Notes: I have no idea what to say, except that I am so ridiculously apologetic for the delay of this chapter. I could give you a million and one excuses-and trust me, I've got them-but there's really no excuse for having strung you guys along for that long, it's just not right. Although I am not nearly as proud of this outcome as I'd hoped to be, I certainly hope that you all find something in this chapter that at least partially makes up for how long it's been since its original publication, and I sincerely hope that you guys have way more fun reading this than I did writing it. About halfway through this chapter, I realized that I'd never written Elijah before in my three + year history of writing in this fandom, and that was a huge surprise that I hadn't expected to realize, and it in turn caused a huge bout of writer's block I simply could not kick. Add in that, some seriously de-motivating real-life drama, depression about the state of canon TVD and pre-class studying, and well... there you go.
With that said, given that this is my first time writing Elijah, I'd absolutely love some specific feedback on not only EE's entire last scene, but how Elijah's character came out in general. I'm very nervous about this-not just Elijah, or the Elejah relationship even, but the chapter as a whole and each part in separate-so please do be kind, but don't hesitate to critique, as long as it is constructive critique and not flaming. Constructive criticism is always beneficial, no matter how much or how little or about what. No one benefits from flaming. Please let me know what you guys think, your feedback means the world to me. Without further ado...
Disclaimer: The Vampire Diaries, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to LJ Smith, Kevin Williamson, Julie Plec, The CW, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. The song lyrics depicted in this chapter, the former chapter and the title come from the song 'Devastation and Reform' and belong to the band 'Relient K', the writers of the song itself, and 2007 Capitol Records. All rights reserved to respective parties.
I feel like I was born,
for devastation and reform,
destroying everything i love and the worst part is,
i pull my heart out, reconstruct;
but in the end it's nothing but,
a shell of what i had when i first started.
In the height of its glory days, the Veritas Estate was the most sought after and admired piece of land in Mystic Falls. A thirty-four year old Giuseppe Salvatore ordered a team of three-dozen men to undertake a five-year construction of what would later become the pride and worth of his family. He was a ruthless and stoic man, a jack-of-all-trades whose patriotism and fierce loyalty knew no bounds. He was also however, cruel, unsympathetic and selfish to absurd extremes. His immense fortunes stemmed from striking gold—quite literally—in the North Georgian Mountains as a young man in the 1820s. The Veritas Estate was completed in the blistering summer months of 1839, and he wed a beautiful and very young Italian Immigrant who spoke little to no English in autumn of the same year. Within twelve months, the just nineteen-year-old Adelaisa had given birth to Giuseppe's first son, and she poured every ounce of her love and devotion into two things—her home and her son.
There were many occurrences when Adelaisa would not speak a word to her husband for stretches of as long as a week. Damon would implore his mother to get along with father, but she would smile sadly and explain to him that not all unions were products of a mutual love. His mother was insistent on lavish birthday celebrations every August 26th, claiming that Giuseppe's money ought to be put to good use, and a celebration of the best day of her life was certainly cause for such a use.
For the entire decade of the 1840s, August 26th became known in the new township of Mystic Falls as Damon Salvatore's Birthday Celebration. Adelaisa would spend every dime and penny Giuseppe possessed on spoiling her son crazy on that one special day of the year.
On August 26th, 1851, an eleven-year old Damon Salvatore attended a funeral, his head bowed in silent remembrance of his mother and his hand squeezed tightly within the sweaty palms of his kid brother. He would shake the hand of Jonathon Gilbert while the man expressed his meaningless condolences; he would try to stifle his smirk while Honoria Fell cried in a fit of hysterics over what a great woman his mother was, all the while wondering what the harpy would say if she knew all the inappropriate names his mother had attributed to her; he would smile at a teary eyed and despondent Stefan while he relayed to his brother the story of a drunken Thomas Brichton Lockwood being kicked in his genitals by Mary Dresden out by the falls a few weeks back; he would shift uncomfortably in his formal dress shoes while Giuseppe gave a rousing and heartfelt speech—(a terrible and dishonorable lie)—on the grand love he shared with his beautiful, young wife. He would cry himself to sleep wrapped in the wool blanket his mother had sewn for him years before, inhaling the deeply unique scent of her rich perfume.
Most importantly of all, he would never again for the next century and a half of his life attribute the date of August 26th with anything of significance.
On August 26th, 2012, Damon Salvatore lie on a yellowed, dingy patch of grass beneath the stars, eyes closed and clutching a bottle of bourbon, surrounded by overgrown brush and wild thorns—the mere ruins of the legacy that was once the Veritas Estate.
The structure that took three-dozen men, years of manual labor and a lot of sweat and tears to manifest was now reduced to nothing more than scattered bits of a broken foundation in the middle of nowhere. The night was eerily quiet, hot and humid, the air thick with a light settling of fog.
Eyes still firmly shut, Damon brought the bottle of bourbon to his lips and as he drank, some of the alcohol spilled onto his chest. He disregarded it, letting the cold liquid seep into the dark fabric of his shirt without so much as a care. He'd been lying there for several hours—days; was it still Wednesday?—and had no desire to trudge back to the Boarding House, lest baby bro and his new vampire sweetheart were reacquainting on Damon's Persian Rug. He could always fall back on the tired and true fuck and dump, but he was fairly certain he'd lapped the entire female population of Mystic Falls' over-eighteens by now—(excluding aforementioned vampire sweetheart and the judgey witch bitch)—and he didn't do seconds.
He pulled himself off the ground, brushing off stains of grass and dirt on the dark jeans slung low on his hips. If you asked any vampire on earth what the most satisfying aspect of their nature was, you'd almost always get the predictable and cliché response of the blissful thrill of the run. Damon derived no pleasure from the inane vampire speed running the majority felt so enamored with; in fact, he found it quite trivial. Whilst hunting, he much preferred to seduce his victims into a false sense of security rather than run circles around their baffled, wide-eyed forms as if some sort of tacky low-budget horror movie villain.
He walked at a relatively normal pace, taking intermittent sips of bourbon as he took inventory. A secluded little bungalow stood tucked into an inconspicuous corner of some brush, a single light illuminated on an old, wooden front porch. It would be far too easy to deceive the home's only occupant—(more than likely an elderly widow on her last legs enjoying the peace and quiet of the remote outdoors with the company of her dusty books and stuffed cats)—into showing him hospitality, but he was sure he could find a more suitable meal with a much better aftertaste.
Judging by the shine of the stars and the dark shade of night, he'd wager a guess that it was approximately 1 in the morning by now. Saint Stefan would either be wrapped in bed sheets, immersed in nauseating monogamy with a particularly infuriating Elena Gilbert, or else stretched out awkwardly on an uncomfortable waiting room armchair. Needless to say, Damon was strongly in favor of the latter.
He could not properly analyze every possible scenario for what he would find upon entering the Boarding House, but he was certain that a very much alone Elena Gilbert ransacking through his liquor cabinet was somewhere very low on the list of potentials. She either hadn't noticed his entrance, or was choosing to ignore it completely, as her head was still firmly buried in inspecting the various bottles in his collection.
His tone was far harsher than he would've liked, but he couldn't deny that he was less than pleased with her. "Looking to get a little drunk, 'Lena?" No answer; she hadn't even attempted to turn and face him. "Stefan isn't hitting the sweet spot tonight, hmm?" Still no answer; not even an indication that she could so much as hear him.
He growled in frustration, in no mood to deal with her bullshit cold shoulder tonight. "Elena!"
