Chapter Text

“You will have no sons in your lifetime. Your daughter shall bear a child that bears your end.” The oracle in Pytho had spoken to king Akrisios, sealing Rumi’s fate before she had even been born.

And so Akrisios sealed his daughter Mi-Yeong in a chamber of brass and stone. But no such materials had the strength to stop a god. Zeus saw Mi-Yeong, and fell in love. He turned himself to gold and flowed his way into her chamber, and then bestowed on her the gift of a child. A daughter of both mortal and god, a daughter of the sky, a daughter of destiny.

After hearing Rumi’s cries, Akrisios sealed both her and Mi-Yeong into a chest, not believing it was Zeus that fathered her, and cast them into the sea, thereby sealing his own fate. Zeus guided the chest to safety, landing them in Seriphos, into the hands of Bobby, second son of Peristhenes, a simple fisherman, who fished the chest from the sea. He and his wife Celine took both mother and daughter into their home as if they were family. 

Seriphos, however, was ruled by a cruel king, Gwi-Ma, first son of Peristhenes, who believed himself entitled to Mi-Yeong’s hand the moment he laid eyes on her. The only thing in his way that he truly feared was Rumi. Her heritage was clear, in the lightning contained beneath her skin, her strength and swiftness, and her obvious favor with both Zeus and Athena. He could not own her mother if she was there. But she was only a young woman, still, and easily manipulated.

He promised her he would relent his pursuit of her mother, should she succeed in slaying the mighty Medusa, the only mortal gorgon, and bring him her head. 

That night, Athena came to her in a dream, a divine vision of wisdom. “Medusa is fearsome and dangerous.” She told Rumi. “Take care to never see her directly, for it is terror that petrifies all but the bravest of men. I will send Hermes to give you a sword, the Argon-slayer, sharp enough to cut stone, to do what you must on your journey. He will also give you winged sandals, who will lead you straight and true, and the Cap of Hades, which will hide you from prying eyes.”

Athena’s stern countenance warmed, then. “Medusa is mortal. She will fall to your blade. Her sisters are not, and cannot be killed. Do not be a fool, Rumi. Do what you must, but take care to look beyond obvious truths. It is a wise person who has the patience to learn their enemy before they strike.”

That morning, Rumi woke to find the godly gifts in her possession, and so Rumi began her journey to slay Medusa. But this is not the version of the myth oft told, full of violence and cunning and monsters slain. This version of the myth is a tale of defiance, truth, and how extending a hand in empathy reveals roads capable of changing more than one’s own fate.

Ⅰ - The Fall

The horizon glowed red as if with dawn. Waves and wind churned inland with a fierceness only borne from distant storms, mere echoes of the violence that raged elsewhere. Her bay, shielded by crumbling cliffs from all but one forested side, received their violence with a muted peace.

She stood upon the threshold of her temple-home, the marble cool beneath her bare feet, watching the distant tragedy, and instantly knew that for several days she would be collecting many bounties from the sand.

In another life she would have thanked Poseidon and Zeus for their generosity. How their violent means had brought gifts to her shore. But she no longer prayed to the gods, for they had done worse than abandon her. 

Now she only watched with quiet disdain as the sea claimed yet more lives. There would not be names among them she would recognize, but she mourned them all the same. There were none left that knew her name true, and yet she hoped to be mourned all the same, one day.

The real dawn brought with it light and the terrifying clarity of the cost of whatever catastrophe had raged last eve. The bay was filled with detritus. Remnants of ships, whatever cargo buoyant enough to float, and the bodies of men, unmoving. 

She did not wade into the water. That was his domain. She began to dig, instead.

Hers was an unnamed island off the coast of Tartessos, and it would remain so. All except for the most foolish who knew of her presence there avoided it, even for trade or rest. Those who did not know often saw little of importance due to its smallness, but there were always those among them curious or foolish enough to turn her way. Those inevitably fell to either her, or if they strayed too far toward this island’s nearby twin, her immortal sisters.

She kept to herself, even among her kind. She was born a mortal woman, unlike them, and was cursed not by circumstance, but for the simple act of having received the gift of incomparable beauty, and thus inevitably the affections of a god.

Aphrodite was not a name cursed lightly, but she did so all the same.

When low tide came, and half of the bay was laid bare, she ventured in. The longest planks among the wreckage were fashioned to carry the bodies into the forest, which were then deposited into nameless graves.

Thirteen men, in livery she did not recognize. Thirteen graves, each west of a tree, facing inland, shielded from the cruel winds and salted spray of the sea that took them. Each recipient of flowers from her garden, carefully transplanted.

One day this would be a meadow of white and yellow and red. Their names forgotten, but their dignity honored.

Tide came in fast, that evening. It carried more debris, wood, rope, cloth, even some pottery. And a low, ominous fog. A portent of things to come, she had the wherewithal to realize. She was contemplating weathering whatever was coming her way in her sanctuary, when she spotted movement where there should have been none.

A woman slid through the water, darkly and quiet. One arm slung over the back of a dolphin, another around the torso of another body.

She had never seen this woman before. She was clearly not mortal, but a Nereid. A daughter of the sea. Patrons and protectors of those who dwell on the water. And probably witness to whatever tragedy had befallen the ships beyond the horizon.

The Nereid wove between the statues carefully, eyes firmly on the water. No, on her reflection, as she neared the outcropping of rock upon which she was resting. The woman pressed a pale hand against the dolphin’s snout, and with a chitter, it swam away, quickly sinking below the surface. Its eyes never found their way to her.

The woman knew of her, then.

“Who approaches?” She asked.

“Zoey, daughter of Nereus and Doris.” The Nereid spoke, voice lilting, musical, playful like a gentle sea breeze. Eyes like dark water reflecting a sunset watched her image in the water carefully. Curiously. She was adorned with many treasures, likely scavenged from the ocean floor. Shells, pearls, rocks, tarnished jewelry and metalwork, all fastened with strange, glittering twine.

“With what quarry?” She did not believe a daughter of Nereus would approach her willingly. Not with the danger involved. And it was known how deeply her loathing of all under His domain ran.

“This one lives.” Zoey pushed the body into view. A woman, unconscious, not wearing livery, but a simple tunic, winged sandals, a curved black-sheathed sword at her back. The hair, long, braided, and purple, and the play of light beneath her skin told her one immediate problem: this woman had a godly heritage.

“Why bring her to me?” She was not a savior, she was a monster. Every day she carried the broken pieces of stone birds into her temple and mended them with clay and twine. The few animals she kept have had their sight removed, yet they nuzzled into her hand all the same. Her garden flourished, because it could not see the cruelty of the face of the one who tended to it. The island had been pristine when she had found it. Alive. Thriving.

Now it was a mausoleum. Laconic. Lorn. Just as much a reflection of her as the one Zoey studied with such strange intent. Even a glimpse would reveal she was beautiful woman no longer. Now she was serpentine, russet scales, tusks, claws, a dragon’s tail and a wreath of snakes where there used to be hair. It was a miracle Zoey had not yet fled, as those few fortunate enough to be spared a direct look often did.

