"NO! Absolutely not! I'm changing my mind! I get seasick! Terribly, horribly seasick!"
The air of mysterious resolve Cyd had been projecting evaporated like morning mist. He was now plastered against a large, barnacle-crusted boulder on the dock, his arms wrapped around it in a death grip that would have made a bear hug look casual. His knuckles were white, his face pale with a terror that had nothing to do with nautical travel.
The hunter who'd guided him looked from Cyd to the source of his sudden panic, his expression caught between pity and secondhand embarrassment. The cause was a young man who had just emerged from the crowd gathered around the magnificent ship at the end of the pier—a vessel with a sleek, dangerous lines and a name that was already on everyone's lips: the Argo. The young man was a head and a half taller than Cyd, built like a wrestler carved from granite, with a friendly, open face currently split by a beaming grin.
"Come on, Cyd! Seasickness isn't so bad! You get used to it after a while! Your stomach learns to roll with the waves!" Heracles boomed, giving Cyd's shoulder a slap that rattled his teeth and made the boulder he was clinging to vibrate.
No, I'm not seasick. I'm you-sick. I'm them-sick!
If he could have, Cyd would have reached back in time and throttled his past self from just ten minutes ago. The version of him that had felt a little cocky after acquiring two divine blessings. The version that had sauntered up to the recruiting station, seen the test of strength (lifting an anvil), and—still buzzing from Apollo's sun-blessed vigor—had not only lifted it but accidentally chucked it over the head of a loudly boastful minor hero from Thessaly, knocking the man cold.
That display had earned him a long, appraising look from the expedition's leader, Prince Jason—a handsome man with sharp eyes and the weary charisma of someone trying to herd cats with godly powers. It had also, apparently, drawn the attention of every other "hero" on the dock.
And he'd forgotten. He'd blissfully, stupidly forgotten the single most important piece of context.
This ship was the Argo.
The man recruiting was Jason.
This voyage was for the Golden Fleece.
The crew was a who's-who of walking natural disasters and legendary egos.
Stare.
The sensation was like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades. He didn't need to turn his head to know who it was. He could feel it—a hunter's focus, sharp as a honed blade. From the corner of his eye, he saw her. She stood apart from the boisterous crowd of heroes, leaning against a pile of rope coils. Her hair was a wild tumble of brown and green, her posture relaxed but poised. Her eyes, a vivid, unsettling emerald, were locked on him, dissecting him with a cold, predatory intensity.
Atalanta.
No. No no no no no no.
This ship? With these people? Over his dead, petrified, and then resurrected-just-to-be-killed-again body.
His fingers, already dug into crevices in the rock, clenched harder. His nails, toughened by the Styx and years of training, scraped grooves in the stone. He wasn't letting go. This rock was his soulmate now. They would grow old together, here on the dock.
"Heracles, if he doesn't want to come, let him be," Jason called out, his voice tinged with impatience. He'd been gathering the great heroes of the age, the sons of gods and slayers of monsters. This pale, nervous kid with freakish strength was a curiosity, not a cornerstone. Useful, maybe, but replaceable.
"No way! Cyd can help you! I know it!" Heracles insisted, scratching his head. He looked at Cyd, who seemed to be attempting molecular fusion with the granite. Persuasion was clearly off the table. That left the Heracles approach to problem-solving.
With a grunt that was mostly for show, the demigod bent down. He didn't try to pry Cyd's fingers loose. He just wrapped one massive arm around the boulder Cyd was clinging to—a rock that weighed as much as a small cart—and straightened up. The boulder, with Cyd still attached like a terrified barnacle, lifted clean off the dock.
"Uh… good luck, kid," the hunter mumbled, giving a weak wave to the airborne, rock-clinging Cyd.
"Oho~ Cyd~" Atalanta purred, her lips curving into a smile that held no warmth whatsoever.
SOMEONE SAVE ME! Cyd's internal scream was a silent, sustained note of pure despair as he was carried, rock and all, up the gangplank and onto the deck of the Argo.
---
Later, on the deck of the Argo as it cut through the waves.
"Heracles, are you sure about this guy?"
It was the third time Jason had asked. He stood at the ship's rail, watching Cyd, who had been forcibly separated from his boulder (which was now serving as unofficial ballast). Cyd was now clinging to the ship's stern rail instead, his body angled towards the receding shoreline as if he could swim back through sheer willpower. He looked less like a crewman and more like a prisoner plotting a desperate escape.
"He'll be fine! Probably just really seasick!" Heracles said cheerfully, clapping Jason on the back hard enough to make the prince stumble.
"Seasick… right." Jason didn't buy it. He'd seen seasick men. They turned green, they vomited over the side. They didn't look like they were calculating wind speed, current, and the precise amount of divine intervention needed to survive a fifty-mile swim while simultaneously eyeing every other person on deck like they were hydra heads.
"Trust me," Heracles said, his tone confident. "Cyd has a way about him. You'll see."
"Charm, you mean?" Jason mused, rubbing his chin. He glanced across the deck. "Can't argue there. The hair, the skin… it's striking. Seems he's already caught someone's eye."
Heracles followed his gaze. Atalanta, who had been ostensibly checking the tension on her bowstring, was moving. Not with her usual hunter's grace, but with a slow, deliberate, stalking motion. She was creeping up behind Cyd, who was obliviously muttering to the sea.
"Why does she look like she's about to pounce?" Heracles wondered aloud.
