Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-five: a taste of freedom

THE ACHE IN her back does not dissipate with the rise of the morning sun. Lesya sits up and the weight across her chest slides down to rest across her thighs. A soft groan of protest leaves Deimos' lips when she shifts again —stretching the broken skin on her back and arm.

Matted locks of dark brown hair hide his face, but Lesya knows he is at ease. Sleep had always been one of the few times when the horrors of the world faded —especially if they were together. Lesya settles back down next to him and brushes aside the hair in front of his eyes. The stubble on his cheek tickles her lips when she presses them just beneath the scar under his eye.

"You're still here," he mumbles —voice still rough with sleep— and she nods. Deimos had expected her to sail on the morning tide as she had in Korinth. He rolls onto his side, dark eyes following the curve of her lips. She's radiant in the morning light, but he cannot stop himself from focusing on the scab at her temple and the linen dressings covering her middle. Deimos has yet to feel guilty regarding the lives he'd taken and destroyed but seeing her like this because of him eats away at his heart. Lesya moves closer and trails her fingertips along his chest, around to the long scar on his side, and then the brand at the base of his ribs. "Lesya," he breathes, catching her wrist when she starts to pull back.

She can see the remorse in his tawny-gold eyes. "Don't," she utters, shaking her head, "I've had worse than this, you know that." A clean-cut could not compare to when her back had been torn open or when they took her womb. It would heal with time. Her words aren't enough to offer solace. "Alexios." Deimos' eyes dart up to meet her own at the whisper of his true name and he releases her wrist from the gentle cage of his rough fingers. Lesya leans toward him —can feel his warm breath against her lips and cheek— but rapping on the bedchamber door stays the both of them.

One of Hermippos' frightened slaves stands trembling on the other side, pointing toward the courtyard and the soldiers who demand to speak with Deimos. He nods, dismissing the messenger, and turns to collect his chiton from the floor. Lesya rises, finishing the last of the buttons on his left shoulder before picking her stained chiton and shrugging it on overhead —neither bothers with armor, though when Deimos retrieves his sword, Lesya takes one of her daggers and follows behind him.

Two guardians await in the courtyard, garbed in the dark steel armor of the Cult, though the masked helms are discarded. "Great champion," one of the guardians says and both dip their head down in genuflection. These had been the cowards to escape his sister's blade after killing a child in the Odeon of Perikles. Deimos' stern gaze is enough to make them tremble, but it is the sight of Enyo that makes both of them step back. "Kleon–" one begins, carrying the new leader's orders, but is cut off when Deimos seizes him by the throat.

"She was a child!" Deimos shouts, tightening his fingers around the guardian's throat before twisting —tossing him into the altar at the heart of the villa. "Does it bring you pride to have slaughtered a little girl?" Phoibe. Lesya had only briefly encountered the girl in Korinth, but Kassandra always spoke fondly about the orphaned girl on Kephallonia. She looks between Deimos the guardians, feeling her heart sink. She was never meant to die.

The man twists, using the altar as leverage to stand again. "She was sniffing around at Anastasios'," he defends —better to tie up loose ends rather than have them pop up again at inconvenient times.

Deimos steps forward. "Only cowards kill children," he hisses, thrusting the blade of the Damoklean sword through the guardian's chest, punching through armor, flesh, and bone. Lazily, he pulls the sword back and glances over his shoulder —seeing Lesya move toward the second guardian, her dagger clasped tightly in her hand. The guardian crumples, blood leaking onto Hermippos' white stone floor and the second cult guardian steps back, trembling. Deimos flicks the blood from his sword onto the stone and watches as Lesya closes in —jerking her arm in a tight slash. The guardian's hands go to his throat to stifle the blood sluicing and gurgling out. He stands for only a few more unsteady moments before collapsing in a heap. Dike, let justice be done.