Chapter 31: R&R (Rest and Rampage)
"Finally… solid ground!"
The moment his foot touched gritty sand instead of chiming, solid water, Cyd's knees buckled. He didn't so much kneel as collapse in a controlled, exhausted heap, still cradling Atalanta against his chest.
"No," Atalanta corrected flatly, glancing at the compass still fused to her palm. Its needle now pointed stubbornly inland. "We're just on an island. It's still stuck. We're not in Calydon yet."
"We're not?!" Cyd groaned, tipping his head back to stare at the darkening sky. The blessing of Helios, which had fueled his unnatural stamina under the sun, was fading with the last rays, leaving behind a deep, soul-crushing weariness. His body, conditioned by the Hydra's ichor and Chiron's training, felt fine—a little stiff, maybe. But his mind… his mind felt like he'd just run the length of the Mediterranean while doing complex calculus. The constant tension of carrying her, the awkwardness, the sheer mental marathon of it all, had drained him more than any physical trial.
"We should rest for the night," Atalanta said, her own gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun was making its bloody exit. "Your sun-gift is fading. And traveling in the dark with me like this is… inefficient."
"You're telling me," Cyd muttered, the invincible, can-do-anything feeling of divine power slipping away like water through his fingers. He felt smaller, more mortal. More aware of every ache and doubt.
"Though I hate to ask," Atalanta continued, flexing her numb fingers around the cursed compass, "my hunting capabilities are somewhat… limited at the moment."
A slow grin spread across Cyd's tired face. "Don't worry. Even though we left the party early, we didn't leave empty-handed." He carefully shifted her weight, setting her down to lean against a smooth, sun-warmed boulder.
"Gifts?" She raised an eyebrow.
Cyd just winked. He turned toward the gently lapping waves, raised his left wrist—the bracer's blue crystal glowing warmly—and gave a casual, two-fingered salute to the sea.
The ocean responded.
Not with a voice, but with action. A wave, far larger than any natural breaker, rose up just beyond the surf. It didn't crash. It curled, gently, and deposited a writhing, silvery bounty onto the sand at Cyd's feet. Fat red mullet, a couple of gleaming sea bass, a confused-looking octopus, and a small avalanche of clams and mussels. A single, disgruntled squid landed squarely on Cyd's head with a wet plop.
Cyd peeled the squid off, holding it at arm's length as its tentacles wriggled. "See? Gifts. Poseidon's… enthusiastic hospitality."
Atalanta stared at the seafood smorgasbord, then at Cyd's sheepish expression. She let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "You are… obscenely favored by the gods."
"I prefer 'conveniently provisioned,'" he said, already gathering driftwood with his free hand. Soon, a small, crackling fire pushed back the encroaching twilight, and the smell of roasting fish filled the salty air.
In the companionable silence of meal preparation, a question that had been gnawing at Cyd finally found its way out. He kept his eyes on the fish he was turning, his voice casual. "Atalanta… what are you going to do after? After the boar, I mean."
She was quiet for a long time, watching the sparks spiral up to meet the first stars. "I don't know. The Argo is no longer an option. Maybe… back to Arcadia. Maybe not." Her voice was soft, almost lost in the fire's crackle. "A home to return to… that's nice."
"Yeah," Cyd said softly, propping his chin on his hand. The flames danced in his pale eyes. "Must be."
"It's not important," she said, a little too quickly, closing her eyes. "A 'home' doesn't mean anything to me. I was left on a mountainside to die. If not for Lady Artemis finding me, I'd be bones and dust. My home is the hunt. The wild. That's all."
Cyd didn't press. He just nodded, pulling a perfectly cooked fillet from the stick. "Fish is done. Need me to…?"
"I'll manage," she growled, the picture of stubborn pride. To prove her point, she leaned forward awkwardly and tried to bite the fish directly from his hand. It was a clumsy, undignified maneuver. He could see the skin of her lips reddening from the heat, a telltale sheen of tears in the corners of her eyes from the burn, but her expression remained fiercely neutral.
It was, Cyd thought with a pang of fondness, exactly like watching a proud, feral kitten trying to wrestle a meal twice its size.
Later, with the fire doused and buried, they faced the night's final, awkward hurdle.
Sleep.
"I'll be fine on my own," Atalanta declared, already attempting to army-crawl across the sandy ground toward a likely-looking tree. Her progress was pitifully slow, more of a determined wiggle than locomotion.
Cyd watched her struggle for a full minute, arms crossed. They'd shared the wilderness before, but then she'd been a lethal shadow, sleeping perched on a high branch like a bird of prey. Now, she couldn't even stand. Leaving her on the ground was an invitation to every nocturnal scavenger. Putting her in a tree was basically giving her a taller place to fall from.
"Sorry," he said, walking over. "If a wolf carried you off or you fell and cracked your skull, I'd never forgive myself."
"Stay back!" she hissed, swatting at the air with her limp hand. "I'll… I'll bite you! Seriously!"
What followed was a brief, absurd struggle. Cyd, trying to be gentle and efficient. Atalanta, putting up a resistance that was all fierce spirit and zero physical capability, her slaps having less impact than a breeze. Finally, he managed to scoop her up, ignoring her furious grumbling, and with a powerful leap, settled them both onto a wide, sturdy branch high in an ancient olive tree.
"I swear, I'm just trying to keep you safe. So, uh… could you maybe…?" He gestured vaguely at his neck.
True to her word, Atalanta had responded to being manhandled into the tree by immediately clamping her jaws onto his throat. Not a savage, killing bite, but a firm, unyielding hold, her teeth grinding persistently against his adamant skin like she was trying to saw through an oak branch.
"It's… kind of ticklish, actually," Cyd admitted.
