Chapter 46: Aftermath and Apparel
It was an unfortunate, if understandable, situation.
Dragonfire capable of melting granite into glass was no respecter of mortal tailoring. He wasn't wearing divine armor, just simple, sturdy wool and linen. It was a miracle the clothes hadn't disintegrated the moment he'd been engulfed. Besides, he was decent. Mostly. It wasn't like people had never seen a shirtless laborer before, or a warrior stripped to the waist after a brawl.
So why, the moment she'd gotten close enough to see his face, had Medea shrieked "YOU PERVERT!", slapped him hard across the cheek, and then sprinted back into the petrified woods as if the dragon had resurrected?
It stung. Figuratively. Literally, it had been more of a tap. But it stung his pride.
Now, half-submerged in the rapidly cooling blood pooling in the dragon's massive chest cavity, Cyd glared balefully at the sky. The blow hadn't hurt. The indignity, however, was a low-grade annoyance he couldn't shrug off.
---
On Olympus, the viewing experience had taken a sharp turn.
Two virgin goddesses reacted differently. Artemis's face was flushed a delicate pink, her silver eyes darting towards the scrying pool and then skittering away, as if the image might burn her. Athena's cheeks were a more pronounced crimson. She had both hands plastered over her eyes… but her fingers were spread wide, creating a perfect, unwavering viewfinder through which she stared with intense, academic focus.
Ares, the War God, had no such pretensions. She stood with arms crossed over her armored chest, head tilted, examining Cyd's torso with the frank appreciation of a sculptor assessing a well-made piece of marble. "Hmm. Good definition. Scar tissue is minimal, but the muscle insertion points are… efficient. Built for endurance, not bulk. Interesting."
"Eep!" In the pool, Cyd shuddered violently, a full-body flinch of pure, instinctive creeped-out-ness. He ducked back down into the dragon's carcass until only his head and shoulders were visible above the gore.
"Tch." Ares clicked her tongue in disappointment.
---
Back in the grove, Medusa approached the edge of the dragon's ruptured chest. She held out the Golden Fleece, its radiant, sun-warmed wool a stark contrast to the scene of carnage. "Here."
"Right now," Cyd said, his voice muffled by the meat around him, "I'd trade this for a pair of trousers. Even a small blanket."
He leaned forward and nuzzled his cheek against the Fleece where it lay in Medusa's hands. It was incredibly soft, and it carried a faint, clean scent like sun-drenched grass and ozone.
"Medea went to fetch something for you to wear," Medusa said, her cheeks coloring slightly beneath her hood. She quickly schooled her expression back to its usual placid blankness and sat down on a nearby, relatively clean rock, her legs dangling. She was close enough that her knee almost brushed his matted hair.
"I hope she's quick. This thing is getting cold and… congealed," Cyd muttered. He lifted his left arm from the blood. The bracer was pristine white, and upon it, a new crystal pulsed with a deep, venous red light. He stared at it, a flicker of grim satisfaction in his eyes. "Nine left."
"You've grown," Medusa said softly. She reached out and ruffled his wet, blood-clumped hair. Once, her hand could easily cover his whole head—a gesture of protection from an older sister. Now, it felt different. Smaller. More intimate. "You've become… formidable."
"You haven't changed much, Medusa," Cyd said, managing a tired grin.
"This body, similar to my sisters', pleases me," she replied. For most women, a comment about not growing would be an insult. To Medusa, it was a comfort. She had no love for the towering, monstrous form of her past. This smaller, more human shape felt like a truer self.
"Some might say it lacks a certain… feminine maturity," Cyd mused, then his grin turned warmer. "But you've never needed that. You have your own kind of grace. A quiet strength. It's always been there."
Medusa's face flushed a deeper shade of pink. She tugged her hood lower. "Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Worth a try~"
"HEY!"
Medea came crashing back through the dead undergrowth, breathing hard but holding a bundled garment aloft like a trophy.
"Ta-da! What do you think?" She shook it out with a flourish—a simple, knee-length chiton made of undyed linen, with a leather cord for a belt. Utterly plain.
"It's… clothing," Cyd said, blinking. He reached out and took it.
"Well, you can't expect palace silks out here, can you? Make do, my mighty dragonslayer." Medea planted her hands on her hips, feigning exasperation.
Cyd brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he looked at Medea, one eyebrow arched, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"W-what? Why are you looking at me like that?" Medea asked, suddenly finding a nearby rock very interesting.
"Oh, I was just wondering," Cyd said, his tone light. "A princess who's an expert with potions… she might be tempted to treat a borrowed garment with something… playful. An itching powder, maybe? Or a dye that activates with sweat?"
Medea coughed, scuffing her sandal in the dirt. "I… well… I just thought it would be a good test of your… observational skills!"
