Heading out on his own to search for the monster Athena had created, Phobos never found it. The memory of his first impression of Medusa - just a girl with scales for skin - was forever etched into his mind along with the (short-lived) disappointment upon his discovery. He'd never feared her - feared for her sometimes even though he'd never admitted it out loud, not even to his twin - and he never understood the hatred and trepidation that was brought before her.
She found his hand and pulled and he let himself be pulled into the dark. It felt foreign, that cool slender hand in his, yet familiar. His other hand tightened its grip on the brim of his hat.
"Most of them aren't," Phobos replied softly, holding impossibly still. The air smelt like her. "But they contain kernels of truth and if even one of those mortals believes what I tell them, then nobody will care about what really happened. They pay for entertainment, not revelation."