Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ the way

even in darkness, deimos finds his theia.

DEIMOS IS A weapon of mass destruction, an untouchable demigod with a destiny capable of shifting the tides of war and bringing the Greek world to its knees. The Cult has fed him those lies since he was a child, but when he returns to the stronghold and sheds the armor there are often bruises and cuts. Sometimes it is worse than others. He may have the blood of kings, but Deimos is still only a mortal –albeit a very powerful one.

Cult guards bring Deimos through the fortress's gates to you in a state of comatose with blood staining his golden armor. With little regard, the two men toss him onto the flagstone floor. "See that he lives," one of the cultist guard snarls. They both leave, pulling the splintering wooden doors close.

"Deimos," you murmur, gingerly laying your hand on his cheek. He is unresponsive –a lump rises in your throat. The blood comes from a laceration at his shoulder. There's another on his thigh too –it does not bleed as badly. You begin working to remove his armor –untying the closures of his cuirass and removing the stained pauldrons. It leaves him in a dark chiton.

The vinegar burns the wound and wakes him with a sharp groan. His hand wraps around your wrist, squeezing hard but as his surroundings come into focus, he sees your started expression and wince of pain. Don't break her, Champion. You will not get another reward such as this. It feels like a lifetime ago since you were offered as a sacrifice to the Cult of Kosmos –an act of goodwill toward the Cult on your father's behalf. Deimos releases your wrist, falling back into a daze. He watches as you leave and return with a spool of silk thread and red-hot curved needle among other items.

"Hold still," you breathe softly. With the first pass of the needle, the faint, putrid scent of burning flesh seeps into the air. Deimos is silent and still asides from the few times he winces. Your concentration does not break as you work on the line of continuous sutures spanning diagonally from his clavicle to upper arm. Sweat beads on your brow. With a final pass of the curved needle, you tie off the thin silk thread.

Now you can tend to the cut on his thigh –it is not a deep cut nor is it large, but it still weeps red and must be cleansed to prevent ill-humors turning it rancid. You bind the cut with a strip of clean linen. Deimos sits up, reaches to undo the straps and ties of his greaves and sandals –the chiton hanging off of one of his broad shoulders. He stands, stumbles on the first step –ignoring your offer for assistance.

The warrior collapses on the pallet of furs and pillows tucked in the corner of the empty polemarch quarters. "Stay," he rasps.

You pick up an empty amphora. "I need to gather fresh water." Discontent, he motions toward the door. Athenian soldiers spare glances as you pass by. Most are too afraid to look much longer than a second. Everyone is at unease in the presence of Deimos –everyone except you. You had not known what to expect when your father turned you over to the Cult in exchange for power.

While not expressly kind, Deimos was never cruel toward you. He had never hurt you and given time he even trained you with a bow, and to the Cult's disquiet, granted you the freedom to come-and-go. It all creates a strange fondness in your heart for the tormented soul.

After returning, you go to Deimos with a basin of water and sponge. For the first time, most of the blood covering him is his own. The blood and grime turn the water. Dark circles ring his eyes. Sleep will recover his strength. "Rest," you tell him softly, moving around the quarters quietly to replace the medicinal kit.

"SHE HAS MADE him weak!" Chrysis screeches. The foul old woman never supported the other Cultists' decision to grant Deimos such a fair reward. She knew what the outcome would entail –he would grow soft, weak, and no longer accept pain as the way of the world. Her fears had come to fruition. "That is why he failed!" She turns to her guards, face twisted in rage. "Take her!" She commands and they obey.

The guards burst into the chambers –they had waited until Deimos left for the training grounds before striking. A hand twists into your scalp, pulling you outside. You cry out, twisting, and writhing –not understanding why this is happening. You had tended his wounds, ensured their prized weapon would live.

Chrysis looks down at you in disgust, rears back and strikes you across the face. Blood quickly wells up on your bottom lip. "You've destroyed everything I worked for!" Chrysis shouts, striking you again. Her puppet guards tighten their grip on your arms. The rings on her hand scratch your cheek.

"Let her go." It is a demand. The cultist guards glance between Chrysis and Deimos but they stand resolute. His eyes are ringed with gold –rage coursing through his veins. Deimos raises the Sword of Damokles.

Chrysis goes to the child she once raised. "She has poisoned your mind, Deimos! Weakened-" he wraps a hand around the crone's neck, silencing her forked tongue.

He is a caged beast full of rage and pain. "I will cut you all down," his voice his a low grating.

The guards are rank with fear but do not step down. A figure clothed in purple robes emerges. The Ghost of Kosmos. Aspasia clasps her hands together, glancing between the priestess, her hostage, and Deimos. "Release her," the Ghost commands.

"Aspasia!" The crone hisses in objection, but the guards have already pushed you toward Deimos. You stumble, falling at his feet. Deimos sheaths his sword and lifts you from the ground, carrying you away and back to the polemarch's quarters.

"He fights harder now," Aspasia reasons. Before you, it was nearly impossible to control Deimos. He is still difficult and often tests the length of his leash, but you were able to temper the demigod. "What happened in Megara was a folly." It is the last thing you hear of the two women's heated conversation.

Deimos places you on the pallet bed, dunks a piece of linen into the washbasin, and dapples away the blood from your lips. He cannot take away the red welt or scratch on your cheek, though. You lean into his touch. Eyes slipping shut. It's during moments like this when you see the man he could be outside of the Cults influence.

"I swore I'd protect you," he breathes. Don't break her, Champion. Deimos cherishes you, the one good thing he has –the one speck of light in the Cult's darkness.

You lift your hand, tentatively touching his cheek. "You have," you assure him. Before you can think your actions through, you are careening toward Deimos. His lips are rough but unresponsive. Disheartened you pull back, face burning with shame. But he chases your lips with his own.

He is surprisingly gentle –one hand cradling the back of your neck, the other resting on your swelling cheek. You hold onto his shoulders –bare of armor. You lean back into the pillows and pelts, pulling him down with you. Deimos breaks the kiss, hovers above you –brown eyes softened despite the dark circles. "I'll always protect you."

IT TAKES TIME to grow accustomed to calling him Alexios –the name given to him by his parents. Kassandra even offers him a place amongst her crew on the Adrestia. He declines at the time, needing to find himself within the shell of Deimos. But he is not alone.

He takes up the mantle of a misthios –the same trade as his sister. He has a mental list of places built up over the years, though –places he thought you would like to see. One of them is the poppy fields of Kos. Alexios lifts you off the horse's back.

Surrounding you is a sea of red poppies in full bloom. The sky is painted in soft hues of pink and violet, reflecting off the water below white marble cliffs. It is quiet, peaceful. Just like the seaport of Nafplio on the Argolic Gulf is where you spend much time. The sunset though is perhaps the most breathtaking one you have ever witnessed. "It's beautiful here, Alexios."

Alexios bends at the waist, plucks a single bloom, and tucks it behind your ear. "Like you," he states, pleased with his compliment. You smile, cheeks flushing. His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you nearer. His kisses have become softer, slower, but no less prepotent. You lean into him and decide the journey will be long and arduous, but it will be well worth it.