She finally turned to face him now, her facial expression entirely impassive, her eyes seeming to pierce straight into his soul. He forgot every single thread of irritation at once and swept her into his arms, murmuring into her hair as he breathed out an audible sigh of relief. "Are you alright; how are you dealing? Have you fed? Fuck 'Lena, you have no idea how worried I've been." The overpowering scent of her hair filled his nostrils, enveloping his senses and usurping his entire rational thought pattern. His posture froze cold—Elena's scent had always been sweet; a delicious but subtle mixture of apples, vanilla and warm cinnamon. This intoxicatingly intense aroma of jasmine, lavender and that unique hint of spice were attributed to someone very different.
"Katherine," he groaned in irritation, his face twisted into a bitter scowl but his tone holding none of the scorn and malice she usually received, but rather possessing a sort of almost resigned acceptance. He couldn't muster the energy to snark with her, but she did not seem too off-put by his reluctance to engage her in banter.
"Relax," Katherine admonished with a terse bluntness, walking unconcerned back towards his liquor cabinet and grabbing a dark bottle of Merlot and two wine glasses, pouring a generous amount of liquid into each. "I haven't come with any underhanded intentions, believe it or not. I just figured you might enjoy a nice nightcap between old friends." She tilted her head slightly and gave him an inquisitive, provocative smile, her arm stretched towards him with one of the filled wine glasses, as though it were a peace offering.
Damon took it warily, but didn't lower his guard. "No ulterior motives, that's what you expect me to believe? So says the woman with the pin-straight hair, loose jeans and tattered keds." He scoffed and took a long sip from the wine glass, noting with bitter disappointment that it tasted quite unremarkable after the harsh burn of bourbon he'd been guzzling down. "Forgive me if I'm inclined to believe your intentions aren't entirely pure, Miss Katherine," he taunted sardonically.
"Ugh, please," Katherine waved him off with an unamused scoff, "This—while annoyingly unflattering—is an unfortunately necessary measure," she motioned to her significantly downplayed appearance. "You might be surprised to learn the lengths at which any ignorant dumb-ass in this town will bend over backwards for you if they think you're Elena Gilbert," she gave him a cruel little smile, "It's pathetically disgusting, but ultimately convenient." Her eyes darkened in irritation as she took a small sip of her wine and settled into the parlor sofa, "You can't take chances with compulsion in this town anymore, thanks to you and your infiltration of that idiotic Council. Bravo, Damon, really," she quipped darkly, "It's quite ingenious the way you've equipped those leeches to be far more of a nuisance than they ever should've been…"
Damon raised a dark eyebrow with a patronizing laugh. "Are you telling me that you've adopted Elena's wardrobe because you're running scared of a couple of hopped up amateur hunters with worse aim than my drunkard father after a quart of whiskey? Geez Pierce, you're losing your edge if you expect me to fall for that bullshit."
Katherine glared at him, fighting the sliver of a smile that was threatening to break through. Damon had always had a quick, sharp tongue from the moment she'd met him all those years ago, and it was perhaps this more than anything else that had kept her habitually coming back to him against her best interest. But that was way back then, with a different set of concerns and a different approach to their relationship, as though it were so far removed that it had existed only on a separate plane of reality-it seemed almost quaint looking back on it now with the obstacles they were currently facing. Nowadays, his penchant for conversational wit was mostly just irritating, but there were those occasional moments where it was entertaining, dare she say familiar and comforting, to some extent. Damon's reactions to her were consistently as far from predictable as possible, and it was such a welcome change from every other uselessly uninspired individual she regularly interacted with.
"If you actually bothered to take anything I taught you to heart and took the time to plan your actions beforehand instead of running impulsively into the fire like the hot-headed savage you act like, you'd be able to see the merits in having trustworthy informants in Mystic Falls. Of course, that's nearly impossible if the whole town is suspicious of you—the whole damn Council practically maps out the residences of every new citizen in town, so they aren't trusting anyone who isn't a founding family member. Therefore, it benefits me for them to view me as Elena; it's hardly a matter of being scared. I'm exploiting their ignorance for my own benefit, and trust me, it's working flawlessly."
Damon surveyed her skeptically, trying to figure out what her motive was—she always has a motive; whether it may be potentially lethal was up for debate, but she never did anything without an ulterior motive, and if she thought she could fool him into thinking otherwise, she misjudged how well he knew her. He decided not to press her for information on her plans with the Council, but stored that bit of information away for later.
"Informants, hmm? And what do these lovely little spies spill for you, Kat? The seedy underbelly of Mystic Falls, I presume. The Housewives of Chesterfield County?" He grinned suggestively. "I guess if that's the case, you'll be privy to the knowledge that Carol Lockwood forced Bethany Nichols to sell her rather lucrative stockholdings in Victoria's Secret for an outrageously low price on nothing more than our ever dutiful Mayor's threat of Mrs. Nichols losing her seat as chair of the Town Beautification Committee—can you honestly imagine, what a travesty that would be?!" Damon gripped his chest melodramatically in mock horror, as though it were ghastly to even contemplate.
Anyone with a semi-functioning brain knew that Katherine Pierce was a bitch—cold, selfish, cruel and completely unlovable—and Damon wished he could agree with them, but it always proved difficult when she laughed like that. Katherine had so many different variants of laughter, and each one served her a distinct purpose, but it was the most uninhibited and rare of them all—an actual, genuine laugh of humorous appreciation—that was undeniably the most captivating. It wasn't often that he was given an opportunity to bear witness to it, but on those rare occasions, he couldn't deny the warmth and love that seemed to encompass his entire being. He could try to deny the truth and assert stubbornly that he did not harbor (pitifully self-destructive) feelings for her and instead maintain his cold, detached disposition, but bearing the weight of emotional armor that heavy became exhausting. He couldn't uphold that shield anymore, couldn't keep up the mentally draining façade—not when he had so many other things taxing on his worries.
He could allow himself to enjoy the melodious lilt of her beautiful laugh without any sort of repercussion; for one thing, it's not as if she won't be gone within the hour anyway—she always left him out to dry, for better or worse, and if there was one thing reliable and predictable about her, it was that. He was no longer naïve when it came to her—he knew exactly what to expect from her, and without expectation, there was no disappointment. After the past century and a half, he would not be so weak as to fall for any of her insidious schemes anymore—she had lost that power over him a long time ago, and if she foolishly tried to exert it, she was in for one hell of a surprise.
Katherine was still giving him a wry little smile when she spoke, "Mhm, as edge-of-your-seat engrossing as Carol Lockwood's lingerie investments surely are, it wasn't exactly the news or gossip I was alluding to."
Damon frowned, not sure he was comfortable with the direction this conversation was headed. "I imagine then it would not be presumptuous to assume you are referring to Elena's—" he paused, taking a long sip of his wine and analyzing Katherine's reaction, "—precarious situation."
"Precarious situation?" Katherine inquired, an eyebrow raised with an expression on her face landing somewhere between amusement and hauteur. "Let's leave the cryptic insinuations to the professionals and at least try to have a semi-honest conversation. Yes, I'm aware that my poor little doppelganger is hanging within that parlous balance of humanity and vampirism. How could I not know, I am impersonating her on a daily basis, after all—I make it my business to know where she is."
She cocked her head slightly, a condescending smile on her lips as she continued. "How long do you bet she lasts before she dies in a fit of hysterics, refusing to prey on innocent humans because her inane morality demands it? Care to make a wager? I daresay it'll be far easier to impersonate her if she dies in transition, since that idiotic Fell woman will obviously hasten to cover it up. It's a wonder that woman hasn't been sued for malpractice yet, really."
