The Greeks had invented tragedy and raised it into an art form. Phobos had witnessed many, sometimes even played a small role in creating one but he'd never been at the centre of one. At least not one that was remembered.
And this one would never be told, either.
Head filled with white noise, he saw Medusa's lips move but didn't hear her words. All he could think of was how he hadn't meant for this to happen, hadn't meant to bring death to the woman who meant more to him than he was willing to admit.
The sand soaked up her blood - so much blood - like a dry sponge. Vacant eyes watched her head - her beautiful head - being shoved into a sack and the next thing he knew was that it was in his arms.
"We're done here," his grandfather said, but all Phobos could focus on was the warm wetness seeping into his sleeves. His feet were rooted to the ground until a sharply hissed 'move it' prompted them to obey. As he followed after Zeus, he kept casting glances over his shoulder, the image of the Gorgon's headless body burning itself into his brain.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the bag in his arms. "I'm so sorry..."