You are not “Sapphire”. Sapphire was a name given to you out of backhanded spite by the person whom you admire above all else, and is a clumsy portmanteau for “Saturday’s faux vampire”. You abhor the name, but as it was given to you by the person who so graciously made you a “faux vampire” in the first place, you’ve been forced to suck it up and learn how to deal. Names are an important thing to vampires: with their long lives, their name is their legacy, inspiring fear and honor to all who hear it.
You’re still working on that part; it’s only your second year here, after all. Even the greats have to start somewhere, which for you was spending the better part of a year being the head resident’s doormat and de-facto slave to prove you had what it takes to both endure societies’ scorn and appreciate what vampirism means to you. And even then it only half-worked; vampirism by blood is actually a sort of magical infection, but fairies can’t get sick and don’t [i]have[/i] blood. You are so glad you didn’t have to figure all that out; you’re putting yourself to sleep just thinking about it again.