Title: Unwritten Prophecies Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader Rating: M Word Count: ~6.3k Summary: You are meant for the gods, but beneath the wrath of the storm, he asks the one question no oracle is ever granted—what do you want?
...but your sweet sinless sensation is not my style...
THE MASKED CULTISTS trickle from the cave. Eupheme—your sister in training—leaves too and urges you to do the same and be free of the darkness hidden below the sacred Temple of Apollo. But you won’t go. Not yet. All evening, the Pyramid under the great, bronze serpent has called to you, a moth to a flame. You move toward the artifact in a trance, the voices you’ve heard since entering the cave growing louder with every step...until there’s silence. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
You know the rough voice and to whom it belongs. “Deimos,” you breathe, heart racing at the sight of the Cult’s champion as he emerges from the shadows—his golden armor nigh glowing in the dim firelight.
He steps closer, warm-tawny eyes darting from the artifact to you. Most of the cultists are frightened by the power of the Pyramid—a force they cannot truly comprehend or control—and none of the would-be Oracles have ever shown any inclination for being able to harness its potential for prophecy. Deimos looks down at the artifact and can feel its call and energy thrumming in his veins. He has never doubted that he has the blood of gods. But to find another like him? A blessing and a curse.
“Does it speak to you as well?” He asks. The edge in his prior words faded.
“Yes,” you answer. The voices grow more numerous, louder. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on a single thread of the tapestry of history and fate. “Of the past.” There are glimpses of Leonidas at Thermopylae, Themistokles at Salamis, and battles even more ancient for which there are no tales to be told or heroes to be celebrated. “The present.” Perikles gathers with his generals in the shadow of the Parthenon, and Spartans train for the upcoming war. But then the landscape becomes unfamiliar—seven hills—and wood and mud villages spring up on the banks of a mighty river, growing larger, grander, until the city of bricks turns into one of marble. An Eagle rises. “And of events that have not yet come to pass.”
Deimos extends his hand, fingertips barely touching the smooth bronze plates covering the artifact, a gesture for you to do the same—and a test. You know not what you’ll see—the future or the past, but the Cult’s champion hopes it will be the latter. Stepping closer, you reach out to the Pyramid, pressing a hand against one of the sides as Deimos does the same.
The oracle has spoken! To prevent Sparta's fall, the child must fall first. Your breath catches as a woman lunges forward. Her face twisted in anguish. She fights against the hands restraining her but her cries are swallowed by the wind and rain. “Please! You can't! No! No, no.” Lightning streaks across the dark sky. “Nikolaos!” At the cliff’s edge is an ephor of Sparta, holding a swaddled babe aloft in the air, inching closer to the chasm below Taygetos.
And then the fall. The scream. A sister’s outstretched hand.
The vision twists, shifting like smoke, and you see something else—the boy again, older this time. His body hardened and face set in an expression too cruel for a child. A woman stands before him, cloaked in shadow, her voice smooth, coaxing. "Your family abandoned you,” Chrysis tells Deimos. Lies repeated so often they become the only truth the boy has ever known. “Your mother left you to die.” The priestess steps forward, cradling an object swathed in dark linen. She lays the gift before Deimos and reveals a sword—the Sword of Damokles. “But I will give you new purpose, my child."
You stumble back from the Pyramid and glimpse Deimos, breath coming in sharp, shallow pulls. He stares down at you, his expression a storm of barely contained rage, but there’s a rawness, vulnerability even, that you’ve never seen before in him. "You saw it," he murmurs, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not the voice of Deimos—the Cult’s blade—but the voice of a broken man who has spent his life trying to reconcile with the prophecy spoken by Praxithea when he was only a babe. A prophecy that tore his family apart and doomed him to this life of pain and suffering.
You swallow, hard, and nod. "Yes."
