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.