Kryptic ↟ Deimos

fourteen: athenian moonlight

AFTER COMPLETING SEVERAL tasks for Perikles, Herodotos thinks it appropriate for them to attend one of the city's famed symposiums. All the brightest minds in Athens gathered under one roof —a cesspool of information and gossip from all over Hellas. If anyone knew Myrrine of Sparta or had caught word of her, Kassandra would find it tonight.

The Eagle Bearer offers Lesya the opportunity to attend Perikles' symposium for her assistance, but too many in attendance could recognize her, and then all of Kass' work to gain entry would be in vain. She shakes her head. "No," Lesya tells her, stopping shy of the villa, "you should go alone." The look of discomfort about the misthios is conspicuous, but she marches forward.

Lesya watches Kassandra enter the villa and then turns back to the dark alley nestled between two smaller homes. A budding premonition in her gut told her they were not alone tonight. Crates of pottery and other goods block most of the entrance, but there's room enough for a person to fit. Lesya leans against the stone wall, arms crossed. "Stop hiding in the shadows," she remarks, fighting to hide her smile, "you're not very good at it."

Rising from a crouch, he steps into the moonlight —golden armor gleaming. "That was always your forte," Deimos muses, lips tugging upward on one side. She'd always been the one more apt to use stealth and still held the title as the only person in all of Greece who could sneak up on him. His eyes skim over her face, ethereal in the light of a full moon, then move down her arms and sturdy legs. She still has the look of a fighter.

Sitting on one of the wooden crates, Lesya studies him for a moment. His tawny-gold eyes are focused on her —still rimmed with dark circles, but there is a larger smile playing on his lips now. Deimos steps up to the crate, placing his hands on either side of her hips. Her heart skips a beat. She has missed him so much. A rough hand slides up her arm, stopping to caress her cheek —his thumb tracing her cheekbone. Her laurel eyes slip shut and only open when Deimos' hand moves back into her copper hair, still soft as silk. He's missed her too, more than words could ever say.

"What are you doing here?" She finally dares ask. It was uncommon for the Cult to send their champions into the heart of Athens or Sparta. There were too many risks if they were caught or recognized, but he stands tall and proud —a demigod.

His gaze shifts to Perikles' villa, then refocuses on Lesya —dark eyes boring into her own. "To see if the coward, Hermippos, will carry through with his orders." Since Brison failed to kill Phidias, the Sages ordered Deimos to oversee the newest appointed task. Hermippos is to taint the wine as many of the Cult's enemies would be in attendance —it is just a coincidence this happens to be the symposium the Eagle Bearer is attending as well.

"And if he doesn't?" Lesya asks. Failure would not be tolerated, that much she knew. Between her and the Monger, Hermippos would be wise to choose the kiss of her blade over the brute and his twisted love for torture. Either way, Hermippos will fall and the Cult of Kosmos too. 

Deimos props his chin on her shoulder and points to several of the guards patrolling the villa. They are clothed in the armor of Athenian hoplites but bear weapons marked with serpents of the Cult. "Those guards are not the ones Perikles pays," he tells her, warm breath hitting her ear and neck. Lesya shivers.

One of his arms wraps around her middle, pulling her around to face him again. "I know you were there during the last gathering," he confesses. It is as though he could sense her presence by the deep aching in his chest. The hand on her waist falls to rest on her thigh. So many moons apart and almost nothing between them has changed.

"And you didn't have me dragged forth as a traitor?" Lesya questions —almost teasing— tilting her chin up.

He snorts. "Would've been too easy," he says, but I could never betray you like that is what he means.

Lesya's lips twist into a reserved smile as she raises her hand, fingertips ghosting over the raised scar on his cheek. He wears the mark of her blade proudly. There is a feeling deep down in her chest that frightens her —one she often feels when he plagues her thoughts of late. Silence fills the night. The feeling in Lesya's chest intensifies with his softened, dark eyes upon her. She pulls back her hand and rises from the crate, circling the champion —needing to do something to distract herself.

"Enyo," Deimos warns watching as she discards the twin blades on her back. She means to spar with him —a distraction for them both, just like in the old days. "You want to lose?" He asks, brow and lips quirking with amusement. A moment later, he unclasps the baldric keeping the Damoklean sword at his hip, and tosses it aside —sinking into a boxer's stance.

They wrestle in the alleyway, though it looks more akin to a well-rehearsed dance than a fight. Deimos and Lesya know each other too well. Years of training together have made their movements predictable to one another, albeit this is still more a challenge than the few times Kassandra had offered to cross blades with the disgraced champion aboard the Adrestia. She may be swift, but he has brute strength on his side.

He pins her hands against the stone and is transfixed by the spark in her eyes —the same spark he sees when he dreams of her. Deimos dips his head forward, eyes flitting from her laurel gaze to her lips, his breath tickling her cheek. "Gods curse you, woman," he grits out, closing the small gap between them. Her lips are soft and sweet as honey —it takes him back to that night on the beach in Megaris. She reciprocates in full, pushing up into him and smiling into the kiss.

Lesya bucks her hips up to the side, lips breaking away —Deimos' back hits the stone and now it is his arms pinned down with her astride him, panting. "Fuck," he breathes, basking in her bright smile. Everything comes crashing down with the thudding of approaching footsteps. She rolls off him, passing up his discarded sword, and crouches behind the crates in the alley.

Hermippos finds the Cult's champion, red-faced and out of breath. "She drank the wine," the frail playwright announces, "but left quickly." The Eagle Bearer slips through the Cult's hand once more. From her hiding spot, she sees Deimos' expression twist into anger.

Deimos paces around the Cultist —a dozen ways to end the wretch before him racing through his mind. He and Enyo could not fail without punishment, but the Ghost had demanded members of Kosmos be left unmaimed by his hand. A pity. "You have a ship, do you not?" He asks, looking down his nose, fingers curling around the hilt of the Damoklean sword. Hermippos nods, trembling before the champion. "Then find her!" Deimos roars. The playwright stumbles thrice in his retreat.

"His ship is no match for the Adrestia," Lesya remarks, brushing the dirt and dust from her copper hair as she stands.

He crosses his arms, glaring in the direction Hermippos had fled. "Perhaps that is my intent," he starts. "To purge the Cult of weakness." Deimos' anger fades when he turns back to her. Even now, she is his temper. "Where will you go if she flees Athens?" Deimos queries —a piece of him longs to believe she will stay with him.

There's something Lesya has meant to do since returning to Athens, but she has been unable to bring herself to do it —or at least now she dares to ask. She turns into his touch. "Help me find my mater." Her voice trembles, this feels like weakness, but Kalanthe deserves to know her daughter is alive. "She's here in the city." But the path to the villa is one she cannot remember —cannot walk alone. "Deimos, please." The backs of his fingers brush against her cheek and when his hand falls away, he steps back motioning for Lesya to follow.

He stops before a villa north of the Acropolis —the home of Leandros. The pale stone is familiar and so are the painted tiles leading to the entrance. Lesya freezes in place, her heart racing. She never thought she'd find herself looking upon her childhood home again. Deimos presses his hand against her back, urging her forward, but Lesya shifts —eyes locking onto his and the strange feeling in her chest comes racing back. "Thank you," she breathes. Her hand cradles his cheek for a moment before she places her lips on his, soft and slow, but it ends all too quickly.

Taking a deep breath, Lesya steps forward —ready to face her past.