Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ cupid's curse

in which Deimos tries his best at flirting with you in hopes you'll see how he feels. 

DEIMOS STRIDES FORTH having won another victory. The leader of Euboea has fallen under the Cult's sway and has paid tribute to the organization in return for support should Skyros attempt to rebel again. Chests of gold coins, jewels, weapons, and dinnerware are upturned in the sanctuary beneath Delphi —contents spilling out over the floor to be sorted. A silver-gold circlet catches his eye, and Deimos plucks it from the pile.

A small house sits above the Temple of Apollo —isolated from the ebb and flow of people in and out of Delphi who come seeking an audience with the Oracle. Within the four clay walls and under the burnt red tile roof is the one place Deimos knows some semblance of peace in the chaos of life.

The cold anger in his tawny-gold eyes fades in an instant upon finding you. At first, he found it infuriating to know someone could hold so much sway over him with only a look or a smile. He'd since gotten over that and found himself always eager to be back in your presence. Now the hour is late, and you sit before a silver looking-glass, fingers combing through a loose braid —preparing for another lonely night.

He steps into the room and doesn't make a sound until his black-and-gold breastplate hits the floor with a thud. You jump at the sudden noise and spin around the stool —hand curling around the sharp edge of a shell hair pick. The grip on your makeshift shank loosens as soon as you see him. Deimos finishes shedding his armor and you watch in the mirror, scanning over for any sign of injury. To your surprise there are none.

With the circlet in hand, he goes to you and sits it upon your brow before crouching down —rough hands resting on your bare knees. "You could be queen," Deimos notes. It is not just your beauty that makes him say such a thing, but your nature too. You're kind —even to a monster like him— and just, despite the Cult having their claws dug into you.

You look at your reflection —the silver-gold circlet is adorned with small green jewels and pressed with laurel leaves. Queen of what? But that is not the question that slips from your lips. "Then who would be my king?" You ask meeting his dark gaze. There's a glint in eyes and his lips kink into a subtle smile, but he does not answer.

IT IS NOT often you are summoned by the Cult, but when you are it's never a good sign. This time is no different. Two guardians escort you to the Cave of Gaia and into the depths of an antechamber. Deimos is there with a physician working to remove two arrows from his torso and another from his thigh. You dart forward and sink to your knees next to him.

He is pale —blood trickles out in rivulets around the arrowheads. The physician looks up at you, realizing this is the goddess he'd demanded to see. Though his eyes are closed, Deimos can sense your presence by the scent of your perfume alone —nectarines and roses. He is certain you are there when your gentle hand falls to rest against his cheek.

You shift and bring his head to rest in your lap. "My Aphrodite," he breathes, gaze focused only on you. Deimos reaches up despite the physician's warnings, letting his rough fingertips brush over your cheek and neck. The journey back to Phokis from Korinthia had been long and he'd tasted the peace darkness could offer several times, but there was always a light to pull him back and it always took your form. Perhaps Theia would be a more apt comparison, but he's certain you're the most beautiful woman he's ever looked upon.

His dark eyes are burning amber and gold —trying to conceal the pain. "You shouldn't compare me to the gods," you gently chide despite the flush of warmth spreading across your nose and cheeks. Nothing good ever came out of comparing mortals to the gods —and Aphrodite could be especially vengeful.