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Chapter Text

His blade struck hers with a force that sent her reeling backward, her fingers gripping the handle tight to keep it from dropping into the dirt. To be disarmed was to lose the fight, after all. Any good knight knew that.

Elena Gilbert was clumsy with a sword, but she didn't give up. Scrambling back to her feet, she thrust the sword forward, only for her opponent to knock it away again with ease.

"Surrender," he said, and she could hear the smile, the smirk. It only made her want to fight harder. One of these days, she would best him. Then she would be the one to smile pridefully. Damon Salvatore and his family, rulers of the neighboring kingdom Zicon, visited often, and Elena, young and petulant, made time to bother Damon for lessons any chance she got. This trip was no exception. They'd been out on the training ground several days in a row.

Like most of their sword fights, the King of Miria interrupted this one too. Otherwise known as her father. He switched between roles so seamlessly that sometimes Elena could not tell which he acted as at any given moment.

He approached from behind Elena, placing a hand on her shoulder. She sighed, sheathing the sword and turning to face him. "I know I'm supposed to be in class, but Father—" she said, words rushed and cheeks flushed.

Because he was the kindest king in all the lands, he offered her the softest smile as he ruffled her already messed-up hair. Brunette strands were woven into precise braids. At least, they'd been precise hours ago before she'd escaped her teacher and drawn her sword in the mud. Now hair fell out of those braids, dirt stained the bottom of her dress, and there was a bit of dried blood on her arm where she'd badly missed a block.

"Come along," he said, shooting a curt nod to her dueling partner before extending his arm. Elena took it, and they walked back to the castle together. Though, she could not help but look back over her shoulder at the boy only a few years older than her fourteen, standing in the mud with a breastplate and his sword still drawn. He smiled at her and her nose crinkled. Would it be too petulant to stick out her tongue? She resisted.

Inside the opulent castle of marble and gold, Elena received many a dirty look from those who passed them in the hall. She did not suit their standards for what a princess should be, and that had always been the case. While she loved to spend time with her nose in a book, she longed to be outside even more, and while the sword was not her strong suit—she wielded a bow with deadly intent, and her work with daggers almost always left her opponents in a state of shock.

Despite her father's kindness regarding her extracurriculars, unspoken tension hung between the pair. In just a few years, he would seek a man, a prince, to take her hand. And while there had been a few discussions with neighboring kingdoms, such as those who visited, whose sons she both dueled and studied with during their stay, Elena did not wish to marry. Why should her brother get all the glory in inheriting the crown while she joined some other family and ruled in a kingdom she knew nothing about? It was not only the arrangement of it all but the ruling, too. Ever since she'd been a young child, she'd begged to forsake her title, wishing to join the ranks of their cavalry instead. Her family had only laughed at this desire. So, she fulfilled her duties as best she could, while sneaking away at any given opportunity to fulfill her true desires.

Her father left her in the hall outside her rooms with a pointed glance that she knew better than to disobey. With a sigh, she pushed open the door and was immediately greeted by her ladies-in-waiting. Caroline and Bonnie had been by her side since her younger years. They kept her company and assisted with small tasks such as dressing and bathing. She could tell from the looks on their faces that they were both interested and disappointed. Typical.

Caroline motioned to a few dresses she'd laid out on the bed for the night's ball, and Bonnie brewed tea in the corner. Neither of them questioned where she'd gotten off to, but instead made quick work of helping her dress for the coming event.

Caroline couldn't help but comment on the elephant in the room. "Did you see him?" she asked, as she laced up Elena's corset after both she and Bonnie helped to scrub the dirt from her skin and rebraid her hair. Elena only smiled, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. Caroline smiled too, looking over at Bonnie and saying, "I knew it."

But Bonnie shook her head. "You're wasting your time on him, my lady." Ever polite despite how many times Elena had asked her to drop the title and use her name instead. She ducked her head. "I only mean, isn't he set to be married soon?"

The brunette chuckled. "Please, both of you. I have no interest in him. Besides, when I grow up, I'm going to be a knight, not a wife," Elena explained.

Her lady's maids exchanged a glance that made Elena sigh. No one ever understood what she wanted out of life. It only made her hungrier for it. She knew in her gut that what she wanted was within her reach, she just didn't know how to grasp it.

"Done," Caroline said, putting the finishing touches on Elena's makeup. "Oh, I hope you have so much fun tonight. I wish I could come with you."

"I wish you could go in my place," Elena sighed.

Once dressed in a soft pink ball gown, her hair braided intricately down her back, and her cheeks and lips the same shade of rose, Elena could procrastinate no further. Her ladies-in-waiting stayed behind, and one of the soldiers stationed outside the entrance to her chambers took over, leading her down to the ballroom.

Elena believed balls to be the most absurd show of pageantry and perhaps the most dreadful thing she'd ever had to participate in. Not only did the gown limit her range of movement and make her skin itch, but it also made it more difficult to breathe, and there were no places to store the daggers she'd swiped from the armory. Descending the steps, the herald announced her by title and name and she curtsied while looking for a particular face in the crowd.

Okay, so maybe she hadn't been exactly truthful in her conversation with Bonnie and Caroline. She did harbor a slight crush on the visiting crown prince. In the same vein, however, she knew that he would never see her as more than a kid. Eighteen to her fourteen, she was only a gnat to him. A little sister even. The thought alone made her stomach turn.

His brother, however, of her same age, always seemed quite interested in her. Before she even had a moment to get settled, he approached.

"Your Highness," he said, half bowing. He smiled when he caught her eyes, and Elena had to place a hand over her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

Finally, she curtsied. "Your Highness," she repeated back to the prince, stifling a giggle.

"I was just curious if I could have your first dance, Princess?" he asked.

Elena shifted uncomfortably. "Stefan," she whispered under her breath. "You know I'm not a very good dancer."

"Well maybe if you stopped skipping your lessons to bother my brother…"

She wished to smack him in the arm but knew there were far too many eyes on the pair of them to ever do any such thing. "Fine," she said, words harsh and annoyed as she took his hand and let him lead her to the dance floor. More than anything, Elena despised the attention associated with being the daughter of the king and queen of Miria. Her life would be so much better if only she could sneak around unnoticed.

"Don't be nervous," Stefan said, taking her other hand. "We've done this a hundred times."

His words did not help, and she proceeded to step on his toes once, twice, three times. Her cheeks blazed bright red, and she wanted nothing more than to detach from her friend and hide behind her parents' thrones like she'd done when she was much smaller. Only now, her head would certainly peak out over the top and everyone would be able to see her anyway.

Each time a new song started, she tried to slip away into the crowd, but Stefan held her hands firm, with a knowing look. Sometimes, she hated how well he knew her. She longed to disappear into the garden or sneak back to her chambers when her parents weren't looking—but Stefan knew all of her tricks. Her father must have enlisted his help to ensure she stayed present for the entirety of the night.

What she did not expect, however, was for Stefan's older brother to tap him on the shoulder and say, "Mind if I cut in?"

Stefan's brows furrowed, but after a pointed glance from his brother, he released her hands and disappeared into the crowd without another word. Elena had danced with Damon many times before, and in some ways, it was less intimate than sparring. But still, the feeling of his hands in hers made her cheeks flush. It seemed as if they'd be some shade of pink the entire night.

She tried to relax and pretend that his attention did nothing to her. "What do you want?" she asked, eyes drifting up to meet his. They had done this a million times, since they were even smaller. It didn't mean anything now just as it hadn't meant anything then.

With cool blue eyes, Damon looked down at her. He smirked and she nearly rolled her eyes at that alone. "Your swordsmanship still needs much work," he said, finally, then spun her away—following the same steps as other partners on the dance floor around them.