Damon didn't respond immediately, clenching his wine glass just that tiny bit harder. When he spoke, his voice was cold and resolute. "I think you should leave."
Katherine did not look at all convinced, still remaining firmly nestled in her comfortable lounge position on the parlor sofa. "Aw, well that's a real shame. Here I was thinking we were bonding. Did I say something wrong?" She asked innocently—if anything Katherine did could ever be considered innocent, even in jest.
Damon just scowled in response. "You're a bitch, you know that?"
Katherine rolled her eyes and set down her glass to turn fully to face him. "I think the real question is why don't you know that, or have you merely forgotten? Why, after years and years of knowing exactly who I am do you continue to act as though I should be ashamed of concealing my true nature? Even when you were a human, I made absolutely no effort to be fake with you—you knew exactly who I was, and how much of a 'bitch' I was, and if anything, all it did was make you love me more. So if you're expecting me to feel any sort of remorse for acting the way I always have, you're wasting my time."
"What is the point of this? Why are you here, besides to taunt and berate me with your petty insults towards the people I love?"
Katherine laughed, but this time, it wasn't the genuine, honest laugh that he'd grown to adore despite his best efforts not to, but a patronizing laugh that sent chills down his spine. "People you love meaning Elena, am I wrong? You're an idiot, Damon. Do you honestly believe that girl will bring you anything but another century and a half of pathetic heartache?"
"She's not you," Damon spat back at her, his anger and frustration getting the best of him.
"Well, certainly not; she's far too naïve and trusting to be me, I think we all know that. But let me guarantee you something, Damon—Elena Gilbert will break your heart, just like I did. She may not strategize her manipulations the way I do—hell, she may not even do them consciously—but in the end, it won't matter whether she intended to play you or not. She'll either die in transition and retain that infuriating Saint pedestal she doesn't deserve, or she'll live an eternal vampire life choosing your brother and a life of bunny stew dinners over you, time and time again. If you expect anything different, you'll only be let down. Do yourself a favor and get the fuck over her before that happens, and save yourself the pointless despair over a relationship that never would've worked in the first place."
Damon sighed and stood up, fussing with his mussed, sweaty hair in the mirror in a lazy, halfhearted attempt to smooth it down. "I'm still failing to understand why anything regarding Elena and I even concerns you," he muttered harshly as he took off his leather jacket and hung it up. "Please don't tell me you're planning on pulling a redux on the whole 'Stay away from Elena or I'll rip this town apart until it rains blood' ordeal, 'cause I really don't have the patience for that shit."
Katherine shrugged noncommittally. "I personally don't really care what happens to her either way, or whether you want to spend your miserable eternity pining after her like a poor, sick puppy; I just thought you'd want to know how absolutely pathetic it makes you look. I have nothing against your little Virgin Mary, aside from the fact that her incessant moralizing of every situation is downright nauseating and that her profound lack of fashion sense is an absolute mockery to my legacy-" She trailed off, a smile playing at her lips as she heard Damon's derisive snort although his back was still turned. She began walking back over to the liquor cabinet, "Alright, I have no murderous intentions towards the girl," she amended the statement as she topped off her drink, "I think that's far more than she deserves, really." Her tone was harsh and bitter as she added, "Let's just say that if she does somehow make it through this transition, you'd better hope her acclimation is far smoother than mine was..."
Damon turned around to stare at her incredulously, abruptly taken aback by such a significant admission being stated so casually. He had often times as a human pressed Katherine for information regarding her turning, eager to understand and prepare for his own impending transition. He scowled, feeling nothing but agitation and scorn towards his far too enthusiastic former self. "You never told me anything about how you turned; I asked so many times, and you'd always brush me off-"
"For good reason," Katherine sharply cut him off. She grimaced unpleasantly and Damon got the uncomfortable premonition that perhaps he should've just let it lie; whatever she had been so reluctant to share with him way back then was clearly no easier to divulge now. She set the drink down on the glass in front of her, and it cracked under the force of the gesture. Damon would've been indignant if he wasn't so riveted by this clear display of out-of-character tension.
Her disposition changed so markedly from her usual persona of playful confidence and superiority, and understandably Damon felt more than a little apprehensive by the prospect of anything that could make her act like this. "After I used Rose's blood to turn me, I spent the next thirty years drowning in the blood of thousands of privileged European men looking for a good time—I never stayed in one place too long, hopping around the continent every year or so after draining every last man desperate enough to stumble into a brothel, seeking a whore's company…" she smiled ruefully to herself, lost in her own reflection. "Hundreds became thousands quickly, and it was only a matter of time before that recklessness and impulsivity threatened to undo everything I'd worked so hard for."
She continued on as though he were not there, her lips pressed into a thin line and her gaze seeming to penetrate straight through him, causing him to wonder whether she was truly confiding in him or else subconsciously using him as some twisted confessional. "Elijah found me not long after that, tracking me couldn't have been that difficult. He struck me a bargain; confess that I loved him and that running was a mistake, and he would shelter me from Klaus... teach me to control the bloodlust," she scoffed and swished her drink back and forth absentmindedly, "As if he'd even had a clue what it really was," she spat bitterly. "So, of course, I lied and claimed that I did love him. What else was I to do at that point? I'd proven too weak to deal with the transition myself, and I was left with no other option but to accept his intervention.
"But of course, reality set in quickly and I panicked. I had managed to escape the role of sacrificial lamb to the oldest and most feared vampire in the world only to accept refuge in the arms of his brother? No, I was far better than that—if I could escape Klaus, I did not need anyone to grant me their asylum, especially not some love-struck fool. A month after I accepted his offer, I made a promise to myself: that I'd continue to run, and never stop until Klaus gave up, until I'd traced every pattern around the world twice over. And so I did—the very next morning, I left Elijah and I evaded his attempts to find me for over three centuries, my own instinctual determination to survive the only means of which to persevere through that raging, uncontrollable lust. It was not until November of 1864 that I caught wind of his presence again—residing as an orphaned guest in your father's home, donning an Englishman's name and touting the respects of Confederate America as the darling debutante I so convincingly portrayed."
"You…" Damon had a hard time vocalizing this train of thought, it had never even occurred to him before. "You ran because Elijah found you? Not because of the town conspiring against vampires…" he whispered to himself, trying to make sense of it.
"Oh please, you honestly thought that I ran from Mystic Falls because I was scared of your Father and Jonathon Gilbert? You offend me, Damon," she teased wryly, but her smile was forced and her casual wit falling short.
"I… I can't say I really thought about it much," he admitted truthfully, his tone taking on a bitter quality; "For a hundred and forty five years I thought you were trapped in the church ruins, desiccating from starvation and requiring my assistance," he laughed, throaty and emotional, his self-deprecation not lost on Katherine. "And for the past two, I've been a bit hung up on the whole 'It was always Stefan' admission, so forgive me for not feeling quite up to assessing your motivation," he spat with a bite of disdain in his voice.
