#acfic

Alexios is… fine, honestly, although by fine Stentor mostly just means manageable. Fine is a fucking stretch, but then again the war’s left them all a little fucked in the head. Do they bicker? Certainly. Have they been known, to Myrrine’s dismay, to throw hands in order to resolve arguments, even when the situation definitely does not call for a physical method of conflict mediation? Without hesitation. But it’s been a few weeks since their last brawl, and nowadays Alexios seems to just glower and crack his knuckles, which is both a surprise and a bit of a disappointment.

(That is his name, right? Or is it still Deimos? Does it depend on the day?)

(They will almost certainly break their no-fighting streak if Stentor asks, which does not seem worth it for an answer that doesn’t matter anyway, because it’s not like he and Alexios have a relationship that can be categorized beyond begrudging tolerance.)

But megalomaniac-in-recovery or no, the reason his stepbrother’s growing reticence is, in a final analysis, a disappointment is this:

The world does not do well with emptiness, Stentor has found. A gap in a phalanx will be filled with enemy soldiers coming for blood. An unconquered region will soon crawl with spies, then soldiers, then politicians. A father who has lost his children will seek a protege to call his son.

It is the natural way of things, that a space created is just a space to be filled by something else. Rarely will this something else be a perfect stand-in for that which was removed to give it room to fill and settle, but the fact remains: it is there now, and the world shifts to accommodate.

Thus, a sudden lack of hostility on his stepbrother’s part means it is only a matter of time before his cocksure stepsister comes to fill it, and Stentor’s time has just run out.

He can keep his temper, most days—but when Kassandra has the gall to throw an arm around his shoulder, as if everything is suddenly merry and good and right between them, as if this is something she has done all their lives, and calls him her baby brother… this is exactly what Stentor is not looking forward to accommodating, and before he can stop himself he is elbowing her in the chest, then smacking her upside the head.

“The fuck was that for?” Kassandra yells, and Nikolaos’ house is not big enough to contain the volume of her shouting, and Stentor really fucking misses the damn quiet.

“I’m not your baby brother,” he growls.

This, it turns out, is the wrong thing to say, because Kassandra simply bursts into laughter.

In Stentor’s defense, it’s not as if he’s ever had any siblings to deal with before. The syssitia does not count. His brothers-in-arms are not so juvenile.

(Once, when they were younger, his friend Tisias goaded him into helping catch slugs to put in Herakleitos’ sandals. Apparently Herakleitos had said something insulting about Tisias’ mother. That is not the same.)

“I don’t know what the fuck Brasidas sees in you,” he tells her instead, and it’s a moot point but it’s better than continuing to think about slugs.

“Do you want an itemized list?” Kassandra asks, eyes alight with glee. (Gods, Stentor wants to hit her again… can he hit her again?) “I can go into as much sordid detail as you’d li—”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Stentor interrupts through gritted teeth.

“Whatever you say, bab— little brother,” she replies with a smirk. “Is that better?”

“No.”

“Fine. Stentor. I depart with my ship in two days’ time. I know you’re on leave, so if you’d like to join me, the offer stands. Alexios is coming, too. We have a lead on some corrupt merchants who are smuggling intelligence to the Athenian navy.”

“Stuck on a ship with a mercenary and a barely-pardoned war criminal,” Stentor says slowly, “who also happen to be my insane step-siblings. That sounds—”

Torturous.

Noisy.

Productive.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters.

Kassandra beams, and has the gall to ruffle his hair before taking off faster than Stentor can yelp or throw a punch in retaliation.

“Fuck,” he says, to no one in particular.

The Siren Song sits ashore, waves lapping at the hull, and Myrrine pulls herself unceremoniously up its sides, hand over hand, finding purchase in the wooden slats; she knows her ship too well by now for a little sea-spray on the hull to best her.

Climbing relaxes her. It is in her blood.

Kassandra, too, had loved to climb.

Her dream returns to her then, and she is surprised to remember that it is not one of falling, but of climbing. Why Kassandra had taken it upon herself to strap little Alexios to her back before scaling the face of Taygetos, Myrrine will never know. It is not for her to know. All she knows is the fear that gripped her heart, cold and vicelike, the cry that died in her closed-up throat before she could think to put words to it. And Kassandra and Alexios, moving ever higher, ever onward, forever out of her reach, and the emptiness in her outstretched hand as it closed around the space her children once occupied—that alone was worse (is worse) than any screeching ghosts to which she has become accustomed.

Slow down, she remembers calling out. And: be careful. And: wait for me.

Wait for me.

A mother needs her children as much as children need their mother, but Myrrine is not a mother.

It has been five years.

“I am leaving,” she tells Xenia in the morning, while the crew busies themselves preparing to resume their travels home. They will reach Keos in a few hours, to rest and regroup, and Myrrine will stay the course until then. But after that—

“You are a good pirate,” Xenia tells her. “One of the best I’ve ever known. Where will you go, Phoenix?”

In a way, it is easier to answer to a name her mother never gave her. It is easier not to think about those things at all.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. But I can’t stay.”

They bid their farewells through clasped forearms and curt nods, and Myrrine would not have it any other way.

