Prologue

Athena’s Sacred Tree Academy–or simply AST Academy to its students–was not only known for its silver-gray uniforms or the logo depicting a large, white owl with an olive branch on its beak but for its topnotch teaching and picturesque school buildings that the students and staff alike enjoy; popular and well-spoken despite the fact that it was still considered as one of the newest academy’s to be built in the country… it only goes to show just how well its reputation precedes itself.

It was an international academy after all; and the academy welcomes anyone with a love for learning no matter what their race, their religion and socioeconomic status with open arms.

The academy was beautiful and its reputation does not disappoint, of that, Proserpina, goddess of shadows, will not deny as she stood in front of the large clear-glass windows in the President’s office overlooking the school’s towering front gates with her arms crossed as she observed the plethora of students in silver-gray uniforms that were milling about in groups, in pairs or sometimes alone as they come in and out–but mostly out, it’s getting late, after all–the skies overhead was a cotton candy pink and a splash of soft orange, casting the office she was in with growing shadows seemingly to dance about around her thanks to the setting sun… or maybe that was just her patience wearing thin.

‘What was taking Athena so long?’

Proserpina had been invited here by the goddess of wisdom herself when she happened to slip out to Demeter some of the issues regarding her younger half-brother’s neglected education, no thanks to a certain leech that must not be named.

And while Proserpina was grateful for Athena’s insistence to have William under her school’s care (it was no issue, Athena personally founded the academy, anyway), she was beginning to grow bored of waiting for the older goddess to come back from her stupid meeting with some of the academy’s higher-ups.

Without any other options left, the newly turned immortal goddess turns away from the large window as she starts to scour through the bookshelf right next to her.

The bookshelf was a dark mahogany, the same material as Athena’s work desk and it was literally as tall as her (and she wasn’t even a short woman), filled with serious-looking books of different colors and sizes but still managing to look well-organized so Proserpina took ample care as she allowed her gloved fingers to brush by the books here and there, silently mulling over which one she will read because she fully intended to get lost in a story to pass the time now… because glaring at her baby brother’s future schoolmates might be considered as a sign of hostility by the older goddess.

And oh, trust me.

You wouldn’t want Athena as an enemy.

Each of the books looked like they are all older than her judging by the smell and the worn pages inside, one page even literally crumbled to ashes in her hands, much to her horror, when she browsed through rather impatiently (she immediately stuffed it in the back of the shelf, half-praying to Hades that Athena will not notice the little blunder) but despite the books’ obvious age, they were all still well-preserved; free from dust and seemingly handled with care and love that only a lover of books could provide.

However, whatever admiration Proserpina had for Athena’s personal book collection immediately went up in flames when she discovered that none of the books in Athena’s office even have titles on their spines, let alone in the book cover.

She can only differentiate them through their sizes and colors so she has to diligently flip through each book’s first few pages to find out what the content of the story were even about.

Proserpina goes through each book on the shelf slowly and mechanically, flips through the pages to try and find… at least something that will catch her interest–there was a story about the origin of soul mates, the concept of rebirth, the rise and fall of Elder Gods, Trojan War–only to no avail.

It seems that most of the books Athena has been more on about history, serious matters than what is to be considered anything appropriate for a light reading.

And don’t get her wrong, Proserpina is fond of reading as much as she is of breathing and any other time she might be interested to tackle any of those topics but right now, she was looking for… well, at least something that will amuse her because she might end up setting the room on hellfire just for the heck because that is how she is so bored out of her mind right now.

So Proserpina moves on to the next row, then the next one, and the next one, on and on until she was literally kneeling like a child on the floor when she finally comes across a book third to the last on the bottom row in between a skinny book and leather bound one; the book was silver-gray, small and light in her hands and the cover seemed to have some sort of glossy material in it as it twinkled when she turned it here and there…

‘Kind of a child’s storybook,’ she noted.

The book was almost as big as her palm and seemed to have pages as what one would expect from a novelette.

She carefully opens it up to the first page–not wanting to have a repeat of another destroyed book because a destroyed book was a crime against humanity, truly heartbreaking–and almost instantly, her eyes gleamed in intrigue at what she sees.

A Grim Fairytale: The Story of Corruption.

Finally, Proserpina thought, sitting down in Athena’s swivel chair, the small book in hand, something interesting.

