The storm was both great and terrible in its might. Sheets of rain lashed at the ground, and bitter winds tore through the soft grey mist surrounding the island. Every so often, a jagged bolt of lightning would rip the sky in half, illuminating the black rocks and unforgiving sea below. 

The gods were angry tonight, and Medusa knew the wrath of Olympus better than anyone. 

She’d been gathering herbs when the storm hit. Now, the Gorgon picked her way across the debris-strewn beach, drawing up the hood of her cloak against the howling wind. The snakes that sprouted from her head lay flat against her scalp, huddling together for warmth. 

She stopped in her tracks when she spotted something— a blotch of white against the gray of the distant sands. 

Medusa squinted against the rain, trying to get a better look as she approached the figure. It was a woman with long dark hair, collapsed facedown in the damp sand. The wine-dark sea lapped at her bare feet. Her olive skin meant that she was likely a Hellene, yet the woman didn’t appear to be armed. 

A hero, hissed the snakes, stirring agitatedly. A child of the gods, come for your head. 

How had the woman found her way to the Gray Isle? Perhaps she was the victim of a shipwreck, or a rebellious sea nymph. At the thought of the ocean, Medusa’s lip curled in a sneer. She’d often cursed the gods for imprisoning her in the middle of Poseidon’s territory. 

Cautiously, she edged closer. Reaching out, she took the woman by the shoulder and pushed her over onto her back. Worry lines creased her young face, and her slightly crooked nose looked as if it had once been broken. The woman was either a mortal or a god in disguise, then, for though she was beautiful, it was not in the unearthly way of the Divine. 

But… was the woman wearing the robe of a priestess? Medusa recoiled in shock and disgust. A servant of the gods, whispered the snakes in similar distaste. Kill her now and save your breath. For a second, Medusa considered it. But she looked at the woman’s kind face once more, seeing a shadow of her former self, and something stopped her. 

Bending down, she picked up the woman and made her way back to her small cave, where a fire burned bright in the stone hearth. There, she laid the woman down on her pallet and sat down to wait. 

•·················•·················•

There came a faint rustling. Without thinking, Medusa turned around. The priestess was sitting up in bed, eyes fluttering open. 

She reacted a second too late.

“No!” Medusa yelled as she scrambled back, throwing up her hands to shield her face. Medusa had killed hundreds of men in self-defense, but this was different— the woman had arrived by mistake, and she didn’t deserve such a cruel fate. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she cursed silently, shrinking into herself, not wanting to watch as the woman grew cold and gray and lifeless. 

There was a terrible silence. 

Then, she heard the woman draw a halting breath. 

Perplexed, Medusa withdrew her hands and looked at the woman again. There she was— sitting on the edge of the bed, her bare feet touching the rough floor. She had not yet realized that she was in a monster’s den. But how?

She looked closer, looked at the woman’s glazed brown eyes, and now Medusa understood. The priestess was blind. 

This… this had never happened before. 

“Hello?” the woman called. Her voice was soft, yet it seemed to echo throughout the small cavern. She paused, then winced. “Agh, my head…”

“You fell unconscious,” Medusa offered in greeting, shifting uncomfortably at her own harsh, raspy voice as the priestess turned towards the sound. It had been so long since she’d spoken with another— the heroes who came to her island were rarely interested in conversation. “I found you. On the beach.”

“Where am I?” The woman rubbed her forehead. “There was a storm...” 

“They call it the Grey Isle,” Medusa said, still hesitant. Perhaps the woman had heard of this place in legends, in old wives’ tales. 

The woman’s unfocused eyes lit up in recognition. “Yes! This name is familiar to me.” She frowned. “But I cannot remember why. Everything inside my head is... blurred.”

Medusa swallowed hard. If the priestess had never heard of her, perhaps she could be sheltered from the truth. 

“I am known for my… craft,” Medusa said slowly. “I…” She looked outside, where a stone warrior flanked the entrance of her cave, brandishing his rusted spear. She’d chipped away his face a long time ago, tired of seeing the terror in his wide-eyed gaze. 

“I make statues,” Medusa decided. It was not untrue. 

“A sculptor,” the priestess mused. “An artist. What is your name?”

“...Medusa.” She looked at the woman’s face, awaiting a reaction, but saw none. 

“Medusa,” the woman repeated, letting the name roll over her tongue. She smiled, and although it should have been impossible, Medusa swore their eyes met. “I am Tiresias Theophilos, priestess of the goddess Hera and seer of Thebes.”