By the time he was ten, Derek Lycan had watched both of his parents be slaughtered. He and his brother were the only to survive, saved by a family friend.

By the time he was twelve, Derek had promised himself he would be the father his own father could never be.

In his thirties, he could do little but stand by and watch his friends' prayers pleading for their son be ignored.

So, it made little sense to Derek why he was standing on the Ro'Meave porch waiting for their door to be answered. He knew he should've been at home, spending time with his own children. With his own son.

But his intuition was going off. It wasn't unusual for Garte to not answer to Derek's phone calls or texts. His brain would cause him to forget, or the world would be suffocating to him. The Ultima knew this, but he was not going to let the thought that there was more crush him any longer.

Zianna pulled the door opened and greeted Derek with a confused, yet welcoming smile. He glanced down and saw little Zane, with the same black hair his mother had. The boy was holding tightly onto his mother's leg.

"Hi, Derek. Come on inside," Zianna asked, placing a hand on Zane's head and stepping aside.

"Is Garte around?" Derek inquired.

"Yeah, he's upstairs working. Can I get you anything?" Zianna hoisted Zane up and held him on her hip.

Before Derek could deny any sort of help, for he thought he was supposed to be the one helping her, the sound of the ringing phone struck their ears. Quickly excusing herself, Zianna rushed to the phone with Zane in her grip.

Derek pushed a shallow breath out of his lungs and looked around for a moment. It wasn't like the house was unfamiliar to him; sometimes he knew the Ro'Meave home better than his own. His eyes processed all of their family photos hanging up on their walls. Once he realized that there would never be any future photos of Garroth, it was all he could think about.

Shaking his head as though it would actually make the thought go away, Derek's mind was interrupted by the sound of quick footsteps. He felt a sharp tug on his right sleeve. Looking down to see what could possibly be begging for his attention, he saw Vylad's auburn hair and green eyes.

"Hi, De-rek!" Vylad exclaimed, placing all of his effort into speaking clearly.

"Hey, Buddy," Derek laughed.

He knelt down and took Vylad into his arms. Derek noted how small the toddler was compared to Aaron. He felt himself almost missing when his children were that little and begging for attention.

"What's new, Pea? Got any new colors you learned about?" Derek asked.

"Daddy sick," Vylad stated as he examined the collar of Derek's shirt.

"He's sick? What do you mean, Pea?" Derek spoke softly in order to get the best answer he could out of the toddler.

"GarGar sick," Vylad responded.

Derek furrowed his eyebrows and adjusted Vylad so that he held him higher. He pressed his lips in a line and thought very carefully about his next words, and how to place them in such a way that a child who had just grown out of infancy could understand.

"That's right, Buddy," Derek said, hardly surprised that Vylad figured the facts out. "Garroth isn't feeling good, is he? Is it okay if I go check on both of them?"

Vylad nodded intently. He was now looking at the pictures on the wall with the occasional glance at Derek. His already intelligent mind was already putting together the pieces of the seemingly complicated puzzle.

After a mere few seconds of silence, Vylad's emerald green eyes landed on the old record player that his parents kept in the living room. He pressed against Derek, who let him down onto the ground. He ran as fast as he could to the record player and knelt down. Vylad slowly slid out one of the records his parents owned, one that was about as big as he was. With both hands, he held it up to Derek.

"Music, please," Vylad said with a harsh attempt to hold the record up.

"You got it, Pea," Derek smirked, taking the record from Vylad.

The child got up and began jumping as Derek placed the record. As the record began to turn, Vylad made his way to the couch and climbed up. He rested the upper half of his body on the armrest.

"Maybe this will get your daddy to come downstairs," Derek turned the volume down slowly. "He loves music, doesn't he?"

"Daddy said no music," Vylad stated.

Derek, clearly perplexed, smiled at the boy. Never once was Garte one to turn down music and dance, especially when it came to his sons.

"Does daddy not play music and dance around with you anymore?" Derek questioned.

Vylad shook his head and climbed down from the couch. Derek's heart dropped as he realized what was slowly becoming of the family. He felt his anger levels rise as he realized that Garroth was becoming the center of their every move.

Derek, only telling Vylad he'd be back in a moment, rushed over to the steps and made his way up to the second floor. Though he tried to be quiet for Garroth's sake, he was hardly able to contain the urgency.

It was almost like the door to Garte's bedroom was screaming at Derek. It seemed like it was begging for him to enter the room. So, Derek obliged and walked into the room without a second between the knock and the door opening.

