Atalanta considered herself a creature of pragmatic instinct. She was a huntress, raised by the mountains and the beasts, forged in the crucible of survival. Food was won through contest—with the land, with the prey, sometimes with other hunters. Life was a raw, basic currency, and preserving it was the only law that truly mattered.
But she was not a beast. A beast did not need to maintain a finely crafted bow of supple yew. A beast did not require medicinal herbs for wounds that festered, or salves for winter-chapped skin. A beast did not need to clothe itself against the judgmental stares of villagers or the biting chill of high-altitude winds. These were the complications of humanity, and they required coin.
"Gold…" she murmured, flipping the heavy coin Cyd had given her. It caught the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy, gleaming with a promise of comfort and security. She watched the strange boy from the corner of her eye. He was kneeling a few paces away, arranging a small, pathetic pile of kindling and a few strips of the boar's fatty meat onto a flat stone. He was… praying.
"One gold coin for boar haunches and no hide," she called out, her voice laced with dry incredulity. "Are you certain you're not addled? For a single gold piece, a man could buy a whole herd of scrawny goats in a market. This isn't even a large boar."
He didn't look up, his movements deliberate. "You don't have change," he said simply, as if that settled the economics of divine-scale overpayment. "O, hear me, great and small gods who watch travelers. It's not much, but it's the best I have right now. Please accept it."
He struck a piece of flint against his dagger, sending sparks onto the dry tinder. A tiny flame sputtered to life, catching the fat. The smell of sizzling meat and burning pine resin filled the glade.
Atalanta watched, a flicker of genuine curiosity cutting through her wariness. "You're… oddly devout. Most men I've seen make offerings only after a battle, dripping with the blood of their enemies. They think the gods delight in cruelty."
Because the horse is watching.
Cyd didn't voice the thought. He just reached up and scratched the white steed behind its ear as it nudged his shoulder. The horse exhaled a warm, grassy breath. "Cruelty?" Cyd finally turned his head to look at her. The firelight danced in his pale eyes. "That seems wasteful. If you have the skill to kill cleanly, why draw it out? It's just… inelegant."
The words struck a chord deep within Atalanta. A hunter's philosophy. Efficiency. Respect for the kill. Her lip quirked, almost a smile. "A fair point. The woods are full of blustering fools who think a prolonged struggle proves their strength. It only proves their incompetence."
"Exactly," Cyd said, turning back to the small fire. The sacrificial meat was curling and blackening now, a thin wisp of fragrant smoke rising toward the canopy. "Me? I'm weak. I'll probably stay weak. If there's any 'prolonged struggling' in my future, it'll be me being the one struggled against."
"Weak?" Atalanta tilted her head, her feral eyes scanning his lean frame. "You do look… soft. I'd wager I have more muscle in my bow arm than you do in your entire body."
Cyd's eye twitched. The blunt assessment was delivered without malice, a simple statement of fact. It stung, but it was true.
"Hey, I have no ambitions of grandeur," he said, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of surrender. "I'm not out to slay dragons, rescue princesses, or win glory. My grand life plan is to live. To live quietly, peacefully, and die of old age in a bed that isn't my own grave. That's the dream."
"Your dreams are your own," Atalanta said, her brief moment of camaraderie fading. She bent at the knees, a fluid motion of pure strength, and hefted the rolled-up boar hide onto her shoulder. The weight, substantial for any normal person, seemed negligible to her. "If we're done, I'll be leaving."
"Wait," Cyd called out before she could melt back into the trees. "That hide. What's it worth to a tanner?"
Atalanta paused, her back to him. "Even if you wanted it back, I wouldn't give it. A deal is a deal, weakling." She threw the last word over her shoulder, not as an insult, but a simple descriptor. A challenge, almost.
"Tch. Not asking for a refund," Cyd said, holding up a finger. "I'm proposing another trade. I need to get to the Caucasus Mountains."
