Athena's Child (The Grecian Women Trilogy)

by Hannah M. Lynn

Perhaps all monsters are born. Then again, perhaps it is just a way of hiding the darkness we all carry within us. A darkness we force ourselves to keep hidden from the world for we can barely imagine what terrible misdoings would occur if we were to let that darkness grow.

These are not men. They are snakes, serpents trying to find the freshest eggs. And when they do find them, they crack them open, devour their insides, and leave nothing more than hollow shells.

Men didn’t need gods, Medusa mused, they just needed somebody, anybody, to guide them in their lives.

You have raised her well. Trust her.’

Some of them had come to the temple seeking the strength to pull away. Few had had the courage to see it through. Some stayed with their husbands for the children, some for the gold. Many because they held fast to a hope, no matter how ill-founded, that their husbands might change.

‘She chose to return to this man,’ Athena said, caressing her hair like she was a child. ‘That is on her head. You cannot blame yourself.’ ‘I do not,’ Medusa said. ‘I blame him. For every last drop of her blood.’

Women hold knives more often in the day than men ever do, yet it is not women who stab their husbands to death when they fear adultery.

Time and time again, we are called out as the emotional ones, the irrational ones. Women don’t get drunk like men and hurl insults at strangers or throw rocks in protests.

So why are we always second? Why is that my goddess? Why are we always second?’

Wine served by girls whose flesh he pinched, more like a farmer inspecting the quality of his cattle than a husband mourning his wife.

When faced with a monster, who ever looked to see beyond the teeth and talons?

‘You wish me to question those who never questioned me. Or you. Trust does not require answers, Perseus. Trust requires acceptance.’

‘Gods do not pay the price for their wrongdoings, Perseus. Mortals do. The gods, like the rich of the world, push their agendas onto those whose voices are not loud enough to speak for themselves. The women. The weak. The unwanted. And no one shouts for those who need it the most. Why would they? To shout for another is to risk losing something yourself. And man cannot see beyond the depth of his own reflection.’

Meanwhile, Medusa’s truth was lost, and all that remained was the story of monsters and heroes, though the world would never truly know which was which.