Chapter Text
He had angered the gods. He had called them names, cursed them, asked to be killed along with his family and not live longer than a day more as he was mortal.
But the gods didn’t listen. They were far too patient with him as for two days and two nights Simon prayed by their ashes, mostly pushed by his sense of devotion than his grief. And yet that feeling tugging in his chest, a creature on his own who wanted to escape through his throat and his eyes, whispering in his consciousness that he was worthless and that in death he would have been more useful. He, for two days and two nights, waited— meaninglessly— and hoped that his family would come back, that he was not on this earth alone. That he was not worthless to begin with. Where his brother would create life, his own little child, his nephew and where his wife was diligent and calm, raising the kid and waiting for her second child already he was yet again worthless in comparison. Just like his father said time and time again, every time he made a mistake, he was worthless, where his brother was better than him, where his own mother looked at him as if she never wanted to birth him in the first place.
And he didn’t know if he felt like her— never wanting to be born in the first place— or if the gods could at least save him the suffering— and die there, whether in pain or in anger, he wanted to die or to never be born.
And on the third night the curse fell upon him, Zeus had had enough of his cries and whimpers, the same ones of a beaten dog, and decided to let him die. Rain and thunder rushed over his head, hitting him as fast as it could, lighting stayed hidden behind the clouds, until it creeped closer and closer to his village. He watched in desperation as the sky fell upon him, a bright light coming from his chest up to the sky.
Time slowed, the gods being cruel to him was nothing new to him, but this was the last thing he would have to live through, right? No more pain afterwards. Just the realm of the dead, the Hades to wait in for eternity. He wanted to die. Death would have freed him. All his holes shattered as he saw an enormous figure fall down from the sky, he soar and her shield described in many legends he had heard from the people in his village. A woman with fair skin and wise eyes, long hair, an owl landing on her shoulder right after her, her bronze spear and shield reflecting the light with which Simon was hit.
He played to her in that moment, to kill him, but he words echoed across the land for a moment as she lowered her hands and positioned them on top of his eyes.
«You ruined the Gods’ honour, these are Their gifts,» her voice was somehow both gods clear in the rain and loud enough to make the earth shake, but Simon didn't manage to ask anything before her hands fell back to rest on top of her shield and waited for his reaction.
«Your curse will be unbreakable.» Her voice was harsh, almost painful to listen to, making his bones crumble under her stern eyes.
Her shield was angled just right to let Simon see his own stern in the intricately decorated surface. And he expected anything.
Simon saw something horrifying.
His hair, previously long to his shoulders and dark blonde, wavy like the ocean waves was now green and long, or worse, was the bodies of countless thin snakes that hissed around his ears and shoulders, trying to hide from the slow and now rare rain under one another, hiding when they crashed against each other. His eyes weren't light brown and lively, but so black the darkness of the shadows seemed light in comparison, the light reflecting from them— more red— highlighted his pupils, now small and similar to the ones of the snake. Where his skin was pink and soft before it was now almost like marble, pale white and lifeless.
Simon wanted to scream, to fight against this, to scream at Atena, telling her that she was wrong, that he had the right to be in anger with the gods themselves, but his own sight stopped him.
He was a monster.
A creature made of anger and fear, his own looks now permanently disfigured into an ugly creature. A monster like the ones in the legends he loved hearing about when he was younger, for how brave the heroes were. Now he was… Not him.
He was a monster shaped by anger and repulsion, by sadness and cruelty, with sharp edges and cold eyes. Nothing about him resembled him. She his skin was fair but smooth now it was hard and sickly pale. Where his blonde hair got tangled by the wrong and the gentle hand of his mother now it was tangling itself, alive.
Fuck, he had snakes on his head, wasn't that fucked up? The gods took away all his beauty, all his good traits, everything out of him.
Just a fast as the goddess herself had fallen down to earth from the Olympus, with the owl on his shoulder staying back for a few moments longer, the rain returned to its normal pace, hammering the ruins of his house and chilling him down, now that he had realised lighting had struck him a moment earlier— too distracted by the godly appearance in front of him— to notice the new lines adorning his body, from his heart, travelling down his chest and arms.
He was struck by lightning. He should have died. He wanted to die. But the gods loved these sick punishments, watching the monsters live their worst nightmare, disfigured and distrusted.
He felt every droplet of water on his skin bouncing off almost immediately, somehow leaving only his clothes soaked, but his body dry. It was bad, the fabric starched to his skin and he couldn't even shove it off of himself.
His body burned like fire, every limb hurt, his fingers could barely move from where they were stuck to his palms and the cold bodies of the snakes burned where they touched and locked his shoulders.
He tried to get up, but his legs felt heavy and numb. He waited under the rain, listening to the thunderstorm and waiting until his body decided to move. Why couldn't he move? Had the gods been laughing at him? Were they judging from the Olympus as he struggled? The snakes in his head had called down, now only using their tongues to go near his face and study him the same way he was studying them.
