Summary: Elena takes on the Old Ones, risking all to gain a life for herself and Stefan.
Disclaimers: Elena Gilbert, Stefan Salvatore and any other names you recognize from the books, along with the Vampire Diaries I - IV belong to L.J. Smith. Everything else is mine. No harm intended or money made from this fic.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
* Author's Note(s)
Date posted: 6 March 2004
* I finally have the first draft of Chapter 57. It's not done, by any means, but 57 and 58 are a bit of a struggle, because I've been sucked into RL with little left for my private/creative life. So today, with the first sequencing run for Chap 57 in place, I thought I'd celebrate by posting Chap 55! The chapter count went up another notch: final chapter count is 58. I'm absolutely certain this time (unless an epilogue demands to be written, although right now, there are no plans for that.)
Expect the next chapter in a week. And please give me comments, feedback, thoughts! Love 'em! And thanks to those who HAVE dropped me notes! Really appreciate it!
Note: Dates are being placed to mark when much time has elapsed from one scene to the next.
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~ Fifty Five ~
(9 October 1993)
They stood together, a shoving, testing group of furred bodies. Silent signals were passed, messages given with a flick of an ear, a turn of the head, a nudge. The alpha male was slowly backing from the human he had knocked out, teeth bared in a silent snarl. The rest could do no less.
The four invaders were motionless on the ground, heavily injured but alive. Their orders had been to incapacitate, not to kill. The master rose from the couch and stroked the alpha's head in approval. He bent, kneeling in the pool of hot, fresh blood on the floor and rolling the human onto its back.
The pack watched as the master regarded the still face in silence then touched a forefinger to the injured mortal's third eye.
They all watched, yellow eyes steady, as the subversion began.
* * *
He was cold.
All around him, no matter where he looked, there was nothing but featureless grey mist. It was disorienting and alien and it made him wary.
Half-heard sounds reached his ears; the plaintive voice of a sitar, a courtly twang of a Chinese _guzheng_, a discordant note on what might have been some sort of pipes. The sounds seemed muffled by the mist, absorbed by it almost immediately.
He thought he heard someone call his name and spun to face that direction, but there was nothing there except more billowing grey. Another faint noise reached him and he set off, following the sound.
He had gone perhaps a dozen paces when the fog began to recede. Slowly, he began to make her out. The bright hair first, tumbling down her back as she faced away from him, then the pale hands that supported her body where she was - draped, for lack of a better word - over the ground like a mermaid.
His fears faded, his guard dispelled. She lifted her face and called his name.
He answered, causing her to twist around. The deep blue eyes fixed on him and he felt a tingle. The look was almost bloodthirsty. He remembered seeing such intensity in her gaze... in Quebec.
Quebec. Their mission came vividly to mind. Dark, dank streets. The suspense of waiting. The faint terror when their target had appeared. The figure shrouded in darkness had been every bit as frightening as had been imagined, every bit as dangerous as had been described - and more.
He remembered desperate anguish and then excruciating pain and helplessness. They had told him later that his spine had been broken in three places. It had felt like his entire back had been shattered and set on fire.
Through the haze of pain, he had watched as she faced the shadowed one - and unraveled him.
Like a grey silk veil, the image swirled away and he was staring at her again.
She lifted a hand, beckoning, and he went to her willingly. She was cool in his arms. Another flash of memory shot through him.
Holding her chill body in his arms, feeling the sympathetic and troubled eyes of the others. She was limp, bereft of the vitality that was life. He had sat in silence, fighting fear and despair, clinging to hope and faith. She had promised that she would not die. He trusted her word with his life.
And then she had returned, just as she had said she would.
He remembered, too, the look in her eyes later that night when he had woken her from a nightmare. For an instant, there had been a spark between them-
She lifted her head from his shoulder then and met his eyes - and his breath caught. That same look was there. And this time, there was a mysterious smile on her lips as she cupped his face.
"You are mine," she breathed.
Joy, sharp and sweet, jolted through him at those words. A small part of him reeled in shock and whispered that there was something he should be remembering. But that tiny voice was drowned by the moment. "Yes," he whispered back, caught in her spell, a willing captive. "Now and always." He was jubilant; this was everything he had ever dreamed and wanted-
The pain caught him unawares, jerked his chin up and arched his spine. The scream caught in his throat, strangled him. His hands spasmed, sapped of strength. He felt her slip out of his grasp and managed to open his eyes to see her rising to her feet.
He collapsed on the ground, convulsing. He lay on his side, body curled protectively. His eyes clung to her, holding a mute question: why?
Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy...
Every stab of pain sent the question through his mind in a shout, as if the cry turned inward when it could find no physical outlet.
They were both changing.
As he watched, the pale gold hair darkened to sable, the slight waves smoothing out. The pale skin turned to a light bronze and her features shifted disorientingly, sharpening.
The wave of pain crested and broke over him then. Involuntarily, his eyes squeezed shut and he whimpered.
His fingers curled in on themselves and something tried to force its way out from under his nails. His spine arched and writhed as if trying to dislodge itself. His face ached as if it had taken a beating and his legs bent at an awkward angle. As if from far away, he heard cloth rip in a near-silent scream.
After that, there was only pain, a general cloud that muffled all consciousness.
When at last it receded, he felt himself panting as if he had run for miles. He opened his eyes to see a man watching him. Gold glowed against the bronzed skin at his wrists, arms and neck. His hair fell in a straight cascade around his shoulders and the intense green eyes met his without demurring.
The bronzed hand lifted, palm up, in a summoning gesture.
He, the great wolf, got up and shook himself thoroughly enough that his ears made a flapping sound. Then, with great dignity, he stepped over to stand beneath the man's hand.
* * *
(11 October 1993)
They had thrown an engagement party for him and Elena, though Stefan suspected that at least half the reason was to give everyone an excuse to party and relax a little.
It had been almost two months since they had stormed the Baron mansion - two months since the search for the sixth Old One had begun - and the pressure of waiting was building up almost unbearably.
Taura had instigated the party against all protests from the couple, and now the backyard of the Lodge was filled with the smell of grilling food and the happy chatter of Turned, hunters and witches.
Stefan stood quietly in a lull between one group of well-wishers and another and looked about. Elena had been spirited away a few minutes ago amid much giggling and backward glances at him. Stefan was quite sure he didn't want to know what that was all about.
He smiled at Miriam, one of the Turned, as she came up to him, a glass in one hand.
"Great party, Stefan," she said, returning the smile with change. "So have you guys set the date yet?"
"Not quite yet. We're waiting for Elena to complete her task first," he explained. Sometimes, he felt like handing out a list of answers to often-repeated questions, but he nodded politely and moved to the refreshments table.
Scanning the spread, he found nothing that tempted his palate at that time. After giving the witch manning the grill an encouraging word, he decided to duck out of the noise and bustle of the party for a little while.
He slipped away and followed the half-seen trail winding its way through the darkened wood.
As the sound of revelry died, the quiet of the stately boughs - or perhaps the mindless act of following his feet - stilled his thoughts and he felt the release of tension he had not realized was there.
He paused by a familiar glade; this was where he trained every day, learning to fight with a human body again. He never told anyone but there was a refrain in his mind that whispered to him to work harder so that, when Elena needed him, he would be ready. It was a dark, private spot in his soul that he kept hidden, never admitting that he missed having a vampire's strength and speed, if only to be able to protect her when the time came.