When he pulled her back in, she stepped on his toes. Unlike Stefan, he didn't comment on her poor dancing. "It does not," she said vehemently, refusing to admit her lack of skill to him, despite the fact that they both knew the truth.

"You won't be a knight if you can't best me in a duel, Princess." As the crown prince, Damon did not often see battle, but his father—the King of Zicon, had taught him everything he knew. And he certainly knew more than she.

Many words were left unspoken. Practice was not the only thing that held her back and they both knew it. But his words gave her hope anyway, let her imagine a life where she wouldn't be tethered by marriage.

"At dawn, then," Elena said, looking him in the eye. "A rematch."

When dawn came, she leaned against a stone wall with the handle of her sword tight in her grip. At least an hour passed of watching soldiers train before she gave up on waiting for him. He wouldn't have intentionally left her out in the morning cold, her eager eyes morphing into disappointment as more time passed, would he? He'd never missed a training session before, and despite his rough exterior, he'd always been kind in his own way.

When she finally left the training ground, defeated, eyes cast downward, she entered the castle to a fury of movement. Servants carrying bags and trunks, and the Salvatore family nowhere to be seen.

It was Jeremy she found first, her brother and the crown prince—though he hardly took the title seriously, not that she could pass judgment.

"What's going on?" Elena asked, eyes shifting around the palace corridor, trying to find either of the Salvatore brothers' eyes or their parents in the crowd.

"You haven't heard?" Jeremy asked, voice low. He pulled her by the arm into a nook where they couldn't be heard. "Stefan was poisoned last night."

TEN YEARS LATER: PRESENT DAY

Elena road astride a chestnut horse in a rusted silver breastplate—old and used and altogether loved, with dings and dents from fights long since past like scars she would never forget. Her horse, a striking brown thoroughbred with white spots and a dark nearly black mane. She rode hard and fast toward the ruins of her kingdom. It had been nearly ten years since the night she'd left. The night her family had narrowly escaped from an unexpected ambush.

After the death of Stefan Salvatore in the middle of the night, his father, King Giuseppe of Zicon, had ordered a full strike on her castle—the only place she'd ever called home. Zicon and Miria, Savlatore and Gilbert, had long since lived in harmony beside one another. They'd fought in wars together, signed many a treaty, and established solid trade routes. Everything crumbled with Stefan's death, leaving questions unanswered.

The princess, with no kingdom, had made it her mission to unearth the truth of what had happened that night. Although her parents and Jeremy had escaped the initial attack, they'd been picked off one by one in the last ten years. Her mother first, then her father, and only a few months prior, Jeremy. But to Elena, none of it made sense. Her family had denied involvement in Stefan's poisoning until their deathbed. But there was no other obvious answer and their king—once Giuseppe and now Damon—was dead-set on revenge. Death chased her, followed her around every corner.

But still, she did not understand. Who would have killed Stefan and why? And why had the Salvatores been so quick to blame the Gilberts? A family they had deep connections to? None of it added up, and no answers had come about in the long years she'd spent in hiding.

As her horse stopped in front of a small tavern a few miles north of her kingdom, she took a deep breath and released it unevenly. Dismounting the horse, she pulled her hood up over her head, covering her hair and shading her eyes. It was time to finally figure out what happened that fateful night ten years ago.

Chapter Text

Being back in the kingdom she'd once wished to defend with her life tarnished something deep in her chest, a piece of her heart that hadn't gone completely cold just yet. Stepping into the tavern, Elena felt more out of place than ever before. Before that night, she'd only left Miria a handful of times. For the most part, she'd stayed at the palace, only to leave on visits to see the Salvatores in Zicon. But as a child, she'd never gotten the chance to actually explore her kingdom. Not that it was even her kingdom anymore. It'd been absorbed into Zicon. Still, it felt unfamiliar, this tavern she'd never been in, in a place that she'd once called home.

No one turned to look at her. The tavern was a large octagonal shape, with a bar that mirrored the walls in the very center. Booths lined the walls, with tables and chairs scattered around in any empty space available. Patrons focused on their drinks and their friends. Some customers sat face down with their arms on the table. One even had a steady stream of drool pooling on the wood next to their mouth and an empty glass.

Overall, the tavern, whose name wasn't displayed anywhere, had an undercurrent of misery. Darkness had never shifted away from Miria. Ten years had not been long enough for the people to heal. But if she asked, would they still call this place Miria, or would they refer to it by its new name, Zicon? Elena couldn't stand the idea of hearing her home's name washed away too. It was a great regret of the former princess, that she hadn't been able to help the citizens. Running away was not very knightly of her, but at the time it had been the only option—her parents' decision, and one she'd had no choice but to follow.

Elena took a seat at the bar, cloak pulled tight around her body. Despite her slight frame, she still had an ominous aura about her. But the tavern itself felt ominous in nature, so she didn't quite stand out, either.

A large, burly man approached her from behind the bar. Leaning over one elbow, he asked, "What can I get for you?" with a twang in his voice that reminded her of home. The man had a wide chest and strong, corded arms. He probably could have lifted a barrel of beer over his head without issue. This was not a man whose bad side she wanted to be on.

"Whatever's cheap," Elena said, keeping her lips tight. Showing emotion did not benefit her cause, nor the persona that had originally been a costume and now was a necessity. A mask she could not take off.

The barkeep nodded and grabbed a large metal mug, just as dinged as the armor she wore, and held it under the nozzle as he pulled the handle downward. She watched the stream of ale, trying to focus on the words of nearby patrons.

Just as he placed the mug in front of her, a figure sat down on the stool next to her, and the bartender began pouring another mug of beer. She didn't dare glance to the right, but she could feel their presence like a looming darkness. Taking a sip of beer helped, but didn't completely cure the stirring feeling in her chest. A combination of anger and sadness that she couldn't quite place or understand. Returning home should have brought her joy, should have warmed the place in her heart that had felt empty for ten long years. Instead, returning home to a place she was not welcome only carved that hole in her chest wider, taking chunks that fell away like they hadn't been properly affixed in the first place.

A piece of paper slid in front of her, guided by a black-gloved hand that her eyes lingered on until it pulled away.

The princess did not reach for the slip of paper immediately. She stared at it. Knowing that fate lay within that folded parchment made her reel, taking another long sip of the cold ale. As to not lose the chance placed in front of her, literally and metaphorically, she took the message and unfolded it.

King Salvatore is not available to meet at this time.

Her fingers clenched into a fist and it took everything in her being not to slam that fist against the bar top. Not only had he destroyed decades of political alliances, caused a blight to spread throughout the continent, had her family killed, and ruined her life in its entirety, but now he would not even deign to meet her face to face. Not only did he send a messenger to reject her, but the letter was in a plain script with no signature or seal. Had he even known that she asked after him? Would that change anything?

Turning to question the messenger, her anger only grew at the sight of an empty stool. Hope was a dangerous thing. She should have known better than to have any at all, especially when it came to a man who'd done much harm to people more important than she was. The King and the Queen. The Crown Prince—though he hadn't had a kingdom to inherit by the time Damon's people had gotten to him. Why they chose to spare her, she did not know. Being in hiding hadn't saved her brother, and she'd been far less careful than him. She wanted so badly to hope, to pray that maybe it was because there was still a man behind the killer, the kid who'd taught her how to hold a sword. But with each betrayal, that hope faded more and more until she was just a bitter false princess white-knuckling a pint of beer at a bar in a country that no longer belonged to her in any sense of the word.

Tears had not helped ten years ago, and they would not help now, either. It took a long time for her to move from the bar, to convince her legs and her mind to carry on. After two more ales that brought warmth to her cheeks, she tossed a few silver pieces onto the counter and stood.

