The man squeezes his eyes shut to avoid being turned to stone. Medusa uses the split second to her advantage and moves behind her attacker. She grabs his black hair by the fistful and forces him down to his knees. He swings his sword aimlessly, keeping his eyes as tightly closed as possible, but she knocks it out of his hand with a blow to his forearm with the hilt of her weapon.

He may have had some grand speech prepared, in his back pocket, that he planned to use to beg to be spared if it came to that. She doesn’t wait to find out. In a clean stroke, Medusa neatly severs his head from his shoulders, his body slumping to the ground at her feet.

Blood runs down her fingers as she inspects the head of the fallen warrior. He had been another in a long line of Heroes of Olympus, sent to rid the world of all of its unsavory beings, such as the gorgon who has just felled him. Another to come along reeking of arrogance, drowning in assumptions that their prey would be of little concern.

Eyeing his uniform, she notes the golden stars on his leather epaulets and the red cloak. Heracles Legion. Poseidon must be getting desperate to end her if the Pantheon is allowing him to send their most elite fighters after her. His shoes are not standard fare for a Hero though. They are gold, like the stars of his rank, but also interwoven with vines of silver. Bronze wings on the outer side of each shoe stop her in her tracks as she stares at the sandals of Hermes.

She walks a few feet away and picks up the shield the man carried, dusting it off to inspect it further. The carvings and symbols look older than any language commonly used, but languages had been one of Medusa’s passions as an Acolyte. Translating the script that is legible takes a few minutes.

A weapon forged with steel is mighty indeed, but a weapon formed through wisdom cannot be matched.

Athena’s shield. Images flash through her mind of the goddess of wisdom and war in her ceremonial garb for official functions, her shield always on her left arm. Medusa has seen it many times but never so close as to read its inscription.

What does this mean for her? This man shows up with gifts from two gods to aid him on his assassination mission. Does the hunt for her extend farther than Poseidon now? Is the entire Pantheon hunting her down?

She sighs as she begins the tedious work of removing the body of her latest would-be assassin. Dwelling on these thoughts leads nowhere productive. No, Medusa must keep her chin up and be grateful that she is both alive, and that this man is not another statue, immovable, frozen in place to torment her along with all the others.

Today is supposed to be her day off from training and the never-ending list of tasks required of her to maintain her living environment on her own. She is single-handedly responsible for making and finding all her own food, and sourcing all her drinking water.

She realizes every day that she took so many things for granted as an Acolyte. That does not diminish the misery she experienced at the hands of that institution. Still, she had fresh food any time she needed it, clean running water, fireplaces, access to enchanted items that made day-to-day tasks easier.

Today, though, she was going to sit by the fire pit at the entrance to her cavern, lounging on the pile of blankets she has foraged over the years. The plan had been to enjoy the delicious jasmine tea that she never gets to drink, and read her cozy book. If the Heroes could time their assaults with the days, she is already doing annoying shit, that would be great.

* * *

Medusa staresinto the burning coals as the blaze from the pyre dies down to simmering embers. Burning his body may be harsh, but she has limited options. It is this, or toss him over the back cliff side. Fire seems like the least messy choice. Plus, does she want to make her home any more gruesome than it already is?

His boat still needs to be searched, but her body sags beneath the weight of another death. Her clothing is sticky with the Hero’s blood as she peels it off, and the pungent smell of the smoke from the fire assaults her as she pulls her tunic over her head.

The warmth of the pool has lost its appeal, and Medusa hastily washes away the evidence of her latest victim. In mere minutes, she is out of the water again. She will ever be able to fully relax here.

* * *

Medusa makesher way to the shore of her tiny island. The only benefit to the steady stream of warriors dispatched to end her has been the constant replenishment of supplies.

She always takes a dark solace in examining the items each Hero felt were important enough to accompany them on a death mission. Tiny glimpses into the lives of people free to live amongst society. Of people who did not have to hide from the gods. She is quite careful, though, not to let her daydreams get too lofty. Picturing these men walking amongst their day-to-day lives is one thing, but envisioning herself doing these things was something she cannot dare to entertain.