Thankfully, that was _all_ he missed. No regrets plagued him, as he had half feared. His lapis ring now lay in that ornate coffer along with the dagger, the coin and Katherine's ring; mementoes of another time, but nothing more.
He found his customary spot against a bole and let his mind wander as he inhaled the chill night air, rubbing the silver band of his own engagement ring absently. He didn't know he was not alone until words came out of the darkness.
"What have you done now, little brother?"
Stefan straightened and spun at the sound of that voice, hardly able to believe his ears. The figure that stood with his hands at his sides almost blended into the night, clad in black from head to toe as he was. But Stefan had been correct in his wild identification of the speaker.
"Damon!"
The older Salvatore regarded his brother with sardonic eyes, looking much the same as the last time Stefan had seen him, over a year ago. The hair, fine, straight and the glossy black of a crow's wing, the arrogant cast of his patrician features. Stefan could only stare, surprised at his sudden appearance.
The black, fathomless eyes narrowed slightly. "So you finally got everything you ever wanted," Damon drawled, looking him up and down consideringly. "The fair Elena, and a human life with her." The dark eyes fixed on the gleam of metal on Stefan's hand.
"Well done." The flat words held Stefan locked motionless for a full second.
"She could do the same for you," he said quietly, perhaps the second time in their five-century life that he had ever talked to Damon thus. "If you wanted, she could make you human too."
One side of the sculpted mouth jerked up. "I don't want to be human," Damon said silkily, the faintest edge beneath the words. "Whatever makes you think I might even consider it?"
Stefan could only nod at that. He thought his easy acceptance of the decision surprised Damon a little as they both fell silent, watching each other. "Where have you been?" Stefan asked finally, exchanging the 'how' for a 'where' at the last moment.
"Here and there. Visiting old friends," he said with the same old dangerous smile that used to bother his younger brother and his human companions so much.
Stefan looked slightly guarded at that last bit. "Like who?" he asked suspiciously.
Damon smirked, then his eyes darted from Stefan's to a point over the younger Salvatore's right shoulder. Stefan followed the direction of his gaze, just in time to see Elena come into sight. ::Have a good life, brother,:: came the voice in his head. He whipped back around-
But Damon was already gone.
"Stefan?" Elena called, crossing the distance between them with quick strides.
Still staring at where Damon had stood, he held out an arm and she slipped under it, her own hand coming up around him. "I thought I heard voices."
He looked down at her upturned face. "Damon was here." She froze in surprise, eyes widening a little. She waited for him to continue. "He knew about my being Turned. And... he wished us well."
A small smile of delight brightened her face briefly at that but she sobered to ask, "Did he want...?"
"He said no," Stefan answered as calmly as he could. Her face reflected the same faint disappointment he felt. "He's made his choice, I suppose," he said, trying to sound philosophical about it.
Elena nodded then rested her cheek against him. His arm tightened around her comfortingly. "I would have liked to see him again," she said in a small voice.
"I know," he murmured in return. His eyes searched the area, wondering if Damon heard her soft admission. They stood there for a few minutes, perhaps both hoping that Damon would reappear. Eventually, Stefan stirred. "We should get back to the party before we are missed."
They returned to the path, walking arm in arm in thoughtful silence. Stefan couldn't help cast a glance over his shoulder one last time but the glade was empty.
* * *
When you live with your boyfriend, it's difficult to avoid him after a fight.
And Leon was not making it any easier.
In the week since that first big blow up when she had tried to fight the loose vampire, their interaction had been a series of volatile encounters and tentative make-ups that never lasted more than a day. It started with a testy exchange of words and progressing into full-blown disagreements and ending with him keeping stony silences, which led to her storming off, sputtering mad.
They argued about _everything_ but most of all about them. Him and her. How they treated each other, how they acted around each other. He wanted her to be more cautious, she wanted him to loosen up. Neither was willing to change or compromise.
Samar had finally decided that she needed time to think. She had not spoken to him for two days now. It was difficult due to their close proximity and more so because she had somehow gotten so used to being with him all the time in the last two months and she surprised herself by missing him. Unfortunately, while she missed him in his absence, his _presence_ grated at her.
He obviously could not read the blatant but silent signals she was sending to leave her alone. Whenever she wasn't careful, he showed up beside her and tried to corner her.
The close quarters of the party made his job all the simpler and hers so much harder. The situation did nothing to improve her temper.
The next time she found him at her elbow, she unsubtly jabbed it back into his stomach. "Leave me alone!" she hissed furiously at him. "I don't want to talk to you."
"Samar," he began but she didn't let him get any further.
Spinning on her heel, she slapped the paper plate she had been holding onto the nearest convenient spot and stalked away. She didn't care if everyone was watching. She just wanted - needed - to get away from Leon. Without thinking, she found herself on the way back to the cabin. Maybe she could barricade herself in her room.
She refused the indignity of running through the woods like frightened prey, but she knew that Leon could not be far behind. A thought occurred to her, another hiding place that would not be so easy to find. It might have been childish, or cowardly, but she acted on it anyway.
Picking a likely tree, she started climbing, grateful now that she had chosen the sweater-short skirt-leggings ensemble that she wore with boots. If she had decided to wear the dress and pumps instead, she would have been ludicrous trying to climb a tree.
She tried not to think too hard about Leon in hot pursuit; rushing would only cause her to be noisy and make mistakes and she was having trouble climbing in the near-dark as it was.
After the first five minutes, when no hands reached out and tried to pull her out of the tree and force her to 'talk things out', she relaxed and started enjoying the climb. She had not done so since she had been Turned and was pleased to note that being human did not handicap her much, except for night vision.
Higher and higher she climbed, until the leaves began to thin and the branches began to bend under her hand. She found a spot beneath a break in the foliage and sat there, catching her breath.
The climb had given her something to work her negative energy on and left her a bit calmer. Hugging her knees to her chest, staring out at the waving sea of leaves touched by moonlight, she let her mind turn the situation over in her head.
She _knew_ Leon didn't deserve abuse. He was just being himself: chivalrous, gallant.
_Stuffy._
Two months now. They had been together - if you could call it that - for two months.
And he _still_ hadn't kissed her yet.
Held her, yes. And she never felt safer than when she was in his arms. There, all her fears and doubts seemed insignificant. He would take care of her; he told her so in a hundred different, silent ways.
But no kiss the seal the bargain.
It was irrational to get so worked up over that, but she _wanted_ to be kissed. And she rather thought he wanted to kiss her. But he just wouldn't. It was frustrating her and she didn't like having that want thwarted. Oh, she didn't even know how to explain it herself. Trying to just made her more irritable. Justifying it curdled her mood.
And then there were his confining demands.
He wanted her to keep out of danger. Why was she training to fight if she didn't mean to get into the thick of things? When she had asked just that question, he had flabbergasted her by asking in return why she needed to train at all. His argument had been that she would be living a less dangerous life as a human and would not need to fight.
Furious, she had blurted that she would need to be able to defend herself. He then agreed but pointed out that rushing into a fight was hardly considered self-defense.
Replaying that particular disagreement in her head, she groaned in pent-up frustration and buried her face in her knees.
::What have we here?::
Her head snapped back and she saw Makoe perched on a branch not far away and higher up. How had he gotten there? She could have sworn she was alone a moment ago.
