Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-one: broken bones and hearts

THE SUN RISES as Deimos and Lesya fall in behind several deckhands stumbling back to the Ippalkimon from a night of merriment on Mykonos. Tundareos rakes a hand through his disheveled golden hair, pacing circles around the captain's chair as Tryphena does her best to soothe his addled nerves. He had not expected Lesya to be gone so long given her efficacy with a blade, but a glint of warm copper catches his eye and calms his worries —though, he is surprised to find Deimos standing at his sister's side.

She reclines under the scorpion tail of the trireme and Deimos sits next to her, arms resting on his bent knees. Tundareos and Tryphena shout orders over the deck, preparing for departure to the Megarid. "I hadn't expected our paths to cross again so soon," Lesya admits. Their time together was always fleeting, and it was often months before they happened upon each other. It seems forever ago they had parted on the docks of Naxos after fleeing the plague-ridden streets of Athens, yet feels as though it was only yesterday.

"Nor had I," Deimos tells her, having searched for her at every opportunity, and for once, his search had not come up fruitless. Though Kleon would be wroth upon learning the Cult's champion had not returned to Athens after traveling to Delos. The thought of Kleon stirs a deep resentment within him. "I've turned into a messenger under Kleon," he says, bitterly. He is dread incarnate, meant to have a sword in hand, and stalking the battlefields of Hellas, not serve as a lesser man's courier. "Deliver this to him," he mocks, "take this to her."

Lesya's lips kink into a smile —being together like this reminds her of days long past. She nudges his ribs with her elbow. "Worried about getting out of practice?" He scoffs at the question. No one, save for the woman at his side, could best him in battle. His dark gaze turns back to her, the faintest of smiles on his lips. Lesya rests her hand on his cheek, fingers combing through the dark stubble on his jaw. "Deimos–" she frowns at the dark patches ringing his eyes "–when is the last time you slept?"

They had always slept better when together, even as children, but fate had driven them apart and the nights when the gods were kind enough to let them be together were scarce. Deimos looks away though Lesya still holds his face in her hand. "I don't," he whispers, "not really."

Lesya brushes the hair from his eyes, her hand slipping down to cup his cheek. He watches her, eyes darting over her tired features —and how delicate the sunlight dappling her cheeks makes her look. Her thumb slips from the scar on his cheek, tracing the curve of his bottom lip. "Alexios," she breathes. His brows furrow at the name, though he says nothing, only relaxes further into her gentle touch. With a heavy sigh, Deimos rests his head on her shoulder.

She drapes her arm around him, reaching up to play with the ends of his matted locks. It only takes a moment for his breathing to even out and for soft snores to pass through his parted lips. Lesya smiles against his temple —her throat tight and heart heavy. Hera, Aphrodite, she prays, hoping the goddesses will hear her. I've asked for little in this life, but please, let me live in this moment for eternity.

Tundareos crouches, eyes darting over Deimos as he hands her a skin of freshwater. "You two make for quite the pair," her brother notes seeing the tears glisten in her laurel eyes.

BLOOD DRIPS FROM her fingertips onto the pale sand with the sea lapping at her feet. With the Shadow's demise, the Cult had lost their eyes and ears. It would take years to recover the material Nyx's kept and even longer to establish a new far-reaching web of information and lies across Hellas. Lesya closes her eyes, hands trembling as a tidal wave of memory breaks against her. She knows this place, this beach. It haunts her dreams, always taunting her with thoughts of what could have been. We –she can taste the salt of her tears and the sea on her lips– should have stayed here.

Deimos stops at her side, reaching for her bloody hand —he knows this place too and thinks about what could have been often when the nights are long and dark. "It could have been different," he breathes, tawny-gold eyes settling on her in the moonlight. "We could have stayed." The Cult would have still tried to hunt them, but then they could have been together —as the gods intended for them to be.

"I know," Lesya whispers, "I wish we had." There are many things Lesya wishes could have been different, but always at the forefront of her mind was the night on the beach when she first thought of a life with Deimos outside of the Cult —a simple life away from the pain and bloodshed. The thought brings a swell of hope. The past was already written, but the future was still unset. There was still time to do good, still time to make amends, still time to stay.

She steps in front of Deimos and rises onto her toes —throwing her arms around his shoulders. Instinct takes over, and his hands stray to the curve of her back, pushing her closer as he cranes down, rough lips brushing against Lesya's. Something about the kiss is bittersweet. Both she and Deimos can feel it, the looming dread of another goodbye.

Lesya cups his face as she pulls back, bringing his tawny-gold gaze down to her. "But we can stay here," she breathes, "now." He bites down on his lips, wanting to believe it, but there is still much to be done before he can rest. "You're just as disposable as I was, you know that." He cannot deny the truth, not after the things he overheard. She was right. Somehow Lesya was always right. There's an odd glint in her laurel eyes, a soft smile twisting her lips as relief starts to set in with what she is about to say.

"I love you," Lesya whispers, the words dancing over his lips like butterfly kisses.

Deimos draws in a sharp breath, his heart thundering. "Don't," he hisses, ripping himself from her embrace and turning his back. "We're not meant to love."

"Why not?" She challenges.

"Because," he grits out, unable to find a reason he can force himself to believe. Chrysis taught them love was a weakness, yet it was always strength they found in one another. Nigh everything they've ever done has been for each other.

"Because we're monsters?" Lesya laughs, reaching for him. "Because of the things we've done? Because we don't deserve it?" She entertained all those doubts before, and yet it still seemed as though the gods made them for one another. After years of torture and repressed feelings, she will not hide from them any longer.

He turns, face red and hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. "You're infuriating, you know that?" His words cut like a knife, but Lesya smiles even with the tears running down her cheeks. Deimos shakes his head, stepping backward. "Just stay out of my way," he spits, turning back toward the now desolate fort.

"Alexios!" Lesya shouts. It sounds as though her heart has been torn from her chest. He stops at the strangled cry of his name, fighting the urge to look back —knowing he is the one responsible for this. Deimos wipes his eyes and grits his teeth, pushing forward as his heart weeps.

TUNDAREOS SEES DEIMOS among those at the Port of Kechries, but Lesya is not at his side. He gives command of the trireme to Tryphena and takes to walking along the eastern beaches of the Megarid —the ones she spoke of so fondly. His stomach churns with unease, but he will not let his mind jump to conclusions.

It feels like hours of wandering and calling her name. Tundareos spots a lone figure in the distance with copper hair sitting in the surf. He breaks into a sprint, sliding down next to her in the wet sand. Pulling the deep blue chlamys from his shoulders, he drapes it around his sister and kneels. Lesya turns into him, burying her face into his neck —he can feel the dampness on her cheeks. Gods, he prays, let her know peace and love for she has suffered enough. Tundareos slips his arms beneath her knees and around her shoulders. He rises from the sand with his sister in his arms.

He carries her back to the Ippalkimon without a word. Nothing needs be spoken yet. Tryphena guides them from the port and out to sea —she looks to the captain and nods toward where Lesya stands at the stern. "Sister?" Lesya shifts, glancing at her brother. "I won't press," he says, knowing she will not wish to speak about what happened between her and Deimos on the beach yet, "but we need a heading." Tundareos pledged to help her bring an end to the Cult of Kosmos, and he would see the promise through, no matter what —for his sister's sake.

She turns to look at the horizon, a hardened glint taking over her laurel eyes. Tundareos knows the look well, has seen it in the eyes of other pirate captains —a disregard for life and death. Heartbreak sends her crawling back to Enyo. "Boeotia," she answers, gripping onto the ship's railing. It is time for Enyo to go hunting once more.