mycursedface: (Mistress of the West Gate)
There is a storm, and Medusa isn't in it.

Normally, she would be. Normally, she'd be flying and tumbling and letting lightning hit her. She may or may not be laughing, because sometimes it is best to try and repress the giggles for Ouranos' sake (silly uncle), but Medusa is a storm daemon. Wind and thunder and lightning are what she lives for.

The storm rages for hours, and all she does is sit on Sam's bed. Arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees, wings unfurled just enough so as not to be unnaturally bent, eyes dark and trained on the window.

The storm rages for hours, and all she does is watch.

There is a saying, a quote, maybe call it just plain knowledge that if you cage a bird for too long, they forget how to fly. The open sky scares them. She doesn't know how long she was in that...that places, doesn't want to know, but...

She doesn't want to fly.

Why?

She just doesn't, alright.

(if Sam says something during those hours, and there is no reason why he wouldn't, because he is Sam and worries about her, she doesn't reply.

By the time the thunder stops, she's crying.

By the time the skies clear, she is shy and skittish and quick smiles as normal, but that doesn't make her reddened eyes any better)
mycursedface: (Mistress - not amused)
There had been chains. Chanting. A cage, inlaid and veiled with red, red, scarlet red. There had been a girl, beaten and strong. There had been begging, her own, screams and ramblings and whisper, whisper, whisper and cry for the sky and there had been blood, blood, blood all poured out into bowls.

And there had been a fire.

She remembers the fire.

If there hadn't have been a fire, her clothes wouldn't be burnt, would they? Once a sari, costly and beautiful and fit for a goddess, now rags and charcoal showing ash-covered and still-perfect limbs.

She'd been worshiped before, but not like that and Medusa, gold nose-ring still there (give her a mirror and a century to calm down, and she might concede it actually suits her), gold manacles still on her wrists and ankles, gold bangles still jingling, is pacing in the ruins of a temple. She's chewing her bottom lip and fuming, the snakes hissing angry, angry, angry.

(like the sky above her, dark and rumbling with energy and pressure always rising)

If she wasn't certain that the men responsible had been killed, then Medusa, thinking in the clarity that only resurrection can bring, would be making sure that they were begging for it.
mycursedface: (my cursed face)
Guilt is the source of sorrow; 'tis the fiend,
The avenging fiend, that follows us behind
With whips and stings.
- Nicholas Rowe


contains self-harm )
mycursedface: (Mistress of the West Gate)
For all the Gorgons’ call their home a cave, it is actually something far more grand. A cave-system, with caverns and passages both above and below the level of the ocean and far, far more room than the girls could ever need. But that was never the point of their home, really.

The reason why they live in this cave-system is situated well within it, built into the west wall of a cavern that is now perfectly at sea-level. When the tides come in, the floor is covered in water up to knee-level. Now, however, it is only up to Medusa’s ankles.

Or, would be if she were walking.

What the little Gorgon queen is actually doing is sitting, and waiting. Sitting on the top step of the West Gate, and waiting for her sisters. It is easier, waiting down here. She’s away from her body, away from the squalling of the baby and the abandoned confusion in the eyes of the foal.

If nothing else, the sounds of the Underworld drown out whatever noise her children are making.

Ghosts are silent, some say, but this is not, and has never been true. The ghosts of those gone and dead, the souls both lost and too poor, too uncared for to be given the fare for Charon’s ferry; they all make noise. The brides and unwed youths and old men who had suffered much and girls with their tender hearts freshly scarred by sorrow and great armies of battle dead, stabbed by bronze spears, men of war still wrapped in bloody armour who haven’t yet been herded through the final Gate…Oh, yes. Death takes all pride away, all comfort, and so they cry. They cry and they scream and they wail and they curse, and Medusa just closes her eyes and listens.

Eventually, there are footsteps.

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March 2010

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