Redemption Lies Plainly In Truth

In Deimos’ dream, Thaletas isn’t wearing his armor.

He’s dressed in a white robe, a gold woven belt giving it some shape. He looks peaceful, happy even, sitting on a bed of flower petals atop a small mountain which overlooks the ocean.

Deimos approaches him, without very much thought to it. That’s usually how his dreams went, anyway; it was a time to just do, not to think or contemplate or worry. He does feel a warm sensation in his gut though, that’s slowly blossoming to other parts of his body. He registered it as affection, and then instantly came to loathe it, even in his dream.

The sun was radiating down on the Spartan, illuminating his chocolate eyes, that glistened with a delight Deimos hadn’t ever seen in anyone. There was a bowl of olives next to him, barely touched.

Neither of them said anything, although Thaletas looked as if there were words on the tip of his tongue. Words he could not say, not yet at least. Deimos wasn’t sure exactly how he knew that; he just did, and it was true.

“One day,” Thaletas started, and his voice was smooth and shook Deimos’ bones. “We will sit here, on this mountain. And we will smile. Really smile.”

He couldn’t even feel his mouth, or his tongue, but he knew he was speaking. “I haven’t smiled in a long time.”

Thaletas didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, the Spartan promptly ignored him. “I long to enjoy the little things with you.”

What does that even mean? He wanted to ask that, to ask a million questions, but no words came out.

“Deimos.”

He tried to answer, assuming that the Thaletas in front of him had been the one to speak, but his mouth would not move and no sound came out.

“Deimos!”

The aforementioned man shot upwards, painfully aware of the rough cloth of the cot under him.

Of course. The mountain, the olives, the happy Thaletas was all a dream. He was actually in a small tent, as far away from the Polemarch’s own tent as possible, on an uncomfortable cot in the middle of what he considered to be a mental and physical warzone.

He looked up at Thaletas -the real Thaletas, with hard eyes and fresh wounds and his scuffed up armor- as he tried to blink the sleep from his eyes. Deimos was pretty sure that Thaletas was glaring, but he didn’t really know; he never looked anyone in the eyes, not really, and he wasn’t about to start.

“Do you fucking hear what’s going on?”

Well, now he did. Screaming. Deimos heard screaming, battle cries, too. The clashing of swords.

And suddenly, for a moment, he wasn’t in the tent anymore. He was trapped under a tree, Kassandra looming over him.

“Deimos!”

But now he was back, and Thaletas was offering his sword to him, which he supposedly picked up off the floor. It was glowing, but Thaletas didn’t seem deterred.

Deimos grabbed the sword, standing up. His head was still swimming; he wasn’t entirely sure what was real and what was still lingering memories, pieces of dreams, but somehow Thaletas felt so grounding, so there, that a surge of confidence filled him. “Who’s attacking?”

“Who do you think?” Thaletas’ voice is sharp and rough, just like his hands, his eyes, his mouth, just like the sword in his hands. “Nefeli and her group found us.”

Deimos cursed lowly, already halfway out the tent before Thaletas caught up to him. The sword was glowing harder now, and he could feel the magic in his hands, his arms, his chest. And then it turned to rage, and he charged straight into the mess of the battle.

How? They were planning on enacting the plan in the morning. A million possibilities ran through Deimos’ head as his sword started to dimly glow. Did someone overhear their conversation and report back to Nefeli? It was the most logical answer, although all it did was fuel his rage even more.

Bodies and blood clashed with each other, the cries of men and the pang of metal against metal filling his ears, his head, until he couldn’t hear anything more than the pumping of his own heart.

The demigod’s sword cut through bodies like butter. Fleshy, bony butter, sure, but the skills of battle came back to him like remembering your favorite lines of poetry. Deimos’ last real battle had been a long while ago, sure, but he remembered every vital organ, every line where you should cut to watch your enemy die, slow enough that you have a moment of an odd peace with yourself.

And then Deimos would move on to the next Cult member, and the cycle of bloodlust would repeat.