Jason chuckled, a worldly, knowing sound. He elbowed the larger demigod. "That, my friend, is what a woman looks like when she's spotted prey she fancies. The hunt is on. Whether she plans to conquer him or be conquered by him… either way, our pale friend is in for a good time."
"You. Get over here!"
She launched herself onto his back, one arm snaking around his throat in a chokehold that had crushed the wind from more than one beast. With shocking strength, she hauled him backward, dragging his stumbling form away from the rail and towards the dark maw of the lower deck hatch.
"Mmph! Hrlp! Glurk—!"
The sounds were cut off as they vanished into the ship's belly.
"He sounded like he was screaming for help when she dragged him below earlier," Heracles said, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion.
"Pfft. All part of the game," Jason said with a dismissive wave. "You said it yourself—the kid's strong. You think he couldn't handle one huntress if he really wanted to? He's playing hard to get. Or he's into that. Either way, not our business."
"I… guess?" Heracles said, still not convinced, but willing to defer to Jason's apparent expertise in matters of romance.
They were both wrong.
Cyd could, in fact, have flipped Atalanta over his shoulder and pinned her to the deck before she could blink. Years of Chiron's "peaceful disengagement" training were screaming at him to do just that. But a deeper, more primal instinct held him back: the fear of escalating a conflict with a devotee of Artemis on a ship full of heroes. That was a recipe for a story that ended with him as a cautionary footnote.
So he let himself be dragged by his collar into the dim, cramped confines of the lower deck, past stacks of amphorae and rolled sails, until she shoved him into a small storage locker and followed him in, closing the door with a definitive thud.
The space was tight, smelling of tar, damp wood, and now, the subtle scent of wild herbs and clean sweat that clung to her. A single slat of sunlight cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes and the fierce green of her eyes.
"Lady, we've never met. I'm sure you have a grudge against some other pale-haired fool, but I promise you, it's not me," Cyd said, putting on his most convincing expression of bewildered innocence.
"Relax. You're the only white-haired freak I've ever seen," Atalanta said, her voice a low growl. In one fluid motion, she drew a dagger from her belt and pressed the cold, sharp point against the soft hollow of his throat. Not enough to break the skin—she knew it wouldn't—but the message was clear. "It's been three years."
"Three years? Lady, we met once. For like, five minutes. I bought some boar meat. That's not 'knowing' someone."
"Maybe not. But a question has been festering in my head for those three years," she hissed, leaning closer. She removed the dagger but slammed her hands down on either side of his head, caging him against a barrel. Her emerald eyes burned with a frustration that went deeper than mere annoyance. "Why? Why did Lady Artemis call you a 'child of the moon'?"
Cyd stared at her. The intensity, the proximity, the sheer dedication to a three-year-old grudge over a vague divine comment… it was so absurd it bypassed his fear and landed squarely in the realm of surreal comedy.
His expression must have shifted, because Atalanta's fierce glare faltered for a second, a flicker of self-consciousness breaking through.
You've been obsessing over that for three years? his look said, clear as day.
"W-well? Don't look at me like that!" she stammered, her cheeks flushing. "You're just… you're just a weakling!" The insult lacked its usual bite.
"Look, my life philosophy is basically 'avoid trouble and hope trouble forgets my address,'" Cyd said, sighing. He decided a demonstration was worth a thousand words. Before she could react, he snapped his head forward, not hard, but with enough force to knock his forehead solidly against hers.
Bonk.
"Ow! What the—" Atalanta recoiled, clutching her forehead, stars dancing in her vision. She slumped sideways, landing on a pile of sackcloth with a soft whump.
Cyd sat up, rubbing his own forehead. "Being a 'child of the moon' isn't what you think it is. It's not a title, it's not a power. It's just… something she said." He looked down at her, dazed and scowling up at him from the floor. "You can believe it or not. I don't care. But you can also rest assured, I am absolutely, one-hundred percent not inter—"
He'd been about to say 'interested in goddesses.' But the memory of Hephaestus's hands on his face, her scent, the weight of the bracer she'd forged for him… it stuck in his throat. That was… complicated. Different.
"—ested in being on this ship," he finished lamely. "So, I'm begging you. Just pretend I'm not here. A ghost. Sea air. Whatever."
Atalanta shook her head, the dizziness clearing. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, her glare returning, though it was now mixed with a grudging curiosity. "Do you have any idea how many men would kill for a place on this ship? For a chance at glory with the Argonauts?"
"Zero interest. I'm currently working on my escape plan. Jumping overboard is high on the list."
"I don't like most of the men here either," Atalanta admitted, picking up her fallen dagger and sheathing it. She gave him a long, appraising look. "Arrogant blowhards, the lot of them. But this voyage… it's a chance to prove myself. To show I'm more than just a huntress in the woods."
"You don't need a magic sheep hunt to prove that," Cyd said, yawning theatrically. "Seems like a lot of unnecessary risk for a participation trophy."
"My reasons are my own. I don't need your advice," she snapped, getting to her feet and brushing off her tunic. She loomed over him for a moment in the confined space. "This ship is bound for Colchis. For the Golden Fleece. The path won't be easy. Monsters, sorcery, gods with grudges… if you're as keen on running as you say…"
"Don't worry. I'll be the first one off this floating disaster at the first sign of land."
"Then I'll be sure," Atalanta said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face as she pulled the door open, flooding the locker with light, "to put an arrow through the back of your skull the moment you try."