Forsaken Chapter Two

Forsaken

Chapter Two

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Artemis was seething as she reconstituted on Olympos, within her temple-house. Much like her cabin in Camp Halfblood, the interior was spartan in the extreme. Even more so, perhaps, because she spent even less time here than she did at the Camp, preffering to remain encamped with her Hunt whenever she was not attending to one of her divine duties, such as driving the moon-chariot.

Her mouth twisted slightly as a millennia-old and numbly familiar bitterness washed through her. She had never entirely forgiven the Romans for conflating and combining herself and Selene, due to nothing more than the fact that (as patroness of labor and childbirth) she was connected to menstruation, which was considered by that ancient people to be connected to the moon. So Artemis and Selene had become one, and she had been forced to watch as Selene Faded away. Her essence, her self, returned to the primordial Creation, her existence forgotten or ignored.

One of the many, many indignities and cruelties that the whims of mortal faith had foisted upon her.

She shook her head sharply, banishing those thoughts with a firm and ruthless hand. Such things were irrelevant right now, with every wasted moment costing Perseus more time, more life. She needed to go to her father’s temple and force him to allow direct intervention in the boy’s case. His deliberate negligence, bordering on malicious sabotage, had been bad enough when she had only thought Perseus was injured but recovering. In the face of the fact that he was instead dying, painfully and quickly, made it nothing short of intolerable.

She set off across Olympos, ignoring the all-too-familiar sights and sounds of what mortals would consider a heavenly paradise, her feet carrying her along well-worn and instinctual paths even as her mind began to blaze new trails.

The idea of Perseus dying was genuinely discomfiting. After all, she and her Hunt owed him for Bianca’s and Zoe’s lives, and she loathed being in debt to anyone, especially a man. Even if that man had, time and again, proven himself to be unlike any of the men she had ever known. Even if he had never seemed to hold her cruelty, the mockery of the Hunt, the disdain, the rudeness, against her. Against them. Even if he seemed to be one of the most mellow and genuine people she had ever met, one far more interested in conversation and diplomacy than violence.

Even if his existence was a direct, blatant, and unyielding contradiction to millennia of belief and teaching on her part.

She thought back to the first time she had heard of the boy, back during the solstice when her father’s Master Bolt had been stolen. She had thought of him with contempt, with a mental and physical sneer that would have struck anyone who had seen her as ugly in oh so many ways. Another example of all that was wrong with the males of creation. Another demigod born of another illicit relationship, another example of infidelity, of broken vows. In truth, her only real concern had been figuring out how to keep her Hunters safe from the inevitable war between her father and uncle.

Then the boy had surprised her. Slaying the minotaur with it’s own horn, an impressive feat for an untrained child that hadn’t even known of his heritage an hour before. Breaking into the Underworld, into Uncle Hades’ palace itself. Escaping Echidna and her monsters. Standing against Ares (the bloodthirsty monster) in single combat and drawing his blood. Putting a stop to the war that the oaf had been eagerly attempting to start, and preventing Castellan from providing Kronos what he needed to resurrect himself.

The fact that he had given his mother the head of Medusa so that she could dispose of her monstrous, abusive husband (whom the woman had married to use as a shield against the monsters for Perseus, an example of motherhood Hera couldn’t hope to aspire to) had been frosting on the proverbial cake.

Yet from there, his legend had only grown, and it had become increasingly obvious to anyone with eyes that he was the hero mentioned in the Great Prophecy. Thalia’s revival, the DiAngelo children being freed from the Lotus Casino, none of that mattered in the grand scheme of things. They were heroes, oh yes, and she was fiercely proud of Bianca and glad to call her a follower, but none of them had the presence or the pedigree Perseus did. None of them had come close to accomplishing what he had. No one had, not in generations.

