I don't know what you had in mind, but here we stand on opposing sides.
DEIMOS BREATHES HER name, unwilling to let Lesya go on the eve of battle, but she must. His arms tighten around her waist, drawing her back against his chest as they sit at the edge of a cliff overlooking the sea —both watching the setting sun. Below them is the Athenian fleet, scrambling to set camp and rest before the morning light breaks and they are called to war. It will all be over by tomorrow's sunset, and the moment she leaves him, they will be enemies once more.
She shifts, heart aching and breaking for the hundredth time. "I'll see you when this is over," she promises, lips kinked into a fleeting smile not reaching her glassy laurel eyes. Deimos understands what she means by it —in this life or the next. He takes her face into calloused hands, thumb tracing the scar running through her brow and the one on her temple; both are his doing. Lesya squeezes her eyes shut, but tears still escape, streaking down her freckled cheeks. Deimos wipes away the dampness with his thumbs and leans forward, pressing his forehead against hers.
Lesya's fingers curl around the chain securing his stained pteruges to his gold-and-black cuirass. She tilts her chin up, feels the brush of his wind-chapped lips against hers. Deimos draws her closer, can taste the salt of her tears —and his. There's something different about this kiss, as though each of them knows there's no return —no going back. It feels too much like a final goodbye. Like they should have taken the chance to run, to stay on that beach all those years ago.
With a cry, Lesya pulls herself away and rises, taking the winding path down from the cliff and to the city. She will not let herself look back, not even when Deimos shouts her name. Drying her eyes, Lesya stills herself and presses on to find the leader of the Spartan forces. We will meet again tomorrow, Deimos.
"BRASIDAS!" LESYA HAILS. It is the first time he's faced her since Pylos —since she stopped him from facing Deimos. He's heard of her exploits in Boeotia too. Knows without her Spartan victory would not have been possible, even if it had come at the cost of Stentor's life. All of it is in the past though, and Brasidas has buried whatever conflict they may have had.
"It is good to see you." The Spartan general smiles as he meets her at the fort's entrance and clasps onto Lesya's arm, knowing what her presence means in the outlook for the coming storm —they fight with a goddess of war on their side. Then his expression falters with a glance over her shoulder. She has answered the call alone. His brows furrow. "Where's Kassandra?"
"She will be here," Lesya assures him, "soon." The Adrestia would have departed hours after Kleon's fleet. She's certain the Eagle Bearer will be among the Spartan army before the sun rises and the battle begins.
Brasidas nods, accepting the answer, and turns, facing Amphipolis. "The men fear what lies ahead," he admits. It is not an easy thing for a Spartan to admit, but he sees it in the eyes of his men. This war between Athens and Sparta has raged for nigh a decade already with no sign of ceasing, driving the Greek world further into turmoil.
Lesya looks at the small fires dotting the streets and the fort and the hoplites huddled around them. She clasps onto Brasidas' shoulder, leans toward him with a dangerous smile and glint in her laurel eyes. He wonders if this is the last thing men saw before succumbing to the blades of a ghost and goddess. "I'm not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep," she laughs, smile turning to a smirk.
THE SUN BURNS on the back of Kleon's neck, and the saddle turns his backside numb, but he will not dismount and be on the same level as the wretches around him —the same level as Deimos. All fodder for the war machine. He eyes the champion, standing on a hill's brow in gleaming gold, his gaze turned upward to the walls of the Spartan fort as though searching for someone. I do not need you any longer, dog, he thinks. The Athenians could win this fight by numbers alone —Deimos is only a liability now.
But it is not Kleon the men look for to lead them into battle, nor Kleon who has the respect and fear of his men.
All the way to Amphipolis on the galleys, the soldiers cheered Deimos' every fleeting appearance, singing songs from when Pylos burned. They hail him as a hero, yet all shrink as they pass him, unable to hold his gaze. Fear and respect —an intoxicating brew that Kleon could never hope to sup on. He seethes, more of his hatred directed at Deimos than the Spartans. His hand clutches futility at thin air, fist shaking. The Cult of Kosmos is in shambles because of Enyo and the Eagle Bearer. Kleon thinks Deimos' time as champion has come to an end too. You will find honor in death this day, Deimos, he smiles, fist settling over the limb of his bow.