At some point, Thaletas had joined Deimos’ side. At first, he didn’t see him- he felt him, felt his aura, his anger, his fear and his regrets. For a heated moment, as they took out Cultist after Cultist, they were connected. Bonded together, forged by the fire of battle.

There were no differences. Deimos was no more of a beast than Thaletas was, and Thaletas was no more of a Spartan than Deimos was. They were just warriors, just swords with men attached to them.

Men with emotions. Emotions that they could address after.

The battle couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, yet to Deimos, it felt like centuries. When it did end, as well as a battle could end, he took in a gasping breath, looking at Thaletas.

Thaletas stared back. There was a flicker in his eyes, his golden armor soaked with blood.

The supposed demigod wasn’t entirely sure which part of him right now was more attractive. He knew he was covered in blood as well; that familiar sticky sensation covered his arms, his neck, his face, his armor… he vaguely wondered if Thaletas found that attractive, too.

Then Thaletas was smiling. No, grinning. And then he was closing the gap between them, and his lips were bloody, but they were so close and Deimos could feel his breath against his own skin-

The moment was shattered when the sound of horses could be heard over the hill. Deimos pulled away quickly, gripping his bloody sword in hand to face who was coming.

Somehow, he knew before he had even seen her face. He knew because there was a stifling sense of doom that followed her. That had followed him, at one point, too. Maybe it still did, he wondered as the woman came to a halt, a guard on either side of her. Maybe he gave off the same dread that Nefeli did, the type that made people kneel.

Deimos stepped forward, his grip on his sword loosening. He was not a soft person, nor one for nostalgia. But her face -his friend’s face- had not changed, not since he defected and left her behind.

‘Left her behind’ was a little harsh on himself. He tried to save her, to bring her back to Sparta; he told her that he’d find her a job, something to do, even if he couldn’t promise that. Her response? Well, she stabbed him in the shoulder.

It’s about what he was expecting. In fact, it was the optimistic outcome- she could have aimed for the throat, after all.

“Deimos.” Nefeli smiled, but it was more of a snarl. “How lovely to see you cohorting with the horse shit on the bottom of my sandal. You fit well with them, you know.”

The Spartan soldiers looked like they wanted to pounce. To rip her to shreds for what she had done to so many just like them. Thaletas had the same look in his eye, but when Deimos stepped forward, he let him.

It wasn’t Thaletas’ battle, after all. Not really. Not like it was Deimos’.

He wanted to retort with something witty, something that might make Thaletas laugh, at another point in time. But he didn’t. He couldn’t find the energy, not even with the adrenaline from battle still pumping through his veins. “Nefeli,” He managed. “Nefeli.”

The second one was more certain; his tone was harsher. It was a warning and he meant it.

She just laughed. “You still have a chance, you know. The Sages may not take you back, but I will. You could be my loyal hound once again.”

This was fucking bullshit. Loyal hound? He was never anyone’s loyal hound. Unwilling pawn, sure, but hound? To Hades with the thought that he’d ever submit like a lapdog, especially to the likes of Nefeli.

The anger was bubbling in his chest again, threatening to spill over and take control of his body again. Deimos pushed it down as best he could. He hadn’t spent the year without Thaletas suppressing unwanted emotions for nothing.

“In your dreams would I take pity on you and come back.” And yet here he was, moving forward, the textured feel of the sword’s hilt against his palm. “The Cult has caused so much pain, too much pain; why can’t you see that?”

Nefeli narrowed her eyes. “Because blood spilled in the name of rebirth is blood I’m willing to spill.”

Rebirth. He had that drilled into him since the first day of training. The Cult wanted the entirety of Greece to go through a rebirth; a slaughtering of innocents to make way for the oppressors.

He could faintly hear Kleon’s voice, in the back of his head. Whispers of greater things, all while telling him of his worthlessness without the Cult, wrapped into one big package of a mindfuck that Deimos wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, who he wasn’t even sure of anymore.

