The First Moonrise

The second piece of written lore is here, starring our favourite vampire boy! The winner of the poll was 'seeing Y/N for the first time', and I don't think anyone else was as fitting as Xanthus! 

I found it incredibly difficult writing with a Y/N character. I'm normally much more descriptive in third-person limited, but in this case, I needed to keep a lot of it vague which was a great challenge! I have a feeling that was why it took me so long to write, though it's nowhere near as long as the first lore. I didn't have much to go on, but this was helpful with understanding Xanthus a little better.

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London. A once luscious land now devoured by stiff metal pillars. ‘The Big Smoke’ they used to call it, though the nickname kept its relevance even today. And yet, the shadow swooping upon spindling fingers of glass gave way to the swift beauty of moonrise. No measure of smog could mask its allure; even through the grey haze of toxic air, he never grew tired of staring.

Xanthus sighed out an icy breath, long neck stretched for the sky. The view from Kensington Palace outweighed many others, particularly in West London. As a historical building circled by royal gardens and Hyde Park across the Carriage Drive, lights from cars and shops were far and few, save for a handful of dotted streetlamps. Sharp horns and shrill screams did not reach him here; the melody of London fell to a steady hum, its pungent smell hidden beneath the dew of freshly mown grass.

On rainless nights, he sat here. When he wanted a change of scenery, he sought the loftiest towers and revelled in whatever form the skies greeted him with. His day life brought him fair comforts: a drive of money, collecting contacts, and appreciating modern eras of art. If not for the gallery, his agitation would pursue alternative thrills in dingy alleys or five-star hotels—whichever took his fancy in the moment.

That was all humans were good for. A living morsel to pass the time and give temporary satisfaction to a mundane existence, or so he frequently thought. For almost four hundred years, he had observed them, evolving as centuries passed with protests of the downtrodden.

But their malicious and hateful nature endured. Maybe he could indulge in one taste this evening under the veiled moon.

Xanthus stood in the chimney’s shadow, brushing dirt from the tail of his grey trench coat. Soundless, he moved to the roof’s edge, focused on the neat lawn about eighty feet below. Aaron, the security guard scoping the distant side, seemed like a jovial man despite only having the wind for company. One night, Xanthus purposely dropped near him and almost gave him a heart attack judging from his sudden irregular palpitations.

But tonight, Xanthus would spare him.

His coat flapped through the air as he jumped and landed on soft earth. And with a silent run, he departed the grounds of Kensington Palace, vaulting over the spiked black gates onto a gravel path.

The crunch beneath combat boots reminded him of an earlier version of London when nothing blocked the horizon but a shroud of dense fumes. Of course, emissions had not yet been refined, and technology’s infancy condemned millions to death. Clopping horses and rickety carriages echoed throughout the capital, with newspaper boys bellowing on every street corner.

How times had changed.

As he weaved through Kensington past ten in the evening, the city thrived. Twenty-four hour services lit up the streets, pubs and clubs thumped with music, and cars surrendered to the dance of red, amber, and green. The onslaught to his senses would have overwhelmed any fledgling without the mastery of focus, but growing alongside humanity meant understanding discretion, and how to seize many late-night snacks.

But through the throng of perfume and soured alcohol, he stilled, parting the bothered passersby.

It engulfed Xanthus. His eyes fluttered shut, lungs filling with rich summer tones unknown to him. Heavenly. And he did not believe in Heaven, or any type of plane for supposed ‘good souls’, yet never in his life had he found calm with nothing but an inhale.

With languid turns, he searched this way and that for the source. To the left it faded, but to the right…

Xanthus pivoted and stalked down the path, strides long and gaze honed to people beyond a normal sight. He did not care for those that passed him with open injuries—blood seemed meagre compared to a smell so intense his palms sweated. Even with the food, deodorant, unchanged babies, and vehicle pollution, this one scent guided him through it all, winding within the streets of London.

The further he walked, the more potent it became. Undoubtedly, it was human, fused with subtle notes of a bygone nostalgia. And that intrigued him.

He slowed to Stamford Bridge—a rather secluded area with a dimly lit public park—and sneaked closer, peeking his head round the tree.