Deimos reaches for you—rooted in place beneath the great bronze serpent. You’re unsure what the Cult’s champion will do. You imagine few in Hellas know the full truth of what happened that night on Taygetos and the years following as they molded him into nothing short of a monster. His callous fingertips brush against your cheek, and trail to stop at your neck, his hand hovering there. He leans closer, breath ghosting over your cheek. “If they know you can use the artifact...” Deimos doesn’t have to finish the statement for you to understand—it is a rare show of mercy.
PRAXITHEA TELLS YOU to take leave of the lesson. Between her two students, you have always excelled in learning and perfecting new teachings compared to Eupheme. A clear sign of the gods’ favor. At this point, it seems obvious you will be chosen to wear the title of the Oracle of Delphi—the highest servant of Apollo—after Praxithea.
Returning to the home Elpenor gifted you in Kirrha, you find Deimos sitting on your floor, his back and arm contorted to stitch a wound on his shoulder blade with one hand. You cross your arms, frowning—at both the sight of the Cult’s champion injured and the dark stain on prized Tyrian red and blue fabric. “You’re bleeding on my favorite rug,” you chide, stopping in the doorway with arms crossed.
He looks back and meets your gaze, a flicker of relief brightening his scowl. Sighing, you go to Deimos and kneel, taking the threaded needle from his blood-slick hands before sitting behind him. He doesn’t flinch or tense when the hot point passes through flesh. “Did you foresee this?” He asks. You think there’s a hint of humor in how he says it.
“Your stubbornness leading you to my home instead of Lykaon when you’re hurt?” You query in turn, equally amused. “The gift of foresight would not be needed for that,” you tell him. It’s a terrible habit of his, turning up unannounced and uninvited, more often than not covered in the blood of others and not his own—this time is an oddity, but you’ve found yourself in this moment before, too.
There’s a dry chuckle in Deimos’s throat, though it’s cut short by a sharp pull of the catgut thread through his torn skin. He exhales heavily, tilting his head slightly, but he still does not flinch—of course, he doesn’t. Pain is an old companion. One he has long since ceased to acknowledge. You work in silence, one stitch after another. “You should be more careful,” you murmur. A pointless request, but one you speak often in hopes he will listen one day.
Deimos snorts, shaking his head. “Careful?” He sounds appalled by the thought—being careful hasn’t won him battles or infamy. He is dread incarnate, ruthless, and indomitable. “Is that what you want me to be?”
Your fingers still for half a breath before you resume your work with a sigh. “I would prefer it over reckless,” you tell him. There are times you worry his wounds will be beyond your and Lykaon’s skills to mend. He may have Ares and Athena’s favor in battle, but he is only a man, in the end.
“You wound me,” he deadpans.
“You’re already wounded,” you retort, knotting the stitch and cutting away what’s left of the thread and needle. “But that’s hardly new.” He hums, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, but he does not argue. His hand lifts absently, fingers brushing over the back of yours where they rest against his shoulder. You’re always here for me, Deimos thinks. The voice in his head is quieter than usual. Even when you shouldn’t be.
Dark clouds gather on the horizon as you mix a sweet-smelling poultice to soothe the puckered skin around Deimos’s fresh stitches. And though he should return to Delphi and report on his mission in Achaia, he lingers, sipping watered wine and eating grapes with fresh cheese—content with this fleeting moment to be in your company.
He lingers until the summer storm takes hold of the evening—wind howling, rain lashing, and thunder rolling between flashes of lightning. It does not seem as if Zeus’s wrath will end before the morn breaks. “Stay,” you tell Deimos, seeing he means to leave. The Cult does not like him to roam Phokis at his own bidding—Praxithea will be none too happy to learn of this night either, but consequences be damned. A part of you has grown tired of the sacrifices required to please the gods. “I would not force you out in this storm.” As if commanded by your words, a clap of thunder rattles the small villa. You step closer to Deimos, reaching for his hands. “Stay,” you say again, softer this time. Not a demand. Not a command. A choice.
Deimos stays.
The first kiss is chaste. It’s careful—tentative. Just like the very first. His fingers brush along your jaw, moving back into your hair. Deimos’s breath catches—just barely—but you feel it warm against your lips. His eyes flick to yours, searching for something unspoken. You could pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.