The Nereid only tilted her head, sea-weed dark hair sliding wetly across her shoulders and throat. “Her quest was to find you.”

“Find me?” She scoffed. “People find me for one reason only.”

“To kill you?” grinned Zoey. It was a feral thing, revealing rows of serrated teeth. The illusion of a beautiful woman suddenly replaced by something wild, something dangerous. How apt. 

She shook her head morosely. “To die.” It was no boast. Merely the simple truth. None could outwit their own eyes.

Zoey, inexplicably, giggled. “I did not come here to die.”

Perhaps she was a little unpracticed at the art of conversation. Most of them involved a lot more terror, and a lot less mirth. She could not quite figure out what this Nereid was trying to accomplish. Puzzled, she asked. “You came here to deliver death, then?”

That serrated smile, feral and sharp, softened. “No. I came hoping to save two lives.”

“Hers?”

Zoey nodded, something strange flitting across those dark eyes. “And yours.”

“Mine?” Saving one life would not undo the thousands she had already taken, and the thousands more she would. She gripped the stone below her tightly, as if it would anchor her to the island full of things that made sense to her.

The sea never ceased to challenge her, it seemed.

“She was sent to take your life. But she has lost most of what she needed to do so.” The way Zoey said ‘lost’, too amused, too knowing, told her it was very deliberate. “She is dying. I cannot save her. But you can.”

“Why would I?” She would be a fool to save her would-be killer. It would invite a knife to her back, a sword to her throat, an arrow to her heart.

She had wished for each of those often enough. But she did not live for herself. She lived in defiance. A monument to the gods’ cruelty. A cautionary tale of what can happen to good, devout people, should they fall within the gaze of a being with no regard for consequences. A being whose power far exceeded that of man, as did their failings.

“That is yours to answer,” smiled Zoey mysteriously. “I am called back home.”

Zoey laid the body down across the rocks at her feet, gently buffeted by the gentle swell and wane of the waves. Then she kissed its mouth. Water was drawn from it like a serpent. Its breathing stutter-started. 

As the bellows of its lungs and the drum of its heart began their tireless work once again, it felt as if the world itself breathed easier, and a breeze sighed past her little island, sending its leaves whispering.

She watched Zoey leave, black hair trailing behind her like tangled kelp, eyes carefully pointed away. But it does not feel like judgement, it feels almost playful, like a secret shared. This was the first retreat in her memory not performed with fear, but something dangerously near to reluctance. Enough for the stone heart within her to beat a little more nimbly for the rest of the night.

She watched the body shallowly breathing beside her, rivulets of wine and rust seeping small trails through cracks and divots in the porous cliffside. Its features were fine, heroic, strong. Patterns slashed scars across its skin with the purple hue of lighting. A daughter of Zeus, then.

There were too many children of Zeus in this world.

What harm would there be in reducing the count? She need only return the body to Poseidon’s cruel embrace. Let it be him that must explain to his brother why another one of Zeus’ children met an untimely end.

While contemplating death, she found her hands reaching out, treacherously gentle. She found herself putting a cold hand against a colder cheek.

For a moment, she wanted the body to wake. For its eyes to blink open blearily, and their first and last sight to be her. How ironic it would be, for a hero to die by rescue of their prey.

Frozen perpetually in shame.

It would suit her myth, she supposed.

The two expected outcomes were always thus; the hero slayed the monster, yet if they were not virtuous, it would be the monster that fell the tragic hero. A tale of heroics, or caution. Either way, one would always die.

So she carried the body into her temple. She laid it by the fire. She left wine and bread beside it. She removed the sword from its scabbard and hid it. She tied some cloth from her recent spoils around the wounds. And she waited. 

Not for death. But for something she wasn’t sure she could ever have: a third kind of ending.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

Rumi awoke sore and disoriented, laid prone at the feet of Athena.  

It was merely a statue, but with life in her body and her sister-patron watching over her, it felt as significant as destiny. She had begun her journey well. She had outwitted the Graeae, learned the location of Medusa and her Gorgon sisters, survived many days of flight, and then…

The storm. The battle. The chaos.

Had she been merely caught in a punishment Zeus cast onto those ships flying strange colors? Or was it meant for her?

Had she offended her father, somehow? Perhaps by leaving her mother in the hands of Gwi-Ma, even though she had had little choice, or some godly plot she was not privy to?

She would either be told, or not. Regardless, she drew breath, and a gentle fire warmed her to her right. Furs and woven mats layered beneath her. She should have found herself on a beach, shivering and dehydrated, but caring hands had carried her to a temple and bound her wounds.

She was parched, still, her lips like old granite about to crack and crumble. As she rose to her elbows, she spotted food and drink, and descended on it like a beast. She could only hope her rescuer did not see the sheer savagery she fell into trying to drink wine through a mouth filled with bread.

No such fortune. 

“Be welcome, daughter of Zeus.” A woman’s voice echoed sourcelessly, hoarse but delicate.

Rumi nearly choked and was on her feet immediately, swaying dangerously, reaching for a sword that was no longer there. “Who speaks? Declare yourself!”

Disembodied, traveling strangely through the room, rang once more a voice. “Somewhere safe, should you heed me. My name is Mira. I am a priestess of Athena. You are in her temple.”

The statue. Rumi cast her eyes upward. The light of a cool morning shone upon a bronze shield and spear, both polished to a mirror-shine, and a strong, stately woman in a fine chiton and plumed helmet all eternalized in glittering marble. Well-cared for. Clean water reflected dancing patterns across the walls and ceiling from the shallow pool at the center. 

No offerings gathered at its base.

“Is it you whom I owe my life to, Mira?” asked Rumi into air that reeked of woodfire and brine.

“You washed up on my shore. All others were dead.”

Rumi sat back down, heavily, head in her hands. She recalled the flames, the wind, the screaming. A battle fought, and lost by all. Hundreds swallowed by the dark maw of Charybdis. Her body bore the mark of violence, making the cost of movement great.

She had tried. Tried to save some. Any. They had not welcomed her interference, and soon found their arrows aimed her way.

What had the purpose of it been? Why had she been a part of it, when there was nothing to be done? She dared not have bitter feelings for her father-god, but in quiet, suppressed moments, she would wish another god had fathered her. 

There were, after all, enough children of Zeus in this world.

Her hand pressed against the wounds at her ribs. The pain grounded her. “My thanks.”

“Were they your companions?”

Rumi laid back, her vision darkening. “No.” She managed. “I did not know them.”

When next she awoke, traces of a dreary afternoon carried inside on a bracing wind. Her thoughts ran more clear. Her gaze wandered the hall. A statue adorned every alcove. Men, women, even animals expertly carved from stone, most captured mid-motion. It was breathtaking craftsmanship. And quite strange for a temple.

“I was provided… gifts, and arms, for my journey. Were they on my person?” She asked into the quiet.

An answer came swiftly, troublingly so. “Only a sword. It is kept safe.”

Rumi wondered how she was being observed. She could find no direction to the voice, as it echoed strangely. “Safe?”