When Medusa allows herself the freedom to pursue this traitorous line of thought, it makes the lonely nights here on the edge of the world seem almost unbearable.

It surprises her to find a dinghy on shore, as opposed to the small one-man vessels that tend to be the transportation of choice for her assassin tormentors. As her eyes scan the large outcroppings of rocks that ring her island, she sees a slightly larger boat with what appears to be a proper cabin. Realizing a vessel that size would need more than her recent kill to operate, she stops to assess her next steps. Should she wait for the men on the boat to realize her assassin has not returned and lie in wait? Take advantage of the element of surprise and get the jump on them? The first option would require the disposal of more bodies, whereas option two allows for simply loosing the anchor on the ship when the tide was on its way out. Option two it is.

The boat’s proximity to the rocks aids in Medusa’s stealthy approach, with the dusky hour of the day ensuring a seamless blend into the shadows. Once she is alongside the modest hull, she secures the dinghy to a metal ring, her rogue knowledge of knot tying making the task quick and efficient. Slowly, she stands up, adjusting her balance with the gentle rocking of the water until she is can stand and see through the slats of the railing. She spots two men on the deck. One a scrawny old man who looks like he has spent his life on the open water. The other, as if a caricature of opposites, is a boulder of a man. At least triple the muscle on the so-called elite warrior that was tasked with hunting her down. Quickly formulating a plan, Medusa silently mouths the words she says every time she has to kill. Every time she has to run. Every time she has to make an impossible choice.

This shall not break me

She silently slips onto the deck, going for the smaller man first, thinking she could knock him unconscious and focus entirely on the mountain of a man who would be the real threat. Using the metal gauntlet that commonly adorns her right hand in combat, Medusa brings it down on the back of his head and he collapses at her feet. The sound has the other man whipping around, but quickly remembering the target of the current mission, he tightly shuts his eyes. Despite not being able to see, he readies himself into a fighting stance and welcomes her attack without a hint of fear. She cocks her head in confusion and approaches him slowly, trying to assess the swiftest way to attack. She is halfway to him when his head tilts slightly, and Medusa spots a birthmark behind his left ear. The familiar shape halts her in her tracks, then her vision goes dark, and a hood is pulled over her head from behind.

A loud silence washes over her. Where she normally can hear her snakes slithering and hissing, it is quiet, as if they are sleeping. The absence of their presence makes it clear how accustomed she has become to them. Small hands pull her arms tightly behind her back and they spin her around. She can hear shuffled movement, they replace the small hands on her arms with large ones with a grip like iron. Light peeks though as they pull the hood up enough for Medusa’s face to be visible – including her eyes. Her confusion is impossible to hide, as she looks into another person’s eyes for the first time in eight years. How is this happening? As the shock recedes, she realizes that person is a woman.

The deep laugh in her ear tells Medusa she is being held by the larger man, and she stiffens at the thought of someone yet again touching her against her will. The rage simmers in her eyes but does not rise to the surface–she refuses to let it. She has to stay calm and keep her wits about her. He spins Medusa around once again and she meets his gaze, taken aback when he does not even fear her, much less turn to stone as he should. “I knew that over-puffed peacock Perseus would underestimate ya. I was hoping for it.”

Medusa does not know what is happening, but the best option is to keep him talking. “He was hardly even a challenge. If you were so confident he would fail, why didn’t you assist him?” He chuckles again and the unease in her gut churns. “Because, Lyra, we are here to talk to you.”

The deck feels small as she hears the name she was born with. The name her mother gave her before Medusa’s conscription to Temple service. It was the name Nikolas used whenever she was on the verge of despair. A fresh start, as the Council used to call it. And her name became yet one more thing that could not be her own. The last time Medusa heard that name, she was twelve. When Nikolas died.

“I don’t understand. How do you know that name? How does this hood make it safe for you to look at me? If you are here to talk to me, why did you come with the Hero sent to kill me?“

The woman finally speaks. Her voice is like honey, a contrast to the gruffness of the man’s.