Everyone has heard the ancient myths about great heroes.

Slaying monsters, conquering the kingdoms of villains, saving the princess, fulfilling their prophecies and dying in some grand manner for the sake of others; it was always something along those lines. These are the individuals that end up immortalized as statues or paintings, their fame only growing with time even as the people learning of them begin to think: “Did this person really exist? Surely no one can be this perfect” and “It is simply a romantic fantasy thought up by some story-teller that wanted to become a hero himself but couldn’t”.

What if one of those myths you heard is based on a true story, yet the ending is completely wrong?

What if, in reality, the hero failed?

Life

The man who had been bred to die, beloved by the gods. His mother, the daughter of the serpentine sun god, was deemed an abomination for her monstrous looks, his kingly father only begetting a child by her because of an oracle.
“In the War of Serpents, the dragon lord dies to the sacrifice of the poisonous snake.”
Only after the deities had already blessed the child in her womb, did her scornful husband tell her of the prophecy, of the prosperity that would come to them thanks to the unborn prince.
The demigoddess clutched her swollen belly with horror, a mournful keen escaping her throat.
Her son never stood a chance.

⇼

Despite the burdensome destiny placed on him, he still stood tall, a coolheaded prince no more worried by his duties than the sun was worried by the fields it dried out.
The others treated him like a god, heaving gifts and compliments on him until he was desensitized by their kindness.
To him, the luxury of being loved by all was nothing but a minor chore, yet another responsibility placed on him.
"Always meet their expectations. Don't show any weakness—unless it's one that they want to see."
"A weakness they want to see?"
"As an example: Our heroes were always famed for their ability to conquer lovers like they conquered the lands."
"I'm married."
But that concern was simply brushed aside by his instructor as if it didn't matter.
Life had never been about what he wanted, it was simply about sacrificing his own freedom to make others happy, to be a strong, responsible leader that kept morale high. If they would just stop treating him like an unfailing god, coercing him into making their decisions for them and start thinking for themselves instead, he would feel a lot better about having to die for these people.
Still, in all of this he couldn’t help but wonder: Did this really have to be his fate?

⇼

Something had always bothered him about the prophecy. A poisonous snake? Shouldn’t it be a venomous one? But despite his love of philosophy, he had never allowed himself to ponder the meaning of that phrase too deeply, for fear of what he might uncover. It must be a metaphor, nothing more.
Now, far too late, he knew why the oracle had chosen that wording in particular.
He had been trained for all his life to defeat the overlord of the dragons, given all these blessings, but in this current battle, he was still horribly outmatched.
Because he was never supposed to die attacking the dragon—being a poisonous snake, he was meant to be eaten!
That realization was what cost him everything; just a moment of hesitation, nothing more than a pause in his movements, was enough to stain his fate and rid himself of the cursed prophecy in the worst way imaginable.
Viturias had always prided himself in being very observant of his surroundings, yet, staring into the maw of the serpent king that was about to swallow him whole, he didn’t even notice that someone else had approached him before he was shoved to the side.
Tear-filled electric blue eyes and a satisfied smile was all he could register and then his dear companion was devoured.

⇼

A punishment. They had blessed him with their own ichor, granted him with beauty and speed superior to any mortal and called him ‘hero’ and now they were ruining him, simply because he hadn’t died yet.
But he was far too apathetic to really get angry at the fact that he was just a discarded tool or that they deemed him arrogant because he had hesitated before death.
The only thing he could feel was hatred.

Undeath

He heard his remaining companions whisper behind his back, saying that he changed, and he made no attempt to correct them. Let them attribute his colder personality to a side-effect of becoming a monster, instead of him just giving up the act he had kept up all of his life. It would bring them no comfort to learn that he had always been a coiled snake among them, resisting its urge to attack.
Viturias was and would always be a man of hypocrisy. He bemoaned the way everyone seemed to place him above them, yet whenever an equal appeared, he couldn’t help but objectify them. The reason was simple: Possessions could be controlled, placed right where he could see them, safely within his reach. As a mortal, he had fought this side of himself, always trying so hard to be good to those around him, but now there was no point anymore. The snake uncoiled itself and bit with its new fangs.
If he didn’t want them to leave, then they just couldn’t leave.