I wake up sweaty, feeling like my skin is trying to slip away from me. My lungs scream and fight for much needed air, so I inhale deeply, inflating them until they threaten to burst, like a balloon filled with too much water to handle. But unlike the last dream I woke up from, I'm not afraid or unhappy or uncertain. My entire body is vibrating, I feel as if slight current has replaced blood in my veins, making me tremble from the inside. My body is getting acquainted with this new, undiscovered, unexplored sensation.

I have inward goosebumps, the ones I usually get when on a hot summer day a chilly wind appears out of nowhere.

I remember Mr. Saltzman talking about, at that time, controversial marriage between Henry II of France and Catherine de Medici. I remember how he talked, with utmost fascination, about the relationship between Henry II and Diane de Poitiers, but he never pelted us with unnecessary information no way connected with the course of history. Not even his vast knowledge and me closely paying attention to his lectures could ever armor my brain to create such a vivid dream.

I reach for my laptop resting on the desk next to my bed and as soon as I turn it on, my fingers start typing impatiently, too fast for my brain to follow, faster than it can process. Henry. Diane. Catherine. When their pictures appear on my screen, gasp sneaks out of my mouth, because 16th century oil paintings come alive in my mind. I recognize the softness in Henry's almond eyes and I can feel his slick cheekbones under my fingertips. I recognize Diane's small strawberry lips and dimples in her cheeks. Her soft, clear skin seems as familiar as if I used to wear it once upon a time.

I remember thinking, during Mr. Saltzman's lectures, how cruel and cold Henry must have been, how hard and dismissive. A King, a man, taking everything for granted, abusing the power given to him. He took on mistresses and devoted more time to them than to his wife, to the mother of his children, his Queen and most trustworthy companion.

I was wrong. I was quick to judge.

I can feel his eyes on me, they warm my skin, they make it boil. I remember his anger at not being able to marry me, damning all the power and wine and gold in the world if the sacred bonds of marriage are out of his control. I remember his passion and ferociousness as he made love to me, as he traced my quivering spine with the tips of his fingers. I remember his reluctance to leave my chambers, I remember the pride in his eyes when I would advise him on some political matter and respect upon understanding important documents. I remember how his eyes would shine when I held the feather which left his signature on the creamy white paper. It was an infantile, boyish mission to beat the system. He chose to share his power with me, which made his heart stronger than a lions. And when I say me, I mean Diane.

I say me because once again I've stolen someone else's memories and feelings and invaded their life like a damned soul without a body, a demon searching for a vessel, only to be rejected by purity and love and brightness. I remember her sadness and her guilt, and I remember it being overshadowed by love and passion she felt for him. When I remember how I felt when he would pull his fingers lazily over my skin, when I remember him planting kisses in the corners of my lips, I don't see Henry. Just like, when I remembered Danielle, I didn't see Frank. When I close me eyes and imagine those men touching me kissing me loving me, I see Stefan. But I don't see his sandy blonde hair and piercingly green eyes or a strong, heavy jaw. I see him as he truly is, from the inside, as he always has been and always will be, in a place where the concept of time doesn't exist and where the laws of physic do not apply.

And that's the most confusing thing, how a memory of a simple touch can seem like an inexplicable phenomenon.

I shake my head, once again naively hoping the motion would shake the dream away as well, but this time knowing better. The dream is never going away. It's going to stay in my mind, invading my brain, until it doesn't feel like a dream anymore, but some distant past occurrence. Some long lost life I have to carry inside of me.

I turn my laptop off. I'm going to be late for school.

I see Stefan in school hallways, walking from one classroom to another, always alone, with his head always bowed down. As if he doesn't want anyone to see him, to notice him, to know that he exists. I see him in the school cafeteria, where he sits alone in the far corner in the back of the room, eating his sandwich. I see him in the few of the classes we have together, and that's where he sees me as well, because he's sitting next to me. We share the privacy of the back row; he's there because he thinks it's his place, and I'm there because I like to have everything under control, because I don't want my fascination exposed.

