Summary: I can't afford to watch you walk away, these games you play are bringing me down… Elijah/Elena
Can't believe I'm still watching this show after I've been denied Klaroline, Elejah and Kennett. Season 5 better give me Steroline or I will RAGE.
AUish Season 4 (and beyond), in which Elijah is around, but still follows the canon pretty closely. Credit to The Pierces for the title and lyrics.
As always, REVIEW.
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space and time
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My life goes on slowly without you
I move through space and time
I feel the air heavy upon my skin
And wonder if I'll see you again
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Only the utmost delicacy and courtesy in his well-timed responses, the champagne flute raised in a customary salute to yet another Mystic Falls celebratory event. Faced with such mindless tedium, Elijah can summon only the deepest apathy in response to this gilded pageant of self-aggrandizing monotony.
Until his astute gaze falls on a river of brunette hair, a slender profile so delicate (so unconsciously poised for destruction) in lace and light chiffon. It would never do to leave a lady alone, and Elijah is nothing if not a gentleman.
He moves easily through the crowd, faceless couples parting like water to allow him through (as though he could be stopped, even if they tried). A hand extended, offering (a proposal, a truce) –
"Would you do me the honor of the next dance?"
Elena starts, looking up at him in surprise. Hesitates for a brief second, then nods, placing her slender fingers in the cage of his own. Her expressive eyes beneath their fringe of dark lashes still carry the faint shadow of suspicion, though she tries to hide it behind a jest. "Is this your way of trying to protect me?"
The slow tug of a smile (allowed only for her) is all he will permit himself. Proprieties must still be observed. "Must you always attribute me with an ulterior motive?"
She sighs, part exasperation, part amusement. "Elijah. We both know you're only ever here when something catastrophic is about to go down in Mystic Falls."
Elijah looks intently at her, feels the walls of his resolve slowly crumble in the face of such an exquisite tragedy, that unraveling of his mind and heart, the treacherous crying out of his flesh and blood in the tantalizing bliss of her proximity, the emergence of a hunger lain dormant for more centuries than he cares to remember –
He forces down that pull of endless craving. Locked and hoarded within stone and marble. Looks down at her benignly.
"Not in the least, I assure you."
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The hall blurs in a swirl of glittering lights as Elijah guides her like she was made to fit in his arms. A virtuoso when it comes to social niceties, like some chivalrous hero of bygone ages. Spinning her round with effortless ease, movements smooth as liquid. The curve of an aristocratic brow as he regards her with cool deliberation. "You seem to be adjusting fairly well." A brief pause. "Are you?"
Elena thinks of vomiting up blood bags, predatory urges, the stirring of emotions that she shouldn't be having. She's spent day after day answering her friends with carefully constructed smiles, making light of her situation, not wishing to cause anyone concern, but something about Elijah's still composure, his utter lack of condemnation or judgment, inspires her to honesty.
"I've been better," she admits (praying that Stefan, standing somewhere on the sidelines, can't hear her).
Elijah's eyes, deep amber, pass over her face with scrutinizing intensity.
"But you are different," he observes in a quiet murmur.
She should be startled, offended (everyone has been so careful, treating her like she's spun glass, terrified she will break) but instead finds herself appreciating his sincerity. "I know."
He pulls her close, and suddenly, it takes all she has to keep her breathing calm and steady. His presence is making her head swim, and the hand entwined in hers and the other braced on her hip bring with them memories (leaning in close to her exposed throat, what is this… vervain doing around your neck?). Her preternaturally sharpened senses seem to have leapt into overdrive; she can smell the subtle fragrance of sandalwood, feel the brush of charcoal linen against the thin silk covering her chest as he inhales, and finds herself searingly aware the warmth of his hand in hers, his grip both firm and reassuring, anchoring her in safety. Convincing her that everything will be alright.
And just for the moment, Elena allows herself to believe him.
.
.
His intentions shrouded in utmost propriety, he is careful to keep his touches deliberately light, lacing his fingers softly through hers. All the while aware of the grave concern on Stefan Salvatore's face, the blazing fury on Damon's, those piercing eyes like sharpened daggers ready to cut him open as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
Elijah's mouth thins into something like a smile (though there is too much grim exultance in his expression for it to be called such). He takes a rare moment to linger over memory (a proffered handkerchief, a warning dressed in the trappings of courteous advice. I'm an Original. Show a little respect).
As for Elena herself, that stubborn glint remains in her eyes, relentless in the face of overwhelming odds. No longer the wide-eyed fawn ever on the brink of death, she has lost that sheath of fragile mortality, an invigorated strength flowing through her limbs, fired with protective impulses (and a righteous fury akin to his own). Elijah regards her closely through hooded eyes, throat shifting slightly as he swallows, tasting her on the air. Intriguing.
The melodious strains of a string quartet hover in the air around them, and he twirls her around with long-practiced grace. Their faces are close together; he inhales the scent of light perfume that lingers on the dip of her throat, the citrus notes of champagne clinging to her parted lips. Heightened senses thicken the air, make it something alive, and she carefully avoids his eyes when his fingers begin to weave a snare in the dark tresses of her hair.
"You're a really good dancer," she offers in a pitiful attempt to break the painful tension, but Elijah can hear the breathless tremor in her voice (deception never was her strong point).
"I aim to impress," he answers serenely, surging in and dipping her low when the chords of the music change, catching her waist with perfect timing (I will never let you fall –)
His hand slides down the arching curve of her back, gliding over bare skin with aching slowness. He's close enough to feel her breath catch, longs to trap it with the searing movement of his mouth over her own. He closes his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. Resists that urge. Something like a slow and sweet agony begins to unfold within him.
