By the end of the first week in the woods, Caroline had discovered a lot about her captor. About his moods and mannerisms. She struggled to find in him what so outwardly was so obvious – the resemblance to Klaus, although uncanny, was purely that. A reflection. His inward manner was...she sought for a suitable word: Temperamental.
After the initial compelling, the use of controlled force willing, she felt he had become wary of her. The role of captor and captured reversed as he attempted to fathom what and who she was in the grand plan of the downfall.
Deep in the heart of bayou she pensively waited. In vain, she knew, as she had impetuously decided to seek Klaus out without informing anyone. Not Stefan. Nor Elena. She wondered quietly – aware that Wallace could at any time and on any whim read her inner monologue – whether they had tried to contact her. Ring her mobile or visit her apartment she had got since her she had had a mother daughter talk about 'independence'. Even visit her work she had managed to wrangle her way into (minus the use of her preternatural power) as an investigative journalist.
It had been this useful position that had meant she had found out where Klaus was. Her network of informants, although not exactly eager to explain, with some persuasion had opened out willing about the connections he had. They had remained guarded on, Caroline felt, more important matters – like, who was Klaus kissing now? She pushed that thought to the back of her head and glanced across at Wallace. She was in desperate need of a wash, her clothes stunk and the animal blood was hardly sustaining her. She could imagine herself slipping in and out of reality.
"You said I was channeller. I heard you. Is that good?" Her voice was shaking. Concentrate, Care, concentrate. Hostage situations demanded an element of interaction, of building a line of communication. Emotional blackmail and turnabout. She flicked away a bug as it landed on her arm, grimacing. Eurgh.
"You have good hearing." He studied a book he held in his hands. Leather bound, fragile. Paper smelling of age.
He made for a good study, she supposed, "Yeah. I am a vampire."
He half smiled, his full lips curling up, before he turned fully to give her more attention, piercing eyes – that red glow deep inside – momentarily stung her, "A cat. A pet. You are feline," Putting the book to one side, he crossed his arms, oh so familiar to Caroline her dead heart beat faster, "A channeller is rare. Their purpose has been well documented through history. The whole power behind the throne syndrome – if they could control they would, but that isn't in the nature of a channeller: negotiation, probing, aiding and abetting. You are a conspirator, love, haven't you always felt on the sidelines. As if the story happened to everyone else while all you could do was ask 'how can I help?' That's where you've got your opportunity love your chance to shine. Your chance to break that throne and build something better. Let in my brother wolf and you will be eaten. Let me in and I shall show you everything."
"At a price." His words had hit close to home. It was something she had thought in her most isolated moments. When the pain had overwhelmed her, when the torture had got too much.
You wanted so desperately to be saved, Caroline, to have someone rescue you. See inside you that which you were. Strong. Powerful. Poor Caroline – an eternity of disappointment awaits.
You don't have to read them, y'know. She flung the thought at him, as loudly as possible. You don't have to be this...bitter. This broken, it isn't what you want.
Sometimes though, you are right, Caroline. Sometimes people who do terrible things are just that – terrible people. The only thing is, Caroline, you are a channeller and you can change that. Only you. You can make those terrible people do less terrible things. Fearful yet? Scared yet?
You are alone.
No. Standing up suddenly Caroline stalked towards him. Her figure shaking with inner rage. Wallace took a breath: she was so strong, so swept by emotion. He bowed his head from her, putting up a hand in warding. She stopped mid flight across. For her, the air was treacle with ever increasing dismay she could hear the slowness of blood through veins sluggish. Hear the minute sound of air surrounding her. She fought against it until her gaze locked with his. He stood in front of her. Hands outstretched. His features cool, strange in the scene.
"Everything has a price, Caroline. Even people. What we have is the illusion of choice, the illusion of choice Caroline! Only that. Now, we can fight. We can bicker between us, but you are not my concern. You are not my target. Help me, Caroline. I have never asked for help from another soul. Whether living or dead, whether on this side or the next. I need to end this. I need to end my tragedy of being. And I need you Caroline. Love. I need you to channel for me."
She tried to shake her head. Love, his pet name - their pet name - it reverberated inside her mind. He said she would love him. Until it broke her and Klaus. He had said. He had said...
Enough, love. "Enough. You will and you will never know why or when. It will just be and it will be ever the worse for the fact that you will have destroyed me in the process. Love transforms Caroline. Transform me. Make me less terrible a person." Advancing closer, he lowered his arms and she dropped. A heap of body on the bayou floor. Sweat and fear, confusion and sinking.
She looked up at him, her face smeared with dirt and tears, vivid blue eyes steely. I know. I know – so, jerk, tell me how I can help end this. Tell me what you want from me.
So insolent, so unpredictable. The perfect weapon – a pretty bomb to explode in time. Drink from me, Love. Drink from me and you'll never have to drink again. Then we'll talk.
He rarely slept fitfully. He slept fine, no nightmares, no bogeymen concerned him. There was something about tonight though that made him rise early. Clutching the single malt by the neck and slugging deeply before finishing the half empty glass of AB negative on his bedside table. He looked across at the figure next to him in the ornate mahogany bed, moonlight filtered in through the window, thick draped curtains still open to the Mystic Falls air: all this had been for her. His whole being had been for her.
Was this the truth? That living, existence, was freedom to love and love freely. No obligations, no games. Boring. He rolled his eyes and sat up.
Elena stirred next to him. She reached across.
"You felt it too, didn't you?"
Brown eyes beseeching him to act, Damon nodded, "Sure. I think it was the last glass I had. Or maybe the cheese?" That's it, boy, hide behind flippancy.
"Should we ring Bonnie? We gotta see if everyone's okay. I can't go through...I can't.." She began to shake violently. Vampire emotion still so consuming in her.
"Another head count, Elena? Really? They'll all be fine...Matt, Bonnie, Caroline, Stefan...oh, wait, that's all of them." Sardonically, he downed the last drop of crimson, "Whiskey mixer, might calm you down?" Shaking the bottle slightly at her, mouth tilted in rueful reassurance.
Elena, caught up in her own thoughts, shook her head. Chestnut curls tumbling hypnotically. Damon fought the urge to tame them with his fingers, sighing, he placed a reassuring hand on her bare milky white shoulder, the red strap of the silk nightdress stark against it, "Ok, ok, I'll text Stefan and get him up. He should be around - - somewhere," He finished. Letting his brother save the day again, he scoffed inside, yeah, but he had the girl – and wasn't that the most important thing, who got the girl?