❧ forehead kisses & visions ❧

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Elena paced anxiously, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she stared at Elijah's still form on the floor. He hadn't moved since she'd removed the dagger, his body unnaturally still, like a statue carved in perfect detail. The silence in the room pressed down on her, making her heartbeat seem impossibly loud. She hadn't told anyone she'd done this—woken him up. Stefan and Damon wouldn't have approved, not after everything. But Elena wasn't about to leave Elijah trapped in the cellar forever, not when she needed answers.

Her breath hitched when his eyes suddenly flew open. She froze, her pulse racing as he gasped sharply, his head jerking to the side to take in his surroundings.

"Elijah," she said softly, relief spilling into her voice. She stepped toward him. "You're awake."

His gaze snapped to her, and for a moment, his face twisted in shock, his lips forming a name she hadn't expected to hear. "Katerina!"

"No, no, it's me. Elijah, it's Elena," she said quickly, her voice urgent as she crouched down beside him.

Confusion flickered across his face as he blinked, and then he closed his eyes tightly, as if he were fighting to ground himself. "Oh, my God," he whispered.

Elena reached out hesitantly, her hand brushing his arm, but the moment her fingers touched him, his body convulsed violently. She pulled back in alarm as he suddenly scrambled to his feet, gasping for air.

"I can't—I can't breathe!" Elijah choked, his voice raw and panicked. "What's happening to me?"

"Elijah, wait!" Elena called, following as he staggered toward the doorway, his movements frantic and unsteady. He was slammed into the metal frame with a loud clutch thud, his handing at his chest like he was suffocating.

"I can't...I can't be in this house," he gasped, his eyes wild and desperate.

And then it hit her. Of course. "You're not invited in," she said, her voice low with realization.

Elijah turned to her, his expression flickering between confusion and frustration. "Then get me out of here," he rasped.

Before she could say anything, he stumbled into another wall, his movements disoriented and erratic. Then, with a blur of supernatural speed, he vanished.

"Elijah!" Elena ran to the front door, yanking it open just in time to see him crouched on the porch, his body heaving as he tried to catch his breath. His dark hair fell into his face.

He stood slowly, his sharp features hardening as he lifted his head to meet her gaze. Then, in a flash, he rushed toward her, stopping abruptly at the threshold as if slammed into an invisible wall. He flinched, his body jerking back as if repelled by the barrier.

He let out a low growl of frustration, his hand pressing to the invisible force holding him back. "What happened?"

Elena glanced back into the house, her heart skipping a beat as her ears picked up the faint sounds of movement upstairs. Stefan and Damon. They'd hear them if this conversation got any louder.

"Shh," she whispered, pressing a finger to her lips. "I'll tell you. But not here. Can I trust you?"

His eyes bore into hers, sharp and unyielding. "Can I trust you?" He asked, his tone heavy with meaning.

Elena hesitated, feeling the weight of his question. She had chosen to wake him for her own reasons, but could she really say she trusted him? Did it even matter now? She held out the dagger to him.

His gaze dropped to the blade, surprise flickering across his face. He took it from her hand, his fingers brushing hers briefly before he stepped back, his grip tightening around the weapon.

"Where is Amalie?" He asked suddenly, his voice softer now but no less insistent. His head tilted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the house. Elena saw the subtle tension in his posture, the way his eyes seemed to shift as if he were listening for something—or someone.

The mention of Amalie made her stomach churn with irritation. Elena didn't care for her, not after what had happened with Jeremy. Twice now, Amalie had killed her brother, even though his ring had brought him back each time. Elena wasn't 't ready to forgive, or trust.

"I don't know," Elena said flatly, folding her arms. "She moved out a while ago."

Elijah's eyes narrowed, studying her closely, but he said nothing. She could see the faint flicker of relief in his expression, though he masked it well. He was glad, she realized. Glad that Amalie wasn't here.

She wondered briefly if he knew where Amalie had gone—if he'd been the one to orchestrate her leaving. But she didn't question him.

