This story was inspired by the song Wolves of the Revolution by The Arcadian Wild, so check it out! I heard this song and became hooked on it; I took the lyrics of the song and the story basically wrote itself. It will be a brief, perhaps four-chapter story, but if there's enough support and desire I may write a full story with this. Enjoy!

The goddess and the mortal met for the first time on a vibrant starry night, overlooking the great sea where moon and ocean work together in blissful harmony.

It was a quiet night. The snow on the ground muffled what soft stirrings there were in the forest, and few animals plodded through the woods. While the sun had set hours previously, the full moon cast its silver beams down upon and illuminated the ground below. The dark shadows that rested beneath the looming pines laid in sharp contrast to the glow of the soft snow that blanketed the undergrowth.

The undergrowth itself was almost entirely devoid of movement or sound. Few rodents scurried at this hour, and the breeze that ruffled the needles overhead did not reach the forest floor. This did nothing to stop the efforts of the few owls who perched in tall branches. Though their hunts were not met with success, the quiet fluttering of wings as they moved to different perches was the only sound to disturb the serenity present.

Countless stars blazed overhead, each individual pinprick of light contributing to the masterfully-painted tapestry hanging in the sky. But the stars in their glory were overshadowed, for it was the moon and her jealous beams that were emblazoned in the night sky. It was this moon that signaled the start of the hunt, the start of life for many. It was this moon that signaled approaching doom for one.

It was this moon that drew tides in and pushed them back out once more in an endless cycle. It was this moon that offered light to pierce the darkness, giving hope to the fearful. Yet it was this moon that was also the harbinger of night, the precursor of coming darkness. And for the one, it was the precursor of coming judgement.

Off in the distance, a form moved to the edge of a rocky outcropping; the crag stood tall and resolute above the dark sea of pines and spruces below. In the silence, the form's soft padding of steps fell upon sleeping ears like the pounding of a heart. It raised its head to the great moon and silver light reflected off sapphire eyes; four paws moved even closer to the open air below and a muzzle opened. In an instant, the silence of the night was shattered as the howl pierced the winter air.

As the call of the hunter echoed, herds of deer stirred for a moment from their rest and voles scurried away from the source. Rabbits turned over in their dens, uncaring, and the owl gazed at the ground more fiercely. The sound signaled the start of the hunt, the oncoming death, yet the forest remained calm. For the predators must hunt and the prey must run; so is the nature of life.

At the howl, a dark figure paused as ice seemed to shoot through his veins. He was not usually prey—far from it. In days past, he was mighty; in days past, he bore the crest of nobility...but he had been stricken down. Now, as the wolf's howl signified but the rise of the moon and the start of the hunt to those of the forest, it did so for him also. He was not of the forest, for trespasser was he, entering the domain of those who would give chase. He was no hunter.

For tonight he was hunted.

Fate, it seemed, had finally caught up to him...but it had yet to finish the chase, and he was not willing to submit so easily. A grim smile found his lips as he hefted the pack on his shoulder and grasped his dark bow tighter. From where he stood, a single ray of moonlight found an opening in the branches above and fell upon his face, bathing it in an ethereal silver glow. Onyx eyes met the moon above and the smile turned pained and longing for a moment before growing bitter and downcast. Sparing a final glance at the night sky, the man cast a dark hood over his face and stepped into darkness, dashing into a deeper part of the forest to his awaiting fate.

The moon continued its lofty ascent and the forest below continued to darken, save for the clearings that shone as if illuminated by the snow itself. Deep within those ancient pines, it grew so still that the heartbeat of a bedded stag gave a constant rhythm to the air. Through this silence, however, a new beat emerged—the soft crunch of snow that felt the tread of sprinting feet. Ever nearer, the sound drew. With it came the awakening of the forest's inhabitants. Bodies stirred from sleep, eyes opened lazily to catch a glimpse of the passing shadow before falling back to slumber.

A crack groaned through the air as the figure vaulted off a fallen log and over a boulder. He landed silently and kept his dash steady under branch and between tree. The sound of crunching snow continued its rhythmic echo once more. Soon, however, the sound grew muddled. The beat grew faster, more chaotic, as others joined in.

The man sensed this and his gaze narrowed in determination, for fate drew ever nearer to him and he could not outrun it.

A howl sounded some distance away to his right. Once more his blood was chilled and a dark knife found its way into his hand. Another howl echoed through the branches to the right of him; one last howl came from behind him. His pursuers drew close now, sensing the potential kill.