Elijah resigns himself to his own impending damnation with weary acceptance.
.
.
She runs into him outside the Grill and greets him civilly (fighting down the uneasy conviction that he's been following her). He's dressed impeccably as always, a pleasured glint in his eyes as he falls into step beside her.
Their conversation remains polite, casual. A thousand conflicting emotions stirring beneath the surface that neither will acknowledge or dare express. Elijah inquires how she's coming to terms with her Vampirism (far too much of a gentleman to mention her break-up with Stefan) while Elena makes small talk about the preparations for the Winter Wonderland event. Tedious and banal, too dangerous to ever express what they're really thinking (dangerous only because they're so often on different sides). An ever-present wariness filling the empty spaces in their interactions.
Until she can't take it any longer. She turns to him abruptly, crossing her arms and demanding, "Why are you here?"
His answer is smooth and immediate, the melodic timbre of his voice betraying nothing. "Someone has to keep an eye on my brother."
"And that's the only reason?"
Elijah tilts his head to the side, regarding her with a calm, knowing complacency that sets her on edge, making her nervous and foreboding of… she doesn't know what. "Elena," he says simply, "What other reason could there be?"
"I don't know," she replies slowly, aware of how foolish she probably sounds. "I just thought…"
His gaze flickers upward, mildly curious. She finds herself feeling uncommonly awkward and childlike under his quiet interest and faint amusement, as though she's still a naïve human girl, laughably trying to understand him. But still she senses that pervading melancholy hidden beneath the ornate surface. Strange pity stirs in her heart, and all her innate empathetic impulses have her yearning to console him for whatever unknown shadow of pain haunts him (all the while reminding herself, he's dangerous, he's dangerous). But the lines have always been blurred for them, with too much mutual admiration to be merely allies, too much caution to be considered friends.
"I'm sorry if that sounded harsh. That's not what I meant." She pauses, looking up at him carefully. His tanned, chiseled features are unmoving. "I just – with everything that's been going on, I need to know that I can trust you, Elijah. Trust is everything."
He's moved in closer, radiating heat from beneath the sleek satin of his suit. Irises turning from gold to a darker shade, as though on the verge of expressing some deeper emotion... that flickers and dies so quickly, Elena wonders whether it was even there at all.
"Of course," he says, as though it is the simplest thing in the world.
.
.
He becomes a master in self-deception, allows himself to think he's in control. Affecting indifference has become an art form to one as long-lived as him, and he's rigidly adherent in ensuring that no outward action betrays the restless agitation fermenting within. Admiration and faint intrigue have turned to obsession. He immerses himself in routine, occupying himself with trivial matters. Resisting the mindless compulsion to just see her. On those occasional instances he does encounter her, he convinces himself his intentions are entirely honorable, merely in the interests of protecting her. He has laid out the parameters of his existence, logical and methodical, and there are boundaries he simply will not (must not) cross.
Only, will is different from want in every respect. And even Elijah's legendary restraint has its limits.
It is in solitude, in the illusory space of dreams, that he allows himself to envision russet tresses and long limbs spread out beneath him, all courtesy and careful manners stripped away as she whispers (gasps, moans, pleads) his name. His hands spanning her waist, gazing deeply into those eyes, so sincere and bright with compassion they could never be anyone but Elena's. Insatiable craving warring with utmost reverence in the recesses of his disturbed mind as he imagines kissing away the perspiration that beads her olive skin, burying his hands in the dark silk of her hair. He longs for the sweet anodyne of her touch, annihilating all the ghosts that haunt him, undoing the mistakes of the past.
Elijah is a man possessing too much self-awareness not to derive some bitter humour from the irony of his situation, though too often it is swallowed up in flashes of uncharacteristic anguish. A tragedy for the ages. Knowing that every encounter takes him further down this ruinous path. He inwardly secures his resolve in place, vows it will not be so.
Reason must prevail, he would never allow passion to hold the mastery over him.
Not this time.
.
.
Klaus has gone insane.
Her head is pounding with dizziness as she painfully tries to drag herself upright – the walls of the mansion spin sickeningly around her and she braces her hands on the polished wooden floor to steady herself… and sees… blood… is that my blood…?
It will heal, Elena tells herself firmly, fighting down the nausea that threatens to overwhelm her. Not like Carol Lockwood, found dead in the fountain after another plan to destroy Klaus has gone horribly wrong…
Now he's out for blood, and he doesn't care whose.
"My Hybrids are dead," Klaus snarls, enunciating each word with pointed venom, "My Doppelganger is a Vampire, and I don't – have – the – Cure!"
Her instinct for self-preservation flares into life, her body fighting and her mind thinking fast (reason, negotiate, something –) "You need me alive," she croaks, "We'll get the Cure, I promise –"
The door bursts open. Faint with relief, Elena looks up (Stefan?)
No. Eyes dark as black holes, a vortex drowning out the world. All that stoic self-control gone. The line of his shoulders predatory, all rigid muscle and cold fury. His voice cracks like a whiplash in the heavy quiet of the room.
"Niklaus, enough."
"This is none of your concern, Elijah."
"The girl is a Vampire. She is of no further use to you. Let her go." Something edges his voice, making it dark, honed, sharp (are you challenging me?)
Klaus's face blazes, a burning, potent fury in his blue eyes. Then, unbelievably – manically – he laughs. "Is this what it's come to then, Elijah? You would turn against your own family? History really does have a habit of repeating itself with you, doesn't it?"