The brief flicker of emotion in her eyes clearly resembled some form of regret, and he could've sworn that she very nearly flinched at his harsh accusation. "That's irrelevant, and not why I told you," she dismissed him a little too quickly. "Those first few decades, Damon—" she broke off with a sigh, her eyes exhibiting a worn, tired quality that he'd never seen before. "I don't have anything to quite compare it to. The strangest thing was that it was hardly even a bloodlust—not in the traditional sense, not how you've ever experienced it or heard it described. No, it was this insatiable, uncontrollable drive to exhibit control—a powerlust, in a sense. It had very little to do with the actual blood itself, it was this instinctive lust for authority, an impossible covet for a freedom that so starkly contradicted everything implicit in the very nature of being a supernatural entity created to die…"
Damon tried to appear unaffected, but the force and emotion of which she relayed this story was disconcerting. "Katherine, this isn't a Dr. Phil show nor am I your personal therapist; why the fuck do you think I'll care or listen to your whining and woes?"
"I'm not whining, Damon—you should know me better than that. I'm warning you."
"Warning me?" Damon repeated back, his unsteady voice betraying his unease.
"Well, since you seem particularly adamant on sticking around for Elena, I thought I'd do you the courtesy of a sneak peek at what you're signing up for," Katherine smiled in satisfaction, knowing that with this one simple spin of context, she'd regained all the cards back to her hand, as usual.
Damon's face paled considerably before he spoke again. "You think something similar will happen to Elena?"
Katherine smiled mysteriously, content that she was in the best possible position to pique his interest to her advantage. "I don't think, I know, and 'similar' is a bit of an understatement. You see, five-hundred years of plotting and planning is quite a long time, and I didn't spend it all gallivanting with rebellious Confederate rejects. No, I spent much of that time researching the mythology and origins behind the doppelganger; it's all quite fascinating, really. Where do you think our darling Isobel inherited such a profound apt for research?"
"Katherine, if you know something, she needs to know it," Damon asserted resolutely.
"Oh, don't fret, my dear; I do very much intend to have a conversation with the girl once she gets let out of isolation, if she survives long enough. Leave that to me, why don't you?" She tilted her head inquisitively, that playful air back with a dramatic impact. "Besides, I would think you'd have other priorities to focus on today of all days, no? You never were one for extravagant celebration though, were you?"
He narrowed his eyes in suspicion; could she really know what today was? It seemed impossible—possibly one of the only things he hadn't shared with her during those more naïve times was his birth-date.
She stood up with such graceful poise that he'd hardly comprehended the movement before she was leaning unconcerned against the parlor room doorframe, that confident, cryptic smirk making its return. "You know, you distracted me with such intense discussion of doppelganger folklore that I very nearly forgot my reason for the visit."
Damon arched an eyebrow unimpressed, now nursing a pounding headache and wanting her to get to the point, doubting if she even knew how. When she unceremoniously produced a heavy-bound book and set it in front of him, he picked it up curiously, eyeing the title and cautiously running his thumb across the dusty book jacket.
He stared at her in blatant astonishment, taking in with warranted skepticism what appeared to be a genuine smile lighting her features, his eyes never straying from her curious gaze as he held the book with trembling hands and all too apparent trepidation. He flicked it open in haste and searched through its contents for proof of its authenticity, or perhaps evidence of the lack of it. With each turn of a page crease, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his stubborn stance that the impromptu gift was simply another of her petty attempts at furthering her insidious and relentless mind games.
Ulterior motives for the unexpected gift aside, however, there was no discounting that he was holding an original copy of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, penned in its native French, and—moreover, still—undeniably his original copy, mysteriously stolen from his belongings during the last few months of his human life and subsequently forgotten over the course of a century. He gaped disbelieving at the small, scribbled cursive notes packed tight within the narrow margins on each and every page, the dark ink still as clear and legible as the day they'd been written. Inhaling a slow, deep breath, he allowed himself to be whisked away by the comfortingly familiar scent of those unique rag pulp pages. His conscious was flooded with images long since suppressed of harsh and lonely winter nights, studying as a cadet under Jackson in the gloomy prison otherwise referred to as the VMI.
It was with still trembling hands and a shaky tremor to his voice that he finally addressed Katherine, still perched languidly against the parlor room doorframe with that trademark casual indifference that she had so effortlessly perfected into its own art form. "What is this?" He asked softly, "Why would you give this to me?"
"It's a gift, Damon," she chastised with an amused lilt to her tone, her dark eyes shining with genuine mirth. "In most customs, it typically elicits a gesture of gratitude."
"A gift," he repeated slowly, as if the word were a foreign concept he was struggling to grasp. "A gift-from you, that already belonged to me..." he trailed off with a sarcastic laugh. "How do you have this, Katherine? Have you actually had it all this time?"
Katherine's answering smile seemed almost sympathetic, and Damon's first impulse was to write it off as nothing but a deceiving trick of light-until she spoke. "I found a lot of those margin notes quite illuminating," she mused thoughtfully; "whoever wrote them had a very unconventional perception of Edmond and the state into which he drove himself mad with vengeance... held onto this abstract idea of revenge as justice and clung to it as if it were his last lifeline in a bitter reality devoid and stripped of purpose..." her lips quirked into a wry smile. "I spent the better part of a year adding some of my own notes in response, I think you'll notice, if you take the time to peruse it. I found some interesting connections between the Count and an impulsive, hot-headed savage I once knew..."
Damon was stunned; he had been expecting anything other than this from her random appearance in his parlor, but he had learned time after time that it was only her who possessed the power to surprise and befuddle him so profoundly. He was an idiot for ever letting himself forget this fact. "It shocks me that you'd find the time to even read a book, let alone write notes about it, what with the hectic schedule and laborious demands of all your manipulation schemes," he quipped in an attempt to divert attention away from his unease.
She raised a dark eyebrow and took the final sip of her Merlot. "It was sometime during the early 60s in Carinthia, Austria... beautiful place, settled around the East Alps and surrounded by this serene lake that stretches for miles-but really, beautiful views are captivating only for about two minutes before you realize how dreadfully boring everything else is," she laughed dryly.
Damon set the book down on the coffee table, careful to not take his eyes off Katherine in case she decided to make a quick get-away, and stood before her, his hands fidgeting at his sides, feeling remarkably like a nervous little boy, curious and entranced by the confident and intimidating woman with the smile that held every answer. "Why did you take it in the first place?" - ('Why did you keep it for a hundred and fifty years?')
But, as per usual, the confident and intimidating woman with the smile that held every answer provided him with nothing but more questions. She took a step back, grabbed her coat off the back of the arm chair it had been draped around and handed him her empty wine glass as she leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "Happy Birthday, Damon."
An injury I'll cause with my own fist, it—
it seems to me to be slightly masochistic.
(Elena Gilbert is fifteen, eyes gleaming with a spark of effervescent mischief, clasping a vial of thick, crimson blood against her chest, and Caroline Forbes stares at her in a state of utter bewilderment and awe. The blonde has never been the squeamish type—unlike Bonnie who had furiously and adamantly refused to participate in this hospital summer volunteer program for incoming freshman—but even she had to admit that the morbid fascination Elena displays with blood sometimes is just plain strange. And yet, she can't find it within her willpower to look away. It's almost curfew now—10 o'clock on the dot, not a second later with her drill sergeant of a mother posing as the friendly sheriff—and the moonlight is shining in its natural element—ominous, beautiful and downright terrifying.
The gleam of dark satisfaction that glimmers in Elena's eyes is accompanied by the slight curve of her lip that is all too familiar to Caroline. The brunette is intrigued by something, a smile widening on her face that's as innocently thoughtful as it is deviously worrisome. 'It's all a matter of perspective', Elena will assert to her blonde friend as they climb the fence over Jared Pitchken's yard to take a dip in his pool. 'Most people limit themselves to one perspective, 'cause that's what you're taught to do. I don't give myself the same restriction.' She leaves the statement hanging behind her, now too absorbed in a new idea or thought tangent to care if Caroline bothered to pick it up.
