Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ stormy fright

the storm should have been a warning that nothing good could have come of that night. 

THE BRIGHT FLASH of lightning illuminates even the darkest corners of the room as rain pounds against the tile roof and patters on the tiled floor of the villa's courtyard. You sit up —the clap of thunder echoing deep in your chest as though Zeus intends for it to be a warning. Glancing to your side, you sigh at the space next to you on the down-and-straw stuffed mattress.

Tonight marks two moons since Deimos had left to do the Cult's bidding, an assignment supposed to take no more than a fortnight. Two moons since you had felt his warm embrace, his rough kiss, even the comfort of his presence. You cannot help but worry for him —it is not like Deimos to linger away from the place he calls home longer than needed.

Outside, the Zeus rages on, presenting a reminder of the evening you and Deimos had first met at sea just over ten years ago during a storm. He had fished you from the wreckage of a merchant ship —the sole survivor. Both of you were on the cusp of adulthood then, and Elpenor of Kirrha offered you clothing, shelter, food, and lessons. A better life than your parents could have ever given you had they not been claimed by the Aegean that night.

White light bursts into the room again, this time silhouetting a tall, broad figure wearing a gold-and-white cuirass and pteruges. Deimos. Leaping up, you rush to him, cupping his face in your hands. He wears a weak smile though you are quick to notice the pain in his dark eyes and knitted in his expression. Deimos sways on his feet, grimacing and breathing heavily.

"Oh gods," you choke, realizing it is not rain beading off his hand. He stumbles to the bed, reaching for the clasp of his pteruges while you stoke the embers of a brazier back to flame to light the room. "What happened to you?" You ask, working the ties on the sides of this cuirass loose in haste. Sliding the breastplate off his chest, you sit it against the wall —tuning back to him.

"Ambush," he answers, wincing when he rips the black-and-gold chiton from his shoulders, letting the sodden fabric pool around his waist. Bandits and deserters had caught him off-guard during the storm on the winding road to the villa. But he had left a trail of corpses in his wake, even if he had not come away unscathed. Deimos' chest is streaked with red rivulets from a deep wound on his right side, just below his armpit —blood sluices down his side and arm.

You press your hand against the puncture, stemming the bleeding and swallow the lump in your throat. Most of the time if Deimos returned bloody, it was never his own —or the injuries were minor enough that your basic knowledge of medicine sufficed to keep infection at bay. This was something else entirely.

"This is beyond my skill," you admit, meeting his tawny-gold gaze. Deimos groans softly, covering your hand with his own. "I need to get Lykaon." He nods, letting your hand go. Pulling a spare chiton from a wooden coffer, you ball it up and press it against his side —partially under his arm. "Hold this," you instruct, moving his hand to cover the fabric, "I'll be back." You lean down, kissing his damp forehead before racing into the night.

THE STORM DOES not ebb, and by the time you reach the healer's residence near the Chora of Delphi, you are soaked to the bone and trembling from the chill and the gnawing fear in your gut. Lykaon's door swings open —the physician stands on the other side, groggily rubbing his face. You point in the direction you had come from, lip quivering. "Please," you cry, "I need your help." Lykaon is quick to gather his supplies, slinging the back across his shoulder before mounting the dark mare waiting outside in the downpour.

Returning to the villa, you lead the physician into the bedchambers. Deimos lays unmoving on the bed, still holding the chiton to his side —though now it is stained red. You kneel next to him, setting aside a washbasin and cloth as Lykaon uncorks a vial of vinegar and threads a hooked needle, the cautery iron already heating in the brazier. Wringing out the cloth, you begin wiping away the blood on Deimos' chest and arm as the physician pulls away the bloody garment to inspect the damage —fire will have to seal it. "Hold him down," Lykaon instructs.

The scent of burning flesh jumps into the air as Lykaon presses the tip of hot iron into the open wound. Deimos groans, hands clenching into fists at his sides though he meets your gaze as you push his shoulders down —he is too tired to fight the pain.

The physician moves to a deep cut on his thigh, dousing it with the rest of the vinegar fore beginning a line of sutures with a steady hand. A short while later and linen binds the two most grievous wounds. "Will he be okay?" You query, lifting your gaze from Deimos to the physician —wiping the blood from his hands. Lykaon has tended to him in the past, but it has never been for something this severe. The Cult claims he has the blood of gods, and you suppose recovering from this will put their claims to the test.

"I'm not one to speak for the gods," Lykaon starts, glancing between his patient and you, gathering up his empty vials and tins, "but yes, I think he will be with enough rest." In his experience, Deimos healed remarkable fast and could endure more than a normal man. Had it been him with these injuries, Lykaon is sure he would have perished on the side of the road —but not Deimos.

"Thank you," you tell him, holding out a pouch of silver and gold for payment and his troubles. Lykaon dips his head, accepting the payment and reminding you where to find him should anything else happen. He shows himself out as you return to keep vigilance at Deimos' side.

Dipping the rag into a clean basin of water, you start gently scrubbing the dried blood and dirt from his face and neck, moving to areas missed in haste to keep him from bleeding out. Deimos does not stir, and despite his current state, he looks at ease and peace in sleep. Thunder erupts at the same time you let one of his golden bracers fall to the stone floor —the other following suit. You finish ridding him of the sodden clothes and greaves —feeling a pang of guilt rise in your heart.

"Deimos," you whisper, curling up next to him and pressing your cheek against his chest —warm tears stinging your eyes. After ten years, you knew how you felt toward the Cult's champion, though neither he nor you had ever said anything even if the tender caresses and kisses spoke for themselves. "I should have told you before," you choke, holding fast to him as you had the night he pulled you from the sea, "I love you." And though he is at rest, Deimos' lips tug into a fleeting smile.

He sleeps for an entire day before coming to in the evening hours with a groan, startling you as exhaustion finally set in after midday. Deimos pushes himself up —hand finding a fresh ache beneath his arm under a thick layer of linen. He glances at you, sitting up with teary eyes staring back at him. Not thinking about anything other than the fact you could have lost him, you strike him across the cheek —not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to stun Deimos. A moment later and your arms are around him, cheek pressed into his neck. "Don't ever scare me like that again," you mutter, close to crying again as you draw back from the embrace and cup his face in your hands. "Do you hear me?"

Deimos nods solemnly, his hand reaching to brush aside the hair sticking to your forehead. "I love you, too," he murmurs, and your heart skips a beat —or several. You never thought you would hear him speak those words aloud. He leans forward, lips just brushing yours until you tilt your chin up, closing the small space between them. His kiss is tender and slow and speaks of his love —you smile against his lips, hands slipping from his face to his shoulders. Breaking away, he holds you tight in his arms, breathing in the sweet scent of your hair as he lays back down with you. Home, Deimos thinks, kissing your temple, I'm home.