The light in Atalanta's eyes died. She went utterly still, a statue of pure, unadulterated humiliation.
"When I can move again," she whispered, her breath hot against his skin, "I am going to murder you. Slowly."
Cyd glanced down at his bracer. The deep green crystal of… whatever blessing enforced absolute truth… glowed with a soft, steady light. Yep. She meant it. Every word.
"I'll root for you," he said, giving her a thumbs-up with his free hand. "Hope you achieve your dream one day."
With a sound of pure rage, she re-doubled her efforts, gnawing on his neck with renewed, if futile, vigor. The bizarre stalemate continued until, eventually, the exhaustion of the day and the strange, rhythmic comfort of her warm presence against him pulled Cyd into a light doze. Atalanta, her jaw aching, stubbornly held on until her own consciousness faded, her teeth still locked on his throat, her body finally relaxing into sleep against his side.
---
Far away, on the dark, wine-stained deck of the Argo, a different kind of exhaustion had settled—the exhaustion of survivors facing something they couldn't comprehend.
"Identify yourself!"
Heracles's voice was a low thunderclap. He held a massive, hastily grabbed stone boarding axe, his every muscle coiled. He was staring at the small, cloaked figure that had risen from the black water and alighted on the railing as lightly as a seabird.
The voice that answered was young, feminine, and utterly flat. "Me? I am… a monster who should be dead."
Heracles's eyes darted to the port side. Three of his crewmates—including a still-bellowing Jason who had charged first—stood frozen in poses of attack, their skin and clothes transformed into flawless, matte grey stone. The transformation had been silent, instant. One glance from within that shadowy hood, and they were monuments to their own stupidity.
"State your purpose," Heracles growled, not advancing. He knew better.
"I am looking for someone. His scent is all over this ship." The small figure tilted its head, sniffing the air like a hound. "He was here for days. The trail is fading. Where did he go?"
A cold suspicion formed in Heracles's gut. "You're looking for… Cyd?"
The figure went very still. "Yes."
Heracles could have sworn the single syllable held a flicker of something—hope? Relief?—before the chilling neutrality returned.
"He left the ship. Of his own accord."
"Left." The word was a stone dropped into a still pond. "In the middle of the sea?"
The temperature seemed to drop. The figure was small, barely reaching Heracles's waist, but an aura of ancient, petrifying malice began to seep from it, thick as fog. A strand of long, violet hair slipped from the hood. With a dull, metallic clank, a massive, cruel-looking sickle, its handle trailing a length of heavy chain, dropped from within the robes and bit into the wooden deck.
"You… harmed him?"
The voice was no longer flat. It was layered with a hissing, subterranean rage.
"Then… all of you… will become statues at the bottom… of this sea!"
The cloak billowed back in a sudden, unnatural gust. Heracles, acting on a primal instinct older than thought, threw himself behind the thick central mast, screwing his eyes shut.
He heard a chorus of short, sharp gasps from the other Argonauts. Then… silence.
Cracking one eye open around the mast, he saw them. Dozens of them. A gallery of perfect, horrified stone figures frozen mid-step, mid-reach, mid-scream, arranged across the deck of the Argo. The moonlight gleamed coldly on their grey surfaces.
"You… didn't look? No matter." The voice was closer now, the drag of the heavy sickle blade scraping across the planks. "The chain will find you. The blade will harvest you. For him… I will become that monster again. The monster called… Medusa!"
Heracles heard the steps stop beside one of the statues—Jason's, he guessed, based on the pompous stance.
"Come out. Or I shatter this one."
"It's the truth! Cyd isn't dead!" Heracles called, not moving. "He carries Poseidon's blessing. He walked on the water. He left willingly!"
"You expect me to believe that?!" Medusa's shriek was pure, undiluted grief and fury. Heracles heard the sickle being raised, the chain rattling.
"He speaks the truth."
A new voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the tension. Heracles risked a peek.
Athena stood on the deck, one hand wrapped casually around the blade of Medusa's upraised sickle, stopping its descent an inch from Jason's stone nose. The goddess looked utterly unperturbed.
"Medusa," Athena said, not unkindly. "He travels to Calydon. To face a great boar. Wouldn't your time be better spent aiding him, rather than massacring his former… acquaintances?"
Medusa wrenched her weapon back, her hood falling fully away to reveal a face of haunting, tragic beauty and eyes that swirled with petrifying purple light. She glared at Athena with centuries of bottled hatred and a newer, sharper desperation. "You swear it?"
"On the Styx, if you like. He lives. He walks his own path. Go and walk it with him, if you can catch up."
With a final, agonized glance at the stone figures, Medusa sheathed her rage. She turned without another word and dove over the side, melting into the dark waves as silently as she had come.
Athena watched her go, then sighed, turning her gaze to the petrified crew. "Really. All of you are nothing but trouble." She flicked her fingers.
A sound like shattering porcelain filled the night air. Every stone statue exploded into a cloud of harmless grey dust, revealing the dazed, choking, very-much-alive heroes within, who collapsed to the deck in a tangled, coughing heap.
She looked toward the mast. "Heracles."
The son of Zeus stepped out, his face grim. "Lady Athena."
"Clean this up. And consider… managing this voyage more directly. Or finding a better use for your time." Her gaze was pointed.
Heracles looked at the groaning, terrified mess of heroes on the deck—Jason included, who was whimpering and checking his own body for cracks. He looked at the vast, empty, treacherous sea ahead. He thought of Cyd, walking his own road under the stars, carrying his own burdens.
A deep, resonant sigh escaped him.
Maybe… maybe the next island is a good place to leave, he thought, the idea settling in his heart with a surprising sense of peace. Yes. A very good place.