Now this. Saving a goddess from a titan. Fighting the Dragon Tooth warriors. Defeating the Nemean Lion. Finding the Ophiotaurus. And, most importantly, even frighteningly of all: changing Fate. Artemis had heard the Prophecy of the quest to rescue her. The meaning had been more than clear, especially in hindsight. Bianca and Zoe were meant to die, that much had been clear, and she was not so oblivious as to fail in recognizing the symbolism there.

Her oldest huntress, one that had been with her since the time the gods walked openly amongst mankind. Her youngest huntress, one that had been with her for a few grains of time in the mortal and immortal scales of comprehension alike. One, destined to be cut down by her own father. The other, dead because she desperately wanted to reconnect with the brother she had left behind in an effort to escape her responsibilities. One killed by the family that hated her, one dying because of the family she loved.

Oh yes, the equal but opposing natures of the losses she would have endured were painfully, agonizingly obvious to her despite being spared them.

It only made her more determined, only hastened her steps and added strength to her stride. Rarely did she push too hard against her father, rarely did she risk his ire, rarely did she care for anything outside of her Hunt and duties. Perhaps the very rarity of the circumstance would convince him to…

The world around her stopped. Every movement, every sound, every breath and heartbeat.

“Goddess of the Hunt.” A wizened voice, one that rang with the depth of ages, a voice older than all the gods of Olympos, older than the titans, older even than the primordials themselves, spoke from behind her. She swallowed convulsively, her mouth suddenly drier than the sands of Egypt as she turned to witness the presence of the Three Fates.

“Grandmothers?” she asked tentatively, respectfully. Fearfully, despite her wish otherwise and her efforts to conceal it. The Fates rarely involved themselves personally, rarely deigned to address the gods or their children. On the rare, rare occasions that they did, it was never good.

Nor was it good this time.

“You must cease your efforts to preserve the existence of Perseus Jackson, Sonof Poseidon.” Clotho informed her bluntly, with all the stern implacability of a judge delivering a sentence of death, and she swallowed again as her mind raced.

“Grandmothers, Perseus is a true hero, destined to fulfill the Great Prophecy…” she tried to protest, a small voice in the back of her mind shrieking that it was madness to contend (in however miniscule a fashion) with the Guardians of Destiny over anyone, never mind a (wonderful) man.

“He is, but he has twisted The Threads of Fate. Zoe Nightshade and Bianca DiAngelo were meant to die, one turned into a constellation at your hand and the other choosing rebirth upon reaching Elysium. This was written from before they were born.” Lachesis cut her off, and she bristled instinctively, even as her heart lurched at the confirmation of something she had already known. “The Sonof Poseidon rewove their Fates.”

“To be a Hero is to defy fate…?” she tried, falling silent as all three gave her stern looks. It wasn’t the most impressive argument, she had to admit, and she was hardly at her best.

“Defying Fate is one thing, forcefully rewriting it is another. It is a fundamental force, something that helps bind Creation together. There is a balance that must be maintained.” Atropos explained, and the three of them exchanged a long look before she continued. “The existence of the Son of Poseidon must end by midnight tonight, or Creation will unravel.”

The three of them vanished, time resumed, but Artemis remained immobile. She had thought she heard them stress the same word, all three of them, but why focus so much on the fact that Perseus was Poseidon’s son? Were they trying to convince her to give up because he was a male? That seemed…unlikely, given the apparently imminent collapse of all existencewould obviously be a far more convincing argument to make. Were they mocking her for caring so much about the fate of a male? Again, unlikely. The Fates didn’t care about the foibles and interests, the likes and dislikes, of those whose threads they wove and watched and winnowed.

So why were they stressing that the Son of Poseidon could…no longer…exist.

A suspicion dawned. A suspicion of why they had come to her, why they had stressed the words that they had. A suspicion that made an odd feeling of butterflies tumble about in her stomach, a faint warmth coming to her cheeks, as she pictured the potential result. It would require preparation and significant amounts of power, but she had plenty of power on hand, and her Domains were well-suited to her hopeful plan as well.

