This is just me being bored. I noticed a lot of twilight fanfictions, and I thought I could give it a go. Just aheads up, I tried chatgpt on this. I think it went pretty good, but I don't think it's for me. Maybe for proofreading, but that's it.
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Long before Adonis ever drew breath, a deadly seed of vanity was sown. His grandmother, Queen Cenchreis, dared utter words no mortal should ever speak—she claimed that her daughter, Myrrha, was fairer than Aphrodite herself. That whisper, carried on the wind like poison, reached the ears of the goddess of love. And though Aphrodite ruled desire, her heart was not above cruelty. She exacted her vengeance not upon Cenchreis, but upon Myrrha. The punishment? A love so unnatural, so cursed, that it would rip Myrrha's soul in two.
Aphrodite ignited in Myrrha a burning lust for her own father, King Theias of Assyria. And so, shrouded in moonless nights and with the assistance of a treacherous nurse, Myrrha crept into his bed—her face hidden, her voice trembling with shame and hunger. For several nights, desire veiled by darkness played out its grim theatre. But curiosity is a torch no shadow can withstand. Theias, tormented by the unknown, brought a lamp to unveil his mystery lover—only to discover, with soul-shattering horror, the face of his own blood.
His sword flashed in the golden light of betrayal, but Myrrha fled, leaving behind shame, rage, and a kingdom cloaked in whispers. Alone and exiled, the cursed girl wandered far from civilization, her womb growing heavy with the fruit of forbidden love. In her despair, she cried to the heavens—not for mercy, but for obliteration.
"O gods," she wept, "I have offended both the living and the dead. I do not resist the punishment that I deserve—but grant me this: a form that offends neither life nor death. Strip me of my flesh and let me fade."
The gods, cold architects of irony, answered not with death—but transformation. Myrrha's limbs stiffened, her cries became sap, and her body twisted into a tree, the myrrh tree. Her tears, dripping eternally from the bark, perfumed the air with sorrow.
Days later, a wild boar, led by more than instinct, drove its tusk deep into the tree's heart. From the bleeding trunk fell a child—blood-born and god-marked: Adonis. The Naiads, sensing divine interference, wrapped him in leaves and bathed him in the fragrant tears of his mother.
And as fate would demand, Aphrodite passed by at that very moment. She saw not the tragedy, only the beauty—the boy's flawless face like moonlight on still waters. Enchanted beyond reason, she swept him into her arms and sealed him inside a chest. That chest she entrusted to Persephone, queen of the dead.
Time passed. Adonis blossomed into a man whose beauty made even gods falter. When Aphrodite demanded him back, Persephone refused. For she, too, had tasted the forbidden sweetness of his gaze. Their rivalry darkened Olympus. Zeus, ever weary of divine quarrels, deferred the matter to the Muse Calliope. Her verdict? A cruel symmetry: Adonis would spend four months in the Underworld, four with Aphrodite, and four free to choose. Unsurprisingly, he chose Aphrodite—every time.
While they were together, spring clothed the earth in blossoms. Her laughter chased winter away. She neglected her duties, her temples, her vanity—all for him. Together, they hunted beneath tangled canopies, her skirt hitched like Artemis, her hair wild as the wind. But she warned him, again and again:
"Do not chase the beasts that bear the fury of gods. Boars, lions—these are not prey, but punishments waiting to happen."
But mortals forget. And gods leave truths unsaid.
One morning, Adonis speared a great boar. But the beast did not fall—it rose with divine fury and struck. Its tusks tore through the youth's thigh and groin, and the sand turned crimson with his blood.
Some say it was no beast at all. Some whisper it was Ares, jealous and scorned, in animal form. Others believe Artemis lent him her vengeance, honoring the slain Hippolytus. Perhaps both. Gods love twisted alliances.
