V
Valerian was 400 years old, and he was bored of the dark. He was tired of velvet capes, tired of brooding in crypts, and especially tired of the taste of O-negative.
He wanted to see a flower bloom. He wanted to feel warmth on his skin. He wanted to see the sun.
"It will kill you," his sire, Lord Malich, warned him. "You will turn to ash."
"Then I will be warm ash," Valerian retorted.
He spent fifty years researching. He studied alchemy, physics, and SPF factors. Finally, he built The Suit.
It was a monstrosity of lead-lined leather, enchanted mirrors, and heavy welding glass. He looked like a deep-sea diver from a steampunk nightmare.
He stepped out of his castle at dawn.
The light hit him. Even through the filters, it was blinding. He felt the heat radiating against the suit. His skin prickled. Smoke began to curl from the joints of his armor.
"I'm doing it!" he shouted, his voice muffled. "I'm daywalking!"
He walked into the village. The baker dropped his tray of loaves. The blacksmith fainted.
Valerian found a patch of daisies. He knelt down, his servos whining. He touched a petal with his heavy gloved finger.
It was yellow. So yellow.
But the suit was failing. The enchantments were breaking under the UV assault. He felt his left arm begin to smolder.
"Worth it," he wheezed.
He watched the sun rise higher. He saw the way the light played on the river. He saw the way the shadows shortened. For ten glorious minutes, he was part of the living world.
Then, his cooling unit exploded.
Valerian scrambled back into the shadows of the forest, smoke trailing behind him like a comet. He collapsed in the safety of the dark, his suit ruined, his skin blistered.
He lay there, in agony, smiling.
"Next time," he whispered, pulling a charred daisy from his belt. "Next time, I'll bring sunglasses."