And the second kiss…the second kiss is not chaste. His hand knots in your hair, pulling you closer as if the gods themselves might rip you from him if he loosens his grip. You melt into him, tasting salt and copper where a fresh split on his lip lingers as he urges you to lay back on the pallet of linen and silks.
“Deimos!” You gasp, pressing against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. Truthfully, though, you only want to pull him closer—you have since the first time he decided to kiss you by the falls of Lalaia. But the years of training and lessons under Praxithea and the Cult’s desire for you to succeed as the Oracle of Delphi scream at the forefront of your mind. “You know the Pythia must be untouched,” you remind him.
“I know,” he breathes, his voice low and rough. Deimos doesn’t move, still caging you between his musculature and the floor pallet. There’s something different in his eyes as he looks down at you, keeping your gaze —something dangerous. And it’s not just the raw strength and fury he carries into battle or the untamed rage that makes him the Cult’s Champion. It’s something treacherous, something he’s supposed to never feel. Longing.
“You’ll belong to the gods,” he says, the words taste bitter on his tongue. You and he are kindred. You should not belong to the gods; you should be with him. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Deimos’s eyes are burning with darkness and madness. He shifts, one hand cradling the back of your head, his thumb running over your jaw. The Pythia must remain pure. Sacred. Untouched by mortal desire and hands. You swallow the growing lump in your throat. “But what do you want?” Deimos asks.
It’s the first time anyone’s asked of your desires since Praxithea took you and Eupheme in. Your fingers tremble where they press against his chest. He is warmth, strength, and everything you have ever been told to resist. You want this. You want him—more than you’ve ever wanted to be the Oracle of Apollo, lying to the masses at the Cult’s bidding when you see truths in the Pyramid. Perhaps, in his own selfish way, this is another show of mercy, to save you from a life that now terrifies you.
Deimos tilts his head, waiting—daring—you to give a truthful answer. His breath is warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his question pressing against your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. What do you want? The words coil around your mind and heart like a snake, sinking its fangs into every doubt, every moment you’ve silenced your desires in hopes of appeasing the gods and the Cult. Everything to carry out your duties but still keep Deimos for yourself.
“You already know what I want,” you whisper, fingers curling around the back of his neck, under his matted and adorned locks. He almost smiles as his thumb traces the curve of your cheek, then lower, featherlight against the column of your throat. Possessive. Claiming. And yet, he hesitates. The Cult has stolen much—his childhood, his family, his identity. They have taken from you, too, twisting your visions, binding you to a fate you never chose. But this moment? It will only ever belong to you and him.
So, you do the only thing you’ve never been allowed to do. You pull him down—taking his face in your palms and angle his head in the way that you like best—and kiss him. Deimos groans into your mouth, surprised by your eagerness. Your lips part with his only for breath, and even then, he chases you—mouth brushing yours again in a kiss deeper, slower, more desperate than the first and the second. You’re not sure which of you is trembling more.
His lips leave your mouth, trailing along your jaw until settling just below your ear. “The gods cannot have you,” he breathes. The remnants of whatever resistance in you are lost to the wave of him, and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never felt before. You don’t know what to say, so, in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name. Said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell ever since he first kissed you. Deimos. He inhales sharply, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours.
You press against his uninjured shoulder, not to push him away, but to give yourself room to sit up, to breathe. He sits back on his haunches and sluggishly reaches for the linen ties holding your dress together, and you give him a small nod, encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugs upon the tie, the fabric sags upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, and then rise to step out of it altogether. His breath catches at the sight of you standing above him—flesh never touched, never kissed, never marked by a mortal.
Deimos’s jaw tightens, restraining himself from touching you as he pleases. But the longer he sits there staring—gawking like some clueless boy and reverential as a devotee at prayer—the more emboldened you become. You kneel in front of him and reach for the bronze pins at his shoulders, the ones keeping his dark chiton in place, and unfasten them. Deimos shrugs the linen away and lets you guide one of his rough hands to your chest as you lay back again amongst the linen and silks, pulling him with you.
