Chapter 36: Weaving Threads and Unseen Hands
Artemis left as she had arrived—in a swirl of silver light and a happy, tuneless hum, leaving behind the scent of frost and wildflowers. The weight of her divine presence evaporated, and Cyd finally took a full, unconstricted breath. His shoulders slumped, not with relief, but with the weary acceptance of a man who has just traded one colossal problem for another.
"You are displeased with me."
It wasn't a question. Athena stood a few feet away, having appeared as silently as a thought. She held a simple wreath of olive leaves and asphodel flowers. Before Cyd could respond, she rose on her toes and placed it gently on his head. The gesture was oddly intimate, like a sister crowning a brother, or a general decorating a useful soldier.
"A peace offering. Do not be cross."
Cyd reached up and touched the delicate leaves. "I'm not angry." It was true. Anger required energy he didn't have. What he felt was a deeper, more exhausted emotion—the grim understanding of a pawn who has finally seen the board.
"I know you do not care for Jason," Athena said, her grey eyes observing him with unnerving clarity. She sighed, a sound that managed to convey both divine regret and absolute certainty. "But Jason must retrieve the Fleece. Heracles has left the Argo. The balance has shifted. I can no longer be sure of his success."
He'll succeed, Cyd thought, the knowledge bitter on his tongue. He has Medea. Witchcraft, passion, and betrayal will carve his path where heroism fails. But he kept that to himself.
"They're still famous heroes," he said aloud, his voice flat. "However obnoxious, they're capable. The Fleece is within their reach."
"Perhaps." A sly smile touched Athena's lips. She held up a single, elegant finger. "But if you were to… facilitate its acquisition for Jason, I would reward you. Handsomely."
"My lady, with respect, you know what reward I seek," Cyd said, tapping his bracer. "It's the only currency that matters to me now."
"I am the Goddess of Wisdom," Athena said, her tone patient, as if explaining to a bright but stubborn child. "I give what is needed, not merely what is wanted." She stepped closer, closing the small distance between them. Her finger came up and pressed lightly against the center of his chest, over his heart. The touch was cool and electric. "I have seen your body withstand lions and boars. I have seen you carry burdens without complaint. But I wish to see your mind at work. Show me your wisdom in the face of this task, and my blessing will be yours. I promise you this: the reward will be precisely what you require."
Cyd's jaw worked silently. He wanted to argue, to point out the monumental absurdity of it all. But the pressure of her fingertip felt like a seal, a pact being proposed. After a long, tense moment, he looked away, a gesture of concession. "Even if I somehow get the Fleece, it belongs to Artemis now. Jason still gets nothing."
Athena waved a dismissive hand. "I will provide a convincing replica. Jason is not a man of discerning taste. And truthfully," she added, her smile turning pitying, "whether the Fleece is real or a clever fake, his destiny upon returning to Iolcus remains… unchanged. The throne was never in the cards for him."
The cold, clinical way she wrote off her own champion's future sent a chill down Cyd's spine. He saw it then, the vast, uncaring machinery of divine favor. Jason was a tool, and Athena was a craftswoman preparing to set aside a worn-out chisel.
"Fine," Cyd muttered, dragging a hand down his face. The path of least resistance in Greece was paved with divine whims. If keeping the gods happy was the price of eventual peace, then so be it. A strange, grim pragmatism settled over him. Viewed through that lens, this wasn't a disaster. It was a… transaction.
As this thought crystallized, Athena's head tilted, as if listening to a distant melody. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She leaned in suddenly, rising on her toes again until her face was mere inches from his. He could see the flecks of silver in her grey eyes, smell the subtle, clean scent of her—like parchment, olive oil, and lightning-struck stone.
"Ah. A little one approaches," she whispered, her breath ghosting over his lips. "Our time is up for now. Remember, Cyd… in the game being played, I have placed my wager on you."
And then she was gone, dissolving into the dappled forest light without a sound.
"On… me?" Cyd echoed, bewildered.
"She speaks of the wager of the gods."
The new voice was soft, hesitant, and came from directly behind him. He felt a small, tentative tug on the hem of his tunic.
"The Olympians have made you the center of a bet. It seems Athena has chosen your side. Just as she once chose Jason's."
"Being compared to that guy leaves a bad taste," Cyd grumbled, but his annoyance was already melting away. He turned, a genuine smile breaking through his frustration. There, nearly hidden in the shadow of a broad fern, was a small figure draped in a dark, travel-stained cloak.
Without a word, he bent and scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. The cloak fell back, revealing a face of haunting, tragic beauty framed by long, violet hair. Eyes the color of twilight met his, wide with a mixture of relief and anxiety.
