A Bizarre Journey ep 28: The Responsible Husband

The servant girl was still staring at us.

Specifically at our joined hands.

I finally let go of Tram’s, mostly because the silence had become physically painful.

“Uh…” I said intelligently.

The girl blinked.

“My lord Jason…? The princess has been asking for you. The fittings for the ceremony are almost finished, and King Creon wished to speak with you before the evening banquet.”

Jason.

Right.

I was Jason.

Apparently.

I had no idea who that was supposed to be, but the girl was looking at me with the anxious expectation of someone who would get in trouble if the answer was wrong.

Tram recovered first.

She stepped half a pace forward, smoothing her servant’s dress like she had worn one her entire life.

“Of course,” she said smoothly. “Lord Jason was… inspecting the outer courtyards. We were just returning.”

The servant girl’s eyes flicked between us again, still suspicious, but the explanation seemed to land.

“I see. Shall I inform the princess you will attend her shortly?”

I opened my mouth.

Tram answered for me.

“Yes. Tell her Lord Jason will be there shortly.”

The girl bowed and hurried off, glancing back once over her shoulder.

The moment she disappeared around a stone corner, I turned to Tram.

“Okay. Explain. Who am I, and why does everyone keep calling me lord?”

Tram exhaled through her nose.

“You are Jason.”

“That part I got.”

“Jason of the Argonauts.”

I waited.

Tram stared at me.

“…You have no idea what that means, do you?”

“Not even a little.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“He was a Greek hero. He led a group of legendary warriors on a dangerous voyage to find the Golden Fleece — a magical treasure guarded by impossible monsters. He succeeded. He became famous. And after that, he was supposed to marry a princess and become king.”

I looked down at my ridiculous short cape, then at the distant white palace glowing under the sun.

“…So I’m the guy who got the magical treasure and the princess.”

Tram opened her mouth.

I kept going, pieces clicking together in the most optimistic way possible.

“That actually tracks. Heroic voyage. Impossible odds. Magical prize. Royal wedding. I’ve been pulled into a story where I’m the main character who wins.” I gestured at the city around us. “Look at this place. People are already treating me like I matter. There’s a banquet. There’s a ceremony. There’s a princess waiting for me to approve her wedding clothes.”

Tram tried to interrupt.

“Loc—”

“I mean, sure, the clothes are weird and the sandals hurt, but overall?” I nodded to myself, weirdly encouraged. “This might be the first myth we’ve landed in that doesn’t immediately want us dead. I get the fleece, I get the girl, I get the kingdom. Classic hero ending.”

Tram stared at me for a long second.

Then she said, very carefully:

“Jason did get the Golden Fleece. And he did get a princess.”

I brightened.

“See?”

“He also already had a wife.”

I paused.

“…Had?”

“A powerful sorceress who helped him survive the entire voyage. She abandoned her home, her family, and everything she knew for him. She killed for him. And when they reached Corinth, Jason decided he would rather marry the local princess so he could become king.”

The bright Corinthian sun suddenly felt a little less warm.

Tram’s voice stayed flat.

“So he left her. Publicly. With their two young children. And the story that follows is what happens when a woman like that is betrayed.”

I looked at her.

Then at the palace.

Then at the short cape that no longer felt quite so heroic.

“…Ah.”

Tram nodded once.

“Ah.”

We stood there in the middle of the busy street while the real shape of the story settled over us like a second, much heavier cloak.

Somewhere inside that white palace, a princess was waiting for her future husband to come approve the final fittings of her wedding clothes.

And somewhere else in this city, a woman named Medea was waiting for the same man to finish destroying her life.

I swallowed.

“So,” I said quietly. “Not the classic hero ending.”

“No,” Tram replied. “Not even close.”

She didn’t give me time to recover.

“In the version most people know,” she said, voice low, “Medea sends the two children to the palace with a poisoned dress and crown as wedding gifts for the princess. The princess puts them on. The poison burns her alive. Her father, the king, tries to save her and dies the same way. Then Medea kills the children herself so Jason can’t have them, and escapes in a dragon-drawn chariot while he is left with nothing.”

I stared at her.

“She kills the children.”

“Yes.”

“Her own children.”

“Yes.”