Caroline sits in English Class, uncharacteristically melancholy and detached as Mr. Benson rambles about the significance and usage of the oxymoron. She giggles at first because of the weird name, but as she listens she begins to think about Elena. Mr. Benson has his eyes narrowed on her, and she stares back at him, affronted by the random attention, before she realizes her hand was in the air. She stares at him long and hard for a moment before sputtering 'If someone were gracefully reckless, would that be an oxymoron?' and she doesn't hear the full extent of the man's answer, because she whips around to stare at the seat Elena should be smiling back from to find it empty. When she turns back to the front of the class, Mr. Benson has changed the topic and she can feel Matt Donavon's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head as she fumbles for a pencil in her make-up bag.
She finds herself in an awkward conversation with a Pastor at a church in North Carolina on one of her routine weekend visits to see her dad and Steven on their lake house. He's preaching something about the nature of the soul and reincarnation and she thinks he's a bit of a loon—(not to mention the fact that she thinks it's hilariously pointless that Steven is a man of such devout faith when her grandmother once told her that homosexuals worship depravity instead of divinity)—but she indulges the short, beady-eyed man because he seems lonely and Caroline considers herself the budding philanthropist of a new generation, as is the slogan on her 'President for Student Council' posters.
She listens to the man prattle on about the purity of the soul, and she finds herself again thinking of Elena. If there's one thing she understands about Elena that no one else does, it's this: the world isn't enough for her. She's restless, clawing at the restraints of small-town suffocation, and that's why she's so rebellious. Elena will break every rule, every constraint and every dictation just because she can and smile and dazzle her way through the whole thing until people resort to classifications of a 'severe attention addiction', but Caroline knows better. She knows better than anyone that there's something about Elena Gilbert that doesn't quite belong, something that's itching to find a purpose in everything purposeless. She knows that Elena is never satisfied, because she sees firsthand her constant struggle for meaning, a stimulation for a soul that's too restless to ever be content. She asks the short Pastor man whether he believes that there are any souls that are simply too restless to be at peace with themselves, and he espouses that every soul is restless to escape mortality and find the divine. She doesn't believe him; Elena's never held a lick of interest in the divine, and she knows that no one on earth is as restless as her best friend.
Two hours later, she's contemplating whether to indulge in an impulse buy of crimson red pumps or save the money for that gorgeous cream sweater she saw on display last month at a vintage shop in Richmond when her phone goes off on its loudest volume. She fishes it out of her purse, holds it haphazardly to her ear and promptly drops it with a deafening crack as Bonnie tells her the news of Elena's parents through muddied sobs.
When she returns to Mystic Falls, she finds a hollow impersonation of Elena Gilbert claiming to be her best friend, and Caroline holds fiercely to her conviction that all Elena needs is to get up and get out and open the damn drapes in her window, and Bonnie sends her a sharp glare and reprimands her for how insensitive she's being. Elena doesn't even look up.
There's a distinctly chilling breeze for the beginning of summer, and on June 7th, 2009, Elena sits numb and unresponsive on a hard wooden bench in the middle of a densely populated graveyard. Hundreds of people are gathered around two newly polished headstones, bowing their heads and grieving with copious amounts of uninhibited tears and sorrows. It's late evening, almost close to 9 o' clock, and Elena's been sitting there all day. Caroline's been there all day too—Liz Forbes graciously offered to help Jenna with the overwhelming task of organizing such a large funeral—but she's sure Elena hasn't noticed.
After eleven hours of being still and unresponsive, Elena looks up and the first gaze she meets is Caroline's. Caroline chokes back a startled sob, and tries for her eyes to remain dry as they lock with Elena's. They stare at each other for seconds, minutes, hours—neither of them is quite too sure, but all Caroline can think about is the dull, lifeless stare that she's never seen from Elena before. There's no spark—there's no mischief, there's no fire. There's no Elena, she thinks morbidly, but still can't tear her eyes away. Not until another figure blocks her view, cuts off their direct gaze. It's Bonnie, and she embraces Elena with tears flowing down her cheeks, no words necessary. Elena stiffens noticeably, but eventually relaxes into Bonnie's embrace-allows herself to be comforted.
And Caroline watches from afar, aware with a poignant anguish that she was wrong, so very very wrong. She hadn't ever contemplated it possible that the cruelty of this world could be capable of breaking the most restless, forceful, passionate spirit she'd ever known. But she knows that it has, and as every other person around her mourns the loss of two wonderfully kind individuals, Caroline mourns the loss of her best friend.
Caroline Forbes was fifteen years old and Elena Gilbert was the most fascinating person she'd ever met.
"Drink it," Elena persisted forcefully, her smile coy and teasing, but her eyes showing that crazed desperation—that frenzied thrill so apparent whenever she latched onto an idea that consumed her every thought. The manic excitement that gleamed so brightly under the twinkling stars above them; that spark that was for Caroline, and for Caroline alone.
"'Lena, it's—it's blood," she sputtered, affronted and more than a little disgusted.
"So what?" Elena asked inquisitively. "I know it's blood, I didn't think it was ketchup. I want to know what it tastes like."
"Then you drink it!"
Elena smiled knowingly. "I already did, I want to know what you think."
"How'd it taste?" Caroline asked wearily, taking a step closer to Elena on instinct as though her feet were doing it of their own accord.
"Salty," Elena deadpanned with dry humor. Caroline glared at her, unamused. "Come on, Care; don't ruin the moment," Elena chastised. "Please just try it, for me. I really want to know."
Years later, they would all sit gathered around a fireplace in the Salvatore Boarding House one Christmas Eve, and Damon would make a sarcastic quip that innocent, wholesome Elena would hardly be capable of pressuring a shark into biting. Caroline and Elena would avoid eye contact, each take a shot of whiskey and drown the awkwardness with bouts of fake laughter.
Truth was, in that moment of rebellious camaraderie between two teenage girls without a care in the world outside of Mystic Falls General, with the dark glow of the moonlight casting shadows on Elena's wide, joyful grin, Caroline would've done anything Elena wanted her to, embarrassingly little pressure required.
It was June 7th, 2009 and Caroline Forbes watched the sunset melt into a dark sky and could swear she'd never seen a splattering of stars so dull—could swear that she'd never seen the night sky without its brilliant, radiant spark that she'd come to adore, admire, covet in all the ways she'd never admit to. It was June 7th, 2009 and Caroline mourned the death of a spark whose absence left her whole identity hollow and defeated in a way she couldn't have imagined in her wildest nightmares.)
But there'd be no story,
without all this dissension;
so I inflict the conflict,
with the utmost of intention.
Even under compulsion, her voice was soft and hesitant, sweaty palms fidgeting with the manila folder, hands shaking. "Car accident victim; several signs of distinct punctures in the lungs and internal bleeding."
"Original suggested course of action before the accident?"
"Blood transfusion, but the probability of complication due to the recent car accident and lung injury now presents a high risk factor."
"And was the transfusion successful?"
"No, his condition and vital signs continue to decline."
"And how far has the blood pressure level declined?"
Elena shifted uncomfortably against the tweed fabric of the chair and wished with all her might that she could avoid direct contact with his eyes, but the compulsion made it impossible.
"Elena," he emphasized dispassionately, his eyes so dark and focused that she couldn't detect a sliver of emotion in them, as he reiterated the question: "What is the patient's blood pressure level?"