That made her turn fully, her eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. "You're insane. Do you have any conception of the distance? The lands between here and there are crawling with things far worse than boars."
"I have a guide," Cyd said, patting the white horse's neck. The steed preened, lifting its head proudly. "A loan from Lord Poseidon himself. Distance is… a relative concept for him."
Atalanta's gaze flickered to the horse, and her skepticism wavered. She'd felt the otherworldly aura around it. The claim was outrageous, but in this age, not impossible. Her luck had been stranger.
"Your fortune is remarkable. But let me be clear," she said, her voice firm, "I am not guiding you to the Caucasus. Don't even ask."
"Wasn't going to," Cyd said, though the thought had crossed his mind for a fleeting, survival-driven second before being ruthlessly quashed by Rule #3. "I just need you to run an errand for me. To the nearest settlement. I need supplies: good rope. A sickle or two. A hatchet. And if you can find them… a light hunting bow, a quiver of arrows. A crossbow would be a miracle, but I won't push it."
Atalanta frowned. The requested items were mundane, tools of survival. The bow gave her pause. It was a hunter's weapon. His? He didn't carry himself like one.
"If you bring them," Cyd continued, hefting the heavy pouch of coins, "this is yours. The whole thing."
"Agreed," she said without hesitation. The sum was life-changing. "But it's too much. The items you ask for are not worth a tenth of this."
Cyd shrugged, a careless, fatalistic motion. "Coin is useless if you're dead. It's just cold, impersonal metal. Life is the only currency with real value." To her astonishment, he tossed the entire pouch toward her. It arced through the air, a leather sack containing a small fortune.
She caught it one-handed, the weight solid and real in her palm. She stared at him, utterly bewildered. "You're a fool. What's to stop me from taking this and vanishing into the forest? You couldn't catch me if you had wings."
"Then I suppose I'd have to stumble toward the Caucasus half-starved and unarmed," Cyd said, leaning back against the warm bulk of the horse. He grinned, a lopsided, unbothered expression. "My loss."
Naive. But… decent.
The assessment formed in Atalanta's mind. He was strange, weak, and clearly out of his depth, but there was a stubborn honesty to him. A lack of the usual guile or greed she associated with men. She weighed the pouch in her hand for a moment, then, with a decisive motion, tossed it back. It landed in the grass at his feet with a soft thud.
"Payment on delivery," she said. Then, without another word, she coiled the muscles in her legs and sprang. It wasn't a jump; it was an effortless, gravity-defying launch. Her feet found purchase on the rough bark of a massive oak eight feet off the ground, and she flowed upward, disappearing into the thick green canopy with the silent grace of a predator.
"Wait here," her voice floated down, already growing distant.
Cyd stood staring at the empty space where she'd been. He walked to the base of the tree, craned his neck, and looked up. The lowest sturdy branch was a good twelve feet above. He bent his knees and gave a half-hearted, experimental hop. His fingertips didn't even come close.
"The average physical capability in this era is just unfair," he muttered, massaging his lower back.
The white steed nudged him sympathetically.
"Ah, well. I won't be dealing with monsters like her for much longer," Cyd sighed, sinking to the ground. He plucked a blade of grass and chewed on the sweet end, staring at the sky. "Fifteen years, and I'm still the weird one. The hair, the skin… forget that. The 'heroes,' the demigods, the walking natural disasters… ugh, it makes my head hurt. O, gods, please. No more heroes. Especially the half-divine ones. I'm begging you."
He ran his hands through his short-cropped white hair in frustration, mussing it into wild spikes.
"You… what are you doing?"
The voice was sweet, melodic, and came from directly behind him. He hadn't heard a footstep, a rustle, a breath. One moment he was alone, the next, a cool, gentle hand was smoothing down his unruly hair.
"So messy~"
A chill that had nothing to do with temperature shot down Cyd's spine. He froze, every muscle locking. The horse. The horse hadn't made a sound. He managed to flick his eyes toward it.