Elijah straightened, slipping the dagger into his coat pocket. Though he didn't voice it, Elena could sense the shift in him, his resolve hardening as he took a step closer to the edge of the porch. He wanted to leave, to find her. Amalie.

Elena swallowed back the bitterness rising in her throat. Whatever bond they had, whatever connection had made Elijah asked for her first, it didn't matter. What mattered now was the alliance she'd gambled on by waking him.

"Are you coming?" Elijah asked, glancing back at her briefly.

Elena hesitated briefly but after a moment, she nodded and stepped out of the house, closing the door behind her.

###

Amalie woke with a start, her cheek pressed against the cold, hard surface of her living room floor. For a moment, she didn't know where she was. The world was a blur—muted sunlight streamed through the cracks in her curtains, falling in golden streaks across the room. Her body ached as she shifted, her limbs stiff from having slept on the floor.

And then it came rushing back.

The night before.

Her breath hitched as she pushed herself up onto her elbows, her eyes darting toward the couch. It was empty now. Ana and Max were gone. No blood soaked the cushions, no claw marks tore through Max's chest, no slit wrists dripped onto the carpet.

It was all in her head.

Her chest tightened as she sat up fully, brushing her messy hair out of her face. The heaviness still lingered, like a shadow clinging to her skin, and her muscles trembled faintly as she struggled to ground herself. She tilted her head back, closing her eyes and taking slow, deep breaths.

It wasn't real. She kept telling herself that, over and over, like a mantra. None of it had been real. Ana and Max were alive—well, dead, but alive in the way ghosts tended to be. What she'd seen, the carnage, the blood...all of it was just her mind playing its cruel tricks. But the knowledge didn't erase the memories. It didn't make her body stop feeling like it had actually lived through it.

Her palms pressed against the floor as she slowly got to her feet, groaning softly. She was sore all over, the kind of soreness that even her vampire healing couldn't shake. The curse always seemed to find loopholes to make her life harder.

Her legs felt unsteady as she stumbled toward the bathroom, using the wall for balance when her knees nearly gave out beneath her. She moved like she was underwater, every step heavy, every motion slow and deliberate. The hallway felt longer than usual, but she made it.

The bathroom light was harsh when she flicked it on, illuminating her pale face in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying, the dark circles beneath them making her look more like a corpse than usual. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her skin looked dull and lifeless.

She swallowed hard and averted her gaze, unwilling to look at herself any longer. She reached up and opened the medicine cabinet, her fingers brushing past bottles of vitamins she didn't need and a dusty tube of antiseptic before finding the small white bottle she was looking for.

Ibuprofen.

She popped the cap off her thumb, shaking two pills into her hand. For a moment, she just stared at them, feeling stupid. She was a vampire. Her body could heal from a stab wound in seconds. A headache shouldn't even register. But it wasn't that simple. The curse didn't care about what was "supposed" to happen. The headaches from her episodes clung to her like a parasite, burrowing into her skull and refusing to let go.

She swallowed the pills dry, grimacing as they caught in her throat. The ibuprofen wouldn't get rid of the pain completely, but it would dull it enough to keep her moving.

Her hands rested on the edge of the sink as she leaned forward, her head hanging low. For a moment, she just stood there, breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Pull it together, she thought to herself.

But the ache in her head lingered, and beneath it, there was something else—a deeper pain she couldn't dull.

The image of Max and Ana's lifeless bodies flashed in her mind, and her stomach turned. She pressed her palms harder against the sink, gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"It wasn't real," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It wasn't real."

But the phantom scent of blood still clung to her memory.

She turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto her face and scrubbing her hands over her skin. The water dripped down her neck and onto the collar of her shirt, but she didn't care. The cold shocked her enough to pull her out of the spiral, if only for a moment.

When she finally looked up at the mirror again, her reflection stared back at her, still a mess but slightly more composed. She forced a deep breath, then turned away, shutting the light off behind her.

The apartment was silent, the TV off, the couch empty. Just as it should be.

And yet, as she walked back into the living room, the silence felt too loud.

