Disclaimer: I don't own Atlantis.
The boy's blood runs warm and crimson over her hands. She expected him to drift off without ever regaining consciousness, but this brave, foolish boy has ever defied expectations—his eyes fly open at the last. His mouth works but no sound emerges. His eyes—eyes that are not so different from her own—carry too many emotions to name. And then the light fades from those eyes and his body sags, a final breath marking the transition from man to corpse.
It is truly a pity, the necessity for his death. Pasiphae has always valued strength, and that was something Jason had in spades. He could have been an invaluable tool for her if only his heart had bound him to her rather than Ariadne. She could have found great use for a young hero like Jason.
Still. It is done. Jason is dead, Ariadne captured. Minos will be dead soon and then Atlantis will be fully hers. Pasiphae wipes her bloody hands on the dead man's tunic and rises gracefully to her feet, only to freeze at the unexpected sight of a man in rags gaping at her in horror.
"What have you done?" he whispers.
It is only then that she recognizes him, and with recognition comes a rush of satisfaction. "Aeson," she breathes. How pitiful he looks, how wretched. Her once strong, proud husband, reduced to one of the living dead. The look suits him.
He stumbles past her and falls to his knees beside the dead boy. "You killed him. How could you have killed him?"
She frowns. "What do you care about the death of a boy you just met? Who is he to you?"
Aeson does not answer for long seconds. And then: "He is our son."
Her heart stutters to a halt. Pasiphae cannot think, cannot breathe. "No. I did not— He could not be—" Yet she knows it to be true.
"He was touched by the gods," Aeson weeps, his hideous face contorting into something truly grotesque. "He should have been beyond even your reach."
Deep inside Pasiphae there is a small seed. The seed may be called humanity, or love. It is small and fragile and has been hidden from even herself for so long that she forgot its existence. Under the correct conditions, that seed might one day have flowered into something, if not beautiful, at least sturdy and well-rooted.
In an instant, the seed is crushed beyond recognition.
"You," she hisses. From her sleeve she draws her dagger, still wet with Jason's blood.
Aeson watches her come. His final expression is something like relief.