In the back row I steal his smiles and secretive looks and, just before the bell rings, I pass him a note. Meet me behind the school. I pack my things and leave the classroom before he has a chance to decline my request. I know he won't leave me waiting.

I strategically avoid my friends by going in the opposite direction of the one I would usually take and leave the school by using the back door. I pick this spot to meet him because I know no one ever comes here, except the potheads, and they're usually too stoned to make sense of anything. Even if they see us, they won't recognize us.

I don't have to wait for too long for him to join me. After several minutes the back door opens and he rushes outside, carefully looking around himself, afraid of being seen.

"Elena," he breathes out my name, like it's a long kept secret he can't keep inside anymore. "What's wrong?" he asks, approaching me. He moves slowly, his steps heavy like he wears an armor on his body.

I bring my brows closer together, furrowing them in confusion and slight anger. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to see you. Be with you. Talk to you. Make eye contact with you for more than three seconds." I confess.

My words warm him up from the inside, I know they do, but he refuses to let it show. "And it couldn't wait?" amusement sneaks into his voice, against his will, I'm sure.

I shake my head no, innocently. He actually smiles at my baby face with that irresistible half smile of his. But his fear and constant paranoia somber him up in a matter of seconds. "This isn't very secretive," he points out.

I smirk. "No, it's not."

I wrap my fingers around the width of his wrist and pull him towards me. Before he gets a chance to react or protest I stand on my toes and join our lips into a lip-lock, hoping that kissing me will prevail any and every sense of fear.

My hope turns into a wish, and my wish comes true.

His muscles relax and he wraps his arms around my body, pulling me closer to him. He pulls me closer and closer into him, until my toes leave the safety of the pavement and start dangling near his calves. He stumbles, with me in his arms, until he reaches the wall and presses my body against it. I can feel the hard and cold concrete against my back - it makes my spine rigid, but the sweetness of his kisses washes away all the unpleasant feelings, and in a matter of seconds all of them turn into something my body might have experienced sometime in the past.

I remember the first time Stefan had kissed me. After just two weeks in camp with him, he became my friend, and in my mind the real world fell apart. We have built this bubble around us, our own world, where we would banter like we've known each other forever, tease each other over simple, comical failures and talk about anything and everything deep into the night. We would never bring our real lives into our conversation - the fact that he's a weird, lonely boy and the fact that I'm a cheerleader whose parents own The Grill would only enhance our differences. It was like a silent agreement between us; instead of introducing me to the boy I've seen in school hallways, he introduced me to the boy who has a nasty scar on his knee from learning how to ride a bike, loves comics and lives on Pop-Tarts, while I've introduced him to the girl who geeks over YA novels and enjoys glazing cupcakes instead of talking about the girl he knows from overheard gossip.

One night we decided to sneak out for a midnight swim at the lake, and when he took his shirt off I almost started drooling and blessing the clay his body has been molded from. I knew, though, that I can't let that feeling grow into infatuation or something else, something more because as much as we would like to pretend, the real world does exist and with the end of the summer we'll have to join it again.

I think I've realized that I failed at my plan not to infatuate myself with him the morning it was our turn to make breakfast and he made me a smiley pancake covered with jam and my brain started screaming at me that my heart is melting. A nice, good looking boy made me food - how was I supposed to fight that?

