At first, Perseus was slow at picking up the skill, but that only seemed to make him more and more determined to get it right. I had thought he might give it up quickly, simply refusing to learn. After all, I had no way to truly force him if he wasn't willing to do it. Contrary to my suspicions, the challenge only seemed to spur him on.

It was the perfect way to occupy him while I tended to my garden and took care of my other daily obligations without him straining his stitches. And it didn't hurt that he was being productive at the same time- he was in dire need of proper clothing. I had given him an old ceremonial robe to wear, one I had found abandoned and forgotten in a back corner of the temple. It was a thin garment of blue linen, light and comfortable and pretty. It was better than nothing but it wrapped too tightly around Perseus' frame and when the winds blew down from the mountain, he shivered without a blanket also draped across his shoulders.

I was afraid I would be a lousy instructor. I had only ever been a student, learning and listening from my mother's knowledge and wisdom. There had never before been someone for me to teach and advise, and I hardly knew how to go about doing it. Somehow, though, it came naturally as I talked through each step of the process of weaving on the loom.

Perseus' blindness was both a curse and a blessing when it came to loom work. Perseus sat on the edge of the bed, the loom leaning against his knees, his fingers running along the warp beam and the rows of interwoven threads.

He cursed as his hand grasped forward, but clutched only at air. "I lost it again," he said.

"Here." I reached for his wrist, guiding his hand back to the comb-like reed. His fingers closed around it, and he took a deep, calming breath. The tensed stiffness of his shoulders and his clenched jaw belied his frustration. I released his wrist, eying him carefully. "We can take a break," I suggested. "You've woven over half of it already. It's well done- much better than I could have done."

It was true. His first few attempts at cloth had turned out messy and uneven, similar to my own efforts at the loom. But it hardly took a full day before he began to learn, and his strokes with the reed became meticulously precise and even, making near perfect cloth. I watched his quick improvement, feeling both impressed and envious of his skill. Just by touch, he was able to grasp the rhythm of the machine, the whispers of its threads and beams as he slid the reed back and forth.

He shook his head, already exerting an intense focus once again as he continued his work.

"I need to finish this," he insisted. "I won't rest until then."

I sighed. Outside the sun was already touching the tips of the trees, casting an orange glow upon the stone walls inside the temple. "You'll be up half of the night before you finish."

"Then so be it." He pulled back on the reed again, adding one more perfect line of cloth to the gradually growing cloth.

Giving up, I sat back upon my stool, crossing my arms across my chest and observing him as he worked. My snakes followed the back-and-forth movement of the reed as if in a trance, swaying from side to side to the beat of Perseus' work. He was already back in tune with the machine, his small mistake forgotten. I examined his hands as they moved with practiced precision, his calloused fingers weaving weft threads just as delicately as my mother's slim ones once had. Was he so skilled at this in spite of his practice with the sword, I idly wondered, or perhaps because of it?

"Andromeda?"

I startled in my seat, my gaze whipping towards his face. I flushed, thinking he'd caught me staring, before I was once again reminded that that was impossible: his blind eyes only gazed blankly at the loom, as beautiful and pale as the face of the moon.

I realized he must be checking if I was still near him after I'd been silent for some time. "I'm here," I answered him.

"Have you really never thought about it?"

I frowned, confused. "About what?"

"Leaving this island."

My snakes twisted in waves around my head, placid and calm but ever active, ever moving. An active reminder of why I could never, ever leave this island.

Had I ever thought about leaving Sarpedon and traveling to the great, distant cities of men? Only about a million times. Only every night in my purest, most desperate and impossible dreams. In my dreams, I laughed and danced with other young women on the festival days of Dionysus, carefree and happy and full of joy. I tossed a handful of small golden coins in my hand as I browsed a merchant's shop, picking out delicacies and sweets that I had never even heard of. I sat in the front row of the amphitheater, delighting at the actors' wiles, I entertained a table of rapt eyes with fantastic tales, I swam and ran and held people's hands easily, with no fear of what they might discover if they came too close.

I swallowed back the words. They were not what Perseus wanted to hear, and I had no way of telling him anyway.

"No," I answered instead. "I have no reason to leave. I have everything I need right here."

"Everything except other humans," he said. His hands never ceased their rhythm on the loom, even as he spoke. "People to talk to, to laugh and cry with. I think I would go mad if I had to live my life alone, separated from the rest of the world."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not you," I replied sharply. His words burned, crawling under my skin like ants. "I'm perfectly happy with my life. While you have to fight for corrupt and evil kings against your will, while you have to witness all of the horrors men are capable of inflicting upon each other, I am free from it. I would rather be alone than live in that world."

