Chapter 37: Winged Horses and Winged Plans
The Argo was a monster of a ship. Greek-built, oak-hulled, and rowed by fifty heroes (or fifty men who called themselves heroes), it was designed for one thing: eating up sea miles. Even if Cyd had somehow gotten his hands on a modern speedboat, catching up to it would be a challenge. As it stood, he had no boat. He had feet. Feet that could walk on water, yes, but the idea of out-sprinting a full-sail warship across the open ocean was the kind of madness even he wasn't desperate enough to try. By the time he trudged his way to Colchis, they'd likely be raising the Fleece as a sail and heading home, laughing.
He was standing on a rocky outcrop, staring at the horizon as if he could somehow conjure the ship through sheer will, when the solution descended from the sky.
It wasn't subtle.
The air pressure changed first—a sudden, crisp drop that made his ears pop. Then came the sound, a rhythmic, powerful whump-whump-whump that was nothing like a bird's wingbeats. It was the sound of a storm given form.
He looked up. A shape blotted out the sun for a second—vast, white, and impossibly graceful. It circled once, then dropped towards the outcrop with the controlled plummet of a falling star, landing with a concussion of air that sent Medusa's cloak billowing and made Cyd's hair whip around his face.
It was a horse. But to call it just a horse was like calling the Argo a canoe. It stood a hand taller than any warhorse he'd ever seen, its coat the blinding white of sunlit marble. Its muscles flowed like liquid silver under that hide. And from its powerful shoulders sprang wings—not the feathery wings of a bird, but vast, leathery pinions like those of a great albatross, shimmering with a faint, pearlescent sheen. It shook its magnificent head, a mane like spun moonlight flowing, and fixed one intelligent, sea-green eye on Cyd.
"You're… a horse?" Cyd said, the statement so profoundly inadequate he almost laughed.
The creature—the Pegasus—snorted, a sound that held more personality than most conversations. It took a step forward and butted its velvety muzzle insistently into Cyd's open palm.
Recognition, warm and immediate, flooded him. "It is you!" He threw his arms around the beast's powerful neck, burying his face in the clean, ozone-and-salt smell of its coat. "But how… why are you here?"
Dumbass. Lord Poseidon sent me.
The thought wasn't spoken, but communicated through a firm, meaningful nudge against Cyd's chest that nearly knocked the wind out of him. Pegasus then turned its head, looking pointedly at its own broad back.
"Poseidon's steed…" Medusa whispered, her voice full of awe. She shrank back a little, the divine aura of the creature palpable even to her. "Why would he… for a mortal?"
"I think I can guess the 'why'," Cyd said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He swung himself up onto the winged horse's back with practiced ease—Chiron's lessons hadn't just been about combat. The saddle was the horse itself, muscles shifting comfortably beneath him. He leaned down, offering a hand to Medusa. "Athena paid a visit to her uncle, I'd wager. The pitch was probably something like…"
He lowered his voice, mimicking Athena's serene, persuasive tone. 'Uncle, I wish for the pale mortal to secure the Fleece before Jason. I will provide Jason with a replica. It would be… amusing, don't you think? Especially after the business with your cyclops son.'
Poseidon, still nursing a grudge over the blinded giant, would have agreed in a heartbeat. Not only did it spit in the face of the Argo's quest, it gave him a chance to one-up his niece in their eternal, subtle rivalry. Sending his personal mount was the ultimate middle finger—a divine taxi service to ensure his side won.
Medusa, still processing, allowed Cyd to pull her up. He settled her in front of him, her small frame nestled securely against the base of the horse's neck. Her hands clutched at the silken mane.
"Hold on," Cyd said, his voice tinged with exhilaration. He leaned forward, gripping with his knees. "Let's fly!"
With a sound like a hundred sails catching the wind, Pegasus's wings unfurled to their full, breathtaking span. They beat down once, a thunderclap of displaced air, and the ground fell away. In two heartbeats, they were above the trees. In three, they were climbing through wisps of cloud, the world shrinking into a painter's palette of blue and green below.
Cyd didn't close his eyes. The boy who'd once been terrified of heights was gone, burned away by trials and the simple, hard-won trust in the creature carrying him. The wind roared in his ears, cold and clean. Medusa gasped, then let out a soft, delighted sound, her fear forgotten in the sheer wonder of flight.
"Alright," Cyd shouted over the wind, his mind already shifting from transportation to tactics. "Time to figure out how we actually get the Fleece."
He ran through the legend as he knew it. Jason's success was a Swiss watch of cheating, orchestrated by Medea. Her potions bypassed the fire-breathing bulls. Her advice navigated the sown warriors. Her magic and her lullaby—or was it Orpheus's music?—finally put the guardian dragon to sleep.
He had none of those advantages. His singing voice had once prompted Apollo to materialize just to beg him to stop, clutching his divine ears. Stealth was out—if the Fleece could be easily stolen, it wouldn't still be there. That left the direct approach.
Fighting the dragon.
