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F/D Chapter 37 - Dead Mouse
🕑 Added 2025-12-06 04:31:02 +0000 UTCFate/Defiance
Chapter 37 - Dead Mouse
Icarus finished his morning meditation, controlling his dominant mind with focus. Spring was almost over and soon he would be finished with the need for it.
Then… he would move on to the next months’ preparation.
But, for now, he had to simply stay steady. He had isolated himself from the other campers these past few months, as his conflicting minds had only made him more irritable and impulsive. Thankfully, as time has passed, he has been much less agitated.
It honestly freaked him out how he had never noticed—it was rather insidious the way it only slightly altered his behavior. The way it made him let his guard down and drop his paranoia.
That was literally one of his most important traits—he even jokingly spoke French! Then, he didn’t even really question it!?
…It was definitely a memorable lesson—don’t mess with your sense of identity, mind, and consciousness in a complex ritual for power! It was probably a bad sign that he had to specifically warn himself that.
Now though, he has been better, and although he isolated himself from others… that didn’t mean others had isolated themselves from him.
He tried to prevent a weary smile as he heard the faint sound of scratching at his door. This was something that had been increasingly common as his time in solitude passed.
As he walked towards the entrance to check on the noise, he immediately heard movement respond to his actions—with quick footsteps quickly darting away as he approached.
Then, he swung the door open, only for him to see nobody there.
…But there wasn’t nothing.
His lip twitched as he looked down at what was left at his doorstep—a mouse.
A dead mouse.
He quickly tore his head back up to check if anyone was around, and there he briefly spotted a head of green hair peeking out from behind a tree. They immediately darted away from the scene as soon as he noticed them.
…He was speechless.
Was this a destined cat girl?
------
The next day, Icarus crouched down slowly, staring at the second limp little corpse at his doorstep as if it might blink back at him in blame.
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“…She’s actually a cat,” he muttered.
Not metaphorically. Not thematically. No—Atalanta was, in fact, a feral woodland cat disguised as a little girl with divine athleticism and… it definitely showed.
How could he have not noticed before?
He reached for the mouse, gingerly picking it up by the tail.
It wasn’t mangled. Actually… it was perfectly intact.
Strangled? Broken neck? Pressure point? Atalanta-level brutality could take many forms. Truly an innocent little monster, and a cute one at that.
Before he could examine it further, the bushes rustled violently—and Atalanta practically fell out of them, freezing mid-motion when she realized he was looking at her.
Her face burned red all the way to the tips of her ears.
Then, in absolute panic, she hissed and scrambled behind the nearest tree… before subtly peeking her head out to stare at him blankly.
It was kinda weird. Scratch that, more like a bit… creepy.
“…Atalanta.”
She quickly hid her head behind the tree… not noticing how it was too thin to cover the rest of her body.
He sighed and stepped a little closer.
“I can literally see you.”
Silence.
“Just because your eyes are closed, doesn’t mean I can’t see you!”
He held up the mouse by the tail.
“…Is this a gift?”
A high-pitched growl came from the other side of the tree—he interpreted it as an embarrassed acceptance growl.
Ah.
He smiled despite himself.
“Well… thank you,” he said sincerely, because he knew feral logic made this one of the highest honors possible. “It’s very thoughtful.”
A small head peeked out—only one eye visible, glaring at him like how dare you acknowledge my feelings!
He waited.
After several seconds… nothing.
No movement. No sound. Just the faint tremble of leaves around a very embarrassed girl.
He exhaled slowly, shaking his head.
“Atalanta… why are you like this?”
Another growl, this one suspiciously soft.
“…You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he added. “It really is a nice gesture.”
Wrong words.
Her response was a cat-like howl, followed by rather violent rustling. Atalanta scrambled out from behind the tree, sprinted in a sharp circle like she was trying to outrun her own emotions, then abruptly stopped in front of him—hands clenched, and face scrunched in pure mortification.
She jabbed a finger at him.
“You accept,” she demanded.
“Accept what… you’re um, strange dancing ritual?”
“That—” she sputtered, “—was not dancing!”
“It wasn’t?”
Atalanta stomped her foot, scandalized.
“No!” she barked. “Not dancing! Hunters don’t dance!”
She paused, reconsidered, then clarified, “…Not stupid dancing.”
“Okay,” Icarus conceded, “so not-dancing. What was it then?”
“...Hunt ritual,” she declared hesitantly.