He kissed me two weeks after that, while we were building a birdhouse. There was so much sawdust on his skin and in the air, mixed with his laughter after I spilled a can of red paint all over the plastic wrapping on my shoes. I was so annoyed because it was hot as hell and my skin was slippery and I could barely hold a brush in my hands, the can simply fell through my fingers like it's paper thin. His soft, charming laughter filled the air which, if possible, became warmer. 'What are you laughing at?' I ask, annoyed, crouching down to see if I can salvage any of the paint so that the birdhouse doesn't have to carry the ugly color of almost white wood. 'You. You're so clumsy,' he states, as if he knows me. And in that terrifying moment I've realized that he does, indeed, know me. He doesn't know just my name or what's my favorite color, but he knows my quirks and shortcomings, what I love and what I hate. He carries me within him, and I carry him as well, and he feels so light inside of me, like he belongs there. 'You know, instead of laughing at me, you could be a gentleman and help me out,' I try to stay serious, but I can feel my voice flailing. I know this will put him to shame because I've noticed that he does have the gentleman gene. He clears his throat with the help of a cough. 'Of course,' he says, ashamed of not being on the floor already. He crouches down, and before he notices, I swipe a bit of paint with my finger and smear it over his cheek. He looks at me, baffled by my action and sudden change in behavior, his eyes widening. I dip my finger in paint again and swipe another line on his other cheek. 'There, you look liken an Indian now,' I say, giggling, proud of my work. Which is when he leans in, and kisses me. The kiss is soft, quick, I can barely feel it, but it makes me tremble. He pulls away pretty quickly only to meet my stare, expression full of confusion and wonder. 'I'm so sorry,' he starts apologizing for his action, 'I don't know why I did that', I - '

But he never gets to finish that sentence and I never get to hear his lame ass excuse which is nowhere near the truth, because this time I lean in and kiss him back. But I kiss him hard, so hard that my lips are in pain. I swing my dirty arms around his neck and I fall on my knees, smearing the paint all over my jeans.

I've kissed boys before, some of which I regret, some of which I don't. Some of those kisses meant close to nothing, and some made my stomach flutter. None of them were like this, though.

It felt like that kiss was written in time, bound to happen. My stomach rolled over and my heart start beating faster. Boom, boom, boom, it said. I forgot how to breathe, and I became deaf to the desperate scream of my lungs. Air, air, air, they begged, but I couldn't hear. It was our first kiss, so sloppy and weird and confusing, but at the same time so.. familiar? His lips didn't feel familiar as much as how he tasted and moved and make me feel did. It was like it happened already, before, like I remember it from some other time. He made me feel like this before.. not him him, and not me me, but some other him and some other me were in this situation before.

Ever since that first kiss, every one of our kisses feels like a déjà vu.

"Someone might see us," he says between the kisses, breathing heavily.

"Mhm," I murmur against his lips, "Someone might."

And then I continue kissing him like my life depends on it. And, at moments, it feels like it does. At moments, it feels like he's my source of air and without him, I can't breathe. No one should have that kind of power over another person.

He puts me down and my feet get reacquainted with the ground again. He presses his open palms against the building, over my head, and my arms go around his waist, pulling him closer to me. The weight of his body only pushes my back further against the concrete blocks, making my spine tighter.

"Lena, Lena, Lena," he breaks our kiss, but he doesn't move his face away from mine. Instead, he nuzzles his nose against mine, his breath on my face warmer than the late summer air. "What am I going to do with you?" he purrs into my ear.

"I have few ideas," I whisper teasingly.

"I wish we never left that camp."

"Me too."

Sometimes, I really do.

"See you later at my place?" he pushes himself away from me.

"Yup. You bring the candy, I'll bring the homework, and we can party," I wink at him.

"And we can't do this again," he raises one finger in the air, warning me like he's warning an disobedient child. "It's dangerous."

I bite my lower lip, whispering, "That's what makes it fun."

"I can't do this anymore," I say, closing my book shut and pushing it away from me. "And there's no more chocolate!" I groan, shuffling through the empty wrapper with a disappointed look on my face.

He peers at me from under his lashes. "Come on, this is not that hard," he says, looking down at me. He's sitting on his bed, while I'm sitting on the floor next to the bed. Soft surfaces distract me while studying. "Did you eat that whole thing by yourself?"

I look up at him, annoyed by the tone in which he had asked the question. "Are you questioning my choices? Are you calling me fat?" I raise my voice.

His whole expression changes. His eyes widen with confusion, even though I can detect a bit of fear in them as well. "N-No!" he stammers.