“Touch me,” you whisper, noticing the way his tawny-gold eyes darken when his calloused palm fully embraces one of your breasts. It’s all the urging he needs. He surges forward, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw and neck meet, the stubble on his cheek scratching ragged against your flesh. He palms your breasts, reveling in your softness against his rough-hewn hands. The backs of his knuckles trail along your ribs, tracing along your hip until he squeezes the meat of your thigh. His mouth. His hands. It’s already almost too much.
And then his fingers find the weeping want between your thighs—all for him—and slide through your folds, gathering the slick there. You gasp, mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, and legs parting just a fraction more. Deimos watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, and your fingers twist into one of the blankets beneath you as he draws out the slow torture. But then, just as you want to speak protest, a finger slips into your cunt, curling pleasantly.
Nipping kisses bite and trail down your neck, leaving mark after mark as his finger slips in and out of you before easing in another. Your hips begin to roll of their own accord into the heel of his hand, craving the unfamiliar friction. Deimos feels his cock twitch beneath his loincloth with your little moans, incessantly throbbing and straining against the material, longing to be inside of you—to claim you as his own.
“They would have denied you this,” Deimos breathes at your ear. “You would have never known a man’s touch” —he moves quicker, and your breath hitches when his fingers move a certain way, catching a spot deep within that makes stars explode behind your half-lidded eyes— “never would have known my touch.” Your back arches from the pallet. It’s as if you’d been struck by the lightning and storm raging outside, body bristling with long-repressed pleasure, something only Deimos can cure. You reach for him, fingers twisting into his matted locks, beckoning him to kiss you again, and he does.
Your release is fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat flooding across your body with its intensity. Deimos’s name emerges from your lips as if it is the only word you know. He takes pride in being the first to see you like this. The first to make you feel like this. The pinnacle of your release makes you feel like you're floating, legs weak in the blissful aftermath. You exhale, chest heaving from exertion as you loosen your hold upon his dark hair.
Deimos withdraws his fingers from your warmth—glistening in the low light—and brings them to his mouth. He groans. It's as if he’s sampling the fruit of the gods. You shiver under the heat of his gaze, but then, he’s kissing you again. Open-mouthed, desperate, and rough. You cling to him, hands running over his chest, finding the scars on his arms and back.
He feels your fingers move towards the ties of his perizoma, and he doesn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitches, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat. Freeing his cock from its confines, you move yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your bottom. The flushed tip of his length nudges against your cunt, prompting you to sigh. “Please.”
In a sluggish descent, he lowers you onto his cock—gently as he can manage—the both of you shivering in tandem. The low, throaty groan that escapes him makes your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He’s big, but he fills you perfectly. Mouths dance together and then clash again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, and you brazenly give his lower lip a tug with your teeth. It’s messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing both of you to heel as you happily drown in desire and pleasure withheld for so long.
Your cunt is tight around him, slick with arousal as you continue to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Deimos’s heavy pants flutter across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw. His hands are resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.
Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths weave together, forming a heated cacophony that fills your chambers. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your flesh is mesmerizing, leaving a wave of goosebumps to crawl across your skin. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost makes you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. This must be better than even the Golden Fields of Elysium.
A burning sting begins to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you ride him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock spearing you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly draw yourself out and back down again.
“Gods,” You sigh, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry red crescents against his sun-kissed skin, you don’t want the feeling to end. “Deimos, please!” With a simpering moan, your head begins to roll back slightly. Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Deimos does not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guides you against his cock—the angle causes friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies wholly tangled up within one another.
He nips his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remains buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He holds you steadily, greedily. It’s his turn to take what he desires. One of your hands twists into his matted dark locks, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppers warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he lets you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.
Shameless strings of sinful noises leave you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Deimos groans with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxes you down towards the silk and linen pallet. With a brief bob of the head, you find yourself beneath Deimos, content between your thighs as he hitches one leg around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm slides down to your ankle before coming back up to wrap around your calf—you shiver at his touch, even with the warm, humid air and the building heat between the two of you.
