Redemption Lies Plainly In Truth

Deimos was trying to learn to love the little things.

He had been able to love the big things quite early on; Kassandra, his mater, Sparta… the things that he wanted to destroy at first. And then he realized that he had wanted to destroy everything, because all of it was perfect, so serene and sure in its place in the world, except for him.

His body seemed still, yet his brain screamed and pushed at the sides of his skull. The animal in him, the one he pushed down every morning in hopes of a better day, longed to be free; to trash market stalls and burn those who dared to defy him. But that’s what he was taught, what he was conditioned to do, and even though he found himself doubting everything at times, he knew in his core that he couldn’t be like that. Not after seeing the aftermath of his actions.

So, in these three years that he and his family had settled in Sparta, he had resigned himself to love the little things.

He was getting there, too.

Deimos loved the sound of the water fountain near his home, the feel of the smooth marble edge on his thighs as he sat on it. He loved petting the horses at the stable and he loved eating apples as he walked through town, giving the cores to the mares that the merchant had been trying to sell for almost two weeks at this point.

Like now, as he sat with a charcoal pencil and parchment, perched on the edge of the fountain. He felt peaceful, almost like he was truly at home.

Loving things in the day distracted him from the nightmares that plagued him in the night. Still, no amount of love can make his migraines go away, nor can it make the screaming stop of the hallucinations of blood dripping from the walls.

Is it his blood, or someone else’s?

Still, there were things Deimos hated. Things that made anger bubble in his chest, things that made him want to punch holes in walls and stab already-lifeless corpses.

He hated when people called him Alexios, although mater reminded him that Deimos was never his name, that she and his family had never wanted him to take on the name of the god of terror. But it was his name, it was for way too long, and his scars always burned when people called him Alexios. He was not Alexios. Alexios died on top of that gods-forsaken mountain, and he couldn’t just parade as someone he wasn’t as a way to push towards a forgiveness he didn’t have yet.

He hated when people laughed too loud, when they laughed from their stomach and not their chest. Deimos hated when people laughed like it was easy, because it had never been easy for him to laugh.

He couldn’t remember in his life, before he was reunited with his family, that he had actually laughed at someone. Not sneered, not given a pitiful, sarcastic chuckle at something that actually made him sick; he meant a real laugh, when warmth builds in your bones and you can’t help but show everyone around you that yes, what just happened amused me, look at how I’m able to relax around people, look how I’m not paranoid over strangers coming at me with knives and screaming until my ears bled.

He especially hated the way the soldiers looked at him. They never said anything, oh no, but he could tell what they were thinking. They didn’t think he deserved forgiveness. They didn’t think he deserved a chance at Spartan honor.

Maybe he didn’t, if he was entirely honest. Maybe he didn’t deserve this fountain, or the apples, or the horses or the market streets. Maybe he didn’t deserve Kassandra, or Stentor, or his mother.

Deimos gripped his pencil so tight he swears he hears it snap a bit. That’s not what brings him back, though; it’s his sister’s voice.

“Alexios!” Kassandra waves, further getting her sibling’s attention.

When Deimos turns, he sees three people; Kassandra, a woman to her right dressed in olive, and a man to Kassandra’s left in Spartan armor, specifically a general’s garb.

The muscled man sighed, closing his sketchbook. So much for a relaxing morning.

“Kassandra,” He says simply, standing to greet the small group. He sets his art supplies on the rim of the fountain next to him as he stands, making sure it’s balanced well enough that the parchment won’t fall into the water.

His sister is as boisterous as ever, a wide grin showing off her pearly white teeth.

The man next to her looked Deimos up and down, examining him in a way that makes the former villain mildly uncomfortable; he had the sharp eyes of people who knew who he was, and the upturned lip of a Spartan who didn’t much care who he wanted to be.

“This is Kyra, my… dear friend,” She motions to the woman to her right, who smiles and nods, but she doesn’t look Deimos in the eye. Even still, he gives a small head bow, muttering a greeting to her.

“And this is… Thaletas, Kyra’s friend. Thaletas, Kyra, this is my brother, Alexios.”

Thaletas is not afraid to look Deimos in the face. The two men lock eyes, and because his helmet is in his hands and his posture is tall, Deimos can watch the officer’s Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard.

“They led a revolution against a corrupt Athenian leader on the Silver Islands.” Kassandra says what Deimos already knows, maybe because she’s unaware of that fact, or maybe because she just wants to pretend that he didn’t know anything. “Turns out, he ended up being tied to the Cult, and…”

Kassandra trails off. Kyra looks away, the hand on his misthios sister’s arm probably being the thing that stopped her rambling.

Deimos swallows, and nods, because he’s used to this. He’s used to Kassandra slipping up, mentioning the Cult and what they did, and he’s used to people treating him like he’s insane, like he’ll snap as soon as they mention the cult he led for so, so, so many years.

Too many years.

His headache is coming back now.

Yet, Thaletas does not avert his gaze, not like Kassandra and Kyra. He is not staring, and he is not making eye contact anymore; but he is nodding thoughtfully and he is not cowering like he’s scared of a man who left everything but a dagger in his boot at home today.