"Chronically low; 41/22. It had been stable within the past twenty four hours, but within the last hour has decreased and continues to decline at alarming rates."
Elijah surveyed her trembling hands gripping the fabric of the armchair and he relented his questioning for the moment. They were in a dimly lit waiting room area on the basement level of the hospital, the entire expanse of the floor void of any living presence, the only passageway upstairs a temporary defunct elevator taken out of operation by Dr. Fell for exactly this purpose. Elena was under consensual compulsion not to move from her current seated position, but even given this initial protection, Elijah had no qualms about taking every precaution possible to prevent her from leaving the room in search of fresh blood.
"Does he have any family?" Elijah continued, this time his voice much softer.
"No, he was an orphan and his last remaining family member died two years ago."
"Can you feel the ache in your throat that wants to feed on his blood?"
"Yes," Elena responded, but even with the lack of inflection, Elijah could sense her disgust at the sound of her own words.
"Do you wish to satisfy this instinctual response?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to kill him?"
"No," and this assertion... strong with conviction, and Elijah was momentarily caught off guard that this question was enough to subdue his compulsion. It made the corners of his mouth turn so slightly into the beginning of a smile.
Now, Elijah leaned just that bit closer to her, his voice just the slightest bit softer. "And why is that?"
"It's wrong; there's never a good enough justification for taking a life," Elena stated emphatically, as though it truly were that black and white.
"And if that man were threatening your life or someone you felt compelled to protect?"
"He's not; he's an innocent car accident victim in a hospital with barely any chance of surviving long enough to ever be outdoors again."
"Is he?" Elijah inquired with a thoughtful tilt of his head and a knowing smile. The brief lapse in eye contact caused the compulsion to break and Elena sank back into the chair, breathing heavily, the manila folder falling discarded in her lap. "Allow me to correct your misconception, Elena. It is understandable of course, since I gave you his medical history only with no adequate preface and omitted a different but equally crucial piece of documentation. Adam Andrews' criminal history; please, take a look..." and he passed her a piece of paper that she accepted tentatively.
Emotionally drained, physically exhausted and mentally irritated, Elena had absolutely zero interest in whatever this flimsy piece of paper might tell her about Adam Andrews. She skimmed over the page with casual indifference until a paragraph halfway down the page caused her to pause.
'Andrews captured fifteen-year old Melanie Higgins outside of her Mill Woods home on Saturday, August 21st and restrained her to the passenger seat of his 2007 Black Cadillac CTS (#XDF-5453) and proceeded to swerve into a guard rail along highway State Route 895 in an attempt to dodge an eighteen wheeler truck veering into the lane he was traveling in. The speed at which the car collided with the guardrail is being estimated at between 55 and 60 mph and due to the force of impact and her positioning at the time of the collision, Ms. Higgins was killed on impact. Andrews was discovered thrown from the vehicle and unconscious at the scene. His victim was discovered having been choked to death by a gag around her throat and with various other restraints that held her in place inside the car. Andrews is currently being held in Mystic Falls Hospital ICU for various and potentially fatal medical complications. If the subject recovers, he will be scheduled for trial and will face possible charges of lifetime imprisonment.'
"Now Elena, I need to ask you a question. You aren't under compulsion, but I think you'll understand why I want you to answer seriously and honestly." Elena looked up from the piece of paper she'd been so engrossed in reading, startled to find that the edges were nearly crumpled down to bits with the force of her tight grip. "If Melanie Higgins was your brother Jeremy, and this circumstance of your potential turning had occurred a week earlier, and you were somehow privy to the information that this man would cause his death... would you have stopped it? Would you have gone to the police, tried to convince them to convict a man that you had no suitable evidence to reasonably condemn? Or would that have been a justifiable reason to take a life?"
Elena nods reluctantly, "I understand."
Elijah does not relent, and she thinks that he would be smirking at her attempt to evade the question were this a different circumstance. "Elena, that's not an answer."
"Yes," she says impatiently, not looking him in the eye, her words rushed and disposition frantic- "Yes; I would've killed him, and I would've made it hurt, would've made him bleed for hours for even considering doing that to Jeremy."
Silence. Elena hated silence, avoided it at all costs; it always bred uncertainty and insecurity—elicited doubt. If people were silent, they were judging; scrutinizing.
"So would I," he confessed honestly. "I have, as a matter of fact," Elijah continued, seemingly lost in a state of remembrance as he straightened the cuff of his shirt with a rueful smile. "There was a man who was quite taken with my sister in our village-Balder, I still remember the boy; his father was quite a competitor of ours, and therefore our families were not amicable. However, I'd always maintained good relations with most of them, espousing the need for harmonious community over feuds and hostility; I never found the feud between our families to be of much interest. That all changed one day when I found him harassing Rebekah by the streams in the dusk hours after a long day of labor..." a dark look of displeasure spread over his face as he continued the retelling of the story, his tone taking on a lower and distinctly frightening quality.
"He touched her quite inappropriately, and against her wishes, and all I saw was this blinding red... this wish to hurt him in a way I had never lain a hand on anyone ever before. I had never known pure anger that malicious before, but that evening it washed over me and I had not the willpower to do anything but succumb to it. I very nearly beat him to death before Rebekah's cries of horror pulled me out of it... Balder never spoke of it again, never dared-I imagine in fear of what I might have done in retaliation if he had. And that night, in the hours of dwindling darkness, I sat outside our home under the large oak tree in repent and expressed my regret and my fears to Niklaus, who sat and listened... who sat and consoled, who understood why I needed to confide this in him." His voice got very quiet now, and Elena had not moved an inch since he began the telling of this. "Since that night, I have not spoken this story to another soul, and Rebekah and I have never spoken of the incident since."
Elijah sat in a grave silence now, and Elena knew that any condolence she could give would be meaningless. "Elijah, why are you here?"
The question seemed to startle him out of the stupor and he regarded her curiously. "Are you not enjoying my company, Miss Gilbert?", he teased.
Elena laughed, but it was hollow and forced, mirroring perfectly his well-intentioned but ultimately vain attempt at teasing. The emotion in the air was still thick with sorrow, no matter the attempts to dissipate it. "I guess I don't understand why I'm receiving it," Elena stressed in response. "I've spent the entire year we've known each other plotting to kill that same brother you valued so much once upon a time. I stabbed a dagger in the back of the sister you nearly beat a man to death to protect. I took part in a scheme to murder your entire family, you included. I've done more of a grievance to your family than I think anyone else can claim, and yet—you're still here. You're trying to advise me on how to deal with bloodlust, telling me stories that no one else but two of your siblings have ever even heard before. Why are you here?" She reiterated again, her voice faltering even as she tried to keep it steady. The real question of 'Why do you care?' was one she couldn't quite vocalize-not directly.
"Are you questioning the honor of my intentions, Elena?" His wry smile did not seem to register with her, as she quickly and vocally protested to the contrary, but lapsed into silence at his abrupt laughter. "Elena, do you find yourself unworthy of my help?"
"Maybe if you could give me just one logical reason why I am deserving of it, I'd be a bit more inclined to ease up and let you give it. Otherwise, I'm left with nothing but my vague and ridiculously unreliable intuition that's almost always wrong," Elena gave a bitter laugh.
"Mhm, you do seem to have a fairly defective intuition considering the countless examples to draw from, I'm afraid I cannot argue with that," his eyes gleamed with good-natured humor.