“Until I have determined you are. This is a place of peace.” The retort had little bite. It was stated with the calm detachment of someone who had lived enough life to let it teach them patience, and caution.

Even still, Rumi took offense. She was no barbarian. “I would be a fool to intend my rescuer harm.” 

The disembodied reply was instant and dispassionate. “Indeed. Nevertheless this world suffers many fools.”

“I am no fool!”  Rumi sat up in protest. “I am a daughter of Zeus, blessed by both Athena and Hermes on my journey to-”

“Fools speak loud and do not listen.” The words felt like they were hissed directly into her ear, but when she turned, she was alone. And then again. “Fools think that birthright saves them from judgement.” And again.” Fools seek to be heroes, unheeding of the cost.” And once more. “Fools follow the gods blindly”

Somewhat cowed, Rumi breathed the battle-tension from her muscles, and made herself into something gentler. “You speak bluntly, for a priestess. Do you not fear retribution?”

A laugh like cracking rock split the air. “You wield your sword and your legacy. I wield unrepentant truth. The Gods know what I am. They have made me in their image, after all.”

Rumi turned to search for the voice’s source once more. “Will you show yourself?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Rumi realized at once her request was a childish one. Her rescuer owed her nothing. It was she who owed a debt. She had no right to demand anything. 

“I do not trust you, yet.”

Rumi bowed her head, understanding. Instead of demands, she should show her character through action. “What will it take to earn your trust?”

For a moment, quiet settled.

Then, softly. “To not take up a sword when you learn my name.”

Rumi slumped against the pedestal upon which stood Athena, and sighed. Whatever mystery her host kept, she was too weary to unravel. “You’ve told me it is Mira. That name means nothing to me, except gratitude. I swear to you I shall not raise a sword to you, unless you mean to harm me.”

Her eyes grew heavy.

“Sleep, daughter of Zeus.” Something briefly blocked the light of the entrance. She reached out, but Hypnos’s touch proved too compelling. “The world will be there when you wake.”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

As with most evenings, Mira was found upon the low cliffs a stone’s throw from the temple. Her feet always dangling over the edge, the greedy reach of Poseidon never quite long enough to touch her. She persisted with the stars, and the cadence of the waves below rarely changed.

The sea frightened her, still, knowing intimately its violence, its relentlessness, how little Helios’ radiance extended within it. Everything within her recoiled at its presence. More oft than not she wished to go to the mainland, climb far enough into the mountains that she’d never have to see the lure of its glitter again.

It wore away at her like the tide wore at her statues. On dark days with darker nights, she wondered if perhaps she should let it embrace her, as it has always yearned to. Walk until light no longer reached her, cease her stubborn defiance and accept that her life had ended the moment Athena had found her and wielded her spiteful pity.

She thought of the woman who slept in her temple. Thought of the woman’s mother, and how she and Mira had both survived the attention of a God with significant cost. Yet, somehow, this time the price was a daughter of gentle temperament and golden eyes. Unexpected, for a daughter of Zeus. 

It could be a ploy. Perhaps the mortals had grown wiser, and no longer sent fool warriors expecting a fair fight. 

But would that make the Nereid a part of the plot?

She could not fathom why, but the thought of Zoey meaning her harm, tricking her so, despite their one meeting having been so brief… It was discomforting. 

Against everything she had been taught to expect, the prospect of one interaction with a stranger that was just… that, was a fragile seed planted in fallow earth. One she dared not water, even while wishing for rain.

Time would tell. And time she had.

A crash of water below, off-beat and too-loud, pulled her gaze down.

A sprawl of dark kelpine hair, a glistening hand outstretched, and the reflection of a smile. A school of fish swirled playfully around pale legs. None of them sank, lifeless and frozen, as they should have. Perhaps Zoey had instructed their eyes not to wander, or they were protected in a way she could not fathom. Solving that puzzle asked more of her than she had, distracted as she was by a person who had sought her company… willingly. Twice now.

She tilted her head, puzzled. “You return.”

The mirror-smile did not waver, and the hand remained reaching. “Will you allow me the honor of a seat?”

Mira smiled, despite herself. “Close your eyes. Do not open them until my say.”

Zoey obeyed, and Mira wrapped her hand around her wrist. The skin was cold, slippery, more like that of a fish than a human. As she pulled, the sea lifted along with her. The closest it had come to her since that cursed day. But she found herself… minding less than she perhaps should have.

Zoey was seated beside her quickly, water spilling from her perpetually, looking like the most radiant drowned woman Mira had ever seen.

“Look to the sea below, and you shall be safe.” 

Dark, shining eyes fluttered open, immediately finding Mira’s legs and hands, but never higher. Nevertheless she had not been so directly perceived by anyone but her sisters in an eternity, and she found herself strangely aware, suddenly, of every little movement she made.

Zoey’s eyes drifted back to the sea. Almost shyly, she asked, “would you tell me your name?” 

Mira frowned. What was the purpose of the question? Was it to feign the rituals of normalcy? Was it an attempt to disarm, to endear? Zoey knew what she was. “Do you not know it?”

Zoey leaned back on her hands, tilting her head to the sky. “I know what others call you.”

The words were gentle, lacking judgement. If there were any hidden meanings, Mira could not find them. Zoey had already done more than most to deserve her good faith, even if she would not yet truly trust.

Hearing the name of the woman, and not the monster, had been a wonder already with the wounded warrior. To have two people refer to her as such almost felt an indulgence. She breathed deep. “Mira.” 

Zoey’s smile was a sight so brilliant it pained her, a new star that would deserve its place among Nyx’s finest works. “Mira.” She said it as if she was tasting the name. “Pretty.” 

Her life had been a simple one with little reason for her heart to beat with any sort of fervor. Yet then, witnessing such warmth, for her, she felt its presence starkly. She let her eyes slide away, at an attempt at showing herself mercy, and pressed moist palms into the rock below her.

“How is your guest?” asked Zoey.

“Still alive.” She rumbled, neither pleased nor displeased.

Zoey tilted her head, a quick flash of serrated teeth. “So are you.”

Mira could not suppress her remaining curiosity. Rumi had proven herself honorable, so far, yet in spite of that… “Why bring her to me?”

Zoey swirled her fingers playfully, coaxing a small whirlpool into the water beneath them. “Are you not content with the answer I had previously given?”

Mira clenched her fists. “You told me it was to save two lives...” 

Zoey opened one hand, water welled from her palm and slid down her wrist in rivulets. In the cup of it rested a rock, jagged and porous, “yours.” She opened the other, within it one half of an oyster, the pearl resting on its bed beautifully round, shining, yet spiderwebbed with cracks, “and hers.” 

Mira studied Zoey’s profile intently. Her movement was constant. The flash of a dimple, the wrinkling of a nose, the furrow of a brow, the mouthing of words unsaid. And those eyes, always finding a way to see her, skirting the edge of danger. There was beauty in Mira’s statues, she knew, she saw it every day. They were dynamic, life trapped in marble and sandstone and granite and limestone. Each a tragedy, each a victory. But nothing could compare to such animated vigor, something that could catch a glimpse of her, and smile. “You could have brought her to another. One less likely to kill her, one who would help her kill me. Now we are surely both doomed.”

