The Sixth Life of Medusa

42. Poisoned Roots

By her tenth lap, Medusa stopped counting. Her body moved without instruction. But she was aware of certain things, like how profusely she was sweating. Loud, hacking breaths that sawed through burning lungs. Yet, her ragged breaths weren't loud enough to silence the vengeful thoughts searing through her mind.

The night had been too long, and her tears were too quick to dry. She had no use for tears. No. Medusa shook her head. Tears were good. They grounded her and made her feel human despite her growing non-human abilities.

I'm not like them. I'll never be like them.

When morning came, she had tucked away her volatile emotions and went through the motions. She thanked Lonian and Akrivi for the list of dogs they recommended and later attempted to participate in Nestor's so-called "brutal" training, only to be told to abstain.

It wasn't until after her classes that she understood why Nestor kept her from joining.

She had since lost track of time, her run carrying her around the training hall as she powered through pulses of aether radiating from the basin holding the premium stone. To distract herself, she had let it all in. Thoughts, possibilities, a fervent desire for answers. It felt like her head would burst from all the questions.

What did Zeus do to her father? Those thorns. Why did it feel like she had seen them before? And Ceto's emaciated state. It seemed like her vitality had been sucked out, leaving a husk behind. And the hollowness in her eyes, the utter dejection.

Renewed rage consumed every thought. She had never been close to her parents, but she was sensible enough to make certain deductions. That brief encounter with Phorcys showed that his detachment was not his intention.

But what can I do against Zeus? The thought of facing him was so ludicrous that a laugh escaped, but it soon grew to a hacking cough so raw it felt like hot claws ripping through her throat.

Her body, seeming to suddenly realise its fatigued state, gave up on her. Sharp pulses of pain shot down her legs as her hamstrings and calves cramped up. Hissing, Medusa collapsed to her side as a wave of dizziness came.

Nestor strolled over and observed her with a flat expression. Then he wrote something on a stone slab before slipping the beaded band around her wrist to hasten her recovery.

"No nosebleed," he said dryly as he straightened.

Sitting up, Medusa looked at the beaded band. Nestor had retrieved it when she came for the training and instructed her to run until her body collapsed. She had zero idea how long she had been running, but judging from the wetness of her tunic and hair, it must have been for a considerable period. At least the pain in her legs had vanished.

"You ran for nearly a horai. Could be better, but also not disappointing."

Medusa nodded but said nothing. Her mind still churned with thoughts like what lay at the end of her training. There was a reality that the eye of petrification was in the cards. Clotho had explicitly mentioned it, but her words implied that the eye of petrification may not be enough. Then what would be enough? No matter how she looked at it, it seemed impossible to go against the gods with any other method. These beings could cause earthquakes powerful enough to decimate entire kingdoms. Sink islands. Kill with the snap of their fingers. How, just how could she conquer that?

During her run, she had considered how she killed Perseus. He turned to dust. Even if she were to awaken that ability, how practical was it against a cataclysm like Zeus?

Weaving her fingers behind her neck, Medusa's mind raced with black hatred and frustration. Why must she and her parents live through such persecution? If what Clotho said was true, then Zeus was nothing more than a mortal playing god. And what Poseidon and Athena did to her in her first life. Who gave them the right? Cosmolith was the absolute worst world. A pang of longing for Earth squeezed her heart.