Of course, it would have been too easy to speak to the king directly. Her brother likely would have called her a fool for even trying to get into contact with him, especially after all the work they'd done to stay off his radar. Maybe it was that same rotten hope mixed with a desperate desire to find answers no matter the cost. Because what was the worst that would happen to her? Death? It didn't seem such a cruel fate anymore, alone as she was.

The Mirian Princess coming out of hiding would have been at least a point of conversation five years prior. But they'd waited too long. While she still held a thread of misplaced hope, her kingdom and its people had lost the last of theirs years prior.

TEN YEARS AGO

Elena stared at her brother with mouth agape, which was not helpful given the situation and the flurry of movement around both of them. But the words did not register, not at first. "Stefan was poisoned?" she repeated the words, as if speaking them aloud made doubting the truth more difficult. Words caught in her throat and she stuttered, "Is he alright?" Her adolescent brain could not wrap around the fact that death was even a possibility. Poison could cause mild sickness too, right? Her friend could have easily been just fine. But Jeremy's eyes turned sympathetic, and she knew that was not the case. "Who?" she asked, courtiers and servants still rushing by them.

Jeremy's hand reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "We don't know, but—"

The young girl's impatience got the best of her, and she interrupted him before he could say anything more. "But what?" Her words were laced with anger and sadness. They'd just danced together the previous night, how could this be possible? If she just went to his chambers, certainly he'd still be there.

But Jeremy's eyes did not change, and the sympathy with which he looked at her only made her heart break more. Only a few years her elder, he'd always known exactly what to say to make her feel better. But that had been in times when her greatest pain was a fight with her Mother or an argument with Stefan. He stumbled over words that could fix the growing grief.

"The Salvatores are leaving. Immediately," Jeremy said, a calmness in his tone befitting of a future king.

Still, she looked at him with that same confusion. "Where are they?" she asked, hoping to speak with Damon before they left. She could at least express her shared grief, and extend her condolences. That was the right thing for a lady to do, was it not?

Jeremy looked briefly uncomfortable. He let out a long sigh, a breath he must have been holding. "You can't," he said, "speak to them."

Her brows furrowed together in a way her mother had often times told her did not fit a princess. She could barely think about that, now. Now, her mind was half grief, half confusion. There was no chance to answer the many questions stirring around in her brain, however. For Jeremy's lips pressed into a tight smile and he said, "Our parents are looking for us. They'll have more answers. We should go."

Even though she knew the castle like the back of her hand, or perhaps even better, she let Jeremy lead her back through the halls to the room where her father held council. The Gilbert's had never been at war before, so this room saw little action. King Grayson had spent many hours showing an even younger Elena maps of the region, their small continent dissected into eight smaller kingdoms, including both Miria and Zicon on the Southern border, facing the ocean. When they slipped into the council room now, however, it was more packed than ever. The King and Queen sat at the head of a long rectangular table full of solemn faces.

The Queen glanced up the moment they entered and gestured for them to join the table. There were two seats free on either side of them. Jeremy took the one next to their father, and Elena next to their mother. But both were locked in conversation with those around them, explaining plans for their next steps. Underneath the table, Queen Miranda covered Elena's hand with her own and squeezed. For the first time, she felt as if tears might escape from her eyes. Unfortunately, that was not a proper look for a princess in the middle of an important meeting, so she chewed on the inside of her bottom lip instead.

The council of Miria was made up of noble representatives from the surrounding areas in the kingdom. Small towns surrounded the city, many of which Elena had never even heard of, let alone traveled to. One of the nobles, a man in a creamy white button up shirt and a deep green velvet coat, spoke to the king directly. "If you say the Gilberts had nothing to do with this assassination of the Salvatore prince, we believe you. We stand with you, of course." Down the line of different nobles, all dressed in similar finery, echoed the same sentiment.

At the last endorsement, the king stood up and took in the room, eyes downcast in his own grief. He said, "As we said, we were not involved in the assassination of Prince Stefan Salvatore. We regarded him as one of our own. The ties between our kingdoms have been strong for decades, and we do not seek to do anything to jeopardize that. We do, however, take responsibility for not providing proper security and safety for the prince and his family while they were visitors in our palace. We will be taking proper measures to ensure any future visitors are safe here." There was a pause, where his gaze dropped to his wife, and then briefly to Elena. She smiled, if only slightly, to say I'm okay. I'm here, in the same reassuring way he would do when she needed it. It made her feel grown up in a way that she did not quite like.

He returned her sad smile and then looked at his audience once more. "Unfortunately, after meeting with King Giuseppe," he paused, letting out a sigh. "He believes that we were, in fact, responsible for the attack. The Salvatores have left the castle and are journeying back home to Zicon as we speak. I cannot say for sure what this means for our alliance, for the treaties we have in place—but I hope for the sake of our kingdom and theirs, that they are willing to hear us out once the dust settles."

This statement caused quite a bit of chatter amongst the nobles. Elena turned to look at her mother and would have said something if it wasn't for the stern look she immediately received.

The rest of the meeting droned on in the background as Elena replayed her final conversation with Stefan over and over again in her head. He hadn't known that it would be his last. No one had. She couldn't imagine what his final moments must have been like. Had he been in pain? Had he been alone? A single tear slipped down her cheek without permission, but she did not lift a hand to wipe it away.

At the meeting's end, the king continued to speak with many of the nobles in the hallway, leaving the queen behind with her children. She turned to Elena first, reaching out to hold her hand once more. "My sweet girl," she said, brushing a piece of hair behind Elena's ear with her free hand. The moment she did, Elena stood from her seat and lurched forward into her mother's arms. Her mother continued to stroke her hair, holding onto her so tight. "Everything is going to be alright," she said in a reassuring tone.

Though Elena knew the words were meant to be calming, she couldn't help the few tears that slipped out of her eyes. Maybe everything would be alright. They would be alright for her and her family, perhaps. But for Stefan, things were decidedly not alright.

Pulling away from her mother, she wiped her cheeks furiously, sniffling. She sorted through her thoughts, everything so jumbled and loud, the grief overpowering any of the intelligent thoughts she had on the matter. She hadn't skipped all of her lessons, she knew (deep down) how she was supposed to react in these sorts of situations, what she was supposed to say. Unfortunately, it felt impossible to compose herself in that moment. When she finally swallowed some of her grief, she sniffled again and said, "They don't believe us, do they? They think it was us? That we killed him?"

The queen nodded, a sadness in her eyes that mirrored Elena's, although tears did not fall. "They do. Giuseppe," she said, using the king's first name. That was how close they were, how close they ought to be in this moment, too. "Giuseppe especially, would not listen to reason."

"What does that mean?" she asked, some of her duty coming back to her in that moment.

The queen's lips turned downward into a frown for a split second. She shook her head. "I don't know."

Chapter Text

Leaving the tavern and mounting her horse once more devastated the former princess. If only the king had understood her plight, had cared enough to respond. But it was difficult to remember, even in ten years time, that the man on Zicon's throne was not the same boy she'd danced with on that very last night. No, this was a man who held a throne through fear alone, who proudly let the crown rest on his head while doling out more and more damage to the continent. This was not the person she'd had a crush on years ago, the person she'd wanted more than anything to be seen by. This was a monster. And perhaps it was a good thing that he didn't wish to see her. It dampened that last hope deep in her chest, the last spark that thought, just maybe, she could save him.

She sat atop her horse, stroking his mane for a few moments, lost in thought, before she finally urged him forward, into the heart of Miria. The kingdom looked nothing like it had ages ago, and although she'd heard the stories, it was something else entirely to see it in person.

Very few buildings remained completely intact. Some were missing entire sections of stone and others had large holes in their roofs. The ones that still stood whole had scorched walls and broken windows. War had come through this town ten years ago, and the people had never recovered. The village she rode through was silent aside from the sound of her horse's hooves hitting cobblestone. Windows were empty of light, and moss grew thick over the roads in patches. No carts or wagons passed through anymore.

