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She slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands, the sobs wracking her body as she surrendered to the flood of pain she could no longer contain.

She had never felt a loss like this, never had to say goodbye to someone in this way. She was used to moving on, letting people goβ€”but not like this. Not with the permanence of death, the finality of knowing she would never see Rose again. There was no way to fix it, no way to reverse what was happening.

###

Amalie sat on the bench in the town square, the soft glow of the lamplight casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The quiet of the evening wrapped around her like a comforting shroud, and she let herself sink into it, letting the cool night air wash over her as she sketched. Her pencil glided across the paper, bringing to life the small details around herβ€”the benches and trees, the soft curves of the wrought-iron lamps, and the sleepy storefronts that lined the square. Her focus was entirely on the page, her mind occupied with the familiar rhythm of observation and detail.

She barely noticed the faint shift in the air beside her, but when she lifted her head, she saw him standing there, quiet and steady, his gaze resting on her. Elijah.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting," he said softly, an apologetic note in his voice as he looked down at her with that steady, unwavering gaze.

Amalie's lips quirked into a small, almost amused smile. "We didn't really set a time," she replied, her tone light. She gestured to the empty spot on the bench beside her, an invitation he took with a quiet nod as he eased down next to her.

For a moment, they sat in silence, the quiet of the square stretching around them, comforting and still. Elijah turned his attention to her sketchbook, his eyes catching on the lines she'd drawn. "May I see?" He asked, his voice gentle.

Amalie hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding, her fingers relaxing as she handed him the sketchbook. Elijah took it with care, his eyes tracing over the details she'd capturedβ€”the cobblestones etched in precise little strokes, the benches, the graceful arc of the tree branches above, and the quiet symmetry of the buildings lining the square.

"You have a remarkable eye for detail," he said, his tone thoughtful as he took in the lines she'd so carefully drawn. He looked up at her, a hint of admiration softening his expression. "A gift, I'd say."

Amalie gave a small, self-conscious laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's just something I do. Not often, most of my stuff isn't that good," she murmured, her gaze drifting to the sketchbook in his hands. "But it keeps me busy."

He nodded, understanding lingering in his eyes as he returned the sketchbook to her. She took it gently, her fingers brushing against him, the warmth of his touch a quiet comfort against the coolness of the night.

For a moment, she busied herself with closing her sketchbook, setting it beside her, and making sure the pencil didn't roll off of the book. She knew he was watching her, waiting patiently, his presence calm and unpressing.

"Rose died tonight," she said softly, almost to herself, as if the admission alone was too much to hold in.

Elijah's face softened, the kindness in his eyes deepening. "I'm sorry, Amalie," he said quietly, the sincerity in his voice filling the space between them. "Can I do anything to help?"

Amalie forced a weak smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "No. I'll be fine," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. But the weight of everything hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence stretched on. Then, needing to shift the conversation before she broke down again, Amalie cleared her throat, her voice cracking as she spoke. "You promised you would explain everything to me," she said, trying to steady herself, to refocus on something elseβ€” anything else.

Elijah nodded, his gaze never leaving her. He seemed to understand her need for distraction, her need to step away from her pain, even if just for a moment. "What would you like to know?" He asked softly, his voice like a balm against the rawness of her emotions. "You can ask me anything."

Amalie hesitated, unsure where to start. Her mind was swirling with too many questions, but one rose above the othersβ€”the one she had been turning over in her mind for days now. "Why are you not working with Klaus?" She asked, her voice quiet but steady, her eyes searching his face for answers.

Elijah's expression darkened slightly, his gaze shifting as though he was looking inward, pulling memories from deep within. "He's done something that is unforgivable," he replied, his voice low, tinged with a sorrow that seemed ancient, as though the pain of it had lived within him for centuries.

Amalie tilted her head, her brows furrowed in confusion. "What did he do?" She asked gently, unsure of how deep this wound ran for him.