In the ringing silence that follows, Elena slowly moves from the corner she's been crouched in, never taking her eyes from Elijah. At the sight of him, fear almost outweighs her gratitude. His presence should be comforting, but it terrifies her. He's no less dangerous when he's saving her. She's forcibly reminded of what he is – what I am now – the creature that rips out hearts, that is ruthlessly single-minded when it comes to pursuing his goals. His righteous conviction a force far more deadly than Klaus's mercurial rages.
"Leave," he says coolly, without looking at her.
She's smart enough to obey that. Hands braced against the wall, she stumbles unsteadily towards the door. Glances back and hesitates for a fraction of a second.
"I – thank you –" she stammers.
Then Damon's arms are tight and fierce around her, and he speeds her from the house before she can read Elijah's reaction.
.
.
Klaus is left to harbor his resentments, confining himself to his room and immersing himself in paints and oils that spill vengeance and bloody battle over canvas, too preoccupied to hear the tentative tap of the knocker as it comes down on the manor door. Elijah however misses nothing, and with a subdued smiling of eyes, is there in a hairsbreadth, in the blink of an eye (drawn by a fool's hope).
There is the lovely Elena herself, looking uncommonly small without a white and dark knight protectively flanking each side. Perhaps she thinks she's strong enough to defend herself now (amusement briefly illumines his coal eyes – her courage always did border on the side of reckless). A part of him wonders whether he should mourn the loss of her humanity, but upon closer examination, Elijah dismisses the thought. In every way that matters, she's human; she's still the Elena he knows with the soft eyes and gentle heart, always so earnest, so guilelessly willing to help. Sleek dark hair parted like water around her cheeks, a tremulous smile on her lips (he wonders whether they would taste like Katerina's, intoxicating and sharp as berries on the verge of becoming overripe).
If he possessed Klaus's utter lack of self-control, he would have dragged her into the hall by now, pinned her bodily against the wall, and –
But he is not Niklaus, and long experience has taught him that patience always reaps the greatest rewards. Such crass displays of power have never been his style, and moreover, his arrogance would never permit such a hollow victory.
So he expresses nothing but mild surprise, pleasant warmth enveloping his rich voice. "Elena. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I wanted to thank you for last night. You saved my life."
"Your gratitude isn't necessary. I said I was here to watch Niklaus, and his behavior was out of line."
"Well, whatever your reasons… I'm grateful. I don't know what Klaus would have done if you hadn't been there."
"Believe me, Elena, I have long since learned to deal with my brother's… outbursts. You have my word; he won't come near you again."
It's only a small promise in a world of harsh truths, but it is one he will give his life to keep. He's a man of his word, after all.
"Thank you," she says quietly. Searching his eyes, solemn and troubled. "I know he's your brother. I know you love him. So what you did for me… I won't forget it."
Still she hesitates in the doorway, lingering. He can hear the rhythm of her heart, picking up speed. Bracing herself to ask something of him (a favor? A deal?) A spark of interest ignites within the hollow shell of his body, the thrill of intrigue stirring his blood into quickening life (he never could resist a battle of wills with her).
Outwardly, Elijah only sighs. "There's something else, isn't there?"
"How can I be sure he won't come after anyone else? Mayor Lockwood is dead, Elijah. Klaus isn't just going to let this go."
It never fails to surprise him, these occasional bursts of audacity. She's startlingly, painfully transparent, her desire to protect her loved ones crying out to him in her clenched fists and earnest eyes.
He flexes a hand at his side, shaking his head in slight disbelief. "I cannot protect the world, Elena."
"I'm not asking for the world. Just my friends. Please."
His gaze flickers over her. Her cheeks are pale with an agitation that makes her eyes bright and hard as diamonds in the darkness of an underground cave. A fierce, inflexible determination that he finds himself powerless to resist. Something falters his unyielding resolve. He's unable to endure the thought of shattering her compassion, something so pure in the taint of this world.
So Elijah nods, abrupt and decisive. "I will do what I can."
As ever, her slave.
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Entropy comes crashing upon them all with inevitable speed, and Elena reflects that she should have known. This uneasy peace had lasted too long to be anything but shattered. Kol's body lies on the kitchen floor, ash dusting the linoleum. Swallowing down her fear, she waits at the door, bracing herself for the incoming apocalypse.
She can taste his anger on the air even before he appears on the porch, deceptively quiet and controlled. Features chiseled like age-old stone. His eyes the colour of obsidian. He has the power to descend on her like a Biblical angel, all fury and justice, seething with feuds that stretch back over millennia. Not since that night at the lake house has she seen him radiate an aura of such menace.
Three words are all it takes to crumble the walls of her self-control.
"Niklaus told me."
Her knees threaten to fail beneath her. Terror is rooted in her throat, coiled tight with pity and horror. "Elijah – I'm so sorry – I –"
He holds up a hand, effectively silencing her. "Don't speak, Elena."
Her hand is slick with sweat around the doorframe, and suddenly, the fact that she's a Vampire means nothing, because she is young and weak and pathetically short-sighted, because how could she have thought for a second that she could mean anything to someone like him? He's something so far beyond her, impossibly old, an ancient, indifferent creature that can grind her to dust beneath the heel of his expensive Italian shoe. He can extinguish her as easily as snuffing out a candle.
"You see…" Elijah paces to and fro, and her eyes – wild, darting – follow the rhythmic movements. She's an animal, caged, nothing but wired instinct and pulse-pounding fear (a terrified girl confronted by the devil come to take her to her tomb, please, don't let him take me –)
His quiet voice resounds like stones falling down a well. "I keep trying to rationalize it, to justify it to myself. I know my brother. Kol was impulsive, sadistic… but you killed him without even considering the alternatives. That is what I find hardest to believe."
