THE EAGLE BEARER sits tall astride a chestnut steed named Phobos. Lesya has procured her own silver mare from Argos and decides to name her after the moon goddess —Selene. The road to the Land of Beautiful Corruption is one the former champion has traveled before, though Deimos had been at her side then. "Have you ever been to Korinth?" She asks, sparing a glance at the misthios.
Kassandra shakes her head —up until meeting Barnabas she had not left the shores of Kephallonia since washing up on the shore. "I haven't. You?" She counters.
Lesya grimaces but does not lie. "A few times," she answers. It always ended in bloodshed —raiding the Akrokorinth fort, pulling the strings of the Monger's puppets, sabotaging the Spartan supply line, and Athenian camps. Deimos and Enyo had shed enough blood in Korinthia to paint the steps of the great Temple of Aphrodite red.
"What did you do in Argos?" Kassandra is curious about what happened, especially as Ikaros was more distrustful of her now than ever. Lesya tosses a bloodstained letter to her and watches the confusion spread over her countenance. Midas. Agamemnon. Kosmos. A clue that had led Lesya straight to another Cultist. "How did you find this?" It does not matter though, not really, Midas is slain and the Cult's efforts to resurrect Agamemnon have failed.
She swallows the lump growing in her throat and glances ahead, finding where the flagstone road leading from Argos ends. "Deimos gave me that letter," Lesya tells her, avoiding looking anywhere else but the road. Somehow, he had known her path would lead her to Argos and Midas. Sparing a glance, Lesya can see Kassandra's confusion has not ebbed. She recalls the tales Chrysis told them as children, lies they so vehemently believed —about peace and order, about a true king, about Kosmos and his servants. "Kosmos is the Cult's ideal of peace and order," she begins. "They believe Agamemnon was the first servant and sought to return him to this world to lead Hellas into a new age."
The explanation leaves Kassandra with more questions than answers, but she does not dwell on the mythos of the Cult. "Why would Deimos give you this?" Kassandra asks, holding up the scroll. She has only faced her brother once on Andros and he had been committed to serving the Cult's will —even at the cost of destroying family.
Kass watches as Lesya's jaw clenches. She has seen the scars on the disgraced champion's trunk and has heard whispers of the stories behind them from Barnabas. The Cult is cruel —she imagines it is not such a different story for Deimos. "There's only so many times you can kick a dog before he snaps," Lesya responds, her voice tinged with bitter hatred. Squeezing the sides of her mount, Lesya rides ahead of the misthios. Kassandra lets her be.
WATER SLOSHES OUT of stone tub and onto the smooth floor. A trail of bloody armor and stained clothing starts in the villa courtyard and ends at just shy of the growing puddle of water. Enyo runs her finger's through Deimos' beard —dark and thick. She still finds it strange to see him with one. They have been on an assignment in Makedonia for over a moon and scarcely had time to bathe, let alone groom. "You don't like it," he surmises, lips kinking into a smile —he's not particularly fond of it either.
"I could get used to it," she counters. Deimos reaches over to the small table, pushing aside an assortment of sweet-smelling oils in stone vials and picks up a curved copper razor. He settles against the side of the tub, stretching out his legs —thighs and calves corded with muscle— and tilts his head back. Enyo takes the razor from his hand and moves forward, straddling his waist. She is far more patient than him and if her steady hand works the blade he is less likely to come away with nicks and cuts.
Pulling the skin of his neck taut, Enyo moves the razor up in short, quick strokes. His eyes slip shut and his hands busy themselves following the gouged scars on Enyo's back. A lullaby plays in her mind, one she remembers from childhood —her mother used to sing it. Now though, Enyo hums the same broken tune, never breaking concentration. And for a moment, it's difficult to think this is the same woman who could cleave a man in two, who relishes in bloodshed and the cries of her enemies.
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.