::Lonely in love? We can't have that.::
He was close. Close enough for her to see the uncharacteristic spark of intensity in his dark eyes. Seeing him here like this brought back memories of a blood-drunken night. Makoe. Dappled moonlight. A searing, foolish kiss.
Betrayal.
He rose into a crouch, his movements oddly lazy, almost languid, and leapt to land on the bough below hers. ::Perhaps I can remedy that,:: he suggested smoothly.
"Get away from me," she snarled warningly.
He flashed her a dazzling smile and she blinked. ::Makoe doesn't smile. No wait, he does,:: she amended bitterly. ::Just not for me.::
The depth of her bitterness shocked and angered her, that he could still inspire such emotion from her. The thought turned her cold, especially thinking of Leon.
::Why?::
Dazed and distracted, she stared at him for a moment before understanding the question. He looked amused.
"You heartless bastard, you dare to ask me that? I'm not your toy!" she yelled at him, getting her feet under her.
He was too fast. She didn't see him move, but suddenly, he was _there_, one hand keeping balance on the tree trunk while the other closed around her wrist, gentle but unbreakable when she tried to pull free.
"No, of course not," he purred. "Whoever said you were?" She looked into his eyes and was caught.
Black, black eyes that seemed bottomless, filled her vision, enveloped her entire consciousness.
She felt the mind control vampires could impose on humans, felt it subduing her. Disbelieving rage flared. How dared he!
He was bending closer, as if to kiss her, but she knew better; in a flash of insight, she knew he was really after her blood. ::No,:: she thought desperately. ::No!::
She felt his breath on her neck but try and she might, she couldn't move. ::I'm going to kill him!::
If he doesn't kill you first, a little voice whispered to her.
His lips touched her, gentle, seductive. He licked delicately at the skin of her throat, then fastened his mouth tight over her flesh. His fangs grazed her and she felt another spurt of helpless fury.
Abruptly, he moved and she was released. Warm and gentle hands steadied her. She put her hand out against the tree trunk to steady herself. Disoriented, she looked up; Leon. They were standing together sideways on a single branch, the front of their bodies lightly touching.
His hands rested on her shoulders and turned her gently aside, his right foot and shoulder edging past her along the bough as if to shield her. He wasn't looking at her; she saw his face in profile as he stared grimly at her would-be assailant.
Makoe had moved to a branch on the opposite tree and stood there, half shadowed and completely unruffled, watching them calmly.
If there was a mental conversation going on, she didn't know about it. Her shoulders shook as shock caught up with her. The enormity of what had _almost_ happened hit her and she swayed, and clutched Leon's arm frantically
Makoe had-he had tried to-
She was furious... but she was afraid. She had never felt vulnerable like that before but now...
"You!" There was, understandable, unaccustomed ice and fury in Leon's tone.
Samar waited for some response from Makoe but there was only silence that somehow seemed amused. Resisting the urge to cling to Leon and hide, she opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the dark vampire facing them.
She stared and as she did so, drew her anger past the fear, drew strength from it. Aware of Leon, stiff and defensive beside her, she stared at Makoe, with his mocking black eyes and his taunting smirk.
His condescension was all for Leon, she realized suddenly. He knew, as did Leon, that if he chose to force things, Leon would not be able to stop him.
She had thought she was angry before but that realization incensed her.
She straightened, releasing her hold of Leon's arm. The eyes now rested on her with a strange light in them.
"So she's yours?"
Samar barely heard him, focused on flinging her defiance in his teeth. She put all her energy behind a single thought and flung it at him, hoping he could hear it. ::You can't hurt my anymore; not after this.::
"No." Leon didn't quite stutter at the lazy question. "I just happen to love her," he mumbled, then his lips thinned as the dark eyes sparked malicious laughter. "She's no more mine than Elena is yours."
What?
The malice darkened, turned dangerous, but the words were smooth, coated with silky threat.
"Well, then, you wouldn't mind me nibbling."
"I would!" Samar snapped.
"I know you would. Samar." He drew her name out as if tasting it. His lips parted, showing fangs. "That's what makes it so fun."
Samar _felt_ Leon's mental reaction - a wave of palpable fury - but the dark eyes never wavered from hers.
"That's enough, Damon."
_Damon?_ Samar blinked, brought up short. _What was Leon talking about? This was Makoe._ She took a closer look. _Damon? This was Stefan's brother?_
::I would object, too.::
There was barely any hint of movement before a new, shadowy figure pushed aside a leafy clump and stepped into the tableau: Makoe.
He swept the odd ensemble with a cold stare and finally settled on the vampire who looked like his twin.
Samar's eyes darted from one dark vampire to another. The likeness was uncanny. But as she looked closely, she saw differences. Small dissimilarities in features, greater in their manner.
Damon was more delicately built with finer features. Even in the dark - or perhaps _especially_ in the dark - he exuded arrogance, dangerous charm and... well, sex appeal. Makoe's built was just slightly broader and his face stronger. His intensity was all coldly emotionless and carried himself with an air of unshakeable confidence.
Makoe caught her studying him and flicked a brow up. She only shook her head, averting her eyes and he turned back to Damon.
"So you're the Crow."
"I see someone's been spreading tales," Damon said urbanely, not looking at Leon. "You seem to have the advantage on me."
"In more ways than one," Makoe said flatly.
There was an extended, heavy silence. Then, Damon's lips curved, just a little. "I get the picture." Did he look grudgingly impressed? What was going on?
Samar glanced at Leon; he was watching the pair, eyes darting back and forth. Clearly the two dark-haired vampires were up to something. Samar felt frustration at her 'blindness' to whatever exchange was happening.
"Still," Damon went on, "I don't see what this has to do with you."
"You threaten one of mine, Salvatore."
Now Damon quirked an eyebrow in a gesture so like Makoe, it gave Samar déjà vu. "Her? How is she one of yours? She's human-oh." He studied her. "Another vampire Elena changed back, is she? Still, that makes her fair game."
"No, it doesn't," Leon put in fiercely.
Damon smiled appraisingly, looking down the aristocratic nose at his former follower. "So she _is_ yours!"
The phlegmatic vampire hesitated and glanced at Samar. She rolled her eyes and scowled at him. Really, the man was maddening at times. This entire episode was too bizarre for words and she was beginning to get annoyed again. "Yes," she mouthed, causing him to draw a sharp breath. Samar was torn between fondness and exasperation. The light in his eyes went far to defusing her temper.
He lifted his chin to his old mentor and the hand on her shoulder squeezed once, protectiveness and possession equal in the gesture.
"Ah." Damon spared her a quick glance. "Too bad." He smirked, then turned as if he stood on solid ground and not on a slender branch. "It would appear that there is no one here for me, then. I shall be on my way. Leon, don't forget to watch your back."
Samar stiffened at the ominous phrasing but Leon squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I will."
"See that you do."
There was a rustle of feathers and a sudden beat of wings and then a black crow broke through the trees and disappeared from view.
Samar blinked; Damon was gone. She turned to Leon slowly to find him gazing up. "The crow?" she asked, disbelieving.
"Yes."
Leaves brushed against each other and when Samar looked, Makoe was gone, too, leaving her alone with Leon.