Guilt is burning a hole inside her chest. She should be defending herself (what I did I did for Jeremy), but something wavers inside her at his rigid, inflexible resolve. No excuse she gives will be enough for Elijah, with his high morals and firm beliefs. She sees herself irrevocably altered in his eyes, everything he might once have admired in her ruined beyond repair. She is no longer the same girl who offered herself up as a sacrifice to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. I killed that ideal, she realizes, and is bowed over by a sorrow greater than she could have imagined.
"What are you going to do, Elijah?" she manages to ask weakly. "Kill me? I mean, that's what you do when someone comes between you and your family –"
A part of her expects him to say yes. To agree that she deserves this, because – I've been selfish, a monster – this isn't me, this shouldn't be me –
He stares at her contemplatively, and she senses her existence hangs by a thread.
"I'm not going to kill you, Elena," he says, at last.
"But I can't see you."
.
.
Time drags its interminable hours from dawn to dusk. The stars wheel by overhead, infinite and unchanging. Life is a wearied repetition of tedious mortality. The only constant thing in this world is loss. Elijah is left to muse over idle sorrows and shattered hopes, all playing out in an endless, unchanging cycle. Tatia spinning around beneath the trees, dark curls flying wildly around her flushed face, that free spirit impossible to be pinned down or tied to a single man… Katerina, heavy-eyed and insatiable, her passion burning too bright and fierce to ever truly be a force for good… and Elena, Elena, Elena, a lone bough unbroken by storms, compassion shining in her steady gaze –
His faith misplaced yet again. How Niklaus would laugh, cruel and derisive, at his folly. He had forgotten the one thing, the only thing that mattered. Family above all. Or so Elijah tells himself until it resounds as unshakeable truth in his mind.
Determined not to repeat past sins, he banishes images of doe-eyed innocence and heartbreaking resolve. If this is love (if this is passion), he will conquer it.
So when Katerina comes to him one night with a proposition (is there ever anything else?), her shadowed eyes are too dark, wine-stained lips too reminiscent of the taste of bitter memories, but Elijah allows her to step inside regardless, his fingers lingering momentarily on the smooth curve of her shoulder as he dares to contemplate the unthinkable. Seeing her again awakens an uneasy sense of familiarity, as though she were a ghost in a dream he knows but cannot name. His stony gaze is meditative as he tries to resurrect half a millennia of abandoned longings.
And when she leans forward, her face deceptively tender in the dusky half-light, centuries of betrayals and guilt and lies between them, Elijah tells himself that this is what he wants.
The alternative is too awful to consider.
.
.
Afternoon light filters in through the kitchen window as she sits at the table, staring absently at the curls of steam rising from her mug of coffee. Jeremy is upstairs –
(Not Jeremy. A body.)
There is deep well of emotion inside her, struggling, clawing to get out, but she won't let it, because the moment it does (the moment she begins to feel), she'll start screaming. So Elena clings to denial, telling herself with hollow repetition, he'll wake up, he'll wake up.
She wanders through the house like a ghost, her friends too scared to tell her to slow down. Stares at herself in the mirror and realizes these eyes – dark, haunted, despairing – are not unfamiliar to her. The expression is one she's seen before, glimpsed that fatal night on her porch –
(I keep trying to rationalize it, to justify it to myself… )
The sickly-sweet smell of decay creeps through the floorboards, permeating the air, and Elena wonders emotionlessly if this is some idea of karmic justice.
.
.
It dawns upon him like a revelation (a fervently denied dream, a miracle of impossible repercussions) the moment his hand curves around her cheek, drawing her to him with a force as irresistible as the tide. The startled widening of her eyes, the giving softness of her lips beneath his own, the instinctive willingness to offer him what he so desperately needs... these things are not Katerina's. And Elijah knows, he knows.
He kisses her anyway, knowing this might be all he will ever have. Closing his eyes and thinking, let this last an eternity. When his fingers latch onto her waist, she gives a shaky sigh of surprise, and Elijah realizes he's forgiven her without knowing it.
There is nothing but heartfelt sincerity in his voice, when he says hoarsely, "I missed you."
.
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She brings flowers to Jeremy's grave, the pale early morning sun rising further and further in the sky as she stares somberly at the written eulogy (brother and friend). Thoughts pressing down heavily upon her. For a moment, the tide of her newly-returned emotions threatens to engulf her, and Elena presses her hands against the cold stone to keep herself from falling.
It's too much… every time I feel like I can go on, something like this happens, and I'm losing all my reasons to keep fighting –
"Elena."
A shadow falls over her. Elijah is standing before her, black and sombre (she reflects how he's always dressed for mourning). She doesn't even think to question his presence. Like planets, they seem to gravitate towards one another.
He doesn't speak for a long moment, and it falls on her to break the silence.
"You know," she says, "I thought it would've gotten easier by now. But it never does."
A sigh like the soft exhalation of wind. She feels it along her collarbone, vibrating through her fingertips. "Had I known Katerina was responsible –"
"You still would have tried to find the good in her. Don't ever be sorry for that, Elijah."
He stares grimly at the gravestone, his mouth drawn in a tight line. "I would have spared you this if I could."
"I'm grateful, but I – I'm not going to lie to you. I know losing Kol hurt you, but if it meant protecting Jeremy, I would do the same thing again."
"Of course you would." The crescent of a smile curves his mouth. "You… would be not be yourself, if you did not."
The words come easily from memory. "I did it to protect the one thing I value most. My family. If anyone can understand that, it's you."