The bright street suddenly felt too loud. Too normal. People walked past us carrying baskets of fruit and arguing about prices while Tram casually described a woman murdering her sons and setting a royal family on fire.

I dragged a hand down my face.

“I’m the reason that happens.”

Tram didn’t correct me.

“I’m the man who abandons her. I’m the one who decides a kingdom is worth more than the person who saved his life. I’m the one who creates the exact situation that ends with dead children and a burning palace.”

My voice sounded strange in my own ears.

“What kind of story is this?”

Tram had no answer for that.

I looked at her.

“Is there another version? Any other way this story ends?”

She hesitated.

Just long enough for something stupid and hopeful to flicker in my chest.

“Yes,” she said.

I straightened.

“There is?”

“There’s an alternative tradition. In that one, Medea doesn’t kill the children. She leaves them in a temple for protection when she flees. The citizens of Corinth, terrified of her and furious about the dead king and princess, kill the boys themselves.”

The hopeful feeling stalled.

Tram continued, relentless.

“And then the gods punish the city. A plague sweeps through Corinth. A lot of people die. Some versions say the Corinthians had to perform annual rituals for generations to atone for killing Medea’s sons.”

I stared at her.

“So the options are… Medea kills the children, or the city kills the children and then a plague kills a large number of everyone else.”

“Yes.”

“Those are the alternatives.”

“Those are the main ones.”

I sat down on the nearest stone step because standing suddenly felt ambitious.

Tram remained on her feet, arms folded, eyes scanning the street with the tight focus she only used when she was quietly panicking and refusing to show it. I had seen that expression before — usually right before she told me a plan was “fine” when it was very clearly not fine.

“We don’t know how much of this story is fixed,” she said. “We don’t know if changing something small will rewrite the ending or just make the notebook angry. We don’t know what happens to us if the story can’t reach its conclusion. The old man said the stories might keep us if they close while we’re still inside.”

She glanced at me.

“The safest option is to let it happen the way it’s supposed to. We stay alive, we stay out of the way, and when the tragedy finishes, the page turns and we get pulled out.”

I looked up at her.

“You’re saying we watch the children die.”

Tram’s jaw tightened.

“I’m saying we don’t know how to stop it without making everything worse. And right now, making everything worse might trap us here permanently.”

The sun kept shining. Somewhere nearby a vendor shouted about fresh olives. A pair of children ran past laughing, chasing each other between the market stalls.

I hated how normal it all looked.

I exhaled slowly.

“…Okay.”

Tram watched me.

“We don’t intervene,” I said. “We blend in. We figure out exactly where we are in the timeline. We keep our heads down. And when the story ends, we get out.”

She nodded once, sharp and controlled.

“That’s the plan.”

Neither of us mentioned how fragile the plan sounded.

Neither of us mentioned the two boys who were still alive somewhere in this city, completely unaware that every version of their future ended the same way.