Zoey closed her hands, and the water ceased its spill. “Perhaps. It is doubtlessly true many of the threads of your tapestry weave at the whims of Moros, but it cannot be all. The fates did not foresee your interference in her death. You were never even meant to speak. Now? It cannot be known what will happen. Your end is no longer written, nor is hers.”

“Why does that matter?” Who would care if she lived? The Gods had cast their judgement long ago. She exists merely as a reminder, a warning, a portent to those who defied Olympus, or merely thought themselves outside of their cruel grasp.

Her whole life she devoted to Athena. and it was she who provided this ghastly gift at a second life. A Hades all of her own, equal parts surrender and defiance.

She was a victim, a survivor, something meant to stay hidden yet paraded in example. All feared her. Feared to become her.

Even Zoey, despite her warmth and joy, suffered a slight tremble to her hands at their proximity that would have been invisible had she not been so used to the stillness of statues. Zoey, who cast her gaze across the island, and gave a question instead of an answer. “Why do you remain here?”

She did not understand. “Why does that matter?”

Zoey grew dour and serious. She might have been a creature of water and lightless depths, but before this moment she had felt no more deep and dangerous than a babbling brook. Now, Mira saw a woman who was just as like to provide breath to a drowning woman, as she was to pull them further down, down into the dark. “Why remain within the gaze of the gods that have hurt you?”

“So they cannot hide what they have done.” The pedestal of judgement they had provided, she had made it her own. She was a mirror shaped into a person. In this, it did not matter who she was, what she was. She existed to reflect the expectations of those who beheld her. Such was her blessed curse. And such was the fates’ design that she had made into a home.

Zoey watched her, darkly. “It is spite that drives you then.”

“Yes.” And grief, and regret, and hate, and despair, and pride. But not hope. Never hope.

She does not like how, warped and diluted through water and light, Zoey’s cunning gaze still managed to perceive her in full. “Spite did not save that woman.”

Mira stilled. “...No. It did not.”

“Spite may help one survive.” And then, suddenly, after an amount of time so unfathomable she could not recall the last instance of it happening, a gentle touch found her arm. Mira nearly recoiled, but it was shock that kept her frozen. Her gaze snapped to Zoey, and for a breathless moment, she swore their eyes met, and the entire island beneath her trembled. But Zoey’s movements did not cease as she was slowly petrified, her eyes did not glaze, nor did her mouth pull into a rictus of horror. Her chest kept its calm rise and fall, and her eyes remained downcast, and her words cut deeper than a blade. “No soul can survive without connection.”

Long after Zoey had left, Mira looked to the spot she had vacated, and found resting there both pearl and rock. Turning the pearl in her fingers, what she thought had been cracks were not. They were scars, long-healed, merely a pattern breaking the smooth of its surface. The rock, at first a jagged, black thing, glittered in the moonlight at every shift of it. And at its core, visible through small gaps, rested a starburst of pale wine. An exact match to her hair, when she had still been a woman.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

Rumi awoke in improved health every day. She was soon strong enough to walk with the aid of a staff Mira had fashioned for her. Strong enough to sit at the entrance of the temple overlooking the bay and wonder at the strange reef exposed every low tide. Strong enough to begin to grow more and more suspicious of her mysterious rescuer who had yet to show their face.

Mira laced the wine with herbs inducing sleep each night, and performed all her caretaking in the dark while Rumi slept. When Hypnos did his work, and the wind had died, she washed her clothes, cleaned her wounds, refilled the wine. Bread was soon complimented with figs, olives, and milk. She knew Rumi suspected, yet drank the wine each day without complaint.

Both knew they were on the road to something inevitable. Once Rumi was hale, and would begin her explorations of the island, she would soon find more statues. Some weathered and crumbling, others new enough to still shine in the sun, each a monument to terror. There would be no doubt, then.

“What was your purpose, before I found you?” asked Mira one day, from somewhere close but shaded. Rumi had never seen more than a silhouette, blurred by exhaustion.

“I was given a task by king Gwi-Ma of Seriphos to slay the one mortal gorgon, Medusa, and bring him her head.”

“Why?”

A fire flared within her. “So he would cease his pursuit of my mother.”

“And you did not question whether he would honor his word?”

“He is a king, he has divine right,” frowned Rumi. “Why should I question him?” 

Mira’s answer felt heavier than it ought to have been. “You must always question, Rumi. Or the world will give you the wrong answers.”

But, to doubt her superiors so? She did not favor him, but to speak it aloud, to act on it. She may have been born of royal blood herself, but she had lost all it entailed the day she was cast into the sea along with her mother. “He is a king, and I am an heir to betrayal only.”

“You are a daughter of Zeus.” Mira’s words sounded firm, unshakeable, as if the words only had one meaning, as if all those of Zeus’ seed were of a kind.

Rumi sneered. Zeus might be her God, but he was no father. He gave her life, but he did not give her meaning. “My father is a fisherman.”

Uncomprehending, Mira maintained the challenge. “You have lightning in your blood.”

The patterns on her skin flared, and she dug her fingers into the flesh of her arm. “It burns me more than it does others.”

Ichor would do unspeakable things to a mortal. Some myths argued it to be a divine boon, granting strength and beauty beyond compare to its new vessel. Others warned of unimaginable torture, that it would sear and savage wherever it landed. For her it was a thrum under her skin, constant and restless. The stillness of healing nearly wounded her more than the battle she had survived. She was built for the labor of battle and survival, equally full of anger and pride at her heritage. Why risk another when Rumi could risk herself, with iron-tough skin and the strength of ten men? She, who was hated and feared before birth by her own kin, then cast into the sea at the sound of her first cries. She was a curse, prophesied. She was marked, visibly, and in ways no other would ever understand.

So quiet it felt not meant for her ears, Mira asked, “would you do as Zeus asks, if he does?”

Rumi hesitated. Would she? “I am… not sure. He has not yet judged me worthy of his gaze. Nor is he known for patience. ”

“Or discretion.” Came the arid reply.

On that, they could agree. She nodded, suppressing a rueful smile. “Or discretion.”

“Few gods are.”

Once again, for a priestess, Mira seemed strangely amenable to blasphemy. Rumi grew somewhat concerned about remaining in her vicinity. As already established, a god intent on smiting cared little about nuance. Godly progeny or not, she would easily be eviscerated simply for witnessing such heresy. “Do you not fear their wrath?”

“They have done unto me what they willed already. They cannot take more than they have, except my life.”

Ah. Well. That would certainly explain. Except- “You are free, are you not?”

“No. This is a prison, no matter how kind it looks. But it is one I have chosen.”

Rumi wondered if by the end of the day, there would be fourteen graves in the forest. She hoped Hermes would do her a kindness and not tell her kindly mother that her daughter had died an insolent fool.

