Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-seven: puppet strings

"STAY YOUR HAND, Barnabas," Lesya whispers, her hand resting over the old captain's as they peer across the street at the Athenian prison. She glances back at Sokrates, the mouthy philosopher who insisted on coming too —she hadn't wanted to argue with him or Barnabas. Tundareos or Timotheus would be better suited to aid her in a prison break, but they had yet to reach Athens after having been caught in a maelstrom off the Lakonian coast. "I'll go first." It would not take long for her to dispatch the guards and give the signal for Barnabas and Sokrates to join her.

Raising the hood of her pale chlamys, she blends into the bustling street, moving toward the back wall of the prison. A guard notices her, moving closer, slipping in and out of the crowd. In a heartbeat, Lesya appears naught but a few feet from the guard. "Move along," he says, grip tightening on the wooden shaft of his spear. "Civilians are not perm–" the words die on his lips with a tight slash of a dagger across his throat.

Lesya steps over the corpse, carving a path through the guard barracks, moving silently until there is a shout. "Call for reinforcements!" One of the guards calls, only no one aside from the prisoners are there to hear it. She emerges from the shadows between cells with blood dripping from her blades and hands. The guard's eyes widen, and he turns, meaning to run. Lesya tests the weight of the sword in her hand, draws in a slow breath, then tosses it into the air. The sword hangs in the air for a breath before finding the back of the guard, both falling to the flagstone.

"Kassandra!" Lesya calls; a moment later, she hears her name and sees Kass standing at the bars of her cell.

The Eagle Bearer reaches through the metal lattice and grasps onto her bloody hands with a large grin. Despite the terms on which they parted in Boeotia, she's gladdened to see Lesya after the countless weeks that have passed since Pylos. "By the gods, am I happy to see you," she admits. Lesya smiles, then steps back, looking at the hinges of the cell door —she hadn't been able to find a key anywhere— but with the correct leverage, a key wouldn't be needed.

Reaching for one of her daggers to wedge beneath the hinge pin, she moves forward again but stops upon feeling the cold bite of iron at her neck. "Not so fast." She knows the voice, and the knife's edge now poised at her neck is familiar, too. Lesya leans her head back, staring up at Deimos —presenting her throat to him. A challenge. She knows he won't do it. He can't do it. But while Lesya smiles at the threat, Kassandra's eyes are wide and worried.

"Alexios," Kassandra warns, instinct has her reach for the broken spear of Leonidas, no longer on her back or at her side. She stares into her brother's wild eyes, seeing the message there clearly without him saying a word. That is not my name. The lull breaks when Lesya smiles, laughing. "You won't do it," she tells him, and she's right. Deimos lowers the dagger, then sheaths it, looking away when Lesya spins to face him.

"Go," he says, dark eyes flitting to Lesya and then his sister. "I need to speak with her." Hesitant to part, she looks to Kassandra —who gives a curt nod. She needs to speak to her brother too. Lesya lifts the hood of her chlamys and slides back into the shadows.

SHE LEANS AGAINST a marble pillar, knowing Deimos will look for her after their encounter at the prison. His thoughts clouded with anger as he storms through the street. Lesya seizes his arm as he walks past her, pushing back the hood covering her copper hair when he spins —nostrils flared, hand reaching for the sword on his hip. "You're sure you aren't a puppet?" She asks, having lingered around the prison long enough to hear whispers. His eyes are burning embers —the rage yet to die down after Kleon's arrival and dismissal. He still had questions for Kassandra, questions which would remain unanswered. Deimos does not answer, nor can he look at Lesya. "Alexios." His face twists at the use of his birth name. "The Cult wants your bloodline extinguished," she hisses. They claim he is descended from gods, just as she is —they are tools to be used then discarded, and Deimos has long been a blunted spear to them. "Do you think they won't put you down too?"

Gritting his teeth, Deimos rips himself from her hold. "They can try," he growls, chest heaving like a caged beast about to strike. She stares at him, her resolve iron. I will pry him from the Cult, Lesya repeats to herself, a prayer and a mantra. Something flares in Deimos' eyes, burning brighter than his anger. He grips Lesya's shoulders, pressing her against the temple wall, trapping her between the stone and his body. "What game are you playing at, Enyo?" He hisses, tired of the web of lies and all the secrets.