Like this, Deimos can look upon your face and see the way your visage contorts into pure pleasure when he rocks forward, his cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin is flushed, and his expression is a mix of reverence and awe, even if you’re too lost to notice.
Your hands move, one finding purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace quickens. It’s a chase, galloping after his release as he bends to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you roll your hips into his. You don’t care if he’s a touch rough with you—gods, you needed him, just like this. Just as he is. Rough and brutal. Heat swirls within your stomach, gnawing at your bones and making your toes curl in delight.
“Deimos,” you cry, and that nearly sends him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost makes his resolve shatter into two. He’s lost count of how many times his cock has sank into you—it’s all blurring together. The inevitable rush of euphoria reaches him as his release comes, hot and blistering, making his vision blur. Teeth bared. He groans your name. Your nails dig into his bicep, a gasp torn from your throat when he thrusts into you again before stilling—his weight braced above you on trembling arms.
You coax him down, letting him rest atop you. He pillows his head upon your breast, breathing erratic but calming. You run your fingers through his damp hair, down his back. It’s a moment you’ll savor—a moment you may never have again. Another flash of lightning cuts through the warmth of the firelight, a clap of thunder following, but the silence between is longer. The storm is passing.
After a while, Deimos moves to lie beside you, half-propped on one arm, his tawny-gold eyes fixed on your face—the glow of the sheen of perspiration, the flush of your cheeks, and the soft smile upon your lips. He’ll commit it all to memory, just in case…he shakes away the dark thoughts of what the Cult would do if they knew. His other hand rests on your stomach, fingers spread out almost possessively.
For a long time, neither of you speak. Words feel clumsy, and there’s little to be said when actions speak so much louder. Eventually, you turn on your side and move closer to him, brushing a knuckle along the stubble on his jaw. Deimos. His name lingers in the air between you. He exhales, hearing you breathe his name like that is a balm and a fresh wound all at once. You curl farther into him, and his hand moves up, splaying across your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. Deimos rolls onto his back, drawing you with him, and you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Get some rest, my love,” you tell him. He presses a kiss to your temple—soft, a vow. You are his, and no man—not even the Cult or Praxithea—or god can have you now.
PRAXITHEA IS FURIOUS. Her protégé ruined. Years of meticulous training carelessly thrown away without a second thought—the marks on your neck speak unto themselves, as did your request to a servant for a cup of silphium tea. A moment of weakness, lust, and worldly desires. All things Apollo’s servant must be free of, immune to.
“You have been defiled!” She shouts, pacing before stylobate rostrum. “The Pythia must be chaste.” It was among the first lessons she taught you and Eupheme—to always shun the attention of men and love only Apollo. “A virgin!” Praxithea turns to face you, eyes burning with her fury and grips your face with bony fingers, nails digging into your cheek and jaw. If she cannot have you to do the gods’ bidding, then she must smite the man who had the gall to ruin you. “Who has sullied you?” The old oracle asks, voice like a serpent’s hiss.
You squeeze your eyes shut, flinching away but unable to escape the crone’s grasp. Heavy footfalls echo off the temple floor, and you meet Deimos’s tawny-gold eyes as he walks into the firelight of one of the braziers and smile, slowly, deliberately. There is no shame nor regret in your eyes or expression. Praxithea follows your gaze, and realization dawns upon her. “You.” She spits, turning to see the Cult’s champion—she should have known.
Deimos comes closer, his presence a tempest. His black-and-gold tunic hangs loose around his broad shoulders, and in the dim light, you can still see the faint crescents of your nails raking down his chest. Shadows flicker across his sharp features, his golden eyes gleaming with pride and defiance. You were meant for the gods, but now you are his.
Praxithea lifts her hand to strike you. Punishing Deimos is beyond her, but you are still her student and ward. “Hurting her would be unwise,” he grits out.