“Why are they here?” The words come out far harsher than they sounded in his head, but Deimos does not correct himself. He stands a little taller, digging his nails into his forearm as they stay casually crossed.

Kassandra is glad for the distraction. “Kyra wanted to visit, to see Sparta with me, and Thaletas is on leave until further notice. Right?”

Thaletas nods. “That’s right. I’ve missed Sparta.”

Deimos’ eyes fall back to the officer.

His voice is rough and thick with accent, but the words flow like honey off his tongue and Deimos has never heard a voice that he wanted to listen to more than Thaletas’. Gods, he barely said anything, yet here Deimos is, silently hoping for more.

Deimos simply hums in response, averting his gaze back to his sister. She was easier to look at; he knew her face, and he sure as Hades did not want to trace his eyes over the scars and lines on her cheeks.

Kassandra kicks dirt up, looking at her sandals, and Deimos knows that this is going to be good. “Kyra and I have plans for the day, but Thaletas said he wanted to see the woods. You know what I’m talking about, Alexios-”

“I’m not taking him there.” He holds up a hand, desperately keeping it from shaking.

She frowns, and Deimos curses internally. “I know why you don’t want to, but you know it well, and he deserves to know it, too.”

“We said it’s ours-”

“It’s for people dear to us, too.” Kassandra’s frown deepened. “Both of them are dear to me.”

He knows what she’s trying to do. He doesn’t need someone. He doesn’t need a friend, or a lover, or whatever Kassandra is planning. He doesn’t need someone to talk to, to spill his feelings to.

Deimos doesn’t need someone to share apples with and to pet the mares with. He doesn’t need someone to walk through the market with him. He thought he did, at first. But then, he realized that no one wanted to be that for him. So he didn’t need it.

But Kassandra looks genuinely upset, and Thaletas’ eyes have become hard again.

Deimos sighs, rubbing his temples. His headache is slowly progressing from a rock to the sides of his head to a training mace, and he wants to scream in their faces and tell them to leave him alone.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll show him.”

Kassandra grins. She grins, and Deimos’ headache subsides just a little bit. “Thank you-”

Shut up.” He grabs his art supplies, tucking the pencil behind his ear. “Just shut up.”

She does, but her grin does not fade.

He finally, finally, lays his eyes back on Thaletas. Kassandra and Kyra say goodbye, but he doesn’t hear it, not really, not even as he nods.

After a silent moment, the officer clears his throat. “Where are we going, anyway? Kassandra wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Deimos blinks, then nods, then starts down the road, towards the hills. “Kassandra found it when we was young, with our mater. She showed it to me when we came back here. It’s been hidden all these years.”

He follows at a steady pace next to Deimos. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

Deimos chuckles, but it’s not a laugh. “It’s better if I don’t ruin the surprise. Kassandra will get angry if I do.” His fingers tap against the leather of his sketchbook as he walks, a pattern slowly forming. It calms his mind, helps him try to keep his head facing the road.

Thaletas nods. There’s a slightly-awkward silence for a few heartbeats, before the officer speaks, and Deimos knows he will, not because he wants to, but because he’s the type to think that the person with him will want him to.

“Er, Alexios…”

“Deimos.” The correction comes out before he can even really think about it, before he can rationally decide if that’s really where he wants his morning to go. But it's where it's going now, and he will not correct himself. Not today, not tomorrow, not when the seasons change again.

Thaletas dips his head, and the smile on his face is the one you adopt when you’re dealing with stubborn children. “Your sister said that if I started calling you ‘Deimos’, she’ll eat my eyes.”

“That sounds like Kassandra. But it’s not her name to choose.” He breathes in. Then out. The sun is burning his eyes. “I don’t like Alexios.” He didn't. He hated Alexios. It didn't sound like his name, it wasn't his name, it sounded like being addressed as a stranger. Or if you had a secret identity, one only you knew, and everyone's using a fake name, one you stick with because it's nothing like you.

“Why?”

Deimos swallows. The lump in his throat isn’t quite pushed down, and he’s afraid he’ll choke on his own anxiety, but he’s okay, he’s not choking, and he has to answer the question somehow.He has to answer the question, and he has to pretend that his head isn’t killing him and that the blood-soaked body he sees out of the corner of his eye isn’t there, even though it is, just for him.

“Because it was a promise. One I didn’t keep.”

Thaletas wants to, but he does not ask any more questions.

------------------------------

The rest of the walk was spent in a comfortable silence, the only noise coming from the forest around them. After what felt like forever, Deimos approached the entrance to the small clearing, Thaletas none the wiser to where they were going exactly.

This was probably because the only way to know the entrance was one of two ways. The first way was to accidentally fall backwards into the tree branches, only to find out that the branches were not really branches, just lots of leaves. The second way was to know the person who accidentally fell backwards into the trees.

“This way,” Deimos said shortly, pushing back the thin branches and tons of leaves for Thaletas.

“Through there?” He was still holding his helmet under his arm.

“Yes. Come on, I can’t hold this all day.”