Elena hadn't gotten out of the castle much before everything happened. She stayed mostly inside the palace walls. Most of the time when she left, it was with her entire family and their guard in tow, to visit the Salvatores. Trips to town to speak with the common folk were few and far between, but even in passing, she knew the town had never looked like this. At one point, they'd been bustling and active, with merchant stands lining the road and lantern light in the windows. Now they were only cold and empty and aching, akin to her heart.

Sentimentality, however, would not help with this journey. Thinking about all that had been lost only drove her forward. For if Damon refused to speak with her on principle, he would have to turn her down in person.

A flicker of light from atop a half-fallen tower caught her attention and an arrow wreathed in flame flew toward her before she had the chance to recognize it for what it was. At the last second, she tugged on the horse's reigns, pulling him to one side, narrowly missing the attack. The next, coming from a building on the opposite side of the street, landed deep in her shoulder just to the left of her breastplate, sending her toppling off the horse. She hit the dirt heavy and hard with a grunt and considered staying there and letting Damon's men—because they couldn't have been anyone else—finish her off.

But if she'd learned anything over the past ten years, it's that hiding got her absolutely nowhere. She was out in the streets on a mission, and that meant taking fights head on. Hiding and letting Damon and his men strike, well, it had only ever gotten her loved ones killed. It was time for a new strategy.

In one quick motion, Elena jumped to her feet with her bow drawn. She scanned the rooftops, waiting for someone to expose themselves. With eyes narrowed, she caught a flurry of movement to her right, and let the arrow fly. Grabbing another out of the sheath on her back, she released it toward the archer on the left who'd struck her. She couldn't hear the bodies fall, but no more arrows were sent in her direction. The overwhelming pain of the arrow in her shoulder nearly cowed her then, but she had no choice but to keep going.

She placed a hand at the base of the arrow, holding it firm where it split her skin. Removing it was not an option. The blood was staunched now but would flow freely once opened. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped both hands around the shaft of the arrow, keeping the hand closest to her skin as steady as possible while she snapped off the end with her other hand. The arrow shifted, but she stifled the yelp that crept up her throat.

Silence fell over the village, and Elena took the opportunity to lead her horse between two buildings, tying him to a post. She left him there to skirt around the back of the building, bow on her back once more, fingers itching for the daggers holstered on her thigh. At the base she'd hidden away at on the Northern side of the continent, there had been nothing but time. Time Elena had almost exclusively used to train. Jeremy hadn't allowed her to step foot out of hiding, but she knew there would come a time in her life much like this one, and now? She was grateful for all those moments spent sparring with the guards behind Jeremy's back.

Real combat differed from her training, as she'd quickly learned by the thumping of her heart, rattling as it tried to escape the confines of her chest. Elena put her hands on the cold stone wall behind her, attempting to steady herself. Why were Damon's people still trying to kill her, still trying to extinguish any fraction of the Gilbert name? She had no power left, no ability to lead a kingdom with no one behind her, no soldiers to form an army, no authority to command the people. She was not a threat, but perhaps that was what made her one.

But without a plan, without anyone to help her? One perfectly placed arrow would be the end of her, the end of the Gilberts finally and for good. That thought alone kept her back pressed to the stone for longer than she'd ever admit—if she ever had anyone to admit anything to ever again. Perhaps the horse. He was a good listener, after all.

Her deep breaths were cut off at the sound of rattling armor and heavy footfalls. A battalion, but how many soldiers within she could not guess. It only made her heart beat faster and she had to squeeze her eyes shut for a second more, letting out a shaky deep breath before she pushed off the wall and kept moving.

She came to a half-fallen stone wall at the back of one of the houses and snuck inside. The inside horrified her more than the outside had. Scorch marks on the interior walls and piles of ashes all around. They had taken not only to the streets but to the kitchens, the bedrooms, the nurseries. But why? Had all of this been to find her family? Or had it been in punishment, for supporting them in the first place?

Walking through the debris, she pulled back a half-shredded curtain marred with burn marks to look through the cloudy window. A battalion of at least fifty soldiers walked in rows through the street. Some atop horses but most by foot, all clad in shining golden armor, new and expensive. Did they seek her out? Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a tight braid and pinned to the crown of her head, the heavy cloak's hood still pulled up over it, shielding much of her face. Had the archers identified her, or had they been instructed to shoot anyone who walked through the streets? How had they known to look for her, if so, and how had they known it was her? There were many questions left unanswered, none of which made her feel comfortable standing in the grave of a family who'd fallen for hers.

Shuffling footsteps and a small voice whispering, "Psst," tore the princess away from the window. She turned but saw no one. The voice whispered again, and with a slight movement to her left, Elena finally saw a pair of eyes peering through a crack in the wall.

Elena walked over to her as slowly as possible, trying to keep her own armor from rattling and giving them both away.

"I can help you," the voice said, a small feminine voice whose eyes were deep set and golden, her cheeks coated in charcoal or dirt, Elena could not tell.

Elena nodded. Getting out of the small village now would be an issue, to say the least. Certainly, her horse had already been found, and if they really took an interest in her specifically, how long would it be before they started combing through the buildings looking for the person who'd gotten away after maiming or killing two of their archers?

The small voice continued. "You'll have to go back outside. The way you came. Knock three times at the back door so I know it's you. Like this," she said, then knocked on the stone between them twice, left a beat of silence, and then knocked once more. "Got it?"

"Got it," Elena said, nodding firmly. If Jeremy were still alive, he'd certainly have made some comment about her reckless behavior and how no one else outside their family could have been trusted in times like these. But she had no choice. Either she made a move now and got herself killed, or she waited out the soldiers and got herself killed when they started looking for the horseback rider. Or even worse, she'd bleed out from the wound that still stung. The only option was to hope, which thankfully, Elena was good at.

When she slipped out of the half-destroyed building, she waited for a moment at the edge of the alley before crossing quick and careful. Unseen. There was no sight of the girl who had spoken to her through the cracks, only an empty alleyway and the sounds of soldiers in the streets. At the door, she knocked twice, left a beat of silence, and then knocked a third time. A key turned in the lock on the other side, and the door opened inward to reveal an equally devastating home. While the interior didn't face the same destruction as the house next door, this one was overgrown with moss and mushrooms.

"Over here," the girl said, and Elena turned her head to see a small child behind the open door. She couldn't have been any older than ten, with dark hair tied back and dirtied clothes. After closing the door, the girl walked across the room and pulled back an absolutely filthy rug. Below it was a hatch, which she opened to reveal a wooden ladder that descended into darkness. Horrifying, but the only option as the soldiers encroached.

TEN YEARS AGO

For hours Elena sat in her chamber alone, dispatched from the meeting with her parents and the other nobles to await further news. Bonnie and Caroline sat at a table in the center of the room playing a card game Elena had never quite figured out, while she stood at the foot of her bed, throwing daggers into the headboard. Thunk, one sank into the wood just off-center. Her lids fluttered closed for a second, releasing a long deep breath. There was something absurdly satisfying about ruining the perfect painted wood of the headboard, so clean and white with a sparkling silver dagger embedded in it. Her fingers twitched with nerves. Waiting had never been her strong suit. She'd wished more than anything to be amongst the king's guard investigating the previous night's occurrence. What good was a princess when she was relegated to her room, anyway?

She threw another dagger, but this one clanged uselessly off the stone behind the headboard, clattering to the ground. Elena stalked across the room, picking up the fallen dagger and pulling the one out of the center of the headboard. Pacing back to the foot of the bed, she readied her form, remembering everything that Damon had taught her.

"You're going to split that thing right down the middle," Bonnie said, not bothering to look up from the cards.