In her shame and remorse she grew aggrieved, because the anger at abuse bore easier than the deprivation of justice. “What could a priestess of Athena possibly have done to deserve such ire?”

Mira granted her a single, brittle word. “Exist.”

Rumi did not speak after that. She only sat, within her breast a typhoon.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

“I bring to you another charge.”

Mira looked down upon Zoey, who rose from the waves, cradling a snake within her hands.

“She got lost upon the vast waters. She would not have reached the shore before tiring.”

Gently, Mira took the lithe animal from Zoey’s care. It slithered up her arm, the warmth of kinship filling her as it curled around her. The only living being that would not petrify at the sight of her. It tasted the air and concluded it was safe and content. “You have unerring faith in me.”

Zoey rested her chin upon her arms, legs slowly kicking at the water for stability. A seastar clung to her shoulder, and several eels slithered along her ankles. “I believe that those who understand pain make for better healers.”

A healer she had never been. But she tired of their constant joust as regarding her nature. Instead, she wondered at Zoey’s tale. “What pain drives you, then?”

Strangely bashful, Zoey averted her eyes from the edge of her chiton. “The pain of reaching for something eternally outside of my grasp.”

Mira found herself leaning a little closer, wishing she could read what stories played behind those dark eyes. “What could possibly elude you, Zoey, daughter of the Ocean cradling all of the world?”

Barely above the eternal rush of the sea, Zoey mumbled three words. “A love returned.”

Mira stilled, along with each of her snakes. They tasted the air nervously, alerted by the sudden flare of fire behind ribs of marble. “Love? I do not believe anyone could look upon you and deny your beauty. Nor your kindness. To do so would be to think the moon dull or of the distant dance of birds as anything less than a wonder. Whoever cannot see this would not stir at the sight of Aphrodite herself.”

For a drowned woman, Zoey bloomed into wonderful color. Nevertheless her mouth stayed mournful. “It is a tangled web, Mira. You know as well as I that the world owes us no benevolence.”

“You are free, Zoey,” said Mira softly, meaning it kindly. “Do not let something as fickle as love chain you to an unkind fate.”

It was not received as kind.

“My love is fickle nor a burden, Mira,” said Zoey with a quiet strength. “It is unending and I would flood Hades with it should I need to.” A touch, so fleeting it felt a mirage, brushed Mira’s hand. “I do not care if my own fate is unkind, so long as I can convince the fates that those I love deserve better lives.”

Mira’s head lowered with regret. She dared only return Zoey’s touch in the hopes that it offered some comfort. “They are troubled, then?”

Zoey smiled sadly. “I believe there is a way for them to find peace.” 

Mira cared for the snake until it was strong enough to swim once more, after which it was passed back into Zoey’s care, who carried it to more bountiful lands. Mira wondered if she visited her love often, and if they frightened of serpents.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

Each morning and evening Rumi prayed to Athena. She prostrated herself, both in genuine worship and with the clinging fatigue carried by a sea-battered body, and whispered the words she had learned as a child.

Where there had been no offerings, she left remnants of her meals and little crafts of leaf and grass she fashioned from what the wind carried to her, as it had always carried to her little treasures.

Yet to every prayer, once she was near finished, she would add things. Words that echoed far beyond the room and into Mira’s hollowed heart.

She asked for guidance on her quest. She asked for a swift recovery. She asked for her mother to be kept safe. She asked for her father to be granted bountiful catches. She asked for mercy on the souls of those who died that fateful night that she did not.

And one day she asked for Athena to bless her most devoted servant. Mira.

Expecting the weight of a God’s disapproving gaze, Mira had braced protectively. But she was not smote. Not judged. No spear of bronze that shook the ground when it landed in anger. Still, she left, Rumi’s words a pestle to the mortar of her heart.

She would be ground into dust by these two unexpected sources of compassion and eventually Zeus’ wind would carry her somewhere the sea had never been, and she would never know what became of them.

Something strange stirred within her, and her attention was pulled to the trees. There was an owl, watching her with keen, unblinking eyes. Instinctively she averted her gaze. 

In that breathless moment after their connection, there was no shatter of stone to ground, only silence. 

When she looked next, careful and slow, it was gone.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

“Why do you return?” asked Mira, feeling the cracks within her grow. “I have done as you asked. Rumi will come to no harm in my care. There is nothing more I can do.”

Zoey did not seek her reflection, yet she felt herself a little fish caught in the cup of the Nereid’s palm when she said, “because you still look upon the sea with longing.”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

“What are you attempting?”

Rumi stumbled, clutching her walking staff, only halfway out of the temple. Mira’s voice was sourceless, as always. It was concerning to have an unseen keeper that, through what must be some sort of magic, knew precisely when Rumi performed any action of significance whatsoever. She worked her jaw. “A walk.” 

“Do not be obstinate,” admonished Mira as if she was a mere youth. “You remain wounded.”

“The stillness might render me mindless before I am healed.” Rumi leaned heavily against the doorway, reveling at the relief any movement provided, and at the draft in her hair. “I cannot fathom doing so little.”

“Your task is to heal.” Mira was clearly displeased, yet sympathetic. “It is an honorable battle, of a different kind.”

“I understand. Nevertheless, my legs and hands grow restless.” Rumi turned to face the inner sanctum, it felt better than talking to a distant sheer cliff wall. “ Perhaps… I can assist you? You seem to be alone in this place. The work to simply survive must be hard and unending”

Mira remained unconvinced. “Most of the work would only delay your recovery.”

Rumi smiled. “Thus, not all.”

A pause. 

“You are frustratingly clever.”

Rumi laughed, quenching her immediate desire to press her hands against the sting of her ribs. “I only wish to aid the one whom I owe my life to. I will take any small way to repay that debt.”

“Very well. However…” Mira sounded uncharacteristically hesitant, close to apologetic. “I have one request.”

Rumi found herself seated, back pressed against the cool stone of a pillar, a view of the bay at her side. Had she been capable of seeing it.

Mira’s request had been strange, but Rumi saw little danger in indulging Mira this small inconvenience. She owed the woman her life, after all, and if Mira wished her any harm, there were a thousand more straightforward ways to do so.

As to why a priestess of Athena wished not to be seen? Rumi could speculate for an eternity, yet it was undoubtedly in the attempt to feel safe. Rumi knew the effect of her presence, knew she cut a fearsome figure, and Mira clearly lived a solitary life. She could not fault a lone woman for her caution. 

She touched the cloth around her eyes, but a gentle sound of admonishment chased her hand back down. “I was merely adjusting it.” She grumbled.

“If you cannot tolerate it, I will send you back inside.”

“I can.”

“Good.” The novelty of actually hearing Mira within a tangible distance, close enough to know the cadence of her breaths, filled Rumi with a strange sort of anticipation. “How familiar are you with weaving?”

Rumi’s eyes, provided nothing but the vague suggestion of daylight, found themselves watching memories instead. Memories of a warm hearth, of gentle swaying and the sun scorching her skin, of three sets of calloused hands working to provide her the childhood she was nearly bereaved. “I have woven nets for fishing with my father. I have seen my mothers at the loom.” 

