Good and evil.
It was a bloody stereotype, yet there was truth to it. He had never really believed in a god and – after a thousand years of watching religions spread, mutate and finally, slowly lose the battle against the relief that was science – he was tempted to downright dismiss the idea completely. But then again there was the undeniable reality of the supernatural with only the volatile insight of witches to illuminate it. He couldn't be certain.
Light and darkness, good and evil – being human categories, they served to describe human behavior. Just as every other term or concept both never fit it completely, always a little loose, a little off, like a piece of clothing that was a too small or too wide. There wasn't even a way to tell which of both applied.
Although he definitely regarded humans beneath him – evolution, proclaimed the proud voice of science – he never hesitated to recognize that humans were just as monstrous as his kind. The 20th century had introduced men to human history that managed to exceed his count of victims by staggering numbers – with the help of humanities beloved benefactor science, of course.
Advancement meant sacrifice; he knew this lesson better than anyone else. Providentially the sacrifices were usually given by others, not him – namely whoever was foolish enough to cross him or unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The most significant of the sacrifices in his life had just been made – after a thousand years he had finally broken the curse his mother had placed on him. Now the wolf in him had been released
He had always been drawn to the light, especially after the end of his pity human life. In the majority of cases he had craved its destruction – to hold it in his hands and crush it. Often he had tried to paint it, capture it with his brush, in the texture, the creases, in between the lines he drew to circle it, slowly, cautious like the hunter that he was. Catch the inch between reality and perception, the spark that the voice of rationality couldn't possibly squeeze into words.
Sometimes he'd been confident he'd succeeded, then discarded the notion. Later he'd reevaluated the piece and changed his mind again, viewing it from a different perspective – it was intriguing what a few centuries of time could do to one's perception. The process was – like life in general, never truly finished, never complete. The lines were always blurry.
He did, however, find it in places that made it impossible for him to possibly catch it – in nature, sounds, culture, moments, people. Most disturbingly – in profound darkness.
Until, one day, he came across the epiphany that it might just as well lie in his perception (yes, he had entertained that though before the period of enlightenment). Then again there were things that proved to be more consistent in their revelations of beauty – light, good, whatever one might label it – than others. The beauty that had proven to be transient – he relished in obliterating it with his own hands. There was no greater power than to hold the sacred in ones grasp and defile, murder, eradicate it until all that was left of it was a memory – his memory.
But with every bit of beauty he had stolen from the world he had rendered himself more alone, so he started gathering reminders – only to find that all they proved to be were reminders of his seclusion from everything he craved. Truth be told, he was tired. And despite the ardent impulsiveness of his wolf the vampire in him craved nothing more than to finally rest. No, if he ever found lasting beauty, he would not destroy it.
And maybe that was his space in between, the unattainable something he desired – to find something consistent in its beauty, make it his possession and keep it.
Which led to his current problem. He had found it, the light he wanted to claim and own in the guise of something that couldn't possibly be owned, couldn't be taken without being destroyed.
Through the chaos of events that he had been faced with, dragged around by and orchestrated himself, it had slowly but surely unraveled before him.
Caroline Forbes.
Although he hadn't been able to test the longevity of his attractions towards the young vampire, given the short time he knew her, the intensity of his attraction to her shocked him. In his thousand years of experience he had never undergone a similar thing. Naturally he had been drawn to women; needless to say he'd fallen in love. But the allure had faded and it had never been a problem to eliminate the subject of his affections if necessary.
This however, made him stagger under the force with which it hit him.
He had tried to ignore it, burn it with the sketches he'd done of her, to kill it with the poison of his fangs. He had failed, left with a craving and the bittersweet bite of regret.
He had tried to charm her, bribe her with material and personal goods, had even gone so far as to grant mercy for her sake.
He had failed, left with the knowledge of the certainty of his downfall and the well-known feeling of inadequacy.
"I know that you're in love with me" – oh, how these words had ripped him to shreds.
Someone had come up with the theory that whenever something was declared a social reality it automatically became real in its consequences – and it did.
He broke with himself, denied the path he'd been mounting for the eternity of a thousand years. Caroline Forbes had elicited a reaction that not even his baby sister had been able to achieve.
But despite – maybe even because of – his age, he was a master in the art of adaptation (evolution). Despite his temper and his strong will he had always been able to assess the premises of a situation and not only adapt to it but bend, mold it in his hands until it fit his tastes and needs. This time, however, there was nothing to mold – only to accept.
This couldn't have come at a worse time with the wolf in him newly awakened, the both of them in the middle of the maelstrom of shifting relationships, tragedy and chaos that was Mystic Falls. In his brief presence in this wretched little town he had experienced some of the greatest victories of his long life – the breaking of his curse, the death of his father – as well as intolerable losses – the death of two of his brothers and the dream of his own species, his army of sired hybrids.
To his shame he felt control slipping from his hands and he should have left long ago.
But he couldn't.
"Everybody capable of love is capable of being saved" – salvation. Strange thing and yet another, maybe even more blatant, case of said theory – he hadn't even known he wanted it, needed it up until the moment the words fell from her sweet lips. An instant later it was a fact, as self-evident as her light. However he'd tried to deflect it, in hindsight that had been the point of no return.
He should have been disgusted by the weakness of this but in the heat of the moment everything and anything had ceased to matter but the preservation of her live, and the relief of letting go, of allowing himself to save her from himself. The relief of straying from the one thing that was a constant in his live. The relief of trading his path for something that wasn't and would probably never be his.
For you, only for you, Caroline.
He'd held her in his arms that night, as she rested. And he had made sure to savor each and every moment of it. He hadn't slept a minute, silently watching over her until she awoke to the noise of her cell phone.
The next day he had spared the pup for her sake and her answer had been an excruciatingly expressive silence.
And he knew things were never going to be the way they used to again.
And for the first time since a thousand years, or maybe that time after he killed the hunter, he was thoroughly and deeply afraid of the darkness.