The Journal

The main room of Alexandros’ cottage is modest, yet warm. Golden light from the fading afternoon spills through small, square windows with wooden shutters. Rough-hewn stone walls bear the marks of age, their surfaces softened by ivy just beyond the panes. The floor, made of unevenly cut slabs, shows scuffs from years of wear. Syrus sits alone in the silence, his lean frame hunched over as he idly traces the worn edges of an ancient scroll. The library here has become his refuge after days of gruelling training and strategy meetings, a place where, for a moment, he can breathe without the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders.

In his search for something to occupy his restless mind, Syrus’s hand brushes against a leather-bound book tucked away on a top shelf. Unlike the other meticulously labelled volumes, this one is unmarked and oddly shaped, its weathered cover cracked with age. An ominous aura clings to it, stirring his curiosity as he slides it free.

The leather’s coarse texture sends a shiver through his fingertips. He carries the book to the table and settles into a chair, opening it carefully. A faint scent of old parchment and ink wafts up to meet him. The first page’s detail hunts, written in a sharp, practiced hand, but one entry seizes his attention:

‘We come across many vampyrs in our journeys, out of all the vampyrs we have slain. They are feral with not a single intelligent thought. Eyes brightly red, clawed like hands, mouths always coated with dried blood. I believed the king's absence caused their reversion to a primitive state, but something interesting happened today. In our hunt, we came across two vampyrs, hunting together, targeting a lone traveller on the roads. These killings are similar to ones we have encountered previously but never been able to catch them until now. They follow the roads and kill sparingly. Vampyrs are known to feed daily. They starve otherwise.

Their eyes were nearly white when we encountered them, apparent signs of hunger as they struggle to retract their fangs. Even as we fought, they did their best to protect one another, which is odd, as they always abandon the other just for survival, but they held on till the very end. Even as we successfully killed one, the other stopped. I never have seen such sorrow from these creatures, only hunger. The beast cried, then hysterically laughed and fell to his knees, overcome with grief for his mate. This was the first time I have ever hesitated to kill a vampyr, I wanted to ask questions, understand what was happening. It even begged to die, as life to him wasn’t worth living anymore. Alexandros had to commit the finishing blow.

It shook me to the core that night. I never have seen these creatures grieve or spare an emotion to their own kind before. Maybe I am looking at them in the wrong way. They may not just be mindless beasts after all.’

Syrus pauses, breath unsteady, hands trembling as they grip the page. He thinks he has absorbed its impact when he turns to find more. The next lines tighten the knot in his chest.

‘Many months had passed since that night; we fought against those two Vampyrs. I tried to reason with every Vampyr we encounter now, much to Alexandros’s frustration. I still try to make some contact with them. It couldn’t be a one-off.

Alexandros did find it odd, but he didn’t wish to seek answers as I do. He believes they are all monsters, and not a single thought of reason goes through their heads.

I sometimes still reflect on that night. I remember the grief so vividly in his eyes, the life draining away as he stares at his love. If I lost Alexandros, I imagine the grief would consume me as it did the Vampyr.

I wonder if that makes them more of a man than a monster? Loving is something we humans understand. We consider it a human emotion and to see a beast have the same feeling. Are they indeed monsters?’

Syrus’s eyes linger on that last line. His grip tightens on the book as his chest constricts. A lump grows in his throat, and his breathing goes ragged. It feels like the air has grown heavier around him.

Why does this disturb me so? The question echoes in his mind, yet no answer emerges. He clenches his jaw, gaze locked on the words as though they might explain the storm brewing inside him. He can’t fathom why this entry, one of so many war stories, pierces him so deeply.

His thoughts spiral, fragments of memories and feelings tangling in his head. He has seen grief before, in widows’ eyes, in mothers’ anguished cries. But this is different. This is the grief of a creature he’s been told lacks all humanity. It’s unnatural, yet it feels… familiar.

