Elena Gilbert stood up and unsheathed the short sword from her belt. The multiple cuts on her hand stung at the contact, but the pain did not show on her face. Wind blew through the ballroom, whipping dirt in a small tornado around the pair of them. Patches of moonlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, just outlining her enemy. The person she'd spent far too long thinking about. He needed to die. But why then, did she stand frozen still before him, studying the slits in his helmet, trying to find his eyes in the darkness? She should have charged. Should have have moved quick and lithe, as that had always been her strong suit, her advantage in throwing him off. If it came to brute strength, there was no contest. She would lose.
The arrow through the Queen's neck. Damon's sword through the King's abdomen. Jeremy bleeding out on concrete. Dead and alone. Perhaps all of it had been her fault. Trying to save herself from the soldier's grip when their caravans were ambushed. Not being strong enough or fast enough to stop Damon in the grand dining room. Abandoning Jeremy when he needed her most.
You will never be what your loved ones need. The voice echoed in her mind. Her own or some intrusion from a god she'd never prayed to, revenge and destruction in return for ignorance. It didn't matter whose words they were. If they'd come from the very depths of her own heart or from the great beyond. They struck true nonetheless.
Her short sword clattered to the ground, dropping from a hand slick with sweat. She sucked in a breath between dry lips, parted for what felt like minutes in shock at her own actions. If there was anything Elena Gilbert could do, it was crumble under the pressure she'd set atop her own shoulders. Damon did not move. He only watched, slivers of his blue eyes visible through the helmet, still but searching. Would this not be his best opportunity to strike? Was he not as dead-set on killing her as she was on him?
In what was likely only a second but felt like a lifetime—of failures and futures playing on repeat—she scrambled for the sword, taking a hit to her self-confidence. Her other hand settled on one of the remaining daggers, palming it quickly as she moved into striking range with a desire to kill and a certainty that she could win.
TEN YEARS (AND A FEW DAYS) AGO
"Have you gotten worse since we last sparred? I didn't know that was possible," Damon commented, smacking her with the flat side of his blade when her guard dropped.
Outside the Gilbert castle, crisp air settled around them. Those early hours of the morning were always reserved for each other, despite them both having many duties they needed to attend to. Damon more than Elena, being the crown prince and all. But Elena had her own responsibilities, too, although they often fell to the wayside when she slipped away without warning to practice. To their families, it was absolutely vital that Damon Salvatore be proficient in sword-fighting and other methods of armed combat. For a Princess, however? She only needed to be studied in manners, history, and the art of conversation. Why should a Princess, after all, know how to wield a blade when she would be sold off into marriage? Stefan, the man she was likely to marry (and Damon's much nicer younger brother), would be the one to protect her if needed. She only needed to study the art of hosting a proper ball.
Unfortunately, they were all out of luck, for Stefan was clumsy with a sword and would likely be a horrid bodyguard if she needed his protection, and Elena would certainly throw a paltry ball. They'd be a laughing stock if she had anything to do with it.
Elena's jaw worked, teeth grinding together at his insults. "Well, maybe if I had a better teacher, I wouldn't do such a piss poor job," she commented, a hand moving to touch the bruise that undoubtedly formed on her side.
"Oh, please. We both know this is an issue of an unnaturally bad student—"
Opportunity. That's what Damon had drilled into her mind over and over again. Swordplay and combat in general were all about opportunity. You have to take what you're given and strike when the moment is right. In this case, the perfect moment occurred whilst Damon continued to brag about his excellent teaching ability. "I'm sorry, you're right," she said, which earned her an arrogant smile and the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard.
Maybe it was callous to draw blood, but she couldn't help but drag the tip of her longsword across his bicep as he boasted. Often, they trained with wooden swords or dulled ones, but Elena had insisted, recently on an upgrade. The line of blood appeared instantly, and as her grimace turned into a smile, his did the opposite. But he did not wince, nor remark upon the pain. In fact, after a moment of silence—Elena staring at the wound she'd caused and Damon staring at her—he smiled.
"Now we're getting somewhere," he joked. "Just promise you won't impale me."
Elena looked up at him with bashful eyes, long lashes blinking innocently. "Me? But I'm such a poor student, I don't know if I could even accomplish such a thing."
He rolled his eyes. "Remind me why I do this, again?"
