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The Will of the Gods

Summary:

Atalanta, her thoughts on the gods, and what happened after the worst decision of her life that Aphrodite made for her.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

Her father saw the gods as masters to appease, masters that he had offended in some way for his wife to die in childbirth and for the child to be a baby girl. He did not curse the gods for this, not openly, for he was not so foolish as he was cruel. But he saw no need for a daughter, and it was only a logical decision to expose her to the wilderness to perish in whatever way an infant saw fit. It was logic, pure and simple, nothing more, and she hated it with her whole heart. 

She could not remember him well, knew him only from the stories others told. But she did not believe, for much of her life, that she was missing very much.

Her goddess had a different view on the gods, being one of them. Artemis did not ask for any more than her hunters could give, nor for any less. She saw skill, and she saw passion, and she rewarded it, sharing with her followers a love of the wild and of the hunt and of remaining apart from those who would make romantic advances.

"The gods do not care for mortals," Artemis told her, once. It was a quiet, dark morning lit only by the light of the campfire. She had always been an early riser, and the goddess saw no need for sleep in the sense mere mortals did. It would be a few minutes before they were joined by the next to rise.

She'd nodded, of course, because Artemis's words made perfect sense. And even so, the words slipped from her lips like water over a cliff: "You are the exception, then?"

Her goddess, currently taking the form of a dark-haired girl too young to marry, poked idly at the fire with a long stick. She did not answer, for a time too long. Then she looked up, her dark eyes reflecting the brilliant embers of godhood back out into the world, and she whispered, "Do you wish for me to lie to you? Do not ask that of me again."

There was a deep sadness in the words of the goddess, in her hunched over posture, and in those wide, dark eyes, and she knew better than to further question the matter. If only she had known better when she heard from her father, for the first time she could remember. If only she had stayed with those who loved her, those who knew her.

If only, if only, if only.

The husband she never wanted truly loved the gods, or one in particular. While he did attempt to keep secret just how he had cheated for her hand in marriage, it was not hard to deduce that Aphrodite had been responsible, and that man had been eternally grateful to the goddess for her help. He shouldn't have been, not when it was Aphrodite responsible for their current predicament as well.

Atalanta hates him. But not as much as she could, or perhaps should. He too is nothing more than a pawn of the gods, and he is far less suited for life as a four-legged hunter than she. He would have long since starved without her, and they both know this. Perhaps that is how he's become less insufferable, with time.

"They say that lions cannot mate with each other," he'd said, after the shock had worn off and he'd stared down at his new paws for a long time.

"They cannot," Atalanta lied, and that was that. He was significantly more tolerable when he wasn't hopelessly infatuated with someone who would never love him back, despite Aphrodite's best attempts to the contrary.

Atalanta knows, from her own experience, that the gods and their attitudes towards mortals can be summed up in a single, bitter word: fickle. They humor mortals only when it suits them. They care not for the lives being destroyed by their quarrels with one another. They care not for anything beneath them, and no matter how dutiful a servant you are, you are always, always beneath them.

Artemis was right. The gods do not care. They never have, and they never will. Aphrodite only cared to further her own ends. A woman refusing to marry? She couldn't have that, and so she helped that man cheat. Zeus's anger, while quite justified, was misdirected. He should have punished Aphrodite, not Atalanta for fleeing to the one place she thought would be safe, and not even that man for being caught up in the twisted machinations of the gods.

Artemis doesn't care, either. Atalanta understands that now.

And yet it still hurts when, one day, that man as a lion steps out of a bush and a silver-feathered arrow finds its home in his throat. He dies quickly, a more merciful death than he perhaps deserved.

Atalanta crouches low, her human heart racing in the chest of a lion. She isn't fast enough. Another silver-feathered arrow lands a glancing blow against her flank, tearing through the edge of her flesh and flying off into the woods somewhere behind her, and she knows.

She knows these hunters. She's lived with them, laughed with them, loved with them. She misses them, she's missed them so, so much.

And she knows that once they have a clear shot, they will not miss her. She wonders if they would hold their fire if they knew it was her. She wants to believe they would, but... they answer to Artemis.