She glanced in the direction of her uncle’s temple, wondering if she should speak with Perseus’ father first, but almost immediately decided against it. She wasn’t positive that this would save the hero’s life, and she wasn’t callous enough to get his hopes up before even making the attempts. Better to leave him thinking his son was injured and recovering, followed by surprising him with his newly-saved child, then to have him watch and wait in hope yet suffer a worse sorrow if she failed.

With a thought, she was gone from Olympos once again. Not her shortest trip, certainly, but far from her longest. Yet all she could feel was relief. Would the Moirai have presented themselves before her, given her the clue she had received, if she had not been so determined to make her father lift his edict? Would they have been content to let things play out, let events continue on the course established? She would like to think not, she would like to think that they would have come to her at Camp Halfblood, or acted in some other way. After all, they had acknowledged for themselves that Percy was the Child spoken of in the Great Prophecy. Surely…surely saving her, freeing her from Titan’s Burden, would not have been his ‘choice’ that left Olympos to be razed? Surely an act of salvation could not lead to it’s destruction, surely leaving her beneath it wouldn’t have been the choice that would preserve it?

She wanted to be angry, to be bitter, to hate, to hold Perseus accountable for the doubts that were plaguing her, but she couldn’t. As ironic as it was, as amusing and hypocritical and surprising as her family would have found it and as shocking as her Hunt would have been, she couldn’t and wouldn’tlie to herself or be so petty as to blame him. She would have to do the right thing, the mature thing, the godly thing, and think about all of this.

But only after she had saved her hero.

Well, not her hero. A hero. THE hero, but certainly not hers. He didn’t belong to her, and she obviously didn’t belong to him. She didn’t belong to anyone, and she didn’t have any interest in doing so, either!

Rematerializing directly outside of his cabin, she made her way inside, sweeping into the bedroom, a hitch her step the only sign of her surprise and displeasure as she found that everyone but Thalia was gone. It would have been unrealistic in the extreme for him to be entirely alone, but why couldn’t it have been her loyal, obedient Hunters, or even Athena’s girl? Why did it have to be her half-sibling that loathed her and blamed her for this entire situation?

“Why are you back?” The girl asked, sounding far more subdued than their last meeting, and it was easy for Artemis to see why. Perseus looked even worse than he had before, his decline clearly having accelerated in her brief absence, and Artemis recognized the look in her sister’s eyes. The pain that radiated off of her as she held his hand in both of her own against her cheek. A look and a pain she had seen more times than she cared to count.

Thalia Grace was deeply in love with Perseus Jackson, and was watching him die before her very eyes. Helpless, hopeless, only able to eke out every last moment with his unconscious body that she could before he was gone.

“I’m here for Perseus, sister. I would like some time with him. Alone.” She responded quietly, unnerved by the normally fiery and energetic girl turning to this morose sentinel. Thalia gave a soft scoff, and for some reason Artemis recognized that it was far more to do with the suggestion that she leave his side rather than Artemis wanting to visit him. She could understand that, but the kind of power she was going to be throwing around would vaporize the girl unless she left. Injecting some steel into her tone, she spoke again. “Thalia Grace, Daughter of Zeus, I’m instructing you to leave this cabin immediately, and not to reenter it until I give you permission.”

For a moment, she was afraid that Thalia would refuse or, worse still, physically fight her. Then the girl drooped even further, pressing a kiss to his knuckles before gently placing it down on the bed. Getting to her feet, she silently started walking. Artemis struggled to think of something encouraging to say. Something to reassure her, something to push back her anguish, but what could be said? If she didn’t dare to tell Poseidon her plans, for fear of worsening her grief, how could she dream of saying something to a young woman in love? Their uncle, at least, was immortal. Used to grief, used to losing children and loved ones, but Thalia? She was a child, not yet even in her second decade of life. Better to remain silent, better to let Thalia think she was a cruel and selfish bitch for the moment. When she saved Perseus, all would be forgiven.