Timo, on the other hand, calls her a fucking idiot.

“You don’t have to come,” Myrrine sighs, ignoring the sinking feeling in her chest. They have come so far from the hallowed temple-halls of Korinthia, but perhaps it is time for their paths to diverge. She has never known the Fates to smile down upon her for very long; why should this be any different?

“Don’t be stupid,” Timo grumbles. “Who else is going to make sure you stay fed, and don’t get us both kicked out of every taverna we visit along the way? Of course I’m coming with you, and I’d love to see you try and stop me.”

And that is the end of that.

“You don’t know where we’re going, do you?” Timo adds. But it is not accusatory, and they have known one another far too long to be anything less than truthful.

“East,” replies Myrrine. “Probably. I don’t know. I hope I’ll know when I get there.”

Timo raises an eyebrow. “Ever onward?”

The hunting spear is light in her hands when she pulls it from the weapons-rack by the door; she wonders absently if she should swap it for the heft of a battleaxe. But she needs to be swift, needs something she can carry while running, a weapon that is simultaneously far-reaching and agile. Just in case…

Just in case.

“I’m going to get some air,” she says. “Lock the door behind me.”

“Nothing is coming, Kassandra.”

She knows even without turning around that Brasidas is frowning.

Nothing will come. Nothing has ever come. We are safe. You are safe. The girls are safe.

He has whispered these things a hundred times or more. Sworn by all the gods, by the sun and the moon and every star that hangs in the sky:

You are safe. You are home.

Home is where nothing will ever, ever harm you.

“Lock the door behind me,” she repeats. “Don’t open it unless I knock twice, then once, then twice again.”

She doesn’t start down the stairs until she hears the heavy bolt sliding into place behind her.

The breeze has blown clouds to cover the moon; what little light seeps through washes the farm in dull greys, but Kassandra knows the terrain well enough by now—has tread this path enough times in the darkness—to navigate without the aid of a torch. This is a good thing; anyone else will immediately give themselves away with their torches, and she can get the drop on them.

(They come from the sea, from the land, from the shadows. It doesn’t matter where they come from; what matters is that they are here. They are here for her, for Brasidas, for their daughters. They are here for blood and war and chaos and she screams and fights and fights and screams and still they come and come and come—)

Still, she thinks, a little more moonlight wouldn’t hurt. Then she wouldn’t have to feel her way around the joints of the perimeter fences to ensure that they’ve held up (they have—the recent spring rains have swollen the wood; if anything, they are even stronger now than they were the day they rebuilt them). Wouldn’t need to squint half as hard to ensure that her traps and snares are just as she left them, poised and ready for unsuspecting lurkers.

(She hears nothing but her daughters shrieking, infants crying out for a mother who cannot reach them. Sees nothing but Brasidas’ lifeless eyes staring at her, through her, blood pooling beneath his slashed throat, trickling from his lips—)

The grain silo stands tall in the moonlight, a fresh coat of whitewash belying the recent mud-coating it’s been given: all the better to keep any fire out, away from the dried, explosive grain.

(An explosion that rocks the foundations of the farmhouse, the sky filled with smoke as burning grain rains down from the ruined silo, only to be caught by the fields which feed the fire and let it grow, and grow and grow and grow, until her home is nothing but a sea of flames—)

The workers’ quarters, too, are well reinforced. They sit squat and cozy on the southern edge of the farm, bordered by the thick, near-overgrown grove of walnut trees. A thin plume of smoke rises from the chimney: just a simple cooking fire to warm the hut where Kassandra knows the oldest workers sleep. That is fine. There is no hiding to be done here, and cooking fires are to be expected. Signs of a thriving farm, a good life. Of a home that is safe and loved.

She moves on, loosening the grip on her spear.

Everything is alright, she repeats to herself. Everything is always alright. The farm is safe. Everybody is safe.

Alexios’ little house sits forlorn and empty, as it does more often than not, and where her worry and fear have begun to lift, sadness settles in their stead. The Adrestia docked in Gytheion harbor two weeks ago, but she’s hardly seen her brother since he’d disembarked, muttering something about an escort mission for some merchant eager to cart his goods all the way to Tegea.

In fact, she’s hardly seen him at all since he’d brought a tiny, shivering Phaidre in from the cold, all those months ago.

Alexios should be back from Arkadia any day now, Kassandra figures. But there’s just as good a chance that he’ll dive straight into the next job. And the next, and the next. She knows too well the restlessness, the voice inside your head that tells you to always keep running. Keep running, and nothing will hurt you. Stay still, and perish.

She wouldn’t trade this life for the world, but she understands. And she will keep his house safe until he is ready for it.

“What the fuck are you doing to my house?” Alexios growls behind her, and Kassandra nearly jumps out of her skin with a hiss.

“Don’t fucking sneak up on me!”

“Then stop trying to break into my house. If I didn’t know it was you, I would’ve killed you on the spot.”

“I’m not—You couldn’t kill me even if you tried.” Kassandra smirks as her heart slows to its normal pace.