Amalie dropped onto the couch, curling her legs beneath her and staring at the blank television screen. The soreness in her body throbbed dully, and the headache pulsed behind her eyes like a distant drumbeat. She tilted her head back, staring up at the ceiling.

She hadn't slept well in weeks, and nights like the one before only made it worse. She was tired—so tired—and yet she knew closing her eyes again would only bring more of the same.

More ghosts. More blood. More pain.

But she didn't cry. Not again.

Instead, she sat there, letting the silence swallow her whole.

###

Amalie sat cross-legged on the couch, her journal open in her lap. The soft scratch of her pen filled the quiet apartment as she flipped back to older entries, jotting small notes in the margins, and refining her thoughts. Her handwriting was a little messier than usual—she was still exhausted from the night before, and her hand trembled faintly when she wasn't paying attention.

Still, the simple act of writing grounded her.

A knock at the door broke her concentration. She frowned, setting her pen down and quickly sliding the journal under the couch cushion. Rising to her feet, she stretched briefly before making her way to the door.

When she opened it, her breath caught.

Elijah stood there, tall and regal as ever despite the state of his clothing. His suit, usually pristine, was burnt and tattered, the fabric clinging to him in singed scraps. And yet, his presence was as magnetic as ever. His dark eyes softened the moment they landed on her, his stoic composure cracking just enough to let the faintest trace of awe shine through.

"Hi," he breathed, his voice low, reverent. He looked at her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered, and Amalie's heart fluttered. She didn't think she'd ever get used to the way he looked at her—like she was his salvation.

A smile spread across her lips, warm and unguarded. "Hi." She stepped aside. "Come on in."

As Elijah entered, Elena appeared from where she'd been lingering just off to the side, her arms crossed as she studied Amalie's apartment with a faintly skeptical look.

"Where's Jenna?" Elena asked, glancing around. There was no sign of her aunt—no jacket tossed over the back of a chair, no cup left behind on the counter.

"She went home last night during the dance," Amalie said, closing the door behind them. She motioned for them to make themselves comfortable, though her gaze lingered on Elijah. As he stepped further into the apartment, she finally took in the full extent of his ruined attire. Her brows furrowed in concern, and her voice softened. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything for you to change into."

"I'll manage," he replied smoothly, his lips quirking into the faintest smile.

Elena, still standing awkwardly near the couch, looked between them. "I thought you were staying at a motel," she said to Amalie, her tone edging on accusatory.

Amalie raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "I never said that."

Elena's mouth pressed into a thin line, but before she could retort, Elijah settled into the armchair near the window, drawing their attention.

He turned to Elena first, his tone businesslike. "I assume the Martin witches are no longer with us."

Elena hesitated, guilt flickering across her face. "No. I'm sorry."

Elijah inclined his head, accepting the answer without comment, though his jaw tightened ever so slightly.

"And Katerina?" He asked after a moment. "She would have been released from my compulsion when I died."

Elena looked down, her voice quiet. "Klaus took her. We think that she may be dead."

Elijah's expression remained neutral, but there was a subtle shift in his eyes, a flicker of something Elena couldn't place. "It's not Klaus' style," he said finally, his voice even but laced with certainty. "Death would be too kind for her after what she did."

Elena frowned, her brow furrowing. "I don't understand. You say you want Klaus dead, but you still made Katherine pay for betraying him."

Elijah's gaze darkened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might brush off the question entirely. But then he sighed, leaning back slightly. "I have my own reasons for wanting Katerina to pay," he said, his voice quieter now, more reflective. "There was a time..." He paused, as if the memory pained him. "I'd have done anything for Klaus."

He began to recount the story—how he and Klaus had met Katherine centuries ago, how she'd charmed her way into their lives. Amalie, seated on the arm of the couch, watched him silently, her face soft with understanding. She already knew the story—Elijah had told her once on a night when she'd asked question after question, hungry to know him better.

Most of her questions had been simple—facts about history, what had been like to live in certain eras, what the world had looked like through his eyes. But some had been more personal, peeling back the layers of the man beneath the myth. Katerina had been one of those layers.

