The Deep End of the Sea (34 page)

Stars, I am so confused. What bargain?

Demeter rubs her face, her haughtiness unyielding. “Have I not complied enough this week, daughter? I have laid myself bare in trying to please you.”

“You did it only because Hermes discovered the truth and forced you to admit your sins before the Assembly!” Persephone yells. “Had he not, I never would have known what had happened to my daughter!”

“Somebody better tell me what in the hell is going on,” Poseidon barks. For once, I agree with the bastard.

So Demeter does.

Once upon a time, there was a very beautiful princess who, in most eyes, could want for nothing. She was the origin of every little girl’s stereotypical fantasy: the belle of the ball, spoiled beyond measure, beloved by all, and a joy to behold. Her life was charmed.

She was exceptional in every way barring one thing: she felt hollow inside.

The princess knew it was most ungrateful to feel so. She was fully cognizant of the bounties her life provided and the absence of such in so many others’. And yet, there was still something missing inside, and it gnawed at her soul in the ugliest of ways. Made her feel horrid inside, as if she was a fraud.

But she was not one to rebel or to strike out against the hands that made her life comfortable; her heart, while troubled, was mostly soft towards those who loved her. So she endured this emptiness for years, all the while pasting a smile on her face that never let anyone know of what lay within, the vacuum no physical object could fill.

And then came the day the princess met a prince.

And it was not love at first sight.

This prince was not like the others who pursued her. In fact, he didn’t pursue her at all, which made him—in the beginning—intriguing. He was dark, and introspective; more volatile than calm in those days, like black-gray clouds on the brink of disaster. Their initial meetings went badly, and each time, the princess swore to herself and anyone who would listen (including the prince) afterwards, “I hate him; I wish to never see him again.”

The prince gave the princess no afterthoughts at all. She was nothing to him; not a temptation, not a ray of sun in his allegedly gloomy existence. He was content with his lot in life. And it was this that angered the princess. She puzzled over the prince more than she would admit to anyone. His life was filled with horrors, with more pain and sorrow than any joys. And yet,
he
was happy.
He
was content.
He
did not have a hole that ached, that could not be filled with trinkets and adorations. It seemed patently unfair to the spoiled princess. He, who had one of the worst hands dealt to him (in her opinion, despite his princely status), did not find his life lacking. She, who had everything, yearned for something, and it was a thorn in her foot that she could not figure it out.

As the years passed, the princess and the prince were put much into each other’s spheres due to family and obligations. It burned her that he was never dazzled by her charms as others were, and she found herself acting out to claim his attention, just to prove she could. And then the princess’ mother made notice of these actions, and cautioned her daughter against the prince. “He is not suited for you,” she’d murmur to her beloved child. “He is dark, when you are light.”

Yet, the more the princess contemplated this, the less she believed the words to be true. For she believed herself to be dark and hollow and he the one filled with the light of self-acceptance. And the more this resonated within her, the more frantic her attempts to capture his attention became. She began to believe that she had to discover his secret or her life could not go on, charmed or no.

After much consideration and scheming, the princess finagled a circumstance in which she and the prince were alone. And when she did, she did not hesitate to corner him. “Why are you so happy?” she spat, anger and jealousy filling her soul.

This took the prince aback—for one, he was not used to such ire from anyone, as he was powerful and influential. But more importantly, this came from a princess who was nearly universally placed on a pedestal. While he had given her little thought prior, now he found himself intrigued. So he told her the truth. “I like who I am.”

This knowledge ate at the princess, because she realized she did not like who she was. In truth, she didn’t even know
who
she was, outside of what was beloved by all.

Her obsession with the prince intensified until he became all she could think of. She lived and breathed for the moments she saw him. She studied him. She memorized every last feature of his. She strove to be like him, to find the things that called to her. She threw herself in work and causes she’d deemed beneath her before, ones he’d embraced and put her in the path of helping others, only to find they helped her fill the hole inside. But even these new endeavors weren’t enough. When the obsession with the prince she couldn’t shake threatened to consume her, she realized she’d fallen in love with him. Not knowing what else to do, the princess went to her beloved mother to admit her feelings. “I have to have him,” she told her mother. “I will only find true happiness if he is mine.”

“He is not for you,” her mother told her. “You are not suited in the least—he so dark, and you such a ray of light. Choose from any of your other admirers; they will bring you much more joy.”

