Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-six: absolution

LESYA TUGS AT the ropes on her wrists, but the knots have no give. Searching the belly of the trireme, she finds him sitting across from her, his head low, armor still stained with soot, mud, and blood from the battle. The struggle against her bonds only brings back the sudden surge of pain in her bandaged thigh and bruised arm. Deimos lifts his head, catching her harsh glare. Even so, a wave of relief crashes over him. "I'm your prisoner now?" She hisses, snapping him from whatever fog had taken hold of his thoughts.

He doesn't reply, but silence is answer enough —the Cult has taken her prisoner. They will go to Delphi, or perhaps to Athens since Kleon has taken charge of both the city and Kosmos. Stilling, she looks down at the ropes, can hear the echo of burning trees mixed with the rise and fall of the Aegean's waves. "What you did was reckless," Lesya mutters. 

"Trying to save you from an inferno?" Deimos asks, raising his scarred brow as he leans toward her. There's a tinge of mirth in his tone. Even after crossing blades, he hadn't hesitated to put himself between her and a burning tree. Protecting Lesya is second nature to him. It had been for years —they could fight on and off the battlefield, but he would always try to save her from pain. 

She shakes her head, recalling their training and days long past. Biting down on her lip, Lesya glances at the hull of the ship, unable to meet the warmth shining in Deimos' tawny-gold eyes. "We were taught to save ourselves, not one another," she reminds him. 

"And when have we ever listened?" He challenges. Ever since they were children facing the trials, Enyo and Deimos always looked out for one another, and time wouldn't change that. They never took all of Chrysis' teachings to heart anyways. Elsewise, neither of them would be here now in the belly of a trireme sailing back to Athens. 

"You should have left me." Lesya's voice cracks. She thought freedom from the Cult would mean freedom from the killing and the horrors, but she still found her blades dripping with blood at every turn. There is no muting the taunting voice of Enyo in the back of her mind every time she wields a weapon, no calming the bloodlust craving monster. There is no escape from the endless cycle. It will be the same for him, no matter how much they dream or speak of a simpler life.

"Deimos," she breathes, a broken prayer, "when the game is done and all the pawns are spent, where in Hellas will we go?" Kassandra telling her not to return to Sparta after what happened in Boeotia brought the realization upon her —there is not a single polis in the Greek world that would welcome her and Deimos, if they did, it would only be to see them at the chopping block. "The Spartans would gladly have our heads, as would the Athenians." Their crimes against the two city-states are too numerous to count. "There's no place we haven't desecrated with bloodshed. Nowhere and no one will want us."

Silence settles between the two champions. Deimos weighs her words carefully, not denying the truth of it. When the Cult falls, they will have no safe haven to turn to without facing persecution. Even so, he can tell there's something different in her gaze, a new kind of defeat in her voice. He reaches for her, rough fingertips brushing across her jaw and bruised cheek. "What've you done?" Deimos asks. 

"Killed one of the Spartan generals–" her eyes flash up to meet his, despite the guilt in her tone there's still pride shining in her eyes "–your step-brother, Stentor." Deimos knows the name. He knows Stentor as the son of Nikolaos and as an informant for the Cult of Kosmos —one of the Redbloods they speak of. He doesn't say anything, just runs a hand over his face with a slight sigh. Yet another ally lost by Enyo's hand. Deimos cannot help but wonder how things would have turned out had she remained at his side. He imagines by now the Cult would have Hellas beneath their heel.

She holds out her bound hands, laurel eyes shining with something Deimos thinks he's never seen before —fear and weakness. "Take these ropes off," Lesya says, nigh pleading, but Deimos does or says nothing, just sits back with her dark gaze flitting across her face and the bruises and scars. She can see it in his expression, doubt —a voice in the back of his mind saying she will run as soon as the bonds are severed. "We're in open water–" a smile tugs at her lips, even she could not hope to swim to shore from this far out at sea "–where would I go?"

Deimos slips one of her twin blades under the ropes, cutting them loose. Lesya rubs her wrists, lost in a daze. "Lesya," he breathes, cupping her cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing over the scar running through her brow, a mark left by his blade. She lifts her gaze to meet his and feels her chest tighten as all their past encounters come racing to the forefront of her mind, all of them a culmination of what she'd told him on that Megarian beach. I love you. Lesya swallows the lump in her throat.

"I meant what I said," she tells him. Nothing could change the way she felt about Deimos, not after all the years they stood side-by-side, not after the things they'd done. She could never want anyone else, only the broken boy named Alexios, who grew into a twisted weapon. Lesya leans into his touch, turning her cheek to press a short kiss to the center of his scarred palm. 

He stares, lips parted, a funny feeling in his chest —he thinks it might be remorse. Remorse for not telling her sooner. Remorse for turning his back on her when she'd first told him. "I know," he whispers, leaning forward, still unable to tell Lesya he feels the same too. For now, though, it doesn't matter. She shifts, tilting her chin up so their lips brush against one another. It's hesitant, like when they were younger, but then Deimos' hand slips from her cheek to the nape of her neck, pulling her against him and swallowing the startled gasp that leaves her lips. Lesya melts against him, thinking everything feels right once again now that she's back in Deimos' arms.  

WHEN HE WAKES to the clash of thunder in the middle of the night, Lesya's warmth is no longer pressed against him. Her armor is gone, as are her blades. There are no signs she'd ever been there save for the cut rope and bloody scraps of linen. He peers around the bowel of the trireme, finding only the dark outlines of resting rowers —no need to fight Poseidon's wrath so far from land.

Sitting up, he ties his black-and-gold chiton around his waist, eyes still searching the darkness. Certain Lesya is not there, he rises, making his way above deck with the thrashing wind and pounding rain. The wooden planks are slick from water and the blood of three beheaded Cult guardians. 

Deimos strides to the commander of the guard, his face twisted in anger. They are in open water with no land in sight on any horizon, nor is there any sign of another ship. Lesya should not have slipped through their grasp so easily, should not have slipped through his grasp either. "You let her escape?!" Deimos roars, expression twisting to anger and rage.

"She killed the guards!" the commander refutes, though his tone is also a pitiful cry for clemency.

Deimos bends at the waist, picking up a spear. He surveys the point —dull but still deadly. "Apparently not all of them," he remarks, thrusting the spearhead into the man's gut and forcing him back into the dark, churning depths of the sea. Deimos ascends the steps to the quarterdeck, the wind and rain pelting his face and chest. He grips onto the rail, looking over the deckhands fighting to keep the sail from tearing and across the choppy water surrounding the trireme. Lightning flashes across the sky and far off on the horizon, Deimos sees it, a ship with dark sails emblazoned with an eagle clutching a serpent in its talons —the Adrestia.