Christmas Break

Atalanta did not fight against him. She refused to dignify him in such a manner. He had won her, married her on grass fed by his predecessors, those foolish boys. The agreement was simple and Atalanta would respect it. Her scruples would allow no oath-breaking.

Hippomenes won her hand. But there would be no wild animal for him to tame.

Everything she did and said would live up to her given name. She would be domesticated, tame, a lioness given a leash and a pretty collar.

She would spite Hippomenes, rob him of satisfaction. Yes, she would be his taste of danger to trot out before visitors. See how nicely she smiles? She would let him say, bearing that slight. Her fangs filed down, claws clipped away. What a savage wonder she once was. How you would have feared her before! A terrible woman, with hard eyes and a harder figure. Only I could guide her, turning her from the famous Atalanta into just my wife.

Hippomenes could brag all he liked. The truth would be for them and them only. An earworm of a thought, one that would make prideful words taste like ash in his mouth.

As Schoeneus led them to the waiting priestess, as he patted her arm consolingly, she resisted the urge to scream, to rant, to fight. Her life would not always be this way, victory forever within her reach yet always outside her grasp. The odds were stacked against her. But she would always be braver and faster and stronger. One day, Schoeneus and Hippomenes would come to regret this day as much as she did.

The ritual began, Hippomenes fidgeting with the apple beside her. It was her trophy, her blood still staining its perfect surface. The apple seemed too heavy for him, like he couldn’t bear its weight. Atalanta smiled. It would be hers soon, when she exacted her revenge.

She was Atalanta, daughter of wolves, the forgotten Argonaut, and she was no stranger to playing the long game.

Christmas Break

by Noah Wing

Around the fire bastardly literates Pine for love, Joking of tragedies And speaking of stalwart men As they quaff red cups of milk. They laugh and embrace In the firelight, the sparks crack around them like the embers of Hrothgar’s Hall As each one of them declares the legends of conquerors And lore of kings slaying Ferocious beasts and armies of old.

In December they go home. Afraid to see their fallen heroes, they begin to lose themselves in pages.