Rating: PG-13 for a lot of inhuman warrior being killed and some cynical commentary.

Summery: The story of Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece from Medea's point of view. She's telling this after everything is all over, and it's a kind of stream of consciousness looking back at what happened to make her end up where she is. This chapter, Jason preforms his tasks.

Disclaimer: I do not own any myths, Greek or otherwise. I do not own Jason, I do not own Medea, I do not own the task.

Chapter 3

His name, it means "healer". Strange, ironic, is it not? Named healer, indeed, trained to heal by he that named you, and yet you do not heal but destroy. All heroes destroy, it is what makes you a hero: you go out and destroy your enemies and then everyone else sits around making noises about how wonderfully brave and heroic and great you all are. But you are not. For me, it has always been those who created who were the ones truly worthy of admiration. It is so much harder to create than it is to destroy. Why did I not watch out, when I met you? I knew you and your men were all heroes, destructive killing heroes, you all strutted it out plain for all to see and admire at. Yet I still cared for you. And you destroyed my life, little by little, starting long before you destroyed our love. You started destroying me that very first morning.

That morning everyone went out to watch him, to see what would happen. I overheard some of the slaves making bets with one another about how long he would last and laughing about it. If they had been mine, they would have been dead for laughing at the thought of his death.

(And now he laughs at the thought of mine. He must, for he killed me.)

I was glad, that day, for the etiquette that kept me separate from my father, the King, that forced me to keep my features an uninterested mask. For otherwise, I fear my father would have read my feelings for him, and know that I had helped him, and would have thought up some excuse to dely and force him to preform the impossible tasks unaided, forcing him to fail.

Father, you have no honour. That is all that separates you from the heroes; for you, too, destroy when you deem you are given cause, but you have no honour, and they guard their's more jealously than their wives' honour, more jealously than their lives, more jealously even than whatever "heroic" cause they are destroying for.

He opened the doors on the bulls stone stable, and great bouts of flame came billowing out. Several of our people, poised to cheer his incineration, stopped and stared in shock. He was perfectly unharmed. His men stopped chewing their nails, and started to relax a bit now they'd had proof the magic I'd given their leader worked.

I didn't stop worrying. I knew that what I'd given him would work, but love doubts even perfect certainties.

He entered the stable, and all was quiet for several long moments except for the sounds of the two bulls. A few men, sure the bulls had overcome him, were tentatively approaching the doors in order to shut them again, when he came out with the bulls firmly yoked. The entire gathering, even those securely at the very rear, took several steps backward to ensure safety from the fire those animals breathed.

He merely smiled at the fear in the faces of those who watched him, and calmly led the yoked pair to the field where he was to sow the dragon's teeth. To this day, I am not sure if that smile was mere bravado, or if it was genuine amusement at the discomfiture of those who would have cheerfully seen him dead. Either way, that smile should have warned me, but the heart is blind to all the wrong things. We trust where we should be wary, and suspect the snow white innocent.

He started plowing the teeth into the field. The crowds grew still as they saw that he not only could withstand the bulls, but could in fact force them to his bidding. It was not easy, even for him, but he did make them do as he pleased. Of course, all the stories now say ridiculous things, say that at his touch the bulls became as biddable as dogs, as docile as lambs, that the flames stopped and they breathed sweet perfume, and other such nonsense. Even those who were they now half believe such stories. They are utter drivel, but anyone who knew anything about those bulls know that just getting them to plow in the same direction, let alone the direction you wanted, was remarkable enough.

He finished plowing, and planted himself at the edge of the field, tossing a stone in one hand, ready to harvest the crop he had just sown. He and the watching crowd did not have long to wait. Mere seconds after the last of the teeth had been plowed in, the ground above where the first had been planted began to tremble, and soon the first of the fierce warriors that inevitably spring from dragon's teeth were pulling them selves free of the soil, and advancing on their planter. Here again, the tales that were left after the deed was done exaggerate ridiculously. They say now that giant's sprang up, twenty feet tall at least, all armoured with the impenetrable hide of dragon scale, and armed with every weapon the teller could imagine. Rubbish. They were of the same height as an ordinary tall man, armed and armoured no differently than any of our warriors would be, save that these wore the colours of the dragon, and not of our royal house of Crete. But it is true that they advanced with a single mindedness and inexorableness not to be found in any true human, and that made them fearsome enough, to my mind. As each row advanced, the ground they marched over trembled, and their brothers heaved themselves up from the earth to fall into the march behind them. He, not wishing to leave anything to chance, waited until the very last of them had pulled himself free of the ground, and all the while the crowd marvelled at his collectedness, that he could just stand there calmly tossing his stone up and down, while these unnatural people advanced on him. As soon as the last of the dragon warriors was solidly on land, he took careful aim and threw the selfsame stone he had just been so casually playing with right into the middle of their army, as I had told him he should. Confused, they turned upon one another, and unthinkingly butchered themselves down to the last man, while he just stood by and watched, not having to lift a finger. I think he might even have laughed a little at the slaughter, but I am not sure, blind as I was to such signs then, although I never took my eyes off him for an instant.

So he won the test the King had set him, and my father was forced to hand over the fleece to these heros, much against his will.

I saw what my father was planning for you. I saw, so I betrayed my father for you, for my love for you, and thus my destruction started. I should have seen then, where this sad story would lead us, for what begins in blood must end in blood. That is the only language such heros such as yourself understand, the language of blood and destruction. So, tonight I will free myself of you by completing my destruction and starting yours. I made the mistake of trying to speak to you in my language, the language of love. Tonight I shall correct that mistake and speak to you in yours. Then we shall see.

A.N.: Ouch, really long wait for an update on this, I'm really sorry. On the other hand, not very many people read this and I had a lot of work to do for my University classes, so I don't feel too guilty.

Same grammar/style remarks.

This follow the myth pretty exactly, except that Jason had a whole show yoking the bulls in front of the crowd, but I don't know enough about that to be able to write about it accurately, so I cheated a bit.

Next chapter, Medea runs away with Jason and the Argonauts.