Mira’s voice grew closer, still. “Will you allow me to guide you?”

“I will.”

A cool touch of fingers grazed her wrist, and Rumi sucked in a surprised breath. Mira was right there before her, touching her. After days of intangibility, Rumi could not help but startle. Somehow, part of her had been convinced she had been a phantom. A delusion conjured by her own mind while on her way to Hades.

The touch immediately vanished. “I apologize. I should have-”

“You’re real,” breathed Rumi.

A short pause. Then, with some amusement, Mira spoke. “Did you think your wounds magically bound? The food and drink walking itself to your bedside?”

“Fever can make one convinced of many oddities,” mumbled Rumi, feeling heat rise to her face. “And disembodied voices are more common than I’d prefer.”

“Are they?” Mira’s amusement only grew, and Rumi frowned.

“Are you mocking me?”

“Mocking?” laughed Mira then, a wondrously warm sound, even if it was at her expense. “A mighty daughter of Zeus? I am not so unwise.”

“You are fortunate I am still in your debt,” muttered Rumi, already softening, then immediately stilled in horror. Mira was too much a stranger still for her to be making such callous jests. “I-I did not mean… I mean you no harm. Truly. Forgive me, I should not have-”

Mira remained silent. It was impossible to tell if she was still even there. Rumi suppressed the desire to remove her blindfold, instead deciding to trust. Trust that Mira remained, trust she would say whether Rumi spoke unwelcome words, trust there was no spear aimed at her heart.

A long, weary exhale sounded. “I understand. You are forgiven.”

Rumi’s relieved smile was as much reassurance as it was apology. “You are too kind. I am profoundly fortunate it was you who found me.”

Perhaps she was mistaken, but there seemed to be something weighted to Mira’s words then, as if they were spoken through a sorrowed smile. “Shall we set to work?”

Rumi held out her hands, this time, bracing for the touch the same way one did for a cool breeze on a hot summer day. “Will you teach me?”

Cool fingers pressed against hers once again, gentle but sure. Rumi was guided to touch something woven. “Once you know the patterns, it is simple repetition. First, find where it remains unfinished.”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

The day Rumi learned who Mira was arrived relentlessly.

It was when Rumi was healed enough to start exploring, to go beyond the doorway and onto the sand during low tide, that she learned the truth.

The strange reefs, glistening in the low evening light after they had grown exposed during low tide, adorned with seaweed and barnacles and many such growths nurtured by Oceanus, were not reefs at all.

They were a sea of statues. Life-like, frozen in motion, often fear, fight, flight. Some were barren, new. Others were worn, smoothed by an age of wave and wind. Others yet were overgrown with barnacles and weeds, home to pockets of life in a near-mockery to the life taken. 

She knew what this meant. Knew why Mira had kept them apart. Had been nothing but a voice and a hidden touch. Had treated her with caution, had asked for mercy before Rumi had understood. 

Mira knew who she was. Knew what she would have done.

The monster she was asked to kill housed and fed her, healed and warmed her.

She stood in the shallows, clouds above her darkening, nigh a statue herself, watching the water slowly drown hundreds of faces suspended in fright and sorrow and realized that the pebbles on which she stood were not pebbles at all.

She did not look for her sword. She did not look for the sorrowful eyes watching her from a hidden place. She walked into the forest, lashed by wind and rain, and did not return.

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

It was when she was resting on a smooth-worn boulder, feet in the water after having walked thoughtlessly until all light had disappeared and the cloudburst had calmed to a drizzle, that she was pulled from her daze.

“Practicing at being a statue?”

Rumi startled, looked about her, but saw no-one in the shifting shadows of the moonlit treeline, nor on the soft silver sand of the beach. The voice had sounded close, too, as if…

“Below you.” Someone giggled.

She turned to see a woman in the water, half-draped across the rock beside her, close enough to be within her grasp, and startled once more, hands raising defensively. “What-”

“Do not be afraid.” The woman smiled. Her teeth were serrated, her hair clung like seaweed, her skin glistened. She was the first sunrise after a night of storm and struggle. “I am not intent on harm.”

Rumi knew what she was. “A sea-nymph.” They were often creatures of good tidings, but to see one it meant one was facing trouble. She could not argue that.

The nymph’s smile only widened. “May I join you?”

Rumi nodded, enchanted by this not-quite human woman before her. It was the eyes, unfathomable and full of secrets. Or perhaps the school of turtles swirling at her feet. Or the way water clung to her like a lover yet parted for her like it was not there at all.

“Why seek my company?” She wondered, as the nymph nimbly climbed to sit beside her. She radiated cold, even through the small gap between their arms.

“You looked lost.” She said. “And finding things is what I do.”

Rumi looked at her, calculating. “Is that your domain?”

“I am the Nereid of finding one’s way. Whether that is a safe port, a lost trinket,” her teeth bared, “or an early grave.”

Rumi suppressed a shudder. Much beauty in this world hid endless layers of savagery. Oceanus held many bounties, a jewel in both the light of Apollo and Artemis. Yet its many roads always led to Hades or a kind of getting lost that would even render Charon unable to find and ferry your soul. She wondered, not for the first time, how much Tartarus resembled its deepest depths, and whether Poseidon and Hades were less different than many thought.

She knew then that this Nereid was no exception. A woman capable of reuniting long-lost loves, of shepherding a weary crew home, of returning heirlooms, and leading fishermen to bountiful catches. But also a woman who would lead a ship into a storm, who could convince the wind to blow them off-course into great unknowns, who would coax a monster to haunt a nearby port, and who would grab one’s ankle and pull one down into a deadly embrace.

“How do know another’s future?” She wondered.

“I’m no Oracle, I see not what will be. I see what people desire.” The nymph smiled mysteriously. “They reach for it always. I can read it in their hearts and their hands. And I can see a way which leads them there. However, what they deserve? That is for me to know, only.”

Rumi hesitated, before she asked, “do I need to find anything?”

“Hm.” The nymph looked at her. It felt the regard of an abyss. “It is rare to find one who searches not. You are searching for answers, no? And you are an answer yourself, eager to be found.”

“I do not understand,” frowned Rumi.

The nymph looked dismissively upon the dark sea. “Because you have not yet asked the proper questions.”

Rumi considered, for a moment, what the right question would be, what kind of an answer she was, and who asked the question. Perhaps her mother, wondering when she would be free? Perhaps her king, wondering if she would succeed. Perhaps her grandfather, wondering when he would die.

Her mind flooded with such questions. But there was one that burned brighter than all. “What is your name?”

“Good start.” The nymph laughed, and it pierced Rumi’s heart swift and sharp as an arrow. “Zoey, daughter of Nereus and Doris.”

“I am Rumi.” She bowed her head politely. “Daughter of Mi-Yeong and Bobby and Celine.”

Zoey cocked her head, curious. “Two mothers and one father?”

“A mother by blood, and a mother and father through action.”

Dark eyes watched her keenly. “Except you have another father.”

