Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-three: one day

LESYA CRACKS HER knuckles before winding a piece of linen around her hands —Kassandra is doing the same. The Eagle Bearer is only a few hundred drachmae away from being able to pay Xenia for the information regarding her mother, but after taking so many contracts and doing menial tasks in the seas surrounding Keos a day's break is well earned. Kass decides to press her luck and spar with Lesya, she needs to be kept on her toes and there is no better person to do so.

The match does not last long. "By the gods," Kassandra pants, hunched forward with her hands on her knees —she thought it would be a fair fight if neither of them used their weapons. All her experience as a misthios could not compete with the severe and ruthless training Lesya had endured. She is a living weapon, whether the twin blades are in her grasp or not. "I'm glad we won't face one another in battle."

Kassandra and Barnabas take their leave of the beach, but before Lesya has a chance to unwrap the cloth around her hands' Tundareos sinks into a boxer's stance. He smiles —having watched his sister and the misthios compete, but now he wishes to try his luck against her again. A rematch for how easily she bested him on the ship. He fairs just as poorly as Kassandra and comes away with a bruise blossoming on his shoulder and rubbing the stiffness away in his pectoral.

Tundareos tosses his sore arm around Lesya's shoulders, both of them heading back to Koressia for the evening. Halfway to her brother's small home, a glint of gold catches her attention. She slows to a stop, gaze following the hooded figure. Deimos. Waving Tundareos ahead, she falls back and slides into an alley between two burned storefronts. Even cloaked, she recognizes him —no one else holds their shoulders and head the way he does. Catching him, Lesya reaches out and jerks the dark hood back. "Why are you following us?"

Deimos spins on heel —there is a strange glint in his eyes, one Lesya cannot place but it fades when he steels his resolve and hardens his expression. "Orders," he says, producing a small scroll of papyrus from his belt.

She takes the slip from him, quickly reading the messy script. Athens is at a tipping point. We cannot let the Eagle Bearer return to the city or our fallen champion. Stop them by any means. Orders mean nothing if they are not executed. "And I thought it was because you missed me," she remarks, feigning hurt despite the kink in her lips. He rolls his eyes, closing the distance between them with a single stride.

"Lesya–" he shakes his head. The way he says her name is an unspoken plea. Don't do this, don't make this harder. Deimos lifts his hand, cupping her cheek —gentle assurance this is not a dream as she frequents his often. People fear him, but not Lesya. She hangs onto his touch as though it is a lifeline in a stormy sea. With a sigh, her laurel eyes slip shut.

"You've never been a good liar, Deimos," Lesya reminds him —his touch falls into nothingness. Lying, like stealth, was her forte. When force would not work but sweet words would, she was always the one to claim their victories. It was only Elpenor's hushed agreement that spared him after he stole Lesya away in the moonlight —paving the way for her freedom and his torment. He glances at their feet, hands turning into fists at his side.

A fleeting, bright smile crosses her lips when she tilts his chin up, thumb finding a scar hidden under the stubble of his beard —tawny-gold eyes boring into her own. Lesya searches his face, finding the same troubled glint as before. Something is wrong, though he will not speak of it. "Alexios," she whispers, wanting him to hear the name and who he truly is. He is not Deimos anymore than she had been Enyo. It is all a lie in the end, though repeated falsehoods often take the appearance of truth.

Stepping back, Deimos turns and peers out to the docks from the narrow alley. "That's not who I am." He says as though he is trying to convince himself. Alexios died in the night on the slopes of Mount Taygetos and Deimos was born into the world —bloody and broken. A testament to how he would live life.