Kryptic ↟ Deimos

eighteen: value of a moment

THE EAGLE BEARER sits tall astride a chestnut steed named Phobos. Lesya has procured her own silver mare from Argos and decides to name her after the moon goddess —Selene. The road to the Land of Beautiful Corruption is one the former champion has traveled before, though Deimos had been at her side then. "Have you ever been to Korinth?" She asks, sparing a glance at the misthios.

Kassandra shakes her head —up until meeting Barnabas she had not left the shores of Kephallonia since washing up on the shore. "I haven't. You?" She counters.

Lesya grimaces but does not lie. "A few times," she answers. It always ended in bloodshed —raiding the Akrokorinth fort, pulling the strings of the Monger's puppets, sabotaging the Spartan supply line, and Athenian camps. Deimos and Enyo had shed enough blood in Korinthia to paint the steps of the great Temple of Aphrodite red.

"What did you do in Argos?" Kassandra is curious about what happened, especially as Ikaros was more distrustful of her now than ever. Lesya tosses a bloodstained letter to her and watches the confusion spread over her countenance. Midas. Agamemnon. Kosmos. A clue that had led Lesya straight to another Cultist. "How did you find this?" It does not matter though, not really, Midas is slain and the Cult's efforts to resurrect Agamemnon have failed.

She swallows the lump growing in her throat and glances ahead, finding where the flagstone road leading from Argos ends. "Deimos gave me that letter," Lesya tells her, avoiding looking anywhere else but the road. Somehow, he had known her path would lead her to Argos and Midas. Sparing a glance, Lesya can see Kassandra's confusion has not ebbed. She recalls the tales Chrysis told them as children, lies they so vehemently believed —about peace and order, about a true king, about Kosmos and his servants. "Kosmos is the Cult's ideal of peace and order," she begins. "They believe Agamemnon was the first servant and sought to return him to this world to lead Hellas into a new age."

The explanation leaves Kassandra with more questions than answers, but she does not dwell on the mythos of the Cult. "Why would Deimos give you this?" Kassandra asks, holding up the scroll. She has only faced her brother once on Andros and he had been committed to serving the Cult's will —even at the cost of destroying family.

Kass watches as Lesya's jaw clenches. She has seen the scars on the disgraced champion's trunk and has heard whispers of the stories behind them from Barnabas. The Cult is cruel —she imagines it is not such a different story for Deimos. "There's only so many times you can kick a dog before he snaps," Lesya responds, her voice tinged with bitter hatred. Squeezing the sides of her mount, Lesya rides ahead of the misthios. Kassandra lets her be.

WATER SLOSHES OUT of stone tub and onto the smooth floor. A trail of bloody armor and stained clothing starts in the villa courtyard and ends at just shy of the growing puddle of water. Enyo runs her finger's through Deimos' beard —dark and thick. She still finds it strange to see him with one. They have been on an assignment in Makedonia for over a moon and scarcely had time to bathe, let alone groom. "You don't like it," he surmises, lips kinking into a smile —he's not particularly fond of it either.

"I could get used to it," she counters. Deimos reaches over to the small table, pushing aside an assortment of sweet-smelling oils in stone vials and picks up a curved copper razor. He settles against the side of the tub, stretching out his legs —thighs and calves corded with muscle— and tilts his head back. Enyo takes the razor from his hand and moves forward, straddling his waist. She is far more patient than him and if her steady hand works the blade he is less likely to come away with nicks and cuts.

Pulling the skin of his neck taut, Enyo moves the razor up in short, quick strokes. His eyes slip shut and his hands busy themselves following the gouged scars on Enyo's back. A lullaby plays in her mind, one she remembers from childhood —her mother used to sing it. Now though, Enyo hums the same broken tune, never breaking concentration. And for a moment, it's difficult to think this is the same woman who could cleave a man in two, who relishes in bloodshed and the cries of her enemies.