She suddenly felt awkward, standing so close to him after all their fighting. The hand on her shoulder slid down her arm as she started inching away and she ignored the fact that he was watching her with a grave expression on his face.
Standing in her own little bubble of personal space, pressed against the rough bark of the trunk, she said shakily, "I'm tired. Let's go back to the cabin."
They climbed back down and walked in stiff silence. Samar nearly forgot Leon's presence a time or two, distracted by deep and serious thoughts.
* Oh, by the way, there's a reason for Makoe being of tougher built than Damon. Damon was an aristocrat's son in the 15th century. He never had to worry about survival, just the strenuous tasks of wenching, drinking and probably brawling in some sophisticated form or other. Makoe, on the other hand, was a prince of the Gauls. They were warriors and ferocious ones at that. Makoe would have been trained for battle from a young age.
* * *
Jerrick retired for the night, leaving the celebration in full swing behind him. Much as he liked the way everyone was relaxed, he couldn't help the gnawing frustration at the back of his mind, or the weariness in his body and spirit.
He brooded each step of the way to his room but was roused from inner ruminations as soon as he had stepped through the threshold. The door shut firmly behind him, seemingly of its own will.
The pale blue eyes swept the room.
Nothing seemed amiss, no item out of place. But the presence was unmistakable.
He did not turn, merely leaned on his cane and said to thin air. "You have not lost your touch."
At the same moment he stabbed out with his mind, reaching for Elena. As he half-expected, there was a barrier there; he was turned back, locked down and powerless. It stung to have his quarry so close yet unable to resolve this burdensome task that he had accepted.
::I can't say the same for you.:: The thought whispered, paper dry.
There was a swirl of air in front of him, a miniature whirlwind that was visible only because it made the dust motes dance. It uncoiled and soared away, encircling him.
"Why did you come here?"
::I was curious.::
And when one is invulnerable to harm, curiosity was something that could be indulged.
The witchling wind spun around the room, then dispersed. There was a low growl, almost inaudible to human ears. A large grey wolf lurked at the edge of his vision, white teeth and darker claws flashing. It paced back and forth in front of him, yellow eyes fixed and malevolent.
The red-haired man watched the creature prowl restlessly, its claws clicking on the wooden floor. He kept his bland expression, privately grateful for the cane since he could not sit.
::Why do you do this to us?:: came the question at last.
"You can look at me and still ask?"
::Even we only see so much. How did all this come to past?::
Jerrick recited his story in clipped sentences. How he met the witch, how she cursed him and how her death all but destroyed him.
::I do not see how this has any bearing on the situation.::
There was an undertone of perplexity in that thought that made the red-haired man almost smile; a bitter twist of the lips. Immortals had their own blind spots; they could not comprehend suffering that would not transcend time, could not conceive of someone wanting to end his life.
They did not comprehend how existence could be a burden.
"I wish to shuffle this mortal coil," he tried to explain bluntly. "And it is something I will not be able to do until every last one of you is undone."
::But why would you trade existence for oblivion?::
Oblivion. The word was seductive all by itself. Jerrick nearly closed his eyes and wrapped himself in it, but it was too dangerous. He had to keep his attention focused. And he had to shake the other's balance and try to reach Elena.
"It is something you would have to experience yourself to understand." He struck, lashing out and seizing the mind that was so much more Powerful than his, pouring into it all the suffering he held at bay daily.
The sixth bucked in response to the merciless empathic sharing.
Jerrick felt like he was wrestling an elephant, with the other's mind shrouded in his, but anger lent him strength and surprise was his advantage; he held on for precious seconds before the sixth tore loose.
His thought stabbed out, reaching for Elena, at the same instant the wolf pounced. The barrier was still in place and he could not break free.
Jerrick lifted his cane to ward off the creature, but it morphed in mid-air, twisting and lengthening, coruscating into a length of shining gold silk. It wrapped around him, possessing a life of its own.
The cool material wound around his body like a snake, constricting.
::You are weak,:: the dry voice snarled furiously into his mind. ::So much so, it is pitiable. You could not even keep Emmet Mogen from contacting me. You, who were once master of all that is mind. How far you have fallen.::
"And yet, you will lose," he replied, a bit short of breath from the constriction.
As if tugged free by an invisible hand, the silk pulled a bit upwards and over one shoulder. Friction made it cling to his body stubbornly before sliding away, slowly uncoiling. The part of his neck that the silk rubbed against began to burn.
He stiffened when smooth material melted into the touch of soft cool skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pale, shapely limbs.
The figure walked around to stand in front of him, nude, fingers still trailing around his neck. The fingernails scraped lightly on his skin.
With the arm curled around his shoulders, standing a hair's breadth apart, Jerrick knew that the other could not possibly have missed his sharp intake of breath.
Familiar sea-green eyes lifted to his, laughter in their depths. The person gave a small, impatient toss of the head to shake back that feathery cap of wheat blonde hair, a gesture familiar enough to send a pang through him. He stared at the face lifted to his, tanned from all her time out of doors.
Channa.
How had he known? Jerrick had never described the witch. His shocked reaction must have amused the other greatly.
"Don't you know how much a part of you she is?" The voice soft contralto was as achingly familiar as the rest of the lithe form before him. The hand around his neck slid to cover his heart. "After all, a measure of her soul is bound to you."
Jerrick didn't know what the other did, but he felt a twinge on the soulbond and flinched.
The pseudo-Channa laughed. "Jerrick Edom. That is the name you took when you met her, isn't it? 'Blood Lord.' How delightfully ironic. A gesture almost worthy of me." The hand on his chest flattened and shoved. He stumbled, lost his physical balance as well as his mental center, and hit the floor gracelessly.
Scrambling to recover his shattered composure, Jerrick stared up at him - her and tried to call up hatred as a defense. But that emotion had long ceased to be effective against the witch.
"Oh, you are a fool!" she - he - said, laughing mockingly. "Your shields are so weak, I hear your every thought." Another light laugh, edged now with harder undertones. "And you think to defeat me?"
"It is not I who will defeat you."
"Oh, I know all about your little human pet. Perhaps she will triumph. Then again, perhaps not. Either way, I intend to make it as interesting as possible before the end. Whatever end that might be," the shapeshifted Old One qualified.
It was obscene to see that bright smile twisted into an expression of savage challenge. She - he - went down on her knees and prowled forward until she was almost on top of him. The pose was almost lover-like and raised memories sharply in his mind. Just another form of mental cruelty that the sixth wielded with such skill.
Channa leaned down until they were so closed that they almost kissed. Their breaths mingled and she looked at him through half-lidded sea-green eyes. "I know you have taken the others. But they were caught unawares. I am not," she whispered, her tone caressing. "Shall we make a game of it?"
He lay perfectly still, like a deer caught in the headlights.
The head bent and he felt the feathery locks tickle his throat. He was not prepared for the sting of fangs sliding into his neck and went rigid with shock.
The Old One held him paralyzed by the force of his mind alone. After a minute, he raised his head. There was blood smearing his lips.
Eyes of luminous jade locked with his and long black hair shrouded a gold-skinned body. "Bring your nemesis, 'Jerrick'. Bring that great bane of your making and we shall see who wins the day."
He seemed to dissolve, like a sand sculpture scattered by a breeze. A mocking little eddy of that witchling wind tugged at Jerrick's clothes and then the lame man was alone in his room.
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* Thanks for reading!