He planted his booted foot in the snow and dove to the side, spinning away as something pierced the air where the back of his head had been but an blink of an eye before. He neither flinched nor looked back, instead continuing his sprint through the trees as the silver arrow found rest in the trunk of a pine with a low thwip and remained there, quivering.

Two more arrows followed in its wake. Had the man not seemingly sensed the paths of the darts as they flew, the arrow that cut a clean slit in the edge of his hood would have buried its silver point in his skull. As it was, his erratic escape through the dark continued, undeterred.

More footsteps joined the fray. The heavy but soft treads of the booted man were surrounded by the quick padding of clawed paws, and these themselves were followed by a multitude of light, impossibly nimble steps. Together they moved through the forest in a dance. It was as a ballet, an artistic swirl of movement and grace as the cloaked figure avoided those who hunted him.

Ever deeper into the forest, the chase lead. The pines grew taller and more menacing, the darkness thickened. The silence was suffocating in the ancient wood, smothering the countless howls that echoed behind him. Frozen lichen draped itself like tapestry from the looming branches; moss wound its way up the towering trunks. The snow ceased to fall, but it laid heavy on the ground and threatened to swallow up the feet of those who now dared to invade these sacred groves. The air was thick with the unknown; a mist seemed to rise from the snow.

Arrows shattered the peaceful illusion. More frequently did the arrows pierce through the night sky now; none found their mark. Each one would have been a killing shot, yet each one was evaded. Argent wolves burst forth from the undergrowth with fangs exposed and claws reaching for blood, yet they too were dodged or cast aside. Each failed attack showed the anger growing in the wolves' preying eyes; each arrow that was lost to the forest was greeted with grit teeth and hisses of frustration.

The pursuit led over a brook not yet frozen in the cold. The man leapt over, nimble as a stag, but the wolves hesitated to follow. He savored the opportunity, for he was aware of the hesitations of those behind him. He dashed forward as the pursuers paused; for several moments they skulked before the shallow water, growling as it gurgled over stone and fall. Some reached paws out to the flowing surface only to pull them back, for this water they were loath to cross.

Even the archers behind them skidded to a stop through the snow as they approached the brook. Wary eyes flickered from the water to the man eluding them, who now faded into the darkness in the distance. Another figure appeared from behind them, this new one both taller and older than the rest, seemingly. The newcomer dashed through the brook without so much as a second thought, bearing a livid expression. When the figure crossed the brook without repercussion, the others quickly followed.

The lead the man had gained was slowly whittled away as the night drew on. The moon grew ever larger and brighter as the chase lengthened, as if to purge any shadow he could hide in. He did not relax at any moment—he knew that even though unseen, those who hunted him were ever watching, ever preying.

There seemed to be a sudden pulse of light from the moon, as if it looked on with excitement at the chase. He risked a glance skyward and his face paled. A low hum sounded in his ears and he turned to a tree impossibly quickly before vaulting off the trunk, soaring over three arrows that whizzed into the darkness. The man allowed himself a small smirk at the curse that silently pervaded the air behind.

Ever quicker they moved in the epic dance that covered a large swath of the frigid forest. So quickly, in fact, that parts of the forest were not large enough to contain it. Suddenly the trees grew thinner and more sparse around them. The scrubby brush grew taller and grasses poked out from the snow in some places. The darkness, even, was dispelled as the moon crashed down through the near-absent canopy and onto the glowing snow.

With a final grunt and leap, the man broke through the trees and into the clearing beyond. He kept the pack on his back strapped tightly to him, and even now a hand reached back to make sure it was secure. The gloved hand straightened the pack, touching it as one would a newborn child. Satisfied that all was well, the man gradually slowed to a stop. Booted feet unhappily came to rest in the snow, for there was simply no room left to run. In front of him was but open air, as the cliff at his feet dropped down far below.

Before him now sat the great sea. Like a great encircling wall, the unconquerable ocean rested, unforgiving. Even as it came into view, the man's eyes slowly drifted to it, his mouth opening slightly. He stood there now, still, as he beheld it. His heart leapt in his chest at the sight of it, and he swallowed uneasily at the threat of it, the threat that he longed for so deeply.

His dark eyes drifted skywards once more, to the moon that glowed above the sea. The moon had been brilliant when he was in the forest; but here in the open, its rays shone untainted. This, coupled with the reflective water below it, took his breath away.

Those eyes flickered between the sea and the moon, noting how the two worked in harmony. The soft sound of waves lapping on the shore far below him reached his ears. He could almost feel that tug in his gut, the tug the moon had on the sea. That which caused the water to be pulled in and pushed back out, to be brought high and low. His gaze darkened as the thought crossed his mind. Fists clenched in anger.