Caroline shot a sharp glance at the other lady's maid, and with a hushed tone that was not all that quiet said, "Her friend just died. Let her destroy the headboard if she really wants to."

"She wants to," Elena muttered, readying her arm to throw another dagger. A split second before releasing the dagger, the castle walls shook, sending her off balance. The dagger went wide, sinking into the top of a side table.

"What was that?" Caroline asked, turning to look at Elena, who shook her head. Before anyone could take a breath, someone pounded on the door to her chambers. The three girls jumped up and exited her bedroom to file into the common room. Caroline pulled open the door.

The princess' royal guard stood firmly in front of the door, flanked by two other guards in full plate armor, ready for something, the likes of which she could hardly comprehend. "Your Highness," her guard addressed her, bowing only slightly—which truly signified the urgency of the matter. "The castle is under siege, you are to be escorted to a safe room at once."

Elena, in a dressing gown with a dagger strapped to her thigh, looked behind her at the shocked faces of her lady's maids, then back to the guard before her, who'd protected her for as long as she could remember. "What about them?" she asked, always thinking about someone else before herself.

"Their families are here. Safe rooms are available for them, as well. But we must go now, your highness."

"Okay," Elena said, nodding fervently and trying not to let the fear betray her calm exterior. She stepped out of the room and beckoned her ladies to follow. The six of them, and more guards behind, made a quick path to the lower levels of the castle where the stone smelled of must and moss, with a dampness in the air that made the young princess wish to cover her nose.

"Over this way, Your Highness," Elena's royal guard said, motioning her to follow as one of the other guards broke off to lead her maids in another direction. She looked back at them for a moment, offering a brave smile. Unable to find the words, she turned back toward her guard and nodded, ready to be led away from her friends, with hope she would see them soon enough.

The safe room was a small stone room a level underneath the castle with a heavy metal door and reinforced stone bricks. There were two stacked beds on each side of the room, and a few places to sit scattered here and there. Rations in plain wooden crates crowded the room even more. The queen crossed the small room immediately, cupping Elena's face in her hands. "You're alright?" she asked, checking her daughter over for injury.

"Yes," Elena nodded. "What happened?" She looked from her mother's worried face to her father's concerned one and Jeremy's absent one—they were all safe, at least.

Her mother looked at her with soft, kind eyes, and a look Elena was all too familiar with that said, I'm not sure how to explain this to a child. From behind, the king rose and said, "King Giuseppe's army has ambushed the castle."

Her brows furrowed. "How?" This all seemed much too fast for an invasion. Stefan had only died the previous night and the trip between their castles took at least a week. Their army must have been lying in wait, but why?

The king shook his head. He'd been turning the same dilemma over in his mind for much time, it seemed. Giuseppe was his oldest friend. For a moment, she wondered if maybe her father had betrayed them, if his men had killed Stefan—but she knew her father. She knew his kindness, and she'd seen the sadness in his eyes when speaking about Stefan's death. They all mourned him as a part of their family. So why could Giuseppe not see that they were innocent?

King Grayson, because he was more king than her father in that moment, said, "We were set up."

Chapter Text

"No, they wouldn't…" Elena started, trailing off at the serious look on her father's face. They'd been set up? What did that even mean? Had the Salvatores orchestrated the death of their own child as a way to rightfully attack the castle? Nothing made sense. Only twenty-four hours prior she'd been sword fighting with their elder son and dancing with their youngest. The kings had been toasting one another while the queens talked about signing a new treaty for the following decade. When and where had everything taken such a turn for the worst and how had no one noticed?

Stefan treated everyone with kindness, and even though he often made fun of Elena for her obvious crush on his older brother, they'd still been thicker than thieves for more than a decade. Everyone had known that they'd eventually wed to form a stronger union between the two countries. Now that was not only impossible, but it seemed that no union could repair the wide rift that appeared out of nowhere between the two kingdoms.

Elena, aggravated and not exactly thinking about her place in all of this, clenched her fists at her sides and made eye contact with her father. "I want to talk to Damon," she said, sending all of her confidence into those few words. If she could just speak with him, for only a moment, maybe everything could be pieced back together. Certainly, Damon faced the same confusion she did. Maybe he could get through to Giuseppe on their behalf. They'd always understood each other. That didn't disappear overnight.

"He doesn't wish to speak with you," said the King sternly. Remembering himself, he cleared his throat and looked at her with a kind eye. "I'm sorry."

The Queen waived Elena over, pulling her daughter close to her chest. "This is hard for all of us, my dear," she explained. "We've all lost friends in this sudden siege. But we'll figure it out, of that I am certain."

Jeremy, crossed arms and a blank expression—as if he focused on nothing else but the problem at hand, easily removing all feeling from the matter—said, "There is nothing left to figure out, and we're fooling ourselves by thinking there's any saving this alliance. Like Father said, they set us up. They poisoned their own son and placed the blame on our heads."

Elena detached from her mother and shook her head vehemently as if she could dismiss the reality of his words. He continued, glaring at his baby sister as he uttered the words, "King Giuseppe killed his son."

Grayson cleared his throat. "We don't know that for certain."

"They had their entire military force waiting to strike, hiding out only hours from our doorstep!" Jeremy yelled, some emotion finally showing on his face. Not grief, but anger. "The Zicon King killed his son to wage a war on us that he must have always wanted. Why else now?"

"You think they've been planning this for—how long?" Elena asked, meek. Her own emotions manifesting as fear, sadness, and still most of all: grief. Grief for her fallen friend but also for the remaining Salvatores. Whether they'd lost them that day or years in the past when their plan had originally come to fruition, the grief dug a hole in her heart all the same.

"Maybe their friendship had been fake all this time," Jeremy said, callous.

She couldn't stomach this, couldn't believe the thought that both brothers had been lying to her for years, that the King and Queen had been lying to her parents in equal measure, that they were all fools for letting themselves be betrayed. Her fingers dug into her palms. "No."

"Just because you want it to be untrue does not make it so," Jeremy said.

Their mother raised a hand then, her palm facing Jeremy, begging him to give it a rest with the motion alone. He let out a long sigh before finally sitting down, face in his hands. The room fell silent around the royal family as they mourned the loss of their friends. For hours, they waited as the ceiling shook above, as sounds of heavily armored soldiers approached the castle. When night finally fell over Miria and the sounds of war had quieted, the royal family slipped from their safe room, each guarded closely as they walked calmly to their rooms to pack quickly for their retreat. For that was the plan the King and Queen had decided upon. Retreat. They would not fight back against their friends, no matter how aggressive the strike had been. They would not fall to the same level as to betray everything they'd built together. In the end, their refusal didn't matter.

"We'll be waiting right here, Your Highness. Please, be swift," one of her guards said after ensuring the quarters were free of danger. They waited in the common room as she packed a small bag in her bedroom. Only the essentials, her mother had been very strict on the matter.

With the trunk open at the foot of her bed, the young Princess had no intention to pack. At least, not yet. As soon as she saw the sun beginning to rise outside her window, her plan had been set into motion. Convincing her guards to wait outside had been easy. After all, she only wore a dressing gown, which would not do for travel no matter the distance they needed to cover. Leaving her to change into something more suitable in peace, she armed herself.

Once dressed in a simple gown with plenty of space for sheathed daggers, she slung her favorite longbow over her back, clipped a quiver of arrows to her belt, and laced up her favorite leather training boots. A gift from her father only the year prior. Oh, how the memories hurt to recall, both families existing in peace on such a joyous day.

Prepared for her mission, she pulled back the large tapestry at the back of the closet and pushed on just the right part of the stone wall. It creaked open, and she prayed the sound would not be heard from the suite's common room. But no guards rushed in after her, so she was free to sneak down the old servant's hall.