A shadowed figure traipsed in the distance, bag tucked against their shoulder.

It was them. Xanthus released a staggered sigh, brows furrowing. A symphony of strong heartbeats, clacking shoes and slow breaths rang through his ears. Their aroma swelled into an unending crescendo that sent a shiver down his spine.

Xanthus was not parched, or else Aaron would have been a hearty meal. His fangs tingled in desperation, and he pressed his tongue against an eager canine, soothing the itch with gentle rubs. But it did nothing. There was something different about this person who crossed the road, turning out of sight.

Hastier than expected, he followed behind, breathing deep all the while. God, whatever this was smelt divine, and he thirsted for it. But he knew himself better than that. A ravenous hunger like this led to mistakes that could jeopardise his safety, and a single drop of blood was not worth it—or so he told himself.

Xanthus smeared his hand over the brick and risked a glance around it, the smell so inviting he salivated. He never needed to swallow back his appetite, but a piece of steak dangled right before a predator ended so many ways. The temptation to saunter up and take a bite seemed all too alluring, if not for the footsteps warning his approach.

With a light tut, Xanthus peered at the roofs before scouting the house windows. Heartbeats thumped within, but none came close to the enigma strolling down the street. Slinking out of the light, he jumped upon the protruding second floor windowsill and leapt once more onto slate. Only the gentle wisp of dust revealed his presence. Like a loyal creature of the night, swathed in darkness and silent as a crow, he prowled low and onwards.

He did not understand it—this incessant fear of blinking in case this person disappeared forever. Even beyond the spiced powder and oil lingering upon their uniform, it failed to mask their extraordinary scent caught in the wind.

Xanthus hopped from one roof to the next, scaling building after building to watch the mysterious human walk into a quieter borough. They fished keys from the front zip pocket of their bag, swinging it in tandem with each step. No music aided in such rhythm but their own—which he presumed they hummed in their head until a door unlocked and the jangle stopped. From within the walls, Xanthus listened to them hail the elevator, ride it up, and enter the left apartment on the third floor.

And from the sound and smell, they appeared to live alone.

On the other side of the road, he waited with bated breath. The chimney hid his silhouette in its shadow, and he lounged against the cool stone, eyes alert.

The light turned on, and they trudged past, dumping their bag on the floor and rolling their neck back and forth, elongating the taut skin. Xanthus strained a gulp, eyes narrowing on the jugular. From this distance, he could have them pinned to the floor and fangs buried in less than three seconds. But he chose not to. Instead, his head tilted as they kicked off their shoes and flopped onto the bed, massaging soreness from their feet with a heavy sigh. They had no one to ease that burden. No one to envelop or lean into.

Who could say no?

If they noticed him through the window, beckoned him with a finger and asked for relief, Xanthus would give it. Absolutely, he would give it.

Their abrupt shift caused the vampire to sink further into darkness. They neared the window, gazing out in his direction. And for a moment, Xanthus swore their eyes connected. He stuttered out a breath, forced to swallow a second time.

Surely, they did not sense him. They smelt human enough, with no trace of any supernatural interaction other than his own. Curious, he raised a hand and waved in uncertainty, but after a time, they stepped out of view.

Xanthus deflated, craning his neck as if it helped him see through the apartment. Judging by the opening and closing of cupboards, they were in search of a nibble. He wondered what they preferred. Sweet or savoury? Mild or spicy? Crunchy or smooth? The answers did not concern him more than the sudden bout of obsession that upturned his lip in disgust.

Who cared what they liked?

… He did. For some bizarre reason, the human scrounging for food fascinated him. It was as if their unique scent had unlocked a secret yearning deep in his soul he had yet to discover, compelling him to stay.

For security or his own selfishness, he did not know, but Xanthus remained. On the roof, head resting against the chimney, he remained, the steady heartbeats having lulled him to a tranquil state of slow breaths.

It was the first moonrise he did not watch disappear behind the horizon, captured instead by another entity much more exquisite and within reach. One day, Xanthus contemplated, he might dare touch that ethereal light.

But as dawn swept over London’s waking life, the chimney stood, cold and alone.