Disclaimers: Elena Gilbert, Stefan Salvatore and any other names you recognize from the books, along with the Vampire Diaries I - IV belong to L.J. Smith. Everything else is mine. No harm intended or money made from this fic.
Notes:
~ Chapter ~
::Thoughts or telepathy::
_emphasis or italics_
* Author's Note(s)
Date posted: 6 March 2004
* I finally have the first draft of Chapter 57. It's not done, by any means, but 57 and 58 are a bit of a struggle, because I've been sucked into RL with little left for my private/creative life. So today, with the first sequencing run for Chap 57 in place, I thought I'd celebrate by posting Chap 55! The chapter count went up another notch: final chapter count is 58. I'm absolutely certain this time (unless an epilogue demands to be written, although right now, there are no plans for that.)
Expect the next chapter in a week. And please give me comments, feedback, thoughts! Love 'em! And thanks to those who HAVE dropped me notes! Really appreciate it!
Note: Dates are being placed to mark when much time has elapsed from one scene to the next.
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~ Fifty Five ~
(9 October 1993)
They stood together, a shoving, testing group of furred bodies. Silent signals were passed, messages given with a flick of an ear, a turn of the head, a nudge. The alpha male was slowly backing from the human he had knocked out, teeth bared in a silent snarl. The rest could do no less.
The four invaders were motionless on the ground, heavily injured but alive. Their orders had been to incapacitate, not to kill. The master rose from the couch and stroked the alpha's head in approval. He bent, kneeling in the pool of hot, fresh blood on the floor and rolling the human onto its back.
The pack watched as the master regarded the still face in silence then touched a forefinger to the injured mortal's third eye.
They all watched, yellow eyes steady, as the subversion began.
* * *
He was cold.
All around him, no matter where he looked, there was nothing but featureless grey mist. It was disorienting and alien and it made him wary.
Half-heard sounds reached his ears; the plaintive voice of a sitar, a courtly twang of a Chinese _guzheng_, a discordant note on what might have been some sort of pipes. The sounds seemed muffled by the mist, absorbed by it almost immediately.
He thought he heard someone call his name and spun to face that direction, but there was nothing there except more billowing grey. Another faint noise reached him and he set off, following the sound.
He had gone perhaps a dozen paces when the fog began to recede. Slowly, he began to make her out. The bright hair first, tumbling down her back as she faced away from him, then the pale hands that supported her body where she was - draped, for lack of a better word - over the ground like a mermaid.
His fears faded, his guard dispelled. She lifted her face and called his name.
He answered, causing her to twist around. The deep blue eyes fixed on him and he felt a tingle. The look was almost bloodthirsty. He remembered seeing such intensity in her gaze... in Quebec.
Quebec. Their mission came vividly to mind. Dark, dank streets. The suspense of waiting. The faint terror when their target had appeared. The figure shrouded in darkness had been every bit as frightening as had been imagined, every bit as dangerous as had been described - and more.
He remembered desperate anguish and then excruciating pain and helplessness. They had told him later that his spine had been broken in three places. It had felt like his entire back had been shattered and set on fire.
Through the haze of pain, he had watched as she faced the shadowed one - and unraveled him.
Like a grey silk veil, the image swirled away and he was staring at her again.
She lifted a hand, beckoning, and he went to her willingly. She was cool in his arms. Another flash of memory shot through him.
Holding her chill body in his arms, feeling the sympathetic and troubled eyes of the others. She was limp, bereft of the vitality that was life. He had sat in silence, fighting fear and despair, clinging to hope and faith. She had promised that she would not die. He trusted her word with his life.
And then she had returned, just as she had said she would.
He remembered, too, the look in her eyes later that night when he had woken her from a nightmare. For an instant, there had been a spark between them-
She lifted her head from his shoulder then and met his eyes - and his breath caught. That same look was there. And this time, there was a mysterious smile on her lips as she cupped his face.
"You are mine," she breathed.
Joy, sharp and sweet, jolted through him at those words. A small part of him reeled in shock and whispered that there was something he should be remembering. But that tiny voice was drowned by the moment. "Yes," he whispered back, caught in her spell, a willing captive. "Now and always." He was jubilant; this was everything he had ever dreamed and wanted-
The pain caught him unawares, jerked his chin up and arched his spine. The scream caught in his throat, strangled him. His hands spasmed, sapped of strength. He felt her slip out of his grasp and managed to open his eyes to see her rising to her feet.
He collapsed on the ground, convulsing. He lay on his side, body curled protectively. His eyes clung to her, holding a mute question: why?
Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy...
Every stab of pain sent the question through his mind in a shout, as if the cry turned inward when it could find no physical outlet.
They were both changing.
As he watched, the pale gold hair darkened to sable, the slight waves smoothing out. The pale skin turned to a light bronze and her features shifted disorientingly, sharpening.
The wave of pain crested and broke over him then. Involuntarily, his eyes squeezed shut and he whimpered.
His fingers curled in on themselves and something tried to force its way out from under his nails. His spine arched and writhed as if trying to dislodge itself. His face ached as if it had taken a beating and his legs bent at an awkward angle. As if from far away, he heard cloth rip in a near-silent scream.
After that, there was only pain, a general cloud that muffled all consciousness.
When at last it receded, he felt himself panting as if he had run for miles. He opened his eyes to see a man watching him. Gold glowed against the bronzed skin at his wrists, arms and neck. His hair fell in a straight cascade around his shoulders and the intense green eyes met his without demurring.
The bronzed hand lifted, palm up, in a summoning gesture.
He, the great wolf, got up and shook himself thoroughly enough that his ears made a flapping sound. Then, with great dignity, he stepped over to stand beneath the man's hand.
* * *
(11 October 1993)
They had thrown an engagement party for him and Elena, though Stefan suspected that at least half the reason was to give everyone an excuse to party and relax a little.
It had been almost two months since they had stormed the Baron mansion - two months since the search for the sixth Old One had begun - and the pressure of waiting was building up almost unbearably.
Taura had instigated the party against all protests from the couple, and now the backyard of the Lodge was filled with the smell of grilling food and the happy chatter of Turned, hunters and witches.
Stefan stood quietly in a lull between one group of well-wishers and another and looked about. Elena had been spirited away a few minutes ago amid much giggling and backward glances at him. Stefan was quite sure he didn't want to know what that was all about.
He smiled at Miriam, one of the Turned, as she came up to him, a glass in one hand.
"Great party, Stefan," she said, returning the smile with change. "So have you guys set the date yet?"
"Not quite yet. We're waiting for Elena to complete her task first," he explained. Sometimes, he felt like handing out a list of answers to often-repeated questions, but he nodded politely and moved to the refreshments table.
Scanning the spread, he found nothing that tempted his palate at that time. After giving the witch manning the grill an encouraging word, he decided to duck out of the noise and bustle of the party for a little while.
He slipped away and followed the half-seen trail winding its way through the darkened wood.
As the sound of revelry died, the quiet of the stately boughs - or perhaps the mindless act of following his feet - stilled his thoughts and he felt the release of tension he had not realized was there.
He paused by a familiar glade; this was where he trained every day, learning to fight with a human body again. He never told anyone but there was a refrain in his mind that whispered to him to work harder so that, when Elena needed him, he would be ready. It was a dark, private spot in his soul that he kept hidden, never admitting that he missed having a vampire's strength and speed, if only to be able to protect her when the time came.