His attention shifts from the champion to those on the walls above. Kleon's confidence falters at the flash of copper. Though they stand hundreds of feet apart, he can feel Enyo's burning gaze on him —a valuable piece of the game for which he had not accounted. The sweat beading down his neck and back sends a cold chill racing down his spine. What will be wrought on this world when Dread and Destruction meet?
BRASIDAS FEELS THE hot wind falls still when the Athenian forces shuffle back toward the beaches. "They withdraw," he whispers to himself, peering through the dusty sunlight. It's a shambolic and cowardly maneuver. He looks to the hoplites at his sides and then over his shoulder where Kassandra and Lesya stand, watching the retreat. It's a rouse —the memories of the agoge and the lessons from seasoned tacticians are fresh in Brasidas' mind.
"Spartans!" He shouts back to the squadron manning the fort, adjusting the weight of his shield and spear. "We march!" They stiffen, lifting their spears, crying aroo! The Athenians would not escape them this day. Kassandra looks to Lesya. The same war cry on her lips —the same hunger for a glorious death shining in her laurel eyes. She does not think she will survive the storm, the Eagle Bearer realizes, and fear strikes deep at her heart as the squadrons of Spartans march from the city gates.
The phalanx fails, as does the scramble to maintain a shield wall. Strewn among the coast is a sea of blue and red painted a tidal wave of blood, the waves crashing against the shore, the cry of thousands. Lesya cannot find Kassandra, nor does she see Brasidas in the fray —only Ikaros and the carrions swarming the sky above. The shield smashes against the side of her face, and all Lesya can do is laugh as her mouth fills with blood. She curves out of the way of a second strike, ripping the spear from the Athenian's hands and turning it back on him. The soldier slips on the blood-slick earth. You fall, you die. Lesya screams as he drives the spear point through the man's chest.
A gawping head bounces across her path, and a shower of hot blood and innards hits her back as she advances until, alas, she is in the heart of the raging battle, fighting to push through. The only enemy on the field today was Kleon. Lesya ducks under an Athenian spear, sliding through the mud and leaping up, shoving back a Korkyraean trying to attack her side. Laurel eyes darting around the corpses she searches, for Deimos —for a clear path to Kleon.
Grabbing one foe by the shoulder, Lesya twists him to face her as she plunges one of her blades up and under his ribs. A second lashes his spear across her arm, tearing a shriek from her lungs as blood creeps toward her elbow. Lesya dodges the next strike, slashing her twin blades across his throat in a spray of blood. She sees Kleon at the edge of her vision, sitting astride his horse on a hill overlooking the battle —coward. Rearing back, Lesya bashes her forehead against a third assailant's nose, and as he grasps at the broken and bloody appendage, she slices through his linothorax armor from groin to breast.
Breaking free of the frenzy, Leysa spins, dispatching another Athenian, and sees him emerge from the mist —cutting Spartans down without breaking stride, his focus on Brasidas. "DEIMOS!" She screams, punching her blade into the neck of a hoplite before sprinting toward him and the Spartan general. Lesya lunges and collides with Brasidas as he levels his spear to charge the Cult's champion —taking it as another chance to prove himself in battle after Pylos. The general curses as he falls, but when he rises, Lesya and Deimos are locked together in battle where he had stood just a trice ago.
He sees it —a glint of the past— Enyo lies dormant within her. "You'll always be like me," Deimos hisses, lost in the bloodlust. A killer. A monster. A weapon. She doesn't deny it. Lesya knows she is all those things, just not for the Cult any longer. Sparks jump into the air as their blades grind against one another in stalemate. Suddenly, Deimos falters, and his face contorts, body convulses. The Damoklean sword slips from his hands to the blood-slick, muddy earth. Lesya catches him beneath his arms as he starts careening toward her. An arrow rises from his back and rivulets of blood stream down the golden armor. She traces the trajectory, finding Kleon holding the bow and wearing a look of panic when he sees her piercing stare cut through him.
Kassandra breaks through the battle, seeing her fallen brother, and darts forward, following Kleon's steps as he flees toward the shore. "Kill that malákas!" Lesya shouts, collapsing under exhaustion and Deimos' weight. The battle is nearly done. For now, they can rest.