Ella Espiritu, 4/8/21, Blog #3

"Euryale"

Your name is Euryale, but people have always sought Medusa - she was always the beautiful one, after all. She drew the gazes of men everywhere, even from beyond your home. But whether she appreciated these gazes or not, you never quite knew. 

(There's a man in your home, another man here to take your baby sister away. How dull.)

Long before everything, when anyone could gape at her and she could gaze back, nobody really knew what was on her mind. And even now, when it's just the three of you huddled in the old temple, and you're one of the only two people who can look her in the eyes, you don't quite know. There's fear, certainly. There's sadness, yes, always. There's a trace of misplaced guilt that, try as you might to erase it with chatter and games, never quite fades entirely. But there's something else, something deeper, that you still can't place. 

(Stheno will take care of him. You close your eyes lazily. Stheno, our ferocious warrior.)

Stheno sometimes hisses and thrashes miserably, mourning your old life, but you always tell her to take it to the far corner of the temple, away from those inscrutable eyes. Medusa is your baby sister, after all, the youngest and most fragile of the three. She was the one who wept at thunderstorms when you were young, no matter how many times you held her close and told her, "That's just Zeus. He is the king of the gods, and the sound of thunder means he is battling evil, protecting us from harm." Nowadays, when thunder sounds, Medusa doesn't weep. None of you weep. You feel like screaming, but you do. Not. Weep.

(Is there thunder now? Perhaps. You're already half asleep, knowing the man won't get far.)

Once, during a storm, a young woman stopped at the temple. She called out, and it seemed to echo through the space louder than any man. She told a story of her awful journey, imploring you to give her shelter for the night. "Please," she begged, "for I am blind and cannot find my way home." You and your sisters rushed to light the fire, prepare some food, find her a seat, anything so that she would stay. She spoke to you kindly, even laughed at some of your stories. She stayed the night, and neither you nor your sisters slept at all. In the morning, right before leaving, she said that she intended to thank Athena for all your service. You didn't think it funny at all, but Medusa had laughed and laughed, so maybe it had been.

(The man draws his sword, an awful sound. You roll over onto your side, meaning to throw your arm over Medusa - she isn't there.)

Sometimes, you find Medusa staring at one of the tapestries. Hanging in pride of place on the temple's farthest wall is Athena's face, larger than life and twice as cruel. It was one of the few tapestries still hanging - the damn thing was too high for anyone to reach, to bring down from its lofty place and be torn to pieces. Stheno would love that. You would love that. But Medusa just stares. Far away, always so far away.

(You're fully awake, tearing through the temple. You can sense now what you hadn't before - there's that awful, crawling feeling of divine intervention in the air.)

When it's just you, when you aren't being strong for Medusa or patient with Stheno, you scream at the sea. You scream and scream because no matter how angry you may be at that cage of a temple, you will always be angrier at the sea. You scream curses, challenges, nonsense threats that you cannot keep. The sea never answers, but at least you always get the last word.

(You arrive just in time to watch Medusa fall. You scream, but this time there are no curses, no threats, no words.)

When the sun shines down and there have been no visitors for a while, sometimes Medusa asks you to braid her hair. It's pointless, of course - the snakes slip out of their braids and irritably shake off any flowers you try to attach. But it calms her somewhat, and it calms you too. When you're done, you kiss her forehead, look into her eyes and say, "You look beautiful." Because no matter what, you will always mean it.

(The man takes her head with him - a prop, a prize, a prince's errand - and you will never look into those eyes again.)

Your name is Euryale, and the myths don't tell your story - they barely manage to get Medusa's right half the time. But sometimes, you can't help but be glad that your pain doesn't survive among humankind. Only the gods can tell what would happen then, and you've learned not to ask them anything.