The snorting of a wolf alerted him to those who entered the clearing behind him. His gaze remained aimed at the sea as the entire group gradually made their way into the clearing. A sigh escaped his mouth. A shame, really, that those who hunted him had to disturb such a peaceful, bittersweet night. Two hands were raised to his hood, hesitating slightly before gripping the fabric and poignantly casting it down. The moon now shone upon the unkempt raven hair that fell almost to his shoulders.

Behind him, his several pursuers spread out in a crescent around the edge of the clearing, keeping their distance from the one who evaded them. When all were situated, one more entered the clearing. It was the leader, the one older than the rest. At the sight of the man standing solitary at the edge of the cliff, a great silver bow, shaped as the crescent moon, was raised and drawn taut. Without so much as a warning, an arrow was loosed at the back of the man.

A great crack splintered the night sky.

There was a whoosh of air and the Leader felt a kiss of wind as a dark arrow flew past the side of her head. A single strand of auburn hair slowly curled its way to the ground below on the windless night.

Silver eyes widened. The man stood erect now, turned towards her and her several companions. A dark bow was held up in his hands, the string still vibrating from the arrow it had cast. The arrow that had intercepted her arrow mid-flight and flown straight through it, reducing it to splinters. The arrow that left a groove in the hair above her ear. The arrow that could have buried itself in her body, had he willed it.

She beheld his own eyes. The dark irises held a look of pain and longing… but there was also anger deep within. This anger seemed to grow now, becoming a wrath that darkened his eyes even further.

The eyes were set in a strikingly handsome face. A neatly trimmed black beard adorned his chiseled features and matched both the tunic he wore and the bow he held. Black leather vambraces covered his tunic at the forearm; heavy yet lithe dark trousers covered his legs above the tall hunting boots. Even the sheath belted to his waist was black. Everything he wore was dark.

That is, everything except for a single object: a simple silver band that encircled the ring finger on his left hand, now clearly visible as it grasped the tall bow.

She allowed an eyebrow to raise as her eyes focused on it. Her face heated up against her will, if only for the briefest of moments as she focused on on the ring. Her gaze flickered to her own left hand for an instant before meeting his eyes once more.

The man stared back at her with the same analyzing look. His eyebrows narrowed as he beheld her, and she allowed hers to do the same.

Her eyes settled on the pack strapped to his back, just barely appearing over his right shoulder. He could see as her eyes widened the most minute distance before settling back to normal.

In a single fluid movement, the two stepped towards each other on one accord. A companion opened her mouth as if to voice an objection, but the Lady silenced her with the raising of a hand. Without even casting a glance back towards her accompaniment, she continued to slink towards the man. As the two drew within fifteen paces of each other, they began to circle as wolves do to their prey. As if in response, the wolves of the Lady's troop began to circle the duo themselves, growling whenever the man made a move they deemed unacceptable. This, understandably, happened to be every move.

With determined, calculated steps they orbited each other. Behind them, the huntresses had their own bows drawn and aimed at the darkly-cloaked figure, ready to put him down should he threaten their Mistress.

The man inspected the woman before him. The silver tunic wrapped tightly around her attractive form matched her eyes. She had a form like a panther, ready to spring upon him with ferocity without a moment's notice. Even now her teeth were grit, her eyebrows angled dangerously downwards as she looked up at him from the distance. Twin silver knives found their way into her tensed hands.

In an instant, something shifted. Neither knew what it was or what caused it, whether it was simply a shift in the wind or something else, but the atmosphere darkened and pulsed with energy from the two. Without hesitation, they leapt at each other with blades drawn.

The dark knife of the man was the first to go—it flew past the Lady and she allowed herself to feel surprise at the errancy of the toss (as well as the fact that he would cast aside his weapon so quickly). This confusion was nullified when the blade splintered a silver arrow that had been shot at the man from her one of her companions.

The message was understood clearly: this fight was between the two, and them alone. In the lapse of battle, he drew a long bronze sword from a sheath at his side and the battle resumed.

The two dueled in an extreme display of unparalleled agility. No blades were visible, simply blurs of light as silver daggers met the single bronze blade in a nigh-invisible fight. The wielders, too, were but blurs as they fought. The man was a dark shadow as he twisted to avoid the strikes of his adversary, and the woman was but a silver streak as she slashed and stabbed her deadly blades.