Deimos does not bow before gods or mortals. He does not shrink beneath the weight of an old oracle’s rage. He steps onto the dais as if to defile it further. Praxithea stiffens as he nears both of you. Her grip tightens on your jaw before she wrenches her hand away as though your flesh has burned her. Her fury is still palpable, though—eyes blazing with righteous wrath. “Of course, champion,” she placates.
You step away from Praxithea and to Deimos’s side, your choice made, and path changed. You will not serve as a false oracle. You will not be bound by Apollo and his temple. You are his. And the gods nor Praxithea can have you now…but the Cult, they will still get what they desire, one way or another.
THE ORACLE OF Delphi packs a small bag with shaking hands. She must leave, quickly, before more of the Cult soldiers arrive, or worse, their champion. Because of her, Elpenor is dead. And one of the only people in all of Hellas who has the power to stop the Cult now knows the workings of the shadow organization. You try to calm her when you arrive at the chora, but she is hysterical. “Eupheme, what is it?” You ask, pleading, taking her hands into your own.
“The sister came to me,” Eupheme admits. Kassandra. You have heard the name whispered in the shadows—have seen her in visions and memories not your own. “I must leave Delphi,” she cries. After facing the Monger, she needs to get far away from Phokis before it is too late. She stiffens in your embrace. “Deimos,” she utters, looking over your shoulder, her voice trembling. You step away from Eupheme—still grasping onto her hand—and turn, seeing him stride forth into the villa’s courtyard.
Eupheme’s grip on your hands tightens for a moment before she lets go, stepping back as though distance can protect her. But there is no outrunning Deimos—not here, not now. He tilts his head, seeing the Pythia’s plan clearly laid out—she means to run. You feel Eupheme’s breath hitch beside you—so soft no one else would notice. But you do. “I could take your head,” Deimos says, voice low and dangerous. “Just as Elpenor’s was taken.”
You step into his path when he moves forward, stopping him before he can reach the sitting Oracle with a hand flattened against the center of his golden breastplate. “Deimos, please” —his tawny-gold eyes flit down to you, his lips pressed into a taut line, the harsh lines between his brows lessen, if only a little— “Eupheme had no choice,” you tell him, a convincing lie.
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
You keep your hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath the plate. His body is tense, a coiled serpent ready to strike, but he hasn’t pushed past you—and you know he won’t. “I have foreseen this.” Another lie. “The Gods—Khaos and Kosmos—willed this to be.” You stand a far better chance against his wrath than Eupheme ever would, and for that, you will risk the storm to save a friend.
Deimos looks between you and Eupheme, jaw tightening, then he nods in the direction of the door—a noise somewhere between a sigh and grunt leaving his throat. “Go,” he tells the Pythia with reluctant restraint. Eupheme gathers her things and rushes out of the chora, fleeing into the night, and you know you’ll never see her again.
His attention returns to you—there’s a spark of danger in his eyes, burning gold in the firelight. Deimos reaches for you, his hand rising to rest on your cheek, and you close your eyes as his thumb trails across your cheekbone before slipping lower to your neck. “What else have you not spoken of?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks down his nose at you, fingertips pressing into flesh, but not ungently.
“Only that which will forfeit my life,” you tell him. And yours.
“Come with me.” It is not a request this time. You follow him from the villa—a white horse is waiting at the entrance. Deimos places you astride the beast's back, then mounts behind you, spurring the stallion toward the Sanctuary of Delphi high in the mountains. He doesn’t speak—never having been one for needless words—but the look in his eyes when you glimpse him over your shoulder is unfamiliar. Kassandra’s arrival in Phokis has shattered the careful balance of things. The old order crumbles, and in its place, chaos reigns.
The Temple of Apollo looms above. But it is not your destination. He brings you to the Cave of Gaia.
You look around the empty chamber and then down at the Pyramid, pulsating with energy even though the bronze plates are coated with blood and scattered around the floor—a remnant of his rage. “Why are we here, Deimos?” You ask, a whisper swallowed by stone.