Thankfully, that was _all_ he missed. No regrets plagued him, as he had half feared. His lapis ring now lay in that ornate coffer along with the dagger, the coin and Katherine's ring; mementoes of another time, but nothing more.
He found his customary spot against a bole and let his mind wander as he inhaled the chill night air, rubbing the silver band of his own engagement ring absently. He didn't know he was not alone until words came out of the darkness.
"What have you done now, little brother?"
Stefan straightened and spun at the sound of that voice, hardly able to believe his ears. The figure that stood with his hands at his sides almost blended into the night, clad in black from head to toe as he was. But Stefan had been correct in his wild identification of the speaker.
"Damon!"
The older Salvatore regarded his brother with sardonic eyes, looking much the same as the last time Stefan had seen him, over a year ago. The hair, fine, straight and the glossy black of a crow's wing, the arrogant cast of his patrician features. Stefan could only stare, surprised at his sudden appearance.
The black, fathomless eyes narrowed slightly. "So you finally got everything you ever wanted," Damon drawled, looking him up and down consideringly. "The fair Elena, and a human life with her." The dark eyes fixed on the gleam of metal on Stefan's hand.
"Well done." The flat words held Stefan locked motionless for a full second.
"She could do the same for you," he said quietly, perhaps the second time in their five-century life that he had ever talked to Damon thus. "If you wanted, she could make you human too."
One side of the sculpted mouth jerked up. "I don't want to be human," Damon said silkily, the faintest edge beneath the words. "Whatever makes you think I might even consider it?"
Stefan could only nod at that. He thought his easy acceptance of the decision surprised Damon a little as they both fell silent, watching each other. "Where have you been?" Stefan asked finally, exchanging the 'how' for a 'where' at the last moment.
"Here and there. Visiting old friends," he said with the same old dangerous smile that used to bother his younger brother and his human companions so much.
Stefan looked slightly guarded at that last bit. "Like who?" he asked suspiciously.
Damon smirked, then his eyes darted from Stefan's to a point over the younger Salvatore's right shoulder. Stefan followed the direction of his gaze, just in time to see Elena come into sight. ::Have a good life, brother,:: came the voice in his head. He whipped back around-
But Damon was already gone.
"Stefan?" Elena called, crossing the distance between them with quick strides.
Still staring at where Damon had stood, he held out an arm and she slipped under it, her own hand coming up around him. "I thought I heard voices."
He looked down at her upturned face. "Damon was here." She froze in surprise, eyes widening a little. She waited for him to continue. "He knew about my being Turned. And... he wished us well."
A small smile of delight brightened her face briefly at that but she sobered to ask, "Did he want...?"
"He said no," Stefan answered as calmly as he could. Her face reflected the same faint disappointment he felt. "He's made his choice, I suppose," he said, trying to sound philosophical about it.
Elena nodded then rested her cheek against him. His arm tightened around her comfortingly. "I would have liked to see him again," she said in a small voice.
"I know," he murmured in return. His eyes searched the area, wondering if Damon heard her soft admission. They stood there for a few minutes, perhaps both hoping that Damon would reappear. Eventually, Stefan stirred. "We should get back to the party before we are missed."
They returned to the path, walking arm in arm in thoughtful silence. Stefan couldn't help cast a glance over his shoulder one last time but the glade was empty.
* * *
When you live with your boyfriend, it's difficult to avoid him after a fight.
And Leon was not making it any easier.
In the week since that first big blow up when she had tried to fight the loose vampire, their interaction had been a series of volatile encounters and tentative make-ups that never lasted more than a day. It started with a testy exchange of words and progressing into full-blown disagreements and ending with him keeping stony silences, which led to her storming off, sputtering mad.
They argued about _everything_ but most of all about them. Him and her. How they treated each other, how they acted around each other. He wanted her to be more cautious, she wanted him to loosen up. Neither was willing to change or compromise.
Samar had finally decided that she needed time to think. She had not spoken to him for two days now. It was difficult due to their close proximity and more so because she had somehow gotten so used to being with him all the time in the last two months and she surprised herself by missing him. Unfortunately, while she missed him in his absence, his _presence_ grated at her.
He obviously could not read the blatant but silent signals she was sending to leave her alone. Whenever she wasn't careful, he showed up beside her and tried to corner her.
The close quarters of the party made his job all the simpler and hers so much harder. The situation did nothing to improve her temper.
The next time she found him at her elbow, she unsubtly jabbed it back into his stomach. "Leave me alone!" she hissed furiously at him. "I don't want to talk to you."
"Samar," he began but she didn't let him get any further.
Spinning on her heel, she slapped the paper plate she had been holding onto the nearest convenient spot and stalked away. She didn't care if everyone was watching. She just wanted - needed - to get away from Leon. Without thinking, she found herself on the way back to the cabin. Maybe she could barricade herself in her room.
She refused the indignity of running through the woods like frightened prey, but she knew that Leon could not be far behind. A thought occurred to her, another hiding place that would not be so easy to find. It might have been childish, or cowardly, but she acted on it anyway.
Picking a likely tree, she started climbing, grateful now that she had chosen the sweater-short skirt-leggings ensemble that she wore with boots. If she had decided to wear the dress and pumps instead, she would have been ludicrous trying to climb a tree.
She tried not to think too hard about Leon in hot pursuit; rushing would only cause her to be noisy and make mistakes and she was having trouble climbing in the near-dark as it was.
After the first five minutes, when no hands reached out and tried to pull her out of the tree and force her to 'talk things out', she relaxed and started enjoying the climb. She had not done so since she had been Turned and was pleased to note that being human did not handicap her much, except for night vision.
Higher and higher she climbed, until the leaves began to thin and the branches began to bend under her hand. She found a spot beneath a break in the foliage and sat there, catching her breath.
The climb had given her something to work her negative energy on and left her a bit calmer. Hugging her knees to her chest, staring out at the waving sea of leaves touched by moonlight, she let her mind turn the situation over in her head.
She _knew_ Leon didn't deserve abuse. He was just being himself: chivalrous, gallant.
_Stuffy._
Two months now. They had been together - if you could call it that - for two months.
And he _still_ hadn't kissed her yet.
Held her, yes. And she never felt safer than when she was in his arms. There, all her fears and doubts seemed insignificant. He would take care of her; he told her so in a hundred different, silent ways.
But no kiss the seal the bargain.
It was irrational to get so worked up over that, but she _wanted_ to be kissed. And she rather thought he wanted to kiss her. But he just wouldn't. It was frustrating her and she didn't like having that want thwarted. Oh, she didn't even know how to explain it herself. Trying to just made her more irritable. Justifying it curdled her mood.
And then there were his confining demands.
He wanted her to keep out of danger. Why was she training to fight if she didn't mean to get into the thick of things? When she had asked just that question, he had flabbergasted her by asking in return why she needed to train at all. His argument had been that she would be living a less dangerous life as a human and would not need to fight.
Furious, she had blurted that she would need to be able to defend herself. He then agreed but pointed out that rushing into a fight was hardly considered self-defense.
Replaying that particular disagreement in her head, she groaned in pent-up frustration and buried her face in her knees.
::What have we here?::
Her head snapped back and she saw Makoe perched on a branch not far away and higher up. How had he gotten there? She could have sworn she was alone a moment ago.