That earns her a bitter half-laugh, as though he's only just acknowledged how those words have come back to haunt him. The sharp stab of remorse Elena feels almost brings tears to her eyes.
"Everything I did… killing Kol, finding the Cure… it was to protect Jeremy. And it was all for nothing. It doesn't seem fair that he's gone while I'm standing here."
Elijah murmurs something quietly. The words themselves hardly matter, the comforting sound soothing around her shoulders as he merely looks at her with old, old eyes. Steady and so honorable, a pillar of strength. A savior if she only had the courage to ask for his help. But the weight of Kol's death still hangs over her, a guilt so heavy she can barely breathe. A mistake in her eyes, a regret in his. She realizes that she must carry her burdens alone. Trust is earned, and she feels she has betrayed too much to be worthy of his unwavering loyalty.
"It's too much, Elijah. Every time this happens, I keep asking myself how I'm supposed to go on."
A reflective look steals over his face, grave even in repose. "The only way you can. Live your life. Find some measure of happiness, because you of all people deserve that, Elena."
She thinks of Damon waiting for her back at the Salvatore boarding house. Damon with his knife-edge smile and eyes like ice encasing fire. Reflects that there's no sire bond, no Cure, nothing standing between them anymore. She's free to live her life how she wants, with who she wants (you want a love that consumes you. You want passion, adventure… even a little danger).
"You're right," she says, glancing at Elijah, too fleetingly to see the shadow of pain that flits across his features. "Thank you."
She wonders how many times he's saved her now.
"Oh, and Elena?"
She turns back to face him and sees a rare, genuine smile lighting his ochre eyes with a sudden warmth.
"I truly am glad that you've returned to yourself."
.
.
The scattered autumnal leaves snap crisply beneath his black shoes as he walks slowly across the campus grounds. She's seated against the bole of a tree with a journal open in her lap, coat collars pulled up to her chin, cheeks red from the first burst of seasonal cold.
"I'm to understand," Elijah begins, measuring his words carefully, "That your brother has been returned to you."
Elena glances up at him without surprise, smiling slightly by way of greeting. "I… yeah. It was Bonnie. I – I still don't know how she did it. But she sacrificed herself for Jeremy and I never even realized it."
"You've made quite the new life for yourself here," he observes, looking around with idle disinterest.
Her expression falters, dark brows coming together in faint agitation. "Honestly… it's kind of a relief, being away from Mystic Falls."
"Away from Mystic Falls, or away from yourself?"
She flinches at his customary directness, arms curling around her denim-clad legs in an unconscious defensive gesture. She lowers her head, sleek mahogany tresses swinging down to conceal her face. "I did terrible things, Elijah. Maybe I should pay."
"You weren't yourself."
She shakes her head determinedly, and her eyes are shining with resolve. Her words hold a surety in them and Elijah finds himself strangely defenceless in her courage at herself, at her unshaken morals and steadfast refusal to indulge in denial.
"That's not good enough. There was still a part of me inside that was able to become that person. I'm still not sure how to live with that. There's a waitress in Pennsylvania who's dead because of me. And that's something I can never undo."
Elijah crouches down beside her, gloved fingers absently crushing a handful of leaves to dust. "What do you want me to do, Elena? Pass judgment and tell you that you're a terrible person, that the brave, compassionate girl who was willing to die for her friends no longer exists? Because I don't believe that for a moment."
"If I am that girl," she says haltingly, "Then you made me find her again. You… have this way of bringing out the best in me."
He feels a moment of elation (exultation, triumph on the verge of conquest), a strange combination of fortitude and reverence. To conceal the strong emotion, he glances across the grounds at the students immersed in the fleeting trivialities of mortal living. Elijah momentarily allows himself to wonder whether she regrets everything that has been lost to her.
But when Elena pushes her hair behind her ears, she suddenly looks like her old self, carrying herself with unassuming confidence, steady smiling eyes matching her mouth.
"I meant what I said. You've always believed in me. You knew I'd find my way back to myself. And you never forced me or judged my choices. That means a lot, Elijah."
His gaze slides over her, ever-rational, weighing up declarations, offers, chances (probabilities of victory). Struggling between instinctive truths and cultivated lies. Until with a thinning of the lips, Elijah shakes his head, politely taking his leave while she remains behind, bemused, curious, and utterly alone.
Only, of course, Elijah notes with a rare flash of grim acrimony, she isn't.
.
.
He lingers in her mind, a presence of whispers and soft touches and lingering gazes, strangely comforting as she gradually comes to terms with herself. She unconsciously finds herself waiting for him, half-expecting (wanting) him to show up whenever she sets foot outdoors.
When he does, it's quiet and without ceremony. Polished cufflinks catch the moonlight, and suddenly he's walking beside her, smooth-lined suit blending easily into the surrounding shadows. His every movement guarded and controlled. He tilts his face to the night sky, his expression clearly visible, jaw taut and eyes gleaming.
"You should know that Katerina is back in Mystic Falls," he says calmly, and without preamble.
That startles her, and she feels a flash of annoyance that Damon hasn't said anything. "How is she dealing with –"
"Being human?" The corner of Elijah's mouth curves with the wry shadow of a smile. "Katerina has a… remarkable ability to adapt to her circumstances."
She tries to sound casual (a strange, constricted sensation in her chest) as she asks, "Are you and her still…?"
"No," he says at once, firmly.
"I'm sorry," Elena says falteringly. "I know… I know you loved her."
"I did," he answers gravely. "But that was in the past."