"Elijah!" She exclaimed in surprise, although to her own ear it sounded somewhat like a reprimand, and she immediately looked down sheepishly, although unable to hide the first genuine smile she'd been able to exhibit in days. "Can you please just answer a question with a straight answer and not another question, just this once? I swear I won't mention it ever again, your reputation as Badass Original Headslinger is in no jeopardy."
"'Badass Original Headslinger'?" Elijah repeated the moniker slowly, "Is that how they're referring to me on Craigslist these days?" He mused with a grin. She glared at him and crossed her arms impatiently, her smile replaced with a stubborn and resolute expression. "Very well, then. There is hardly an astonishing secret to it, Miss Gilbert. I find you intriguing—I have met many children over the course of my thousand-year existence, and yet none quite like yourself, not to imply I view you as a child. I've certainly never met anyone—child or not—that has ever displayed such intrepid nerve as to stab oneself in an attempt to fool an Original vampire, nor any that have bothered to feel remorse for unavoidable collateral damage against a maniac hybrid threatening her family. I do believe that I once left you a letter which remarked that your compassion was a gift, Elena." He tilted his head in playful inquisition. "Did you not receive it?"
Elena swallowed convulsively. If there was one thing she couldn't allow herself to mull over right now it was the unsettling implications of 'Always and Forever' that had haunted her thoughts in and out of restless sleep for months. "He was your brother, Elijah; what he was doing to me or my family should change nothing about how you view it," her voice was small in repent, but strong with conviction all the same.
"I am loyal to my family, Elena, but I am not illogical. From what I understand of what you're saying, you see it the same. My brother killed you to gain access to an unlimited hybrid army and slaughtered your Aunt without a second thought; my sister actually killed you out of undeserved vengeance; my mother mercilessly used and killed your guardian with no regard for his family or loved ones, and yet you seem to be goading me into acquiescing to your failings against my family. Why?"
Elena looked away sharply, gripping the manila folder tightly to her chest and tapping the heel of her foot nervously. "When I found out what I had really given Esther the means to do to your family, I was terrified of your reaction—of your disappointment—and I lied. I hate lying, and I'm god damn awful at it to boot. And then when it became apparent that the only way to kill Klaus was to kill all of you, I didn't know what else to do, and another one of your brothers died. Because of me…" she broke off, a choke of emotion in her voice. "And I didn't care. I really wish I could say that I did, but I didn't—not then. I didn't really even think about it, not the way I should have. I only cared that you were going to die; it didn't matter that Finn and Kol and Rebekah had to die, too. No—just you. That was wrong," she stated with finality, "…and god, I didn't even know it was wrong. That doesn't sound like compassion to me, Elijah, not in the least bit—not my definition of it."
Elijah nodded in understanding. "So, you want me to acknowledge that it was wrong, and you want me to demand an apology." It wasn't a question, and Elena didn't move at all, didn't look him in the eye, still fidgeting with her uncomfortably stiff posture; she didn't need to say or do a thing for him to understand. "Elena, that was wrong of you to ignore that. It was wrong to allow all my siblings to die to kill Klaus. You should apologize to me," he stated unemotionally, staring at her gravely.
She looked him in the eye now, straightening her back to meet him at eye level. "I am sorry, Elijah. I never wanted it to come to that, it never should've, and I never should've let it."
He smiled sadly and let her words sink in around them for a moment. "Did that help?"
She thought on it briefly before smiling back. "Yeah, actually. It does," she stated empathically, surprised by this realization.
"I hope you realize that it wasn't necessary."
Elena shook her head in disagreement. "It's necessary if I meant it, and I did." She turned away from him, deep in thought. She knew from the moment Elijah sat down across from her that she was going to make the decision to turn—perhaps a part of her had known it since she'd waken up to Stefan's assurance that Jeremy was alive and safe and waiting for her. It dawned on her just then that Elijah had been speaking, because he seemed startled when she declared suddenly, "I'm going to turn—accept the transition. For him," she added the last part in a small whisper that Elijah doubted human ears could've detected.
Elijah did not ask who 'he' was; he had a fairly good idea without her needing to vocalize it. "I know," he responded softly.
Elena stared at him incredulously. "How could you know? … I don't think even I knew until a minute ago…"
Elijah gave a slight shrug and a pensive smile. "I didn't, truly—it merely seemed the appropriate consolation to give."
The fluorescent hospital light that illuminated the waiting room was giving Elena a headache now, and she could feel the bloodlust simmering in her chest, and the pulsing ache behind her gums. "Thank you for being here, although I find it amazing that you came simply upon my call... I definitely expected you to ignore it," she spoke hesitantly; "But I had to ask Stefan to try even if it turned out pointless; if you hadn't noticed, I have a tendency towards stubbornness… occasionally," she joked with a wry smile.
His facial expression seemed to darken at once, and for a moment she thought that she'd overstepped a boundary and furrowed her brows in confusion. "Elijah…?" She asked cautiously.
"You asked me here?" His voice displayed so much confusion and genuine doubt, and it left her bemused and bewildered at the seemingly obvious question.
"Why… why else would you be here?" She asked, now alarmed at whatever he seemed so befuddled by.
He laughed now, his expression softening and his tone lightening, his laugh a low chuckle of sudden understanding. "I must tell you that I did not receive your summons from the youngest Salvatore…" he trailed off with an amused quirk of his lips at the mere concept. "Of course, I would've rushed to your aid either way," he teased with an eyebrow raise, "…but no, I had a business affair interrupted by a rather loud and determined banging on my door only to receive an enthusiastic Miss Forbes and a slightly more… distressed Miss Bennett," he mused with a laugh.
"Bonnie and Caroline?" Elena repeated in disbelief. It seemed so unlikely; the only way they could've tracked Elijah was by Bonnie's magic, and knowing her best friends the way she did, it was laughable to consider that Bonnie would've given in to Caroline's impulses, especially given the way the witch felt about the entire Original Family.
"Oh yes," he assured her in amusement. "Caroline was particularly adamant on my involvement in your impending… decision. I believe her exact words were, 'You'd better haul your sexy-dressed ass to the hospital ASAP unless you prefer to find Elena missing limbs for how hard Stefan and Damon will be pulling her in every which direction'."
Elena buried her face in her hands for a moment before regaining her composure to look back at Elijah, who was still smirking. "I must admit, that girl has an impressive vigor, I wouldn't dare deny her that. And I cannot help but agree with her statement, while admittedly I would've asserted it less… colorfully," he continued. With a more serious tone he added, "For all the positive attributes the Salvatore men possess—and I don't deny that there are some indeed—remaining objective in the face of possibly losing one they love is certainly not one of them."
"Is that why you're here, then? To provide me an objective opinion?" Elena asked suddenly.
He raised an eyebrow and Elena blushed a little under his scrutiny; "Is that not why you summoned me here, Miss Gilbert?" He asked, emphasizing the irritating word once again with a wide grin, as Elena cursed herself for the third time for implying something with such uncomfortable implications.
"Well… I guess so. As you said, I love them both, but I can't exactly count on Stefan or Damon to give me an objective opinion on whether to turn or not with how much they each have invested in me. It's not as if I blame them for it, I doubt that I could be objective if the situation were reversed. But in this case, yes… I need someone to be objective."
"You needed someone trustworthy who had little or no impeding emotions towards you that would prevent them from being so, and you assumed myself to fit those qualifications… quite resourceful, indeed," he considered thoughtfully, but his tone held a bitter quality to it and Elena almost interrupted him in fear that she'd offended him before he cut her off, "May I ask how you decided that I would fit that criteria?"