Aphrodite, sensing the rip in the thread of fate, ran barefoot through the woods. She did not reach him in time. She found him dying beneath a withered tree. Thorns tore her foot open on a white rose, her blood staining it red. And from Adonis' spilled life, she created a flower—a dark, trembling anemone, as fragile as grief.
But that rose—its story did not begin there.
A century before, the queen of Corinth, Rhodanthe, possessed a beauty that rivaled even Myrrha's. Her suitors hounded her like wolves. In desperation, she fled to the temple of Artemis. But three arrogant princes followed, declaring her a goddess and defiling the altar. Furious, Apollo intervened on behalf of his twin. He transformed the princes into insects—and Rhodanthe into a rosebush, cursed to bloom for eternity without understanding why.
She wept for decades. Her sorrow turned sour. Hate fermented into numbness. She forgot how to feel—until Aphrodite's blood soaked her petals and kissed her roots.
For the first time in a hundred years, Rhodanthe felt.
She prayed—not for life, but for ending. And Persephone, in her own anguish over losing Adonis to Aphrodite again and again, answered the call. She gave Rhodanthe and her former suitors new flesh—but not life. They rose from the earth as beautiful, eternal blood-drinkers.
Vampires.
Born of divine cruelty, heartbreak, and the scent of myrrh. Not creatures of darkness, but of tragedy. Their thirst not just for blood—but for what was stolen from them: choice, love, and peace.
Thus, from the cursed love of a girl for her father, from the wrath of a goddess scorned, from the tears of a forgotten queen—all bloomed a myth not of love triumphant, but of love eternal…and forever damned.
⚜️
Blood whispered along the stone, a quiet hymn echoing through the hollow ribcage of the once-sacred cathedral. Where once incense had curled like supplication toward the heavens, now only the metallic scent of death lingered, thick and heavy.
Rhodanthe sat languidly upon the cold altar, her back against the corrupted cross, one leg bent with regal ease, the other dangling, stained with crimson droplets. Her gown, black as midnight and torn at the hem, clung to her like a shadow. At her feet, the High Pontiff of Solarian lay with his throat flayed open, robes soaked red where prayers once clung. The golden crozier lay discarded beside him, broken like his faith. His once holy vestments now soaked and clinging to the stone like wet paper. His face was twisted in disbelief—an expression she found deliciously ironic.
Her slender fingers rested on the bone-white stone of the altar, blood trickling down the slope of her wrist like a lover reluctant to part. A final drop clung to her lip before her tongue, pale and serpentine, flicked out and caught it.
The cathedral pulsed with slaughter. Where once saints wept in stained glass, red light now bled through their eyes. Torches flickered with infernal glee. Nicodemus moved like shadow incarnate, his fangs buried in a crying woman's throat. Her rosary snapped between his fingers as her voice fell into silence. Andreus, ever theatrical, danced through the pews with blood-slick grace, a blade in one hand, a severed heart in the other. Mavros—silent, brooding, beautiful—drank from a broken altar boy, his black hair matted with gore.
Rhodanthe watched them all with eyes like polished garnet—ancient, impassive, and cold. Not a flicker of emotion passed her marble face as believers screamed, begged, bled. They were the same eyes that once looked up at the gods, pleading for mercy. Now, they looked down from a throne they had never dreamed she would claim.
She tilted her head.
"You feed too quickly, Nicodemus," she said softly, her voice a velvet blade. "Savor them. They believed their god would save them. Let them taste the betrayal."
Nicodemus chuckled darkly, his mouth painted crimson. "As you wish, my Queen."
A child's sob echoed beneath the cathedral's vaulted arches.
Rhodanthe smiled. It was a cold thing. A beautiful, damning thing.
She rose slowly from the altar, blood trailing down her gown like ribbons of devotion. The cathedral trembled—not from gods—but from her.
Tonight was a celebration.
It has been officially a millennia since the Gods last walked the earth.
Rhodanthe raised her goblet of blood to the sky, the full moon lightening the room of the cathedral through the glass windows. "To the death of the those wreched God's who cursed us."