Why should I care? He thinks bitterly, slamming the book shut. They are monsters, creatures of darkness. Alexandros says so himself. They deserve no pity, no understanding.

But the words ring hollow, even in his own mind. He presses a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild beat of his heart. The image of that grieving vampyr blazes in his thoughts, its sorrow as vivid as if he saw it firsthand. He imagines the loss, the emptiness and despair, the crushing weight of living on when everything else is gone.

Syrus’s breath hitches, and tears spring unbidden. They burn down his cheeks as his body shakes. He fights them, teeth clenched, fists closed, desperate to stay composed. It’s useless. Sobs tear through him, raw and unstoppable, leaving him trembling in the cottage’s solitude.

Why? The question pounds in his mind, louder each time his heart beats. Why do I grieve for them? They’re monsters.

He hurls the book across the room in frustration, the heavy tome landing with a dull thud. Still, no relief comes. Emotion grips him, suffocating and fierce. His stomach churns, his body seized by a pain he cannot name. He doubles over, clutching the table’s edge, lost in the storm of his mind.

“Syrus.”

The voice is steady, and Syrus freezes. He looks up, tears on his cheeks, to see Alexandros watching him. The older man steps into the room, boots echoing on the stone floor. He holds the fallen journal in his hands.

“This book,” Alexandros begins, his voice barely a whisper. “Belonged to someone I loved dearly.”

Syrus’s breath catches. Alexandros rarely speaks of his past, let alone in such personal terms.

Placing the journal on the table, Alexandros sits across from him. His sharp eyes soften, though the weight of unsaid words hangs between them. “It belonged to Atticus,” he continues, voice trembling faintly. “He was… everything to me. A brilliant man, a warrior with a keen mind and sharper wit. We travelled together, fought together, lived together.”

Syrus’s gaze drifts to the journal, his fingers itching to snatch it up again. “The words… they were his?”

Alexandros nods. “All of them.” He exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair. “We hunted vampyrs for years, convinced they were mindless beasts. Atticus questioned that belief after that night.”

“The night with the grieving vampyr.”

“Yes.” Alexandros’s jaw tightens, shadows crossing his face. “Atticus wanted to understand them, to find reason where I saw only chaos. That curiosity… cost him his life.”

Syrus’s heart clenches. “They killed him.”

Alexandros nods again, eyes clouding. “One night, a vampyr feigned surrender. Atticus approached, hoping to speak, to reason. It was a trap. I killed it, but not before it struck him down.” His voice catches, and he steadies himself. “I came back to Rome because I had nothing left to fight for.”

Silence weighs on them. Syrus can hear his own unsteady breathing. He looks at Alexandros, his mentor, the man who raised him, and sees a pain that mirrors his own turmoil.

“I don’t understand,” Syrus finally says, voice rough. “Why do I feel this way? Why does it hurt? They’re Vampyrs, not men.”

Alexandros studies him, face etched with old sorrow. “I can’t answer that, Syrus,” he says quietly. “Perhaps you see more than others. Or maybe something in you connects to them in ways you can’t yet comprehend.”

Syrus swallows, fists curling. “But why me? Why do I feel like their grief is my own?”

Alexandros leans forward, elbows on the table. “Only time can tell,” he says gently. “The reason may not be clear now, but it will reveal itself. Until then, carry it as you do everything, with strength and resolve.”

Syrus’s gaze drops to the journal, its leather cover worn but resilient. He feels the storm inside him ease, if only a little. “Atticus,” he murmurs. “He didn’t see them as monsters.”

“No,” Alexandros agrees, tone steady. “He saw them as something more. And sometimes I wonder if he was right.”

The words hang between them, heavy with meaning. Syrus meets Alexandros’s eyes, a deeper bond forging in shared pain. Though the answers remain elusive, Syrus knows he cannot turn away from the questions. Whatever conflict this is, whatever stirs within him, he must face it, one step at a time.