Elena knew those pathways like the back of her hand. She could have navigated them blind. Thankfully, there was little light to guide her. Within a few minutes, she'd made it to the ground floor, exited out the kitchen, and was walking across the training fields as the sun peaked over the horizon, about to rise on a new day.

There wasn't much time. But thankfully, her instincts had been correct. Damon Salvatore, clad in full armor, with his sword drawn at his side waited under a willow tree. When she spotted him, she couldn't help herself. Forgetting everything that occurred since they'd last seen each other, she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his cold armor.

Something immediately felt wrong. He did not return the hug, even halfheartedly in the stiff armor. He only said, with a voice stern and cold, "Elena," as he pushed her away from him. For a moment, the world froze around them. Elena searched his eyes, her brows furrowing when she couldn't find what she wished to be there. And Damon, he looked at her as if she were already a hundred miles away. A slash of pain broke through his gaze, however, the world slammed back into motion.

He placed a gloved hand on her cheek and leaned down to speak to her, quietly and quickly. "Elena, you cannot be here. You must leave. Your family, you, the danger you are in—"

His change of tone caught her off guard and she found herself taking steps away from him, looking at her childhood friend in a different light. He no longer looked like the older brother of her friend, the one who'd danced with her, sparred with her, taught her everything she knew about swordplay. No. He looked every bit a soldier now. Blood on his armor. Had he killed?

Cold fingers fumbled for her bow, stringing an arrow clumsily. She pointed the weapon at him, her arms shaking. "Did you know?" The question needed no elaboration.

He cocked his head to the side as if he were taking in an opponent. "Elena, you have to understand—"

She fixed her aim, trying to keep the deep frown from settling on her face, but it was near impossible as the boy only a few years her senior revealed himself as the traitor he was. "I'll shoot," she said, confidence gone from her voice, only leaving behind wavering sadness.

"I don't believe you." He stepped closer to her and her fingers pulled the string back tighter. She couldn't hold it for much longer.

"Did you know?" she said again, forcing the words through clenched teeth. No answer. She let the arrow fly. It went wide, missing him by a foot. She hated the relief she felt in not harming him.

He'd ducked out of the way and regained his composure as she reached for another arrow. He strode forward, grabbing the bow out of her hands. "You need to leave," he said forcefully, pushing back hard against the bow with one hand and her shoulder with another, sending her a few feet away from him.

"Not without answers," she said, hands violently shaking as she tried to string another arrow. It dropped into the mud by her feet. Angry and needing to redeem herself, she cast the longbow off to the side and drew her longsword, previously sheathed on the opposite hip as her quiver. "I want my rematch!" she called, tears welling up in her eyes, but he'd already started walking away, leaving her alone as the sun rose above her, casting her tears in golden light.

PRESENT DAY

The forgotten princess descended the narrow ladder into the dark, with the girl close behind. The only light winked out quickly as the girl pulled the door closed overhead. Elena could hear her brother's voice repeating the same words over and over again in her head, warning her against leaving the safety of their hiding place, warning her about trusting people too easily. She'd broken all the rules he'd put in place for her, rules that had gotten him killed in the end.

She climbed carefully downward with one arm, pain reverberating through the other side of her body as the arrow inched deeper with every slight movement. Blood leaked down her chest, coating the inside of her breastplate with blood.

At the foot of the ladder, her boots met dirt and a damp musty smell clogged her nose. The girl dropped down next to her, skipping the last few rungs, and lit a match. It didn't do much, only cast a glow on both their faces and illuminated a small portion of the space.

What had she been expecting from this child? A well-thought-out escape route? It seemed like a simple basement. At least it could offer safety until the soldiers above grew bored and dispersed. But what would they make of her horse, tied up with no rider to be found? Would they kill him? A shiver ran through her, from the pain and the thought of losing her steed both.

"Wait here," the girl said in a hushed voice, not giving Elena a chance to respond before the flame winked out and darkness took over. She listened closely, trying to identify just what the small girl got up to in the dark, but could only hear the sound of shuffling feet getting further away.

Within a few moments, the room went quiet. Elena took a tentative step as her eyes adjusted to the dark. The cramped basement held various crates and barrels. Simple storage. What lay within them now, and where had the girl gone off to? Had she made a mistake in following the only help offered to her? Would she have been better off facing the soldiers outside? At least then she would have gone down with a fight instead of rotting away in an old, abandoned basement.

Had she even seen the child at all, or did her mind play tricks on her after so many years in hiding? Was this what she deserved for not putting up a fight sooner?

The sound of shuffling feet grew louder once more, and Elena caught the outline of the girl as she crawled out of a small hole at the base of the wall behind a stack of crates that had been pushed to the side.

"Do you need help?" Elena asked, taking a step forward as the child pushed the crates back into place with her entire body. Just as the princess registered a presence behind her and began to turn, the flat side of a sword struck her temple. Strong arms caught her as she fell unconscious.

Light burned through closed eyes and pain took hold of her once more, not just in the shoulder where she could still feel the arrow embedded, but in the developing bump on the side of her head. She woke with a gasp, sitting up too fast and nearly falling unconscious once more. Her eyes fluttered shut as she held a hand up to the growing bump. Where was she? This certainly was not the small basement, but a larger room built from stone.

"What were you thinking, Mimi? Bringing a strange girl down here with you?" a stern voice asked. Elena couldn't bring herself to open her eyes again.

A voice Elena recognized responded. "She needed help," the girl said simply. Before the man could say anything else, the small voice said, "I think she's awake."

Fight or flight instinct, Elena forced her eyes open, scrambling back to the corner of the table she'd been laid out on, reaching for daggers that were no longer there as he approached. The man was tall and broad with short gray hair and a kind face deepened with a few wrinkles. He held his hands up as if to say I won't hurt you, but someone already had and her instincts to fear the people around her were beginning to kick in at full speed. Wouldn't Jeremy be proud?

The man must have sensed her fear, her desire to fight back like a caged animal because he didn't take another step closer. Instead, he lowered to a knee and said, "Look, miss, I am sorry for the precautions we had to take in order to get you down here."

"What is this place?" Elena asked. Speaking felt strange like her mouth was full of blood.

He sighed. "What do you know about what happened to Miria? If you were out there wandering around like my daughter said, you must not be from around here."

Ha! What did she know about what had happened to Miria? She'd lived it, just as these people likely had. But she couldn't just announce her lineage to this stranger. At least that, she knew well enough without having to hear Jeremy's warnings in her head. But how could she learn more about them without giving up a piece of herself?

"I know what happened," she said finally. "I fled ten years ago, as a child." She injected as much sincerity into her voice as she could muster. Even though now, she still felt just as much like a child as she used to. Just as ill-prepared to face the real world. If her family could see her now, would they be disappointed in the person she'd become?

"And you chose to return now, all these years later. Why?" he asked.

Elena's jaw worked, her teeth clenching. So many questions without answers. She knew what she hoped to accomplish, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. She'd almost died in the street above, what good could she do against the crown now?

He placed a hand atop hers and she jerked backward, touch foreign and uncomfortable. For the last ten years, Jeremy had been distant, unfamiliar. At her reaction, he sighed once more. "I just want to make sure introducing you to the people here is not a risk to them or what we've built."

"What you've built?" Elena asked, calming slowly. The streets were empty, homes ruined. She'd assumed all of those people dead or gone, but maybe not? Was there a chance that they lived here, below the city itself?

"Let's get your injuries looked at, and I'll explain everything. Okay?" he asked, gentle in his words. She had a feeling he no longer saw her as a threat.

Elena nodded, letting her head loll back against the wall, her eyes closing once more. She hadn't realized just what a strain it had been to keep them open as long as she had.