The white steed was placidly nuzzling a… a golden-horned deer. A creature of impossible beauty and clear divinity. They were sharing a patch of clover, utterly unconcerned.
Brother, you're a horse! That's a deer! his mind screamed before logic reasserted itself. Right. Greece. Interspecies… affection… is as common as bad weather.
"There. All better!"
The being behind him clapped her hands softly in satisfaction. The hand left his head.
"Th-thank you… your, um, divinity?" Cyd stammered, staring rigidly ahead. "Your happiness is… my utmost concern…"
"You're very pale. Your hair too. Hmm…" A soft sound of curiosity. Then she leaned over him, peering closely. A cascade of silken, snow-white hair, far longer and more luminous than his own, fell around his face like a fragrant curtain. It smelled of ozone, wildflowers, and cold, clear moonlight. The back of his head made contact with something yielding and soft.
He. Did. Not. Move.
A breath, a millennia of existence, held still.
"I see…" she murmured, her voice a hypnotic hum near his ear. "There are blessings on you. Several. But… oh my. This is more than just a blessing. How clingy."
Cyd's heart plummeted into his boots. A curse. They cursed me. The Gorgons put some tracking curse or a slow-acting petrification curse or—
A gentle pat on his head, reassuring. "Don't fret, little one. I've taken the liberty of removing the… anchor. The one that wasn't meant to be there. Someone was being rather possessive."
It was worse than a curse. The realization hit him like a physical blow. They tagged me. Like a piece of luggage. They were going to snatch me back the moment I got too far or stopped being 'entertaining.' A cold sweat broke out on his brow. If not for this serendipitous, terrifying divine intervention, he might have woken up one night back in that floral prison, staring into Stheno's amused eyes.
"Th-thank you so m-much, I'm so gratef—mmph!"
Overwhelmed with relief, Cyd spun around on his knees, words of profound thanks tumbling from his lips. He did not account for her proximity.
His face was buried directly into the soft linen of a chiton, and beneath that, the undeniable, generous curve of a goddess's bosom.
The world stopped.
He could feel the coolness of her skin through the thin fabric, smell the divine scent up close. His brain short-circuited. Rule #3 flashed in his mind in burning, capital letters, then fizzled out into static.
"Hehehe… that tickles…"
The goddess didn't shove him away. She didn't turn him to stone or blast him into atoms. Instead, she laughed—a light, tinkling, genuinely amused sound—and wrapped her arms around his head, pulling him into a closer, utterly inadvertent embrace.
Cyd's entire body went stiff. His face burned. His thoughts were a scrambled chorus of I'm dead I'm dead I'm so dead this is how I die smothered by divine cleavage Zeus is gonna strike me down Hera is gonna torture me for eternity—
But the strike didn't come. The laughter faded into a soft, contented hum. She released him, taking a graceful step back.
Cyd remained on his knees, head bowed, face scarlet, unable to look up. He saw her feet—bare, perfect, and seemingly not quite touching the grass.
"Be on your way, little mooncalf," she said, her voice still warm with amusement. "The path ahead is long, and not all who watch you do so with my… detached curiosity. Be clever. Be cautious."
He heard the whisper of fabric, the faint chime of unseen jewelry, and when he finally dared to lift his gaze, she was gone. The golden-horned deer was gone too. Only the white horse remained, chewing thoughtfully and watching him with an expression that could only be described as equine pity.
Cyd collapsed onto his back in the grass, one arm thrown over his burning face.
"Detached curiosity…" he groaned to the sky. "Right."
He could still feel the phantom coolness against his cheek. The half of him that was terrified was locked in a stalemate with the half of him that was acutely, mortifyingly aware he had just experienced a divine encounter of a very specific and dangerous kind.
The horse wandered over and sniffed his hair.
"Don't say a word," Cyd mumbled from under his arm.
The horse, wisely, said nothing.