We just stood up, adjusted our ridiculous ancient clothes, and started walking toward the palace like two people who had already agreed to let a tragedy happen.

~~~•••~~~

We split up near the edge of the market.

Tram adjusted the sash of her servant’s dress and gave me a look that clearly said ‘do not do anything stupid.’

“I’ll move through the city,” she said under her breath. “Servants run errands. No one questions a woman carrying baskets. I’ll find out exactly where we are in the timeline — whether the wedding is tomorrow, next week, or already too close.”

“And I’ll go smile at the princess I’m supposed to marry so I can become king.”

“Yes.”

“While already having a wife and two children.”

“Yes.”

I stared at her.

“I hate this story.”

“I know.” Tram’s voice stayed practical. “Just… try not to make her suspicious. You’re Jason. Act like a man who wants this marriage.”

“I have no idea how to do that.”

“Then act like a man who is bad at wanting this marriage but is doing it anyway. That should be close enough.”

She turned and disappeared into the flow of people before I could argue.

I walked toward the palace alone.

The closer I got, the heavier the short cape felt.

A servant led me through cool stone corridors and into a sunlit chamber lined with embroidered cloth. The air smelled of perfume and expensive oil. And there she was.

Glauce.

She was young. Younger than me. Dressed in fine pale fabric that made her look like she belonged in a story where nothing terrible ever happened. When she saw me, her entire face lit up with the uncomplicated happiness of someone who still believed this wedding was the beginning of her life instead of the end of it.

“Jason,” she said, and the way she said my stolen name made my stomach turn.

I stopped a careful distance away.

“Princess.. I mean, my love.”

She stepped closer. I stepped half a step back without thinking.

A tiny flicker of confusion crossed her face, but she smiled through it.

“You came. I was beginning to worry the fittings would finish without your approval.” She gestured toward a low table where a delicate wedding dress waited. “Father says the ceremony will be even more beautiful than we planned. The whole city will see that Corinth is gaining a true hero for a prince.”

I looked at the dress.

At the girl who was going to die screaming wearing it.

My throat felt tight.

“It looks… fine,” I said.

Glauce’s smile faltered just a little.

“Fine?”

I tried again, harder.

“Very fine. Excellent craftsmanship. The… gold is very gold.”

Silence.

I was killing this.

She moved closer again, clearly expecting the kind of warmth a future husband was supposed to offer. I immediately developed a deep interest in a nearby column, examining the stonework like it contained the secrets of the universe.

“Jason?” Her voice had gone quieter. “Is something wrong?”

Everything.

Everything was wrong.

I was standing in front of a girl who would soon be burned alive because of a decision the real Jason had made, and I was wearing his face while doing an extremely bad job of pretending I wanted her.

“I’m just tired from the journey,” I muttered. “A lot of… heroic traveling. Very exhausting. Fleece was heavier than it looked.”

“Jason. That was ten years ago.”

“Oh..uh.. exactly. That’s why I said the fleece was heavy. My arms had been sore since then.”

Glauce studied me for a long moment.

Then she did something worse than getting angry.

She looked concerned.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said softly. “I know this marriage is also political. I know you come to it with a complicated past. But I am glad it is you. Truly.”

She reached out as if to touch my arm.

I flinched back so fast I almost knocked over a small vase.

We both froze.

Glauce’s hand hung in the air between us.

I cleared my throat.

“I should… speak with the king. About important king matters. Strategy. Kingdom things.”

I turned and walked out of the chamber before she could answer, heart slamming against my ribs, the image of the wedding dress burned into the back of my eyes.

Behind me, I heard her quiet, confused voice:

“…Jason?”

I kept walking.

I had almost made everything worse just by trying to stand in the same room as her.

And the story, patient and merciless, simply watched me fail.

I didn’t go straight to the king.

I walked the long way through the palace corridors, pretending I had somewhere important to be, until the sound of Glauce’s confused voice finally faded behind me.

Every servant I passed bowed. Every guard straightened. The entire building treated me like a man who had already won the story.

I had never felt more like an imposter in my life.

By the time I stepped back out into the afternoon sun, my hands were still unsteady. I found a low wall at the edge of a quieter courtyard and sat down hard, short cape pooling awkwardly around me.

I was still sitting there when Tram found me.

She carried two market baskets filled with bread, olives, and a clay jar that smelled like cheap wine. To anyone watching, she looked like any other servant running errands for the household. Only the tightness around her eyes gave her away.

She set the baskets down and spoke without looking at me, voice low enough that passersby wouldn’t catch it.

“We have three days.”

I lifted my head.

“Until the wedding.”

Tram nodded once.

“The final preparations start tomorrow. The public ceremony is the day after. The night before the wedding, Medea is expected to send the children with the gifts.”

Three days.

Seventy-two hours until the dress and crown arrived at the palace.

Seventy-two hours until the princess put them on.

I stared at the stone between my feet.

“Did anyone talk about the children?”

“They’re still with Medea. In a house on the edge of the city. People are already avoiding that street. They call her the Colchian witch. Some of the merchants I spoke to think Jason should have left her behind the moment he reached Corinth.”

Tram finally glanced at me.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“I saw the girl who’s going to wear the dress.”

Tram’s expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders drew tighter.

“And?”

“She’s happy,” I said. “She’s young and she’s happy and she thinks this marriage is the start of her life. I could barely stand in the same room as her without ruining everything.”