The Lady of the Moon watched as the door closed behind the Daughter of Lightning, feeling feelings that she didn’t think she could really identify, never mind resolve, before turning her attention back to her nephew. Taking a deep breath, she focused, turning herself inward to that wellspring of radiance that fueled her divine powers, and blossomed. Silver light filled the room as she took on her true form, that of a beautiful and busty red-haired woman in her twenties, dressed in a fine, silken silver chiton. Artemis was one of the most attractive of the goddesses when she took on her true form, which is one of the reasons that she routinely stayed in the (relatively) plainer, more youthful form she wore around The Hunters.

Slowly walking up to Perseus’ bedside, she placed her dominant on his chest, she pictured and began feeding her energy into his body. She idly, and oddly, wondered what a mortal scientist would have seen, would have thought, if they could watch the effects of her efforts as her power washed through him. Rewriting him at the genetic level.

Making him into her.

The hard, powerful lines of a male’s warrior build melted away, smoothed out. Muscles shifted, skin softened, broad bulk became lithe and graceful lethality. His penis shrank, becoming a clitoris, his hips widened, his organs shifted. His chest grew and grew, swelling to the point of a perfect balance between being large enough to drive men (and women) mad, and small enough not to interfere too much with her ability to move and fight. Her hair changed, the brittle grey visible changing into a bright, shimmering curtain of lustrous silver, her skin darkened from a light tan to an exotic bronze and, though Artemis could not see them beneath her closed lids, she was sure her eyes were changing as well.

A hero, after all, is beautiful. A hero is mysterious and exotic. A hero is powerful without being grotesque. A hero is differentwithout being disturbing.

Her divine sight watched as the Daughter of Poseidon’s soul bloomed back to full strength, no longer rotting away under a metaphysical weight, not longer being eroded by the punishing power of Fate. In a handful of minutes, every injury, every blemish undeserved, every ounce of suffering unwarranted had been erased. Oh, the scars she had earned remained. The legacies of wounds she had collected in service to Olympos, to her friends and family…Artemis could never take those away from her. She had earnedthem. As she had earned Artemis’ Blessing, Oath or no Oath. It took hold with a thought, a cloak of power settling around the sleeping girl, binding itself to her irrevocably. Binding them to each other, though she determinedly ignored even the slightest notion of why that fact would make her heartbeat quicken or her cheeks to warm or her stomach to turn and twist and flutter.

She wondered what the newly-reforged young woman would name herself. Persephone would allow her to keep her nickname, but somehow Artemis didn’t think that was good idea. Certainly, Hades and his wife were quite fond of the former boy, but perhaps not that fond. Penelope was an option, but quite frankly Artemis didn’t think she looked like a Penelope, and even less like a ‘Penny’. Perhaps Artemis could convince her to take the name of former Hunters that had died, or those who had prayed to Artemis for salvation? Atalanta, or Daphne?

Whatever happened, she would need help learning how to be a woman. What better place to do that than amongst the Hunt? Bianca and Zoe would be thrilled, no doubt, Poseidon would probably appreciate the knowledge that his child would never die of old age, and (somewhere quietly in the back of her mind) Artemis had to admit the idea of this particular young woman never aging, never changing, from how she looked now to be…very appealing, in ways she wasn’t even going to try and understand.

Another flex of her power washed through the room, changing her cousin’s clothing from the drab, unappealing clothing she had been wearing before (which were far too small now) into something more befitting a Huntress, and she set about rearranging the blankets and the pillows into a more comfortable and organized fashion. As a result, she found herself far closer to the sleeping demigoddess, and she frowned unconsciously as she saw the state the girl’s hair was in. It made sense, she supposed, that tripling in length while being pressed into a pillow wasn’t exactly conducive to neatness. Leaning over further still, she tidied it as best she could, but as she braced herself against the headboard to push herself upright once more, she realized just how close she was to her heroine.

She realized just how beautiful the girl was.

