Chapter 63
There was no doubt he was a hero on par with Heracles. But compared to the Lion of Thebes, whose legend was written in the blood of monsters, kings, and even his own family, ordinary people seemed to prefer the "Pure White Hero"—the one who hadn't slaughtered armies, who brought bountiful harvests instead of divine wrath.
"Lord Cyd… might I trouble you with a small favor?"
Cyd sighed internally, looking at the old village headman who was wringing his hands with an ingratiating smile.
It had been eight days since Hades had unceremoniously deposited him back into the world of the living. The Lord of the Dead had, perhaps considerately, placed the exit on a different island entirely, buying Cyd precious time. Atalanta, even with her supernatural tracking skills, would need at least two weeks to pick up his trail again. Or so he'd thought.
"Headman, making your fields yield a miracle harvest… it has a cost," Cyd explained, trying to sound grave. He gently pried the old man's gnarled fingers from his sleeve. "The life of your soil will be exhausted. This year, you may feast. But next year? You might not harvest half of what you do now."
This was, of course, a lie. Demeter's blessing was exactly that—a blessing. A miracle that required no sacrifice, that bent the rules of nature through sheer divine will. That was the whole point.
But Cyd needed the lie. Ever since he'd helped a few villages, the rumors had spiraled out of control. 'Where Cyd walks, the grain grows tall.' 'His touch turns sand to fertile loam.' It was getting dangerous. Before someone started whispering that 'Cyd is mightier than the gods themselves'—a surefire way to get smited—he had to put a stop to it. He couldn't let the stories grow any more grandiose.
He didn't want to become a crutch. The sweetest fruits were the ones you grew with your own sweat.
And worse, there was a very practical, very pressing reason to avoid leaving a trail of agricultural miracles. A certain sharp-eyed hunter had proven frighteningly adept at tracing him by following the epicenter of these increasingly exaggerated rumors.
"I am human, not a god," Cyd said firmly, finally detaching the man's grip. "I will not live forever. I cannot always be there to help. I don't want my kindness to become your excuse for laziness."
The headman nodded slowly, a look of understanding dawning on his weathered face. But the understanding was of a different sort: Why work hard this year when you can have an easy one? Next year might never come for an old man like me. He prepared to deploy his ultimate weapon against a hero known for his heart: the pathetic, groveling kneel.
He never got the chance. The moment his knees began to buckle, Cyd was simply… gone.
Thump.
"Headman? What are you doing?" A brawny young farmer, hoe slung over his shoulder, stared in confusion at the village elder kneeling in the dirt before him.
"..."
"I was… beseeching the Pure White Hero for a bountiful harvest," the headman muttered, feeling a sudden, powerful urge to kick the young man in the shins. But he was old, and his pride was already bruised. He allowed himself to be helped up.
"Why? He already drove off those bandits and the wolves from the north woods. Isn't that enough?" the farmer asked, genuinely puzzled.
"I know. He is a good man. But…" The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping. "We are not."
Shaking his head, the headman shuffled back toward the cluster of huts that made up the village.
The young farmer watched him go, then tossed his hoe aside. With a flick of his wrist, a wide-brimmed traveler's hat adorned with small, feathered wings appeared on his head.
"And after hearing that, you still want to help them?"
Cyd's voice came from the empty air beside him. "Why are you here?"
"Who do you think I am? I'm Hermes, the Divine Messenger," the god said, adjusting his hat with a smirk. "Don't forget, I gave you that handy little compass. And could you take off the helmet? I know you're there, but for all I know, you're making a very rude face at me."
"I don't do childish things like that," Cyd said, his voice still disembodied.
"But I do!"
"..." Cyd glanced at his left wrist. The crystal containing Hermes's blessing was glowing faintly. The god wasn't lying. He absolutely would.
"Don't look so grumpy," Hermes laughed, waving a hand. "Where's the little one?"
"Helping to draw a very persistent someone away from this area," Cyd replied, finally pulling the simple bronze helmet of Hades from his head and becoming fully visible. The world seemed to solidify around him.
"A woman, I bet~"
"Lord Hermes, what do you want?" Cyd groaned.
"To offer you a serious business proposition, of course!" Hermes puffed out his chest.
"I'm leaving," Cyd said flatly, starting to lift the helmet again.
"If you accept, you could potentially walk away with three new blessings."
The helmet froze halfway to Cyd's head. "You're lying."
"No one can lie to you. Not even a god," Hermes singsonged, examining his perfectly clean fingernails.
Cyd grimaced. Hermes showing up never meant anything good. But the god always, always had bait Cyd couldn't resist.
Five blessings remained: Zeus, King of the Gods. Aphrodite, Goddess of Love. Hephaestus, God of the Forge. Athena, Goddess of Wisdom and War. Hera, Queen of the Gods.
Only five left. The temptation of securing three at once was a siren song he couldn't ignore. Even knowing it was a trap, he'd have to step in.
"So? Interested?" Hermes grinned, popping up directly in front of him.
"As if I could say no," Cyd muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
"Excellent! Besides, you can't say no. They specifically asked for you," Hermes added cheerfully, clapping Cyd on the shoulder.
"Right. And you only mentioned that last part because you enjoy watching me squirm," Cyd said, deadpan.
"Indulge an old god in one of his few remaining pleasures," Hermes chuckled, throwing a companionable arm around Cyd's shoulders. He pointed with his free hand. "Ah, here comes the little one. Say your goodbyes."
Cyd frowned. "She can't come?"
"Eh… it's not that she can't. It's more that she… probably wouldn't want to," Hermes said, his usual mischievous expression faltering for a microsecond. "The people there… she likely has no desire to see them again."
"What are you talking about?" Medusa asked, a note of suspicion in her voice as she sprinted up to them, barely winded.
"Did you lose her?" Cyd asked, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
"Yes. She was… tenacious. But I used a bit more of my true power, and she was… delayed," Medusa said, her eyes narrowing slightly behind her hood at the memory.
"Listen, Medusa," Cyd said, his tone turning serious. He placed both hands on her small shoulders. "I need you to go back to Stheno and Euryale for a while. Where I'm going next… it's a place you might not want to visit."
"I will stay with you," Medusa said immediately, her small hands clutching the fabric of his tunic.
"He's going to Mount Olympus!" Hermes chirped, utterly failing to read the mood.
"What?!" Cyd's jaw dropped. That wasn't a mission; that was walking straight into the lion's den. The heart of divine power.
Medusa's body went rigid.
"And he'll be meeting Athena."
"I… I will…" Medusa's voice wavered. Her hands tightened on Cyd's clothes, then slowly loosened.
She was a monster. A Gorgon. A creature to be slain by heroes. If she followed Cyd, her beloved protector, onto the sacred slopes of Olympus, it would compromise his position entirely. He was a hero, a seeker of blessings. Arriving with her in tow? And Athena would be there… the goddess whose champion had hunted her kind, whose very domain opposed what she had become. If Cyd failed to get a blessing because of her…
"You don't have to force yourself," Cyd said softly, understanding dawning. He gave her head a gentle pat. "Wait for me. They won't… seriously harm me." He shot a questioning glance at Hermes.
"Wouldn't bet on it!" Hermes added, beaming.
"I will wait for you," Medusa whispered, her head bowing so low her hood hid her face completely. Her small fingers finally let go of his tunic.