(ACT 01) Scarred

“Some of the greatest battles will be fought within the silent chambers of your own soul.”

—Ezra Taft Benson

. . .

PROSERPINA:

She… he… they had almost done it...

Just like that she had nearly allowed him to—Proserpina gritted her teeth, willing herself to stop thinking and for gods’ sake, stop shaking.

One misstep had nearly cost Proserpina her father's favor. Because no matter how much everyone around her seems to think so, no matter what her own father or his wife says to her, Hades has no love for his daughter truly.

At least, not the type of care that dad... no. Stop, just stop, remember. Remember Hades is your father—William's father—she once had.

She had been so young back then and it had been so long that the memories feels like they belonged to another person, in another life and maybe they did... but if she thinks hard enough, if she was courageous and dared enough to sink into memories that were long since passed and buried, far beneath the mask of the goddess Proserpina, it was still there.

Of a time when her family was still free and happy

Of a time when there were still no prying eyes and expectations of her (not yet. Not yet) when everything was alright with the world of a child that knew not of gods and monsters.

Warm, sweet, real—gods knows how her heart simply throbs painfully thinking about the mortal man who had loved her more than any god will. The ‘bear hugs’ that made her feel safe and protected, the sound of gentle singing by her bedside that never failed to give her a good night's rest when dreams of blood and shadows proved too much for a child... his laughter, sweets that he'd put in places he was so sure she'll find, the scent of dark chocolate (Win, you take care of your baby brother, okay?) what would Proserpina give just to go back in time to have one more moment with him again.

While Hades... he’s a god…

Proserpina may have been his flesh and blood.

And yet, the sad truth is, she may as well be his slave at the end of the day despite her status as a divine goddess of the underworld and as a princess but–

(But that god merely needed her as a replacement, a substitute for a fading death god despite his insistence that she is going to be his heir–)

…and gods are cruel.

Proserpina closed her eyes for a moment and shakily took in a deep breath, already aware, already content with the knowledge she had known ever since no matter how hurtful.

...it was the truth, anyway.

By the end of the day, the goddess of shadows was nothing more but a powerful puppet to strike vengeance against anyone that infuriated Hades.

She was nothing more than what she ruled.

A pretty bauble at best.

A scapegoat at worst.

He killed my m–

Proserpina ruthlessly squashed down those thoughts before they could form, before it could go down a path she refused to acknowledge, commanding herself to start focusing on the now.

The clock cannot be turned.

Crying for a dead man won't get her out of this.

So why...?

Proserpina knew the consequences when she swore that night, when she (I told you to stop stop thinking about it) knew what will happen... so why is her traitorous body still aching for more? Was she seriously that desperate, too starved for warmth and touch that she was drawn like a moth to the flames?

It's just lust, she knows this. She is not born yesterday. Purely physical normal lust… but it was one that she cannot afford. Not now.

Not ever.

Allowing this werewolf to bed her means breaking her vow to Hades… if she lost her immortality, as well as her divine right and the safety of the underworld—she and her brother will be no better than sitting ducks the moment Roman shows up and try to take her again.

Because he will.

(Forget about Roman, a bunch of other monsters would still want her dead–)

To this day, just thinking about what he did makes her want to weep, to crawl and hide to the deepest, darkest corner of her father's kingdom and never come out.

Even Tartarus would seem like paradise.

The terror Proserpina had felt must have been reflected in her eyes so vividly because whatever Alastor saw in her expression had him backing away slowly with his palms raised, like he was calming a bristling animal than speaking to a feared goddess of the underworld.

“Please, my love,” Alastor said, his voice was soft, gentle and a part of her suddenly wanted to pull at her hair and never stop screaming don't you dare, DON’T CALL ME THAT!

But the look in his eyes of warm brown that reminded her of rich, dark chocolates was so unlike Roman’s. While Roman’s eyes had always been so condescending, Alastor looked far too worried, too sincere and the gentility of his gaze had her sobering a fraction.

“There’s no need to be afraid of me,” he was saying, “You've got nothing to fear from me, I swear. I promise I will never hurt you–”

Proserpina knew her eyes were glowing, heart racing with dread as the shadows danced around her, agitated and terrified, “I… I'm not afraid of you!”

But a soft voice that eerily sounds too much like Thanatos or was it Hades or Roman? They are all beginning to sound the same to her now as they laughed in the back of her mind and sneered at her, calling her a liar.

Because I… I am afraid... I'm terrified of that thing, more than I feared my father… I’m still afraid of him. Of being defiled and devoured back in his corpse-ridden lair just for his sick pleasure over and over and over and over again please help me don’t make me go back I don’t want to go back–

Bile suddenly rose in the back of her throat as tears steadily gathered in the corner of her eyes, blurring the sight of the werewolf—Alastor—standing in front of her, warping the image of him into a tall, smiling monster with dark hair and eyes the color of blood and fire that continued to haunt her.

‘My love, won’t you come back to me?’

Proserpina quickly placed a hand on her mouth as she finally let out a dry, wrenching sob lest she actually threw up at the sing-song voice calling her by another name that was not even her’s.

Amara amara amara amara

Was she even using her real name right now?

Was she not just using her step-mother’s name all along, deluding herself that it was her’s when in truth she had been no better than incorporeal shadows?

Was this even real?

“Winters please, you’re scaring me. Please, just… just listen to me. I didn’t really mean to upset you, okay? I'm... I'm sorry. Hey… Winters?”

She shook her head at hearing her name her real name being called, still a bit dazed, her self-awareness gradually returning from something she’d rather not dwell on. Alastor’s voice was grounding her back to reality just as it had done earlier. Proserpina had no idea what to make of that.

“Look, I don’t want to upset you more than you already are… if you want to leave, fine. I’m not going to stop you again,” Alastor was saying, looking reluctant but resigned with his own words.

She gulped, “But?”

There’s a catch is there?

There’s always a catch.

Alastor straightened, as though steeling himself but no matter how firm his voice was, his words still sounded like a desperate plea, “Next time, I want to talk to you. For real, no fights, no messing around. Three days from now, come meet me here again.”

The fact that he was still willing to offer his time for another chance to speak, to be in her company even after what happened completely astounded her.

What kind of game is he playing at...?

Alastor had told her that she wasn’t his mate, had denied it when she specifically asked him, but Proserpina thought he had lied since his demeanor towards her had been so fierce, so insistent. But now… now, she began to have hoped that he wasn’t lying after all because otherwise Alastor would have marked and mated her while she was still in his grasp.

With or without her consent.

Such a thing should have bothered or amused her... but the mere idea of her somehow allowing it even in just her deepest imaginations had served to frighten her even more.

No, she decided.

That will never happen.

She will not allow it to go that far.

“…very well,” she lied.