Ｔｈｅ Ｌｅｇｅｎｄ Ｏｆ𝐄𝐧𝐯𝐲 - ON GALATEA

ONE

Evening 2,555

Zanthus sat still, painstakingly so, as The Council enjoyed their time together. He was always on the periphery, never the one in the middle, enjoying the entertainment. He used to enjoy such things like friends, family, TV, but now?

Now, he was nothing. Nothing but a shell of a vampyre hoping that the next fight would be the one to take his life. At times, he'd think about the tranquility of ending it all. No, he didn't just think about it, actually. Sometimes he imagined himself ending his existence here on this planet.

He wouldn't, though.

Sometimes he wondered why the hell not.

As he sat at the wet bar, he watched as his brothers casually reminisced about this and that. Quillian was beating someone at some game. He envied their happiness– their ability to be happy.

Suddenly, Lycidas stood up, reaching for his beloved's hand. Adrasteia smiled at her male, pulling him out of the room. It didn't take a genius to know what they would be doing.

Those two weren't just happy, they were in love. They were beloveds.

Zanthus stood abruptly, making his way out of the game room. He hightailed up the stairs and to his room, slamming the door behind him. He ran a frustrated hand through his dark, unruly hair.

Above all else, he envied Lycidas and Adrasteia. They had the world within their reach. They had each other.

It felt like a fucking insult to him that his beloved died. What fucking bullshit? This was how life for him would be for now on. All his brothers would find their matches and perhaps have children. All his brothers would get to be happy, reveling in the soft skin of their true loves.

Him? He only had her things to revel in.

His room was bare here. There were no decorations, no books, no sources of entertainment. This wasn't his home, and it hadn't been for a long time.

He grabbed his car keys from the dresser and rushed back downstairs. He didn't say goodbye as he walked outside into the moonlight and started up his rover.

His brothers told him to let go of her, but they didn't understand. No one could understand the sheer pain he felt every moment of every day. His beloved, his Camila, was gone. His heart was ripped from his chest. When she died, she took everything with him: his heart, his head, even his physicality.

No one would say it, but since her death, his form lacked the muscle it once had. He looked sickly. He looked like a man who lost his world.

He didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore. The only thing that kept him going were the seekers he killed in the streets.

He wanted a drink, but he wouldn't stop now. He wouldn't bring that filth where he was going. He pulled up in front of their quaint cottage on the east side. He turned the engine off. He didn't move.

He felt like he was in a never-ending nightmare.

He shook his head, stepping out of his car, and walking to the other side. He leaned against the black vehicle, staring at the window flowers, and then the swept porch. His eyes took in the sight of the home he was so proud to walk into every day. This was his home–

No, he scoffed. The house wasn't what made it his home. He forced himself up the pathway into the home and stopped once he was inside, inhaling deeply. Her scent was everywhere.

He paid a company to look after the outside, but the inside was his. It was untouched, left exactly as it was the day she died. This was his shrine to her. To them. To him.