Echoes of Olympus; The Return of the Forgotten Gods

Chapter 8

BTS- House of Cards

A house made of cards, and us inside

Even if you say you see the end, even if you say it'll collapse soon

A house made of cards, and stupidly, us.

Even if you say it's a useless dream, just stay a little more like this

Zephyr's POV

The next day was as grey and oppressive as my mood. The sky wept relentlessly, its tears mingling with the sorrow of those gathered around my mother's grave. It was a day painted in hues of somber black and muddy browns, the ground soaked and slippery underfoot, reflecting the tumult within me.

Lucian and I stood apart from the others, the heavy raindrops soaking us to the bone. Umbrellas formed a colorful canopy over the heads of our neighbors and friends, shielding them from the rain's cold bite. But Lucian and I remained exposed, the rain pouring down on us like a cleansing torrent, washing away the pretenses and leaving only raw emotion.

People came to us, their faces a blur of concern and pity. I could barely hear their murmured condolences over the drumming of the rain. Dorian, Seraphina, and Avaia were among them, their presence a steady beacon of support. Lucian ignored them, his eyes fixed on the grave, his expression a mask of grief and rage.

I managed a weak smile for our friends, forcing out words of gratitude that felt hollow in my mouth. "Thank you for coming," I said, my voice rough and strained. "It means a lot to us."

Dorian's hand clapped my shoulder in a gesture of solidarity, his emerald eyes reflecting a depth of empathy that made me feel both grateful and unworthy. Seraphina offered a sad smile, her addictive grey eyes shimmering with unshed tears, while Avaia stood silently by, her realistic demeanor softened by the gravity of the moment.

As they moved away to give us space, I turned my attention back to the grave. The rain had turned the freshly dug earth into a mire, the dark soil clinging to my boots. Lucian stood beside me, unmoving, his shoulders hunched against the weight of his sorrow. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, the cold seeping into his bones, but he seemed oblivious to it all, lost in his own world of grief and anger.

"Lucian," I said softly, my voice barely audible over the rain. But he didn't respond, didn't even acknowledge that I'd spoken. He was a statue carved from grief, his pain a tangible thing that seemed to pulse in the air around us.

I stood there, staring at the grave, waiting for something to awaken within me: a feeling, a few tears, anything. But there was nothing. The woman who lay beneath that cold, wet earth meant nothing to me. She had shown me no love, only contempt and cruelty. Her words had been sharp blades, her hands instruments of pain. And now, in death, she elicited no more emotion from me than she had in life.

The only feeling I could muster was sadness for Lucian. He had a wonderful relationship with her one that I had always envied. She had been his confidante, his comfort, his guide. Her love for him had been a bright, warm light in his life, and now that light was gone, leaving him adrift in a sea of darkness.

I glanced at him, my heart aching for my brother. "Lucian," I tried again, my voice a bit firmer. "We should go inside. You'll catch your death out here."

He still didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the grave, his face a mask of raw, unfiltered emotion. I knew he was consumed with grief and anger, a volatile mix that could explode at any moment. And I, I was the opposite—a void, an empty vessel incapable of feeling anything for the woman who had birthed me.