Gripped by a compulsion she had never before experienced, she couldn’t resist leaning down and pressing a soft kiss on the corner of the girl’s mouth. A jolt ran through her, a spark of lightning and warmth, and she shot upright with a heavy blush and a litany of mental vitriol for herself. Her heroine had nearly died saving her, and here she was kissing the girl while she was asleep and helpless! For heaven’s sake, she was acting like her perverse family!

Spinning on her heel, her full radiance fading into her more common form, she hastened from the room and the cabin entirely. She would have a quiet word with Chiron, then straight to Olympos to tell Uncle Poseidon. He should hear the good news from her personally, and he deserved to know right away.

So distracted by her moment of (minor) lustful behavior and her excitement was she that she failed to realize that nearly everything that had just occurred had been witnessed. She failed to realize that every moment after she had taken her true form had been witnessed. Every moment of the transformation, every moment of Artemis changing clothing and adjusting bedding and tidying hair and gently kissing had been witnessed.

Thalia Grace watched her half-sister practically skip away, having taken the boy she loved and forced her into femininity without her consent, changing her clothes without request, and then practically molesting her as she slept. Thalia Grace watched and felt a kernel of genuine hate throb in her breast. Hate…and seething jealousy.

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Warmth, that was the first thing h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ noticed when h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ woke up. The second thing was that h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ wasn’t in pain anymore. In fact, h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ felt absolutely amazing, even better than h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ had felt before the grand quest that had reduced h̵̨̪̺͍͎͚̤̦̥͕̀̒̋͆̿̏͐̉̿͘̚͝i̴̡͚̰͖̟̾ͅͅṁ̴̡̯̙̘͈̦̥̙̻̻̎͆̾̈́͠͝͝͝ͅ to that state of slow and agonizing decay in the first place. H̴̡̧̞͖̦̞̣͚̠̲͈̳̩̑̒̀̏͊̚ȩ̶̧̡̙̼̣̹͈͖͍̲͍̬̲̑̿͆̄͐͐͜ sat up carefully, marveling in the ability not only to do so, but to do so without any pain. Then h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ paused, frowning, because something didn’t feel quite right, though it took some time and effort for h̵̨̪̺͍͎͚̤̦̥͕̀̒̋͆̿̏͐̉̿͘̚͝i̴̡͚̰͖̟̾ͅͅṁ̴̡̯̙̘͈̦̥̙̻̻̎͆̾̈́͠͝͝͝ͅ to figure out what the issue was, with the fog of sleep clinging to ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ mind. H̴̡̧̞͖̦̞̣͚̠̲͈̳̩̑̒̀̏͊̚ȩ̶̧̡̙̼̣̹͈͖͍̲͍̬̲̑̿͆̄͐͐͜ became aware of a weight on ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ chest and looked down in confusion. There seemed to be a significant bulge there, large and shapely, and as h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ shifted around they bounced and swayed lightly.

H̴̡̧̞͖̦̞̣͚̠̲͈̳̩̑̒̀̏͊̚ȩ̶̧̡̙̼̣̹͈͖͍̲͍̬̲̑̿͆̄͐͐͜ had seen that kind of bounce and sway before, one that had always proved quite hypnotizing, and only more so when h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ had finally learned the truth about ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ heritage and come to Camp Halfblood. Two shaking hands (smaller, thinner, more delicate) reached up and latched onto them.

They were soft, perky, each larger than one of ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ old hands could have held, never mind her new ones, and she yelped and hissed as a lightning bolt of pleasure shot through her as ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ fingers brushed across the semi-soft nubs that capped them. A thought occurred, and one hand flew to her crotch, patting it in multiple places as she searched for ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ penis. The blankets are tossed aside, and she tries to stumble over to the mirror h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ kept to one side of the bed room to check on injuries and (though h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ didn’t want to admit it) her appearance before she interacted with certain girls. H̴̡̧̞͖̦̞̣͚̠̲͈̳̩̑̒̀̏͊̚ȩ̶̧̡̙̼̣̹͈͖͍̲͍̬̲̑̿͆̄͐͐͜ couldn’t help but gape at ḩ̴̨̯̗̤̟͇̤̻̫̣̣̣́͒͒͗̑̆͂̿͐̈́̚͜͝͠i̶̡͔̠̣̭̣͔̫̮̼̱͉̳͕͑̂̾̄͠ş̷̛̥͉̌̓̅̈́̇́̓̆̿́̕͠͝ appearance.