How curious though, she mused to herself as she moves on to the second page–that there was no author’s name unlike the others, not even the usual Anonymous penname that most of Athena’s books had but there was a preface with a dried blue flower still tucked inside, clearly preserved with care (is that an anemone? She wasn’t sure and she didn’t want to touch it)… oh wait, that was wrong.

This was a dedication.

It goes like this:

‘To my beloved,

Lifetimes may have passed but here, this story remains. It may be left unread, unspoken and unheard of for a very long time… and though kingdoms may rise and fall anew, here it shall stay, and in here, we shall live again in the minds and hearts of those who had never witness a tale that should have never been in the first place.

Here, I write to you, to my love that shall never be again. Here, I write to you, so you will live again, if in nothing else but memories of mine and others.

…before I forget.

Then maybe, maybe I shall be forgiven.’

The next words are smudged, incomprehensible.

“Wait a minute,” Proserpina glanced at the other books then at the one in her hands, suddenly feeling an odd chill running down her spine, “Thanatos… is this story for real?”

The god of death was curiously silent for a few painstaking moments and when Proserpina was about to give up, thinking that he was not going to answer, his voice came out as a sigh… like a mournful whisper.

‘…Most stories are,’

Proserpina stares at the word ‘beloved’.

The ink looked like it had been smeared.

Like a teardrop has fallen and stained the page.

“Whoever this was, this… beloved,” the young goddess finally deigns to say, when she was certain that her voice will come out steady, gloved fingers gently brushing over the faded word, knowing the words to be the truth before they even passed her lips, “…they certainly must be gone a long time ago.”

* * * * *

‘To my beloved,

Lifetimes may have passed but here, this story remains. It may be left unread, unspoken and unheard of for a very long time… and though kingdoms may rise and fall anew, here it shall stay, and in here, we shall live again in the minds and hearts of those who had never witness a tale that should have never been in the first place.

Here, I write to you, to my love that shall never be again. Here, I write to you, so you will live again, if in nothing else but memories of mine and others.

…before I forget.

Then maybe, maybe I shall be forgiven.’

This story of yours and mine, I pray to be rewritten.

The story that begins here.

Once upon a time, in a land that was said to be ravaged by ice and snow for seven months straight, there was once a kingdom in the north that was now no more. And in this kingdom of ice and snow, there was once a queen named Eleanor.

Now, this Queen was said to be the fairest in all the land... with a hair that was the shade of morning dawn and eyes of the clearest, bluest summer skies.

And this spectacularly harsh winter, she and her beloved husband, King Arion, were expecting their first child. They were waiting ever since for this joyous moment, for their child to be brought to this world, they had spent months planning and preparing a grandiose celebration in the wake of the child's birth, one that would be befitting for the next King or Queen that will govern and protect the land and its people.

But it so happens, one gray morning, while the beautiful Queen was taking one of her daily walks within her maze-like garden that was filled with the loveliest of flowers when the weather is much agreeable, the pregnant, beautiful Queen suddenly happened to caught sight of a blooming deep, red rose. How it had managed to survive and bloom in this unforgiving time of the year is surely beyond her! Nonetheless, she still approached it, captivated by the sheer beauty of the rose.

‘Oh,’ she had thought, smiling prettily and without thinking, she reached out to grasp the chosen flower, ‘How lovely!’

Just as the Queen's delicate fingers made contact with the stem, intending to pull it, she let out a startled gasp, releasing it just as quickly as pain pricked and bloomed, and a trickle of red ever so slowly poured.

Thorns!

Pale and hurt, the Queen can only stare in mute horror as a droplet of blood from her finger fell on the snow-covered ground like a teardrop from the winter heavens.

She blinked slowly, her mouth opening briefly in awe as she stared, inching closer towards the offending flower, her shadow casting over the ground like a sudden blanket of darkness–like the seemingly never-ending night sky encasing the very lands she and her husband ruled because the pristine white snow and the stark red blood under her shadow made such a pleasing combination to her eye, it was quite a curious sight to see that the Queen found herself completely enthralled.

It looked like a masterpiece!

