Phobia ☤ Alexios

twenty: down to the water

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NIGHT FALLS AND still, Irene slips in and out of consciousness, though before the moon rises to its zenith, she begins to wake. The woman sitting next to her is not a familiar face, but Irene already knows who it must be —they have spent months searching for her. "Myrrine?" She asks, voice faint.

Myrrine nods with a gentle smile, reaching for one of her hands partially covered by the golden silk. "Thank you for helping bring him back to me," she says —there something almost doleful about her smile. Hold him gently she wants to tell Irene he has been cracked enough as it is and his heart is more shattered than he lets on.

"Lamb?" She calls and seconds later Alexios appears —he'd been pacing back and forth for half the night, sick with worry and unable to rest. His eyes are downcast as he enters, but the tautness in his shoulders fades when he sees the princess is sitting upright. The Eagle Bearer rushes over, pulling her into his chest and burying his face into her neck.

Irene presses her cheek against his hair and loosely grips onto his arms. Alexios lets her go after a long moment and leans back, taking in her unkempt appearance —even now she is a goddess. "You're stunning," he utters, caught in a trance —her eyes are the only sea he would happily drown in. Irene smiles —the tips of her fingers tracing over his jaw.

Lost in each other, it's easy to forget they are not alone. "How did you come by this?" Myrrine enquires, holding the other half of her father's spear. She had not noticed it before, but the markings are unmistakable —as is the power it harbors.

The question brings the world crashing back down around Irene as the color fades from her rosy cheeks. "Mater," Alexios warns, but the princess lays her hand on his chest and draws in a slow breath.

"I-" Irene sees no point in hiding the truth. Alexios's arm wraps around her waist. "I am the daughter of Amytis and Apollonides. A Princess of Persia, granddaughter of Xerxes." Anger flares in Myrrine's eyes, her grip on the spear tightens. It is the spear of her father, and she has every right to be irate it had fallen into Persian hands, but now is Irene's chance to remedy the past. "You can have it if you wish."

Leonidas' daughter glances down at the broken spear then up to her son and the woman he holds in his arms. The two halves have come together —are whole again even if the great weapon has not been reforged. Myrrine places the spear on the table, bows her head with a soft sigh —shoulders sagging. "The gods granted you this for a reason," she declares before leaving.

Irene lets out a slow breath and feels the unease and tension in the room slip back into oblivion. "I thought she was ready to run me through," she says with a dry laugh.

He presses his forehead against hers. "Wouldn't have let her, princess." His words dance over her cheek. Irene smiles and lifts her chin so her lips brush against his. It feels like the right thing to do. Alexios responds immediately, cradling the back of her head and neck. Her lips are soft and have the faintest hint of salt upon them. He draws back, thumb tracing the fresh scab on her forehead. "You must be starving."

"Famished," she confirms, "but I'd like to bathe first." Saltwater disagrees with her skin and hair, as do days of mud and sweat. Alexios nods and presses his lips to her temple —she can feel his faint smile against her skin.

At this hour, the bathhouses are empty. Faint tendrils of steam rise from the water, mixing with silver rays of moonlight. Irene unwraps the golden chlamys and reaches for the fibula at her shoulder, unclasping the pin. She lets the ruined linen puddle around her feet and steps down into the water, turning to look over her shoulder. Alexios is shifting on his feet, gaze turned toward the tiled floor though she can make out the faint wash of color on his cheeks. "Stay with me?" His response is the sound of metal bracers clattering against the stone floor —greaves following shortly after.