Chapter 28: A Goddess's Whim and a Hero's Truth
The memory of his first meeting with Artemis was etched into Cyd's mind with vivid, surreal clarity. He'd been just a kid, scrambling to survive in the wilds after… well, after everything. Atalanta had left him in a sun-dappled glade to gather supplies. One moment he was alone, the next, the air grew sharp and clean, like frost under a full moon. She was just there.
No fanfare. No thunder. Just Artemis, the virgin goddess of the hunt, standing before him as if she'd always been part of the scenery. She had a happy-go-lucky air, a whimsical tilt to her head that belied the sheer, daunting power radiating from her. She'd looked at him with a child's intense, tactile curiosity, leaning in so close he could see the silver flecks in her eyes.
"Your hair is like moonlight that's forgotten how to shine," she'd murmured, not unkindly. Her fingers, cool as river stones, had brushed his pale forehead. "And there's a hook in your soul. A nasty, slithery little thing. Left by the snake-haired sisters to reel you back in."
Before he could even process that terrifying information, she'd pinched the air near his temple. He felt a sickening pop, like a deep-seated splinter being drawn out, and a phantom sensation of scales unraveling from around his heart. He was free. The Gorgons' invisible leash, a constant low-grade dread he hadn't even fully recognized, was gone.
Overwhelmed by a gratitude so profound it short-circuited his brain, he'd turned to stammer his thanks. He misjudged the distance. One clumsy pivot, and his face was suddenly, mortifyingly, buried in the soft linen of her chiton, right against the curve of her chest.
He'd frozen, expecting to be turned into a stag on the spot for his insolence.
Instead, Artemis had laughed—a sound like clear water over rocks. She didn't push him away. She'd wrapped her arms around him in a brief, surprisingly strong hug, tucking his head under her chin. "Oh, you faithful little follower," she'd chuckled, her voice vibrating through her chest and into his very bones. "A true child of the moon's grace. I'll have to tell my huntress when she returns."
Then, as abruptly as she'd appeared, she was gone, leaving behind the scent of pine and cold night air, and a utterly bewildered boy. A 'Child of the Moon'. Whatever that meant. Coming from a goddess who seemed to oscillate between ancient, terrifying power and the impulsive, tactile affection of a precocious child, it probably just meant she'd taken a liking to him.
His instinct then, as it was now, screamed a single commandment: Do not get entangled with her. And if you do, for the love of all that's sane, know where to draw the line.
So when Hermes uttered Artemis's name, Cyd's response was immediate and visceral. "No. Absolutely not. Whatever it is, the answer is no."
"Ah, see, that's the problem with definitive answers," Hermes sighed, not looking the least bit put out. "They leave no room for divine whimsy. You remember the story of the Calydonian Boar, right? King Oeneus forgot to include Artemis in his harvest sacrifices. A simple oversight, really. Mortals are so forgetful."
"Right," Cyd said flatly. "And a 'punished' them by sending a giant pig. A whole kingdom, brought low by a pig. Sounds like she was just making a point. How bad could it be?"
"Well, the one she sent initially was just a juvenile," Hermes said, holding his hands about three feet apart. "Hardly a threat to a proper militia."
"See? So there's no crisis. And for the record, there are probably a hundred glory-hungry idiots back in Greece who'd leap at the chance to play hero. Send one of them. My schedule is full of… not doing that."
Hermes's grin turned sharp. "But Artemis didn't ask for 'a hundred idiots.' She asked for you. Specifically. By name."
Cyd felt a cold pit open in his stomach. "Why? If she's punishing them, why send someone to fix it? That's like setting a house on fire and then complaining the furniture's burning."
"Because eternity is long, and gods get bored," Hermes said, as if explaining the color of the sky. "Wiping a kingdom off the map is a statement. Letting it struggle, then having a chosen mortal resolve the divine tantrum? That's a story. And stories are much more fun. Taking the boar back herself would make her look indulgent. So… she needs a mortal agent. Congrats, you're it. A guaranteed loss for you, probably. A great narrative for her."
"I'm not going," Cyd said stubbornly, wrapping his arms and legs around the nearest mast like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood.
"Tsk. This 'no lying' blessing is a double-edged sword, you know," Hermes mused, tapping his chin. "Makes negotiations tricky. But also refreshing! I have to be honest. And honestly? You could send Atalanta. She'd go in a heartbeat. But that's not the point, is it?"
Hermes's expression lost its playful edge, becoming something older, more assessing. "You still don't get it, do you? You've been on the gods' betting pool since the moment you washed up on that beach. An unbreakable body. Prometheus whispering in your ear. The training of Chiron. Trials that should be impossible. To the Olympians, you're not a person anymore—you're a proposition. A question. What kind of hero will this one become? We're all watching. We're all… invested."
Cyd's eyes dropped to his left wrist. The bracer. Hestia's gentle amber, Hephaestus's steady bronze, and now Poseidon's deep, swirling blue. A fourth crystal, a pale, quicksilver grey, hummed with Hermes's own energy. The god wasn't lying. There was no need.
Maybe this foreign soul of his was never meant for a quiet life. Maybe that was the first and last lie he'd ever been allowed.
