Jason fell heavily below deck, and for a moment his entire world was pain: a dull throb in his ribs, a sharp burning in his muscles, the air refusing to fill his lungs. Even so, in the midst of that haze of suffering, his instinct took over; the danger was still there, breathing down his neck. Then he heard it: the unmistakable hiss of Medusa's snakes, getting closer and closer, as if it relished the chase.
He clenched his teeth and, with an effort that tore a muffled groan from him, forced himself to stand. His legs trembled as they held him up, but he couldn't allow himself to fall again; not now. He began to flee, bracing himself against whatever he found in his path, trying to gain distance before that presence reached him.
In the divine stands, Hades remained seated beside his wife, Persephone, watching the scene with an almost impenetrable severity, as if every movement in the arena were just another piece in a game only he fully understood.
"Honestly" said Hades, without taking his eyes off the fight, "I'm surprised you chose Jason as your representative, my dear. He doesn't seem particularly… promising."
Persephone barely turned her face toward him, observing him in silence for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.
"I wasn't very interested in this foolish tournament" she finally replied, with a hint of disdain in her voice. "But he knows how the greatest heroes who have ever existed think and fight. He seemed to me… an interesting opponent."
Hades tilted his head and looked at her with a faint smile, the kind that suggested he already knew the answer before asking the question.
"Let me guess" he murmured. "He begged, insisted… and managed to make them feel pity for him. Isn't that so?"
Persephone looked away, and a faint blush betrayed her composure for a moment.
"I'm so predictable…" she admitted.
Hades let out a brief laugh, more amused than mocking, before turning his attention back to the projection of the fight.
"Even so." he continued, this time with a more serious tone, "I'm surprised you were able to obtain the Golden Fleece for him. That's hardly a minor favor."
Persephone crossed her arms, regaining some of her dignity, and lifted her chin firmly.
"I am the queen of the Underworld." she replied. "Without our approval, this tournament couldn't even take place. I believe that grants me the right to demand certain favors from Olympus."
Hades nodded slightly, accepting the argument without dispute, though his gaze returned to Jason, who fled wounded, increasingly cornered by Medusa's threat.
"Even so." he added calmly ."it seems that won't be enough for him to face her.."
Persephone's brow furrowed, but not in anger, rather in a growing concern as she watched the scene unfold.
"Perhaps… maybe he deceived me." she admitted in a low voice."But even so, I gave him a chance to prove that he is a hero.."
Then she turned her head and held her husband's gaze with a quiet determination.
"And I have faith that he will make the most of it."
_________________________________________________________
When he finally believed he had put enough distance between himself and his pursuer, Jason allowed himself to stop. He carefully let himself fall against the wooden wall inside the ship, resting his back as his entire body reminded him of every blow he had taken; his breathing was fast, uneven, as if the air itself refused to obey him, and in his ears the rapid pulse of his own heart thundered clearly.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, but the silence brought not calm, but thoughts. Is this all? he asked himself, with a bitterness heavier than his wounds. Is this all I can do? Slowly, he raised his left arm and examined it closely; the Golden Fleece gleamed faintly over his skin, a relic capable of working miracles… and yet useless against the threat stalking him.
It did not surprise him. Deep down, it never did. He had sailed on the greatest of ships, alongside the greatest heroes of his era, accompanied by the most formidable sorceress, and even so, the one part of his own legend that had never measured up had always been himself.
He remembered the looks, the barely concealed whispers: all the Argonauts had wanted Heracles to be their captain. The only reason he had held that place was because Heracles himself had allowed it, like someone yielding a seat that truly belonged to him. In every port, in every land they set foot on, the questions were never about Jason, but about the hero who walked at his side; and if it hadn't been for Medea, he knew it well, he would never have overcome the trials imposed by King Aeetes.
Everything he had achieved had been thanks to others… and even so, he had managed to ruin it.
"No…" he murmured then, in a low voice, as if he needed to hear it to believe it. "No. This cannot end like this."
He clenched his fist tightly, so much that pain ran through his arm, but he did not release it; on the contrary, he clung to that sensation as if it were the only real thing in the midst of doubt. He drew a deep breath, once, twice, forcing his body to obey him, and though every muscle protested, he managed to rise, bracing himself against the wall before standing on his own.
"This isn't over" he said more firmly, his voice still tired, but no longer wavering. "Not even close."
He lifted his gaze, and in his eyes something began to ignite, something different from fear: a stubborn determination, almost desperate, but firm. He took one step forward, then another, ignoring the pain that followed him like a shadow.
"This…" he added, his voice a thread that hardened at the end, "has only just begun."