Kryptic ↟ Deimos

forty-one: where it all began

TIMOTHEUS FLIPS ONE of her daggers into the air, catching the hilt as it falls. The craftsmanship is remarkable. He's not seen blades such as these in all his years serving in the Athenian forces. They're perfectly balanced —the metal lighter and edge sharper— with soft pale leather wrapped around the hilts and shining dark red stones set in each of the pommels.

He does not doubt these dual blades give his sister an advantage over her opponents, but he's seen her fight with an ordinary spear and kopis before too. These twin blades are not the reason men fear the mention of her epithet. Beyond the craftsmanship, they seem to be only ordinary blades, no more special than the sword he carries at his side. "What is so special about these?" Timotheus asks.

Lesya's head rolls back as she slumps against one of the benches at the stern of the Ippalkimon, the bandages wrapped around her middle dotted with fresh blood. "They belonged to Penthesilea," she rasps, eyes squeezed shut. Chrysis told her of the Amazonian queen after the Cult presented her with the blades —the same night Deimos was given the Sword of Damokles. Ancient and powerful weapons to make their champions even more deadly. She hadn't believed it until her first battle —wielding those blades, she always seemed to know her opponents' next move. They called to something deep inside her, just as the artifact does.

"The Amazonian slain by Achilles?" Timotheus cannot believe it. He believed them to be legends, the stories their mother told them as children. But given everything he knows about Enyo and the Cult of Kosmos, he does not doubt his sister's words. He looks at her and frowns. Her face is knitted in pain, the likes of which he cannot imagine. She should be dead, he thinks, but the gods have not taken her yet. It's easy to believe she truly is a demigoddess after witnessing what happened in the arena. "After your feats, history will say these were the blades of Lesya" —her lips quirk upward even if her eyes remain shut— "defender of Hellas."

Her smile fades. "Or Enyo," she whispers, feeling a hot tear streak down her cheek, "the sacker of cities."

THUNDER ERUPTS AND lightning fills the dark sky above snow-capped mountains. The bolt of lightning strikes the stone of a broken altar, illuminating a lone figure garbed in gold-and-white armor painted with rivulets of red. Lesya thrashes, screaming, and rolls off the stern bench with a crash and scream. "Lesya?!" Someone cries her name from far away, but she cannot wake, cannot go back.

Lesya searches, but the storm is deafening, and she can only move forward. Deimos? She reaches out, fingers brushing his bicep. At her touch, he turns with a distant, empty expression, then falls back into the dark chasm below —the spear of Leonidas embedded deep in his chest. ALEXIOS! "Lesya!" Tundareos shouts, shaking her shoulders as hard as he dares.

Her laurel eyes open, wide and unfocused —face a pale white canvas of horror. The daze releases her, and then panic sets in. "I have to get back to Sparta," she cries. Tundareos stares at the red splotches seeping through the white linen of her bandages —a wound that seems will never heal. Lesya presses her hand against her middle and sees the blood on her fingertips, but it doesn't matter. She grips Tundareos' arm. "Please, brother." It is a broken plea mingled with her sobs. She must return. "Sparta."

Tundareos nods once, then rises and stumbles back, nigh disbelieving his sister could ever look so weak, so desperate. He does not want to entertain whatever horror could make Enyo like this. "Timotheus!" He calls his brother. Timotheus strides to the helm of the trireme from the deck below. "Keep watch over her" —he motions back to their sister— "Tryphena." His second lieutenant rouses from sleep. "Help me prepare for departure." Then the rest of the crew wake, stumbling into their positions.

"But–" Timotheus protests, gripping his brother's shoulder to pull him back around. Their sister is in no state to travel. Rough seas will be enough to tear the wound on her stomach open wholly and send her to Hades. It's a miracle she's evaded Charon's grasp this long.