Chapter 22: The Island of Distractions
That night, something shifted.
Maybe it was the wine—thin, sour stuff passed around the victory fire—that loosened Atalanta's tongue. The sharp, defensive edges of her usual demeanor softened into something more contemplative. Or maybe it was the sheer, exhausting ugliness of the celebration they'd both walked away from, creating a strange, quiet solidarity.
For his part, Cyd felt a weird, reckless energy buzzing under his skin. A reaction, maybe, to the day's events. The relief of having someone to talk to who wasn't actively trying to measure dicks with a pile of severed ears was intoxicating in its own way.
So they talked. Not on the ship, but on a rocky outcropping farther down the moonlit beach, away from the snores and vomit. They talked about nothing important—the feel of the sea wind, the names of constellations Chiron had taught him, the best way to field-dress a rabbit. They argued about hunting techniques. She scoffed at his "peaceful disengagement" philosophy; he pointed out that her method of shooting everything that moved was why she'd probably eaten more parasites than he had. It wasn't deep. It wasn't romantic. It was just… human.
But when you spend an entire night alone with someone under a silver moon, with the sea sighing beside you, while the rest of your companions are passed out in a drunken stupor, people tend to make assumptions.
By the time the first grey light of dawn crept over the horizon, and Cyd and Atalanta walked back towards the Argo from opposite ends of the beach (a silent, mutual agreement to avoid walking together), the damage was done.
The bleary-eyed Argonauts, nursing their hangovers, took one look at them—her hair wind-tousled, his tunic damp with sea spray—and a collective, knowing smirk spread through the crew. Eyebrows waggled. Elbows were nudged.
"Hey there, sunshine! Have a nice… walk?" one hero leered.
Cyd wanted to crawl into the bilge and die.
Heracles, the ship's towering moral compass (and surprisingly a light drinker), simply gave Cyd a solemn, approving nod as he passed. He clapped a massive hand on Cyd's shoulder, nearly driving him into the deck. "Good for you," he rumbled, his voice full of earnest warmth. "I'm happy for you both."
Please, for the love of all the gods, do NOT be happy for me! Cyd screamed internally, his face burning.
Atalanta, for her part, seemed utterly impervious. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, gave the snickering men a look that could have frozen the wine in their veins, and said a single, scathing word: "Pathetic." Then she stalked belowdecks to clean her bow.
For several days, the voyage continued. The incident became shipboard gossip, then faded into the background hum of salt, sweat, and heroic ego. Then they made landfall.
It was an island, lush and green, rising from the sea like an emerald. A standard stop. Take on fresh water, maybe trade for some fruit, stretch their legs. Standard procedure.
It should have been simple.
"I think we might… extend our stay a few days," Jason announced, a beatific smile on his face. He was surrounded. A dozen island women, all strikingly beautiful, with dark, knowing eyes and easy smiles, had swarmed the landing party. They hung on his arms, stroked his hair, whispered in his ears. He gave a helpless, grinning shrug to Heracles, whose expression had darkened like a thunderhead, and allowed himself to be led away, vanishing into the island's verdant interior towards a visible, white-walled city.
"We agree! A few days of R&R sounds perfect!" other heroes chorused. Almost immediately, each Argonaut found himself the center of a similar, giggling harem. Two, three, five women apiece, leading them away from the ship, from their duty, with promises of soft beds, cool wine, and softer company.
In a matter of minutes, the beach was nearly deserted.
Cyd took a loud, crunchy bite of an apple from his pack. He offered one to Atalanta, who accepted it with a grunt, and another to Heracles, who took it and bit into it with enough force to snap the core in half.
"Ugh. Jason… what in Hades is he thinking?" Heracles growled, using his free hand to gently but firmly push away a trio of women who were trying to coil around him like affectionate vines. They pouted, then their eyes slid to the next likely target.
Their gaze landed on Cyd.
He was different. The white hair, the pale skin, the quiet, watchful demeanor that set him apart from the swaggering braggarts. They glided over, their movements sinuous. One, more regal than the others, wearing a simple diadem of woven silver leaves, stepped forward. She was the queen, and she made a beeline for Cyd.
