Author's forward: In Greek mythology and in almost all its modern manifestations, Medusa is a straight-up monster. This story portrays a different perspective. I hope you enjoy it.
All characters are over 18 (especially Medusa)
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The slave winced as he stumbled along the stony gorge, following his master. After a fortnight trekking over this misty, barren island, the carrying strap of the slave's heavy pack was nearly as red as the weeping sores on his shoulder. His thick callouses from years of carrying heavy burdens had softened in the damp air, and the rawhide of the pack's strap had chafed those softened callouses down to painful ulcers. The slave's other shoulder was worse, so he hoisted the clanking pack with his rough hands instead. That hurt too. Such was the life of a Helot.
His master stood at a bend in the gorge, a statue of the Spartan ideal, his skin unblemished by whippings, his broad shoulders and corded muscles sculpted from birth to dominate and kill.
His master didn't even glance back as the slave caught up. "I found it. The Gorgon's lair. Time to don my armor."
The warrior shrugged off his polished shield and planted his spear by its butt-spike. The slave hurried to open the pack. His master spread his arms and legs as the slave went to work.
As he fastened the warrior's greaves, the slave looked at the place they'd sought since the full moon. At the bottom of the gorge, the gurgling stream pushed between the soft, yielding sandbanks into a dark fissure where two marble ridges met beneath a round, stony hill. If the Gorgon's lair was anywhere on this gods-forsaken island, this had to be it. Wisps of steam rose from the top of the crack, and from the rocks above, as if it were --
-- A sharp crack brought searing pain to the side of his face. "Pay attention, Helot!"
The slave turned his back on the dark, steaming entrance, ignoring the swelling welt on his cheek and trying to keep any blood from smearing the bronze armor as he focused on each step. Breastplate, bracers, and helm, each piece had a specific ritual. Any deviation meant pain. His master sighed, closed his eyes, and settled into his own ritual: a prayer of sorts.
"Look here, Aphrodite. I've found her just as you showed me. I'll kill her just as you bade me. Then you'll raise me just as you promised. From the depths of Poseidon's seas to the high throne of Zeus, all shall know that I avenged you. I shall take my place in your bed and -- "
-- The slave tried to ignore the prayer and the growing bulge beneath his master's loincloth. Soon enough, the warrior would go in, meet his end, and then the slave would -- what? Run? Hide?
No. He'd starve on this barren isle, and there was no way off but the Spartan ship due back at the next full moon. He'd never be free.
The slave buckled the sword belt around his master's waist. He lifted the polished shield and strapped it to the warrior's arm. Then he handed over the spear. The arming rituals were complete; the Spartan warrior stood ready to fight and kill.
The warrior looked down at his slave. "Light a torch, Helot. You're leading the way."
The Helot gaped. "Master, the oracle appointed you alone, not --"
-- The side of the spear caught him in the ribs, knocking him flat. "You'll do as I say, or I'll kill you. Slowly. Now get up and light a torch."
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The slave shivered in the water, though he wasn't cold. A bubbling heat from below warmed the current, which had slowed to a crawl as it deepened to just above their waists. The slave's mouth went dry as his torch's trembling light revealed the horrors within the cave.
A dozen grotesque statues, half-submerged, lined the passageway. The life-size sculptures were all well-built men much like his master. They hung from the walls, their hands bound by some translucent fabric to spikes in the wall. They seemed to strain against their bonds with muscles tensed, faces contorted, and mouths twisted in eternal, silent screams.
The slave nearly screamed himself as he felt a light prod of the spearpoint in his back. His master hissed, "Eyes down! One look at her face, and you'll join these statues."
His master's head bent over the shield, using the polished surface to see. He'd been practicing the trick for weeks. The Helot had no shield or weapon: just the torch.
Keeping the torch aloft, the slave groped under the warm, gentle flow, feeling the smooth, slick walls as he pushed deeper into the tunnel. The walls widened, the water shallowed, and he entered a wide, well-lit cavern. As he left the water, his feet found a paved walkway. There were other torches in here, but he didn't dare look around. He held his torch high and walked slowly forward toward one of the lights--
--The slave bumped into a stone column, heard a hiss, and felt piercing pain in his hand. He wrenched his hand back, and a snake flew into the water with his torch, which snuffed out in a sizzling splash. Then his master cried out. Forgetting himself, the Helot looked up and saw his master fall next to a pool of water, grasping at a snake on his ankle. Then the light shimmered, and the cave seemed to tilt. As the slave slunk down to the water, he saw the two snakes slither toward a single point in a nearby pool, where they joined a small mound serpents rising from the water. The Helot's sight dimmed.
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The pain in his palm brought him back. Where was he? The cavern? A glance down showed that he was sitting on a stool, his back to a post, his hands bound behind it. The cords were soft, but unyielding. Testing them hurt, though; he felt the nub of something poking out of his wounded hand. One of the snake's fangs had broken off and stuck in his palm. He started to look --
-- Then he heard soft footsteps walking by, and closed his eyes fast.
The Gorgon.
A coquettish, almost musical giggle echoed faintly in the steamy cavern, slightly dulled by its echoes. "A fallen hero. My favorite."
Her words grew clearer; was she facing him now? "And his... companion? Servant?"
His master's voice was rough. "My slave. A Helot."
"Ah." The voice swelled a little as her feet padded toward the slave. "I've never had two at once before." Her voice dropped to a whisper in the Helot's ear. "Be still" The slave squeezed his eyes shut as a soft gag pressed his tongue down and his cheeks back. "I'll get to you later."
behind his back, the slave drew the fang out, then balled the wounded hand in a tight fist to stop the bleeding. Her voice grew duller again. "Now, warrior, tell me, Who are you?"
His master grunted. "A Spartan."
"Welcome to my home, Spartan. Who sent you?"
His master groaned in effort for a few seconds -- was he tied up too? -- Then he sighed. "Aphrodite."
The slave felt the broken fang. Still sharp. His uninjured hand went to work at the bindings. Poke, scratch, scrape.
"Ah! the love goddess. Still jealous of me, yet she keeps sending me her lovers. Spartan, you're
mine
now. You may have come to honor her, but soon, you'll be honoring me. You'll be part of my shrine, eternally testifying to the lies, weakness, and wickedness of the gods."
The master's angry grunts mixed with soft thumps. The Gorgon laughed. "Are you frightened? I don't blame you. You did come to murder me, after all. But don't worry, I won't force you to look. You'll look because you'll want to."
