Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-six: choler of poseidon

HE DISAPPEARS BELOW the deck, shedding the bloodstained gold-and-white armor —it is a fortnight's journey back to Phokis from Lesbos with Elpenor's scheduled stops in the Kyklades. One of the longest reprieves Deimos and Enyo can remember having since crowned champions. "I'm so used to seeing you in your armor–" she muses, mind trailing off as Deimos sits next to her on the edge of the deck, legs dangling over the dark water. His chiton is a deep blue, accented with yellow-thread that highlights his tawny-gold eyes. Enyo reaches out —unwittingly— and smooths over a wrinkle on his chest. "Blue looks good on you."

Deimos spares a glance at his attire —feeling naked without the protection of his cuirass, or the weight of his sword at his hip. "Better than gold?" He challenges. Enyo nods, leaning her head on his shoulder as the sun dips down into the waves. Wrapping his arm around her waist, Deimos sighs —pressing his cheek against a crown of copper.

Swells hammering against the side of the Ippalkimon pulls Lesya from slumber and memories. Poseidon and Zeus rage above and below. But under the tarred canopy at the stern of the trireme, it stays dry and warm. She shifts, and Deimos' arms tighten around her. Neither of them will find rest now with the raging storm. His eyes are open and focused on Lesya —it feels like a dream in itself to be able to hold her without either of them fleeing with the rising sun. She smiles, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I dreamt about you," she whispers.

"Did you?" Deimos asks, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek —tracing a line down her arm. He hadn't been able to sleep, his mind reeling with too many worries and questions. The only solace was knowing Lesya rested peacefully in his arms. "What will you tell Kassandra?" He asks, giving voice to one of the things gnawing at his conscience, given the fragile alliance she had formed with his sister. Deimos' hand wanders around to her back —fingers pressing into one of the scars on her back.

Lesya shifts closer to him, thumb running over the sharp line of his jaw. "The truth," she answers. There is no point in lying about what occurred on the steps of the Parthenon. She and Deimos had both taken things too far, even so, he had tended her wounds and offered some semblance of justice for Phoibe. Deimos had done the Cult's bidding up until her blood painted the white marble red. He presses his lips into a tight line, but draws Lesya into his chest, breathing in the soft scent of her hair —lilac, lemon balm, and salt. "Get some rest, Deimos," she says into his shoulder, settling into his arms.

Come the dawn, the clouds break to clear skies, and Tundareos finds his sister leaning against the bow lookout watching the bronze ram on the prowl dip and rises with the waves. The cool breeze fills the dark sails and wafts through Lesya's copper hair. Since coming aboard, she and Deimos had nigh been inseparable, but given what each of them has endured, Tundareos cannot blame either of them for wanting to spend what little time the gods grant them together. "Poseidon's anger has slowed us by at least a day," he announces. On calm seas with a strong wind, it was three days to Naxos from Athens, now they would not arrive until dusk the following day.

"For once, I may be grateful to have the gods against me," she tells him, smiling. The gods have rarely looked upon Lesya with favor —not even on the day she entered this world pink and squalling. But now their anger has given her and Deimos more time together than they have had in years. Tundareos clasps onto her shoulder, scarred lips twisting into a smile.

By midday, the sun beats down upon the trireme and sweat beads on both Lesya and Deimos' neck as they circle one another like hungry wolves. Most of, if not all, the crew watch the two spar —it is a spectacle, unlike anything they've seen. The Cult champions move as if though it is a dance, well-rehearsed and perfected by time. Deimos lunges forward, and she spins out of the way, striking his side with a swift blow. He grunts but settles back into a boxer's stance.

Deimos feints a low blow and throws his shoulder into Lesya's side —sending her backward into the helm's dais with a loud thud and crack. Tundareos darts forward from the captain's chair. "Lesya!" he cries, but his sister jumps back to her feet and charges, shrugging off the impact as though it were nothing. Using a short barrel of arrows as leverage, she leaps into the air —wrapping her thighs about Deimos' neck and shoulders and twists as she starts to fall.

When they both collide with the deck, Lesya is astride Deimos —her knee pinning one of his arms in place with the other pressed into his chest. Deimos leans his head back, chest heaving beneath her. "Do you yield?" She pants, lips curving into a smile. His free hand grips onto her thigh, thumb running over the constellation of freckles beneath it.

"Only to you," he remarks, but the way he speaks sounds as if he is saying I love you. Fixed on them are a dozen eyes, yet Deimos only focuses on her. Lesya's smile widens, her laurel gaze softening. She pushes off him and sits next to him —leaning onto his shoulder with a soft sigh. One day, Lesya thinks, still smiling against his neck. He wraps an arm around her waist and turns his head, lips brushing over her temple. One day, Deimos assures himself, one day, we will both be free.

TUNDAREOS SHOUTS ORDERS to the deckhands as the trireme approaches the port of Naxos' chief polis. Mooring lines catch on the bollards, securing the Ippalkimon next to the dock near the Adrestia. Lesya moves toward the edge of the ship, stopping shy of stepping off as she turns her gaze upward at the homes and barracks carved into the isle's famed white marble. Nestled below the Temple of Dionysus is a large villa with Tyrian red banners adorned with a golden kantharos and grapes wave in the soft, cool breeze —the leader's home. Deimos steps next to her, looking up at the city too with dread filling his gut.

"Your mother is here," Lesya breathes, catching a glimpse at him from the corner of her eye. Myrrine of Sparta resided in Naxos as its leader under the moniker of Phoenix. After two years of searching, Kassandra had come to the close of one quest and the start of another. Deimos says nothing, only stares into the city with an indiscernible expression. Even if he did seek out his mother, a piece of him doubts she could love the killer he had become.

They both depart from the ship, walking in silence up to one of the main streets running through the polis down to a quarry workshop, but Deimos stops —this is as far as he will go. Lesya seizes his hand without warning, heart beating in her throat. She cannot say what overcome her except for her love for him and the desire to keep him at her side. "Don't go back, Deimos," she cries, voice cracking —laurel eyes focused solely on him, "please."

Deimos shakes his head, but the pain twisting his face dispels his desire to stay. "If I don't–" his voice trails off. If he does not return, the Cult will never stop hunting them. He serves them willfully now in hopes of being able to have peace one day —for Lesya and himself. Deimos brushes a lock of hair from her face and dips his head down, lips ghosting over hers until she pushes up on her toes, sealing the small space between them —pouring her heart into the bittersweet kiss.

Pulling back, Deimos cups her cheek —marveling at how her copper hair and skin glow in the setting sun. "Until our paths cross again," he murmurs against her quivering lips, echoing the same words she has spoken to him before. His hand falls away from her cheek, and he steps backward, turning away back to the docks. Despair grips him as he fights the urge to look back, though he knows he carries Lesya's heart with him —just as he had left his behind.