- October 30th, 2011
Now the daggers are drawn,
And the beggars perform.
Whose the crook in this
In which its goldarned time that Nevada Iolanthe progressed from amusing concept to legit character. We'll begin by assigning him a playground. He's too human for Chandra, too magic for PC, and too Mary Sue for Fanwork.
That leaves St Francis. Lets do this shit.
Vanessa told Nevada once, a long time ago, that there were as many of them as there are names for colors. According to the internet, there are twenty recognized shades of violet. His particular color is hard to place, bluer than purple, redder than blue, and with a strange dullness that makes him feel a bit like he's going to cough.
There are dozens upon dozens of each other color. Vanessa's blue, and there are more than fifty of those.
He never thought to ask if words for colors in other languages counted. But, that would make a degree of sense.
The point of the matter is, though, that there's not much chance that he'll ever run into someone like himself. Even the chances of meeting another Vanessa or Meredith are frighteningly slim. It wouldn't matter anyway, though. Because Vanessa proved that even another one of their odd, odd sort couldn't withstand what he could do.
But maybe, if he met Lavender, or Purple, or Fandango, then they could handle him?
So, he spends endless days and mindless nights on the ancient laptop that he may or may not have stolen from Vanessa, talking to faceless creatures of the internet, and its almost like having friends, so that's good.
He wanders around the midwest, and should have starved or died of exposure a long time ago, except, ridiculously, the only thing that could ever let him die is feeling love for himself, and he's filth, so that's not going to happen. And the hate keeps him alive, no matter how much he doesn't want to be. What's living, really, if you can't have love to go with it? If it means that everyone always dies, and you still. Keep. Moving.
He has considered doing many things which could, potentially, put him to good use. Join the red cross, maybe. Travel around the world healing the sick like some kind of godforsaken messiah to the masses. Maybe if enough people loved him, he could love himself, and be freed from this hell hole?
But he just kicks another can down the street, whistling tunelessly, and considers jumping in front of a train to see how long it takes before he comes around. Maybe someone would even take him to a hospital this time.
He likes them. Hospitals. Because whenever he's in them, no one dies. Just for a day or two. And they don't get sick. There are no complications. Things heal faster, and lives are brighter, and it almost makes everything else worth it. Attempting suicide and ending up there, often, is the only thing that can dig him out of the black hole he crawls into from time to time.
He wanders, and strolls, and occasionally runs. His clothes are ragged, and they show off more of his body than he'd prefer, because people will make assumptions that he doesn't want made, and he doesn't cry because it's unbecoming of a young man, homeless and heartbroken or not, to break down in tears in public. Positively indecent. And he hasn't had an 'in private' in four years now.
He sleeps under a tree in the middle of a forest, and it snows, and he wakes up burning from the cold, but it doesn't kill him, because nothing does.
But worse than that, he isn't alone. There's a pair of big yellow eyes watching him as he struggles to sit straight. And then, the eyes wink, and from behind him something that might be mistaken for a train slams into him violently. Oh gods, and he'd thought the snow hurt, but he was wrong. Nothing in the world has ever hurt quite like the glass claws of a vamp digging under his jawbone, trying desperately to pull his head off, and of course, it doesn't work because he can't die. But he can hurt.
The yellow eyes are attacked to a little naked girl who looks like she might be seven, except for the part where every hair on her body is bright, searing green. Because no. Not good enough that he'd get a vampire trying to tear his skull from his shoulders. He has to get the fae too.
"Oh stop it, chere. It obviously isn't going anywhere. I told you he wasn't real." The little girl intones, her voice nasally and high.
The vampire growls out their frustration, and then his head is free. "Noses don't lie. She's human. Why won't she die? I'm hungry."
"I'm not human." Nevada hisses, the words creaking painfully from a dry, stretched throat. "'N I'm not a she."
The vampire, apparently having had enough of being proven wrong, does not hesitate to shread the last shreds of his clothing. "Yes. You are. Now shut up, bloodbank. Lyssie, what the hell is wrong with her."
"He's one of my folk. The solitary. En't you ever wondered why it's called that? Rather than being, I don't know, the gray courts of such? It's got its share of humans in it. Couple of Others, too. Mostly the fae. But I knew a Therian once who was one of the solitary. This one, poor little boy- and he's a boy, don't be crude- is one of the Violet. And mortal, no less, so an inversion. I wouldn't want to be him, not at all."
Nevada was trying to crawl away without drawing the vamp's attention, but 'Violet' stops him in his tracks, the snow crunching wetly in his clenched fist.
"Whaddya mean 'one of your folk?'" He grits out, between painfully clenched teeth. That little girl knows what he is.
"I'm one of the green. Alianthus Trillium. Or, being that you're not kin, Alyssa. I forget the exact title. Probably Chartreuse. Could be. And you, you're not just one of the violet, oh no you aren't. You're Violet. Pity that. I hate when the proper ones end up mortal. Steals what's rightfully family property. But you'll be the worst of them. Not dying until you come to peace with it. And goodness, that could take lifetimes."
Beside her, the looming, alarmingly muscular form of the vampiress is growing more agitated, displeased with being ignored and confounded.
"I'm not fae."
"No, darling. You're colorless. But you're Solitary, nonetheless. Filthy, I must say. If I had any sense about me, I'd drop you with the Seleigh for a few decades. Let their drugs and rhymes wear you down. But, then again, I do believe they'd kill me as soon as thank me. No, no. Sooner."
Nevada growls, beating his bare fist in the snow. He hates Fae. They make no sense, always nattering on about things beyond mortal knowing. That's the trouble with living forever.
He'll end up like them, one day. Talking about Reds and Blues and...
"You're lying." He spits, without thinking. Because, of course
"Now, little brattikin. I can't lie. You know that. Tell him he knows that, Calliope."
"My name's not Calliope." The vampiress replies, glaring. She wants to kill him. The rage drains from her body suddenly, though, and Nevada has the horrible suspicion that he's going to die anyway. "He can't die. Can he still bleed?"
The answer is yes. But neither Nevada nor Alianthus Alyssa Trilium says so, because the nameless vamp is on him, tearing at his neck voraciously, sucking him empty and watching with muted awe as he fades into unconsciousness, then hacks and chokes back into life, skin warm and flushed with her second course.
It takes twenty seven years to escape.