Elijah's eyes softened as he looked at her, and his tone shiftedβ€”more personal, more vulnerable. "I should preface this by saying that Niklaus is my brother," he said, his voice careful.

Amalie blinked, her shock evident. "You're brothers?"

"Yes," Elijah nodded, a trace of sadness flickering across his face. "And I used to have other brothers and a sister. But Klaus...hunted them down and killed them."

Amalie stared at him, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. "He killed your family?"

Elijah's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening for a brief moment before he regained control of his emotions. "Yes," he said softly. "And that's why I have to kill him. He didn't just take their livesβ€”he destroyed our family , our bond, everything we once were."

Amalie felt a chill run down her spine as she processed his words. "But I thought Originals couldn't die."

"We can't," he replied, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "But Klaus found a way to ensure they'd be lost. He threw their bodies into the sea so they cannot be retrieved."

Amalie's breath caught, a lump forming in her throat as she absorbed the depth of his pain, the centuries of isolation and grief hidden beneath his exterior. "I don't even know what to say," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "That's...I can't imagine."

Elijah shook his head gently, his gaze softening as he looked at her, the flicker of a faint, bittersweet smile playing on his lips. "I didn't come here to burden you," he murmured, his tone filled with a quiet, unspoken gratitude.

Amalie was silent, her fingers moved back to the sketchbook, pulling out the loose piece of paper that was sticking out slightlyβ€”the sketch of her that Trevor had. She handed it to him, her expression tentative.

"Why did Trevor have this sketch of me?" She asked, her voice softer now.

Elijah took the paper carefully, unfolding it with a gentleness that struck her, as though he were handling something precious. He studied the sketch for a long moment, his fingers tracing the edge of the paper. "This was drawn by Niklaus in the 15th century," he said, his voice low, as though the memory held an old sadness. "He's drawn many pictures of you for centuries."

Amalie's eyes widened, confusion flickering across her face. "Why? Am I...a doppelganger or something?"

"No," Elijah said quickly. "You're not a doppelganger." His voice was steady, but his eyes held something deeper, something that made her heartbeat quicken, a strange familiarity she couldn't quite place.

"Then...why?" She asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Elijah looked at her for a long moment, his expression softening, a glint of something she couldn't read in his eyes. "When we turned into vampires, after our entire village was gone, we went through our mother's sister's grimoires. In one of them, the very last one, the very last spell, we learned of your existence and your meaning to us."

Amalie frowned, confusion swirling in her mind. "What do I mean to you?"

Elijah looked at her, his expression softening, but he didn't speak right away. Instead, he held her gaze.

###

1001 AD

The air in the small cottage was thick with the scent of drying herbs and faint traces of smoke, but nothing could mask the heavy, metallic tang of sickness. Antonia lay propped against a mound of woolen blankets, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Her once-vivid skin was pale and sallow, her body betraying the vibrancy it had once held. Sweat slicked her brow, and the fire crackling in the hearth did little to chase away the chill that had settled deep into her bones.

Her breaths were labored, rattling softly as she stared at the low wooden beams above her. She was tiredβ€”so tired. It was the kind of weariness that didn't just live in the body but reached into the soul, wrapping her in an inevitable quiet that she didn't yet want to succeed.

The wind outside howled, rattling the shutters and carrying with it the low, mournful calls of the forest. Antonia's village was ancient, its roots tied to the land itself, with towering forests and jagged mountains that loomed over it like watchful sentinels. The people here were proud, strong, Vikings who had faced war, famine, and winter's cruelty with unyielding resilience. And yet, even they were powerless against certain forcesβ€”the unseen, the untamable, the cruel twists of fate that cared nothing for their might.

The door creaked open, and Antonia's weary eyes fluttered toward the shadow in the doorway. She didn't need to see her clearly to know who it was. She felt her sister's presence, as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

Esther stepped inside, her figure pale against the black of the stormy night beyond. Her cloak was damp from the rain, clinging to her thin shoulders, and her face was streaked with tears that caught the faint firelight. Her movements were hurried, frantic, as if she were running from somethingβ€”or toward something.