Tram was quiet for a moment.

Then she picked up the baskets again.

“We stick to the plan,” she said. “We don’t intervene. We keep our heads down. We survive the ending and get out.”

I looked toward the distant part of the city where Medea’s house supposedly stood.

Three days.

Two children who still had no idea what the story had decided for them.

And a version of me who was supposed to smile through a wedding while the woman who once saved his life prepared to burn a palace down.

“Yeah,” I said.

My voice didn’t sound convincing even to myself.

“We stick to the plan.”

Tram watched me for a second longer than necessary, then turned and began walking back toward the servants’ entrance like nothing was wrong.

I stayed on the wall a little longer, the weight of the short cape heavier than before, already wondering how long either of us would be able to keep that promise.

The summons came before either of us could retreat.

A senior attendant found us still in the courtyard and informed me that King Creon wished to speak with Lord Jason immediately. Protocol required that a personal servant accompany him.

Which meant Tram.

We walked the long stone corridor side by side, her two steps behind me the way a proper servant was supposed to. Neither of us spoke. The air already felt wrong.

It got worse the moment we entered the outer hall.

Small clusters of servants lined the walls, heads bent together. The second they saw us, the whispering started. Soft. Fast. The kind of sound that traveled farther than shouting ever could.

I caught fragments without meaning to.

“—with the Colchian’s girl—”

“—right there in the street—”

“—holding her hand in broad daylight—”

Tram’s spine went rigid behind me. I kept my eyes forward and pretended I hadn’t heard anything. My ears burned anyway.

By the time the great doors opened onto the king’s chamber, the entire palace seemed to know something we didn’t.

King Creon was a broad man with a carefully maintained beard and the calm expression of someone who expected the world to arrange itself according to his will. He sat on a raised chair that wasn’t quite a throne and wasn’t quite not. When he saw me, he smiled. When his gaze slid to Tram standing behind my shoulder, the smile thinned.

“Jason,” he said. “Come forward.”

I did.

Tram stayed where she was, head slightly bowed, playing the role of invisible servant so hard I could feel the effort radiating off her.

Creon studied me for a long moment.

“I hear the princess was… unsettled after your visit.”

“She seemed fine when I left,” I said carefully.

“Did she.”

It wasn’t a question.

Creon’s eyes flicked to Tram again.

“I also hear interesting things from the household. Servants talk. They say my future son-in-law was seen in the lower market this morning in a rather intimate conversation with one of Medea’s own attendants.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

Behind me, I heard the tiniest intake of breath from Tram.

I kept my face as blank as possible while my brain rapidly re-evaluated every life choice that had led to this exact moment.

Creon continued, voice still pleasant.

“They say you were holding her hand. That the two of you looked… close. In Corinth, appearances matter. Especially when a man is about to marry my daughter and assume a place in this house.”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing useful came out.

Tram spoke instead, very quietly, very quickly.

“My lord, if I may—”

Creon’s gaze pinned her.

“You may not. Servants do not speak in this chamber unless asked.”

Silence crashed down.

I could feel Tram’s panic without turning around. It was the tight, controlled kind she only got when the situation had already gone sideways and she was calculating how many ways we could still die.

I forced words out before the king decided the silence itself was an admission.

“There has been a misunderstanding,” I said. “She is indeed one of Medea’s attendants.”

Creon’s eyes narrowed.

“Go on.”

“I wasn’t meeting her.”

I pointed vaguely in Tram’s direction.

“I was attempting to avoid meeting Medea.”

The room remained silent.

“She intercepted me.”

Creon raised an eyebrow.

“Intercepted you.”

“Very efficiently.”

I nodded as though this happened constantly.

“She informed me that Lady Medea wished to speak with me.”

“And?”

“I declined.”

“By holding her hand.”

“…It was a refusal with emphasis.”

Creon’s stare did not change.

I kept going anyway.

“She insisted I hear the message. I insisted I wouldn’t. The discussion became… unexpectedly physical.”

“Unexpectedly physical.”

“There was a pigeon.”

Silence.

“…A pigeon.”

“It flew between us.”

I pointed toward the imaginary bird.

“Startled us both. I reached out on instinct. She did the same. Hands were briefly involved.”

Even I could hear the weakness of my own argument.

Tram came to my rescue before I could invent another bird.

“My lord,” she said softly, eyes lowered, “Lady Medea has tried repeatedly to request one final audience with Lord Jason. I was only delivering the message. Lord Jason refused every time.”

Creon studied us for a long moment.

Then he gave a short, humorless laugh.

“How fortunate,” he said, “that even refusing a woman now requires hand-holding.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“I will accept the explanation. For now. But understand this, Jason. Corinth is watching you. My daughter is watching you. If the Colchian witch still has any claim on your attention — or if her people are still moving freely through my city — I will not hesitate to remove the problem.”

His eyes were cold.

“Permanently.”

I bowed because it seemed like the only safe movement left.

“Of course, my king.”

Creon dismissed us with a wave.

We walked out of the chamber side by side, the weight of a dozen staring servants following us down the corridor. Neither of us spoke until we reached an empty side passage and the heavy doors had closed behind us.

Tram leaned against the wall and exhaled like she had been holding her breath underwater.

“We are going to die here,” she whispered.

I stared at the stone ceiling and seriously reconsidered every decision I had ever made.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m starting to get that feeling.”

