"Then we have Poseidon," Heracles drawled, gesturing dramatically, "god of getting wet and sexy posing—also a womanizer, by the way."
He spoke to Atrius as they stood atop a cliff, high above the surrounding terrain. The sea stretched out before them, its blue surface shimmering under the late morning sun. The ocean wind howled gently as it passed over the weathered stone. Jagged rocks protruded like teeth from the cliffside, some cloaked in veils of green moss. Patches of wild grass swayed in defiance of gravity, stubbornly rooted between cracks in the cliff's stone crown. Distant gulls called as they glided overhead, weaving through the breeze.
Agape stood silently behind Atrius, fulfilling her role as escort. She rolled her eyes at Heracles' quip but said nothing.
"I see," Atrius murmured, hands calmly clasped behind his back. His golden eyes remained on the view. "You use humour to mask your pain."
This was the first time since arriving here that he allowed himself to feel at ease. He had intentionally allowed himself to be in the dark cavern dungeon below the island, in isolation—watching, waiting in ambush or a possible strategic retreat. Something might have pursued him here, of that he was uncertain. Shadows in the Warp, daemons most likely, detrimental to this world if true. Few beings he knew of could damage his armor. he had also realized another reason it could no longer fit him properly—his growth. Gaining in stature was nothing new to him. His evolution was constant.
Heracles looked up at him from his side, momentarily disarmed. "...Why would you think that?"
It had been weeks since Queen Hippolyta assigned him the task of accompanying this dusky behemoth. At first, Heracles had considered escaping—breaking out would have been child's play—but he stayed. The threat of the Queen alerting the Olympians to his treachery hung over him like a sword.
In the days that followed, he had come to respect the one he shadowed. Atrius was like no other man he had encountered. Calm, stoic, impossibly wise. His sheer presence was unsettling in a way that Heracles could not articulate—powerful, ancient, restrained.
"Excessive humour. You can't stay quiet. And that look in your eyes when silence finds you," Atrius explained gently. "All signs of deep pain. Psychological trauma."
The demi-god turned his gaze back toward the sea, his expression sobering. The wind tugged gently at his wild mane.
"Trauma... that's new." He exhaled through his nose. "Pain... that I understand. You have no idea how much it festers in my spirit."
No one had ever spoken to him like this before. They all saw the legend—the invulnerable warrior, the champion of Olympus. His feats were mythologized: his strength, his victories, his heroic labors, his long pursuit of redemption. To some, he was greatness incarnate. To others, an icon to admire. But to Atrius... he was simply a man.
Someone had finally seen through it all—through the legends, through the pride—without even trying. No one knew the weight of the guilt he carried, the shame etched into his bones, or the powerless rage at having his life turned into a chess piece in the gods' games. All his agony born from the same divine blood that made him "special."
Agape said nothing, simply listening as she stood behind the Custodian. Her mission was clear—ensure Heracles did not offend the godlike being they were now trying to impress. She had not expected Heracles to grow so pensive. She had not expected Atrius to request him by name the moment he emerged from the caves. The Amazons had been confused at first. They assumed Atrius meant to use him for labour. But instead, he walked with him. He spoke with him.
From behind, the faint sound of galloping hooves echoed across the cliff face.
Agape turned, her eyes narrowing.
A rider approached from across the rocky path—a tall Amazon astride a massive warhorse. As the silhouette grew closer, the details resolved: it was Antiope. She rode tall and proud, her long hair streaming behind her, her posture loose but steady. She looked revitalized—no trace of weakness.
Atrius turned slightly, his gaze following the approaching rider. He had investigated this island with keen interest. There was tension here, cloaked in sunlight and sisterhood. And he meant to understand every inch of it. Antiope was no exception.
Sister to the Queen. lower in rank, utterly opposite in bearing. Where Hippolyta exuded grace, duty, and regal restraint, Antiope was... unceremonial, to put it mildly.
"Hello there, Lord Atrius!" Antiope called out, dismounting her horse in one smooth motion. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Almost as beautiful as your hair. Ugh, how I envy you."
She brushed her horse's mane absentmindedly as she made her way forward. From the moment they met again, her approach had been direct, irreverent, and unfiltered. A general in service to her sister, she was vital to the Amazon chain of command—but her mannerisms made her seem almost wild.
Atrius did not trust surface impressions. He had been trained by the best minds in the Imperium—masters of psychology, interrogation, and deceit. He knew better. The unruly nature was likely a mask. She was more than she let on.
Antiope stepped beside him, briefly ruffling Agape's hair, earning a sharp glare from the younger Amazon.
Heracles opened his arms, as if expecting affection. "Come on, give me a hug. I know you missed me."
"I still hate you," Antiope replied flatly, not even looking at him.
"Everyone here does," Heracles muttered with a shrug, unfazed.
Antiope turned to Atrius, arms open, an impish smile on her lips. "Would you like a hug, Lord Atrius?"
The absurdity of it was comical. She barely reached his mid-thigh, her arms spread as if attempting to embrace a statue.
Seriously? Him? Heracles thought, eyes narrowing as he watched the scene unfold.
Atrius didn't blink.
"...No," he replied without hesitation, returning his gaze to the sea.
"Your loss, Lord Atrius. I'm a fantastic hugger," Antiope grinned, lowering her arms.
Heracles gritted his teeth slightly. Something about her tone irked him. Why was he never treated like this? He hadn't done anything wrong—well, apart from attempting to conquer Themyscira and… trying to force himself on Hippolyta. But that was ages ago.
Women and their grudges, he thought, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.