Icarus blinked. “Hunt ritual.”
“Yes.”
“Did you just make that up?”
“N-No!”
“...And, the part where you… ran in circles?”
“That was intimidation display.”
“Intimidation display,” he repeated.
She nodded firmly.
“…For who?” he asked slowly.
She jabbed a finger at the mouse in his hand. “For prey.”
He stared at the mouse’s lifeless—and coincidentally, thoroughly unimpressed face.
“…Atalanta. It’s dead.”
“I saw its shade,” she insisted.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Of course. Naturally. How foolish of me.”
Her ears—metaphorical, but spiritually very real—flattened.
Icarus smiled wearily, giving her the benefit of the doubt. She clearly struggled with her emotions, and he decided not to tease her any longer.… no matter how much he really wished to.
“So, if not the ‘hunt ritual’ what do I have to accept?”
Atalanta froze.
Her posture went rigid, like a guilty housecat suddenly confronted with the consequences of its own offering. She glanced at the mouse. Then at him. Then back at the mouse. Her throat bobbed.
Finally—very quietly—she said, “…You accept me.”
Icarus blinked in confusion.
“That’s… a pretty big leap from ‘dead rodent.’”
She stomped her foot, cheeks blazing.
“NO. Not—not me me.” She waved her hands frantically. “Accept my hunt! Accept my skill! Accept my…”
She trailed off, fingers curling inward as her voice shrank into something soft and mortified, “…Accept my… effort.”
Ah.
There it was.
A tiny, clumsy attempt at heartfelt connection from a wild feral girl.
Icarus’ expression softened without effort.
“I can do that,” he said gently. “Just tell me how.”
Atalanta stared at him silently, before her mouth worked slowly as she managed to force out hesitantly, “Okay. First,” she lifted a trembling finger, “You… take prey.”
“Uh, ok.” He replied before lifting up the mouse by its tail once more.
“Then, eat it.”
“...”
“Bite.”
“You’re serious?” He questioned, baffled.
Icarus stared at her.
Atalanta’s shoulders tightened. Her gaze flicked away like she’d been caught doing something shameful.
“I… yes,” she murmured.
“Why would I eat a mouse?”
“Because you’re sick.”
He blinked.
“…What?”
Atalanta looked genuinely surprised he didn’t understand.
“You hide in den,” she said quietly. “You don’t leave. Don’t hunt. Don’t train with others. Don’t talk.”
Um, why is she so convincing?!
“That is what animals do when dying.”
Icarus felt something in his chest sink.
“No—Atalanta, I’m not—!”
“You ARE,” she insisted, stepping closer. “You smell like alone. You move like hurt. You breathe… bad.” Her voice cracked just slightly.
He stared at her, stunned.
Atalanta didn’t know about his ritual at all. She wasn’t detecting magical imbalance. She saw his behavior, and his symptoms—his self-imposed solitude—and used the only framework she knew.
Icarus pulled her into a fierce hug, clinging her tightly to his form even as she made a symbolic struggle, “Silly girl, I’m not dying.”
“..Li..ar..” He heard her muffle into his chest.
“Nope! No liar here—only, truth-er.” He finished in a blank tone, mimicking her broken speech.
“Hmph!” She pouted.
He laughed at her response, “Now, come on—I’ll prove it!”
————-
Icarus tugged Atalanta along, ignoring the way she dug her heels in like a suspicious animal being led toward a trap.
“Where going?” She demanded, clutching at his sleeve like he might collapse at any moment.
“To Chiron,” Icarus replied, waving a hand toward the main clearing. “The ultimate source of all ‘not-dying’ confirmations.”
She narrowed her eyes. “He smells old.”
“That’s because he’s old.”
“Old means dying.”
“Not in his case.”
Icarus sighed as they reached the centaur’s shaded pavilion. Chiron was sitting patiently at a low stone table with pigments set out beside him, quietly mixing earthy reds into soft browns.
The centaur looked up when he noticed them.
“Icarus,” Chiron greeted with a mild smile. “Good to see you outside your cabin.”
Atalanta’s head snapped toward Icarus.
“SEE?” She hissed, “He notice. You hide too much. You ARE dying!”
Icarus pressed a hand over his face.
Chiron blinked once, clearly processing the situation.
“…Ah,” Chiron said slowly. “So that’s what this is about.”
Atalanta glared at him, posture tense. “He smells wrong. Moves wrong. Sleeps wrong. Alone too long. Sick.”
