Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-three: one day

Lesya slips her hand into his, feeling the rough and raised scar across his palm against hers. A reminder of the blood he has shed to keep her safe. It does not matter if he is Deimos or Alexios, Lesya only knows she loves him. "You could be, though." He looks back at her and spreads his fingers —folding them around her hand but says nothing. For you, he thinks I could be. "Stay with me," she breathes, hopeful.

But Deimos knows it does not matter how much he wants to stay, he cannot. The Cult of Kosmos will forever haunt them should he leave, so he stays for her —to keep her safe, to keep them from finding her. Every monstrous thing he has done has been for her. And all he can manage to say is, "I can't," even if the melancholy in his dark eyes say otherwise.

"Then stay with me tonight," Lesya amends. Deimos will not deny her the night —they each need a good night's rest that comes with lying next to one another. She does not know where else to go on Keos, so she leads Deimos to Tundareos' home and points up to the rooftop. They both scale the side of the stone house silently, falling back into pallet beneath moonrise. Absently, Lesya takes one of his arms, turning it over in her lap and begins to unlace the ties of his gilded vambrace.

He watches her, heart beating in his throat as she follows the scar on his forearm with her fingertips. Lesya flicks her eyes up, meeting his steady gaze. For her, it is easy to tell something is wrong. Deimos has never been one for words, but now he is strangely quiet, and his tawny-gold eyes hold more pain than ever. "What happened?" She asks, reaching for his other arm.

The gathering of the Cultists flashes at the forefront of his mind. Everything is a lie, he wants to say, but the words do not come. A weapon to be used until dulled then discarded he thinks, bitterly. Deimos shakes his head. "It doesn't matter," he answers, looking past the burned buildings to the sea, "the timing isn't right." He still must sail for Athens before Kleon suspects defiance. Lesya slides the second vambrace from his arm, laying it next to the first and says nothing.

Golden light from the setting sun turns Lesya's copper hair to flame. Mesmerized, Deimos does not even notice she has unhooked the fading white pteruges at his shoulders and unclasped the black-and-gold cuirass until they both fall away. He swallows the lump in his throat when she crawls into his lap, her hands cupping his face. "I've missed this," she whispers. Lesya does not miss the days of torment, but she misses the nights, his touch, falling asleep next to him.

Deimos' smiles, briefly —arms wrapping around Lesya's middle, and then she surges forward, kissing him, unable to bear it any longer. He reclines, drawing her back with him, lips never parting until she rolls to the side —propping her chin upon his chest. "One day," Deimos rasps, a promise —one day we'll be together. But one day seems so far away. Lesya smiles again, soft and warm, as she settles into his embrace, hand resting over the steady beat of his heart.

When morning comes, Lesya is not eager to let Deimos go, she holds onto the moment for a long as she can before helping him into his armor. He rises from the pallet and sighs, knowing he must travel with the tides. She pulls him back after he takes the first step, jumping up onto her toes. He leans into the kiss, fingers gliding through a waterfall of silken copper.

"Until our paths cross again," Lesya murmurs, the words dancing across his cheek. Deimos presses his lips against hers again, committing the curve and cracks to memory —he never knows which kiss could be their last. Breaking away from the kiss, he slips from Lesya's gentle embrace. Their paths will cross sooner than either anticipates.

In the east, the sun continues its march upward into the sky. She stands there for what feels like hours, having watched the Aerion sail from the docks and into the horizon. Silently, Tundareos joins her on the rooftop and engulfs her in his arms. Only then does she notice the dampness on her cheeks and the taste of salt on her lips. Her brother holds her tight, without question —he had seen Lesya and Deimos in the night.

"Kassandra has been searching for you," he says when she steps from the embrace, wiping her eyes. He told the misthios he had not seen his sister since the previous evening whilst knowing she lay asleep on his roof. "Here–" Tundareos hands her a rolled flatbread filled with honey and mashed fig. Lesya takes the small meal with a smile as they both head toward the Adrestia to find Kass.

The Eagle Bearer has already met with Xenia —learning her mother was once a pirate sailing at the leader's side under the moniker Phoenix but had parted ways some time ago. News of Myrrine is not all she has to offer. Herodotus has received word from Athens, bearing ill news from the city. Sickness has settled over the city and spurred mobs into riots. Athens is in danger of collapse, a tidal shift in the war. Though she wishes to search for her mother, Kassandra knows they must go to Athens.

Lesya only nods, knowing Deimos will be there and remembering the scroll written in Kleon's hand. We cannot let the Eagle Bearer return to the city or our fallen champion. Her thoughts are broken when Tundareos claps his hand on her shoulder. "I'll sail for Athens, too," he announces —he may sail under Xenia's colors, but the Ippalkimon is his ship to command. She looks up at her brother, grateful to the gods that they had led them to one another.