revenge has no more quenching effect on emotions than salt water has on thirst
Medusa dreams of blood and ghosts and other people's screams and wakes up choking on blood.
(Not really)
Medusa dreams of revenge and justice and dead girls' names rolling off her tongue and she wakes with them still begging to be said.
(No, really)
Medusa dreams of a perfect, perfect revenge and wakes up feeling hollow and empty and whole.
(No blood. No wounds. Her wings are there and perfect.)
Medusa dreams and wakes up craving death, so it makes perfect sense to slip out of her sisters' embrace and pad out of the house. Down, down to the reeds and the summer-swollen Nile, down out of hearing and out of sight and spread her wings and tilt her head back to the uncaring sky.
(She can still taste her blood, his blood, their blood and Merlin's blood. She can feel everything pressing down and rising up and worming through the cracks in her composure. She -)
She flies.
She flies into the desert and it's the same as always. A sickening monotony of psychosis and bloodcraze that she knows and she knows and she knows. A storm that pulses like lust down her veins and across her skin, lightning enough to turn them to stone, but she dives and slashes and bites and giggle giggle giggles and even that is hollow, empty.
(Not helping)
Medusa is sitting, head down and hands braced against the wet, bloody sand. Her breathing is coming shallow and ragged and then it's just a sob. Blood and death and she stinks of it, reeks of it, can run her tongue along her lips and taste sand and blood and human and...It doesn't help. None of it. The anger and the rage and the urge to scream WHY ME? at the stars and sky and them. And the fear. The twisting poison of fear that she can't claw out, can't drown in blood and laughter. Fear of him, yes. Fear of being possessed, broken.
Fear of not being in control.
(Never had her blood not helped, never had someone's body fought against the cure, never had she had to go and get help for a friend)
Fear of losing everything; to the gods, to the darkness in her own mind.
(She hadn't even thought of Merlin as a friend until he was dying on the floor in front of her.)
But if she starts crying, she won't stop. If she lets that gnawing, insatiable fear in, it'll consume her until there is nothing left and like the violence, thinking that doesn't help. The little Gorgon Queen is crying. She is surrounded by statues and bodies and blood-soaked sand and she's crying.
Like everything else, it doesn't help.
(Not really)
Medusa dreams of revenge and justice and dead girls' names rolling off her tongue and she wakes with them still begging to be said.
(No, really)
Medusa dreams of a perfect, perfect revenge and wakes up feeling hollow and empty and whole.
(No blood. No wounds. Her wings are there and perfect.)
Medusa dreams and wakes up craving death, so it makes perfect sense to slip out of her sisters' embrace and pad out of the house. Down, down to the reeds and the summer-swollen Nile, down out of hearing and out of sight and spread her wings and tilt her head back to the uncaring sky.
(She can still taste her blood, his blood, their blood and Merlin's blood. She can feel everything pressing down and rising up and worming through the cracks in her composure. She -)
She flies.
She flies into the desert and it's the same as always. A sickening monotony of psychosis and bloodcraze that she knows and she knows and she knows. A storm that pulses like lust down her veins and across her skin, lightning enough to turn them to stone, but she dives and slashes and bites and giggle giggle giggles and even that is hollow, empty.
(Not helping)
Medusa is sitting, head down and hands braced against the wet, bloody sand. Her breathing is coming shallow and ragged and then it's just a sob. Blood and death and she stinks of it, reeks of it, can run her tongue along her lips and taste sand and blood and human and...It doesn't help. None of it. The anger and the rage and the urge to scream WHY ME? at the stars and sky and them. And the fear. The twisting poison of fear that she can't claw out, can't drown in blood and laughter. Fear of him, yes. Fear of being possessed, broken.
Fear of not being in control.
(Never had her blood not helped, never had someone's body fought against the cure, never had she had to go and get help for a friend)
Fear of losing everything; to the gods, to the darkness in her own mind.
(She hadn't even thought of Merlin as a friend until he was dying on the floor in front of her.)
But if she starts crying, she won't stop. If she lets that gnawing, insatiable fear in, it'll consume her until there is nothing left and like the violence, thinking that doesn't help. The little Gorgon Queen is crying. She is surrounded by statues and bodies and blood-soaked sand and she's crying.
Like everything else, it doesn't help.