Chapter Text

Consciousness returned sometime later. Minutes, hours, she had no way of telling. Time had been a strange phenomenon for the past decade. Wasting away in hiding, some days sped by while others crept slowly and painfully. They never left hiding in those years, always had someone to do it for them, so even seeing the sun had been a rarity for the Gilbert children. Whether the lanterns contained flame or not only signaled day and night.

Upon waking, her eyes locked on a lantern hanging from the center of the ceiling, full of warm candlelight. For a moment she forgot where she was and thought, just maybe, the last few months had been nothing but a horrid nightmare. If she stood up and walked down the hall, she'd find her pensive brother pouring over notes and plans. Her eyes adjusted to the light and reality set back in. No. He'd been killed. Grief tried to grab hold, but with a squeeze of her eyes she pushed it away. Grief had done enough in her short life. No longer would she let it seize control.

A woman with brown skin and curly almost-black hair faced away from her, preparing a mixture at a wooden table on the other side of the room. This was a different room than the one she'd been in earlier, and while they were nearly the same in size and structure, this one was equipped with tools of all kinds. Shelves lined the walls, filled with small glass bottles containing all kinds of materials from leaves to mushrooms to things she couldn't even begin to identify. Some bottles sat filled with glittering liquid, swirling, enticing.

Elena attempted to sit up, trying to prop herself up on her good arm, but the entire left side of her body ached, and even the small maneuver was enough to elicit a grunt as she collapsed back onto the bed. This, at least, was better than the table she'd been laid out upon in the previous room. Now that the older man had decided she wasn't a threat, apparently that meant a more comfortable sleeping surface.

"Hey, try to relax—" the woman started, turning toward Elena as she tried to make herself comfortable.

Immediately, Elena recognized the warm brown eyes looking at her and wondered how the girl she'd grown up with hadn't recognized her in return. She tried to sit up again, needing a better look. But yes, it really was her. "Bonnie?" Elena asked, squinting at the woman ten years older just as she was. "Is that you?"

The confused expression on Bonnie's face ruined the potential reunion, maybe it really wasn't her. But as Bonnie's eyes seemed to adjust to the sight of her patient and the sound of her voice, she nearly dropped the glass bottle in her hands. "Elena?"

Elena offered an awkward smile. What was it like for Bonnie to see her again? The last time they'd seen each other, they were both being ushered into safe rooms.

"I didn't know you were alive," Bonnie said, a bit of distance to her voice.

She wanted to explain everything, to tell Bonnie what had happened over the last ten years, and why she'd disappeared so suddenly without a goodbye. She wanted to know what Bonnie had heard in the last decade, wanted to ask what she was doing with the older gentlemen, and how she'd survived the siege. But there were too many questions and her head still felt foggy with pain and grief and a sense of ill-belonging, as if she didn't deserve to be greeted by an old friend.

If Jeremy had known what the remaining people of Miria thought of them for going into hiding, he never told Elena. It made complete sense that people would assume them both dead and maybe that was better than assuming them cowards.

That didn't make it any easier to form words, to know how to address someone she hadn't seen in so long. Her eyes dropped to the floor as shame took over. There had always been people to come back to, she should have known better to believe Jeremy's insinuations that all of her friends had perished. Maybe if she'd convinced him to come out of hiding earlier, maybe things could have been different. But that was just life, wasn't it? A string of maybes and what-ifs, relying on knowing the turnout in order to change the plan. She tried to remember how it felt back then, how hard the decision to stay with Jeremy had been, how idiotic he made her feel for wanting to return. It had been difficult to convince him of anything, and maybe no impossible knowledge of the future would have been able to change his stubborn mind.

Bonnie moved on without response, pushing past the tense silence to care for Elena regardless of all the time lost between them. Someone had removed her breastplate and cut the sleeve of her shirt off to reveal the nasty wound left behind by the arrow. Someone, most likely Bonnie, had carefully wrapped it. Now, she stepped forward to unwrap the dressing.

"You're lucky," Bonnie said, and Elena was certain she'd never heard those words before. "Because of where they struck you, we were able to remove the arrow easily. Unfortunately, the arrows used by the Salvatores' army are often dipped in poison, as was yours. I applied a salve to draw out the poison, which should work quickly. Then, I can stitch you up."

The Salvatores' army. Oh, how the very words made her teeth clench. She wished to wipe his very name off the map.

The princess laid back, letting Bonnie move her shoulder and arm however she needed. The salve stung at first before providing relief. She applied a new dressing to the wound, wrapping it once more. Handing Elena a small vial, she said, "This should help with the side effects of the poison. The fever, hot flashes, hallucinations." More things she didn't need to deal with.

Elena took the vial, her eyes meeting Bonnie's. "Thank you."

Bonnie nodded. "Alaric has been waiting to speak with you. Are you feeling well enough for me to send him in?"

"Yes, only—"

"He doesn't know you're the Princess?"

Elena let out a small, sad laugh. "I'm not the Princess of much anymore, Bon." The old nickname slipped out and hurt both of them in the process.

"You're alive. That matters," she said in a tone that made Elena believe, if only briefly, that it did matter. Bonnie wrung her hands together in front of her stomach. "Is Jeremy?"

Looking at the floor once more, Elena shook her head, feeling a fresh wave of guilt wash over her. If only, if only, if only. It changed nothing.

Bonnie nodded, her lips pressed together into a firm line. "I'll let Alaric know you're feeling better."

The silence that followed her former friend's departure wrapped tight around her neck. It was nearly unbearable. This was not how reunions were supposed to go—not that she'd expected to experience any. But there were so many things she still wanted to know, so many questions she should have asked. Should she have jumped up out of bed despite the pain to throw her arms around a friend she thought long gone? Would Bonnie have even wanted that? How did she see Elena now? As a potential friend? As a coward? And what about Caroline? Had she made it out too? There was both no time and all the time in the world for these dizzying thoughts to take hold, and take hold they did.

TEN YEARS AGO

Elena managed to slip back into her room and re-cover the hidden door with the tapestry, pack her small trunk, and return to their meeting place without anyone noticing her lengthy disappearance. Her luck ended there.

At least twenty guards surrounded the royal family on all sides as they made their way from the servant's entrance to the castle grounds. Outside of the servant's entrance was a small dirt path frequented by caravans delivering goods and supplies, that now functioned as their escape route. Guards took their bags and loaded them into the back compartment of the first caravan. The King and Queen took the first, with their highest ranking generals, and the children took the second, with another general and several guards. They didn't mean to be inconspicuous, only safe and fast in their exit.

Maybe the Salvatores had meant to give them hope, letting them get as far away as they did from the castle before they ambushed. Or maybe they had simply driven right into a trap preset for their arrival. Even ten years later, Elena would still not know the truth. It would only serve as another thing to keep her up at night. But fourteen year old Elena didn't know that, couldn't. Instead, as the caravans traveled along the dirt road away from the only home she'd ever known, she thought about the friends she'd left behind, about the conversation she'd had with Damon on the training grounds, about the arrow fired wide, about the look on his face. It all played on repeat in her head. Not once did she think that this would be the last day with her mother.

After an hour on the road, the first caravan hit a snag—perhaps a large root—and veered of road, the horses whinnying loudly. No one noticed the arrow embedded in the chest of one of the king's horses until much later.

Jeremy and Elena's caravan came to a halt as well, and one of the guards jumped out to check on the situation. He didn't scream as the arrow pierced his neck. When the guard didn't return, another opened the canvas lined caravan door. The fallen guard's body was on display before them, for all to see. "Ambush," he whispered under his breath. The remaining guard and the general departed, leaving the children alone with a word of guidance, stay. Of course, neither wanted to do so, especially as the sound of clashing steel grew louder. Jeremy departed first, drawing his sword. Like Damon, he'd been trained from a young age. After all, every King should be able to hold their own in a fight.

