It was the early hours of the morning, the sun only just peaking over the hills. There werewolves were gathered there, human once again. They watched as the village of Mystic Falls started to wake, though Esther Mikaelson hadn't slept in the least. Neither had Finn or Mikael, who, for his part in taking Henrik's body, had merely picked him up and carried him around the back of their hut, leaving him there for Esther to cry over.

The leader of the wolf pack stood at the forefront, his arms folded. From a mile away you could have told he was the Alpha, all the others Beta's, with only two cowering Omega's right at the back.

The Alpha turned to them. His skin was dark, his head shaved of hair. His eyes were a deep black, his arms muscular, veins showing.

Ansel, the Alpha of the North-East Atlantic Pack, stepped forwards from the group of werewolves, his brown furrowed. "What are we going to do, Myron?" he asked.

Myron smiled, his teeth bright and completely clean. "We give them a day to bury their dead... And then... then we give them a trial for killing one of our own..."

Everyone in the village was acting strange that day, all felt the loss of Henrik like a stone had been placed in their chests. They moved slowly, heads bent and hands clasped in front of them. Even the youngest of the children seemed to sense that today was not a day for laughter.

Leta stood by herself, leaning against her house, her arms folded. She was watching as people went about their everyday jobs, each as silent and melancholy as the next. Only a few had offered to help in burying Henrik's body, one being the witch Iana. She was a woman of dark skin, her hair crinkling and falling to her shoulders in ebony black waves. She was known well in the village for her powers, and although Esther had once practiced magic to, she preferred not to speak of that time.

Leta had been charged with collecting wild flowers for Henrik's grave, but little to nothing grew around that time of year, just the purple vervain flowers at the base of the White Oak tree. This tree towered in the centre of the village, tall, its leaves forever green and fresh. The bark was a stark white, not unlike silver birch, but also quite different. Mystic Falls had been built around it.

The sun shone to brightly, hurting Leta's tired and weary eyes. They were red rimmed from her crying and her eyelids kept almost drooping closed until she were forced to splash water on her face to wake herself up again.

In her hand, Leta clutched a small bunch of the vervain, crushing the stems. This was all she could bring back for her dead friend and it infuriated her, made her want to scream and cry and run the wolf that had done this through with a sword. But she would never be able to do that, because he was already dead. Dead thanks to Henrik. Leta couldn't decide if she was happy that Henrik had thwarted the wolf or if she were sad that she herself would never get the chance to.

"Leta?"

Her head snapped up, her eyes finding the boy who had spoken. It was Elijah. He looked pale and wan, rings under his eyes. His clothes were amazingly neat however, and his fringe was tied back like it always was. He looked himself, though somehow his eyes were broken, empty, though still they shone with their old fire. It was his air of constant amusement; not in the way Kol was amused, the smirky, snarky, sarcastic way, but in a kind and gentle way. Elijah often seemed like he understood you more than you did yourself, like he could see straight into your heart and soul.

Leta tried a smile. It hurt her lips and it felt fake and untruthful so she dropped it immediately and nodded.

"Yes, Elijah?" she asked, her voice coming out odd and hollow, void of emotion almost.

Elijah stepped forward, looking down at her and giving her a small quirk of the lips. It was comforting.

"I can to see if you were alright. If... If you needed someone too talk to. If you needed anything at all."

Leta shook her head, an ache suddenly forming in her temples. She rubbed at it with the tips of her fingers, a frown creasing her brow. "No... No, I... I am the one who should be asking that. Henrik..." she said his name so easily it disturbed her, made her think she might be going insane. "He was-is still-your brother and, as such, I should be asking." She looked up at him and took a deep breath. "Elijah, what is it you are feeling?"

She knew she couldn't ask if he was alright because the answer would be no, Elijah had just lost his brother. It would take months to be alright again, months for them to be normal at all. If ever. There would always be an empty seat at the dinner table now where Henrik should have sat quietly eating, thinking and observing the others the way he had always loved to do. But no, he would never do that again...

Elijah looked down at his hands and blinked one too many times. "Please..." he murmured. "I... I cannot speak or it... I..."

Leta hugged him. "I understand, Elijah. Is there anything that still needs doing in preparation for the funeral?" Leta asked as she drew back, trying that smiled again. It worked a little better this time.

Elijah nodded. "Mother actually sent me to get you. She says that she needs to speak with your mother immediately. Do you know where Canna is?"

"Uh... No, I have not seen her since... well... since last night. I... I'm not sure. Sorry, Elijah," she said, her eyebrows drawing together as she tried her best to think.

"It is perfectly all right," he assured her gently, laying a hand on her upper arm.

The truth was, Canna had snuck away in the early hours of the morning, before even the wolves had been standing on the hill. She had gone to wait in a place she knew Myron would eventually turn up at. It was a secluded spot deep into the forest, where the shadows were long and everything seemed ominous. Crows cawed and thinks lurked. But Canna wasn't afraid of these things, she was on a mission and she needed to talk to Myron about it before he acted to drastically.

It had seemed hours until Myron showed up, clearly alone. And that had been when Canna had showed herself, though she was certain he must have sensed her presence already.

Being the widow of the former Alpha meant she knew things other people didn't, and that she was on excellent speaking terms with almost all of the pack. And it gave her leverage because she knew what was coming next. She knew there would be consciences for the Mikaelson's and her family alike. The wolves would not let this go unpunished. They would want revenge, and it would be bloody.

"What brings you here, Canna?" Myron asked calmly, not betraying the slightest hint of anything but that.

Canna tried her best to do the same, folding her hands in front of her. "I want to discuss something with you... Something important."

Myron laughed and shook his head. "If you are here to talk about your daughters heritage then there is no use. You knew what you were doing when you lay with a werewolf. I will not leave her just because you feign ignorance to the matter. You cannot change who she is, Canna. Now go home. I have a trial to prepare for."

Canna gave up trying, though really she had not tried at all, and started to make her way back to the village, leaving Myron standing over an unmarked grave, his head bent in mourning.

It was mid afternoon and Leta was sitting under the White Oak tree, her knees pulled up to her chest. The vervain flowers grew higher than her head, effectively hiding her from view. She could hear everyone moving around outside, their voices hushed.

She still felt angry that she could only bring Henrik vervain and nothing more. She could find nothing, not one single other flower. The frost had killed them all...

She couldn't seem to cry, like her tear ducts had dried out. It felt wrong not being able to cry for her friend, like she was somehow losing her ability to feel emotions. The ache in her chest assure her that this theory was not true however. It burned there like fire, cold and hot and heavy and painful. It wasn't right. She didn't want to feel this way, but she was also glad, because if it stopped hurting it would be far worse. She would feel bad for not feeling bad.

Let's didn't quite understand how that was supposed to make sense, but in her mind it did and that was all that mattered.

She still held the small bunch of vervain in her hand, was was wilting and dying, the crushed stems staining her palm green.

There was a rustling as someone approached her, weaving their way through the vervains purple flowers. And Canna knelt before her daughter.

Their eyes met for a moment, then she spoke, smiling sympathetically at Leta. "Honey, it's time to prepare for the funeral. Are you ready?"

Let's wasn't ready, but she nodded anyway, allowing Canna to take her hand and help her to her feet. Canna led her through Mystic Falls until they reached its edge where her ho she stood. She then turned to her and smiled.

"I know you have a rule about wearing dresses, but I have something I was saving for a special occasion, the day you were wed. But I think Henrik would have liked for you to wear it..."