Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-eight: honeyed thoughts

SILANOS GRIPS THE edge of the ship's rail, his eyes wide. He stares at the two approaching ships' decks and can see the disgraced champion perched on the railing at the helm of one —the copper hair glinting in the midday sun is unmistakable. The other is the Adrestia, bearing both the sister and mother. Three obstacles in the Cult's plans in a single place, ripe for the taking. Silanos imagines the sizable reward Kosmos will grant him for returning to Phokis with the heads of Myrrine, Kassandra, and Enyo. Should he return with them either in chains or dead, there would do no use in keeping Deimos and his increasingly dissident behavior.

"They're building up to ramming speed," one of his crew announces, looking between the two triremes flanking the Amber Dawn, a twinge of fear rising in the man's voice as the two warships speed toward their sides —bronze rams shining.

The Cultist laughs, confident in his fleets' ability to face the oncoming storm —the Amber Dawn has never known defeat. "Let them draw near," Silanos tells his men, "we will destroy their ships like pincers." But a clamor of confusion from his crew and soldiers arises behind him. "What's wrong?" he snaps at them, twisting around. Silanos sees for himself before they can answer —the fore and aft ships are nowhere to be seen, only deserted waters. The Amber Dawn is alone, cornered into a blind spot along the Naxian coast. Silanos feels his confidence crumble like a pillar of wet sand struck by a wave.

Racing back to the helm, Silanos shouts for the keleustes to row faster, and the low beating of the drums fills the air with a frantic rhythm. He looks between the two oncoming triremes as they slice through the waves —moving as an ax toward his flagship's sides. There is nowhere to go. "Brace!" Cries on of his crew over the roar of the roiling water and drums. Some grip onto the rope running the length of the deck. Others move to abandon ship.

The rams of the Adrestia and Ippalkimon plunge into the Amber Dawn in an explosion of timbers —smashing through the rails at the stern and bow. Silanos looks up as the deck disintegrates beneath his feet with a wail. Wide eyes meeting the malevolent laurel gaze of Enyo for only a trice before the sharp edge of the bronze ram strikes his belly. With a dull snap and a moment of weightlessness, Silanos falls into the cold, roaring waters in a cloud of red. Sinking further from the promise of air and into the dark, crushing depths —the last heartbeats of a drowning man drawn into a lifetime.

RETURNING TO PORT, Tundareos clasps onto Lesya's shoulder, knowing he must depart soon to attend his duties in the Pirate Islands. "As much as I wish to stay with you, sister, I must return to Keos." He still holds allegiance to Xenia and has neglected his superior for too long in favor of spending time with Lesya. "Should you need me­–" his scarred lips twist into a smile, blue eyes glinting like the shimmering water around the trireme "–send word." Lesya nods, embracing her brother before stepping off the Ippalkimon as Tryphena begins shouting orders over the crew, preparing them for imminent departure.

Lesya turns from the harbor, retreating to the leader's villa, where Myrrine convenes with her councilors to prepare Naxos for her absence. Kassandra leans against one of the painted columns as her mother and the general, Timo, continue their discussion. Myrrine intends to depart at dusk, returning to Sparta for the first time since her family was torn apart on the slopes of Taygetos many years ago. It will be the Eagle Bearer's first time returning since killing an ephor —forfeiting her life.

"Have you ever been to Sparta?" Kassandra asks, arms crossed. The memory of Sparta stirs both anger and bittersweet longing within her. Even after the years that passed, she can still picture the crimson banners emblazoned with golden lambdas of the Temple of Athena Chalkioikos dancing in the evening breeze.

"No," Lesya answers, "but I have been within the borders of Lakonia." And I will not be welcomed back there. They called her Enyo, after the war goddess and sacker of cities —the Cult did not dare send her into the seat of one of the most powerful city-states in Hellas. When last she ventured into Lakonia, Deimos had been at her side and a trail of blood and destruction in her wake.

Under the moon, Lesya lays back against the scorpion tail of the Adrestia and draws a thin blanket around her shoulders to keep the damp chill of the sea breeze at bay. Barnabas and Herodotus remain deep in conversation over the authenticity of tales regarding beasts from legend, and Kassandra listens, leaning against the mast with Ikaros perched on her knee. Reza hums a tune from one of the benches, arm resting on the great rudder as they cut through the white-capped swells. "Rest your eyes, little lamb," he says, smiling while watching Lesya struggle to stay awake under Hypnos' trance.

Deimos mounts behind Enyo on the dark mare, spurring the beast into motion. The autumn breeze bathes him in her scent —lilac and lemon balm. He takes a deep breath and lets one of his hands on the reins stray to her waist. Routine had guided the day until now, training with each other and recruits. "Where are we going?" Enyo looks back over her shoulder —glimpsing the scabbed cut on his cheek turning into a scar.

"Kirrha," he answers, lips kinking into a smile. Almost a fortnight passed since the Cult last sent them to the Megarid to quell an unwanted gathering of Athenian troops. A potential obstacle in their plans to stir a war between Sparta and Athens. After hard days spilling sweat and blood, Deimos takes the advice Lykaon had given him months ago for a leisurely evening in the harbor polis.

Her brows furrow. They rarely have need to venture to Kirrha. Most visits into the city are at the beck-and-call of Elpenor for a good meal before being issued new assignments. "What's the occasion?" She asks, knowing the Cult's merchant of war had not sent for them.

"Does there have to be one?" Deimos challenges, tying off the dark mare's reins at a post next to a silver mount before turning back to her. Seeing her without armor is still a strange thing. Instead of white-and-gold, she wears a lilac peplos and pale green shawl —almost the same color of her eyes— around her shoulders. Enyo offers a smile reflected in her soft gaze, tucking a loose curl of copper hair behind her ear. He could start and end wars singlehandedly and bring nations to their knees in a night. But Deimos thinks his greatest victory is being the one to spark Enyo's smiles.

They walk side-by-side, Deimos' hand resting on the curve of her back as they venture through the crowded streets to the agora. "Samian wine for the lady?" One merchant asks, holding an amphora of sweet red wine —the nectar of the gods some called the wine from Samos. "Finest fabrics in all of Hellas!" Another shouts, gesturing to tables piled high with dyed wools and patterned linens.

With a basket of spoils from the agora, they pass through an olive grove south of the leader's home and to a narrow beach along the Korinthian Gulf, sharing the watered wine and treats with one another. Honey glistens on Enyo's lips from the last of the teganites —Deimos cups her cheek and cranes his neck down, lips brushing against hers. She shifts, sliding a hand into his half-matted hair to pull him closer. The honey is sweet, but her kiss is sweeter. Deimos breaks away, resting his forehead against hers with a long sigh. The rough pad of his thumb running across her rosy lips and jaw. "Let's stay here for the night," Enyo breathes, the words dancing across his cheek.

"And if we're caught?" he asks. Chrysis disproved the time they spent together and her worries planted a seed in the minds of many Cultists about the relationship between their champions. Neither of them understands why it is an issue —they still reap victories in the name of Kosmos whether apart or together.

Enyo drapes her legs across his, defiance glinting in her laurel gaze. "No one can best us, Deimos," she says, tracing the jagged scar on his side through the dark linen chiton. He smiles because he knows Enyo is right. No one in Hellas could hope to defeat the two of them together.