"Hello, Medusa. Couldn't stand those two anymore?" he asked, his voice teasing but fond.
"Cyd… you've grown," she murmured, her voice like wind through ruins. She reached up, her cool fingers brushing his cheek before settling to gently pinch it. A scolding gesture from a bygone era. "And you must not speak ill of my sisters. They are… simply poor at expressing themselves. They sent me to find you."
"You forgive them too much," Cyd said, but he set her down gently, keeping his hands on her slender shoulders. "So, what's the mission? Drag me back to the island in chains?"
Medusa fidgeted, pulling the hood of her cloak lower. "I… do not know. They said… 'do as you see fit.'" The uncertainty in her voice was painful to hear.
Of course they did. Cyd sighed, running a hand through his hair. Still pushing all the hard choices onto her.
"Then come with me," he said, the decision firm.
Medusa flinched as if struck. "No. A monster like me… I would only bring you danger. I should go back."
"No, you shouldn't." He caught her as she tried to turn away, lifting her again despite her feeble, careful struggles. She didn't want to hurt him, so her resistance was purely theatrical. "Your sisters told you to decide for yourself. That means do what you want."
"But I—"
"Don't you want to stay with me?" he asked, his voice dropping, serious now. He brought his face close to hers, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her breath hitched.
She couldn't say no. It wasn't the bracer's truth-compulsion. It was a deeper, more honest prohibition. The desire to follow him, to protect this strange, kind boy who had seen her as more than a monster, was a physical ache in her chest. But the fear of what her presence might summon—heroes, persecution, death—was a cage around her heart.
"I… don't know," she whispered finally, bowing her head in shame.
"Then I'll decide for you," Cyd said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He rested his forehead against hers, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "No more迷茫. You walk behind me. That's all you need to worry about."
In that moment, he finally understood the twisted, desperate love of the two immortal Gorgons, Stheno and Euryale. They were unkillable. Perseus himself had only been able to flee from them. But Medusa… this Medusa, the shy, gentle sister who had died and been reborn in a smaller, more vulnerable form… she was mortal. The next hero to come for fame might succeed where others failed. She would fight to defend her sisters to her last breath, and they would be forced to watch her die, truly die, for the thousandth time.
They hadn't sent her away because they didn't want her. They'd sent her to the one person they believed could keep her safe.
"But my sisters… they need me to care for them," Medusa protested weakly.
"They're immortal. They won't starve."
"But if someone comes to the island—"
"I've already thought of a solution!" Cyd cut in, the pieces of Athena's 'reward' clicking into place with dizzying clarity. The goddess hadn't just been herding him toward the Fleece for Jason's sake, or for Artemis's whim. She'd seen this. She'd seen Medusa's plight. "Or rather… someone has already dug the pit for me."
To protect Medusa, he didn't need to stand guard on the Gorgons' island for eternity. He needed influence. He needed a favor so large, from a being so powerful, that they could place the island under permanent, divine protection. A 'No Heroes Allowed' sign from Olympus itself.
What treasure was priceless enough to buy such a favor from a goddess?
"I will get the Golden Fleece," Cyd said, the vow leaving his lips with a new, steely conviction. He pulled back to look Medusa in the eyes.
'I am the Goddess of Wisdom. I give what is needed.'
Of course. The blessing he needed wasn't just a crystal on his wrist. It was the power to protect someone. Athena had seen the need before he'd even fully understood it himself.
A wry, resigned laugh escaped him. She was always ten steps ahead, turning his desperate scrambles into part of her grand design.
"Dragon, sorceress, army of skeletons… I don't care," he swore, his voice hardening. "I'll bring that Fleece back."
He pressed his forehead to Medusa's once more, a silent pledge.
"Trust me. Once I have it, you'll never have to worry about your sisters' safety again. They'll be untouchable. I promise."
Medusa searched his face, her strange, lovely eyes wide. Slowly, the tension drained from her small frame. She brought her hands up to cup his face, her touch feather-light. A single, silent tear traced a path down her cheek, but she was smiling. A real, unburdened smile.
"Yes," she whispered.
Far across the wine-dark sea, on a bleak, sharp-rocked island, two immortal sisters sat side-by-side on a cliff, gazing into the distance as if they could see the scene unfolding.
Euryale, the forever-sulking singer, and Stheno, the eternally haughty elder, both let out identical, soft sighs. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. A shared understanding, woven from centuries of love and loss, passed between them.
Take care of her, their silent thought willed across the waves.
Our little hero.