Chiron breathed out through his nose, not quite a laugh.
“I assure you,” he said gently, “Icarus is not dying.”
Atalanta did not believe him.
“Atalanta,” Chiron continued soothingly as he gave Icarus a knowing smile, “He is not sick. He has simply been meditating, focusing, preparing. And spending a little too much time alone.”
“Prove,” She retorted flatly.
Chiron hummed, glancing between Icarus and Atalanta with faint amusement.
“Well,” Chiron said, “You both may sit. Maybe we can start today’s exercise early, with something simple. We’ll paint.”
Atalanta blinked. “…Paint?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“A story lesson.”
Atalanta’s suspicion deepened.
“Painting is for prey,” she muttered.
Chiron raised a brow. “Prey?”
“They make marks. Before dying.”
Icarus stared at her. “…That’s not what painting is.”
“...”
“…Haven’t I taught this to you before?”
“…”
Atalanta stared.
Right, she hadn’t listened.
Chiron’s tail flicked in quiet patience. “Painting,” he repeated, “is a way of telling stories. Of shaping memory. It is a form of… steadying the mind.”
Atalanta’s nose twitched. “Smells like berries.”
“That’s because it’s pigment,” Icarus murmured, dropping down at the stone table.
She hovered beside him, tense— glancing between him and Chiron with clear reluctance.
“It’ll help you see I’m fine,” he said. “Just—watch.”
Atalanta didn’t sit, but crouched. That was close enough.
Icarus dipped the brush in red pigment and dragged a slow curved line across the stone slab, before adding two dots above it.
“See, a… healthy smile.”
Atalanta leaned in, inspecting him with narrowed eyes.
“…Still look like dying,” she concluded.
He groaned.
“Atalanta,” Chiron spoke up, “Choose a place, or figure—any you like. Paint it.”
She looked at the pigments again, hesitant.
Then, quietly she asked, “…Can paint Artemis?”
Chiron nodded. “Of course.”
Atalanta grabbed the brush immediately—by the wrong end—and stabbed it into the pigment with enough force to nearly break the bowl.
The resulting smear was violent and vaguely claw-shaped.
Icarus stared. “That’s… something.”
“Artemis is strong,” Atalanta said simply, making another aggressive smear.
“Mm,” Chiron agreed politely. “Yes, I see.”
Icarus dipped his own brush in pigment and added a small line beside hers.
She stared at the mark, “…Why you do that?”
“To help,” he said.
Atalanta went still.
She looked at the painted lines—hers wild and sharp, his steady—and then back at him with an unreadable expression.
“…Then we paint together,” she said finally, almost grudgingly.
He smiled faintly. “Yeah. We can do that.”
She huffed, settling into the seat beside him.
He stared at his own painted figure… one with noticeably less aggressive lines and more skill.
…While Atalanta’s Artemis was the shape of a crude stick figure, standing over the corpse of a giant mouse.
Hmm…
“Who paint?” She asked.
“Artemis’ twin brother, Apollo.” Icarus replied, “He is the God of Arts… and while I’m sure my skills don’t do him much justice—I can at least try.”
His was a much more traditional portrait, one of the sun god looking at his stick-like twin sister’s ‘hunt ritual’ with satisfaction.
“…Still think you sick,” Atalanta muttered.
“Of course you do.” Icarus patted her head.
“…But maybe not dying.” She finished with a pout.
“Well, glad we’re making progress.”
Chiron only smiled, watching them with the patient satisfaction of a teacher who knew exactly what he was doing.
==========
Author’s Notes
Just a quick Atalanta chapter to show her progress before we get into the approaching time skips.
Hope you enjoyed, leave a like!
Comments
Deathknight134
Atalanta was being very cute~! The way she went about how she didn't want to lose Icarus to try and help him was so, SO cute!! 🥰💕 Gib headpats and chin scritches to cute, savage kitty! ☺️
theMadLad
Yeah, I will. Icarus is just getting a physical buff soon, and then Chiron will return more heavily into focus. Icarus won’t leave the camp until he is into his teens, so there is still plenty of time.
Technobread
Are you going show more training and teaching by chiron because I felt it was pretty short that we didn't see the skills icarus slowly gained from chiron to sculpting, hunting, history, arts, music, diplomacy, etc. If Atlanta and icarus is ever summoned in chadlea, he would embarrass her when he talk about there childhood.