"Because, despite how absolutely obnoxious you think I am, you kind of have a soft spot for me. It's okay. I won't tell anyone," she teased.
PRESENT DAY
Two Elena Gilberts existed in that moment. First, there was the one inside, kicking and screaming with fear and desperation. The one who wanted to run away or tuck her head between her knees. The one who wanted to give up. The one who didn't believe herself good enough to face him, even now. She'd never bested him before, so why now?
Then, there was the second. The one whose face she wore. The one who pushed down all the negative thoughts, the fear, who refused to let her arms shake as she raised her sword to protect her face from his inevitable first strike. The one who wanted him dead. The one who would see it through. The one who wouldn't give up, despite everything the first tried to tell her, despite all the negativity that intruded on her moment. Because it was her moment. Her block turned into a strike, refusing to let him get the first blow. The short sword clanged off his arm, metal on metal reverberating down to her bones. He didn't move.
Another strike and no response. She became feverish in her hits, more determined and desperate with each hit, despite the bone-deep shock they each caused.
"Fight back!" she screamed, breathy and agitated. "Fight me, you—you coward!"
In two moves, she channeled all the anger, all the sadness, all the guilt she'd ever felt. First, she slammed the butt of her dagger into the side of his helmet. It knocked the visor that protected his face askew, revealing uncaring, vacant eyes. Then, still close to him, she reared back and swung forward with her short sword. It pierced armor, then skin.
Again, she froze. Not looking at one another—perhaps he looked at nothing, but she looked at the blood leaking out around her sword. Red swirled unnaturally, and the years slipped away once more until they were just kids again.
TEN YEARS (AND A FEW DAYS) AGO: CONTINUED
"A soft spot, hm?" Damon asked, holding his longsword outward, pointed at her. "I'm not sure about that."
This time, she rolled her eyes. "Okay, not a soft spot. What would you call it then?" Surely there had to be a reason why he spent so much time with her. They weren't friends. Not exactly. But it's not like they were enemies either. Unlike years prior when he used to snap at her for following him around the castle, he at least seemed to tolerate her presence now.
His face changed for a moment, growing serious as he looked at her with drawn eyes. "No one takes you seriously," he said, without lowering his sword. "And I think, if you want to know how to swing a sword properly, you should be able to. What's the point of being royalty if you can't have what you want?"
She smacked his sword away with her own. "Careful, Damon. It almost sounds like you're being nice to me."
"And we wouldn't want that," he joked, thrusting his sword forward again. She deflected with ease, and he nodded. "Good." Another compliment. Strange. Years between them, him practically an adult and her still trapped in a weird in-between space, not quite a child and not quite able to make her own decisions. He did seem like the only one who took her goals seriously. The only one who didn't pass them off as misguided or unrealistic. If he stuck by her side, maybe she could actually become a knight like she desired.
"Thank you," she said awkwardly, pushing back against his sword with all the force she had. "For seeing more than your baby brother's annoying friend."
He laughed, dropping his sword away so she stumbled forward. "I wouldn't go that far. You're still my baby brother's annoying friend."
"Right," she laughed, righting herself and reading for another attack. "Of course."
PRESENT DAY
Her lips parted in a gasp as she wrenched her hand away from the handle of her sword, leaving it embedded in his stomach, blood seeping out. It should have been easy to finish him off, to take the handle and slash upward, or pull it out roughly enough that his organs spilled out with it. But she could only catch the glint of his eyes from behind the busted helmet. She could only see the friend who'd taught her everything she knew. She'd killed before, of course, she'd killed before. But unlike him, unlike her father, unlike Jeremy even, she'd never killed someone she'd once cared for.
That was the problem with revenge, wasn't it? All the hurt he'd caused, all the death laid at his feet, and she was to act with the same viciousness in return—to do just as he'd done. To kill him, she had to become him, too.
War waged behind her eyes as she frantically searched for something worth redeeming behind his. Could someone like him even be redeemed? If there was anything left in him worth fighting for, was it worth it for her to keep fighting? He would always be the person who'd killed her father, her brother. And she would always be the person who stood by and watched, helpless.
Blood continued to drip down the front of his body. Where was that crackling green energy now? That confusing, strange presence that had protected him from her first arrow?
Her off-hand held the dagger tight, the slices on her palm screaming for attention she could not give. But it at least served to snap her out of the memories and the ruminating thoughts that didn't help make that situation any easier. At least pain was good for something.