The impossibly sad words of her goddess echo once more in her mind: the gods do not care for mortals.

And, as if summoned by her thoughts, there she is. The goddess of the hunt, in all her glory, holding a bow and speaking in low tones with a huntress Atalanta does not recognize.

Atalanta could run. Or, more accurately, she could try to run.

She would not succeed. That, she knows deep in her soul. The hunters of Artemis are not many, but they are swift, and they are cunning, and they are nice but not kind. She was one of them, after all. She knows, better than most, that they will not lose their prey.

And she is their prey, now. She isn't one of them anymore. 

She stands anew, with a shuddering heart and a pain that isn't entirely physical or emotional. And the lion that was once Atalanta makes a decision. If she is to die here—and she is under no illusions about that—then it will be looking the goddess she followed in the eyes.

Will Artemis feel regret, or remorse? Atalanta doubts it, now. She might have believed it once.

The only warning Atalanta gives is a low, desperate growl, and then she lunges.

(The last thing she sees is the eyes of a goddess. They are not sad, nor are they resigned, and she is far too jaded now to genuinely believe that Artemis is surprised, no matter how it looks to a mere mortal such as her.)

 


 

Atalanta wakes, which is the first surprise. She wakes next to a crackling fire, with the low humming of another huntress nearby as she fletches new arrows, and a blanket draped over her. Surely that had all been nothing more than a bad dream. Surely her father had never come to find her, never played upon her desire for the family she never had to draw her back and away from her home. Surely everything is as it should be, and nothing has changed.

But her face is still the wrong shape, and she has four legs instead of two, and when she shifts slightly under the blanket her wounds ache. And as the pain hits, as she tries desperately not to show weakness, she blinks and—Artemis is there, with her sad, dark eyes.

"Why?" Atalanta asks, forgetting for a moment that she cannot be understood by anyone, anymore.

"Do not ask questions when you are not prepared for the answers, Atalanta," Artemis warns, revealing that she can be understood after all.

Atalanta narrows her eyes, and sits up a little more. "I am more prepared for it than I was, and perhaps far more than I ever will be again. Tell me."

"Forget not your place," Artemis says sharply, and Atalanta laughs.

"And what will happen if I do? Will you kill me?"

"There are fates much worse than death."

"I am quite aware." Atalanta looks down meaningfully at the paws beneath her, the paws of a lion. She asks, again, "Why?"

Artemis frowns, her brow furrowing. At last, she speaks, only to completely ignore Atalanta's question in favor of saying, "I cannot go against my father. Do you understand me?"

"Cannot, or will not?" Atalanta asks, because—truly, she no longer cares what happens to her. There are fates much worse than death. She has already met with one, after all.

"He is the king of the gods for a reason," Artemis says. "Had it been any other temple..."

"You know what happened to me," Atalanta realizes.

"I do." Artemis sighs. "If it is what you desire, I will put an end to your suffering. You need not remain in this form any longer."

"You could have done it already."

"Yes."

"You have not done it already."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"A choice," Artemis says. "Should you desire to live, I will not take that from you. You will be safe, at least, from my hunters."

"And if I do not want to be safe?" Atalanta asks.

"Then... I can end it quickly, and ensure you will be remembered." 

Atalanta nods slowly. "Neither of these options are good."

"No, they are not," Artemis agrees. She blinks slowly, and her eyes seem to lighten in hue. "They are the best I can offer. I will not apologize."

"There is a third option. I do not want to die, nor do I wish to live on alone." Atalanta smiles, though she doubts it comes across as such in this form. "If you would have me, I would like to hunt alongside you once more."

And the goddess... hesitates.

 


 

Many years later, a constellation of a lion is placed in the sky by one of the gods. Hera is all too happy to take credit, citing it to be the Nemean Lion that a certain hero she is not fond of killed. But those stars in that arrangement were not placed there by the queen of the gods, nor were they ever meant to represent a male lion.

"The gods do not care for mortals," Artemis will tell the next little girl with wide eyes to become a huntress of hers. And, when asked if she is the exception, she will once again lie.

Notes:

I... have absolutely nothing to say for myself except that Atalanta deserved better and here's the essay.