They said Perseus struck her down with Athena’s shield and a single sweep of his blade. The tale spread like wildfire across kingdoms, growing with every retelling: the hero triumphant, the monster vanquished.
But myths are convenient lies.
In truth, Perseus never wished to cross her. When their paths met, he saw not just the curse, but the woman buried beneath it. And so a bargain was struck — Medusa would grant him the severed head of one of her fallen sisters, and in return he would carry the legend of her death back to the world. He would walk away crowned in glory. She would slip deeper into shadow.
Centuries passed. She wandered from cave to cave, temple ruins to forgotten catacombs, always hidden, always cursed. She learned to tame the serpents in her hair, to soften their hiss to a whisper. She learned to veil her gaze, no longer an unbridled weapon but a secret she kept under control. Immortality stretched before her — a burden, yet also a chance.
The world changed, faster and stranger than even gods could have foretold. And at last, the tide turned. Myths no longer inspired fear, only fascination. Outrage barely lasted a headline before dissolving into debate. “Don’t mythicals have rights too?” became the rallying cry of a new age.
So Medusa stepped into the light. No longer a hunted creature, but a woman reborn. The snakes curled around her like jeweled locks, the rose at her ear daring anyone to call her monster. A rock goddess rising, she traded the shadows of caverns for the blaze of stage lights.
Story and art by Damian Smith
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