Lesya tilts her chin up, feeling her heart stall at the sound of her old name on his lips —but defiance rises in her laurel gaze. "You know that's not my name," she tells him unwavering. Enyo is the past, and she will not succumb to the torments of that name again. The venomous bite in her tone melts away Deimos' anger, his shoulders falling forward, and the hands pressed on the smooth stone on either side of her head sliding down to her waist as he breathes her true name —a tired sigh. "I'm playing whichever game brings the Cult to their knees."

Deimos lifts a hand, caressing her scarred cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Does that include me?" He asks, twining his fingers into her copper hair as he leans toward her.

"I don't know yet," she answers, hardly a whisper. There's a pause, where their eyes meet then flit downward —they shouldn't, but the tension is unbearable, and there is too much left unspoken. Both she and Deimos move at the same time, falling into each other's warm embrace, lips colliding.

WHEN LESYA WAKES, it's to the rustle of metal and leather as Deimos pulls on his black-and-gold cuirass. Sighing, she wraps the linen bedsheet around her —a makeshift peplos— and goes to him, replacing his hands on the ties and clasps of the armor. He keeps quiet, watching her with heated tawny-gold eyes as she moves. Years parted, and Lesya can still ready him for battle and war quicker than his own hands. Deimos frowns when she will lift her laurel eyes to look upon him —fearing he may see the weakness and unshed tears arising from knowing they must part from one another again. He cups her chin, thumb running across her lips, still pink and half-swollen from his rough kisses. Lesya blinks away the tears as he lifts her gaze. "Where are you going?" She finally asks, feeling her chest tighten.

"Amphipolis," he answers. Kleon would be leading the Athenian forces himself after Aristophanes' mockery of a play shat on his image and turned many of the polis against him. He believes if he returns a war hero, having smote down the Spartans, his reputation will be untarnished once again. Amphipolis is set to be the next war theater. It will be a fortnight's journey by sea if the gods grant them smooth passage.

The promise of battle and blood brightens Lesya's eyes, a fleeting smile twisting her lips. "I'm coming with you," she tells Deimos, stepping away from him to gather up her discarded chiton and armor. He lifts his brow. Unsure if she should sail with the men who will call her enemy when the battle breaks. "What does it matter?" She asks, shaking her head. "No one can stop us." He's heard the words before from her lips, and now they ring just as true. Athens and Sparta be damned —all that mattered was each other when they were together.

Deimos wants to share in her sanguinity but feels a heavy weight has settled on his chest. He takes her wrist, straightening the laces of the dark leather vambrace, and his eyes flick upward. "We won't be fighting on the same side," he reminds her. He still wears the colors of the Cult of Kosmos, unable to shake them with Kleon at the helm.

"No, we won't be," Lesya smiles. Brasidas sent word requesting aid from her and the Eagle Bearer. She will answer the Spartan call, and if fate will have it, leave Kleon's corpse on the battlefield. It feels like the die has finally been cast in her favor. Kleon is the last pillar of the Cult, and should he fall, it would be easier to break their sway over Deimos, easier to purge the minor servants from the Greek world.

Turning from her, Deimos steps to the table where his blade rest —the silver of its edge gleaming in the early sun filtering through sheer curtains. "Stay out of my way," he warns, sliding the Damoklean sword into the leather loop of his baldric.

"Only if you stay out of mine," she bites back, placing her twin blades into the sheaths on her back.

"Gods," Deimos breathes, looking up at the plaster ceiling, trying to hide the smile tugging at his lips. Years gone by and everything has changed, and yet, in moments like this, everything is the same. "Of all the women in Hellas, I've been cursed with you." It's meant to be a gripe, but the affection for her in his voice is undeniable, as is the smile on his lips. Lesya takes his face into her hands, pulling his gaze back to her before she pushes up and drags him down —their lips meeting in the middle, an echo of the night's shared under an Athenian moon. And when he kisses her back, it is with a whisper of I love you on his lips.