"Starting to see the board?" Hermes asked, tilting his head.
"This blessing of yours," Cyd said slowly, tapping the grey crystal. "It means I can't lie to myself either, doesn't it?"
"Got it in one!" Hermes cheered, pointing a finger-gun at him. "So cut the crap. Ask yourself the real question. What do you actually want? The gods won't force your hand. We're spectators with vested interests, not puppet masters. But we're dying to see what you choose to build."
Cyd opened his mouth. The usual refrain—a normal, quiet life—caught in his throat. It wouldn't come out. The blessing, or his own buried honesty, choked it off.
Hermes just watched, patient as a stone.
The truth, when it finally came, felt small and terribly vulnerable. "I… I just want to be happy," Cyd muttered, finally releasing the mast and slumping to the deck. "Is that so damn hard?"
That was the core of it, wasn't it? Why he dodged heroes? Because heroes' tales were written in blood and tragedy. Look at Heracles—everyone close to him ended up dead or cursed. Why he shied from goddesses? Because mortal men in goddesses' stories were playthings, pets, or pincushions for divine wrath. Entanglement with these forces wasn't an adventure; it was a prelude to ruin. To profound, epic unhappiness.
"Hah!" Hermes barked a laugh, slapping his knee. "Another fantastically ordinary answer! I love it. That's perfect. Then be that. Be the person chasing that. A happy man isn't a cautious man, or a reckless one. He's just… true. Hiding from danger is fine! The folks who run towards it usually get there first and die fastest. So…"
Hermes leaned forward, his hand extended not in command, but in offering.
"…come slay the Calydonian Boar."
Cyd stared at the hand. "You literally just dropped the 'danger' in my lap!"
"You're the one who called it a piglet! A quick job!"
"I never said that!"
"Semantics!" Hermes waved a dismissive hand. "But you just admitted your heart's desire. You gonna back down from the first thing that might actually make you unhappy if you refuse? Because, full disclosure," he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "my sister has the memory of an elephant and the vindictiveness of a scorned hornet's nest. Turn her down? She'll remember. She'll wait. And you're already on her radar. A 'Child of the Moon' doesn't get to ignore the Moon's call."
Cyd groaned, covering his face with his hands. "My future looks so… complicated."
"Complicated is good! The harder the road, the sweeter the wine at the journey's end. And this I can swear to you," Hermes's voice lost all its levity, becoming solemn, prophetic. "When you truly complete that bracer—when you fill it not out of obligation or survival, but by walking your own chosen path—you will receive a fruit. A single, genuine miracle. I am… deeply curious to see what form it takes."
With that, Hermes vaulted lightly over the ship's rail, landing silently on the still water as if it were solid glass. He began to walk away.
"Do all gods talk in riddles and mixed messages?" Cyd called after him, exhausted.
Hermes paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh! Almost forgot. Poseidon said to tell you: 'Get off that damn boat.'"
A wry, understanding smile touched Cyd's lips. So Poseidon was in the camp that believed Jason's voyage was doomed, especially after whatever they were about to do to his cyclops son. The Earth-Shaker wouldn't lift a finger to help them. "Don't worry," Cyd muttered. "I'm getting the hell off this floating disaster as soon as I can."
---
Far from the Argo, on a cloud-wreatched slope of Olympus, Hermes landed with a soft tap of his sandals.
"You said too much."
The voice was a low, resonant contralto, edged with the promise of violence. Hermes didn't turn, simply leaning to the left as a gauntleted fist the size of a roast ham whistled through the space where his head had been.
"Did I?" Hermes chirped, dancing back a few steps with practiced ease. "I was just clearing the air! Mortals perform so poorly when they're conflicted."
The owner of the fist stepped into the light. She was tall, powerfully built, with hair like spilled blood caught in a braided crown. Her armor was sleek, functional, and scarred from countless battles. Ares, Goddess of War, glared at her half-brother, her crimson eyes narrowed. "The Fates prophesied the 'Pale Child of Man' would become a great hero, beloved of the gods. You practically drew him a map to the bracer's purpose. We do not interfere with his choices."
"And I didn't!" Hermes protested, holding up his hands. "I just… encouraged a little introspection. Better he goes to Calydon with a clear heart than a foggy one. Though yes, he's definitely going to Calydon." He flashed a brilliant, unrepentant grin. "But it's weird, isn't it? Why is the mighty, battle-loving Ares so concerned with the fate of one little mortal? The prophecy doesn't threaten us. We're just observers. Even if he decided to sit in a field and farm turnips for the rest of his days, what of it?"
Ares crossed her arms, the muscles in her shoulders tensing. "I am… curious. He needs to prove his martial spirit to earn my favor. I want to see how he intends to do it. I will not have him discouraged by your chattering before the game has even begun."
"A woman's curiosity is a terrifying force," Hermes sighed dramatically, then yelped as he ducked another furious swipe. "Hey! Point made! But relax. The one thing he can't do… is truly quit."
He met her burning gaze, his own eyes glinting with unshakable certainty.
"Retreat is the one path that's closed to him. Everything else… is still on the table."