Chapter 26: The Bastards' Return
Day four on the island that had no name, only a reputation.
From their lonely stretch of beach, the three of them watched the distant city. The sounds of revelry—music, laughter, the occasional drunken shout—drifted on the warm air like a persistent, mocking echo. It was a constant, low-grade hum of debauchery.
Cyd, Atalanta, and Heracles sat in a line on a fallen log, each resting their chin in their hand in identical poses of weary observation. Only Heracles's eyes held any real concern. The other two just looked bored.
"We could—" Atalanta began, her gaze flicking towards Cyd.
"One more time," he cut her off, his voice quiet but firm. He didn't look at her. "That's it. I'm not a saint. With anyone else, after two wagers like that, you know exactly what you'd be right now."
"I pay my debts!" she snapped, her fist clenching on her knee.
"I know. That's why I'll race you one last time. Let the gods witness it. Then we're done."
She studied his profile, the set of his jaw. After a long moment, the fight left her shoulders. "Understood," she said, closing her eyes.
Heracles looked from one to the other, his brow furrowed. He didn't fully grasp the currents between them, but he sensed a truce had been reached. And so the fourth day passed in a strange, tense quiet, broken only by the distant noise of a party they weren't invited to.
On the fifth morning, a change finally rippled out from the city. A lone figure stumbled down the path towards the beach. It was one of the Argonauts—Meleager, or maybe it was Idas; Cyd could never keep the minor ones straight. Heracles perked up, a hopeful smile touching his lips. He's seen sense! He's coming back!
The hero reached them, looking haggard, his eyes shadowed. He didn't greet them. He just groaned, rubbing the small of his back. "My spine feels like it's been used as a plow. Gods, those women are… insatiable."
Heracles's hopeful smile vanished. His hand, large enough to palm the man's entire head, twitched. Cyd quickly stepped in front of him, placing a restraining hand on his arm.
"Easy, big guy. Let's hear him out."
Grumbling, the hero went on. It wasn't nostalgia for the quest that brought him out. It was a complaint. The women, after days of unbridled hedonism, had started making… requests. Simple ones, at first. Help mend a roof. Then, tend a garden. Actually put your hands in the dirt and work.
"Can you believe it?" the hero spat, a look of profound indignation on his face. "Me? A hero of renown, a slayer of the Calydonian Boar's cousin or whatever? They want me to… to farm?" He shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and trudged back towards the city, muttering about disrespect.
Cyd watched him go, then slowly, deliberately, raised his middle finger towards the retreating back. "They're not just bastards," he said, his voice flat with disgust. "They're parasites. They'll take the food, the wine, the women, but the moment someone asks for a little sweat in return, it's 'how dare you, I'm a hero.' They're a plague."
Heracles opened his mouth to defend his comrades, then closed it. He had no defense. Atalanta just snorted. "I could have told you that the day we sailed."
That night, as Cyd sat alone on the Argo's rail, watching the moon paint a silver path on the dark water, Athena appeared beside him as silently as a thought.
"Perhaps," she murmured, her voice softer than the moonlight, "we gods chose… poorly."
"Then end it," Cyd said, not looking at her. "Call the whole thing off. The Golden Fleece quest started with a selfish man stealing a throne from his family. It's playing out with selfish men stealing pleasure from cursed women. The whole story is ugly. Let it die here."
Athena swung her bare feet, her toes skimming the air above the deck. "It is one of the great wagers of Olympus, you know. Will Jason succeed? Can willpower and destiny overcome base desire?" She tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her storm-grey eyes. "Care to guess which side I wagered on?"
"You helped build the Argo," Cyd pointed out dryly.
"A tool is neutral. It is the hand that wields it that matters." She smiled. "But do not fret. I have faith they will depart."
"Why?" Cyd asked, finally turning to look at her.
"Because you are correct. They are, as you so colorfully put it, bastards. Men of true character would feel obligation. They would struggle with the choice. They might even stay, out of a twisted sense of duty. But men without character… men who take and feel no debt… they leave as easily as they arrived."
Athena's smile widened, but it held a new, appreciative quality. "Perhaps I did not misjudge everyone."
"You misjudged a whole shipful," Cyd grumbled.
"No," she said, her voice fading as she began to dissolve into moonbeams and sea mist. "Just one."
---
Day six. A miracle.
Men began to trickle back to the beach. Not all of them. Maybe half. Jason wasn't among them. They looked tired, but also strangely… relieved.
"You… you came back," Heracles said, his voice thick with emotion. He clasped arms with the first man to arrive, his face a picture of moved, simple joy.
"Of course!" the hero declared, puffing out his chest. He was the same one who'd complained about his back. "We have a glorious quest to complete! A fleece to win! How could we linger in mere earthly delights?"
