call my name and bid my blood to run
For all the Gorgons’ call their home a cave, it is actually something far more grand. A cave-system, with caverns and passages both above and below the level of the ocean and far, far more room than the girls could ever need. But that was never the point of their home, really.
The reason why they live in this cave-system is situated well within it, built into the west wall of a cavern that is now perfectly at sea-level. When the tides come in, the floor is covered in water up to knee-level. Now, however, it is only up to Medusa’s ankles.
Or, would be if she were walking.
What the little Gorgon queen is actually doing is sitting, and waiting. Sitting on the top step of the West Gate, and waiting for her sisters. It is easier, waiting down here. She’s away from her body, away from the squalling of the baby and the abandoned confusion in the eyes of the foal.
If nothing else, the sounds of the Underworld drown out whatever noise her children are making.
Ghosts are silent, some say, but this is not, and has never been true. The ghosts of those gone and dead, the souls both lost and too poor, too uncared for to be given the fare for Charon’s ferry; they all make noise. The brides and unwed youths and old men who had suffered much and girls with their tender hearts freshly scarred by sorrow and great armies of battle dead, stabbed by bronze spears, men of war still wrapped in bloody armour who haven’t yet been herded through the final Gate…Oh, yes. Death takes all pride away, all comfort, and so they cry. They cry and they scream and they wail and they curse, and Medusa just closes her eyes and listens.
Eventually, there are footsteps.
The reason why they live in this cave-system is situated well within it, built into the west wall of a cavern that is now perfectly at sea-level. When the tides come in, the floor is covered in water up to knee-level. Now, however, it is only up to Medusa’s ankles.
Or, would be if she were walking.
What the little Gorgon queen is actually doing is sitting, and waiting. Sitting on the top step of the West Gate, and waiting for her sisters. It is easier, waiting down here. She’s away from her body, away from the squalling of the baby and the abandoned confusion in the eyes of the foal.
If nothing else, the sounds of the Underworld drown out whatever noise her children are making.
Ghosts are silent, some say, but this is not, and has never been true. The ghosts of those gone and dead, the souls both lost and too poor, too uncared for to be given the fare for Charon’s ferry; they all make noise. The brides and unwed youths and old men who had suffered much and girls with their tender hearts freshly scarred by sorrow and great armies of battle dead, stabbed by bronze spears, men of war still wrapped in bloody armour who haven’t yet been herded through the final Gate…Oh, yes. Death takes all pride away, all comfort, and so they cry. They cry and they scream and they wail and they curse, and Medusa just closes her eyes and listens.
Eventually, there are footsteps.