Persephone's Point of View
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"Ah, sweetheart," Headmaster Samuel spoke softly, his voice a deep, raspy murmur that carried an air of calm authority. It was the kind of voice that could command a room, yet now, it was tempered with gentleness. The weight of his tone wasn't lost on me, and for a fleeting moment, I almost hated him for it—for the way he made me feel seen and small all at once.
"I made the tattoo," I said quickly, the words tumbling out of me before they could even begin to try comforting me. I wasn't here for their soft reassurances, for their carefully chosen words meant to soothe. No amount of comfort would undo the past. Comfort wouldn't change the reality I was living in. And most of all, it wouldn't take away the reasons why I did it.
There was a pause—a heavy, suffocating moment of silence—before Samuel leaned forward slightly, his silver eyes narrowing in thought. "The woman with the snakes in her hair?" he asked, his tone probing but cautious, as if he already knew the answer and was merely waiting for me to confirm it.
"Medusa. Yes," I confirmed, my voice sharper than I intended, the words cutting through the quiet of the room like a blade. I forced myself to look down at my hands, which lay clenched in my lap, trembling just enough to remind me that I was holding on by a thread. The edges of my gloves dug into my palms, the faint pain grounding me in a way their words never could. "It's ironic, isn't it? In the Greek tale, it's Athena who curses her after Poseidon forces himself on her. Medusa was the victim, and yet she's the one turned into a monster. Punished for something that was never her fault. And isn't it even more ironic—cruelly so—that my mother's name was also Athena?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips, unbidden and harsh, ringing hollow in the stillness of the room.
Headmistress Diana tilted her head slightly, her obsidian-black eyes never leaving me. Those eyes, so vast and endless, like the void of space itself, always seemed to hold too much understanding. It was infuriating, how they always saw too much—more than I ever wanted to reveal. "When did you get the tattoo, dear?" she asked, her tone soft and measured, like she was afraid I might shatter if she pushed too hard.
I turned my gaze to her, my expression carefully neutral, a mask I'd perfected over the years. "Two weeks ago," I said flatly. They knew, of course. They always did. Gods weren't exactly the kind to be left out of the loop, but it was almost endearing—almost—how they pretended not to. Like they weren't watching every move I made, every decision, every mistake. Like they didn't already have the answers to the questions they were asking.
"Did your siblings trigger you today, sweetheart?" Samuel's question came gently, his gaze steady and unwavering as it met mine. His eyes, a shade of silver so piercing they seemed to cut through the layers I tried to hide behind, left me feeling raw, exposed.
My jaw tightened as I looked away from them both. My eyes roamed the room instead, seeking something—anything—to focus on. The two of them couldn't have been more different, despite being twins. Samuel, tall and imposing at nearly two meters, with dark skin like the night sky and hair that shimmered silver, was a striking figure of strength and authority. Diana, on the other hand, was shorter, her fair skin smooth and pale, her black hair and eyes a stark contrast that made her seem otherworldly in a way Samuel did not.
Even their clothing reflected their differences. Samuel always wore midnight blue, a color that seemed to bleed into the shadows, while Diana favored dark pink—a color that should have softened her presence but instead only added to the sharp, commanding air she carried. They were opposites in every way that mattered, yet their connection was undeniable—two halves of something infinitely greater, bound by their shared lineage and purpose.
"They said I shouldn't want revenge because it was a fair loss," I began, my voice laced with bitterness, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. I let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking my head as the anger simmered just beneath the surface. "A fair loss. Can you believe that? They said we're even now, that because my mom killed Wrath-Grey, I have no right to hold a grudge. As if what she did wasn't in defense. As if she wasn't trying to protect him—trying to protect my dad."
The words came faster now, each one carrying the weight of my anger and grief. "Wrath-Grey tried to kill him. He nearly succeeded. Those scars on my dad's face? The ones everyone sees but no one talks about? They tell the story. The one that runs across his cheekbones and nose, the one that stretches from his forehead to his jaw—those scars are there because Wrath-Grey tried to take his life. And they have the audacity to call it even?"
Samuel exhaled quietly, his voice calm and steady when he finally spoke. "They weren't there, dear. They don't know the full truth of what happened."
"I know that," I snapped, my voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. I paused, taking a shaky breath before continuing, softer this time. "I know. That's why I brush them off every time they bring it up. But it doesn't change how it makes me feel. Their words—they make me sick. They make me angry. And then—" My hands curled into fists, the leather of my gloves creaking as my nails dug into my palms. "They had the nerve to bring up the childish crush I had on that piece of shite. As if that has anything to do with this. Why can't they see that nothing will ever be the same after what Pride-Niklaus's parents did? After they tried to kill ours and managed to take my mom away?"
"They're trying to live their lives without being consumed by what they've lost," Samuel said, his tone gentle but firm, like he was trying to anchor me in the storm.
Diana nodded, her voice quiet but certain. "They deal with their grief differently than you do, sweetheart. You've always carried more than your share of the weight, and it's made you stronger, but it's also made you harder on yourself."
"I know," I murmured, the words barely audible as they left my lips. My shoulders sagged under the weight of everything—my anger, my guilt, my sorrow. "I know. But it's just... infuriating. Every time we're together, they bring it up, and it feels like it's suffocating me. I love them. You know I do. But I can't even stand being around them because of it. It's too much. I can't fake it. Not with this."
The room fell into a heavy silence once more, the air thick with unspoken words and emotions I couldn't name. My breathing was uneven, ragged, as I tried to hold myself together, but the weight of everything pressed down on me like a thousand invisible chains. I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever truly be free of it. If I could ever find a way to let go of the things that haunted me. Or if they would simply consume me, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.