For You

Authors Note: Yeah, this was a poem I wrote, but I decided that since I had two characters in the poem, Kallisto and Velkan, and it had a good plot...so I decided to make a story out of the poem, For You. Hope you like it! Read and Review, por favor.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Valerious family, including Velkan (sadly), or Anna, and I don't own Van Helsing, or Dracula. Nor do I own Verona, Aleera, or Marishka, nor Frankenstein or his monster, nor anything really, besides the plot, and the villagers I made up. I also don't own Carl (sadly).

Summary: Based on the poem, For you, Kallisto is a villager in Transylvania who is deeply in love with handsome Velkan, Prince of Gypsies.

A/N: Dark and prone to violence- See, you pushed me into this!

Prologue: Ian

Kallisto's Point of View

The wind blew through my brown red hair as I sat in the old tree. I had named the tree Ian a few years back, because that name had always made me think of an old, wise, wrinkly man with white hair. I used to have fantasies where Ian was a real man, like a grandfather. He would pull me onto his bony lap and bounce me, singing a lullaby that I only remember in my dreams.

I named the tree Ian because my tree was wrinkly, the bark peeling off in some parts, leaving the slugs and bugs open for birds. It was also old, and always let me climb up the fat, thick branches to escape the angry shouts of my mother and father, and the crashes of pots as Mother screamed and Father slammed out of the house back to the bar and inn. And as I sobbed into the harsh, rough "neck" of my precious Ian, I felt comforted, and slipped into the soft hands of my internal Grandfather Ian.

Ever since I was eight years old, I've harbored a crush, of some sort. I am twelve as of now. But when I was eight, I was naïve enough to fall into a pool of forbidden love, pushed in by fate. And now, as I sit here with my ever so faithful Ian, four years later, my crush has grown to an infatuation of some sort. Every time he is in danger, I want to save him. Every time he walks by, I want to call out to him. Every time he plays outside with his sister, I want to join in the fray and excitement. Every time I hear an older, prettier girl giggling over him with her many friends, I want to claw her eyes out and soil her dress and hair.

He knows nothing of me, yet I wish ... so much. What a cute little boy he made when I was eight. He was thirteen when I was eight, making him seventeen now. As I watched him growing taller, ganglier, then muscular and handsome, I loved him more and more, though I knew fate had dealt me the hand of a peasant, and I was five years younger than him; not to mention that I was small, fragile, and terribly pale at the age of twelve. Being fair was not good here in Transylvania, the land of demons and vampires. The fact that my lips, at the age of twelve, mind you, were a red so deep that it looked like they were stained with blood didn't help my popularity. Being accused of being a vampire wasn't new for me, though I usually fended it off with, "then why am I in the sunlight and not ash," and "then why can I touch crosses, dip my fingers in holy water and go to church?" By then, the accusers are satisfied and scurry off to their homes and dinner.

When I was ten, Father left Mother and I. I last saw him a year ago with a woman whose breasts were so big, they must be bewitched, hanging over him and a beer to his lips. He spotted me, looked me straight in the eye, and I know he recognized me. He then stood up, grabbed the strange womans' hand and drew her inside Sura's Inn and Bar. After one year of asking Mother, "where's Father," I ceased the pestering and never asked Mother about Father again. I never spoke to her about it, nor told her what I had seen outside of Sura's. I also never went to Sura's Inn and Bar again.

My life isn't exactly exciting. The only thing remotely interesting is my deranged infatuation with a man five years older than me. And believe me, the thoughts I think sometimes ... it is deranged.

Yes, I realize that you probably don't know who I'm talking about, though I know you probably have some ideas. I'll tell you now.

I, Kallisto, am in love with the Prince of Gypsies.