Rumi grimaced. “Through blood and not effort, simply because he believes himself above consequence.”

“It is an honor, Rumi, daughter of mortals,” smiled Zoey, and something within Rumi unwound.

“Likewise, Zoey, speaker of riddles.”

Zoey laughed. “It is not I who does the finding. That is what mortals do. I merely guide where it is necessary.”

Rumi frowned, wondering why it was always the same with gods and their children. “Why not spare them the effort?”

The eyes watching her left the sensation of frost wherever they landed. “When has anything worthwhile simply fallen into your lap?”

Rumi grew silent and thoughtful. She thought of her heritage, her quest, her duties, her pain. “Much of what was given to me was… unwelcome.” But then she thought of her parents, caring for her despite them never having asked for a daughter. Of Athena embracing her where Zeus did not, and giving her many blessings for her journey. Of Mira, who saved her life, and continued to do so knowing the danger inherent. “But I have also been given more than I deserved.”

As if knowing her exact thoughts, Zoey’s cold hands lifted to cradle her face. “Not more. Exactly what you should have been given. A child did not ask for life, it deserved to be brought into the world with love and faith. Someone wounded or sick cannot ask for help, yet when one is capable of giving it, to refuse would be a cruelty.”

“How do you know my mind?” whispered Rumi, afraid to break the delicate moment.

“I do not. I simply know what you need. And what you deserve.” Zoey’s hands left her face, and she felt their loss keenly.

She found she could not look away, thoroughly under Zoey’s spell, her profile struck a pale line against the warping reflection of the night sky. “I do not even know what I need right now.”

“You will once you search for it.”

“And you will not tell me where to look?”

“I have told you much already.” Zoey’s mouth curved, a little sad and awfully knowing. “Some questions I cannot answer. Their answers are yours to find.”

“So,” scoffed Rumi. “That is your gift? A journey?”

“Indeed. I am not a Moirai.” Zoey’s eyes crinkled. “I provide possibilities. Your choices remain your own.”

Rumi shifted in her seat, pulling one knee against her chest. “What is it that made you find me?”

“Now that is a far better question,” nodded Zoey. “But it is one I cannot answer, I am afraid.”

Rumi sighed, rueful. “Because it is up to me to find the answer myself.”

“Precisely,” smiled Zoey, and she was a star that had fallen into the sea and become a woman. “And whether I am part of that answer, depends on you.”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

The next day Rumi wandered the island, the light grey under an overcast sky, and with every step, a piece was added to the mosaic of Medusa. The island was eerily quiet. No birdcalls, nor the buzz and chirp of insects. Yet small critters remained. Worms and moles in the earth, barnacles and schools of jellyfish by the cliffs, a few stray birds that Rumi tried to chase away.

And a deer, eyes cloudy, lazily grazing the hilltops on the northside.

Statues adorned every part of the island both in flocks and as lone sentinels. She studied each she encountered. She found soldiers, sailors, shipwreck survivors, satyrs, dryads, harpies, centaurs, a cyclops, people and creatures from all walks of life. Some bold, some cowering, all horror-struck. And not only people. There were birds, dogs, rats, lizards, crabs, turtles, sheep, griffins, chimaera, anything that would be found naturally on this island or carried here on ships.

What struck her as strange was that while many statues were chipped and broken, some with time, others with violence, they bore obvious signs of repair. The older ones even retained traces of paints, colorful and detailed where sheltered from the elements, but flaking with neglect everywhere else.

She winced every time something crunched underfoot, unsure whether it was gravel, or the small corpses of insects and other critters. She wondered how much death Medusa brought without even knowing it. She wondered if it mattered to her. She wondered if this island was filled with thousands of monuments to thousands of griefs or thousands of victories. What purpose in preserving a corpse if not to remember it? Was it guilt or glee that drove her?

She stumbled upon a garden of vegetables and fruits. In another world, the statues there could have been decoration. There were beehives, and it would have sufficed to have stretches of the same flowers for them to do their work. But the fields were a riot of color, clearly well-tended. Poppy Anemone, Crown Daisies, Lupins, Orchids, Irises, countless ones Rumi did not known by name, swirling across the field as if painted with a large hand from the sky.

She found several pens with animals, some with eyes clouded, some with no eyes whatsoever. At her approach, they scurried toward her, awkward in their blindness. They reached for her touch with the expectation of kindness, called for attention in a chorus, and only recoiled when they smelled her a stranger. Their hesitation was brief, and soon inquisitiveness won over caution. She was investigated, sniffed, poked and prodded, and when deemed safe, immediately claimed as a source of affection. 

They were well-fed, well-groomed. Skittish, but friendly. With some humor, Rumi recognized that she had more in common with them than not.

It was at the warmth of the reception that she realized that, for all the life that remained clinging to this island, how profoundly lonely an existence this must be. Their conversations had been brief, but the echo of Mira’s voice had been desolate, and the tone of it forlorn. She had held her anger so gently, when Rumi had admitted to following the gods that had cursed her heedlessly. These were the actions of a woman tired of scorn, others’ and her own. This was not the home of a demon, but a woman cursed. Made so. Not born. And even then, a tragedy.

Everything that could not see her was kept safe, loved through touch or the lack of it. Everything that fell a victim was kept like a grave, hidden nor destroyed, but an inescapable reminder of the life taken, of the cost of her existence. Each corpse was its own headstone, and cruelly written upon them the fright and hatred of witnessing Medusa - Mira’s face. 

How she must think herself the monster, powerless to protect others from herself, no matter how much she wished. She lived in a world that knew no peace except one built from deprivation, full of relentless echoes of her curse, the cost of the existence of her, as so determined by the gods.

Except for the few animals she kept. Except for Rumi. 

Even after she had known Rumi’s intent to slay Medusa.

All she had asked of her, was not to raise her sword once she knew.

She did not have her sword, and no longer felt the desire to. Because what mindless monster faced its doom… and prayed for mercy to her very betrayers?

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

Helios had long since disappeared behind the horizon when Rumi found her way back to water. A beach, largely untouched, but for a pair of statues, caught in an eternal embrace, ankles slowly dissolving in the relentless flow of brine. 

She laid on the sand. The shroud that Nyx had pulled over the heavens that night was clear and crisp, full of glimmering jewels and the distant dreams of gods. She could drown in that infinity, wishing for the wisdom of a god, but knowing that few of them would still be welcome to this particular story. They had meddled much already, and Rumi was beginning to tire of playing in their tragedy.

As such, she felt the Nereid’s presence approach, crabs skittering ahead of her like tiny clawed heralds. “You are searching very loudly.” She said as she sank down beside her.

Rumi laughed, more bitter than sweet. “I am finding answers I did not expect.”

“Expect… or want?”

Silence reigned as, briefly, Rumi struggled to calm her immediate ire at yet another god knowing her better than she knew herself. But, such was their nature, and such was their purpose. Athena’s words came to mind. “Do not be a fool, Rumi. Do what you must, but take care to look beyond obvious truths. It is a wise person who has the patience to learn their enemy before they strike.”