::Lonely in love? We can't have that.::
He was close. Close enough for her to see the uncharacteristic spark of intensity in his dark eyes. Seeing him here like this brought back memories of a blood-drunken night. Makoe. Dappled moonlight. A searing, foolish kiss.
Betrayal.
He rose into a crouch, his movements oddly lazy, almost languid, and leapt to land on the bough below hers. ::Perhaps I can remedy that,:: he suggested smoothly.
"Get away from me," she snarled warningly.
He flashed her a dazzling smile and she blinked. ::Makoe doesn't smile. No wait, he does,:: she amended bitterly. ::Just not for me.::
The depth of her bitterness shocked and angered her, that he could still inspire such emotion from her. The thought turned her cold, especially thinking of Leon.
::Why?::
Dazed and distracted, she stared at him for a moment before understanding the question. He looked amused.
"You heartless bastard, you dare to ask me that? I'm not your toy!" she yelled at him, getting her feet under her.
He was too fast. She didn't see him move, but suddenly, he was _there_, one hand keeping balance on the tree trunk while the other closed around her wrist, gentle but unbreakable when she tried to pull free.
"No, of course not," he purred. "Whoever said you were?" She looked into his eyes and was caught.
Black, black eyes that seemed bottomless, filled her vision, enveloped her entire consciousness.
She felt the mind control vampires could impose on humans, felt it subduing her. Disbelieving rage flared. How dared he!
He was bending closer, as if to kiss her, but she knew better; in a flash of insight, she knew he was really after her blood. ::No,:: she thought desperately. ::No!::
She felt his breath on her neck but try and she might, she couldn't move. ::I'm going to kill him!::
If he doesn't kill you first, a little voice whispered to her.
His lips touched her, gentle, seductive. He licked delicately at the skin of her throat, then fastened his mouth tight over her flesh. His fangs grazed her and she felt another spurt of helpless fury.
Abruptly, he moved and she was released. Warm and gentle hands steadied her. She put her hand out against the tree trunk to steady herself. Disoriented, she looked up; Leon. They were standing together sideways on a single branch, the front of their bodies lightly touching.
His hands rested on her shoulders and turned her gently aside, his right foot and shoulder edging past her along the bough as if to shield her. He wasn't looking at her; she saw his face in profile as he stared grimly at her would-be assailant.
Makoe had moved to a branch on the opposite tree and stood there, half shadowed and completely unruffled, watching them calmly.
If there was a mental conversation going on, she didn't know about it. Her shoulders shook as shock caught up with her. The enormity of what had _almost_ happened hit her and she swayed, and clutched Leon's arm frantically
Makoe had-he had tried to-
She was furious... but she was afraid. She had never felt vulnerable like that before but now...
"You!" There was, understandable, unaccustomed ice and fury in Leon's tone.
Samar waited for some response from Makoe but there was only silence that somehow seemed amused. Resisting the urge to cling to Leon and hide, she opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the dark vampire facing them.
She stared and as she did so, drew her anger past the fear, drew strength from it. Aware of Leon, stiff and defensive beside her, she stared at Makoe, with his mocking black eyes and his taunting smirk.
His condescension was all for Leon, she realized suddenly. He knew, as did Leon, that if he chose to force things, Leon would not be able to stop him.
She had thought she was angry before but that realization incensed her.
She straightened, releasing her hold of Leon's arm. The eyes now rested on her with a strange light in them.
"So she's yours?"
Samar barely heard him, focused on flinging her defiance in his teeth. She put all her energy behind a single thought and flung it at him, hoping he could hear it. ::You can't hurt my anymore; not after this.::
"No." Leon didn't quite stutter at the lazy question. "I just happen to love her," he mumbled, then his lips thinned as the dark eyes sparked malicious laughter. "She's no more mine than Elena is yours."
What?
The malice darkened, turned dangerous, but the words were smooth, coated with silky threat.
"Well, then, you wouldn't mind me nibbling."
"I would!" Samar snapped.
"I know you would. Samar." He drew her name out as if tasting it. His lips parted, showing fangs. "That's what makes it so fun."
Samar _felt_ Leon's mental reaction - a wave of palpable fury - but the dark eyes never wavered from hers.
"That's enough, Damon."
_Damon?_ Samar blinked, brought up short. _What was Leon talking about? This was Makoe._ She took a closer look. _Damon? This was Stefan's brother?_
::I would object, too.::
There was barely any hint of movement before a new, shadowy figure pushed aside a leafy clump and stepped into the tableau: Makoe.
He swept the odd ensemble with a cold stare and finally settled on the vampire who looked like his twin.
Samar's eyes darted from one dark vampire to another. The likeness was uncanny. But as she looked closely, she saw differences. Small dissimilarities in features, greater in their manner.
Damon was more delicately built with finer features. Even in the dark - or perhaps _especially_ in the dark - he exuded arrogance, dangerous charm and... well, sex appeal. Makoe's built was just slightly broader and his face stronger. His intensity was all coldly emotionless and carried himself with an air of unshakeable confidence.
Makoe caught her studying him and flicked a brow up. She only shook her head, averting her eyes and he turned back to Damon.
"So you're the Crow."
"I see someone's been spreading tales," Damon said urbanely, not looking at Leon. "You seem to have the advantage on me."
"In more ways than one," Makoe said flatly.
There was an extended, heavy silence. Then, Damon's lips curved, just a little. "I get the picture." Did he look grudgingly impressed? What was going on?
Samar glanced at Leon; he was watching the pair, eyes darting back and forth. Clearly the two dark-haired vampires were up to something. Samar felt frustration at her 'blindness' to whatever exchange was happening.
"Still," Damon went on, "I don't see what this has to do with you."
"You threaten one of mine, Salvatore."
Now Damon quirked an eyebrow in a gesture so like Makoe, it gave Samar déjà vu. "Her? How is she one of yours? She's human-oh." He studied her. "Another vampire Elena changed back, is she? Still, that makes her fair game."
"No, it doesn't," Leon put in fiercely.
Damon smiled appraisingly, looking down the aristocratic nose at his former follower. "So she _is_ yours!"
The phlegmatic vampire hesitated and glanced at Samar. She rolled her eyes and scowled at him. Really, the man was maddening at times. This entire episode was too bizarre for words and she was beginning to get annoyed again. "Yes," she mouthed, causing him to draw a sharp breath. Samar was torn between fondness and exasperation. The light in his eyes went far to defusing her temper.
He lifted his chin to his old mentor and the hand on her shoulder squeezed once, protectiveness and possession equal in the gesture.
"Ah." Damon spared her a quick glance. "Too bad." He smirked, then turned as if he stood on solid ground and not on a slender branch. "It would appear that there is no one here for me, then. I shall be on my way. Leon, don't forget to watch your back."
Samar stiffened at the ominous phrasing but Leon squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. "I will."
"See that you do."
There was a rustle of feathers and a sudden beat of wings and then a black crow broke through the trees and disappeared from view.
Samar blinked; Damon was gone. She turned to Leon slowly to find him gazing up. "The crow?" she asked, disbelieving.
"Yes."
Leaves brushed against each other and when Samar looked, Makoe was gone, too, leaving her alone with Leon.