Atalanta, who had been sharpening her arrows, didn't even look up. She made a sound of pure contempt, slung her bow over her shoulder, and strode off towards the forest. Being on the same beach as this level of hypocrisy was apparently more than she could stomach.
Cyd watched the scene—Heracles's genuine happiness, the returning heroes' blatant lies, their eyes already glancing nervously back towards the city. Without a word, he pushed off from the ship's hull and followed Atalanta into the trees. He'd rather listen to her lethal silences than that noise.
Heracles watched him go, his joyful expression dimming. He wanted to grab these lying weasels and shake them until their teeth rattled. But he needed them. The Argo was a giant, beautiful coffin without a full crew.
---
Day seven. Cyd leaned against a pine at the forest's edge, counting heads.
"One, two… yep. Everyone but His Royal Dickhead is back." He popped a berry into his mouth. "The farce is nearly over."
"The ship won't sail without Jason," Atalanta said, dropping soundlessly from a branch above him. She tossed him a ripe fig.
"He'll be here," Cyd said, catching it. "Tonight. Or tomorrow by noon at the latest. He'll come running like his tunic is on fire."
"You have a disturbingly clear understanding of that man," she remarked, her tone implying it was not a compliment.
"He's transparent. Like cheap wine." Cyd took a bite of the fig. "Come on. Let's get back to the ship. The 'glorious quest' is about to resume."
"We'll see."
He was right.
That very night, as the moon climbed high, a figure came pelting out of the city gates. It was Jason. He was half-dressed, his chiton tangled around his legs, one sandal missing. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated panic.
"GO! GO! ROW, YOU SONS OF BITCHES, ROW!" he screamed, his voice cracking as he scrambled up the gangplank, which was already being hauled in.
As if they'd been waiting for the signal, the other heroes—already on board and pretending to sleep—sprang into action. Oars were unshipped and hit the water with a synchronized splash. Sails, already loosened, caught the night wind. The Argo began to glide away from the shore with a haste that spoke of collective guilt.
Cyd stood balanced on the ship's rail near the stern, watching it all unfold. He glanced up at Atalanta, who was perched on the yardarm above him like a sleek, disdainful bird of prey.
"Told you," he said.
"He runs like a pig from the slaughterhouse," she observed, looking down at Jason, who was now collapsed on the deck, gasping for breath. "All squeal and no dignity."
"It is pretty ironic," Cyd agreed, turning his gaze back to the island. Pinpricks of light were blossoming along the shore—torches, hundreds of them, moving towards the now-empty beach. The women hadn't set the city on fire in grief; they were marching out in a silent, furious procession, holding their flames aloft like angry stars. "The gentle lovers become furies in the night. The brave heroes flee with their tails between their legs. Quite the show for the gods. I guess this is the 'epic' they paid to see."
"I don't know," Atalanta said softly, her eyes lifting to the cold, indifferent moon.
On the deck below, Jason had found his feet. He was clutching Heracles's arm, his voice a whine that carried clearly in the sudden quiet of the ship under sail.
"…unreasonable, I tell you! First it was the gardens, then it was jewels! Jewels! As if I carried a king's ransom in my pack! Then she had the gall to ask for silks from the East! Silks! The sheer audacity! We're heroes, not merchants!"
Heracles stood like a stone statue, letting the words wash over him. His fist, the one not being clung to, was clenched so tight the knuckles were white. He'd snuck into the city himself during his hunts. He'd seen the "unreasonable" demands—women asking for help carrying water, for a story from the wide world, for a moment of conversation that wasn't about sex. He'd seen Jason laugh them off, then call for more wine.
The other heroes gathered around, nodding sympathetically, adding their own tales of woe about suddenly "clingy" or "demanding" women. The chorus of grievance was nauseating.
"Is that what all men are like?" Atalanta asked, her voice dripping with scorn as she watched the scene below.
"Only the ones you've had the misfortune to meet so far," Cyd said, shrugging. He nodded towards Heracles. "He's different."
So are you, she thought, but didn't say. She gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of agreement.
"A man like him wouldn't last long in a place like that," she said instead.
"No," Cyd agreed, leaning back against the mast. "He's not the leader, but everyone listens to him. The actual leader… well." He jerked his chin towards the still-complaining Jason. "He fell apart in a week. Heracles doesn't belong on this ship. You don't either. You should find a way off. At the next port, just… disappear."
"Even if I left this ship," Atalanta said, her green eyes locking onto his, "I'd still find you."
A faint, tired smile touched Cyd's lips. He looked out at the dark, endless sea, the island's torches now just a faint, angry glow on the horizon.
"Don't worry," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the wind and the creak of ropes.
"I want off this boat more than anyone."