He watched Thaletas’ glistening orbs move wildly as he examined his surroundings. And then he stepped through the entrance.

Deimos followed, letting the branches fall back into place.

Thaletas gasped, gently letting his helmet fall to the soft, leaf-ridden ground.

In front of the two men were the ruins of some sort of altar, the only things left being half-ruined marble pillars, the white stone base, and an equally-as-white altar in the middle. Vines and flowers grew through every crack they could find, like weeds invading a sacred place. On the altar sat more flowers, but these were plucked, vibrant colors or yellows, pinks, purples, and reds.

“This is…” Thaletas didn’t finish his sentence. Deimos didn’t need him to.

“We named it the Shrine of Myrrine. She isn't dead, of course, but she... deserves one nonetheless.” Deimos finds his eyes wandering, too, even though he's seen every inch of his place, hundreds of times. He's ran his fingers over every rough spot of marble, smelled every type of plant in the clearing, spent mornings and nights figuring out which part of the day her preferred it to be when he visited.

Thaletas’ sandals crunched autumn leaves in half as he walked around the shrine, soaking its isolated beauty in.

Deimos soaked in Thaletas.

His jaw was sharp, a fair-sized braid almost long enough to rest on his shoulder. Lines creased around his lips and cheeks, scars littering his arms where his armor did not provide him protection. His skin was dark, darker than Deimos', but then again, Deimos hadn't gotten enough sun in his life and his armor never helped his complexion. The sunlight gave him the illusion of a halo.

But, of course, Deimos had heard of Thaletas, and he knew what really lied in wait for him.

How couldn’t he? At the time, him and his then-fiance were unravelling his work at the Silver Islands. And although he now saw that the officer’s cause was just, he had no halo. There would be no halo for Thaletas when he passed. Just like himself.

They give halos to scholars and poets and philosophers that tell us things we already knew, just in a different way.

Warriors do not get halos.

“Deimos?”

Deimos blinks. He was staring. Thaletas noticed.

“I-”

Thaletas raised an eyebrow. “Did you hear me?”

“Oh, no. No, I didn’t.”

“I asked you what it was like.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“The cult. What was it like?”

The cult.

The thing that destroyed his life. The thing he can’t get rid of. They tortured him. They hurt him, over and over, because it’s 'how you survive'. He was used, like a pawn, he was no king. Disposable, yet so mighty. He felt true power, and true fear. They'd slice into his flesh, over and over again, and then tell him that his blood was holy, that his blood was sacred, that every drop he bled, from him and from others, was to gain the favor of a god he did not believe in anymore.

“Complicated,” Deimos admitted after a long, long moment in thought. He sat in the grass. It was cool against his palms and legs. “I wouldn’t go back, if that’s what you’re asking. I love Sparta.”

He does. But, then again, that’s what he’s supposed to say. He’s supposed to lament about how he’s given up his treacherous ways, and how he’d lay down his life in an instant if it meant serving Sparta. But he wouldn’t. Deimos would not do that for any country, for any group, for any one. He would not commit himself to something so fully like that, not again.

Thaletas nodded thoughtfully, walking over to Deimos slowly. He sat next to him in the grass, looking up at the sky through the treetops.

“You sat alone this morning. Is that always the case?"

Deimos nodded slowly. “Usually.” His fingers found the grass, and he pulled at it, ripping the green plants from their earthly home. The blades of grass felt nice in between his fingers, so he rubbed. He rubbed until they didn't feel good anymore; after a few seconds, they became hot and itchy, so he'd let them drop back onto the earth.

“I’m here for a while, and I doubt Kyra and Kassandra will leave each other’s presences for very long.” He looked at Deimos, who turned his head as well, watching the officer lick his lower lip.

“Kassandra is very particular about her lovers,” Deimos stated, his voice low.

“So she is.” A wistful sigh, with a stark lack of pining.

“You were saying about me being alone?”

Thaletas turned back to the shrine. “The sketchbook, the pencil. You draw, right? Sketch, like a lofty artist from Athens?”

He ignored the jab, because frankly, Deimos wanted to know where this conversation was going and why there was a pit in his stomach. “When I can focus. And when I’m not training.”

Because he did train, too. But training made the hallucinations and the headaches worse, and after an hour, he always had to stop. He’d buy an apple, use his knife to cut off chunks as he walked. He’d pet the horses.

“I’ve always wanted to be sketched, like a model. Maybe you could sketch me.”

Deimos’ earthen orbs found Thaletas’ eyebrows, which could use a little work. They explored the way his bangs fell over his forehead, and the way his face softened when he wasn’t concentrated on anything in particular and the way he wet his lips after grinning at his own jokes.

“I doubt an officer like you could sit still long enough for me to get more than a stick figure drawn.”

Thaletas grinned again, and Deimos’ breathing stopped for the slightest of moments.

“I’ll try, just for you, Deimos.”

His name on Thaletas’ tongue sounded so sweet, it was almost like they had never been on different sides of a war. But there were barbs that dug into his body, locking that pit in his stomach in place.

Deimos closed his eyes, and the world drifted away, just for a moment.