“Leave.” His voice was low, and he ignored the look Thaletas gave him. He wouldn’t understand. “Leave, and I’ll never look for you ever again.”

He had trouble imagining his sword in her neck. She was far from good, sure, but Nefeli was his friend at one point. They hunted boar together. They escaped capture together. They had ruthlessly slaughtered innocent people together.

But she was not the Nefeli that Deimos had seen when he was in the cult. Maybe it was the lenses he was looking through, but… this was just a shell of a woman. A cold outer being that just killed, and drank, and did whatever she was told. This was no Nefeli.

“You know I can’t do that, Deimos,” She clicked her tongue, almost scoldingly. “We all have our time, when the Gods come to collect us. I do believe it’s yours now.”

He let out a breath. That stubbornness had been endearing, once, in a big sister sort of way. Now, it just made his heart ache. “Alright.” With a small nod, Deimos stepped back, now next to Thaletas again.

The Spartans took this as their cue, rushing towards the three Cultists. Nefeli tried her best, but even with the skills she had tied to her belt, she was outnumbered.

Deimos just… watched. He couldn’t bring himself to join in on the beating- because that’s what it was. They hadn’t killed her, not yet.

They were angry, he understood that. If it was anyone else, he’d probably do the same. But he was frozen in place now, next to Thaletas, who didn’t move either.

When the soldiers were done, they stepped back, leaving a gasping Nefeli. Deimos’ feet moved on their own again, and he was suddenly kneeling next to her. The woman looked up at him, wide eyed, searching for a sliver of pity- but she found none in Deimos’ hard, unmoving face.

“Who sent you here?” He’d give her a chance, he reasoned. “Tell me, Nefeli, because you don’t have much left.”

“Fuck-” She coughed, blood running down from her nose to her mouth. “Go fuck- yourself…”

Deimos sighed. Expected. She’d never give in or back down, never. Not for him, not anymore.

“I see.” He smiled, just a bit, and watched Nefeli’s eyes soften. “Sounds just like you, Nefeli.” He cupped her cheeks, and she laughed weakly.

“Deimos- Deimos, you’ve… grown soft, old friend-” She was still smiling, and he forced his own to widen.

“No. I haven’t.”

There was a sickening crack as her neck snapped, Nefeli’s head limp in his hands. Deimos did not pull away. He kept her head in his hands for a moment.

War. It was always about war with her. She lived it, breathed it. And she died in the middle of it. It was fitting; Deimos was almost convinced it’s how he wanted to go out, too.

He let go, standing up. There was blood on his armor, his arms, his hands and his face. Deimos couldn’t bring himself to care.

He walked to her now-dead horse, opening the messenger bag. Like he guessed, there was a tablet in there. He didn’t read it. He just grabbed it, walked to Thaletas, shoved it into the Spartan’s arms, and walked to the tent the soldiers had given him for the night.

“Deimos-”

He heard Thaletas. He totally did. But he didn’t have the energy to respond, to tell the good Polemarch anything, to talk about how it felt like being choked and having a weight lifted off his shoulders when he snapped her neck, all at the same time.

He had dealt with everything alone, for so long. He didn’t need Thaletas.

--+--

That night, after they had counted their wounded, prayed for their dead and burned the bodies of their enemies, the Spartans celebrated. They laughed, they drank, they joked and sang.

Thaletas joined in, because of course he did, it was basically mandatory. To have a Polemarch who could not only fight with his men, but laugh with them too, that was the true way to lead an army.

Deimos hung back towards his tent, preferring to watch. The cheerful night was tainted for him with memories of a life that had long past him.

He caught Thaletas’ eyes as the Spartan turned. His lips were upturned in a smile, a silent beckoning of Deimos.

He mouthed something that looked like ‘come on’, to which Deimos just shook his head again. Absolutely not. He will not go over there and pretend to be buddy buddy with Spartan soldiers, even if it was an excuse to sit next to Thaletas.

And then the Spartan made an exacerbated face, like he had a right to be frustrated, and he was coming towards Deimos, leaving the warm fire and his men behind, leaving them for the darkness that the ex-cultist was sulking in.

