Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-nine: fatherly wisdom

THE CAPTAIN SHOUTS orders over the deckhands as the Adrestia pulls up to the wharf. Lesya descends from her perch on the mast, helping secure the mooring lines. "You coming?" Kassandra inquires, stopping at the edge of the deck. She had been sure Lesya would accompany her and Myrrine into Sparta —if only for the opportunity help complete a bounty on the Followers of Ares.

Lesya shakes her head, biting down on her lip. "I think it best if I remain with the ship," she tells the Eagle Bearer. Kassandra does not dwell on the topic any longer —she nods, then turns from the Adrestia, joining her mother on the wharf. The two quickly fade from sight behind the stout buildings of the small fishing village. Lesya takes to the helm, listening as Barnabas and Herodotus bicker over Spartan history and the great king, Leonidas. Sighing, she gathers a handful of dried reeds and smooth, straight olive branches to fit with a pouch of bronze and iron arrowheads.

Barnabas leans over the railing next to Lesya when the historian takes his leave of the ship. She wears a look of deep longing while staring over the water —as though Sparta is the last place she wishes to be. Deimos is leagues away, and only the gods know when their paths will join again. "What is it, Lesya? Why not go with Kassandra?" The old captain asks, motioning toward the rolling hills of green in the distance against the harsh backdrop of the snow-capped Taygetos range.

"As much as I love a challenge–" she turns, crossing her arms "–I don't think I could defeat all of Sparta should the two kings see me." Archidamus and Pausanias would have her head for the Spartan lives she sent to Hades in the name of Kosmos. Even she could not stave off the krypteia on her own and hope to keep her head.

"But you fight like with the strength of an army!" Barnabas exclaims, remembering her first day on the Adrestia nigh six years past. Strong, proud, and just as deadly as Thanatos. He thought her an Amazonian, but after seeing her fight, he thinks Enyo had been an apt name. It was difficult to believe there were any battles where she would not emerge victoriously. "Like a daughter of Ares," he says, clasping onto her shoulder with a grin half-hidden behind his grey beard.

She laughs —grateful Deimos had pointed her in the direction of the old trireme, and that Barnabas had accepted her as a member of the crew. "Nothing dampens your spirits, does it, old friend?" The captain offers a kindly smile —to him, it is a good life so long as the gods let him see a new sunrise and sunset.

Barnabas lingers at her side, watching as darkness creeps into her expression and hardens her laurel gaze. The captain has seen many people take Charon's hand wearing the same look she does now, and he does not wish for Lesya to become one of them. In no small amount of time, he'd begun to consider her a daughter of sorts —perhaps had his dear Leda not been taken by the gods, he would have a daughter the same age. "I know what it is you wish to do, Lesya," Barnabas tells her, voice unexpectedly quiet. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she looks to the kindly captain. "They say to dig two graves when seeking vengeance," he adds.

Her hands clench into fists. It is not just vengeance she seeks, but justice for the years of torment. The Cult already dug her grave and now remains a long journey of pulling herself from the hole and it is only the first few breaths of fresh air she is experiencing now. Lesya shakes her head, her smile grim. "It will be more than two graves, Barnabas," she says with a twinge of laughter.

"Anger can keep a man warm at night," he starts, recalling what a blind man once told him on the shores of fate, "and wounded pride can spur a man to wondrous things, but revenge is its own executioner." Barnabas takes his leave with those words, hoping Lesya will think twice about the path she walks.

THREE DAYS AFTER Kassandra departs the Adrestia, the Spartan general from Korinthia appears on the wharf —waiting for the arrival of two triremes ferrying his men from Makedonia. "Brasidas," Lesya greets, having left the blacksmith with her leather bracers repaired and a new whetstone to sharpen arrowheads.