A finger twitched, and then his entire hand, like he'd come back to life or thawed after being frozen to the core. He reached for the hilt of the short sword, but she unfroze too, slashing at his hand with the dagger. Had they both fallen into the past, into that same memory? Did he remember her as a friend, too? As someone difficult to kill? It didn't matter. It couldn't.
"Run," Damon said. The word just barely bubbled up out of his throat, choked and breathy, like he was trying to swallow it. A threat or a plea?
It didn't register with the princess. What need was there for running away, now, when he finally seemed like he would engage her? No. She needed to fight. Even if it cost everything. His head cocked to the side unnaturally. Even in her fighting stance, ready to sink whatever weapon into his chest she could, she spotted the cold, detached nature of his gaze. Unyielding and indifferent. With no word, he pulled the sword from his abdomen and cast it aside. It clattered loudly, the sound echoing.
It should have killed him. It was supposed to kill him. She took her eyes off his hands long enough to see that same deep green energy etching across the skin beneath his armor, stitching him back together. Unnatural, foreign, and wrong. Like a nightmare. It left no scar behind. Acid crawled up her throat. But the split-second reaction cost her, giving him enough time to lunge forward.
With only a dagger to defend herself, she jumped out of the way, throwing herself hard to the ground away from him. She got to her feet, bones aching, hands bleeding, stitches popped. At least she'd been able to recover her short sword, not that it seemed entirely effective against someone like him. A man she was starting to think she knew nothing about.
Memories were just that. And the past was long since gone. All the vile things he'd done could not be forgotten. Not only to her family, but to the people of his own Kingdom and hers. Those who'd lost their homes. Those who begged for food. Those who died in the streets with no one to help them. She couldn't linger on a person who only existed within the deep recesses of her mind. There was no Damon Salvatore left worth saving.
"You wanted a rematch," Damon said, looming over her as she got to her feet, sword in hand. If only she could put some distance between them. Maybe if she assaulted him over and over again with arrows, whatever protection spell had clearly been cast on him would wear off. Maybe eventually, she'd be able to break through.
Thinking about spells and magic cost too much time, too much mental energy. If he couldn't be killed now, running was the best option—and she could think about the meaning of this magic, if it was, in fact, such, at a later date.
"I wanted a rematch ten years ago," she snapped, beside herself with anger. How had she let the opportunity to kill him slip by? More if onlys to keep her up at night. Moments of hesitation that would never be forgotten.
"I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he said, chuckling to himself. He sounded so unlike the kid she once knew. It sent shivers up her spine. Ten years could change a person, yes, but how had he lost everything that made him him? Even his charm, the very same charm that made her look at him with big doe eyes, hoping one day he'd notice her as more than just a friend, seemed cloaked in a layer of darkness. So much colder than ever before. Everything about him was changed. Evil. Plain and simple. But why then, did he seem so conflicted in harming her, too?
Her own conflict stemmed from fear, from uncertainty. Could she really even see her plans through? But his? It almost seemed as he was fighting both himself and her. Telling her to run, forcing the words out of his mouth like something else tried to stop him. There wasn't enough time to linger on that, to linger on the why of Damon Salvatore. No. He only needed to die. Regret could come later.
Their swords clashed over and over again. Each thinking they'd found an opening, and the other deflecting. Elena, with her sword and dagger, moving quick and certain while he slashed at her with power and strength, both hands on the hilt. Unstoppable strikes that made her bones shake. Everything hurt. Each block slowed her until mistakes started to cost more. She missed a block that left a trail of blood across her forearm. She stumbled backward after a direct hit to her shoulder. Another strike, this time to her knees, and she was back in the dirt.
She tried to stand. Tried to get up. The room where she'd learned how to dance swirled around her. And Damon, her partner then and now in life and in the seconds before death, stepped toward her, sword raised above his head.
"Don't do this," she begged. Nothing left within her except words of pleading. She tried to lift her sword, but her arms no longer obeyed. "Please, Damon. Don't do this, you don't have to do this." Even the words were weak, the fight drained out of her. She tried to find his eyes through the blood that clouded her vision, tried to find any bit of the friend she'd once known.
He brought the sword down, and darkness swarmed the princess once more.
A/N: Yay! This is about he halfway point. So excited for what comes next. Thanks for reading!