“You know, Deimos,” He starts when he’s close enough to Deimos where he can speak in a low tone, “We really haven’t had a chance to catch up.”

In the current position, Thaletas was shoulder-to-shoulder with him, Deimos’ eyes trained on the fire. Anything but Thaletas.

“Catch up? What is there to catch up on?” He couldn’t help it. His voice was harsh. There was no letting go with him. He just lets memories and experiences fester and control him until he snaps. “You left me for a year, Thaletas. Do you want me to go through every day of that year without you, hm? After our night on the mountain?” He crosses his arms, vaguely reminded of a time Kassandra told him that the motion was just someone giving themselves a hug when they felt scared. He tried not to laugh, too.

Thaletas took a breath, his voice catching in his throat for a moment. “I had a duty to my-”

“You can stop that.” Deimos glanced at him. “I will never understand how you can put a country over someone you claim to… be attracted to.”

The Spartan sighed. “I know. But Sparta has been there for me. When you were actively fighting against it, mind you.”

It stung. The dark-eyed man tried not to let it, but it did. He wasn’t even sure if Thaletas meant it like that, but it put them in two very different categories nonetheless. He would always be the enemy, and Thaletas would always fight against him, or what he represented, no matter how many times they kissed under the moon or pretend like their touches meant nothing.

Deimos wanted to strike him for that comment alone, but Thaletas’ voice was so calm, so even, that he couldn’t find the nerves in himself to raise his fist.

“How many times do I have to stumble through my defense with you?” He hadn’t ever, actually, even though technically there was one. Hundreds of sleepless nights would lead you to forming a defense for yourself, too, even if there was no one to tell it to.

Thaletas chuckled, like he found it ironic, and the noise burned into the back of Deimos’ mind. “Zero times, actually. I know it wasn’t your fault. Kassandra filled me in on the things you wouldn’t answer.”

Of course she did, because that is exactly something Kassandra would do. She had to tell everyone with an ear to listen about how damaged he was, how she saved him from the clutches of that dastardly cult, but those people will never ask him what it was like on the inside, what he actually felt, how he feels now… he’ll never get the luxury of someone caring like that. Or the curse, depending on how you looked at it. He’ll never be a person to everyone. He is simply a symbol, a walking character from a play.

Demios scoffed. “Not surprised. You know I didn’t tell you those things for a reason, right?”

“A reason that I struggle to grasp the concept of, yes, but I suppose a reason nonetheless.”

A beat of silence. There were so many questions Deimos wanted to ask; honestly, he had always wanted to ask the Spartan everything. About his life, about Sparta, about war- real, true war, not what he had fought in.

But he didn’t. Thaletas spoke again.

“Does it matter if I say sorry?”

“It can never hurt.” That’s a lie.

Thaletas chuckled, but it didn’t last, and it wasn’t really a laugh. “I’m sorry, Deimos.”

Deimos breathed. In. And out. His body was on fire. Thaletas was too close, he was too kind and too understanding. None of this should be real.

“I want to know so much about you,” He admitted in a mutter, hearing Thaletas’ breath hitch. “Tell me everything.”

It was a primal demand. He needed to know this man’s life, inside and out. He knew quite a bit- well, he knew what Podarkes told him, but that was always to be taken with a grain of salt. A large, heavy grain of salt, that did no favors to the real Thaletas.

But the real Thaletas was next to him, touching him, the skin that collided with the Spartan feeling like it was on fire. Someone had lit a torch and Deimos had no intentions of stomping it out. He wanted it to consume him, for him to become one with the fire, the flames, the way they sat on his heart and made him feel like the beast he was.

“Only if you do the same.”

Of course. He knew that was coming. It was a give and take in relationships, or so he had been told. Taking was so easy; giving was harder.

But Thaletas was offering him something. He required something from Deimos, yes, but this was the only chance to get what he wanted.

Deimos stared at the fire across from him, pursing his lips for a moment.

“I can try.”