He was beautiful. Almost impossibly so. It makes you, just for a moment, understand the desire Poseidon felt.

But that was irrelevant, because you never would've done what the Gods had. What you saw in Medusa was neither meat nor monster, but a person as damned as you were. Left for dead by your own God, the very being you'd devoted yourself to, you entered the ruins in which Hercules was felled, where Medusa's head lie.

With tainted hands, you stitched him back. Piece by piece.