The fight seemed to go on forever in an infinite and endless struggle between two equal beings, yet it was only several minutes. And the beings themselves were not equal…

With a feint and a sword-stroke, lithe arms were raised in defense and a booted leg swept out. The Lady was cast off her feet, landing with a soft yet resounding thump in the snow. A bronze blade was at her exposed throat.

All she saw when she looked up was the smug smirk that graced the lips of the man before her. Eyes lightened considerably, shifting from a dark shade to the normal sea green, shining in the moonlight. But in that single moment, his defenses were lowered just enough to warrant regret.

As she watched, a silver arrow whistled through the air and found its mark in his breast. His mouth opened slightly and his eyes flickered between her and her handmaidens behind, one of whom now nocked a new arrow.

With the grace of a panther, something akin to a growl tore from the Lady's lips and she threw herself at the man with knife drawn. Though in his twist he dodged the worst of the slash, he still felt the silver's bite as it carved a crimson groove down his forearm.

Her eyes landed on the red blood that oozed from the gash and she gasped audibly. Her feet remained rooted in the snow and her body froze as she took in the sight; her stomach clenched and knotted within her as a feeling emanated within her, one she had not felt before in her existence.

When the knife pierced his skin, the man cried out and cast himself backwards towards the cliff's edge. She heard the mumblings of a prayer fall from his lips just as another arrow protruded from his shoulder and he sent himself over the edge.

In her frozen state she was too slow to act. This time it was she who cried out and stretched out an arm in an attempt to preclude his fall. It was not to be, however, and her nimble fingers but grazed the fabric of his bloody tunic as his body met open air and disappeared over the snowy precipice.

A tear threatened to leak from her eye as she rushed to the edge and gazed over, desperate to find him clinging to a branch as Odysseus had done over Charybdis. It was not to be, for the stone was barren. Her stomach sank at that instant, only for the sensation to be replaced almost instantly by confusion. Oddly enough, the water itself was smooth far below—seemingly no ripples disturbed the surface as she thought they would have had a body pierced its surface.

The man had escaped.

Her gaze narrowed for a moment before she fell to her knees and sat back on her heels. Her mind was a mixture of many strange emotions, none of which felt pleasant. The focal point of her thoughts rested on her knife now, the silver blade stained a deep, haunting red.

"I knew he had been stripped of power," she whispered to herself in shock, eyes never leaving the wide expanse of water in front of her, "I knew he had been cast down. But… but…" She then fell silent in shock, eyes falling to the crimson blood on her knife and remaining there. "Oh, Perseus, what have you done?" she mumbled, almost inaudibly .

She remained there for several moments, almost numb. The crunch of snow behind her signaled her Lieutenant as she approached. The two were silent for several moments, and the only sound in the clearing was the light breeze that now blew the duo's hair ever so slightly and caused the soaring pines to creak. When it was clear the Lady was not going to speak, the younger girl did, the Ancient Greek words falling softly from her lips.

"My Lady Artemis, what ails you so? The man cannot flee forever."

Artemis slowly held up the dagger for her Lieutenant to behold. "I fear that to be true," she whispered. "A mortal truth, indeed."

The girl's eyes fell upon the bloody dagger and the red that bathed it. Onyx eyes widened in shock and alarm. "By the Gods," she murmured. "What has he done…?"

Artemis's silver eyes slowly raised to the moon, her own essence. "He has acted against Olympus," she all but choked out with bitterness, "and for that he must answer."

They remained there in that position for several more heartbeats until the wolves with them began to grow impatient. Artemis arose and, after sparing a final glance towards the now-turbulent ocean, the group plunged into the dark wood once more to continue their hunt.

ΩΩΩ

The man sat in a ramshackle cottage, grimacing as he tightened a cloth that was bound around his breast. Blood could be seen through the cloth, drying against the inside of the makeshift bandage.

Gingerly, he unwrapped the cloth that covered his shoulder. He shivered as the cold winter air touched the tender wound. Slowly, a pouch was removed from the belt at his waist. Inside were many large, coarse grains of sea salt, as if they had been scraped directly off salty deposits on the shore of the Aegean Sea.

With bated breath and a later gasp of raw pain, the man rubbed the sea salt into the wound, tears threatening to leak from his eyes. Soon, however, the pain subsided and the aggravated wound began to close up, if only a little. In this frigid, gods-forsaken environment, water would freeze and was not practical to carry around in bulk; sea salt, however painful it was, was weather-resistant and the closest connection the man had to the sea short of jumping in the frigid ocean. That he was wary to do, not knowing how far his luck would last concerning the favor of the Sea God.

