saving myself from the ruin

She is as miserable as he, perhaps more so, for he will be granted more offspring, and she will not. She will still be a failure to the children she already had, sons who loathed her for her imperfections, and again a whimper slides from her, her muscles returning to their sorrowful quaking. There are no words she can say to comfort him, and she falls into a semblance of silence, clinging to him, knowing that he is hers despite the agreement she has made -- he will never love Medusa, and she finds solace in this. "I love you," she murmurs, pressing her snout to the delicate crease of his lips, pressing her brow to his cheek and breathing deeply, calmed by the familiarity of him. "Show me you love me too," a plea, a whimpering beg on the edge of her lips. Perhaps they won't have more children together, perhaps that time has long passed, but still she feels the need to consummate their love again, to make it real, to prove that she was his and he hers despite the difficult circumstances, that their love would conquer all.