The Sixth Life of Medusa

57. A Serpent and a Hound

Medusa hit the ground in an explosion of flying debris and dispersing aether. Biting back a groan, she remained in a locked position as waves of fading pain washed over her. What was this? Her fiftieth defeat? She had stopped counting after thirty-six.

A shadow fell over her, this one much taller and broad-shouldered. Wasn't it awesome that the first time Ares came around to witness her spar was the exact moment Lysander was in one of her pound fest? The fiend in question cackled like a maniac in the background while Ares simply stared down at her, saying nothing. Unable to hold his gaze, Medusa looked away.

Lysander had to be invincible; that was the only explanation that made sense. In the week of back-to-back trashing, nothing Medusa threw at the woman worked. And she had this annoying habit of gloating through each spar. She'd bray like a donkey all the while, saying nonsense about 'triggers' as she mocked Medusa's every move. Ruffling her hair mid-fight, having the audacity to flick her ear in faint attacks, she even called her a baby warrior on several occasions.

I'm a joke to her, Medusa thought in solemn embarrassment.

"Are you in pain?" Ares asked after the dust settled.

She stared at the passing fluffy white clouds in the afternoon sky. It may rain later tonight, Medusa thought listlessly as she waited for her body to return to wholeness.

"She's fine," Lysander answered, all teeth and twinkling eyes. "Heals like a hydra, that one."

Pushing to her feet, Medusa scowled when her balance swayed. The bone-deep exhaustion that followed her blindfold training had managed to sneak into reality. Every muscle burned, and her hair, wet with sweat and unbound, stuck to her neck and face.

"Is your aim my death?" Medusa retrieved a flask from her domain and took several gulps. It tasted like apple-flavoured water with a chalky aftertaste. Four days ago, she had caved and accepted one of Clotho's mixes. Not that her misgivings had vanished; it's just that lately, her decision leaned more on rationality. And rationality told her that if the Moirai wished to kill her, she'd have done so from the start.

The feeling of exhaustion quickly faded, and she was back in top form.

Lysander crossed muscular arms across her chest and huffed. "You think Athena's contender wouldn't aim to end your life? Be glad it's me trying to kill you."

"Athena's contender wouldn't be a damn deity," Medusa muttered before putting the flask away. Yes, Lysander was a low deity, but it was still ridiculous how easily she trashed her. One would think that after getting a boost from Clotho and the Monolith's vein, things would have changed, but she wasn't that lucky. Her aether output had significantly improved, but her body was struggling to catch up, and it was showing. Without Clotho's elixirs, the nosebleeds would occur, and she'd be forced to cut their spar short.

Three more weeks. The puff of anxiety that followed the thought was instantly snuffed out.

I'd be fine. She released a calming breath. I have to be fine.

"You should be gentler on yourself," Ares said as he dismissed Lysander with a wave. After offering an exaggerated bow, she strolled away.

Staring after her, Ares continued, "Defeat at her hand is no shame. Lysander is battle-worn and far stronger than most low deities. Thinking to earn an upper hand within the span of a week is hubris."

Dissatisfied nonetheless, Medusa said nothing as she patted dust off her uniform. The metal slats remained still and silent, each wrapped in aether. At least she was getting this one right.

"And you shouldn't worry about Zeus."

Medusa's hand froze for a moment. The memory of Ares dramatically storming off with all the gods present returned. Easy for you to say.