Even a Gorgon can not always be wrathful, harpy talons outstretched, screeching with splenetic judgement of man.
For when she woke, the snakes were quiet, loosely coiled along the sides of her face.
They slithered and turned gently. Glissading along her temples, murmuring and sighing words of love in their not quite awake reverie.
In some lights, you could see the maiden she once was, all rosiness and anticipation.
But now, she lay in bed, listening to the sussurations of the snakes, luxuriating at the bottom of their pandora's box, warming themselves in the sun.