She chuckled then, at her own clumsiness, at the pretty sight of the white snow and the redness of her blood mixed together under the darkness of her shadow that the Queen cried, as if in prayer to the heavens:

“Oh, but if only my child will be as fair as snow, as dark as shadow, and as red as blood!”

It was just a silly wish.

A silly, innocent wish

Oh, but the poor, poor Queen, beautiful, foolish Queen!

Did she not know?

Had she not heard?

Be careful what you wish for!

...because what was seemingly a silly, innocent wish uttered as a passing fancy is still a wish. One that the heavens did not took heed, but the Devil himself had heard–and granted!

Alas, the Queen did not know indeed.

Thus, the beautiful, ignorant Queen stood up, holding her bleeding fingers to herself as she gazed at the blooming rose for the last time with a light smile on her face before going on her merry way.

She did not know it yet… oh no, not yet… but that had been the fateful moment wherein a mother had unknowingly foolishly condemned the child inside her womb.

* * * * *

Unbidden, a wry smile formed in Proserpina’s lips.

So the story is about a cursed child?

“…Sounds familiar,” she muttered.

* * * * *

A week later, the child was born right when the clock itself struck three whilst the unforgiving winter winds roared outside the palace walls as if knowing what’s to come, as if in outrage.

The winds had been raging and whistling its eerie song, the cold snow falling in large flurries of white all over the land, blanketing it in its blinding whiteness just as Demeter had once done so long ago whilst waiting for her beloved Persephone to come home, when she cursed the Earth to never flourish once more until her daughter returns, when the humans paid the wrath of a goddess and a mother for a sin they did not even commit.

The snowstorm was at its climax.

It was winter at its finest.

And the Queen, oh the pitiful beautiful Queen, shivering and weak from the birth of the kingdom’s awaited heir–all but cowered from the small bundle that was her own child, the child she had once dreamed and prayed for ever since she became wife and queen.

But now, she had taken just one look at the infant and oh, how she refused to touch, let alone look at it a second time!

The healers looked at one another in uneasiness at the strangeness that unfolds before their very eyes while the nursemaids flocked nervously around their stricken Queen, trying to calm her down in vain as her husband, the King marched straight into the room urgently. Like any father, he had been pale and trembling with worry for his wife and newborn child.

“My queen,” he says, holding her lovely face, gently, as to not startle her, “My love, whatever is the matter? Are you alright? Is our baby alright?”

At the mention of their child, the Queen bursted into another round of fresh tears again, lips and fingers shaking, and she wouldn’t dare to meet her husband’s eyes, “Milord, forgive me, this is… this is all my fault… my fault... please forgive me,” she sobbed, before pointing a shaking finger to the direction of the small bundle, “But... but the... the child... the c-child...”

As if on cue, as if it had known (speak of the devil and it shall appear), the small bundle began to unveil itself as the infant began to move its arms about in apparent discomfort of being covered, revealing hair as black as shadows with a skin that was pale as snow.

Such a sweet face the babe possessed, it would have been considered angelic and beautiful at first… but oh, but the eyes!

The Queen screamed in pure, unadulterated terror while the King and the others who were present can only stare with wide, horrified eyes and that was the moment when all hell breaks loose as the infant opened its mouth and began to wail–

Outside, the winds howled loudly just as the stricken Queen Eleanor and the infant continuously wailed its praise of horror, both in despair for its birth.

(…if only the child's eyes are not as red as blood)

“Merciful God, how can this be? How could You let this happen to me?” Queen Eleanor cried to the heavens in despair, “How could I have given birth to a demon?”

( In its cage, something sneers and laughs.)

(“But mother, haven’t you wished for me?”)

. . .

‘But did you know, my love?

I learned that in some countries, you kill a monster right when it was born… before it even has a chance to truly live, to hurt someone else and while some may think it to be cruel and unjust, I believe this to be the greatest mercy of them all, a mercy that was taken from me.

It was rather… amusing how there are people in this world who kill a monster but only when it kills someone else… and they are hailed and remembered by the world as heroes.

Hypocrites, the lot of them.

And yet… in some places, some people chose to release the monster, in a forest, somewhere in the seven seas or… or in a kingdom, abandon it anywhere–it was all the same in the end, it was left to the world’s mercy (or lack thereof), forever alone and set apart, forever, calling and crying for others of its kind, hoping that maybe… just maybe… they were not alone.’