"You better not," I say, far lass annoyed, the corners of my lips perking up in a smirking motion. "And I know that this isn't hard. It's easy. It's boring me!" I glare at my Math book, trying to destroy it with the power of my mind.

He sighs, flipping the page. "I knew I shouldn't start dating a smart girl," he says through light laughter.

I push myself to my feet, into a standing position, and pop on the bed next to him. "Let's do something!" I yell.

He cocks his brow at me, amused by my behavior. "We're supposed to be doing our homework," he points to his book with his eyes.

"Something else," I coo, giving him my most adorable puppy eyes.

"Like what?"

I plaster a huge grin over my face. "I have several things on my mind," I crawl closer to him, my knees sinking into the comfort of his mattress.

He laughs at me. "I think you've had too much sugar."

"I disagree, I think I've had just the right amount of sugar," I wink at him.

I close the book in his lap and start pushing it away until it reaches the edge of the bed and falls on the floor with a loud, piercing thud. I give him an apologetic look, but he just shrugs. There's no one to hear the noise anyway, except his brother, whom I still haven't met.

I put my legs on each side of his body, straddling him, placing myself in his lap. I press my open palms against his chest and push him down. The only reason he actually falls is because I have an element of surprise on my side. I start lowering my torso on his - my palms still pressed against his body - until our faces are in close proximity of each other, until our lips finally touch. I kiss him softly, innocently, my mouth hovering above his.

He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him. He always does that, like he's trying to pull me inside of him, like he won't rest until we've morphed into one.

We're so close now, my torso is pressed against his, I can feel his lungs rise and fall with every puff of air he takes. My palms are still placed on his chest, simply because I like to keep them there, I like to feel him near me. Sometimes, I need reassurance that he's real, and that he's mine.

I don't usually think about other people while I'm making out with my super hot secret boyfriend, but Henry and Diane pop into my mind. I see her on top of him, buck naked, her usually tamed, curly brown hair is now sprawled across her back, and his fingers are digging deep into her fleshy waist. She lowers herself on top of him, her heavy chest pressing against his as she kisses him deeply on the mouth.

A surge of passion wavers through me, filling me from head to toe.

He flips her around and starts kissing her ferociously, and a mixture of a giggle and a moan escapes her lips.

I want Stefan to do that to me, is what I think, and in my mind that sentence is followed by the word again. Which doesn't make sense, because Stefan never, ever did anything remotely similar to me.

I remember parts of Henry and Diane's lives that weren't a part of my dreams. Things I couldn't possibly know about personal lives of other people. Sometimes a memory pops into my brain, like I've buried it down there out of some reason, but it crawls its way back to the surface against my wishes. My resemblance with Danielle has been uncanny, but I look nothing like Diane. Yet still, I feel the same I did with Danielle, like I'm watching myself through a screen. Like I'm relieving my life through my memories.

"What has gotten into you?" his voice snaps me back into reality. I feel like I'm regaining consciousness again.

I'm met with his utterly confused look, surprise glimmering in his eyes. He's looking at me as if he knows that there's something wrong with me.

"I thought you said you wanted to wait," he props himself on his elbows, eyeing me carefully.

What is he talking about?

After that thought pops into my mind, I realize that I'm not wearing my shirt. I can feel the chilly air on my back and, all of a sudden, goosebumps appear all over my skin.

I look around myself, my eyes frantically looking for my shirt, and when I notice it behind me, near my foot, I remove myself from him and lunge myself for my shirt.

"I-I don't know," I mumble, enjoying the safety of the soft material between my fingers before pulling the shirt over my head. "Like you said, I probably had too much sugar," I can't even force myself to look him in the eye. "I've never.."

I can't seem to finish the sentence, I can't seem to get the words out, and he notices that.

"I know," he says, like it's no big deal. "You know, you're really spoiling the whole cheerleader stereotype with that," he says with a light tone, trying to brighten the mood.

I turn around to face him, after I've gathered enough strength to do so, curiosity shimmering in my eyes. "Have you done it?" I ask, but I know that the possibility of him saying yes is close to none.