"My sister," he starts, face twisting in anger. "She was here among the Cultists. I–" He stops himself, stops pacing too, jaw clenching. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His memory and hers are the same but different. For years, he knew the truth of his past. There was no doubt what happened that night on Taygetos, but now...Deimos shakes his head and looks at you. "I need to know," he tells you.
"Know what?" You challenge.
The truth, but his pride won’t let him say it. He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower than a whisper. "My fate."
You study him—can see his anger give way to something else. It nigh breaks your heart. You know he is not a god, not even a demigod, just a man, but to see him act as such. He’s never looked this vulnerable, broken. "You’ve never believed in fate,” you counter.
He exhales sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "Tell me anyway,” Deimos grits out.
Taking a long breath, you reach out to the Pyramid and let the artifact's power take over. There are flashes of red and blue flames and battles on land and sea, but he stands in gold-and-white, drenched in blood. “You walk the path of fire, but the flames do not consume you. Not yet.” And then there is a flicker of hope shining through the violence and suffering—redemption. Deimos doesn’t move. He barely breathes.
Your voice drops to a hush, yet your words strike him like a blade. "Blood calls to blood, Deimos.” You can see his sister and mother—and him—standing atop Mount Taygetos, an echo of the night when he was only a babe. Both he and Kassandra have their blades drawn, and Myrrine of Sparta weeps for her children, Kassandra and Alexios. “You will have to choose. Between the path of the serpent” —you look up at him— “and the path home.” His face twists, as though he will refute that this is his home, but before he can speak, you continue. “And you already know which will lead to your destruction.”
Sighing, you step around the Pyramid, your hands rising to cradle his face, to force him to focus on you—not the dark thoughts burrowing into his mind or the decades of lies. “Deimos.” The feather-soft whisper of his name brings his gaze to yours. Alexios. Your smile is faint, fleeting. He will not believe what his sister or mother says, but you—he hangs off your every word as though they are a lifeline. “When those who would name you Alexios, speak, you must listen.”
His fingers curl around one of your wrists, keeping your hand against his cheek. Everything will be different now—there will be no return to the old ways. And should the Cult learn of what you’ve told him this night…he dreads to think of what they will do. “You should leave too,” Deimos mutters. “I can no longer promise to keep you safe.”
THE SHIP WHICH will bore you away from Phokis and the Cult of Kosmos is The Nauplios, a merchant vessel bound for Thrace. They are meant to sail with the rising sun, but a full purse of drachma and jewels assures the cover of darkness will be an ally. Kirrha’s harbor is silent in the early morning, save for the wind rustling the rigging and cloth sails of the docked boats and triremes and the breaking of small waves against the pale stones and wooden piles. Deimos has come to watch you leave—his bidding is the only reason for your departure.
The captain nods for you to join them aboard, but you’re not ready. Lowering the hood of your chlamys, you turn to face Deimos—for the last, but not final time—you rise, settling your lips upon his. Deimos doesn’t move at first, but then his hand finds your waist, fingers tightening into linen and wool, pulling you closer. His lips are warm, windburned from the sea, and rough from battle, but they part beneath yours, answering in kind. The wind tugs at your cloak, urging you away, but you linger, pressing yourself into the heat of him as though pleading with him not to send you away. A shout from the ship reminds you that time is slipping through your fingers. The captain waits. The sails are ready.
“Remember,” you breathe against his mouth, fingers curling into the open neck of his black-and-gold chiton. “You are Alexios of Sparta before Deimos.”
His fingers curl around your wrist, holding you back from stepping aboard the ship. He knows he is not supposed to feel like this, but he has—for years. Deimos hesitates, keeping you with him for a moment longer before he finally ousts the reticent question haunting his every waking thought since the path forward became clear. “Do we meet again in this life?” He asks.
Deimos is relieved to see you smile—an answer on its own. Yes. You lift a hand to rest on his scarred cheek, thumb tracing the raised scar before slipping down, combing through the growing stubble on his jaw. “As strangers, my love,” you tell him softly, a glimmer shining in your eyes. “And as old friends.”
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