~~~•••~~~

We didn’t speak until we were well clear of the palace wings where servants clustered like gossiping birds.

Tram stopped first, setting the empty baskets down beside a quiet colonnade.

“We can’t keep being seen together like this,” she said. “The rumor is already moving. If Creon’s people catch us alone again, the next conversation won’t end with a warning.”

I nodded.

“Minimal contact. You stay in the servant routes. I stay in the royal ones. We only meet when we have to.”

“I’ll go to Medea’s house tonight,” Tram continued. “A servant delivering messages or leftover supplies won’t draw attention. I need to see the children with my own eyes and confirm the timeline from that side.”

I almost told her not to.

The words sat on my tongue and refused to leave.

Instead I asked the question that had been sitting in the back of my throat since the king’s chamber.

“Is this actually going to be fine? Letting it all happen the way the story wants?”

Tram looked at me for a long moment.

The same quiet panic from earlier flickered behind her eyes, then vanished under control.

“We almost got removed permanently less than an hour ago,” she said. “Because we stood too close and held hands in a market. If we start changing things now, Creon will notice. Medea will notice. The story will notice. We don’t know what happens if it breaks.”

She picked up the baskets again.

“We stick to the plan. Survive the ending. Get out.”

I didn’t argue.

We both stood there a second longer than necessary, the weight of the decision settling between us, then turned in opposite directions without another word.

Night in the palace was worse than the day.

Servants appeared the moment I entered the chambers assigned to Jason. They moved with the smooth efficiency of people who had done this a hundred times for men who actually belonged here.

Dinner arrived on polished trays — roasted meat, soft bread, fruit I couldn’t name. I ate because refusing would have looked strange. The food tasted like nothing.

Afterward they led me to the bath.

I sat in the wide stone basin while attendants poured warm water scented with something floral and expensive. I stared at the opposite wall and tried to look like a hero who was simply tired instead of a man calculating how many days remained until two children walked into a palace carrying death.

The massage came next.

I lasted less than a minute before I sat up and told them, as politely as Jason probably never had, that I needed the rest of the night alone.

They exchanged glances. One of them murmured that the princess had hoped I might send word before sleeping. I said I would speak with her tomorrow. The lie sat heavily in the air, but they bowed and left.

When the last door closed, the silence was enormous.

I lay on the wide bed in the dark, short cape discarded on a chair, and stared at a ceiling that had never seen Saigon rain.

Three days.

Maybe less.

Somewhere across the city Tram was walking toward a house that belonged to a woman the entire kingdom already feared. Somewhere beyond this story, Quan was probably still gripping Quynh’s arm and loudly insisting he had a plan while they fell through someone else’s tragedy. Minh was alone in whatever broken myth had claimed him, trying to invent his way out of a cage the way he always did.

And I was here.

Wearing another man’s name. Sleeping in another man’s bed. Waiting for a wedding that would end in fire while telling myself that letting it happen was the only way any of us survived.

I turned onto my side and closed my eyes.

Sleep took a long time to arrive.

When it finally did, I dreamed of children’s voices calling for a father who was already walking away.