Elena releases a slow breath. Personal feelings towards Katherine aside, she can't help but feel a stirring of sympathy for him. His profile is deliberately turned away from her, his expression hollow and closed-off. She wonders whether his skin would be cold alabaster if she were to reach out and touch him. But he is capable of love, she knows this, a love fervent and devastating for someone who wears her face. She wonders curiously if that's the cause of the restraint that has always lingered between them. Allies and confidants in every way, yet never friends.
"Elijah… those things I said when my humanity was off, were –"
"Completely true," he finished. "Strange, that even without your humanity, you could never bring yourself to be dishonest with me. The truth is, Elena, that such passion cannot last. It… merely consumes itself until there is nothing left."
She swallows hard. Pushes away the subtle implication of his words. Damon is asleep in her dorm room upstairs, and her very being here somehow feels like a betrayal. She has never been good at hiding her emotions, and knows that Elijah reads her face like a book, able to peruse with ease every thought and impulse that flickers across her expression. Suddenly, she finds herself almost terrified of what he might see. Thinks he might see.
"I have to go," she says, turning away quickly.
"By all means, don't let me keep you." He extends a hand in a gesture of polite dismissal, but something unreadable lingers in his dark, grave eyes.
Elena runs across the campus as though being pursued, all the while feeling his solemn, potent gaze burning into her back.
.
.
This strange dance continues. But he is a patient man, prepared to wait, never one to make a rushed or hasty move. For now, he is content to merely be with her, offering a gracious hand (and all the torn remnants of a hopeless love, doomed to remain unrequited), knowing she will always be another man's.
Until the season turns with the first frosts and something subtly alters between them. As winter adorns the crystalline grounds, Elijah gradually becomes aware that her gazes are longer, her smiles softer, her words more heartfelt. Her eyes iridescent, capturing the night sky (dark and still and solemn, because he has moved beyond sunlight and high spirited games and shrieks of wild laughter… you're supposed to catch me!). The past is dead and buried but the future glimmers before him, for the first time in centuries offering something more than resigned certainty (he had begun to think nothing could stir his tired soul).
Stolen glances and whisper-light touches (so brief, so chaste) allow hope to set roots in the dusty caverns of his heart.
.
.
She wraps her arms around herself, tight enough to crack her ribs, as though by doing so she can stop the wild beating of her heart. His face wavers before her, a distant, blurry sheen. The words leave her, hoarse, cracked. "I love Damon."
"A year ago you loved Stefan." He says it calmly, as a statement of fact, not an accusation.
"Elijah. I care for you… we have a real connection, but I – I can't –"
She can't accept his love, knows that she doesn't deserve it. She forces down the convulsive tide of sorrow swelling in her chest. Chin held high and her hands shaking. "Elijah… what you're asking of me – it's huge –"
His expression softens. Elena feels her blood quicken as his fingers graze her arm, and she fleetingly allows herself to imagine velvet lips and smooth skin, a hand heavy and warm on her upturned face. Her eyes are burning as she stares fixedly at the ground.
"Look at me, Elena." The gentleness never abandons his firm voice.
She feels him trace the edge of her jaw with warm fingers, lingering on her chin. She wills herself to look up, and he's gazing intently into her eyes. Strong emotion deepens the hollows of his cheekbones.
"I'm asking nothing of you. You of all people must know that I would never override your happiness with my own selfish needs. The mere act of being in love with you is enough for me."
He leans forward and kisses her brow, a silent benediction. His hand falling away from her outstretched arm, and she's left bereft, desolate at the loss of his touch.
You can't leave… not like this…
Her cheeks flush with color, and she can't watch him walk away, she can't. Tears burn hot in her throat at the sight of his retreating figure.
Elijah, wait –
He doesn't look back once.
.
.
He had sworn to himself that this time, this time, would be different. Shaped himself into something unmoved by the predictability of fair-weather feelings, a figure whose composure belies the ancient intelligence lurking in his eyes, whose firm, vigorous frame is at odds with a refined exterior. All to come crumbling down (an empire destroyed) in the wake of a hunger beyond reason. He had overestimated himself, supreme in his arrogance, considered himself a creature beyond the cravings of power or the divine taste of blood (or the lure of the flesh, a longing for a girl he has loved countless times and yet never loved before –)
It's a sense of loss deeper and more agonizing than the memory of Tatia coming to him across the silver haze of meadow grass, telling him that Klaus also has her heart, a pain sharper than the memory of discovering that Katerina had fled, only a few torn scraps of cloth and drops of blood in the woods all he had left of her.
There is no resentment in his heart (only the outrage of wounded pride), he harbors no bitterness towards her. He has only ever been able to grant her unconditional clemency. He won't pursue her the way he did Katerina, with cold fury and grim vengeance. No. There is love, and there is honor, and for Elena, he possesses too much of both. It's only right, only just that he walks away for good.
"Elijah," Elena says, coming forward, concern engraved in every smooth line of her face. "How are you?" She hesitates, and he can see the deep emotion in her eyes, more eloquent than words can express. "I was worried about you."
He takes her hands – they are icy cold – and holds them firmly. A slight furrow appears between her brows as she looks at him closely, lips parted slightly.
"Elijah," she says slowly, "What is this?"
"I thought this time I would do you the justice of saying goodbye in person. You have earned that much, I think."
He feels her tremble, and her hands grow suddenly warm. "You're leaving?" she echoes, bewildered.
"What choice do I have, Elena?" he responds, a heavy weariness in his tone. Perhaps, also, a faint hint of cruelty.
She turns her head and looks at him long and searchingly; then says, "No."
