Barrow Fields i need not one thing more

there was a crystalline break of something glasslike within mona at the continued barbing of the sea-cow; internally, the young mayfair boiled with a fair cauldron's weight of growing anger and pain from a wound continued to be torn open. so easy it would be to show her strife to the other, to give vent to the frustrated tears that threatened to give her away with their acrimonious salt.
but as was the birthright of her clan, mona had been born with a deep and faultline pride. tempered by her youth, stoked by the exhaustion of all she had undergone since departing her parents, the girl straightened and turned her murkwater eyes upon the harridan.
"the same way you regret not fucking my father," mona floated on pointed tones. it was of course a guess; zeus aiming thunder-bolts at arrogant mortals below, not knowing if they struck their mark. and she was no god, only a grieving girl discovering thorns beneath her tongue.