Chapter Text
POV: The Pale Rider
The Pale Rider. Eleventh generation. Caitiff. Childe of Rumor Solace. Sheriff of Campbelltown, second of the Wake bloodline. All ways I've introduced myself when I'm out in polite blood-sucking company. But there's a couple things I don't mention right away.
I'm a necromancer who passes for Hecata. Auspex, to see the souls of the dead and other things that go bump in the night. Fortitude, to take a lickin' and keep on tickin'. And Oblivion, to jerk a knot in the Shroud.
I can outshoot any man alive and a lot of the ones who ain't. I don't go anywhere without at least two loaded revolvers, and if I have my way and I ain't out abroad, I wear four sixguns on my hips and a rifle on my back. I can shoot behind without turning around while riding a horse at full gallop, and I can shoot one pistol, holster it, and flip my rifle into my hands without breaking my flow.
Most important thing to know about me, though, is that I'm about as ornery as a wild stallion with a thorn in his side. Except in my case, it's a bullet hole on the left side of my belly. The same bullet that ended my mortal life. Well, really, it wasn't the bullet, it was the bleeding and the sepsis from where it ripped through my bowel. It would've been a slow, painful way to go, alone in the dark, left for dead in an old copper mine, if my sire hadn't found me.
It's an old wound, long since stopped bleeding. But the thing about old wounds is, even after they don't bleed anymore, they still hurt. And the thing about being a vampire is some part of you's always gonna stay right where it was when you died. The rest of you has to go on trying to exist in whatever way it can.
It's like having a loved one die. Someone who was part of your life, part of you, for so long you can't imagine them not being there. And then, one day, they're gone, and you're left there with an aching, gaping, bleeding hole shaped like where they used to be and no idea how you're gonna make it through another day, let alone the rest of your life. It leaves an empty, desperate hunger inside you that you'll do damn near anything to fill, even if it poisons your soul.
I should know. I lost my sweetheart the night of my embrace. I lost her twice, even - first to being shot by a hitman, then by choosing to live and get revenge over dying and being at peace with her. Now, I live for my bloodlust, and my love is out of my reach for good. She passed beyond the Shadowlands, into the real afterlife, whatever that might be. If there's a Heaven, she most likely went there. She was a good Christian girl, with a strong enough faith to drive even the wickedest vampire running for the hills.
It's been a hundred and thirty-seven years since then. I've taken other wounds to my soul in that time that ache just as much as the old ones. But I'm still here, and I have people who love me, and that's what keeps me going through these nights. It's the thread I've used to stitch up those wounds, to make a human skin that fits over my troubled bones. The stitches ain't neat or pretty, but they keep my blood from spilling out and keep nastier things from getting in.
Fortitude isn't just about not being able to be hurt. It's about being able to heal from that hurt, even if it still aches and still leaves scars. I like to say I'm bulletproof, just because bullets won't kill me. But they do go into me. They still leave marks and break bones and sometimes hurt like hell, but my flesh heals around them. I've got a few bullets stuck inside me in places. I can feel them in my lungs, between my ribs, stuck in my arms and legs, little relics buried in the battlefield under my skin, reminders of battles I've fought and won.
I'm still here. Still fighting, still walking around, however tough it might get. And I intend to stay, for as long as I can get away with. It might get messy, and it can be awful cruel, but that's the lay of the Shadowlands.
Call me what you will, but I'll die for no man.
In memory of Sarah Pike.
Born May 19, 1861 - Died November 1, 1885
In memory of Emma Lee Purdue.
Born September 25th, 1865 - Died October 31, 1885
In memory of Elijah Campbell.
Born January 8, 1855 - Died November 1, 1885
(Added at the insistence of Elijah Campbell's Wraith)