"You did lace it!" Cyd's smirk vanished, replaced by genuine surprise. He'd only been joking. The fabric smelled of fresh linen and lavender—Medea's own scent. He hadn't detected a thing.
"Fine! If you're so suspicious, give it back!" She held out her hand, trying to snatch the chiton back.
"No, no. Being shirtless is one thing. Parading around completely pantless is a bridge too far. Turn around, please. I'm putting it on now." His smirk returned, wider this time.
Medea's eyes lit up. She spun on her heel, facing the woods, practically vibrating with glee.
"You too," Cyd said, looking at Medusa, who was doing an excellent impression of a particularly unobservant statue.
"I saw you naked when you were a child," she stated with factual calm.
"That was then. I'm an adult now."
"So now I wish to confirm how much you've grown."
"Medusa! Turn around!"
With a soft, put-upon sigh, Medusa floated to her feet and took up a position beside the eagerly waiting princess, her back resolutely to the dragon.
"Gods give me strength," Cyd muttered, running a hand through his gory hair. He hauled himself fully out of the cooling carcass.
---
On Olympus, as the view in the pool clarified, Artemis let out a muffled squeak and made a desperate lunge forward. "Wait! I just need to see—!"
A pair of hands clamped over her eyes from behind and began dragging her bodily away from the pool.
"Let me go! It was just getting—!"
"Have some dignity, you're a virgin goddess!" Athena hissed, her own face flaming. She glared at Ares, who hadn't moved a muscle. "You too! Show some restraint!"
"I never took an oath of chastity," Ares said, not even glancing away. "If you're too prudish to look, that's your problem. Don't project it onto me."
Prudish? Me?
Athena's spine stiffened. She was the Goddess of Wisdom. She assessed situations with logic and clarity. This was… data. Anatomical data. Strategic assessment of a valuable asset's physical condition. It had nothing to do with prurient interest.
"I merely wish to ascertain if Cyd sustained any internal injuries during the conflict," she declared, her voice impressively level. She stepped to the edge of the pool, standing beside Ares, her gaze fixed on the scene with scholarly intensity.
"What a coincidence," Ares purred, not fooled for a second. "So do I."
"Me too! I definitely am too!" Artemis's muffled protests came from where she was still being restrained. "You're the one who isn't!"
---
In the grove, the sudden, intense sensation of being watched by something vast and predatory spiked again. Cyd shuddered and dressed faster than he ever had in his life, fumbling with the simple ties. The moment the clean linen settled over his skin, the unnerving feeling vanished.
He took an experimental hop. The garment was light, cool, and blessedly normal.
"Well? How does it feel?" Medea asked, unable to contain herself any longer. She spun around, her expression eager.
"A bit breezy," Cyd said, doing a little spin. "But serviceable."
"That's it?" Medea's face fell. She looked genuinely disappointed. "But… you should be feeling a tingle! Or a warmth! Or… something!"
"Should I?" Cyd asked innocently.
With a huff, Medea pulled two small vials from her pouch. One was full of a clear liquid. The other was half-empty. "I even brought the antidote! Just in case!"
"It wouldn't have worked," Cyd said, shaking his head. A faint, golden sheen seemed to pass over his skin as he lifted his right hand, pointing towards the sun now climbing higher in the sky. "The blessing of Helios, Apollo's sun. In direct sunlight, my body is… perfected. Toxins are neutralized. Curses are burned away. It's a very thorough defense."
"That's just rude," Medea pouted, crossing her arms. With her trick revealed, all pretense of the demure princess was gone. This was the real Medea—brilliant, mischievous, and not afraid to show it. "It wasn't even a curse or a poison! It was just a mild euphoric stimulant! I wanted to see if you'd get suspiciously cheerful!"
"You could always test it on yourself," Cyd suggested, nodding at the half-empty vial.
Medea responded by uncorking it and deliberately pouring the remaining contents onto the dusty ground. "So, what's next? Do you give the Fleece to Jason now?"
"Not exactly. But the end result will look the same to him." Cyd took the Fleece from Medusa. In the full light of day, its radiance was undeniable. It hummed with a power that felt ancient and deeply sacred. No one would ever believe a fake could replicate this.
"What about my father?" Medea asked, her voice dropping. "He'll be… furious. He'll feel humiliated."
"I see…" Cyd's grip on the Fleece tightened. He stared at it, his expression thoughtful.
A flicker of something like hope sparked in Medea's chest. "Do you… feel guilty? For deceiving him?"
Cyd looked up, his pale eyes meeting hers. They held no remorse, only pragmatic calculation.
"Guilty? No. Not even a little." He shrugged. "I was just thinking you should probably head back to the palace. If you're gone much longer, your father might start wondering why his daughter is so interested in the aftermath of a dragon slaying she supposedly had nothing to do with."