Antonia's pulse quickened, worry stirring beneath her weakening heart. "Esther?" Her voice was soft, barely a rasp, but the concern in it cut through the silence like steel.

Esther didn't answer right away. Instead, she crossed the room quickly, falling to her knees beside Antonia's bedside. Her hands were cold as they reached for her sister's, trembling as they clutched her frail fingers. Her lips quivered as she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat, strangled by grief.

Antonia forced herself to sit up slightly, her muscles protesting the effort. "What is it?" She asked again, sharper this time. Her sister's face was etched with a pain she'd never seen before, and it twisted something deep inside her.

"It's Henrik," Esther choked finally, her voice raw. Her hands tightened around Antonia's as her tears fell freely. "The wolves...they came out nowhere. He...He didn't stand a chance."

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, Antonia couldn't breathe. Little Henrik. The youngest. The one whose laughter could make even the coldest day feel warm. She could see him in her mind as clearly as if he were standing thereβ€”his bright eyes, his curious smile, the way he clung to her skirts and asked endless questions about the plants in her garden. And now, just like that, he was gone.

"I am so sorry, Esther," Antonia whispered, her voice trembling. Tears stung her eyes, but her body was too weak to shed them. Her heart felt as though it had cracked in two, the ache spreading through her chest like poison.

Esther buried her face against the blanket, her tears wetting the rough wool. But when she lifted her head, there was a new resolve in her gaze, a hardness that hadn't been there before. "I cannot let this happen again," she said, her voice thick with desperation. "I won't let this happen again."

Antonia's brows furrowed as unease curled in her stomach. "What are you saying?"

Esther wiped her face, her lips pressing into a firm line. "I've decided," she said, her voice steady, though her hands trembled. "I'm going to cast the immortality spell."

The room seemed to shrink around Antonia, her pulse quickening with panic. "No," she rasped, her voice filled with more strength than she thought she had. She struggled to push herself upright, her frail body trembling. "Esther, no. You cannot."

Esther turned to face her, her eyes red but burning with determination. "I have no choice," she firmly said. "Mikael agrees. If we don't do this, we'll lose them all. The wolves will come again. They always do."

Antonia shook her head, her voice breaking. "This magic...Esther, it isn't salvation. It's damnation." Her breath hitched, and she clutched at the blankets to steady herself. "It will bind them to a life that is not life. It will steal the only peace they could ever know."

Esther's lips trembled, but her eyes remained hard. "And what peace would they find if they were dead?" She countered, her voice sharp. "Henrik is gone, Antonia. Gone. I will not bury another of my children."

Antonia's chest heaved, a tear slipping down her cheek as she stared at her sister. She understood the desperation, the grief, the unbearable weight of wanting to protect those you loved. But this...this was too far.

With what little strength she had left, Antonia reached for Esther's hand, gripping it weakly. "If you do this," she murmured, her voice faint but filled with a quiet, desperate conviction, "they will need something good in their lives." "

Esther's brow furrowed, confusion breaking through the fierce determination in her eyes. "They'll have each other," she replied, but her voice wavered, as though she was clinging to that belief out of sheer necessity.

Antonia looked deep into her sister's eyes, her gaze piercing through the haze of grief and desperation. "That's not going to be enough."

Antonia closed her eyes, the weight of her sister's resolve pressing down on her. She didn't know if her words had reached her, but as the fire crackled softly in the hearth, she felt the stirrings of something deeperβ€”a resolve of her own. If Esther was going to cast this spell, then Antonia would make sure there was a balance. Something to keep them from losing themselves completely.

She would leave them something good. Something pure. Something to remind them what it meant to be human.

###

Amalie sat on the bench still, her legs crossed and her fingers fidgeting with each other as Elijah's words settled over her. She wasn't sure if it was the gravity of what he'd just said or the unshakable calm in his voice that unnerved her more.

