Pelos raises the hammer to the top of a freefall curve. White flickers in Jason's head; it blinds and his foot has kicked a knee and someone roars in his ear and how dare they protest—He froths unfinished curses, words that don't catch on air through his nose so they runt faint (this isn't happening); he hooks acutely mortal breaths and

bangsnap

and Pythagoras hasn't air to scream and Pelos says, 'I will continue, Jason, until you submit your freedom—' then there's a trident flaking gore in his hands and he clobbers the guard with the flat of it and spins and with the shaft strikes Pelos in the throat and Medea squeaks and he spits something ugly, Pelos is gawping like a beached-bellied fish and trident-guard's half-opened his eyes from the floor and Medea vanishes in a puff of smoke or as a bat for all he knows and that leaves the guard who has Jason's sword but until now grasped prismatic wrists, had touched—His face is wide enough for two of the prongs to pierce and Jason shoves to topple him away, and he's left heaving with fresh-bright blood and none of it none-at-all veils him from the whimper and the head bowed from green-wood splintered bone—Pelos growls from behind and Jason turns unarmed but there's death in his eyes and I will show you what you have brought upon yourself—

A hammer soars spiralling past Pelos and dents plaster.

'Damn,' says Pythagoras.

Jason rips the sword from the stabbed guard's hand. Pliers ring off Pelos' head and stagger him, then Pythagoras shouts, 'Jason!' and he stumbles, senses scattering from their hypercharge.

He is holding a sword before a king. Bodies cover more floor than not. Pythagoras has lobbed stuff and is saying, 'Jason, enough. You are no tyrant!' The world reeks.

Bloody hell, he thinks, but fights tidal horror for this: he hoists the hammer from the floor and bursts a nova into Pelos' temple.

No really, everything reeks. Jason lifts a wrist to his nose, and lights drag trails as he revolves to Pythagoras, impossible lines stretched to rays and blue in a world painted fire. His arm is bent acute, vertex at his navel and clutched mid-humerus, hand against the front of his shoulder. His fingers, middle and index, ruin parallelism.

'Jay-sonn,' drawls pitch, 'Are you oh-kay?'

Jason's grip slackens and the hammer gongs atonal.

Pythagoras takes a step then half-steps back, and his shape lags. 'Herbs have be-en caught in the bray-zier; they are dis…' Things smear into art, and time squishes and pulls…

Mick's got a phalanx of empty beers at his feet, the football match dragged into overtime. Jason puts his bloody hands on his be-tunicked hips and says, 'Mate, you've got to do something about the loo.' (Fish flicker. This way.)

Mick pops a cap and it falls into rank. The TV glares off his black-line glasses. (Fingertips on a shoulder nudge him left.) 'Don't preach. You've got the dead goat stinking up the room.'

'That wasn't me,' Jason says. (From a window, cuts of stars. Beside, a line of warmth.) His sandals have tracked sand and gore across the tile. 'I was cursed.'

'That's what they all say,' Mick says. Lately he's into green skinny trousers and sweaters with owls knit on them. Crowds rage from the telly. 'Foul!'

(Seaweed ripples.) 'I'm not,' Jason says. He picks at the ties of his breastplate. 'You got any chicken tikka? I'm starved.' (Please don't. Don't. Stop, please. I am sorry.)

'No. You killed a hundred chickens the other day, though. The police are coming.'

Jason sighs. (Jason? Jason?) 'The stolen bread?'

'Carrying an unconcealed sword into Tesco.' (A city burns in torchlight.)

Pythagoras steps from the kitchen and crosses his arms at Jason. 'What are you doing here?'

'I wanted chicken tikka,' Jason says. (Jason says, Don't cry. A voice says, We see ghosts. Keep going. We see ghosts.)

Cheap light casts him skeletal: filigree clavicles, ridged sternum, nob carpals. Skin furrows between radius and ulna. Pythagoras sighs with the gravity of the wise and declares, 'The time for tikka has passed.'

