Chapter 23: Ties, Wagers, and a Watchful Shadow
So, you find yourself in a no-win scenario. A proud, lethal huntress has challenged you to a contest. If you win, her pride is shattered and she'll probably hold a grudge for the next fifty years. If you lose, she's promised to turn you into a pincushion. What's the move?
A tie! The perfect, diplomatic, conflict-avoiding solution!
"It really is for the best, isn't it?" Cyd said with forced cheerfulness. He stretched his left arm towards the sun, letting the light blaze through the orange crystal in his bracer. The gem seemed to drink the sunlight, pulsing warmly, and faint, fiery lines like sunbeams traced their way up his forearm, visible just beneath his skin before fading.
"It is NOT for the best!" Atalanta snarled, stomping over. She grabbed the front of his tunic with both hands and yanked him down to her eye level. Her breath was hot on his face. "Are you mocking me? I don't need your pity! Or do you think I'd welch on the bet? Let me be clear—if I'd won, I would have killed you!"
Yep. Just like an angry lioness. All teeth and fury.
Cyd gave her his best 'placating the unstable predator' smile. "But… it was a tie. That's a thing that can happen. Nobody's honor is damaged."
He immediately took it back. Ties were worse. They solved nothing.
"Then we go again!" she insisted, her eyes blazing.
"And if it's another tie?"
"Then we both lose! My side of the wager stands—you can do whatever you want with me. And then I'll kill you!"
Cyd buried his face in his hands with a groan. Great. So I get to… have my fun, and then get murdered as a post-coital snack? What kind of messed-up Greek tragedy logic is that?
Heroines. They were terrifying.
"Um…" he ventured, peeking through his fingers. "As part of the 'whatever I want'… could I ask you to… not kill me?"
"No." Her reply was instant and firm. "I said I won't resist whatever you do. I didn't say I'd forget the killing part."
Right. Should've seen that coming. Last night's camaraderie was a fluke. This—the challenge, the lethal stakes, the bizarre loopholes—this is the real Greece.
"Fine, fine," he sighed, lowering his hands. "We'll race again. But just so we're clear—this isn't about humiliation. Or pity."
"I know that," she snapped, though some of the heat left her voice. "Same rules. To the oak and back. And this time… I won't hold back."
---
Five minutes later.
"So… about that 'whatever I want' part?" Cyd asked gently, offering a hand down to Atalanta.
She was kneeling on the soft forest floor, her bow lying forgotten beside her. She wasn't hurt. She was just… stunned. Her face was a picture of utter, world-upending confusion. She'd poured everything into that second sprint. She'd run faster than she ever had in her life, legs burning, lungs screaming. And he'd been there. Right beside her. Not a step behind. Not an inch ahead. Matching her, stride for impossible stride, crossing the finish line in perfect, infuriating sync.
"…Mmrph." The sound was one of pure, distilled frustration.
Normally, even with a broken leg, Atalanta would have snarled and slapped any offered hand away. But she'd made the wager. She'd lost. Her code was absolute. Without a word, she reached up and took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet.
Should I have just done this from the start? he wondered, feeling the calluses on her palm.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. "So, my request is… could you maybe… hunt some game for us? For dinner?"
She blinked. That was it? After a wager that involved her body and his life, he wanted… rabbits?
"…You're not… mocking me?" she asked, her voice tight.
"No! No mocking! I just… we need food. And you're the best hunter here. By a mile." He gave her a hopeful, slightly desperate smile. "It's a practical request from the loser."
Practical. The word seemed to settle her. This wasn't about her pride; it was about a job that needed doing. A loss with a purpose.
"No… you're right," she said, drawing herself up. She took a deep, steadying breath. "This is the consequence of defeat. I understand." She gave a sharp, decisive nod. "I'll do it."
"Oh, and, uh… Heracles eats a lot. Like, a lot a lot. So maybe something… substantial?"
"I. UNDERSTAND."
"And if you need any help with—YIPE! Never mind! I said nothing!" Cyd yelped, releasing her hand and scrambling backward several paces as her glare promised immediate and graphic violence.
"I will fulfill the terms," she stated, her voice icy. Then she snatched up her bow, whirled around, and vanished into the dense undergrowth with a speed that made the trees shiver.
Cyd watched her go, then scratched his head. "I feel kinda bad about that… but also… weirdly like I handled it okay?" Shrugging, he made his way back to the beach.
"Where's Atalanta?" Heracles asked, tilting his head like a confused mastiff. He was still standing his lonely vigil before the Argo.
"She's, uh, getting dinner. I wasn't much help, so I came back to relieve you." Cyd mimicked Heracles's posture, crossing his arms and trying to look imposing. He mostly succeeded in looking like a pale, skinny kid playing soldier.
"Atalanta is a good person," Heracles said with a firm nod.
"Is… she?" Cyd said, his voice full of doubt.
