Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ moonlit

of all the people in hellas, you find the most comfort in deimos.

IT'S UNCOMMON FOR Deimos to wake in the night and find the spot next to him empty and cold. He sits up with a soft groan, looking around the small stone house situated near Nafplio on the Argolic Gulf. Tallow candles still burn on the low lying table near a half-empty kylix of sweet wine. Rising from the low pallet bed, Deimos shrugs his chiton back on, steps outside into the cool night air. Small waves roll onto the shore, breaking into white foam on the pale sand. This place is so peaceful, he can't help but feel he does not belong. 

Glancing around, he finally looks up —finding your legs dangling off the edge of the flat roof. If you're there at this hour, Deimos knows there is a reason behind it. He rounds the corner of the house and climbs the short wooden ladder —he'd forego it most of the time, but his battered shoulder stops him.

Moonlight paints your skin silver. If not for the soft breeze rustling your hair, you could be mistaken for a marble statue of Aphrodite. He finds a spot next to you and looks over the gulf in silence for several long minutes. "What are you doing awake right now?" Deimos asks, still looking straight ahead —he hasn't noticed the tears streaking down your cheeks yet.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you think about your brother. My brother, my sweet brother. "They told me what my mother did to Dolops." Your voice cracks and Deimos finally realizes you're crying. He looks down at his hands, unsure of what to say or do. You've always worn strength with such grace, though Deimos supposes even the strongest must break at some point.

Dolops mostly raised you on his own —he hadn't wanted his little sister to be corrupted by Chrysis when his mother's lust for power grew too strong. He'd done well for himself as a Priest of Asklepius —helping orphans— but after taking you into his care Dolops decided on the life of a farmer.

It was a good and simple life. Neither of you ever wanted for anything, even when times seemed dire. You'd learned how to plow a field, sow seeds, and reap a harvest. The women in the small village had shown you how to weave and shape clay, too. It was your impressive patterned fabrics that'd let you purchase the small house near Nafploi —where it was easier to come by materials for your weaving and sell the finished fabrics in the agora. 

Earlier in the day, a vanguard of Cult guardians had come to your door and passed off a sealed scroll delivering the news. Chrysis paid to have her son killed. Dolops had been murdered in his home. You dread to think what she may do to you —especially if she learns of you and her beloved champion.

Deimos reaches for your hand and runs his thumb across your knuckles. You appreciate the gesture, but it's not enough to quash the extreme grief in your heart. The past moon had brought a series of unfortunate events upon you. The old crone who taught you to weave perished in a mysterious fire. A small orphan you and Dolops often played with and fed from your table contracted a deadly fever and no prayer or sacrifice could appease the gods to spare her. And now your brother. There was only so much a person could take before breaking —and your heart is shattered.

You glance down at your and his hands. His are the hands of a killer you think and yet you trust them completely. You trust him. "Please hug me, Deimos." It's a faint whisper. "If you don't I think I might fall apart." You know he's not an affectionate person, but he does show he cares in his own way.

It surprises you when he shifts, bringing you into his arms —his embrace is tender and warm. You press your cheek into his chest, clutching the black-and-gold fabric of his chiton, and start to quietly sob —you've tried to be strong for so long, but now you just can't. Deimos places his chin atop your head, and his arms tighten around you. The hand on your waist moves up to cradle the back of your head —fingers loosely combing through your hair. He's only ever seen other people do this and he hopes it's enough to keep you from breaking.

In the depths of your mind, you cannot help but wonder if you will be next. Deimos presses his lips to your temple. "I'll never let them hurt you," he promises, voice low and dangerous. So long as there was breath in his lungs, no one would ever harm you. Not your mother or the Cult. No one. Your heart skips a beat and slowly you draw back from his embrace —hands still lingering against the solid muscle of his pectorals. 

He lifts his hands, rough thumbs brushing away the dampness beneath your eyes. His brow is furrowed, and there's a distant look in his tawny-gold eyes —as though he's overthinking something. Deimos reaches for a matted lock of his hair and begins tugging on one of the golden beads. "What are you doing?" You ask, but he doesn't answer at first.

"Each of these represents a victory," he explains, holding out a gold bead taken from his head of dark hair for you to take.

You shake your head. "I've won no victory," you tell him, softly. You're not a warrior, just a simple farmer, and weaver. He won't accept your reasoning, though —you've won many victories, even if they seem small. Deimos picks up a lock of hair from behind your ear and divides it into three sections. He hopes he's watched you braid your hair enough time to mimic the pattern.

Three attempts later, a slim, neat braid is held in place by a golden bead. Moonlight catches the bead, and you notice the soft glint from the corner of your eye. Deimos cups your chin, bringing your eyes back to him. You bite down on your bottom lips, cheeks warming under his intense gaze. He starts to move forward, and you do too. Your lips brush over his, hesitant —even after all this time— but his are resolute in comparison.

You both draw back, foreheads pressed together —fingertips ghosting over each other's cheeks and neck. Deimos slides his hand into your hair and places his lips on yours. His kisses are a thing of wonder —rough but still gentle, dominant, and somehow uncertain. When you part with uneven breaths, Deimos draws you against him —your back to his chest— and wraps his arms around your middle, resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Deimos?" He makes a low sound in the back of his throat in acknowledgment. "Thank you," you whisper. One of Deimos' arms tightens around your waist, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he presses them against your temple —holding you close as the night sky begins to shift to dawn.