"So..." she began slowly, her voice quiet but steady. "Esther was your mother?" She tilted her head slightly, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece together what felt like fragments of a much larger puzzle.

"Yes." Elijah's voice was quiet, reverent almost. "And her sister, Antonia, was another powerful witch. Before she passed, Antonia cast a spell. A spell meant to give each of us hope."

"Hope?" Amalie repeated, her tone skeptical. The world sounded too abstract, too vague. "What does that mean?"

Elijah's jaw tightened slightly, his gaze drifting upward to the canopy of stars. For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then, softly, he began. "Antonia believed we would need something to tether us to the parts of ourselves that were still humanβ€”something to remind us of what we were, even as time passed." His voice dropped, tinged with sorrow. "But the spell...fractured."

Amalie leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, a flicker of curiosity pulling her from her unease. "Fractured how?"

He turned to her again, his dark eyes steady. "Antonia was very ill when she cast the spell. Instead of giving us something individual, something tailored to each of us, it created...you."

She blinked, the words landing like stones in the quiet night. "Me," she repeated, her tone laced with disbelief. "You're saying...I'm the result of this spell?"

"Yes," he said, his voice as soft as the night around them, his gaze filled with a steady, gentle sincerity. "Antonia's spell bound you to usβ€”a thread of hope woven into the fabric of our lives."

Amalie let out a slow breath, leaning back against the bench. She didn't feel panickedβ€”she wasn't the type to spiral, at least not in front of othersβ€”but the weight of his words was impossible to ignore. It felt surreal, like something out of a story too strange to be hers. She stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity, but as always, his expression was unreadable, his composure unflinching.

"So what does that mean exactly?" She asked, her tone sharper than she intended. "That I'm meant to...fix you?"

His lips twitched, just barely, as if the thought amused him. "I wouldn't use the word 'fix,'" he replied, his voice quiet but firm. "You're not a solution. You're not a tool or an obligation." He hesitated, as though carefully considering his next words. "You are simply...connected to us. In a way none of us can fully explain."

She folded her arms, glancing away from him to stare at the darkness beyond the town square. The trees swayed faintly in the breeze, the whispering secrets she couldn't hear. "Connected how?"

"We feel it," he said softly. "All of us. This...thread that ties you to us. It's as though you are woven into the very essence of who we are."

Amalie looked back at him, searching his face for any sign of insincerity, any hint of manipulation. But there was none. Only quiet truth, spoken with the kind of care she wasn't sure she could trust but wanted to.

"And how do you feel about it?" She asked, her tone cautious but steady.

Elijah's expression softened, his dark eyes meeting hers with a rare openness. "I've spent centuries wrestling with things I cannot control," he admitted, his voice. "But this? I cannot bring myself to see it as a burden."

His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Amalie's thoughts churned, not with panic but with questionsβ€”questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers to.

Finally, she exhaled. "This is...a lot," she said honestly, her voice quiet but steady. "I mean, it's not every day you find out you're some kind of cosmic afterthought from a spell cast a thousand years ago."

Elijah tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I wouldn't call you an afterthought," he said, his tone almost teasing.

She snorted softly, shaking her head. "Well, whatever I am, I didn't ask for it."

"No," he agreed, his voice quiet again. "You didn't."

Amalie's gaze flicked back to him, her expression softening despite herself. There was something about the way he said itβ€”an acknowledgment of the unfairness, the weight of what she hadn't chosenβ€”that made her feel like he was trying to understand her position.

"So what now?" She asked after a moment, her voice tentative.

Elijah hesitated, his gaze steady on hers. "That is up to you," he said. "I won't impose myself upon you, Amalie. But know thisβ€”whether you choose to walk away or not, the thread remains. It cannot be undone."

She looked down at her hands. "And if I walk away?"

His voice softened, a faint note of sadness coloring his words. "Then we remain as we were," he said. "But perhaps with a piece missing."

Amalie's chest tightened at the quiet vulnerability in his tone, and she forced herself to look at him again. For all his poise, his centuries

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