Chapter 52: The Hunter's Dilemma
She was one of Greece's most famous heroines. A hunter without peer. By birth, a princess of Arcadia. By choice, a daughter of the wild. Abandoned on a mountainside by her own parents as an infant, she would have died if not for the mercy of Artemis. That was the story. And because of it…
Atalanta was currently pinching the bridge of her nose, fighting a wave of profound annoyance directed at the man seated across from her in the sunlit hall. Her father. Iasus. The man who had ordered her left to die.
"Atalanta, you're not a child anymore. It's time to listen to your father. Find a suitable husband. Settle down." Iasus spoke with a paternal authority he had absolutely no right to claim, but he wielded it with the practiced ease of a king used to having his whims obeyed.
Atalanta felt no burning hatred for the parents who had discarded her. Her life, thus far, held no real regrets. In fact, since meeting a certain infuriating, pale-haired man, it held a kernel of something suspiciously close to contentment. But she felt no gratitude either. The man before her was a political opportunist, not a father. His sudden, smothering interest coincided perfectly with her return from the Argo and the spreading tales of the Calydonian Boar hunt. He saw her not as a daughter, but as a valuable asset—a famous, unclaimed heroine who could be used to attract more valuable assets.
She had sworn an oath to Artemis to remain a virgin, a maiden of the hunt. Marriage was not in her destiny. Yet, as she listened to his oily persuasion, something unexpected stirred within her. Was it the residual, pathetic desire for a father's approval? Or was it a darker, more private hope—a hope that a specific piece of news might travel to a specific pair of ears?
Against her better judgment, against her very vows, she found herself nodding. "Fine."
Iasus's eyes lit up with triumph.
"But," she continued, her voice cold and clear as mountain stream water, "I will only marry the man who can outrun me. At high noon. Under the witness of Lord Apollo himself. The race is run only while the sun is unobscured. If he loses… he dies."
The conditions were harsh, specific, and theatrical. Iasus didn't care. If Atalanta agreed to be the prize, heroes would flock to Arcadia from every corner of Greece. And where heroes gathered, opportunities for alliances, for favors, for power, multiplied. His mind, however, was already fixated on one particular prize above all others.
"And what of him?" Iasus leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Pure White Hero. The one who hunted the boar with you. Will he come?"
Slayer of the Calydonian Boar. Solo killer of the Colchian Dragon. Securer of the Golden Fleece. Favored of the gods. The Pale Hunter's legend was eclipsing even that of Heracles in certain quarters. And where Heracles was a force of nature with a tragic, violent temper, the White Hero was portrayed as something rarer: a benevolent force. To the common people, he was a saint. To a king like Iasus, he was the ultimate unaffiliated weapon. A strategic resource waiting to be claimed.
He had no doubts about his daughter's allure. Since her return, suitors and their gifts had arrived daily. The piles of gold, jewels, and fine weapons in his treasury were already substantial. Heroes loved beautiful women. It was the oldest story in the world. This great hero's conspicuous lack of any romantic entanglement could only mean one thing: his heart was already captivated. By her. By Atalanta. It was the only logical conclusion.
"He has a name," Atalanta said sharply, her green eyes flashing. "It is Cyd. The man who did those impossible things is named Cyd, not 'the Pure White Hero.'"
"Mmm." Iasus waved a dismissive hand. The name was irrelevant. He cared about the legend, the power it represented. But he humored her. "Very well. Do you think… Cyd… will come to claim you?"
Atalanta turned her face towards the window, her profile sharp against the light. "I don't know."
The answer was a splash of cold water. Iasus's smug expression faltered. He'd expected blushing denial, or haughty certainty. This flat, honest uncertainty was… inconvenient.
"Do you know why the gods favor him?" Atalanta asked, her voice quieter now. She swung her legs over the windowsill, perching on the edge as if ready to flee back into the forests at any moment. "He is an anomaly. Wealth. Power. Glory. And… women. None of it seems to touch him. His soul is… unmoved by the usual temptations."
"So he won't come?" Iasus asked, scratching his head in confusion.
"That's why I said I don't know." She looked out at the sky, her expression unreadable. "Even now, I cannot see through him."
The truth was a tangled knot in her own chest. She would be furious if he came, treating her like a prize to be won. She would be furious if he didn't, proving her own feelings were a one-sided folly. She would be secretly, unbearably happy if he came, for reasons she refused to name even to herself. She would be relieved if he didn't, sparing her the conflict with her oath to Artemis.