"I-" she broke off, stunned. Was he seriously implying what it seemed like? How was she supposed to react to that?
"Elena," he spoke reassuringly now, surely aware that she seemed distressed over his reaction, "I do not fault you for needing an objective opinion; it is not at all a foolish thought. I merely wonder what gave you the impression that I would be of use to you in this way. I'm curious as to which part of my assertion of 'Always and Forever' seemed passively objective to you?"
He did not allow her the time to process this and instead continued with a sad smile, "Elena, I will always attempt to give you the most helpful and constructive advice possible, but if you thought me to be decidedly less objective in the matter of your possible death than either of the Salvatores, I do believe you are mistaken."
"You care about me…" Elena whispered in confusion. She had no idea if it was a statement or a question, but it seemed so impossible either way.
Elijah smiled and reached his hand underneath his chair to feel for something, but Elena was too busy studying his expression to notice or wonder about it. "I suppose I do," he admitted briskly.
Gaining slightly more confidence from this blatant admission, she inquired further. "I happen to remember you once telling me that caring for the doppelganger was not a mistake you would ever make again. I was given the impression that you were a man of your word—"
"Man of my word indeed," he laughed sardonically. "Although I do believe the validity of my word is up for debate, I am undoubtedly a man of many mistakes, Elena, many of which I have repeated centuries and lifetimes over and will continue to do so for centuries and lifetimes to come." He paused for a moment before adding, "May I inquire as to whether you consider us friends, Elena?"
The abrupt change in question startled her, but she answered "Yes" immediately, because even if she hadn't been fully aware of that to begin with, it was the truth.
"Then," he continued, not missing a beat, "As my friend, I will ask of you a piece of objective advice in return—do you think that caring for the latest doppelganger will come to prove a mistake?"
"No—I think you can be fairly confident in the fact that she has more than learned her lesson when it comes to deceiving you…"
"And you believe it wise to take her word on this matter?"
She smiled wistfully, "A very wise and equally intimidating man once told me that your word means nothing until you live up to it… so what advice can I really give besides to stick around and find out?"
He reached once again under his chair, and he could see the expression on her face change dramatically. "Elijah… I think there's someone down here. I can…" she cut off, looking around in a panic now, "I can smell it, someone else is down here."
"Elena, I need you to breathe slowly and listen to my voice. No one else is down here; it's just you and I. There is absolutely no one that I will risk you hurting, do you understand?" And with that, he pulled the previously concealed blood bag out from under the chair and placed it in his lap. The compulsion binding her to her seat was still in effect, but he could tell she was struggling to break out of it and not at all coherent to his voice. "Elena, look at me. Talk to me; say something."
Her voice was low and quiet, her eyes still fixated on the blood. "Why couldn't I smell it before?"
"I had it spelled so that it would remain odorless until I touched it; it's a very simple spell, not very difficult to achieve if you know the right sources to secure it." She did not seem the least bit concerned with this, her vision never straying from the blood.
He stood up cautiously and positioned himself carefully in front of the doorway before he spoke; "Elena, you may move now." This effectively broke the compulsion and she lunged for him, with a force of strength he wasn't expecting and it caused him to stumble slightly. Despite his best efforts to calm her agitation down, it seemed to have no effect as she tore the bag right from his hands, staring at it in awe. Although she may have been momentarily dumbstruck by how overpowering the hunger was, it did nothing to subdue her actions as she ripped greedily into the bag at once. Elijah did not let go of his vice grip on her forearm as she sucked down the bag with unrivaled enthusiasm.
He waited as her breathing lessened, her heartbeat slowing and all at once she detangled herself from him and backed away, holding her head down and hiding her face from him. He took a moment to compose himself before he tentatively approached her, but she seemed to have an entirely different idea.
As soon as he made a half-step towards her, she lunged at him once more, this time not for blood, but in a—surprisingly successful—attempt to pin him against the wall. Her newly aching fangs were bared to him, still coated with sticky blood, eyes narrowed and tinged red. It would be reasonable to equate her ability to overpower him simply as a testament to his surprise at the aggression, but he knew it was more than that. He knew because he'd seen that manic, frenzied pulse in those very same eyes before, and he knew that this was not mere coincidence. She was too strong for a newborn, too aggressive for her normal behavior. He had a vague idea of what this could mean, but none of it was remotely reassuring. In a sudden realization of panic, he realized if he didn't act somehow, this could get dangerous fast. He hadn't accounted for this kind of strength; he'd have to distract her. It could end up being the only promise he could ever keep for her, but he'd never let her hurt someone-not if it was within his power to stop it.
He pushed her off him with such force that she crashed into and shattered the glass of the reception desk, but it deterred her only momentarily. He stopped her dead in her tracks as she went to attack him again, biting into his own wrist and shoving it out for her. She cocked her head in suspicion briefly before taking it and puncturing her fangs into a deep bite. He hissed in reaction, his instinctual response to struggle and fight, but he remained firmly in place, letting her suck every ounce of his life essence. The valiant distraction effort proved not only to not calm and rationalize her—as was customary with newborns when they were provided with purely original vampire blood—but instead to further fuel the hostility and belligerence.
He was still managing to fend her off from escaping the room, but he couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down his spine from the look in her eyes. From that manic desperation that had once been so eerily mirrored in her twin predecessor to her abnormal reaction to his blood, he knew he'd have to take a rather drastic measure. The crack that resounded throughout the room as he snapped her neck sliced through the deafening silence as he watched her slump to the floor, unconscious.
He stared at her immobile form spread out on the floor in horror and penitence as he sunk back into his chair, breathing heavily and completely overwhelmed. Once composed, he carefully took her body and placed it delicately on the reception couch a few meters away before he straightened out his shirt collar, wiped the spilled from his hands and chain locked the door behind him. He took a deep breath and reached for the phone on his right; a particularly unconventional Doctor had a hell of a lot of information she needed to clarify.
Notes: So, there we have it. I'm a bit unsure about the way I've ended it, but I'll leave that for you awesome people to deliberate on. If you made it through this monster of a chapter, I thank you very much for your time and hope that some of you will want to provide some feedback. :)
Extra Note: I do not currently have a beta-reader, and man, would that be a wonderful thing. If anyone is interested in this unpaid and more than likely frustrating position, I would love it if you could PM me about it, it would be an absolutely amazing thing to have. What I really need is someone to proof-read my work and take out my several annoying tendencies towards ridiculous wordiness and the habit to repeat words and phrases and adverbs, as well as someone to kick my ass into being more time efficient. The position also comes with an Indiana Jones replica whip to snap when I've dozed off as well as a lifetime supply of Mike's Hard Lemonade to deal with me effectively-hey, it's the only way I deal with myself even semi-effectively, let's be real.
Next Time (or within the next two chapters) on D&R: Elijah confronts Meredith about rather important facts that she neglectfully omitted from her initial briefing. Jeremy & Elena have a heart to (not-so-regularly-beating) heart on the changes or lack thereof to their sibling-ship. An unexpected and equally unwelcome guest crashes Stefan & Elena's Vampire 101 weekend outing, causing all kinds of frustration and mischief and maybe even a little bit of marshmallow bonding. Bonnie and Tyler begin to realize the extent of which their actions may have impacted a domino effect they have very little control over. Caroline meets a charming and bemusing college student who seems to know a lot more than he should about Mystic Falls with being born and raised in Napa Valley. A certain blonde Original has a very perplexing proposition for a decidedly unreceptive doppelganger... and much more to come in following chapters. ;)
Thanks for reading guys,
Jamie