"Great hero," she purred, her voice like honey and smoke. She pressed herself against his side, her hands coming up to slide around his neck. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. Her breath smelled of pomegranates and myrrh. "I am queen of this isle. Say the word, and you could be its king. Its master. I am… untouched. A virgin queen. You would be my first. Be gentle with me, won't you?"
CRUNCH.
The sound was vicious. Atalanta had taken another bite of her apple, her eyes fixed on the queen with the intensity of a hawk sighting a mouse.
Cyd carefully extracted his neck from the queen's grip, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I appreciate the offer, your majesty. Really. But I'm not a hero. I'm just… a hanger-on. A stowaway with good luck."
"That doesn't matter to me," the queen said, blinking in surprise. Her confidence wavered for a second.
"Even so," Cyd said, taking a polite step back, creating space. "If you're… new to all this, you shouldn't just hand your island and yourself to the first strange sailor who washes up. That's not good governance. Or good sense. You should think about it."
The queen stared at him, her expression a mix of confusion, frustration, and a flicker of something like respect. She hadn't been rejected before. "I… will consider your words," she said stiffly. "I will return." With a last, lingering look, she turned and led her retinue back toward the city walls.
Cyd let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Well, that was… direct."
"Apple's gone. Give me another," Atalanta said, her voice flat. She held out her hand, not looking at him.
"Sure." Cyd fumbled in his pack and handed her a second apple. "So… what's the plan now?"
"We wait," Heracles boomed, planting his feet wide on the sand before the Argo's prow. He crossed his massive arms, a one-man garrison. "We wait for them to remember why they set sail in the first place."
"Sounds good to me," Cyd said. He finished his own apple and carefully buried the seeds in the soft sand near the tree line. A pointless, hopeful habit.
"I'm going to find something to eat that isn't an apple," Atalanta announced. She mimicked his gesture, planting her own seeds with a little more force than necessary, then slung her bow over her shoulder. "The local cuisine seems… unreliable."
"Ooh, if you see any rabbits, maybe a nice fat grou—"
"No." Her voice was final. "The law of the wild is simple: you eat what you kill yourself. If you're hungry, hunt." She turned and strode into the forest without a backward glance.
"Welp," Cyd sighed, turning to Heracles. "Any requests? I'm not a great cook, but I can make things… edible."
"Whatever you find is fine. Don't trouble yourself on my account," Heracles said, his gaze still locked on the distant city gates. He looked troubled.
"It's no trouble. You've got the hard job—babysitting the ship." Cyd gave his arm a friendly pat and trotted off after Atalanta, figuring two hunters were better than one, even if one of them was actively hostile.
Heracles watched him go, then turned his grim stare back to the silent city. Faint sounds of music and laughter drifted on the breeze. He shook his great head.
"Jason," he muttered to the empty beach. "Don't forget what you're sailing for."
---
In the forest, Atalanta moved like a part of the landscape. She was a shadow with intent, leaping from one mossy branch to the next with a fluid, predatory grace. Her eyes scanned the forest floor below, hunting for movement, for the flick of an ear, the rustle of a bush. Her method was pure efficiency: spot, draw, loose. A quick death from above.
Or it would have been, if she hadn't had an audience.
"Will you stop following me?!" she snarled, whirling around on a broad limb to glare at Cyd, who was standing on the ground ten yards back, looking innocently up at her.
"I told you! I'm not sharing my kill!" Her irritation wasn't really about the potential sharing. It was the fact that he was keeping pace with her at all. She wasn't moving at her full, blinding speed, but she wasn't dawdling either. For a "weakling," he was sticking to her like a burr.
"Oh… uh…" Cyd's brain, always a half-step behind his mouth, caught up. "I just thought… you know, maybe you were going slow on purpose? Like, tough exterior, heart of gold? Leading me to game so I wouldn't starve?" He winced as soon as the words were out. Stupid. Stupid! She lives by 'kill or be killed.' She doesn't have a 'heart of gold,' she has a heart of flint!