For the first time in her life, Atalanta, the decisive huntress, was paralyzed by contradiction.
Lady Artemis, she thought, her gaze lifting to the pale sliver of moon visible in the daytime sky. What should I do?
Perhaps she never should have come back to this gilded cage.
Frustrated by her non-answers, Iasus left in a huff. The proclamation went out. The race was set.
---
The "trials" began. Despite the death penalty, Atalanta's fame and fierce beauty drew a steady stream of arrogant men to the dusty racecourse outside the city. Many more came just to watch, to see who might finally pluck this legendary, thorny rose.
The results were predictable, and gruesome.
Atalanta ran not to win, but to exterminate. Her speed was not just superior; it was inhuman, a gift from the goddess she served. She left her challengers choking on her dust before they'd taken ten steps. And when she crossed the finish line, she didn't stop. She turned, drew her bow, and with cold, surgical precision, put an arrow through the heart of the panting, defeated man.
To drive the point home, to crush the hope of the greedy spectators, she would then drag the corpse to the edge of the stands and unceremoniously heave it into the crowd. The thud of the body, the spreading stain of blood on the sand, the finality of it—it was a brutal, effective deterrent.
The blood cooled many passions. But not all.
Hippomenes watched from the shadows of the spectator's gallery, his eyes not on the corpse, but on Atalanta herself. His gaze wasn't filled with horror, but with a calculating, covetous hunger. He was no fool. He saw her speed for what it was: divine, flawless. He could not outrun her. Not with mortal legs.
But he could impede her.
He slipped away from the cheering, bloodthirsty crowd, his mind already turning to the only force that could counter a goddess's blessing: another god.
---
"Cyd…"
Atalanta stood in the center of the empty, blood-stained track after another day's grim work. Her eyes, almost against her will, scanned the distant tree line, the crowded city walls, the faces in the stands. She looked for a flash of white hair, a familiar, calm presence.
There was nothing. Only the buzzing of flies and the distant, eager murmurs of the crowd discussing her next would-be husband.
A strange, hollow feeling bloomed in her chest. The news of her contest—win the race, win the huntress—would have spread across Greece by now. It was the kind of sensational, deadly gossip that traveled faster than ships.
And Cyd had not come.
---
"You…"
Cyd stared at the figure who had materialized in the small clearing where he and Medusa had stopped to rest. It was Artemis, but not the playful, whimsical goddess who'd hugged him and demanded the Golden Fleece. This Artemis was solemn, her silver eyes serious, her usually carefree posture taut with concern.
"I need you to do something," she said, skipping any greeting.
"Alright. What is it?" Cyd asked, setting down the waterskin he'd been drinking from. Her demeanor put him on edge.
"Atalanta is going to be married."
Cyd blinked. Then his brain processed the words. "She's… what?!"
"If things continue as they are, it will happen," Artemis said, her voice tight with a frustration that felt deeply personal.
"Next time, maybe lead with the full sentence," Cyd said, pressing a hand to his chest as if to calm a suddenly racing heart. "Mortal nerves, you know?"
"You don't want this to happen either, do you?" Artemis stepped closer, her gaze intense.
Cyd looked away, suddenly finding the pattern of moss on a nearby log fascinating. "Well, if… if Atalanta has found someone. If it's what she wants… I would wish her happiness." The words tasted like ash.
"And if it is not what she wants?" Artemis pressed, her voice softening. "If her pride, her oath to me, keeps her from crying out for help? The men who seek her now will not fight fair. They will seek aid from other gods. My blessing upon her speed is great, but it is not absolute against the tricks of Olympus. One day, perhaps soon, she will lose. Not because she is slower, but because she was cheated."
Cyd's jaw tightened. The image formed in his mind instantly: Atalanta, proud and fierce, brought low not by a better hunter, but by divine subterfuge. The injustice of it burned.
"As her friend," Artemis said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was cool, but her grip was firm. "You would help her, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I would," Cyd said, the answer immediate and fierce.
"Then go. Help her." Artemis's silver eyes held his, full of a desperate, maternal plea for her favorite mortal child. "Her own stubbornness is a cage. The challengers will have divine keys. You are the only one who can intervene without breaking her spirit, without making her feel saved."
She leaned in, her final words a whisper that was both a request and a command.
"Go to Arcadia. Enter the race."
"And win."