And yet, once again, he surprises me. Him surprising me is slowly turning into a habit of his.

"Yeah, I did," he confesses.

Shock and surprise must be visible in my eyes, because he exhales a painful kind of laugh. One that's necessary, not wanted.

"I know what you're thinking," he scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with talking about this. "Who in our school would ever be with me?" he chokes out.

My cheeks burn in shame because that's exactly what I thought, so I chastise myself for it.

"The answer is no one. But just because I don't hang out with anyone from school, doesn't mean I don't hang out with anyone in general."

I often think about what Stefan does when he's not with me. I imagine him sprawled across his bed, reading a comic, or biting the top of his pencil while he's doing homework. But I never imagine him with other people - maybe because I didn't know he has anyone other than me and his brother in his life.

"Oh," I say with more surprise in my voice than there should be, but if he listens carefully he'll also detect a bit of pain that's whispering why didn't you tell me?

"They're mostly my brothers friends," he explains.

"I see," I say.

He scoots closer to me, but he never touches me. It seems inappropriate for him to touch me now. "Maybe you can meet them sometime," his voice is soft, gentle, like a caress.

I cock my head to the side. "Why didn't you tell me about them sooner?"

He lowers his head in shame, looking at my hands. "I'm not used to sharing personal details of my life with other people. It's not that I don't want to, or that I have a problem with it, it's just that I never.." I put my hand on top of his as a way of telling him that I'm here for him, and he looks up at me. "I didn't know it's expected of me."

"And are you asking me to meet them because you feel guilty you haven't told me about them sooner, or because you really want me to meet them?"

He seems hurt by me asking that question, but it seems like a pretty valid question to me. "Of course I want you to meet them. I want to share my life with you."

And that sentence puts a smile on my face.

Henry is dying.

He has been wounded during a tournament. In the eye. By a fragment of the splintered lance.

What a silly way for a King to die, in a match, a game. If not of old age, God should have at least given him the honor of dying on a battlefield, like a warrior. Like a champion. Death worthy of a King, not of a clumsy boy.

The Court surgeon is doing his best, they say, but I can feel his soul leaving this Earth, even though it's trying to hold on to it for dear life. I can feel a part of me missing, a part of my heart, or maybe some other vital organ medics haven't discovered yet, one that scientifically proves that love really does exist.

Catherine won't let me see him. She won't let me anywhere near him. I guess this is her final act of revenge. This is how she showcases her power.

I'm sitting on the floor, my back pressed against the stone cold wall. The soldier in front of his door, guarding his bedroom, seems pretty ironic now - what are you guarding him from? He's already dying. Does Catherine really deem me a worthy opponent that she feels the need to position a soldier in front of her dying husbands door? She's smart, because I am - she knows what a woman in love is capable of. She knows what a woman if capable of, period. The solider is looking at me with pity in his eyes.

Henry is screaming my name. He's calling for me. He's been screaming it for an hour now.

I'm here, my love, even if you can't see me, I'm here.

He keeps screaming my name until he has no voice to scream with anymore.

I don't wake up screaming, or sweaty, or in pain. I don't wake up at all - because I'm not sleeping. I'm remembering.

There are tears in my eyes. There are tears everywhere. I'm drowning in them.

It's a middle of the night, I'm tired, and I cannot stop crying.

I get out of the bed, but whenever I move, I keep tripping over my sadness.

I crawl into the corner of my room, with a blanket in my hands, and stay there, sobbing. A man I love had just died.

But he has died hundreds of years ago, and I never knew him.

AN:

1) No, it's not always going to be half flashbacks, half real time. But flashbacks are crucial for the story, and people in the flashbacks are not random people - if they were random, what would be the point of writing them?

Be patient and pay attention, maybe? :)

2) I knew that Reign viewers would probably imagine Reign characters. DON'T. The year I wrote them in this story is a year in which they were much younger than they're in the show - Francis was still a child.

3) And no, this is not Reign/TVD crossover.