Disclaimer: Don't own show (if I did, I wouldn't be writing merely fanfics.)

Summary: Cyndia/Pegasus story that takes place in Cyndia's point of view and explains what she felt about Pegasus and her life. (Since there's not much information on Cyndia I can use much of my own ideas for her life. Yay! There's very little to go by for her character as well, oh well.)

Story Title: I Never Meant to Love You

Chapter title: Beginnings

Cyndia's POV:

Since my youth, though my guardians never approved the idea, I wanted to join a convent—a thought I've never shared with anyone outside of my immediate family. Nor did my immediate family gossip about it with strangers—they swept my desire under the rug, hiding it away as a family secret, even from family.

Though they never praised my idea, and even scorned it occasionally, my family was religious—we attended church every Sunday, had meatless Fridays, and celebrated every catholic holiday by attending mass and refraining from work. Each holiday was like Sunday—except that at night on a holiday my parents cooked festive meals and invited every member of the extended family to supper, when on Sundays we ate our meals in company of only the nuclear family.

Each holiday supper was the same with slight differences each year—every relative brought a different dish each time—and though each supper had the same dishes, each tasted different when cooked by different family members. Roast chicken flavored with different spices depending on who made it, mashed or baked potatoes with butter or sour cream or gravy to flavor it—homemade due to family custom. One year my parents decided to spice things up and add a theme to the meal, and thus every dish was Cajun that Christmas.

I miss those days, miss them as much as I hate the days after my parents died. Not that they died on the same day; no, my father died first—on my eighth birthday; a car crash took him from this world and into the next. I remember waiting anxiously at the living room window for his truck to pull in the drive, but instead of his dark red ford pulling up to the house, a black and white police car drove in.

No, my heart cried when the officer knocked on the door and entered the house, decorated for my birthday—blue balloons and streamers stuck to or hanging from the walls, and a large home-baked birthday cake, chocolate topped with blue and white frosting sat on the dining room table.

"Mrs. Morris?" The police officer asked looking from each woman until my mother stepped forward, sickly pale. "Mrs. Morris, I'm sorry to bring such bad news on such a festive occasion, but your husband, Mr. Gregory Morris has been in an accident."

I didn't wait around to hear the rest, but ran from my mother's legs up the stairs to my room and flung myself on my bed—screaming in my thoughts—no, no, no! My father had only gone to the store to buy the ice cream he forgot, he couldn't have gotten into an accident on the short drive to the supermarket. He couldn't!

I don't remember how long I lied there on bed crying tears I didn't know I was crying until I felt the dampness of the feather pillow below my head. All I remember was my mother sitting down on my bed hours later, placing her hand on my head, her fingers tangled in my blonde hair.

"Cyndia, darling, I know it's hard but…." She faltered, choking on the sobs in her throat and moved her hand from my hair.

I remember turning my head so that I saw her face, her pale cheeks were wet with tears and her blue eyes were bloodshot from crying.

"Momma…." I flung myself at her and wrapped my trembling arms around her thin, fragile form, crying harder when she wrapped her own arms around me. We stood up the whole night holding each other as though life depended on it.

Thus, what should've been one of the best days of my life, turned out to be one of the worst. Around this time was when I told her my desire to become a nun, she only smiled sadly and said that I'd miss the wonders of marriage and motherhood if I joined a convent.

Only a year after my father's funeral, my mother remarried—into money. Her new husband looked nothing like daddy, who had black hair and bright blue eyes that gleamed every time his thin lips smiled; my stepfather had strawberry blond hair and green, almond shaped eyes, and he hardly ever smiled.

Ten years my mother's senior, he hailed from Georgia, but had temporary relocated to western New York to invest in new businesses. His family's wealth stretched back to before the Civil War when they owned a huge cotton plantation with thousands of slaves to work tens of thousands of acres. So he said. Me, I couldn't believe that a Georgia aristocrat picked my widowed mother, a middle class woman with a young child to care for, as his wife. However, I also couldn't believe my mother had remarried only a year after my father's funeral.

After the wedding (I grudgingly was the flower girl) my mother's last name changed to Stanton, and, against my wishes, so did mine when my stepfather completed the paperwork for legal adoption. I refer to those days with distaste, not that they were in anyway horrid, because I still missed my father dearly, and couldn't understand why my mother remarried so soon.

She claimed to have loved, and still love; my father but she married Ollivander Stanton, Georgia aristocrat and businessman, a week after the first year anniversary of my father's funeral.