He wrinkled his nose distastefully as he eyed the wound, the crimson blood oozing slowly from the puncture. His existence had been interesting, to say the least. It was still difficult becoming acquainted with his new, mostly-mortal form. The inability to heal almost instantly was quickly becoming more and more annoying, as was the lack of the majority of his previous powers… not to mention the newly-granted ability to die at the hands of beings he could previously defeat with a thought. Yes, death was an annoyance.

The man sighed. Zeus was quite upset, he mused internally.

Standing up to stretch those of his limbs that were not injured (truly an inconvenience, how quickly these mortal bodies grew stiff and tired… even if he was now only mostly mortal), the man let his memory wander back to the root of all his troubles: his bloodthirsty, vengeful, impressively-bitter grandfather.

He supposed that he, too, would be slightly bitter if he had been castrated and hacked apart into a multitude of pieces, only to be left to rot in the depths of Tartarus. Of course, a similar fate was becoming increasingly likely for him by the day, especially if Zeus had resorted to sending his favorite daughter upon him.

His gaze and mood darkened as she came to his mind. He had seen her that night, he had actually seen her. After so long apart, they had come face-to-face. His eyes had stared into the silver depths of hers… and she had tried to kill him.

It was understandable, really. A part of him longed to kill her, too. After what she had done to him, that part of him longed for nothing more than to make her feel what he had felt that fateful day, the day he had been cast out. She had stood there, silent, her eyes reflecting the betrayal she felt; at the same time his eyes reflected the same pain, the betrayal felt by him.

And yet… he couldn't bring himself to hurt her in any way. Despite what she had done, he simply could not harm her. He knew when she had entered the clearing behind him with her troop; he knew that she had drawn her bow with an arrow aimed at his undefended back. She had grown fiercely determined in her hunt, to the point of near-arrogance and carelessness. He could have sent an arrow through her skull or heart at that moment; he could have sent her essence away to heal in the blink of an eye. But at the last moment he had pulled his shot, instead severing a single strand of hair from the side of her head.

Families were messy; immortal families were eternally messy. Although "messy" did nothing to encapsulate his current situation.

The man eyed the ring upon his finger, and his lips curled in disgust. His mind was pervaded by the single thought of how unfair it all was, of how incredibly cruel the Fates had been to him. He knew what he was doing was just; he knew that he was doing what was right, yet he had lost everything as a result. And there was still much to lose.

The Fates… how evilly they must have cackled when they drew and measured his immortal string. How smugly they must be looking down upon him at that moment, having been recently given the ability to cut his string whenever they so choose. He longed to take his string in his own hands and wrap it around the shriveled necks of those three hags… though that would probably do little to lengthen his pitiful existence. It would be so easy for his life to end now, as simple as a wind snuffs out a candle.

That thought was enough to force him to action. He frigidly stood up, his face a blank mask. If he was going to fail, if he was going to die, if he was going to be caught and tortured for all eternity, then so be it. But if any of those happened, then by the gods he was going to go out on his own terms and with a fight to rival the war between the Eldest gods and the Titans. If he had to, he would challenge Zeus once more. If it meant saving everything he held dear in this world… there was nothing he would not do.

He reached for the bundle as it rested on a makeshift table. As his hand opened to grab it, he stopped. Very gingerly, he grasped the flap of the bundle, as if to open it, before thinking better of it. Releasing the flap and leaving the contents of the bundle veiled, he grasped the pack and slung it on his shoulder.

With a crack, the door was kicked open and the man stepped forth into the frigid northern air. Cold rock faces of looming fjords frowned down upon him from their inaccessible heights. Though the moon provided some light to the violent, upturned landscape nearby, the shadows deepened around him as he emerged in the night.

He exhaled, watching as the ice crystals in his visible breath caught the silver light. For a moment he stood there, still, as the a light breeze wafted over the snow drifts around him. He could almost imagine himself in some other world, for these strange lands had new gods, new realms. He had fled northward from Greece for many moons, evading Olympus and its servants… but the Huntress had pursued him even here, where her power waned.

He shook his head; there was no need for such thoughts now, not when he had so much yet to accomplish. A rueful smile touched upon his lips at the thought. Never before had he been constrained by such a timescale, for he had been mighty, the Seventh Olympian, eldest son of the Sea.

But he had been cast down. Now, the mortal entered the darkness of the forest.

He had work to do.

There's Chapter 1, let me know what you think!

~TheDragon12