For some reason none of the villages approached him. He really didn't see any of them. Did they abandon him to his monstrous appearance too?
Hours later, when the night fell over the village all over again, for the third night he mourned his family, and finally, as Aurora— the gold and pink fingered goddess— guided her chariot— dragged by her horses— he was finally able to get up, his body now in his control again.
It took him only that morning to escalate things to the worst. The first person he encountered turned to stone.
He was just asking for help
He stayed there for a few seconds, baffled by what had happened. He took his cheek in his palm and it was stone cold. Not alive anymore. That person, still as a statue, now that their skin has turned to stone, had attracted many more people on that street. And the more people came over and looked at Simon, and the more he looked back at them, the faster the crowd was turning to stone. He didn't know why, as he took a few steps back at each new person he saw, scared that they would turn into stone too. His fear ran down his bones, cooling down his body and flowing in his veins like ice, slowing him down and making every single one of his movements sloppier as each moment passed. The crowd became mostly stone and when he fell back on his own ankles he heard the first screams of anger. Had he managed to scare all the villagers and anger them all?
He didn't want to know, he didn't want to see more stone, he didn't want to see more people turn into stone.
He had accidentally turned to stone his village that day. Families ruined by his curse, swearing in the name of their ancestors and the gods that they will get their revenge and kill that monster with their own hands.
❖
He ran away.
He ran and ran and ran until his legs couldn't hold him anymore, having ran through valleys and mountains constantly for days without eating or drinking anything. He ran fueled by his fear and terror, for the way he looked, for his family, that he lost in the fire, for an unknown feeling in his chest, expanding and contracting, until he felt tears in his eyes and his lips shaking. Why did he run? Because he didn't know how to express that instinct that kept screaming at him, that kept pushing him up and down the mountains until he couldn't run anymore.
Until he passed out.
When he woke up he was being approached by a merchant, judging by his clothes. The first thing that he felt was how cold he felt. He used what little energy he thought he had and got up, trying to avoid being touched by the man, feeling his stomach clench over nothing and his limbs heavy. Who was this man? Why was he helping him?
«Young lad, how did you fall asleep on the road?» the man asked, not looking directly at him but around, as if he was searching for an animal that might have been hidden in the nearby forest or for someone to help.
Simon brought a hand to his face, trying to cover his eyes.
«I…» Simon tried to speak, his throat dry and tight. He looked at the man in front of him, probably around his thirties and with heavy wool clothing. He tried to ask for some water since his throat felt like it was being attacked by an otherworldly fire, but he could barely speak. The man came closer— understanding his grunts— and took from his belt a goatskin to drink water from and pressed the entrance to his lips. A small sip of water made his throat burn, but after a few gulps he was eager for more. Simon drank until he felt the skin light in his hands and his lungs burning. Then breathed in and out a few times, trying to think of what to say to this man, or how he could thank him.
«What happened young man?» The merchant asked, his voice low but sweet on him.
Simon took a few moments to think of what he had to say. What should he have said? His family burning in his house while no one helped them? The gods punishing him? He took a shaky breath in and when he raised his head up to speak to the man he turned to stone the second they looked at each other. He blinked a few times, trying
He felt his own hands tighten around the goatskin
It wasn't a nightmare.
It was all true.
His parents, his brother, his nephew, his house, burned and only ashes now. The villagers, the gods, the…
His hair. He touched his head, searching for his hair, but was met with tens of snakes, dark green and full of teeth, covered barely by a hood. When did he get a hood?
Did someone cover him when he passed out?
He looked up at the man— now turned to stone— and touched his extended arm. It was just cold stone under his fingers.
He started shivering, feeling his skin cold, too cold, the complete opposite of a few days earlier after being hit by lightning. Pike ice was cooling his blood, his guts wrecked from his emotions and his skin face wet with tears that mushed down all he was able to see into blobs and shapes.
What was wrong with him? He tried to clean his eyes with the back of his hand, his movements choppy and uncoordinated as he raised his hand to his face.
He pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes and stayed like that for a long time, not even thinking, just waiting for something that would never come. After too long he opened his eyes and looked around, probably hoping— uselessly— that someone would come and help him, and not turn to stone.
Then he noticed, behind the man a small carriage, abundantly full with simple yet graceful and delicate vases and other pottery. The man was travelling alone, except for the mule dragging the carriage, that was now waiting in the middle of the road. He got closer to the carriage and looked at all the stuff that there was. He took one of the simple sheep wools from between the bigger vases that kept them from hitting each other on rougher terrains. It was barely big enough to cover his torso, or maybe his head, but he stole it. He looked at the rest of the objects and took a knife hidden in a low and large vase and an additional heavy wool coat. Too scared to take anything else from the carriage or even look at the man for much longer, he walked away, following the direction the man was from.
