What is the moon without the sun?
For so long her heart has wept. She is nothing but debris, abandoned, unwanted, undesired by the one thing that had given her life reason. Jupiter is her everything; she is her reason, her song, her sun, and life without her is unbearably empty. Medusa has wandered so far that the pads of her feet are raw and bloody, her legs trembling as she calls constantly for her russet love. She wails through the night, a lost soul looking once more for her anchor.
She wants the paint to go away. Jupiter gave her reason. Jupiter made her heart sing, made her come alive. Jupiter took her from nothing but a useless whore, and gave her a purpose beyond her painful, twisted past. And yet now, now she has been left, abandoned just like her mother had. Except, this is worse; her mother had at least at a purpose, and Medusa could only imagine that Jupiter had given up on her and moved away.
Eventually her hind legs collapse, eyes closing bitterly as she cannot find the strength to sob anymore. She is the moon, an eternal night, in constant search for her beautiful sun. She hates that she cannot think of anything else, hates that there are no distractions for her here.

The man is sick. His chest expands, collapses, and expands again with a hot and ragged breath. The spring sun comforted him when the illness began, but now his body sweats beneath it. Yet in shade he trembles. Whatever fat stores his wiry body once had are now gone. The ridges of a great spine are pressed taut against black skin. A thinned and coarse pelt is lain without loosely upon that corpse. He has isolated himself within these caves, desiring not to spread the illness. He has looked upon the face of those somber walls for so long that he believes he himself is part of that darkness and he has considered dying within that belonging. Has nearly succumbed to it. But a familiar scent causes his emaciated crown to rise, cheeks sharp against his large face and his head much too large, too heavy for his thin neck. How has she not noticed me? The query a moment of clarity in his fogged mind. Medusa? his voice hollow but just audible in the echo of their confined space. He makes an attempt to rise but his forelimbs quake. He sits up upon his shoulders instead with the rest of his body lain heavily upon the ground behind him.

She does not recognize the approach of a frame until she sees the man in front of her. Moon-colored eyes land upon him, heavy lashes blinking as she places a name to the face. Deteste. Perhaps if she had not recognized him she would have rose to her feet and tries to seduce him, to get him to fuck away the pain. It is the only coping mechanism she has, and yet her last encounter with Deteste has made her more irritated with him than willing to fuck him, quite an accomplishment considering the woman calls herself a harlot.
Childishly, she turns from him. ?Let me rot,? she tells him. Seeing his face reminds her of Jupiter?s. Seeing his face makes her feel so terribly broken. She wants to ask if he knows what happened, if he knows where she can find her lovely vixen, because right now she feels so broken. And yet, she does not, because she fears he bares the worst sort of news.

She fears he bares news of a grave, and with that she would be nothing.