Amalie glanced at Elena, who leaned forward slightly, her expression a mix of curiosity and confusion. She was clearly hearing the story for the first time, hanging on Elijah's every word as though each revelation might bring her closer to understanding the larger picture.

After a while, Amalie excused herself, slipping into the kitchen. She busied herself with the familiar ritual of making tea, her hands steady now as she filled the kettle and set it to boil. She could still hear their conversation from the living room, the soft cadence of Elijah's voice as he answered Elena's questions.

The truths he revealed were nothing new to Amalie—Klaus was his brother, and the only thing that could kill an Original was the wood from a white oak tree. But when he mentioned that the Sun and the Moon curse wasn't real, Amalie froze for a moment, her hand hovering over the tea tin.

That was new.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as she finished preparing the tea, bringing the tray into the living room. She set it on the table between them, glancing briefly at Elijah. He met her gaze for a moment, and she saw the faintest flicker of apology there, as if he regretted not telling her sooner.

She gave him a small, reassuring smile before taking a seat on the couch, letting the conversation between him and Elena continue.

Elena leaned forward, her voice edged with confusion and frustration. "But if there's no curse..."

"There's a curse," Elijah interrupted, his tone calm but unyielding. "Just not that one."

Amalie tilted her head, her interest piqued. She had grown numb to hearing the word "curse," but Elijah's tone made her stomach tighten. There was something heavier in the way he said it, a weight that settled in the room.

"The real one's much worse," Elijah continued, his gaze steady on Elena. "It's a curse placed on Klaus."

"What are you talking about?" Elena asked, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Elijah straightened in his seat, folding his hands in his lap as if preparing to deliver another one of his carefully curated truths. "Klaus has been trying to break it for the last thousand years," he said evenly. "And you are his only hope."

Amalie's breath hitched slightly. A thousand years? She couldn't imagine living with something like that for so long. Her own curse—the ghosts, the voices, the pain—had only been her reality for a short time in comparison. 't help but feel a pang of understanding and sympathy. Whatever this curse was, Klaus must have been desperate to be rid of it.

Elena opened her mouth to respond, but her phone buzzed loudly, the sound breaking through the tension. Amalie frowned, glancing over at Elijah, who had plucked the phone from his pocket where he'd apparently been keeping it.

"Your phone will not stop its incessant buzzing," Elijah said, holding it out to Elena with a faint air of annoyance. "Answer it, please."

Elena took the phone, glancing at the screen before quickly answering. "Stefan? What's wrong?"

Amalie leaned back slightly, observing as Elena's face shifted from confusion to alarm, her eyes widening.

"No," Elena said into the phone, her voice trembling. "No, no, no, no." She stood abruptly, pacing a few steps toward the door. "Okay, I'll be right there."

She hung up, her hand still gripping the phone tightly, and turned to Elijah, her face pale. "Klaus went after Jenna. I have to go to her."

Elijah remained seated, his expression calm but firm. "I'm afraid that wasn't part of today's arrangement," he said evenly, his tone carrying an edge of finality.

"She's my family, Elijah," Elena said, her voice rising with desperation. "I have to. I'll be back. You have my word."

Amalie's gaze flicked to Elijah, watching the faint narrowing of his eyes, the way his jaw tightened. She knew that look—the look of someone weighing loyalty against logic, promises against actions.

"That doesn't mean anything to me until you live up to it," Elijah said after a moment, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning.

Elena hesitated, holding his gaze, before whispering, "Thank you." She turned on her heel and hurried out the door, the soft echo of her footsteps fading as she rushed down the hall.

Amalie leaned back against the couch, the exhaustion from earlier creeping back over her. She felt Elijah's eyes on her and turned her head to meet his gaze.

"Did my brother harm you at all in my absence?" Elijah asked, his tone calm but with an edge of concern. He was almost certain the answer would be no—Klaus had always spoken of how he would never dare hurt her—but he felt compelled to ask regardless.

Amalie shook her head. "No, no, he didn't," she reassured him softly.

Elijah nodded, seeming satisfied with her answer, though the tension in