'You can't come back,' Mick says. 'I've kicked you out for breaking my fingers.' He switches to Dancing with the Stars. 'Also, quit drinking your wine straight. Turns you homicidal.'

'I'm not.'(Hush, friend. Someone is coming.)

The room: couch, telly stacked on cinderblocks, Argos lamp in a corner, diving gear piled blue-and-yellow. Pythagoras crosses, metatarsals fanned beneath sandal straps, and fills Jason's view. A grey window sits over his right shoulder.

Navy threads radiate from Pythagoras' pupils. To them, Jason begs, 'I'm not.'

'Jason,' he says. 'Sit still and don't speak.' …He is folded on the ground, and Pythagoras' calves are streaked with rust.

She slimes honey: 'Jason, leader of heroes.'

'Oh, for the gods' sake,' exclaims Pythagoras, and Jason sucks in night with a great whoop. He huddles in an alcove behind Pythagoras, who blocks the entrance and points Jason's sword left-handed. In the hall, Medea frazzles static, rhomboid tattoos tessellating down her arm. Pythagoras grouses, 'He's leader of only imaginary heroes, thanks to your rotten incense.' He waves the blade. 'Shoo.'

Her olive-pit eyes drop to Jason's. He lifts a hand raw from battering people with wood and metal implements. 'Hi.'

'Jason,' Pythagoras says, not turning, 'don't be nice to witches.'

'You may have destroyed my work, but I can still turn you into a frog.'

'Ribbit.' Jason smiles as he waggles his fingers.

'Your mind is clear,' she says. 'You cannot fool me.'

His smile evaporates, and he springs up. In the goldlit hall, he takes the sword from Pythagoras' shaking hand and spins it once; Pythagoras side-hops.

'You heard him,' Jason says. 'Shoo.'

She smirks and pulls a clay figure from her purple dress. The seal of Pelos, two circling dolphins, is stamped on its chest.

Jason's jaw winds into an aching clamp.

'Aw, come on,' Pythagoras says. 'That's just not fair.'

'Your quest is incomplete.' She steps nearer, and Jason extends the sword to prick her sternum. Halted but unfazed, she says, 'I will give it to you.'

'Don't take it,' Pythagoras says.

'Will it turn me into a frog?'

'It could.'

She says, 'It would be far less trouble to kill you. This is a token of my goodwill.'

Jason takes the shabti. He does not die or turn green.

'I have no patience for your goodwill.' He slams the figure into stone and it shatters four ways. He pushes, and she backs at the point of pain. His teeth bare. 'Go worm your way into some other fool's affections.'

Torchlight flares in her pupils.

'Jason,' Pythagoras says, 'don't be rude to witches.'

'You would reject the Fates themselves,' she snarls. Lights waver, but her eyes gleam.

'I reject anyone,' he says, 'who keeps us here a moment longer.' Another prod, and static climbs his arm, raising hair; he advances, and though she hums electricity, and behind a torch snuffs out, she backs without drawn blood.

'I know your past,' she says as they walk, gold spilling over into irises, 'as I know your future. You dare not disregard me.'

He says, 'I dare.'

She says, 'You come from another world.'

He says, 'It doesn't matter.'

She says, 'You will beg for my help.'

He says, 'I don't care.'

She says, 'You will drown Atlantis and everyone in it.'

He lunges and shock seizes his hand to the hilt and fire sears his vision and heart-lungs burst

and then he's on his knees, sword crackling blue sparks on the floor, every torch choked and Pythagoras' shadow kneels lop-sided before him. 'Jason,' he calls. 'Jason, you great fool, are you okay—'

'Pythagoras,' he says, blinking gold discs. They fade. 'Pythagoras.' In the grey, his friend reaches for his upper arm and flinches from the static shock.

'Ow,' Pythagoras says. His other arm is still folded against his chest, and Jason gasps from sick precipitating out from his gut and, hell, guilt.