The princess did not believe this. The prince was the one filled with light; it was she who fought the darkness within. Her life before had been frivolous, but now she’d found ways to add meaning to it. So, she and her mother fought bitterly, yet no matter how many tears and tantrums ensued, the queen refused to kowtow to her daughter’s foolish obsession. Eventually, worried about disobedience and a tarnishing of her daughter’s legacy, the queen locked the princess away.

It took time and cunning, but the princess eventually escaped.  And then she ran straight to the prince who was, to say the least, surprised by this turn of events.

“You do not want me,” he gently told the princess. “I’m no good for you.”

So she kissed him.

And he changed his mind. Because, like in so many fairytales, a single kiss can make all the difference. The kiss the prince and princess shared was nothing like either had ever experienced. It changed them.

It melded them.

Months later, the queen discovered where the princess was hiding after disappearing, only to be dismayed to discover her precious daughter was content. And pregnant.

It was not to be tolerated. The queen had her daughter’s life planned out before her. This prince, and their child, and his causes, were not to be in the cards. Politically, the queen needed to ensure there was no lingering connection between her daughter and the prince. In her mind, a child of those two houses would only complicate the kingdom’s tremulous alliances. A much better alliance could be made with another prince. There was much arguing—even the king was drawn into the battle—and eventually, the queen reluctantly came to realize that, no matter what she said or wanted, the princess was never going to come back to fulfill her obligations without the prince. And the prince was not able to disregard his obligations, either. So a quagmire developed.

Now, the queen was clever—one of the cleverest beings to ever exist. While the existence of a baby complicated matters greatly, as it would be solid proof of an alliance she did not sanction, she also knew it was the greatest bargaining chip she had. So she laid out an offer: if the prince and princess handed over their baby and swore to never create another one, the princess would be sanctioned to live with the prince part of the year. The rest of the year, she would be required to fulfill her familial obligations and legacy.

The princess wept bitterly over this. The child growing within was precious to her. But, so was the prince. As the king himself had sided with the queen, ordering her to do as the queen said or face grave punishment, she grew desperate. She wanted her child—desperately so—but she also knew that she couldn’t live without the prince and his love. Had the king not agreed with the queen, she would have risked everything. But with the king ordering her to obey, she had no other choice; neither did the prince. Although powerful in his own regard, he was also beholden to the king’s wishes.

So they agreed.

Nine months she carried her child. Nine months of nurturing a baby, loving it, wanting it more than everything save one person. And then, after hours of labor, the princess birthed a baby she didn’t even get to hold once.

The queen immediately whisked the child away, only to inform the princess and her love later that it’d died mere hours after doing so.

The prince and princess grieved horribly. Holes grew in their hearts, ones that even the other person couldn’t fill. And the years passed, and they remained childless. The princess spent part of her life with the queen, as agreed upon, and her existence was hollow during those times. She knew where she belonged.

She belonged with her husband. But that never stopped her from wanting, more than anything, to hold her child. Just one time.

This was my parents’ fairytale. Whether it had a happy ending or not was yet to be seen.

There was no remorse, no anything as Demeter recounted the events. It just simply was. And while she spoke, the room was still.
I
was still. She’d just told the story of my birth, and all I can do is simply stare at the woman who took me away from my parents.

Finally, Poseidon says, “You lie. I have never heard of this tale before today.” And I hate to say it, but I can’t help but think Demeter lies, too.

She must.

My mother ... my mother is often said to be a primordial sea goddess, one who personified the dangers of the sea. Ceto, I believe—and how ironic would that have been if true. It was said I was one of three Gorgon sisters, the only mortal amongst immortals. But then, it was also said that Athena was in possession of my head and that it’d been cut off by some fop who wanted to save a princess even more beautiful than I (not that I’m saying it wasn’t okay for her to be beautiful or anything). History had it all wrong. My mother was a lady of high standing, married to a man of high standing in ancient Greece. She was an efficient wife and a cold nurturer who left my welfare and that of my younger siblings more often than not to slaves, though I did not ever resent her for this. I ... I had siblings—brothers and sisters—but other than my beauty, I’d been nothing, no one special. Not until I became a monster.

The mother I grew up with was named Eugeneia. She is long dead. I grieved for her years ago, even though I never got to pay my respects when she went. But Hermes told me. He’d been there. He’d been there for me.

I look to him now. I don’t know what to expect from him—shame? Astonishment? Anger? Resignation?

What I get is assuredness. Steady, absolute assuredness.

Demeter appears to be sucking on lemons when she says flatly, “It is the truth, sworn before the entire Assembly. Zeus himself has ruled it as fact.”

“If that is the case,” Poseidon snaps, “then how did none of us sense she was one of our kind? How was it that Athena was able to curse her?”