She was hot. Her breasts were large, her skin was a soft, exotic bronze-brown, her hair was a waterfall of shimmering silver, and her eyes…her eyes were now a deep, vibrant burgundy. On anyone else, h̸̡̡͍͚͙̙̜͔͍̳͖̺͇̫͙̭̯̮͖̎̂̂̈́͆̓͜͜ḛ̴̯͙̮̫̯̪̻̟͆̿̃̆͜͠͠ wouldn’t have been able to take her eyes off of them, but on herself she was disturbed. What had happened to h̵̨̪̺͍͎͚̤̦̥͕̀̒̋͆̿̏͐̉̿͘̚͝i̴̡͚̰͖̟̾ͅͅṁ̴̡̯̙̘͈̦̥̙̻̻̎͆̾̈́͠͝͝͝ͅ? She glanced at her clothing, silver and made for athleticism, and the answer came to her.

Artemis.

Artemis must have done this. She was probably the only goddess that had the desire to turn a man into a woman, except maybe Aphrodite, but she was definitely the only goddess that would turn a man into a woman and then dress them up as one of Artemis’ Hunters.

“You’re okay…” she heard a voice breath from behind her, and she turned around just in time to catch Thalia as the raven-haired girl threw herself into her arms. Wrapped in the tight embrace, she could only stare down at the raven hair buried under her chin for a long, long moment before the feeling of wet tears on her throat and soft sniffling urged her into action.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She said softly, holding Thalia close, one hand automatically coming up to cradle the back of her head while the other went around her waist. “Looks like whatever else she did, Artemis saved my life.”

Thalia growled something vile in response, though it was half-hearted at best. She couldn’t but feel gratitude to her sister for saving the life of the person she loved, but that didn’t mean she had to be happy about the methods or about what Artemis had done after.

After a long moment, one that likely lasted a handful of minutes, the embrace broke and their eyes met. Pushing aside the sudden, though not unfamiliar, urge to kiss the taller girl, Thalia spoke again.

“Yeah, she saved your life, but what she did…she remade you, changed your body, kissed you while you slept…she isn’t any better than the rest of the gods. She just wants you for herself, for her Hunt. Her perfect little trophy, the destined Hero of Olympos, collared by an Oath of Obedience. Another child of the Big Three to feather her fucking cap.”

Her tone was bitter, and were she in a better frame of mind (and willing to be more honest with herself), she might even have been able to admit that some of that was unfair, a projection of her own insecurities about the Hunt’s pursuit of her own membership. She might even have been able to admit that she was terrified Artemis would take the heart of the one she loved. How could she compete? She, who had failed to defeat a small pack of hellhounds, who had been trapped as a tree, who was afraid of heights despite being a child of the sky, against the Goddess of the Hunt. One of the most beautiful entities yet un-Faded.

Ever since she had awoken, thanks entirely to the woman before her, she had struggled with feelings of inadequacy. Killing the Minotaur alone, completing multiple quests, fighting the God of War to a stand-still…how could she hope to win and keep the affections of such a person when competition presented itself?

“We should leave, P̷̨̩̜̺̳̙͓̟̬̙͐̏̔ë̵̡̧̠͓͔͉̯̥̙̹͇̬̪̗̭́́͊̏̈́r̴̡̦̜̙̩͊̅̄̊̊́̍̂̃̚ć̷͈̤̫̼͚̩͎̜͖̼̺̇̈̏͒̃̄͆́̏̅͐̂͝͝y̸̯̦͋̀̏. Just…quit and leave and go away.” She blurted, getting a shocked look from the silver-haired heroine before her. Her mouth kept running without any real input on her part, emotions and exhaustion urging her forward without filter. “Not, not to join that fucking traitor, but just to stop being the fucking playthings of our parents. We’re…we’re not their soldiers, their good little wind-up toys to fight and die in their wars and be ignored the rest of the time, if they aren’t killing our other parents and us themselves.”