I hated her then, resented her cheeriness when she should've been grieving. I even told her I hated her and what she had done—that she dishonored my father's memory by remarrying so soon.

Her only response was:

"Cyndia, I'm sorry you feel terrible, but this is the way it has to be. You'll understand the reason soon enough."

"No, I'll never understand." I narrowed my eyes and looked away. "I hate you."

"Cyndia…."

I ran to my room before she could respond, and refused to recant or speak to her in anyway for an entire week, and I never got a chance again to tell her I loved her as much as I loved and still loved, daddy.

She died on the eighth morning after I told her I hated her.

So silent and delicate she seemed lying in the coffin, wearing the white wedding dress she wore at her second wedding (I had insisted that she get a new one instead of use the same one she'd married daddy in) with a red envelop placed beneath her folded hands.

That letter was addressed to me, she had held it to her breast the day she died, and I refused to read it even though my stepfather begged me to. I didn't need a letter to know the truth, or anyone to say the words—I knew what was written in that letter because I knew it in my heart.

My mother had always been sickly, and made no pretense that she had a long life to live. She even told me once that she'd probably die before daddy, who had been seven years older than her; she guessed wrong about that, but only be a year and nine days.

Thus, I realized why she remarried so soon—she knew her death was near, knew that she wouldn't be there for me much longer, and she had risked my disapproval to make sure my life was set. Momma remarried only to give me a future; not for love of her new husband, but out of her love for me she cast aside her own grief to secure my foundation.

And I had told her I hated her; she sacrificed feeling my love for her in order for me to have a life, and I had estranged myself from her during her final hours.

I wish I understand sooner, but my selfish grief blinded me to the truth—a truth proved through the actions of my stepfather.

Three months after my mother's death, a hundred and six days after their wedding, my stepfather remarried, and moved us to Las Vegas, Nevada where we began a new life as a family related only by law.

However, only my stepfather and I knew of my past, not even his new wife knew that I was an orphan—she thought I was my stepfather's real daughter from his prior marriage. No one but my stepfather, the lawyer who handled the adoption, and I knew of my true parentage.

Everyone accepted me for who they thought I was, Cyndia Stanton, daughter of Ollivander Stanton, businessman and Georgia aristocrat. With my blonde hair and blue eyes, I easily passed as Ollivander's true daughter—he had blond hair, pictures of my mother showed that she had blue eyes and blonde hair herself, so everyone believed I got my blue eyes from momma and my blond hair from both.

For a year, I played along without feeling, without caring about anything—I merely went through the motions of living, pretending to be happy when I froze my emotions so I wouldn't be hurt. Quickly I learned how to act like a lady, mastering etiquette and posture within weeks, and losing all of my tomboyish habits.

The days flew by like a blur until one night my stepfather received an invitation to a party from a well-known, wealthy casino owner—Mr. Crawford. My stepparents and I went to the celebration dressed in new clothes brought for just the occasion—my dress, custom made, was sky blue like my mother's eyes and made of the softest fabric.

As always, I played the part of a lady exceptionally well, though I didn't wish to mingle long—I preferred the solitude of my set of rooms in my stepfather's mansion with my books, or the quiet of tending to the rose bushes growing in the vast gardens surrounding the mansion.

Anyway, I mingled little with the other guests, and stayed mostly behind my stepfather, hoping no one would notice me. My stepfather, who knew I was behind him, was kind enough not to introduce me to each guest he spoke with. However, once he saw the host he beckoned me to walk by his side up to Mr. Crawford, and then he introduced me before I could object.

"Ah, Mr. Crawford, my complements on throwing such a magnificent affair."

Mr. Crawford nodded his head slightly in response, and held out his hand.

"Mr. Stanton, it's delightful that you made it seeing how busy you've been."

"Yes, business has been booming, but my wife convinced me that more time must be spent at social events, to get our daughter used to the limelight." My stepfather took Mr. Crawford's hand and shook it firmly, then nudged me forward. "Mr. Crawford, this is my daughter, Cyndia."

"She's lovely." Mr. Crawford smiled and then motioned for a boy around my height to come over. Briskly the boy walked over, his white blond hair swaying slightly from the movement. "I'd like you to meet my son, Pegasus. Pegasus, this is Mr. Stanton and his daughter Cyndia."

The boy named Pegasus smiled warmly at me, not at all shy, I guess he was used to meeting new people and so didn't shy away from the limelight.

"Hello, Cyndia." Pegasus grinned and took my hand in his, his white-blond hair falling halfway down his pale neck.

"Hi."