His hands suspend on either side, a moment, before curling around the verticals above Pythagoras' pelvis, not firm enough to pull. Their kneecaps bump. He says, 'This was not a great idea.'

Pythagoras huffs, then he's giggling, but high like a mistuned bell and his sides hitch against Jason's thumbs, and then his head falls to Jason's shoulder and he's wheezing irregular pulls of air, torso tipped forty-five degrees, and Jason wants to do something but he can't open his mouth. Vomit and apologies are building pressure to froth over. Sorrys and I-wish-it-was-mes and disgraceful appeasements—

'You look like a miserable nightmare,' Pythagoras muffles into his shoulder.

The nausea settles a little, and he uncurls a hand to pick a chunk of rooster from Pythagoras' hair. 'So says you.'

A puff of humour on his clavicle. Air grates down his throat. 'You smell like one too.'

Quiet softens the black, and Pythagoras' forehead warms his shoulder. Jason swallows something foul and forces, 'We should keep going.'

He is summoning the cruelty to repeat himself when Pythagoras pulls breath and lifts his head, blinking. 'Sorry,' he breathes.

'It's okay,' he says, and shuts his eyes in shame. Pythagoras hunches from his hold to stand. 'Wait. Stop.' He kneels, then pulls Pythagoras up with him. It jostles: breathing stalls into a vacuum.

Sorrysorrysorry—Pythagoras scrapes air harsh as sand. Jason reaches towards the small of his back, then retracts. They walk with a hand of silence between.

The sea has retreated, abandoning knots of seaweed across steel sand. Jason, ripping strips from his shirt hem, unleashes a torrent of stories about childhood fractures and sprains and bruises, and Pythagoras' eyes shine colourless.

(They slipped out the ground floor, because Pythagoras could not manage the wall they entered by, and Jason grabbed their packs on the way.)

Jason has torn all he can without turning into a belly dancer. He wanders the damp beach in search of driftwood to use as a splint, sidestepping dead jellies. The moon cuts a sabre. He finds a plank from a long-drowned ship and splits a splinter; snap and he drops it as if shocked.

He returns to find Pythagoras curled into a crescent, breaths knocked unstable.

Jason drops and says, 'What's wrong? What happ—'

Pythagoras whispers, 'I've set them. Could you, could, tie—' He swallows, looks down to water sharp as diamond. 'Oh.' His eyes shut.

Jason's hands float useless. Pythagoras clutches his right arm above the wrist. Middle and index: straight and bloated. 'Gods, Pythagoras. Why didn't you wait?'

He mumbles, 'It would have upset you.'

Jason cinches fabric (far less than he tore), each tug throwing Pythagoras' lungs. He's babbling again about the neighbour's dog and sledding down the stairs and getting lost with outdated trail maps…

After, he walks straight to the ocean, hopping over seaweed, and ploughs to his chest in tepid water. He sinks to his knees; the sea is a black and silent weight. He digs his fingers and toes into the silt. Heat grows slowly under his ribs.

He wades from the water not so stinking, and Pythagoras is standing near the edge. Jason cannot see the navy lines in his eyes.

'Are you okay?' Pythagoras asks, voice lucid.

'I'm not the one injured.'

He extends a toe to prod Jason's shin. 'Jason,' he chides. 'You are not yourself.'

The holes of their eyes fall to each other. 'You broke the curse,' Pythagoras says. 'You saved a man's life.'

'You are hurt.'

'I will heal.' He steps into the water and swings his legs, washing away the mess to his knees. 'It is far less a problem than if you had gotten yourself enslaved.' He huffs. 'Honestly, Jason, you think I would have preferred that?'

'I would have,' Jason says. 'Here.' He hooks Pythagoras' bad arm over his neck to keep it dry, and they sit in the shallows up to their waists.