“…You’re right, we do deserve better, but what can we do? Ignore Luke, let him and Kronos take over the world?” was the response, hesitant and unsure, and Thalia desperately cast around for a potential solution.

“Your mom! Let’s visit your mom and her boyfriend, ask her for advice. She’s always had good advice for you. She’s smart, she’s level-headed, she’s involved in the situation without being in the middle of it. There isn’t anyone alive better to ask about what to do now!” she suggested eagerly, sure that this would be sufficiently convincing, and she was quickly proven right as wine-colored eyes brightened and perfect lips turned up at the idea.

“Alright, okay. Go back to your cabin, grab your stuff. I’ll get my stuff together and we can go see my mom. You’re right, she’ll know exactly what to do.”

The ravenette nodded and darted away, leaving P̷̨̩̜̺̳̙͓̟̬̙͐̏̔ë̵̡̧̠͓͔͉̯̥̙̹͇̬̪̗̭́́͊̏̈́r̴̡̦̜̙̩͊̅̄̊̊́̍̂̃̚ć̷͈̤̫̼͚̩͎̜͖̼̺̇̈̏͒̃̄͆́̏̅͐̂͝͝y̸̯̦͋̀̏ behind to do the same. Quickly collecting some spare clothes (those that she thought would fit her now that she had tits, at any rate) and underwear, she looked around her cabin a bit morosely. Eyes falling on the desk she used for writing letters, doing homework, and (occasionally) doodling, she hesitated for a long moment before walking over and sitting down. Pulling out Riptide, she grabbed a piece of paper and began to write.

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Zoe Nightshade, daughter of Atlas, Nymph of the Setting Sun and exiled Hesperide, leaned her head back against the dark tiled wall of the shower, warm water cascading over her copper skin and soaking her dark hair. The Cabin of Artemis was quiet, as it so often was, with the rest of her sister-subordinates roaming the surrounding area for monsters or straggling demigods and satyrs. It was rare that she had privacy such as this, and rarer still that her thoughts were not filled with the stresses and responsibilities of helping to lead the Hunt, or having to deal with the suffering and nightmares of her newest sisters, or having to worry about whether she would lose any of her found-family when next they fought the beasts born of Tartarus.

Instead, her thoughts were solely on The Boy. The Man. The one that had saved Bianca’s life, stopped her father, and saved her own life in the process. She hadn’t been able to keep him entirely out of her mind since the moment they met, and the more he proved himself as mighty as Heracles, but a better person in every imaginable way, the more prominent he became and the harder it was to push him aside. She found herself thinking of how he looked as he fought, the clever ways he out-thought his enemies, his kind and friendly and gentle demeanor that non-the-less exuded strength and a willingness to act. He was, in short, exactly the hero she had always thought Heracles to be, and she knew that if it had been P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ who had come to her in the garden all those centuries ago, he never would have cast her aside. He would have kept her, cherished her, and (she blushed faintly at the thought) raised wonderful children with her.

Never had anyone captured her thoughts, her feelings in this way. No one had ever made her question her Oath, question the assertions and beliefs she held towards men. She had always thought, after hisbetrayal, that love was a falsehood. That it was lust and childish affection and foolishness that girls called love, something ephemeral and ultimately meaningless.

Now, feeling what she felt, she finally understood what people meant when they talked about the differences between infatuation and dedication, between love and lust. Between a crush and romantic desire. What she had felt for Heracles was…irrelevant, meaningless, in the face of what she felt now.

