IF I HAD CLAIMED to know what pain was during the Proclamation, I was wrong. I had not yet felt what I am feeling right now: this terror, this feeling of being abandoned. It seems to be all consuming, like a relentless woodpecker drilling into the very soul of your existence.
Macaria is downstairs; she's sent my friends home and is explaining everything to my family in private. I am in my room, my eyes wandering to the mirror, every now and then. My gaze keeps meeting the monstrous mark and I cannot help but whimper at the sight of it.
It's — plainly put — disgusting. The outer circle seems to grow and spread, its veins jutting out in every direction possible. The bident feels like a cruel joke; a symbol of Hades, the saviour, unleashing such pain.
I press my eyes shut. There's no way in the Underworld that my life went so horribly wrong, so fast. I cannot fight this, I cannot plead not guilty, I cannot do anything. Right now, if my parents even look upon my face, I shall consider myself fortunate.
It is a huge gamble for my father. He stands to lose either way. He could give me up — the right, the honourable thing to do — or he could keep me a secret and endanger his life and my family's. Dad would be stripped of all his glory, his position and would be reduced to nothing.
Harvey would never spare an opportunity to rise up further in the hierarchy. He wouldn't care who he had to step over, no matter the consequences. I don't think that's what being Fortunate is. Having no heart, no feelings?
And I'm the one cursed to be a Forsaken. The Fates might have a warped idea of fair and unfair.
I jerk into a straight position when the door flies open. Flinching, I turn, knowing that I would not be greeted with good news. I'd be lucky if Dad simply threw me out instead of killing me right now.
My mind stops processing for a minute when I realise my father isn't yelling or freaking himself out. He simply walks over to me, to the bed, and sits down gently next to me. I notice how he is shifty and nervous, like he's almost scared to move close to me.
I gulp and vision blurs. Amidst all the differences and warring opinions, my dad has always been the warmest with us. The cold, unyielding General of the Council would smile and joke with only his family.
And now he was scared to be around one of his own.
The thought leaves me with an empty void in my chest. I bite back a choking sob and watch my mother move inside, with Macaria and Charles close behind. My father clears his throat but it does nothing to help the emotion stuck in his heart.
"Cynthia," he whispers, his eyes haunted. I hate that I am the reason for his vulnerability. I wish I could erase my existence at that exact moment -- the moment when I shattered everything he stood for.
I don't say anything, only look down and intertwine my fingers with each other to keep them from clawing the Mark on my back out. My father takes in a shaky breath before attempting to finish his sentence again. I know it will not be something I want to hear, so I quell my hope.
"What do you think we should do next?"
My head snaps up at that. We. We. He referred to us as we. He is asking for my guidance. My thoughts? After all I could do to his reputation, I should be the last person he needs to speak to.
I see the pain in his eyes, but I also see hope. Love. For me.
He must read my mind because he starts picking on the threads of my blanket, his eyes quickly hiding away from my unnerving gaze. "I know," he staggers, "I know. I know what I must do. But you're my daughter, Cynthia." He looks up again, steeling his shoulders.
He must have really put in a lot of thought into this because he reaches out for my hand. I readily clasp his trembling fingers, my tears flowing with carefree abandon. "What I must do and what is best for you may not always be the same. And at that point, I will always choose what's best for you."
I see my mother wipe a lone tear from her chin and Charles gripping his fists, out of the corner of my eye. "Dad, I," I fumble over my words. What do I think? What do I want? I don't have answers. I don't know what to do.
"I have no idea. I have no clue what to do. I just want this to be a bad dream."
I grip my father's hand tighter, feeling the Mark of Success push against the Mark of Love on my palm. That jolts me to my senses. I had been so focussed on the bad, I hadn't cared to think about the good.
Despite all of my careful locking away of hope, I felt a little of it flutter in my chest again. I looked at Macaria for the first time since she'd entered my room again. She saw the expectant look on my face and immediately averted her eyes.
But I had to give it a try.
"Can't we -- Can we not pretend? I bear the Mark of Love," I say, raising my palm to support myself. "Can we not pretend like it's the only Mark I have?"
"No," Macaria says, still not meeting my eyes. "The Council will hold a trial. You will be placed under Themis' oath and it will be binding. If you lie so blatantly, the oath will burn your tongue, one small portion at a time."
I look at my father for confirmation and he nods slowly. "Darius," he whispers and I wince. That's how the tortured Amelia's father, I realise. Every word he uttered to protect his son, took away a little of his own speech.
I bite my lower lip, drawing blood, relishing in the pain. If I am tried by the Council, they will kill me. I would be locked away, tortured and punished by the Keepers. If I hide and my family helps me, their days would be numbered, just like Darius'.
I instantly know what I have to do. I couldn't risk my family at any cost and refuse to die, either. I make up my mind to do the only logical thing that comes to my mind.
"I know what I have to do," I say into the silence and my parents look at me, puzzled. Charles fights to keep himself from breaking down; I can see the pain in his eyes. He knows what I am about to suggest.
"You cannot know what I need to do. If I tell you and do it, the Council will bind you under Themis' oath and you will suffer needlessly. I must do this on my own."
"Absolutely not," my mother says and I look at her. "You will do nothing of that sort, Cynthia! Where will you go? What will you do? I would rather suffer with you than watch you suffer all alone, knowing I could have stopped it all!"
She finally breaks, letting her emotions flow. My mother rubs at her cheeks furiously, discordant and furious. "I am not letting you leave us."
I get up from my bed, the crashing sadness in my heart now subdues to a dull ache. I take my mother's hands in mine and gently rub my palm on hers. "I'll come back to you. I promise, Mom, but I need to do this on my own."
"I'll be with her, too," Macaria says and I glare at her.
"You will do no such thing," I snap, tired of her unreasonable explanations and decisions. "You just met me a few weeks ago. I cannot take you when I myself do not know where my destination is."
"But I do," Macaria mumbles indistinctly but I catch on.
That stuns me and my hand drops from my mother's grasp. "What do you mean?"
Macaria looks at me again, her eyes shining and bright. "I cannot tell you. You'll just have to listen to me."
Irritation unfurls in my chest and I stomp over to where she stands beside my father. I ball my fists and say through gritted teeth, "You cannot act all mysterious when we talk about my decisions. You cannot ask me to trust you when I have no idea who you are! I don't know anything about you! Why should I listen to you?"
Her eyes glisten again and I feel no remorse. I do not trust her. She knows something, she knows something about me and yet, she chooses to hide it from me. How can I trust someone like that?
"Very well, then. I shall not ask you to trust me," she says, her voice trembling. Her voice sounds like I have wounded her terribly but I have no idea why. She knows she is a stranger to me, too, just as I am to her.
My thoughts are cut off when the next words she says shakes me to my very being. "But if you want your family to live, to not crash and burn because you chose wrong, you will have to listen to me, trust or not."
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