"Elena –"
"No," she repeats firmly, and a flush of anger has appeared on her cheeks, glowing with vivid color. "You don't get to hide behind your morals and your ideas of honour. You're saying that you want me to love you, or you'll walk away for good. That isn't noble, Elijah – that's cowardice. It's manipulation. And you're a better man than that. If you leave – you leave for you. But don't pretend that it's best for me or that it's for my own good – that's not your choice to make. Because I want you to stay. I want you in my life. That isn't going to change. So, it's your decision. If it's what you really want, then go. But do it for you, because I am not going to lose you without a fight."
She breaks off, breathing hard, and Elijah can hear her heart beating through the stillness. Her eyes glisten and darken deeply. It is something unexpected, unprecedented, throwing his clear-cut resolve into vague confusion. He wonders again (for the thousandth time) what it is that binds her to Damon Salvatore. Is it love? Loyalty?
He feels as though the space between them is laid with infinitesimal electric threads, vibrating with some common pain. A heaviness the weight of the world sits on his shoulders. Suffering and destiny, sorrow and sin. His mouth is tight and grim as he gazes sternly at her.
"What is it you're asking of me?"
Elena moves closer, her jaw set with determination. "I'm asking you to stay. I want you to stay." Her slender fingers grip his in a tight hold that betrays her sincerity. "Please."
.
.
She rests her head against the window frame, eyes closed and her breathing shaky. Remembers another room, another time, a letter clutched tight in her hand (your compassion is a gift, Elena).
A current of air ripples along her bare arms, and she knows he's there. A shiver passes down her spine. He's gazing fixedly at a space behind her, examining the view of the night sky from her window, her troubled reflection glowing pale gold in the glass.
"You wanted to see me."
"Damon and I broke up," Elena says at once and without hesitation, the words quiet yet profound between them.
Elijah's face is a study in indifference, save for a slight tensing of his jaw. Does she only imagine the shudder that passes through his rigid shoulders?
"Is that so?"
His back is turned as he stands very still, idly running his fingers along the back of a chair. Something hot and bright flares up inside her, and in a moment she's moved across the room, forcing him to face her.
"We broke up because I realized that you were right. Love isn't about obsession or – or letting something consume you. No matter how much passion you feel, it isn't love if you don't like the person you've become. And ever since I was turned, I've been selfish, narrow-minded… I even lost my humanity. And that's not me, Elijah. That's not the person I want to spend eternity being. And when I'm with you, it's like I'm – I'm the best possible version of myself. You pulled me out of one of the darkest places of my life. All along you've been there in the background, respecting me, guiding me, trusting me. Ever since I left Mystic Falls I've been trying to build a life for myself, and I want you to be a part of that life. I want to be with someone I admire, that I lo–"
"Elena," he says in a low warning, "You may regret this."
"No," she overrides him fiercely. "Let me say it."
Coal eyes blaze in the set wall of his face, his jaw at an angle. His voice is hoarse. "Understand that I will not be toyed with, Elena. I won't accept half-measures or platitudes –"
"I love you," she says, her voice trembling, and the declaration silences him. "I love you, Elijah. I've been running from it for so long, hiding it from myself… And it's because I know that once I do this, there's no going back. You think I don't get that, but I do. This isn't just some impulse from a scared little girl who doesn't know what she wants. I want you, Elijah. You are the best person I know. You've always understood me better than anyone, and that scares me, because – because I'm not sure I deserve the belief you have in me. You have been my strength in ways I can't even begin to imagine, and I… I want to be yours, if you'll let me. But even if you don't, I will always be there for you, when you need me." Elena draws a shuddering breath, heart burning within her, shaken by the outburst of emotion. "It's your choice."
He stands before her, stoic and unmoving, as though completely untouched by her words. And she hates his ability to not show his feelings the way she does – the way she has to. I can't just hide my feelings the way you do, pretend like they don't exist –
But words alone are not enough to break through that wall of impeccable courtesy and devastating restraint. Her hand reaches out, fingers shaking as she traces a caress along the strong line of his jaw. His flesh is like stone but she feels a muscle tighten imperceptibly. His eyes have sharpened to ebony.
Frustration burns inside her chest. She doesn't want his stoicism, she doesn't want his honor, she wants him, Elijah –
She catches hold of his hand, holding it against her chest, where he can feel her heart beating hard and furiously against his palm. "This is real," she says softly, the edge of tears catching in her voice.
He stares at her, still and silent. She moves to close the space between them.
"Elijah," she whispers, "Please…"
The last thing she sees is those dark, deliberate eyes before she loses herself in the feel of his mouth, cool and soft, his hand still held over her breast, caging the wild fluctuations of her heart. She feels a shudder pass through his body, but he doesn't resist, instead urges her closer with hands on her hips, brass-hued hair caressing her brow as he leans in, coaxing her mouth open with deep and languid kisses –
Then suddenly, she's the one losing all control. Rendered completely powerless in his hold as he moves with blurring speed. Holding her against the wall with such intent that for an instant she can hardly breathe, and he kisses her again; starved, deep, breaking down every barrier of restraint he might once have possessed. A buried, residual passion flares into life. She can see the darkness of rising veins beneath his eyes, and is stunned at the realisation that this is Elijah as she has never seen him, his expertly crafted visage of composure completely stripped away. She's moved beyond expression, tenderly tracing her fingers over his face until they fade away and it's his own eyes gazing into hers, dusky and deep and lambent.
"Elena," he says, low and raw. His forehead presses against hers. "You have no idea how long I have wanted –"
"Actually," she says, "I think maybe I do."
Elijah stares at her a long moment, then, lifting one hand, begins to undo the glass buttons of his shirt.
.
.