She suddenly felt awkward, standing so close to him after all their fighting. The hand on her shoulder slid down her arm as she started inching away and she ignored the fact that he was watching her with a grave expression on his face.
Standing in her own little bubble of personal space, pressed against the rough bark of the trunk, she said shakily, "I'm tired. Let's go back to the cabin."
They climbed back down and walked in stiff silence. Samar nearly forgot Leon's presence a time or two, distracted by deep and serious thoughts.
* Oh, by the way, there's a reason for Makoe being of tougher built than Damon. Damon was an aristocrat's son in the 15th century. He never had to worry about survival, just the strenuous tasks of wenching, drinking and probably brawling in some sophisticated form or other. Makoe, on the other hand, was a prince of the Gauls. They were warriors and ferocious ones at that. Makoe would have been trained for battle from a young age.
* * *
Jerrick retired for the night, leaving the celebration in full swing behind him. Much as he liked the way everyone was relaxed, he couldn't help the gnawing frustration at the back of his mind, or the weariness in his body and spirit.
He brooded each step of the way to his room but was roused from inner ruminations as soon as he had stepped through the threshold. The door shut firmly behind him, seemingly of its own will.
The pale blue eyes swept the room.
Nothing seemed amiss, no item out of place. But the presence was unmistakable.
He did not turn, merely leaned on his cane and said to thin air. "You have not lost your touch."
At the same moment he stabbed out with his mind, reaching for Elena. As he half-expected, there was a barrier there; he was turned back, locked down and powerless. It stung to have his quarry so close yet unable to resolve this burdensome task that he had accepted.
::I can't say the same for you.:: The thought whispered, paper dry.
There was a swirl of air in front of him, a miniature whirlwind that was visible only because it made the dust motes dance. It uncoiled and soared away, encircling him.
"Why did you come here?"
::I was curious.::
And when one is invulnerable to harm, curiosity was something that could be indulged.
The witchling wind spun around the room, then dispersed. There was a low growl, almost inaudible to human ears. A large grey wolf lurked at the edge of his vision, white teeth and darker claws flashing. It paced back and forth in front of him, yellow eyes fixed and malevolent.
The red-haired man watched the creature prowl restlessly, its claws clicking on the wooden floor. He kept his bland expression, privately grateful for the cane since he could not sit.
::Why do you do this to us?:: came the question at last.
"You can look at me and still ask?"
::Even we only see so much. How did all this come to past?::
Jerrick recited his story in clipped sentences. How he met the witch, how she cursed him and how her death all but destroyed him.
::I do not see how this has any bearing on the situation.::
There was an undertone of perplexity in that thought that made the red-haired man almost smile; a bitter twist of the lips. Immortals had their own blind spots; they could not comprehend suffering that would not transcend time, could not conceive of someone wanting to end his life.
They did not comprehend how existence could be a burden.
"I wish to shuffle this mortal coil," he tried to explain bluntly. "And it is something I will not be able to do until every last one of you is undone."
::But why would you trade existence for oblivion?::
Oblivion. The word was seductive all by itself. Jerrick nearly closed his eyes and wrapped himself in it, but it was too dangerous. He had to keep his attention focused. And he had to shake the other's balance and try to reach Elena.
"It is something you would have to experience yourself to understand." He struck, lashing out and seizing the mind that was so much more Powerful than his, pouring into it all the suffering he held at bay daily.
The sixth bucked in response to the merciless empathic sharing.
Jerrick felt like he was wrestling an elephant, with the other's mind shrouded in his, but anger lent him strength and surprise was his advantage; he held on for precious seconds before the sixth tore loose.
His thought stabbed out, reaching for Elena, at the same instant the wolf pounced. The barrier was still in place and he could not break free.
Jerrick lifted his cane to ward off the creature, but it morphed in mid-air, twisting and lengthening, coruscating into a length of shining gold silk. It wrapped around him, possessing a life of its own.
The cool material wound around his body like a snake, constricting.
::You are weak,:: the dry voice snarled furiously into his mind. ::So much so, it is pitiable. You could not even keep Emmet Mogen from contacting me. You, who were once master of all that is mind. How far you have fallen.::
"And yet, you will lose," he replied, a bit short of breath from the constriction.
As if tugged free by an invisible hand, the silk pulled a bit upwards and over one shoulder. Friction made it cling to his body stubbornly before sliding away, slowly uncoiling. The part of his neck that the silk rubbed against began to burn.
He stiffened when smooth material melted into the touch of soft cool skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pale, shapely limbs.
The figure walked around to stand in front of him, nude, fingers still trailing around his neck. The fingernails scraped lightly on his skin.
With the arm curled around his shoulders, standing a hair's breadth apart, Jerrick knew that the other could not possibly have missed his sharp intake of breath.
Familiar sea-green eyes lifted to his, laughter in their depths. The person gave a small, impatient toss of the head to shake back that feathery cap of wheat blonde hair, a gesture familiar enough to send a pang through him. He stared at the face lifted to his, tanned from all her time out of doors.
Channa.
How had he known? Jerrick had never described the witch. His shocked reaction must have amused the other greatly.
"Don't you know how much a part of you she is?" The voice soft contralto was as achingly familiar as the rest of the lithe form before him. The hand around his neck slid to cover his heart. "After all, a measure of her soul is bound to you."
Jerrick didn't know what the other did, but he felt a twinge on the soulbond and flinched.
The pseudo-Channa laughed. "Jerrick Edom. That is the name you took when you met her, isn't it? 'Blood Lord.' How delightfully ironic. A gesture almost worthy of me." The hand on his chest flattened and shoved. He stumbled, lost his physical balance as well as his mental center, and hit the floor gracelessly.
Scrambling to recover his shattered composure, Jerrick stared up at him - her and tried to call up hatred as a defense. But that emotion had long ceased to be effective against the witch.
"Oh, you are a fool!" she - he - said, laughing mockingly. "Your shields are so weak, I hear your every thought." Another light laugh, edged now with harder undertones. "And you think to defeat me?"
"It is not I who will defeat you."
"Oh, I know all about your little human pet. Perhaps she will triumph. Then again, perhaps not. Either way, I intend to make it as interesting as possible before the end. Whatever end that might be," the shapeshifted Old One qualified.
It was obscene to see that bright smile twisted into an expression of savage challenge. She - he - went down on her knees and prowled forward until she was almost on top of him. The pose was almost lover-like and raised memories sharply in his mind. Just another form of mental cruelty that the sixth wielded with such skill.
Channa leaned down until they were so closed that they almost kissed. Their breaths mingled and she looked at him through half-lidded sea-green eyes. "I know you have taken the others. But they were caught unawares. I am not," she whispered, her tone caressing. "Shall we make a game of it?"
He lay perfectly still, like a deer caught in the headlights.
The head bent and he felt the feathery locks tickle his throat. He was not prepared for the sting of fangs sliding into his neck and went rigid with shock.
The Old One held him paralyzed by the force of his mind alone. After a minute, he raised his head. There was blood smearing his lips.
Eyes of luminous jade locked with his and long black hair shrouded a gold-skinned body. "Bring your nemesis, 'Jerrick'. Bring that great bane of your making and we shall see who wins the day."
He seemed to dissolve, like a sand sculpture scattered by a breeze. A mocking little eddy of that witchling wind tugged at Jerrick's clothes and then the lame man was alone in his room.
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* Thanks for reading!