❖
He ran away, scared by the effects of his own appearance and how every time he locked eyes with someone their life ended. They turned to stone.
It took him a few weeks, spent eating wild fruits and nuts he found along the way and avoiding as much as possible other people to reach a place far enough that he knew no one would look for him. But there were consequences to his journey.
But just in a few days he had accidentally turned to stone tens of people, all by accident. He never wanted to turn someone to stone voluntarily, and it scared him to death every time he tried approaching someone only to be met with an horrified expression and hollow stone eyes.
He had learned how it happened though. Every time he looked at someone they wouldn't turn, so it was the opposite. Every time someone looked at him— specifically in the eyes— they would turn to stone, terrorised by the view of the monster in front of them. Every person turned to stone had an expression of fear and disgust carved into their face for eternity, and Simon was the cause of it.
He settled down up on a mountain months later, near a small lake, not too far away from a village, in case he needed tools of some kind, but he had learned that his new body could withstand days without food or water and his skin was much harder to break. His first few days on the mountain were spent just searching for a flat plane to settle in, his plan was just to live alone. He found a cave first, not far away from a source of water and sheltered from the elements. He was wary of the rocks covering him at first, but afterwards, except for a few spiders and probably other insects, there weren't any dangerous animals inside.
Moths went by, living in that cave, trying not to die every night against the wild animals in the mountains, but then he started working on a place for himself in a little flat surface he found up from the lake. He needed tools, and he was able to break a rock to be sharp and use it, but it was inefficient to get wood and other materials that way. He had used the sheep wool to cover his eyes, similar to how a blind person would do if their eyes were too damaged and would make other people uncomfortable. He covered himself with the coat, trying to seem as anonymous as possible. He quickly learned to walk to the village with his snakes tied in a tight rope to keep them from hissing and covered so they wouldn't move under his hood, walking around with a long stick that helped him not fall over.
He worked diligently, trying to make his place conformable for himself first and a few years later he had built a small house out of the branches and trees that grew on the mountain. And from there his life quickly grew monotonous.
He discovered that he actually liked it this way, working on hunting along with his snakes and finding edible plants to eat every once in a while. Cutting branches to create easier to navigate paths, cleaning the leaves from around his house to make space for a garden, planting some berries and other fruit seeds waiting for his sweet reward every summer. Mapping down where most fruit trees were, memorising the mountain like the palm of his hand, travelling using shortcuts he could easily build, it all came natural to him, from a simple life in a village to his life up in the mountains. He didn’t… mind.
However with his snakes… Well, they didn't hate him, but they surely didn't love him either for the first few years. There was a war between them, both with their own desires and will— surprisingly. He hunted, he let the snakes eat the skin and sometimes the orgasms of the animals he had learned to kill with his own hands but they would also tangle often and he hated how it hurt for him too. The snakes didn't like him when he tried to touch them, so he lived with his head like that, a mass of many thin and long creatures that sometimes bit his ears out of pure hatred for him. At night he used the sheep's wool to let his snakes rest on it and to sleep more comfortably. He had learned to be careful every time he wanted to rest his head somewhere since he didn’t want to hurt them. But he had also learned to use the snakes to his advantage. For some reason when he closed his eyes he could “see” through the snakes’ eyes and use it to his advantage when hunting for food— and more rarely— avoiding being the hunted one.
With the seasons dragging themselves slowly one over the other— as Demetra fell back into her depression and got her daughter back each year— he learned to live in his new form.
Sure- it was repetitive- sure- upgrading and keeping in good conditions his house was tiring, but what elese could he do? He was…
Alone.
After years of hating his own looks, life seemed to become peaceful again, he had built his house with branches and stones again and again after the harsher thunderstorms, but he never felt like thise were directed at him. After all, he didn't care about the gods anymore. What they had done to him was cruel, he did recognize that, but he couldn't frown for the rest of his life. A lucky spring he was able to get another knife, or rather one of his snakes had escaped the tap of his thick rope and had stolen a knife. He didn't know when or where, but he started using that knife to cut diligently down trees, to use the bark to carry his tools and the trunk to strengthen the walls of his— now called this way out of joy rather than sadness— home.
He could use the trunks to build sturdier walls, the branches to fill the gaps from where the cold air could rush inside, he used a mixture of earth and other types of soil to hold his structure tighter and the small branches to build his roof.
In the years his home was perfectioned, the more materials he was able to exchange for meat or other foods he could get in the forest up in the mountains, the better he could live.
So he lived.
For decades.
His body was not aging as it should have— the mountain the same every year— but not aging the way it should have. When he was supposed to be old and wrinkly, considered elderly and with memory problems he found himself to look barely ten years older.
He didn't realise sooner as he avoided his reflection at all costs. Or maybe he didnt feel the need to watch his own figure reflected somewhere. No matter how much he knew he was a monster— how much he felt like one— he was scared of his own image. Even after accepting it as his nature.