Kryptic ↟ Deimos

eight: the big break

BARNABAS WAKES TO screaming. The old sailor lumbers across the deck to where Enyo lays —tossing and writhing like someone is pressing a hot iron into her side. Her eyes are screwed shut, whimpers passing through her lips permeated with sudden shouts. Several of the crew have learned the hard way that waking her during these spells can be painful. She'd broken fingers before waking from the nightmares. Barnabas kneels next to her, heart aching. He can easily see she's been through more hardships than most men face in an entire lifetime, and she's still so young. Enyo rolls onto her side, face twisted in pain and a name slipping from her lips over and over.

"Lesya?" Barnabas asks softly, resting his hand on her shoulder in his attempt to coax her away from Hypnos's grasp. In the moonlight, he can make out the dewy trails left by tears on her cheeks. She sits up —chest heaving as the captain gently speaks her name again. Enyo shakes her head and swallows the lump in her throat. Lesya, she thinks, that is my name. "Nightmare?"

It would be easier just to nod, to lie, but it isn't nightmares that make her cry out —it's her memories. The punishments and beatings, people screaming and begging for clemency before falling on the edge of her blade. She hadn't realized Deimos was the only one who could keep them at bay. "Memories," she whispers, voice shaking.

"Here" —Barnabas holds out a skin of wine— "helps ease the nerves." Lesya takes the offered drink and downs three large gulps, but there's no wine in Hellas strong enough to make her forget. She closes her eyes, and images of Deimos flash across her mind —as though fate means for them to find one another.

DEIMOS GAZES AT the artifact, hand hovering over the pyramid. He wants the accursed thing to show him something other than a stormy night and a babe thrown off a cliff. Alexios! Drawing a deep breath, he lays his hand against the cool shards of gold and lets the past wash over him.

"Duck!" He shouts, and Enyo dips down, sliding between his legs as he draws back three nocked arrows. All three hammer into the chests of the pursuing Athenians, knocking them backward and unmoving. Deimos discards the bow and turns to his counterpart. She's smiling despite the blood spattered across her face and running down her thigh. "Did you get it?" He asks. They were to retrieve battle plans sent by Perikles to stall Athens' march into the Megarid. Sparta is close to a proper declaration of war —this will be the final push.

Enyo shows the scroll to him. "Of course," she remarks, securing the plans to her belt and turning to the road leading back to the port.

"Elpenor isn't expecting us back until tomorrow." The way he says it sounds like a challenge. This was meant to be a three-day task, but they'd completed it in two. The Cult had run the both of them ragged as of late. Missions had become the only time they were together anymore. He stoops down, wrapping an arm around her thighs —lifting her up and over his shoulder before marching through the underbrush and trees toward the water. The sun will be setting soon.

He sits Enyo down near the water and kneels, pushing up the hem of her chiton to inspect the cut on her thigh. It's not deep, nor is it very long, and the saltwater stings as Deimos washes it. His hand lingers, and he's staring at her with those tawny-gold eyes, leaning toward her though he doesn't realize it. She pushes forward, lips finding his with little hesitance. Deimos shifts and eases her back into the sand —hand slipping up her thigh and around to the scarred flesh of her back.

Neither of them is wearing armor —the white-and-gold plate would've given away their positions too easily in the daylight. Deimos only breaks the kiss when Enyo gathers a fistful of his exomis, drawing it up his back and over his head. His chest is heaving faster now than it had in the heat of battle. When she meets his dark gaze, Enyo is certain she could live in this moment for an eternity.

Waves lap at the shoreline. Enyo rolls onto her side, brushing away the sand stuck on her back. He's looking up at the stars, hands folded behind his head —the broad planes of his chest rising and falling. The muscles of his abdomen tense as her fingertips trace a short scar near his navel. Deimos turns his dark gaze toward her, wondering what thoughts are churning in the depths of her mind for her expression to be so pensive. "What would happen if we didn't go back?" She asks in a whisper. She knows what life can be like outside of the Cult, but he doesn't.

