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They were cousins to the old king, the father of the queen called Snow White.
she had left one singular tree with a shiny red apple, a symbol of the tiny shard of hope and, indeed, love that remained within the Wicked Queen’s dark and lonely heart. That was the old queen’s failing, the sisters thought: her love. She had never truly relinquished herself to grief and anger. She had never completely filled her heart with hatred.
The sisters often wondered what the old queen could have accomplished if she hadn’t destroyed herself for the love of her daughter. She was such a bitter disappointment.
Hate—true hate—wasn’t just conjured; it was birthed. It had to come from within so it might become its own entity and slither into the hearts of its enemies to choke them. If this was a truly worthy cause, if their hate could be harnessed, then there was nothing the witches couldn’t destroy.
Athena had fought endlessly with Triton, defending Ursula, trying to persuade him to let his sister rule by his side, reminding him of their parents’ wishes.
Athena had never made her feel loathsome. Never made her feel ashamed of who she was. Never wanted her to hide. If it hadn’t been for Athena, Ursula would have gone off into the Unprotected Waters long before she was banished. It was Athena who had railed against Triton the night of ball, denouncing his treatment of his sister when she had decided to show up to the royal function in her true form. It was Athena who had called her beautiful. And Ursula believed her words were heartfelt and true.