“I could, too,” her brother grumbles. Then, “What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s nothing,” replies Kassandra automatically, turning toward the livestock pens. To her consternation, Alexios follows. She glares at him as she unlatches the gate and checks the barn, the coop. He glares right back, strolling the length of the pen and inspecting the fence posts, and she is both grateful for and annoyed by his company.

“The fences are strong,” he tells her. “The locks are secure. Your traps are in place and rigged just the way you designed.”

She makes sure to bump into his shoulder as she brushes past him, but he catches her arm. His grip tightens when she tries to shake him off. The breeze has blown away the clouds, and in the moonlight his narrowed eyes gleam with suspicion and worry.

“Nothing’s changed, Alexios,” she admits with a sigh. “We are safe here; I tell myself that every day. Every fucking day, from dawn until dusk, I am safer and happier than I have ever been in my life. And yet—”

“And yet you worry that it will all come crashing down,” he concludes. “The fear is eating you alive, Kassandra.”

“I know that,” she says, clambering onto a fence post and perching there. “I’m handling it.”

“Is that what this is? Patrolling the perimeter, checking traps in the middle of the night—this is a farm, Kassandra, not a fortress.”

“What the fuck else can I do?”

Alexios shrugs.

“You’re not helpful,” Kassandra tells him, which earns her another shrug.

“I’m your brother,” he says. “I don’t need to be helpful. That’s what everybody else is for.”

Kassandra shakes her head. “You’re infuriating.”

“Would it help if you hit me?”

“Would it—what?”

“When you first brought me home,” he says, “after… after everything, I was angry all the time. I fought with you, with mater, with your crew and your lieutenants and your friends. I was lost, and I was angry. And do you remember what you told me?”

Kassandra nods. “If you can’t tell me what’s wrong—”

“—just fucking hit me, if that’s what it takes to shut the fuck up,” Alexios finishes.

“I’m not angry,” she says. “I’m not lost. I’m—I don’t know what I am. Frightened, mostly, by things I know are unlikely to happen. I’m fighting shadows that vanish as soon as I swing in their direction.”

Alexios raises an eyebrow, spreading his arms wide.

Kassandra rolls her eyes, drives her spear point-first into the dirt, and punches him.

He takes the hit, just this once, staggering back to regain his balance. She takes the opportunity to rush forward, aiming to sweep his feet out from under him, but his stance is solid and he sidesteps her, landing his own blow that she only barely blocks. She deals him another hit to his stomach, then his side, driving him back until he catches a swing that overextends her, sending her tumbling into the dirt.

He offers her a hand, and she lets him pull her to her feet, and they go again. And again. And again.

It has been awhile, Kassandra thinks, since they traded blows like this. She sidesteps his lunges and rolls when he swings wide, striking him from behind before he can turn. His dodging has gotten smoother, too, and he is more accustomed to parrying and redirecting the volleys of punches she throws.

When they are through, they rinse off the dirt and dust at the water-trough.

“Sometimes it’s bandits,” she says, splashing the cool water on her face and letting it trickle down her front, “in my dreams, coming to raid the farm. Sometimes it’s the Athenian army, or the Persians. Sometimes it’s the Cult, and sometimes it’s the krypteia. Sometimes it’s not raiders at all, but the wrath of the gods. Massive waves from the eastern coast washing away all that we’ve built here. Wildfires sweeping through and destroying everything in their path. I’ve watched myself lose everything I have in every way imaginable, and the one thing that stays the same each time is that I am powerless to stop it. The happier I am, the more fuel there is to feed that fear. I’ve never had this much to lose, Alexios.”

“Do you regret any of it?” he asks. “Would it all still have been worth it, even if the worst were to happen?”

Yes.

A hundred times yes.

“What happened to you to make you so uncharacteristically helpful?” she grumbles, and her brother tosses his head back and laughs.

“How are the girls?” Alexios asks quietly. He splashes his face once more, then wrings the water from the hem of his chiton.

“Loud and hungry, mostly,” she tells him. “And Phaidre’s gotten so big. As strong and healthy as any baby her age.”

He nods, but says nothing.

“You saved her,” Kassandra continues. “She will have a good life, now, because of you. You should stay a while, and watch her grow.”

Alexios gives a little grunt. Noncommittal, to be sure, but it’s not a no.

She pulls her spear from the dirt and heads back to the farmhouse.

“Ah,” she can hear Brasidas tell their daughters as she knocks on the bedroom door—twice, then once, then twice again. “Sounds like mater’s back.”

“Mater went to spar with Uncle Alexios in the goat pen,” Kassandra says wryly, taking Phaidre from his arms as he continues to bounce Sophia at his hip. She gurgles happily, grabbing at Kassandra’s damp braid with hands that grow stronger every day, and Kassandra feels her heart swell.

That swelling feeling, she thinks, will never grow old. Not in a hundred years.

When the girls have gone back to sleep, snuggled side-by-side as ever, Kassandra changes into a clean night-shift and climbs back into bed.

“You still smell like goat,” Brasidas grumbles, but pulls her to him anyway. “Can you sleep?”

Kassandra nods, her head resting on his shoulder.

“You’re safe here, Kassandra,” he adds. “You are. You will always be safe now. I promise.”