Near-silent, hoping the gentle rush of waves would render her words inaudible, Rumi finally spoke. “What does one do when tasked with slaying a monster that does not exist?”

Sympathetic eyes, so dark they reflected the stars, studied her profile. “I am as curious to find out as you.”

“Am I being played for a fool?” despaired Rumi.

“By whom?”

“The Gods, Medusa, you, everyone…” She sighed. “Myself.”

Zoey’s touch was fleeting and cold, but welcome nonetheless. “There is no prophecy that binds us. The water may flow where it wants, but you still have the rudder.”

Except for the one that claimed her destined to kill her own kin. But Zoey spoke true, Athena had not mentioned the fates, nor did she know of how the threads of Zoey, Mira, and her were wound. Still, she doubted. “And what of the wind?”

Zoey hummed. “That is your domain, is it not?”

Rumi smiled wryly. “My father gifted me many things. The strength of ten men, the swiftness of an arrow, lightning in my blood. My skin yields little to bronze or iron. The wind is a companion that does what it wills. Yet my heart is as soft as any mortal’s. I wish to protect it, but I fear I am too late for a retreat.”

Zoey’s eyes grew fathomless once more. “There is little one can do to run from the mind.”

“Why the storm?” lamented Rumi, rising with her anger. Crabs skittered away from where she paced. “Does Zeus not want Medusa dead as well? Why the battle? Does Poseidon relish the loss of Athenian ships? Why would they hinder my journey if I am here at Athena’s request? And why would they allow me to be found by her?”

Zoey sat up cautiously. “It was I who brought you to her.”

“Why?” Rumi grew more animated, the breeze around them growing wilder. “Was it what I deserved?”

“It was what you needed.” Zoey stood, words and gestures gentle, as if that would alleviate Rumi’s inner battle.

“She could have killed me,” growled Rumi. “And I her.”

“Yet neither of you did. Does that not give you questions?”

“Too many.” Rumi looked away. “I am no longer sure of my answers.”

“Perhaps you should ask her,” challenged Zoey. “Has she not earned your grace, for at least a few days?”

Rumi huffed. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because.” Something begins to burn in those fathomless eyes. “You could be each-other’s answers.”

“Yet why does that matter to you?” repeated Rumi forcefully.

It was Zoey who looked away, then. “I… I help people find their way. I go where I am needed.”

A mosaic of understanding began to build in Rumi’s mind, each answer a tile, each tile unraveling the mystery a little further. “You did not bring me here because it was what I deserved.”

Reluctantly, Zoey nodded. “No. I did not.”

“Why defy yourself?”

“She deserved better.”

“Did you see so?”

“I know so.”

Rumi stood, fists curled in anger. “How? How does she deserve two different things at once? Who gives you the right to meddle with us, so?”

Zoey faced her slowly, pleading. “I saw the paths laid out for you by the Moirai, and saw how they would never answer the question you each carry within your heart. I saw another way. A way to answer both, and unchain you from fate.”

Something cold seized Rumi’s heart. “The storm and battle, they were yours.” 

Guilt rose on Zoey’s face. “Not mine. But I lead them to you and you to them.”

“Because we both deserved something you chose?” cried Rumi. “Because we could be each-other’s answers?”

Zoey lifted her chin, defiant. “Yes.”

Rumi turned away and scoffed. “What is my question, then?”

“Can I be loved beyond what I can give to other people?”

Rumi stilled and breathed. Slowly. Heart in her throat. Quietly, she asked, “and what is hers?”

“Can I be loved?”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

Rumi returned in the morning, dew clinging to her shins, a scrap of cloth in her hands. 

She entered the temple and sat before the fire, tying the cloth around her eyes, and waited. More patient than she had ever been in her life. Because nothing had ever mattered more. She prayed to Hermes her intent would land true.

It had been a gentle eternity, when, tentatively, Mira’s voice echoed. “Why have you returned?”

“I wish to understand,” said Rumi softly, unmoving.

“Understand what?”

The barest hint of a smile, delicate but sure. “You.”

Light footsteps, heavy with meaning. Then, a presence settled before her, closer than it had ever been. Rumi held out her hand. It was taken gently, and guided to a face. Warm, soft skin where she traced it. Slowly upwards, until her fingers tangled into the smooth scales of snakes. They coiled around her arm, dozens of little tongues curiously tasting her skin. 

“Medusa.” She whispered. Not with fear, nor hatred, but wonder.

“I am she,” rumbled Mira, resigned and relieved both.

Rumi traced the outline of her, memorized the line of her jaw, the slant of her brow, the curve of her nose. It did not build a picture in her mind, she did not know how to translate what she felt into an image, but it confirmed something she had been afraid to find.

Medusa and Mira truly were the same, a woman victim to the Moirai just as much as Rumi was. Until Zoey’s interference.

“Why did you not kill me?” asked Rumi, breathless.

“When I was a victim I was shown no mercy, I was made a monster instead. I refuse to be like them.” Rumi could feel the curl of her lips, the baring of teeth. The anger beneath her fingertips felt like a revelation. “And one look would undo you, should you have shown yourself a fool.”

“I have been a fool,” whispered Rumi, “to have followed the word of kings and gods so thoughtlessly.”

Mira lifted her chin. “You are your father’s daughter.”

Defiant fury pulled at her mouth. “Yes, I am. And he is a kind man.”

ꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙꡙ

“May I see you?”

Mira was silent for a long time. Then, she stood, pulling Rumi with her, and walked them a few steps to the side.

“Do not move your head. Do not turn.” Brushed against her ear as her head was turned to face something. Slowly, her blindfold was unraveled. A hand rested on her shoulder, not threatening, bracing, ready to guide her to turn away.

Athena’s bronze shield, polished to a gleam. Mira’s reflection warped in the firelight. Rumi could feel her breath on the side of her cheek. She needed only turn a fraction, and she would petrify. Rumi traced with her eyes the paths her fingers had taken. 

She had heard tales of scales and tusks and claws and horribly twisted features. And she saw the ghost of them. There yet not there, features that had both left a scar in reality and had never existed. And beyond it simply stood a woman with a sorrowful slant to her mouth and eyes burning with gentle fire. A woman whose pride wavered at the intensity of her regard. A woman thought a monster, shrinking as she was observed, timid and troubled. A woman bracing to be shunned, expecting repugnance, horror, malice. A woman already resigning herself to an unkind fate, as she was taught so intently to expect.

The hand on her shoulder, intended as support, now quivered.

Rumi saw coils of snakes the color of wine crowning a face that would put Aphrodite to shame, but Rumi was wise enough not to utter the words aloud lest she doom them both. She saw what was expected of her play on those fine features, felt the anger and sorrow of it coil hotly, and then let it dissipate under the heavy regard of her own shame.

In another world, she would have been exactly what Mira had expected.

Not this one, she knew, with the phantom of cold hands on her face.

She covered the hand on her shoulder with her own, breathed out in a shudder, and smiled.

It took days of gentle care and a single look at a reflection in bronze for Rumi, daughter of Zeus, to fall in love.