Garte, startled by Derek's sudden entrance into the room, quickly averted his eyes from the ceiling from which he was staring at from his bed to Derek. The room was no longer quiet. Garte's rapid breathing and heart rate began to settle as he was comforted with the knowledge of who was in the room.

With the lighting in the room being exceptionally dim, the shadows cast over Garte's face almost made him look almost as sick as his son to Derek. With a ghastly complexion and a face that appeared to be hollowed out, it didn't take a doctor to figure out that something was very wrong.

"You alright?" Derek asked, pretending as though there was a different answer.

"Yeah," Garte replied in a groggy tone as he sat up on the edge of his bed. "When did you get here?"

"Not long ago. I was with Vylad downstairs before I came up."

"Is he doing alright?"

Derek, half scoffing, shook his head and looked down. He pressed his lips together and shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his feet. He looked out the curtain covered window and remained focused on it.

"Shouldn't you know?" He asked.

Garte was shocked by the sudden sharpness to Derek's voice. The two of them were never those who told each other how to parent their children, even though when advice was asked for it was given. He shifted in his seat, feeling groggy and useless, and furrowed his eyebrows at Derek.

"You know you have two other children to take care of, right?" Derek said once he saw Garte's facial expression. "You can't just leave it all to Zianna."

"Where the hell," Garte paused to cough, "is this all coming from?"

"Vylad said you won't allow music anymore. Why the fuck is your two year old at the point where he is able to see you're in a depressive episode?"

Garte hardly had the strength to sit up, let alone raise his voice to argue. His cough was continuously getting worse and he could feel the life draining from him every moment of the day.

"D-Derek," Garte stuttered, nervous to explain the injection he had made. "It's not a depressive episode."

"Like hell it isn't!" Derek exclaimed in a whisper. "We have worked so incredibly hard to get you to this point. You have worked to get yourself to this point. G, I know things are hard right now, but please don't just throw your entire family away when they need you the most."

Garte closed his ear shut. Derek's voice seemed so much louder to him than it actually was.

"I'm fine, really," Garte sputtered out.

"Oh and I'm supposed to believe that when you say it? How many times have you been admitted now?"

Silence fell upon the room. It was as though even the fans circulating air were shocked at what Derek said. There wasn't even sound coming from the living room or kitchen.

Garte was too shocked, and even possibly a bit too prideful to react right away. While Derek was breathing furiously, Garte couldn't draw in a breath hardly at all. The two just stared at each other for several moments of silence.

"It's," Garte swallowed. "It's not a depressive episode."

Derek inhaled through his nose, "Then what is it?"

Garte bit the inside of his cheek and lifted his arm up to show where he had injected himself. The wound was small, but visible. There was slight bruising around it which made it clearer for Derek to see.

"What is this?" Derek asked solemnly.

"Zack... he, um," Garte paused, trying to gather his thoughts through the fatigue. "He dropped by with just a small amount of the potion."

"You didn't."

Derek stared at Garte's arm, while Garte's eyes couldn't focus on any single part of the room. His anxiety was not as intense as it usually was, it was like he was anticipating the worst. He had become accustomed to the worst.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Derek shook his head, and made his way to the bedroom door.

Garte, gathering up all his energy, stood up and faced Derek. He didn't feel as though his legs, by themselves, were able to carry his weight. Nausea corrupted his abdomen while anxiety held a tyrannical hold on his mind.

"It was in an attempt to save Garroth. You should've heard him, Derek! He was talking about blood, and sputtering for his last breath, and..." Garte threw his hands in the air in clenched fists.

"So you inject the potion into yourself with no repercussions?" Derek spoke as if Garte was insane. "You can't just risk everything out of a sliver of hope to save that boy!"

Garte began to experience not hurt or shock, but pure, hot headed anger. He had been nothing but forgiving to Derek, giving him the benefit of the doubt every time he claimed he was unable to control his anger. He then remembered what Michael had said.

Garroth was his son.

If Derek was going to take an aggressive approach, then Garte was, too. He was not going to back down in debate of his son's life. He especially was not going to back down from a man who was never home and present for his own children.

"Of course you wouldn't know about putting your child first," Garte squinted his tired eyes.

It took every last ounce of Derek's willpower to stop his eyes from turning bright red. Garte had sure frustrated him before, but that had only been out of a plea to help him. For the first time, he felt disgust looking at his best friend and standing within his home.

Derek placed his hand on the cold doorknob and opened the bedroom door. He turned around and glared at Garte with his borderline red eyes before he turned to leave.

"Our business is done. I don't want to hear from you until Garroth is dead."