He was silent for a minute after that, only the soft clicking sound of the loom filling the air between us.

"I understand what you mean," he spoke at last. "The world outside of this island is full of horrors, as you said. War and bloodshed and vengeance taint everything men touch. But horror is only one part of it. There is so much more than that, so much that I can hardly even know how to begin describing it to you." He paused. "What do you know of Argos?"

"It's one of the most ancient cities in the mortal world," I said, remembering with perfect clarity the scrolls and books I had read over and over again. "Sacred to the goddess Hera and blessed by her with unusual fertility and trade. The first king of Argos was-"

"That's the history," Perseus cut me off. "But do you know what the city is actually like? What the air smells like, how it feels to stroll between the columns of the agora and hear the sounds of the marketplace? The sound of the first summer rainfall upon the stone streets and alleys?" He shook his head. "That is what it means to know a place."

I looked away from him, my chest tight with the wistful feeling his words had drawn up. "No," I said shortly. "I don't know those things." I stared at the even rows of crisscrossed thread upon the loom, tracing the pattern with my eyes as if it would distract me from the painful ache in my chest. It only slightly worked.

"You should come with us, when the ship leaves to return to Argos," he said. "If you feel the same after you've seen the city, you can always return to the island."

I closed my eyes shut tight, clenching my hands into fists at my side. He means well, I told myself. He has no idea that you can never go to Argos, or any other city of mortals. It's only benign ignorance. And yet the offer felt cruel, falling onto me like a pile of heavy stones.

"We'll see," I said, my voice nearly cracking over the words. I quickly spoke to change the topic, before he could press me more on the reason for my isolation. Perseus may not have been able to see me, but I doubted I would be able to hide it if I broke into tears. "Tell me about Argos, then," I countered. "When I asked you before, you said you fought for Polydectes. If I remember correctly, you named him as the king of Seriphos, not of Argos. Why do you speak of it so highly if it isn't the city you fight for?"

His hands faltered slightly on the loom. He cursed, correcting the mistake and continuing once more. His expression soured into a scowl. "You have a sharp memory."

"I pride myself on it." I leaned forward. "Will you answer my question, or avoid it once again?"

His frown deepened. I thought he might ignore me or change the subject once more, but he only tightened his jaw and inhaled deeply before speaking. "I was born in Argos," he said. "I grew up there. I fight for Seriphos because of my mother."

I waited patiently when he hesitated to say more, my interest piqued. He wove several more rows of linen, his focus absorbed in the task, before he decided to continue.

"My mother is the daughter of Acrisius, King of Argos. My grandfather had no sons, and so I was raised as prince of Argos, my grandfather's heir." His expression darkened. "Until he received a prophecy from an oracle. It told him he was destined to be killed by his grandson. I was his only grandson, and he quickly came to fear me and the prophecy's words. He dared not kill a son of Zeus and anger the gods. And so my mother and I were cast out of Argos, exiled from the city."

"How old were you?" I interrupted.

"Fourteen." He narrowed his eyes into space. "Old enough to feel resentment. Old enough to rage against our unjust fate." Ever the way of the gods, I thought to myself, observing the old anger glinting in Perseus' eyes. Always it is the innocent who are punished.

"We were taken in by Polydectes, King of Seriphos," he went on. "At first, we were just grateful to him for giving us shelter and protection. He put on a gracious front, treated us like the royalty we were in spite of our exile." He spoke with drops of irony coloring his voice. "He only showed his real face a year later, when he revealed his true intentions. He demanded my mother's hand in marriage, saying she owed it to him for everything he had done for us. Even though she was an exiled princess, my grandfather still remained without any male heirs. Polydectes saw it as a golden opportunity: any son he had with my mother would give him a claim to the throne of Argos, king of cities."

"My mother refused him. She had no interest in being used as a pawn in men's wars and would never consent to marry such a fraud." He clenched his jaw, his rhythm on the loom faltering for a moment. "He imprisoned her in the palace, saying that she must agree to marry him if she ever wants to be released. It is only because my father is Zeus that he fears forcing her into the arrangement. Instead he hoped to threaten her with my life." He shook his head. "He doesn't know my mother. She is a proud woman above anything else. She would never agree to marry him, not even if my life hung in the balance."

I bristled at the description of Polydectes' shameless cruelty. How could such a man be a king? It defied reason and outraged me.

"You weren't imprisoned as well?" I prodded.