'I feel like a child,' he grumbles. Jason grins, cups water and dumps it over his hair. Pythagoras squawks, swiping water from his eyes. 'I am not helpless.' He scrubs at his tunic for a while. Jason prickles chilled. 'I have never heard you speak of your childhood before.' Jason rocks, a wave pushing at his ribs. Voice lilting humour: 'Does it take only mortal peril to prompt you?'

'Apparently.' Pythagoras is waving his good hand in the water, but the gore is caked on; Jason snags his arm and scrubs at it.

'I taught Diocles arithmetic,' Pythagoras says. Even in the dark, Jason's confusion must be clear, because he explains: 'The boatman who gave me free passage.' He pulls his arm free, still orange in the elbow crook. The other warms Jason's neck. 'He could not make change. I promised him tutoring in exchange for passage to Atlantis. It embarrasses him; we are barely pleasant with each other.' He tips a hand of water and watches it glitter like a meteor shower. 'Sorry,' he mutters. 'It is hardly an adventure, but you wondered earlier. I did not want to speak of it when he would hear.'

'You travelled via Thera?'

Pythagoras rises, water scattering white and loud, and turns for the dunes. Jason follows the craters of his footprints. 'I wandered many places between Samos and Atlantis.'

They settle at the edge of beach grasses, watching the quicksilver creep in. Pythagoras is unlikely to have regained an appetite; Jason's own stomach claims hunger then roils at the thought of eating. Clothes cling like fish skins.

He is about to suggest rest when Pythagoras says, 'You miss your home.' He is a tangled ball of arms and knees, pain-lines etched old.

Recognising the wish for distraction, Jason admits, 'Some of it. Little things. I can live without them. It's more…' On exhales, the sea brushes the first line of debris. 'I never ran out of food. Or feared for my life, really.' A dead jelly is lodged free, and he says, 'I never killed anyone.' This place has made him savage—he wishes to blame the place. Hallucinations may not be the best insights, but this is hardly subtle: couch and electricity and football, and he covered in blood.

'I find it hard to believe,' Pythagoras murmurs, 'that you ever lived a complacent life. You are far too good a man.'

'How can you call me that?' Jason says. Pythagoras, who cannot forgive himself an accidental death, and who might as well believe Jason popped fully-grown from the sea?

'You do not see your face, when you fight.' Whenever Jason is pulled from the ocean, he meets Pythagoras' gaze. 'It is more like a king than a criminal.'

He covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his confession: 'I would have killed Pelos.'

'And I stopped you.'

'Why? Where do you find your kindness?'

His spine pulls into a line, tunic glued to peaks. 'I have no kindness for Pelos,' he says, stiff with asperity. 'I thought only of sparing your soul a murder.'

Jason's lungs seize. The sea continues to breathe. Pythagoras tilts into his side; Jason notches his thumb between two low vertebrae, other hand sunk up to Circe's burn in sand, and words scald his throat: 'Sometimes—I forget myself, sometimes. I am not a king. There was a time when I couldn't imagine killing anyone. Who do I think I am?' The sea pulls itself up the sand. Once he'd been able to dismiss visions, but now Medea's words stick like the wet fabric behind his knees.

Pythagoras' words drag low with the surf of the sea. 'You defend anyone at any cost to yourself, body and soul. You are a great man. Trust this: you could come from the depths of Tartarus; I would still have suffered death tonight, and been privileged to have had a part in your life.'

Against the sin-waves of his spine, Jason's hand flares into a star. Pythagoras' shoulders, arched high in pain, fold. He adds, 'But while I am still here, I will remind your conscience of itself.' His eyes glint white when he turns to Jason, lips bowing into a moon. This close, he warms air. 'As you say, friends save each other.' The sea is as dark as the space between stars. Jason tips to rest his smile on the salty ridge of Pythagoras' right brow; they breathe in, and the air sears Jason's heart whiskey-hot.

End

AN: Hope you enjoyed! Comments appreciated.