---
Inside the city walls, a different kind of feast was underway.
"This… is living!"
Jason lay sprawled on a mountain of silk cushions, a goblet of wine in one hand, a laughing woman in the crook of each arm. The worries of the voyage—the gods, the Fleece, the petty squabbles of his crew—had dissolved like mist in this perfumed paradise. Why had he even wanted to be king? For power? For wealth?
Wrong. It was for this. For the ease, the adoration, the endless, willing company. And here, he didn't need to risk his neck for a throne. He just had to be a man. A hero. The women came to him. They fed him grapes, they sang for him, they looked at him with worshipful eyes.
To Hades with the Golden Fleece! Why endure another monster, another storm, another backstabbing crewmate, when he could stay here, forever, in this sun-drenched island of delights? The risks were too high. The rewards… were already in his lap.
He wasn't alone in this sentiment. Throughout the palace halls, the other Argonauts reveled. The air was thick with the smell of spiced wine, roasting meat, and perfume. The sounds were of raucous laughter, clinking cups, and the soft, seductive whispers of their hosts.
One of the women, draped over Jason's shoulder, giggled and whispered a secret in his ear. The queen… she was still a virgin. Untouched.
Jason's heart hammered. A virgin queen. A kingdom. It was all here. The throne, the wealth, the power, the woman—a complete package, handed to him without a single drop of bloodshed (well, apart from the pirates). It was destiny.
"Truly pathetic."
The voice was cool, clear, and laced with disdain. It came from a shadowed column nearby. Jason flinched, his head snapping around. For a second, he thought he saw a figure—a woman with long, silver hair, wearing a simple Greek peplos, leaning against the marble with her arms crossed. Her eyes seemed to glow with a cold, lunar light.
But when he blinked, the spot was empty. Just a trick of the torchlight and too much wine.
Shaking off a sudden chill, he pulled the whispering woman closer, burying his unease in the warm curve of her neck. A kingdom awaited.
---
Back on the beach, a more practical feast was being prepared.
"Whoa, Atalanta… this is amazing," Cyd breathed, staring at the spread. She'd returned not with one or two scrawny rabbits, but with a small menagerie: a plump boar, a deer, several fat hares, and a string of plump waterfowl. It was the haul of a master hunter operating with grim, focused efficiency.
Who gave you permission to call me that?! Atalanta's first instinct was to punch him in the throat. But the terms of the wager held her back. So she settled for a disdainful sniff and turned her face away, hoping the fading daylight hid the flush of… exertion on her cheeks. Definitely exertion.
She's… not mad? Cyd watched her, a theory forming. The averted gaze, the slight tension in her shoulders… was that… embarrassment? Pride? Could she actually be… pleased with the informal nickname?
A slow, dawning realization brightened his face. She likes it!
"Food, food," Heracles rumbled happily. He stomped a small crater into the sand, gathered driftwood, and with a focused snap of his fingers against a piece of flint (creating a small, localized thunderclap), had a roaring fire going in seconds.
Atalanta set to work with her skinning knife, her movements swift and precise. Heracles took the prepared meat and speared it on makeshift spits over the flames. Cyd's job was to find some large shells to use as plates and then… wait.
"Atalanta, could you…?"
She didn't look at him, just wordlessly handed over a perfectly roasted, dripping boar haunch the size of his leg.
She's really not mad! Cyd's theory was confirmed. He beamed at her.
She, however, saw only a hungry man staring impatiently at his food. Her eyes narrowed. "What? You want me to feed you like one of those simpering palace girls?" Her voice was a low growl.
"No, no, no! That's not what I—"
"Open your mouth."
"Wha—MMPH!"
She didn't gently place the meat in his hand. She shoved the entire haunch towards his face. Cyd stumbled backward under the force, landing on his backside in the sand. Atalanta followed him down, planting a knee on either side of his hips, pinning him. Her expression was one of profound, theatrical humiliation.
"You shamed me today," she hissed, though the heat in her words was undercut by the absurdity of the situation. "I will repay this insult a hundredfold!" To illustrate her point, she began vigorously—and messily—trying to force the enormous piece of meat into his mouth like she was ramming a battering ram.
"Ow! Gah! 'Atalanta, I'm shorry! Ith too big! Ith won't go in! Gluurk!"
"Perhaps I should have come later."
The new voice was light, amused, and utterly unexpected. It came from above.
Cyd, with a boar leg halfway down his throat, and Atalanta, frozen in her act of vengeful force-feeding, both looked up having felt and heard something but unable to see the girl.
A girl sat on the gunwale of the Argo, swinging her bare feet. She had long, silvery hair that seemed to glow in the twilight, and she wore a simple, grey travelling cloak. Her eyes, a luminous lavender, watched them with an expression of detached, curious amusement, as if she'd stumbled upon a particularly entertaining bit of theatre.
"Though," the girl added, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile, "this does look more fun than what's happening in the city."