Before she was cursed she was a virgin priestess in the temple of Athena, young and sweet with lips like cherry blossoms. Her hair was long and lustrous, catching light from everything that shone, flowing like a waterfall of black silk. Her eyes, cool and deep,were the color of pebbles tumbled and smoothed by a river.
Medusa was beautiful, once, and Poseidon took notice of her as she prayed alone one day in the temple. He came to her and pressed his cool, moist hands against her shoulders. Startled, Medusa cried out, but Poseidon silenced her lips with a violent kiss from his own.
In the dark of the temple Poseidon and Medusa moved. Her alabaster skin against the stone floor bled as she struggled. His arms wrapped tight around her fragile body glistened with sweat and salt and sea. In the emptiness of the temple, Medusa's muffled sobs echoed like the hissing of wild animals. She twisted and writhed on the cold temple floor, silken hair tangled into strange ropes mingled with blood and sweat.
Poseidon left her motionless before the altar. In the grey half-light of the temple Medusa's torn skin and flesh looked like raw, beautiful marble. Her hair caught the light from the altar flame in a mysterious way and gave one the impression that her twisted locks had come to life, slithering almost imperceptibly around her head.
