Medusa had been running for a very long time. Every turn she took seemed to bring her closer to the guards. Tears streaked down her face and the writhing creatures planted into her skull hissed and screeched. She pulled her shawl more tightly around herself. It wasn't actually hers. It was Hercules'. She'd snatched it up and pulled it around her head before running out of the house. No way had she been going to let him see her like this. He would hate her. He'd think she was hideous, evil. Like the people of Atlantis now seemed to think. Yet, he'd wanted to see her. Yes, he'd recoiled, but he'd not run. He'd stayed with her until the guards had appeared and she'd had to go. She slowed down as she approached the gate leading to exile. She could see they were locked and in depseration, bean climbing up them, hooking her hands through crevices, hauling her sore feet up.
His shawl, or cloak as he would have it known, still smelt like him. Of good ale, of lemon, of good times. She sniffled. She hated crying, it wasn't what strong, independent women like she was did. But what was she now? With these terrible animals burning as they moved around, as they fought each other? What in Hades was she?
Why had she opened that box? She did not know. All she remembered was what had happened.
Black smoke, yet fluid like water wisped around, pulling at her, yanking her to the ground. Suddenly, her head had felt as though her hair was turning to fire, it dropped out, turning to ash as it hit the floor. She was screaming, fear overtaking her. She screamed for help and heard panicked voices. She howled and clawed at her head, but had to stop as a sharp sting of pain shot through her hands. Looking down, she saw tiny little cuts, like bites, etched onto her hands.
Then she heard it. The sounds.
Hissing. Trembling, she stood, the spell was ended, and looked into the mirror. She saw them. Hundreds of tiny, black snakes wriggling about in her scalp, biting each other or simply just waving around. She couldn't even scream. Oh...
By the gods. Pythagoras had been right. She had been cursed.
She had no more tears to cry. The creatures' noises had lessened. Now they were almost whispering in their foreign language to her. As though they knew she was upset. Like they wanted to console her. She almost laughed. Not only was she hideous, but now she was going insane. She found her pocket knife and looked at it thoughtfully. Could she kill the creatures? She lifted it up to her head and screamed as hundreds of tiny snake jaws clamped around her finger.
Cursing, she dropped her knife and tightly held onto her wounded finger.
"I don't want you!" She almost roared. "Why are you here? What crime have I commited to have you evil bastards growing out of my head? Just go!"
They didn't. They were aggravated now, hissing angrily, almost spitting. Medusa covered her ears and stared at the ground. She wished then, more than she'd even done when she was in Fionyses' cult, that she had never been born.
A dead father, a busy mother, kidnapped, nearly killed twice and now this. She hadn't just been cursed when the Head Prisetess had said her last words. She'd been cursed since she was born.