The thought wasn't as terrifying as it should have been. A brutal, no-holds-barred brawl might even please Ares. Two birds, one very angry, scaly stone. But the fallout…
"Problem one," he muttered, as Pegasus leveled out, soaring on a thermal. "Fighting a dragon isn't a quiet affair. It's less 'covert retrieval' and more 'urban renewal.' The whole kingdom of Colchis will come running. Problem two: even if I win and run, everyone knows I have the Fleece. Athena can't give Jason a convincing fake if the real one is famously in the hands of the 'Pale Hero.' Then I've got an entire kingdom and the Argonauts on my tail."
He groaned, resting his chin on Medusa's head. She leaned back into the contact. "No Heracles to worry about on the Argo anymore, but gods, it's so much hassle."
The parameters crystallized. "So. I need to get the real Fleece. Jason needs to think he got the real Fleece. And the people of Colchis need to believe Jason got the real Fleece." He let out a short, sharp laugh. "Athena really does love her complicated puzzles."
"Do you have a plan?" Medusa asked, twisting to look up at him. Her twilight eyes were serious. "I could… I could look at it. The dragon. If it meets my eyes…"
"No." The word was immediate, absolute. He squeezed her shoulders. "That's not happening. You stay out of sight. You're my secret weapon, Medusa, not my first resort." He softened his tone. "Just watch. Trust me."
"I do trust you," she said quietly, facing forward again. "But I will protect you if you need it."
Cyd took a deep breath of the thin, cold air. The path forward, convoluted and risky, was becoming clear. There was one key, one linchpin in Jason's original victory, who might be persuaded to help with a different script.
He needed to pay a visit to a princess. One who hadn't yet become a witch, but whose brilliance and power were already simmering beneath the surface.
"Change of course, big guy," he said, patting Pegasus's neck. "We're not going straight to the grove. Take us to the palace of Colchis. And… try to be subtle?"
Pegasus snorted, a sound that clearly meant 'Subtle is for ground-bound fools.' But it banked smoothly, adjusting its trajectory toward the distant, hazy coastline that marked the kingdom of Aetes.
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Far below, on the deck of the Argo, a sailor shielding his eyes from the sun squinted at the sky.
"Captain Jason? Did you see that? Something… big. Flying."
Jason, who was busy trying to project an aura of calm leadership while his intestines performed complex gymnastics of dread, glanced up. The sky was vast, empty, and relentlessly blue. "See what? A cloud? A bird?"
"Bigger. Faster. With… wings? Maybe a really big eagle?" The sailor sounded unsure of his own eyes.
"You're tired," Jason said, clapping the man on the back with a force meant to be reassuring but which nearly sent him over the rail. "The mind plays tricks when you're staring at the sea for too long. We're all on edge. Colchis is on the horizon."
"Y-yes, Captain. My mistake." The sailor rubbed his shoulder, chastened.
"We are about to make history," Jason announced to the crew within earshot, puffing out his chest. "A simple matter of retrieving some wool. What could be easier?"
LIES! his mind screamed. This is a suicide mission! How do I fight a dragon without Heracles?!
His bravado was a thin veneer over pure, unadulterated terror. The Argo was no longer a vessel of destiny; it was a floating prison. Every hero on board was here for glory, and glory required a triumphant return. If he tried to turn back now, he'd be relieved of command in the messiest way possible—probably involving being used as chum. He was trapped, carried forward by the momentum of his own propaganda.
I need a god. I need a miracle. Athena, where are you?!
High above, perched invisibly on the very masthead, the subject of his desperate prayer watched him with an expression of profound disappointment.
"Pathetic," Athena murmured, her form shimmering like a heat haze. She observed Jason's trembling hands, the forced smile, the way his eyes darted toward the horizon as if looking for an escape route. "Even now, at the precipice, you look outward for salvation. You beg for divine intervention instead of sharpening your own mind. For the first time, I question my own judgment in championing you."
To the gods, the world was an endless, often tedious theater. Mortals were the actors. They delighted not in the everyday dramas of love and farming, but in the extraordinary—the tragedies, the epics, the heroes who defied the script. She had backed Jason for this role, assembling a cast of famous names for a grand production. But watching them wallow on Lemnos, she'd seen the truth: they were men with amplified appetites and shrunken spirits, less interested in heroism than in the perks of the title.
It had bored her. She preferred the steadfast nobility of a Heracles. And now… now there was a new player on her stage.
A figure of stark white against a grimy canvas. He didn't rage against his fate like Heracles; he calculated, endured, and occasionally, reluctantly, rose to meet it. That self-control, that stubborn, pragmatic core, intrigued her. She would stand behind him, guide the board in his favor. But her blessing… that was not a trinket to be given lightly. It was the final, perfect tool for the hero he was destined to become. She would wait. She would watch him solve this latest, devilish puzzle she'd helped create.
As Pegasus became a distant speck against the sun, heading for Colchis on a path no one expected, Athena smiled. It was a small, private thing, full of anticipation.
"Show me, Cyd," she whispered to the wind. "What kind of hero will you choose to be?"