The dark curtain of her hair falls over his face as she leans over him, eyes large and entreating. Her lips are moving, words whispered urgently against his mouth. What do you want, Elijah? Please, tell me what you want.
He grasps her waist with his hands, a hold tight enough to never let her go, caught in a delirium of agonizing bliss. His answer is always, always the same.
You. Only you.
.
.
His suit jacket is shed, tie loosened as she makes quick work of the expensive silk, tugging it from his open collar. Frantically moving down to his belt, the leather biting into her impatient fingers as she fumbles with the catch.
A quiet, wry amusement flickers briefly in his knowing eyes at her urgency. Strong, cool fingers curve around her wrists as he tenderly kisses each knuckle, a sigh of longing ghosting across her skin.
"Elijah –" The gasp breaks from her in spite of herself. He's a master at this, at rendering every touch so languorous, so exquisitely drawn out…
"Hmm?"
His serious gaze lingers on her face, and Elena realizes how she must look – flushed, messy, desperate – and momentarily falters at his quiet control.
But then his hand catches in her long hair, drawing her to him in a reverential kiss, her name breathed as a solemn invocation from his lips. She closes her eyes and surrenders, losing herself in sensation. Allows him to lay her back on the sheets, the bronze fall of his hair brushing her skin as he trails slow, searing kisses down her stomach. Igniting a slow burn beneath the skin. Her fingers curl into the nape of his neck, playing with the strands of his hair as she silently wills him to never stop.
He pulls her clothes aside with no appearance of haste, caressing her skin with wide, sweeping touches, a slow, lingering intent. Dark eyes shadowed and hooded as he regards her profoundly. As though he would be forever content with merely looking at her. It is between those bursts of passionate intensity, in the moments of quiet contemplation, that Elena realizes that her love for him – so recently discovered – is something fathomless.
It will take centuries to become accustomed to this; the beat of his heart against the solidity of his chest as they move together, a slide of skin against skin. Ever delaying that moment of gratification, Elijah keeps them moving at a hypnotically slow rhythm, languorous movements betraying his restraint as they force themselves to savour each precious moment. Fevered kisses melting into softness, and, finally, nothing but her name drawn from his lips like a prayer (like his salvation), murmured over and over.
This, she thinks to herself, this is why we need forever. One lifetime could never be enough to experience such depths of emotion and acute sensation. Each image imprinted in her mind. The salt and fever of his skin, dew-bright and impossibly smooth beneath her questing hands. A brilliance in his eyes and a warmth in his flushed face. She chokes as he guides her hips slowly against his; it's pleasure and torment and –
The world spins out of control, and she allows herself to fall away with it, holding Elijah's face between her hands and drawing him down with her.
.
.
Endless centuries of weary, meaningless existing disperses like sand through his fingers. There is only now. Promises, vows, consummation, lifetimes could pass in this moment, all in the stillness between light and dark, sacred yet tangible. She is trapped within his hands, just as surely as he is trapped beneath the spell of her touch.
Her mouth is warm and soft. He tastes sweetness, faith, mercy and grace. Elijah momentarily breaks their kiss, lowering his heavy gaze to glance at her face – her forehead is almost touching his, parted lips glistening, and her eyes are downcast, watching the shaking of her hands as they cling to his throat, palms pressing against his shoulders. His hand slides along her jaw, forcing her chin up as he trails his lips down her neck, closing his burning mouth over her skin, relishing the feel of her shudder violently against him. Her back arching taut, blindly offering herself to him with a whispered, please. Bending over her as quickly as a predator pinning its prey, Elijah holds her fast to the bed, savouring for one instant the surprise in her widened gaze. Her tanned skin glowing with a warmth like the sun, a transported smile gracing her features. He doesn't realize how he closely he's pressed her down until he feels the rise and fall of her breathing against his, their bodies meeting exactly.
In those times that passion overcomes him, it never overrides his intense awe. Always touching her with exquisite care even as he moves inside her with a punishing rhythm. Elena clings to him, hands clutching his shoulders, legs winding around his waist, betraying her every need (it would never even cross her mind to hold anything back), as though unable to bear even the slightest separation –
I love you, she gasps, between fervent kisses. I love you, I love you, I love you –
.
.
He wakes up with a sharp, rattling gasp of air, feeling the constricting pressure of wooden walls around his body, that hollow, agonising pain in his ribs all-too familiar –
Daggered.
Elijah sits upright with a jerk, ashen hair falling over his brow as he glances around wildly –
Niklaus. There, leaning casually against the casket, toying idly with the dagger in his hand, something akin to dancing glee playing across his features.
"Don't look so alarmed, brother," says Klaus, smiling. "I'm doing you a favour."
"You –"
Klaus smirks, blood-lipped and amused. "Oh, not this time. It seems Katerina didn't take too kindly to you rejecting her. Remember what I told you, Elijah. Never turn your back. Lucky thing I was here to undo the damage."
"Where are we?" Elijah rasps through the dryness of dust in his throat.
"New Orleans. I assumed I could count on my loyal brother to remain at my side."
Fragmented dreams and harsh realities blur and coalesce, his mind trying to separate the truth from fabrication…
But… Elena…
"You seem out of sorts, Elijah. Did I interrupt some pleasant dreams?"
Elena's lips hovering a breath away from his own, her fingers entwined with his, dark eyes shining with passion and tenderness –
Elijah only shrugs, brushing the dust from his suit with meticulous precision. Looks across at his brother with sublime composure, burying his agony deep within. Banishes the image from his mind (the world he has subconsciously built shattered, destroyed into nothingness, annihilated –)
His voice is crisp and methodical, business as usual.
"Nothing worth remembering."
.
.
Fin