"No," he replied. "I was a weak stateless prince with no army, no strength, and no one to support me except my captive mother. I could do nothing except obey his orders. He made me a soldier in his army, always making sure I would be in the thick of battle. Part of it was to attempt to threaten my mother, but I think he mostly just wanted me dead without committing the crime of killing me himself." He made a derisive noise. "Well, he couldn't get me killed. I got stronger, survived, and continued to fight for him all these years. I won't ever allow him to get what he wants."

"But your mother," I said. I couldn't stop picturing that poor, proud woman, sitting tall and undaunted behind a locked iron door. "How will you get her out?"

"Medusa."

I froze. I dared not speak immediately, in fear that the shaking of my voice would give me away. "What?" I managed, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"The oracle delivered another prophecy," He said. "Whosoever could deliver the head of Medusa to the temple of Athena in Dodona would be showered with fortune and blessings from the gods. They will be granted victory in battles and success in their rule. The prophecy was too great a temptation for either king to resist, even if killing Medusa is an impossible task."

I focused on steadying my breathing, clasping my hands together to keep them from shaking. This answered many of my questions, but I wished desperately to once more be under the blanket of ignorance. Outside of my island, a prophecy granted untold rewards and blessings in exchange for my death. My stomach dropped out from under me, my snakes curled close to my head as fear rippled through them.

Prophecies were not things to be dismissed lightly. They were messages directly from the gods, rare insights of Fate itself. And they were never, ever wrong.

There was no point now in making a plan to deter Perseus' men, attempting to defend myself here. My death was already assured.

Perseus was oblivious to my devastation, unable to see my shaking, my wide eyed expression of terror. He went on with his story.

"Before we left on the expedition to Medusa's island, Polydectes made a deal with me. If I ensured that we brought Medusa's head to him, he would release my mother and let us go. He said he would already have all the fortune of the gods and would no longer need her to achieve his glory."

There was a dull ringing noise in my skull. I felt distant, as if my mind were miles away from this seat, this chamber, this island. The irony was undeniable. Perseus had a mission to kill me, but I couldn't reveal anything. Not to the one person I had to talk to, for however brief a time it was.

"And you believe him?" I asked numbly. "You believe he'll keep his word if you bring him Medusa's head?"

"I have no choice," he said, his voice low and grim. "There's nothing else I can do. I've prayed to my father over and over for help, for some way to free her but he's said nothing. I can't rely on him or any of the other gods to help me. My mother only has me to count on, and I can't let her down."

I understood how it felt to have no choice, no freedom. Perseus' mother was trapped just as I was, only she had a chance to be free once more. I looked at his eyes as he continued to work the loom, the intensity of the mingled pain and hope there as he spoke of his mother, the determination in his voice. I felt a painful tug in my chest. If my mother was alive, I would do anything in my power to save her from such a fate.

I could think of no words of comfort or encouragement to say in response to Perseus' tale, so I spoke what was at the forefront of my mind. "I miss my mother, too."

His hands slowed on the loom, his gaze darting toward my direction. "How did she die?"

"She became sick." My voice was tight. Memories of those days came back to me as I spoke of it, sharp and agonizing, but I pushed forward. "It happened quickly. She grew very weak and had a horrible fever. A couple weeks later, she died."

"It means little, but I'm sorry," he said.

"Thank you."

"What's something you miss?" he asked.

I missed her laugh, that musical sound that used to fill these empty stone walls, her smile that always reached her eyes. Even when she cried and shouted at me to leave her alone, she would always wrap her arms around me tight afterward and tell me how sorry she was. But I didn't want to share any of those things with Perseus. They felt like secrets between me and my mother, ones I didn't want to share with anyone else even after she was gone.

"She used to sing to me," I said instead. "I miss that."

"Was she a good singer?"

I allowed myself a small smile. "Horrible," I said. "The muses would have wailed to hear her attempt at music. But even when it was bad, the joy in her voice was infectious."

He let out a short laugh. My smile broadened too.

"Can you sing something?"

I blinked. "Right now?"

A grin was plastered onto his features, his blind eyes bright. "I'm curious," he said. "If the daughter's voice will be as bad as her mother's."

"I have a fine voice," I said defensively, rolling my eyes.

He merely arched a brow, waiting expectantly.

I quickly relented. I took a deep breath and began to sing.

We didn't talk again after that. I continued to sing, moving through different songs my mother had taught me, and he continued to weave, the rattling of the loom like an instrument accompanying me. Hours must have passed, but it felt like nothing to me.

I had told Perseus I wanted the peace of solitude, but I had never felt more at peace than I did in that moment, sitting by his side and singing to the open air.