks. "I dread to think of what the Cult has done to him." The few times they have been together had yet to feel like the right time to ask what happened after she left.

Ikaros glides from the night sky, perching on a felled branch near Kassandra —preening his feathers. The Eagle Bearer frowns, brows furrowed. Lesya answers the question forming on her tongue before she can speak. "They thought I made him weak–" she laughs, they had always been stronger together. Apart from each other Deimos and Enyo were deadly, but together they could topple nations. "Elpenor warned Deimos of their plan to kill me and he helped me escape." The memory of fleeing that night is still fresh in her mind even if nigh three years have passed.

Kassandra says nothing, though she wears a deeply troubled expression. Lesya stokes the fire back into flames and places several more pieces of wood on the embers. Since Kass had spoken her intentions of traveling to Korinth to speak to Anthousa, Lesya has not been able to shake the feeling in her gut that they are walking into an intricately laid trap. The hetaerae may have the love of the people, but it is the Cult who controls the city. "The Monger controls Korinth," she says —a warning. "We have to be careful." She has seen and felt the Monger's wrath before.

"Why?" The misthios counters. The Monger —Deimos— all the Cult will fall in time. She does not understand what makes the Monger so special to warrant fear from the former champion.

Tugging the belt on her waist aside, Lesya pulls up the hem of her chiton revealing a discolored and disfigured patch of skin at her hip. A brand. Bound and gagged, the Monger had pressed the poker into her hip, forcing Deimos to watch as the scent of burning flesh filled the air. A target had slipped under their noses in a night raid and such a failure had to be penalized.

Kassandra's face twists into anger. "Deimos bears the marks of his iron too," Lesya breathes, knowing the brands he endured at the Monger's hand had been to spare her from pain. He had taken the punishments without flinching or crying out and never complained. I'd do it over again Deimos told her one night while small waves broke on the shoreline, brushing against their legs.