Kryptic ↟ Deimos

seventeen: ashes to ashes

LESYA ARRIVES AT the Sanctuary of Asklepius shortly after sunrise after stopping at a stream to scrub the blood from her hands and fade the fresh, dark stains on her pale grey chiton. She takes rest in the shade beneath a large oak near the heart of the Sanctuary as Kassandra had yet to arrive —or show herself.

Deimos dodges her blade but does not move to strike when the opening is created. They are toying with one another like this is a game. The snap of a switch pulls them away from what looked to be a well-rehearsed dance. "You both hesitated," Alektor announces, snapping the supple switch against the ground with a crack. He had seen it in both champions —a moment's hesitation could mean the difference between life and death in battle. The Cult could not afford to let hesitancy have a place within demigods. "Again," the trainer instructs.

Sweat beads down both Deimos and Enyo's foreheads under the hot sun. Their armor is discarded in a pile outside the chalked circle. She levels her sword, tracing his steps as he moves around her like a predator preparing to pounce. He lunges, sword slicing through the air like a viper strike. She spins out of range, then darts forward, flicking her blade upward —the tip cutting into Deimos' cheek. He stumbles back, lifting his fingers to his cheek to find them coated in blood. The distraction serves its purpose. Enyo uses his bent knee as leverage and leaps into the air —twisting as her legs enclose around his neck and shoulders.

They both hit hard in the dirt, but it is Enyo who has her knee against his chest and blade against his neck. Deimos looks up at her, panting —blood running down his cheek and back into his hair. "Good," Alektor praises with drawn-out applause. Enyo rises, tossing aside her blade and extends her hand —he wraps his fingers around her wrist and pushes off the ground. Alektor nods his approval and turns from the training grounds, leaving the champions to themselves for the evening.

He reclines against the cool stone wall when they return to the villa —ignoring the sweat stinging the fresh cut as he watches Enyo splash water on her face and neck. Wringing out the water of a rag, she goes to his side and scrubs away the blood on his neck and clinging to the stubble on his jaw. Deimos' lips twitch, tugging into a half-smile when he drags Enyo into his lap —hands lingering on her bare thighs. "Didn't mean to draw blood," she admits, noticing her blade had cut into his brow too as she dabs the drying blood away.

"I've had worse, you know," Deimos remarks. She laughs softly at that, the sound reverberating through her chest so that he could not only hear but feel it too. They had both had far worse than scratches. He thinks she is beautiful, skin still flushed from training with sunlight streaming through the window lattice. Her laughter combined with the sun across her skin and strands of hair framing her face —it makes him smile so genuinely that he is sure he must look a fool. But as she dips her head to press their lips together, fingers ghosting across his skin again, by Zeus, he could not care less.

WHEN SHE WAKES in the early afternoon, it is to the sound of a woman sobbing and pleading with the priests and priestesses for her sick baby. They claim the boy has passed on, but Enyo has seen how this story plays out time and time again. Priests lie, Chrysis claims another child and the Cult gains soldiers who endure a lifetime of torment.

Lesya rises, unsheathing one of the blades on her back and approaches the squabbling priests. "Let her see the child," she demands and does not have to speak again on the matter. The doors to the building open and the distraught mother races forward, lifting a squalling babe from the table and to her breast.

A swell of anguish rises inside her as she looks upon the mother and child, but it is all consumed by a bitter emptiness. They took everything from me. Lesya closes her eyes and remembers the pain and the blood. The room had been dark, lit by a single brazier. A group of masked figures surrounded the stool. Only the twisted physician did not cover his face. Chrysis' laugh had been unmistakable when they tore out her womb —it was the final step to become the Cult's Champion. For a second time, Deimos had found her lying unmoving in a puddle of blood. He had carried her from the antechamber and refused to leave her side until the next full moon over a fortnight later.