Chapter Text
He couldn’t wear purple for the longest time.
It was the color that reminded him of where he came from, and who he truly was. He wasn’t one of them. He also wasn’t one of them . He belonged to both clans, and yet truly belonged to neither. If he was found out, he would be killed. Instantly. Especially by Wester and his followers.
They had become quite the problem in the last few decades. Rivalry was to be expected, since they were of two opposing clans; however, there was a difference in the way that Wester and his followers conducted themselves. They had begun to seek them out relentlessly, and one of his younger members had killed a vampaneze in his sleep. Even Arrow bristled with anger when he found out.
Killing the vampaneze couldn’t be controlled, and nor should it have to be. But to kill someone in their sleep, when they are at their most vulnerable and defenseless? It was shameful. The cub vampire, Waylen, was sent away with contempt. The lad would never be able to bear his face in the mountain again, but that wasn’t Vancha’s problem. The last time anyone had heard from him, he was rumored to be in Petrograd with Tanish Eul. He wasn’t a fan of Tanish, either- no one was.
He picked a piece of bramble out of his purple furs and examined it intently. Small seeds often sprouted the mightiest of oaks- that’s what Paris said anyway.
He remembered when he came to Paris initially. He was half-starved and sleeping in a cave, owning nothing- not even the clothes on his back. He was a rejected apprentice, and to this day he couldn’t understand why Tobias hadn’t killed him. That’s what happened with rejected or failed apprentices. They were killed and discarded and life went on. Not him, though. Gannen sought mercy and though it came at the cost of his hair, mercy was given. Gannen cut his hair with his sword and laid it at their mentor’s feet in exchange for his brother’s life.
He had to have been treated with contempt for at least half a century afterwards. Cutting your hair as a vampaneze meant one of a few things- you were grieving, you declared war, or you surrendered and asked for mercy. With Vancha gone, it wouldn’t take long for people to figure out why Gannen cut his hair. He had hoped to hear word about his brother from Kurda a few nights ago, but the blond-haired general didn’t show up. The war in Europe had messed everything up. Either way, he hoped that his brother had made it out of contempt and into respect.
Vancha had somehow done that himself. Paris reblooded him, and he lived. He didn’t know how to live- he only knew how to survive. And survive he did. He turned inward and began to bond with the gods of old, learned how to speak multiple languages, and began training to be a general merely three decades after being blooded. He had something to prove to the Princes, as well as himself.
His first set of Trials nearly killed him, though. The boar’s tusks were a lot sharper than they looked, and Vancha wasn’t as nimble on his feet as he should have been. It nearly cost him his life, so he made sure that it never happened again.
His second set of Trials were easier, but they were still difficult. He hated snakes to begin with, so drawing the Pit of Snakes as his first trial was a bit of a struggle. He made it out, and he vowed to never touch a snake as long as he lived.
He never got to take his third set of Trials on time. Surviving the French Revolution and smuggling a half-vampire Mika Ver Leth out of France was a trial in and of itself. Mika and Paris were injured, but Vancha wouldn’t abandon either of them. The guillotine was horrifying enough- he didn’t need to see his family lost to it.
By that time, he had been regarded with respect in the clan. He was a General, and with it came certain perks and respects. After he saved a Prince, though, nominating him was a no-brainer. Yamada nominated him, of course, and Lare immediately cast his vote in favor of the green-haired general. Paris debated, of course, due to the unusual nature that surrounded his blooding. He feared that a night would come where Vancha would not be able to make a decision due to the lines being blurred. What if Gannen killed a General, and Vancha had no choice but to avenge his fallen brother? A man cannot kill his blood brother in favor of an adopted brother, but a Prince cannot let a General’s death go unavenged.
The Prince’s investiture cloak was made of Tyrian purple. Seba’s birth father- his entire lineage, in fact- had been entirely dedicated to the creation of Tyrian purple. Seba had often joked that he was royal adjacent, which was why he didn’t want to become a prince. Vancha laughed at the joke, but he knew the real reason why he rejected the notion of Princehood.
The very color that was his shame was now his greatest pride, but also his biggest fear. What if Paris’s fear came true? What if Gannen killed Kurda? What if Vancha had to kill Gannen? In the end, he decided to tackle that problem the night it came.
Unfortunately, that night was fast approaching. Wester had begun to rally supporters from outside of his immediate circle, and it was starting to split the clan. The Princes had already drafted an address to give about the circumstances, but this had already gotten out of hand. No matter what they said or did there could be another rebellion. Could the vampire clan withstand another separation? What if they teamed up with the vampaneze in a turn of events? Would his people be ended?
Vancha had begun to take the side of the vampaneze in the arguments. He had gotten reamed by Paris for it, but Lare had understood and taken Vancha’s side. Sometimes it was necessary to be the devil’s advocate , he argued, and clearly it was needed right now. Paris didn’t renege his statement, and instead doubled down on it.
The argument had begun to tear apart the Princes as well, and that couldn’t happen. The Second World War had begun to operate in full swing, and they needed to stick together as much as possible.
He hoped that one night they could come back together again and agree with each other in the ways they used to. War tore people apart and drove them to do crazy things, and he wished that it would end. In order for it to end, though, he needed to give the address and face the hatred head-on. His skin wasn’t purple, but his blood still ran red in his veins.