She was in love with P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ Jackson, and she certainly felt lust for him as well. She was adult enough to understand the coil of hot tension nestled low in her belly. The tight hardness of her nipples, the damp warmth of her folds. She was experienced enough to know what her body and her heart wanted, even if it was impossible for her to have. Oh yes, she was experienced. Despite the mockery and speculation about the Hunt being full of staid, tree-hugging sex-haters that wore ’granny panties’, the fact of the matter was that the Hunt was quite sensual. Swearing off of men didn’t make their desires go away, their wish for emotional companionship and trust, and it was not unusual for her sisters to take lovers amongst one another. Indeed, it was far, far rarer to meet a Huntress that had nointerest in sex or affection with her fellows, and it was quite common for meals and communal time to devolve into what many would have called orgies.

It was one of the things she loved most about The Hunt. The mutual trust, the mutual affection. The lack of being bound by the strictures and morals of the rest of mankind. The freedom to live life together as they saw fit, free of male predations and expectations. For the vast majority of her life, that had been everything she could have wanted…but now she wanted more.

She looked down at herself, at the subtle yet powerful muscles lurking beneath copper skin that was littered with scars. What would P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ think of them, she wondered, if ever he saw them? Would they make her ugly in his eyes, as they would have the men of her own time? Would he find her ugly for the proof of her time and talent on the battlefield? She did not think so, he was a warrior and appreciated warriors, judging by everything she had seen of him. Far more likely, if anything, that he would take issue with the small size of her breasts. She wasn’t the least busty of the Hunt, by any stretch, but she could boast only (by modern terminology) a modest mid-B cup. Not small, but compared to some the difference was noticeable. Her rear was more impressive, she knew, full and heart-shaped and well-padded, but she had heard more than one mortal girl complain about how all men cared about breasts and nothing else. She didn’t think P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ was like that, but what did she know about what men wanted? Clearly she had no idea, otherwise…

She cut the thought off. She was not going to think about that man and ruin the moment.

She cupped her breasts, running her thumbs along their swell as she weighed them. They filled her hands, but only just, and she knew there would have been plenty of room to spare if P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ were to be holding onto them instead.

She paused, feeling the warmth become heat as she pictured herself held in his arms, her back braced against the hard, muscled expanse of his powerful torso, his large hands kneading her breasts, pinching her nipples, twisting them between his knuckles. His lips beside her ear, whispering wicked, sinful promises into it, his warm breath caressing her as one of his hands abandoned it’s breast to glide and stroke it’s way down her body to cup a mound of another kind. Long fingers, calloused from years of holding a sword, rubbing away at her clit as she arched against him. Begging, pleading, desperate for penetration. They would slide into her, curling into her depths and hitting those spots that left her breathless and desperate for more, stretching her out as he plundered her depths, took her for his own. His palm grinding against her clit, his mouth on her throat, his teeth leaving marks up and down her pulse, driving her insane again and again and again until finally…

The sound of the cabin door slamming open and her Lady shouting shocked her from her daydream, and she quickly pulled her fingers out of her self, releasing her breast as she quickly rinsed the evidence of her unquenched desires off before leaving the shower and the bathroom entirely. Naked and dripping wet, she was confronted with the vision of an utterly frantic Artemis looking at her with wild eyes.

“My Lady…” she started to ask, only for Artemis to cut her off.

“Zoe, we have to find her! We have to find P̵̡̟͕͍̙̩̻̣̥̪̖͍̾ȇ̶̬̈́̆͂̒̂̇r̴̺͔̹̣͍͔̓̀͆́͆̆̓̃̽̌͆͋̀s̷͍̪͖̻͈̦̯̾̊̌͋͘ë̶̢̡̢̗͙͍̹̫̖̠̻̳̯̖́͆̈̓̐̒̐̂̄ű̸̜͊̓̊ş̸̡̤͕͉͙̼̺͇͇͍̱̟̖̇̒̔̏̏͒̈̒͛̀̀̌͝͝ before it’s too late!”

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