Atalanta's expression didn't just go cold. It went glacial. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped her bow.
Oh, I've done it now. I've insulted her entire life's philosophy. I called her soft.
"You," she said, her voice low and deadly, "are challenging me."
"I'm really, really not!" Cyd yelped, ducking partially behind a convenient tree. "We had a nice chat last night! I'm a fan! No challenge here!"
Atalanta took a deep, shuddering breath, as if steeling herself. "A contest, then. Cyd. You and me."
"A… what?"
"If you win," she said, jabbing a finger at her own chest, "you can have whatever you want from me."
Cyd gulped. That was an alarmingly open-ended offer. "And… if I lose?"
"I beat you to a pulp."
"I respectfully decline!"
"Then you are my prey," she said, her voice dropping to a hunter's monotone. She nocked an arrow with a smooth, practiced motion. The flint head glinted in a dapple of sunlight. "And I will hunt you. To the ends of this island. To the ends of the earth. Until you are dead, or until you agree to the contest."
There's no way out, Cyd realized, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. She was serious. This was the logic of the wild, translated into human terms. A challenge to her skill was a challenge to her identity. It had to be answered.
"Fine," he mumbled, slumping in defeat. He edged out from behind the tree. "What's the contest?"
"Speed," Atalanta bit out, the word tasting like shame. She was the fastest mortal woman alive, blessed by Artemis. It should have been no contest at all. But his casual comment had gotten under her skin. She had to prove it. To him. To herself. "A straight sprint. To that lightning-blasted oak and back." She pointed to a massive, blackened tree a quarter-mile away, visible through a break in the canopy.
"Alright," Cyd said slowly. He looked up. The forest roof was thick, but shafts of brilliant midday sun speared down through the gaps, painting bright, warm patches on the moss and ferns. One such patch fell directly on him, and he felt it—a sudden, gentle influx of warmth and vitality from the sun-crystal on his bracer. Apollo's blessing, humming to life.
Speed, huh? Under the sun?
A tiny, desperate spark of hope ignited. Maybe he wouldn't be completely humiliated.
"I accept," he said, squaring his shoulders.
"Good," Atalanta said, her expression grim. "I hope you enjoyed the sunrise this morning."
They took their positions on an improvised starting line, a fallen log. No countdown. Just a shared, tense silence.
Then she moved.
It was like watching a arrow fired from a god's bow. One moment she was coiled, the next she was a blur of motion, a streak of tan and green exploding through the forest. She didn't run on the ground so much as she flowed over it, her feet barely seeming to touch the earth. Ferns whipped in her wake. She was a force of nature.
Cyd pushed off a heartbeat later. He didn't have her grace. His run was powerful, grounded, each footfall churning up leaf litter and soil. But as he ran, the sunlight filtering through the trees seemed to cling to him, to push him forward. The warmth in his bracer became a fire in his veins. His legs pistoned faster, his breath coming in sharp, controlled gasps. He wasn't as smooth, but he was shockingly, unnervingly fast. The distance to the blackened oak blurred past.
Atalanta reached the oak, slapped its charred bark, and whirled for the return sprint. Her eyes widened as she saw him—already turning, barely a stride behind her.
The race back was a silent, desperate duel. She pushed herself harder than she had in years, her muscles burning, her heart hammering. He was a pale ghost just off her shoulder, his white hair streaming behind him like a banner, his face a mask of intense concentration.
They crossed the fallen log finish line in the same instant.
A cloud of dust and torn leaves settled around them. Both were breathing hard, sweat sheening their skin.
Atalanta stared at Cyd, her chest heaving. Her expression was one of pure, unadulterated shock. Not anger. Not even frustration. Just sheer, bewildered disbelief. How?
Cyd straightened up, wiping his brow. He looked up at the sun, now shining unobstructed through the gap they'd just torn in the foliage. He offered her a small, tired, but genuine smile.
"A tie," he said, his voice raspy. "That's good, right? No winners, no losers. No beatings." He took a deeper breath, savoring the warmth on his face. "And you know… I really do hope the sun is just as nice tomorrow."