Deimos rolls onto his side, resting his rough hand on the curve of her waist. He thinks of life without Kosmos but cannot imagine one exists. I am a demigod, he thinks, a champion. They both know what the Cult does to deserters, even those that showed so much budding promise. Chrysis had said sometimes the best thing a flower could do was die. He moves closer to Enyo, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "They'll try to kill us." There was no escaping this life, and they both knew it.

They tried to kill you anyway. Deimos's hand slips from the artifact as footsteps echo in the surrounding darkness. We should have stayed on that beach.

"WHAT IS THIS shithole?" Lesya asks, looking out from the docks at the small wood-and-mud town. In the background rises a statue of Zeus poised to strike with a lightning bolt in hand. It's an island she'd never give a second thought to all the time she'd passed it traveling for the Cult.

"This is Kephallonia!" Barnabas laughs, clapping her on the back. The old sailor keeps a soft spot in his heart for Ithaka and Kephallonia. It was here he'd met his dear Leda so many years ago. He departs the ship, looking for supplies to repair the torn sail and provisions to last for another lengthy voyage. Most of the crew follows, eager to find a tavern or a wench to occupy their time.

Lesya leaves the Adrestia in search of a blacksmith or merchant —she can't sail across the Greek world garbed in armor given to her by the Cult any longer. Too many would recognize the emblem. Tying a leather thong through the gold-and-white cuirass, pteruges, greaves, vambraces, and belt, she slings the shining set of armor over her shoulder and takes to the streets of Sami.

The blacksmith looks at her as though she's gone dumb —no one with half a mind would give up armor of this quality and settle for traveler's robes. He inspects the smooth metal of the breastplate, fitted for a woman but can serve men of shorter stature too. "Why not keep such a finely crafted set?" The armor alone looks to be worth a small fortune, but she will take no coin for it.

She shrugs. "I do not need it anymore." Lesya glances at the leather bracers, greaves, and a harness on which she can mount a bow and quiver. "This will serve me well," she assures the blacksmith, handing over a pouch of drachmae. He gladly accepts the payment and returns to hammering the tang of a sword.

By nightfall, Barnabas has not returned, and they are meant to sail with the morning sun. Lesya paces the deck —she's grown attached to the old sailor in her year aboard the Adrestia. "He should be back by now," she mutters, mostly to herself, but her worries are overheard by the helmsman, Reza.

"You worry too much, little lamb," he remarks, gripping her shoulder, but she can't shake the feeling in her gut that something is wrong.

The captain returns during the early morning hours with a woman in tow. She has dark chestnut hair and wears the armor of a misthios, but her proud stance and iron —bordering on arrogant— stare is a giveaway of her Spartan heritage. Lesya cocks her head to the side, sizing up the newcomer. She looks a few years older and stands a head taller than the disgraced champion of Kosmos. But there is something about her that's eerily familiar. "Who is this, Barnabas?"

"Kassandra!" He exclaims, clapping Lesya on the arm and motioning to the misthios with a grand gesture. "I owe her my life, Lesya! She saved me from a Cyclops!" It sounds like the start of another of Barnabas' fantastical stories that border on fiction.

"Truly?" Lesya laughs, raising her brow. She hadn't realized Kephallonia was home to one of the Cyclopes.

The old sailor smiles. "I've offered her the services of the Adrestia to settle this debt." Lesya supposes it's a fair trade. She'd grown fond of Barnabas and wasn't keen on the idea of losing the old captain. Kassandra steps up to the helm, looking out over the horizon. It's then Lesya realizes she has the same tawny-gold eyes as Deimos —the same look as the girl on the mountain. "What's our heading?" Barnabas asks.

"Megaris," Kassandra announces. Leysa looks to the east, a grim smile kinking her lips. We're sailing into war.