Now, Elena had never been the patient type. She was impulsive, in fact, bursting into rooms uninvited, digging into meals before prayer had been finished, taking lessons when she wasn't supposed to. Her entire life had been an act of defiance from the very beginning. But this time, she listened. She stayed. She stayed long enough for a soldier she didn't recognize to fling open the door of the caravan and grab her roughly by the arm, dragging her out into the sun.

"Unhand me," Elena yelled as the unfamiliar soldier twisted her arm behind her back and lifted her, his other arm barred across her chest. He was unfathomably strong, and Elena immediately knew she didn't stand a chance. But that didn't stop her from thrashing in his grip.

Letting out heavy breaths, Elena's eyes surveyed the scene. The other caravan was on its side just off the road, with guards surrounding it as they fought back soldiers in black. Squinting in the sun, she could just make out the Salvatore family crest on the breastplate of a man taller than the rest, charging into two guards and knocking them to the ground. The soldier holding her walked forward, and she could hear Jeremy's voice in the distance even though she could not see him. He seemed to cry, "Father, wake up. You have to wake up," and Elena feared the worst.

Her captor gripped her tighter as she began to kick at his legs and punch with her free arm. "King Gilbert, come out with your hands in the air. We have the Princess, and we are not afraid to harm her to get what we want."

And what exactly did they want, besides the lot of them dead? She pleaded with her father mentally, willing him to stay in the caravan, praying he had some sort of plan. But Jeremy's equally pleading voice still traveled over the heads of the soldiers fighting viciously against their guards, and it seemed the King had still not risen from the accident.

At the same time, two very important things happened. First, Elena used her free hand to grab one of the daggers sheathed under the skirt of her dress. Second, the door to the caravan was thrown open, and someone began to climb out.

Elena thrust the dagger backward into the soldier's leg, just below the edge of his plate armor. It was surprisingly easy. He must not have been expecting any serious fight from her. A mistake. He dropped her as the blade sunk into his thigh all the way to the hilt, and she ran full speed away, pushing through the ranks of her family's own guards to get to the emerging Queen.

Seconds before Elena could throw her arms around the Queen, an act of fear, a child needing their mother in a horrifying moment, an arrow soared through the air from above and went straight through the Queen's neck.

Miranda gurgled, trying to get words out, trying to say anything. Elena screamed, covering whatever last testimony her mother had. Blood poured not only from the wound but out of her neck as she fell forward into her daughter's arms. Elena dropped to her knees to catch her mother's body, barely holding her. She was unaware of the scream that wrangled loose from her own mouth or the tears that flooded down her cheeks. Not even the pandemonium the single arrow had caused registered in her mind. All she could think about was her mother's warm body in her arms and the blood, so much blood, cascading onto her gown.

The next minutes were a haze. Someone pulling the body off of her as she refused to let go. Someone prying her arms away as she screamed. Soldiers retreating as their guards got more vicious in response to this killing. The sound of the caravan being righted a few feet away. Someone lifting her up by the armpits and placing her in the caravan. The stunned face of her brother. The men restraining her now conscious father, preventing him from exiting. The body, once her mother and now just the body, left on the dirt road with a handful of guards to prevent them from being followed, and finally the silence of the caravan as the horses careened down the road at full speed.

PRESENT DAY

The Princess of Nothing waited alone. It was a few minutes before Alaric—this must have been the man she'd spoken to earlier—arrived. He knocked twice on the door before stepping into the room.

Maintaining eye contact, Elena took a deep breath. "There's something you should know," she said, successfully propping herself up with her good arm. If Bonnie trusted him, she saw no reason to keep her secret to herself.

"There's a lot you should know," Alaric said. "But you first, I suppose."

"My name is Elena," she said, watching the man's face, checking for a reaction of any kind. His eyes widened slightly, almost imperceptibly. It was just a name, anyone else could have had it, could have even been named after the lost Princess herself. "Elena Gilbert. I am—was the Princess of Miria."

Chapter Text

"Oh, gods," Alaric said, placing a hand over his mouth. Then, unexpectedly, he started laughing. "I knocked out our Princess." His laughter ceased, and he lowered his head in a show of respect, a smile still clear on his face. "I hope you can accept my apologies, your highness. I should have recognized you."

Our princess. "That's wholly unnecessary. Besides, I haven't really been a Princess since I was fourteen." Saying the words aloud made them real. How had it been so long? Certainly, all of her royal mannerisms had gone out the window. Not only that, but her appearance had changed drastically as well, obviously with age, but also in grief. The roundness of her cheeks never returned, and while her body was strong, her features were sharp. She'd been well-fed while holed up with Jeremy, but the last few months after his death resulted in a quick loss of weight as food became more difficult to come by and less appetizing. She must not have looked very princess-ly at all, not to mention the dented breastplate discarded somewhere, the hole in her shoulder, and the tangles in her hair. Taking care of herself hadn't exactly been a priority lately. Staying alive had been a challenge all on its own, and having to face anyone as the Princess was unexpected.

There were many questions in Alaric's eyes. But how much could she tell him? If he was relieved to find her alive, he couldn't possibly be on the side of the Salvatores. Besides, why would Bonnie have patched her up, let loose knowledge of his Royal Majesty's army, if they were not against him? She didn't let him get any of his questions in. "What exactly is this place?"

Alaric sat up straight and said, "We're the survivors of Miria, all the ones who don't wish to give in to King Salvatore's rule. Many survived because of the evacuation order your father gave prior to the city's bombing. We hid in basements and the old coal mine. Over the years we'd been able to turn the old tunnels into something more livable. Though, not all of us live down here exactly. It's more of a meeting space of sorts."

It was Elena's turn to place a hand over her mouth in shock. Her father had managed to save people. All the homes she'd seen destroyed above ground, not all of them had resulted in death. Even on his last day as King, he managed to protect the Kingdom. Shock turned to awe.

"You're against the new king," Elena said, surprise and delight taking over. To think that there were other people out there unwilling to give in to King Salvatore's rule. To think that she might not have to go at this alone.

Alaric nodded. "Of course. Myself and about a hundred others. Though, we continue to recruit day in and out. My daughter, as you saw, is very passionate about the cause." He chuckled. "Most people in Miria are against the king. But only a small portion actually want to fight back."

"The cause," she said aloud. It was everything she could have hoped for. Everything she hadn't known to hope for. Everything that had felt quite impossible only weeks prior. Jeremy had always said her ideas and plans would only end with her head on a spit, but that was because he thought she'd have to face the new king alone. But no, there were others. A hundred, even! "Do you have a plan?"

A pleased expression crossed Alaric's face, a small smile and a crinkle of determination in his brow. "Is this why you've returned?"

"Yes. It should have been sooner. Years ago. But I'm here now." That had to mean something.

Alaric smiled again, calculating. "The rebellion is certainly happy to have you. Let me give you a tour of the place. Then we can think about introducing you to the lot. How do you feel about giving a speech?"

The royal family had insisted upon her training from a young age, but she'd always knocked off early to spar against soldiers willing to placate her and Damon if he happened to be in town. She'd attended some classes when her father begged and pleaded and her mother threatened to keep her locked inside, but that didn't mean she had as much knowledge as anyone else would have. It begged the question, why had she been the one left alive? Jeremy had more knowledge and was better with a sword, and of course, either of her parents would have been better spokespeople for the rebellion. She was just an ill-prepared girl facing the consequences of her own actions from a childhood she never thought would end up like this. Of course, if she'd known that her family would perish and she'd be left to resurrect their kingdom all by herself, she probably would have attended more lessons in preparation.

The pain welled up in her eyes. Faced with immediate responsibility and a group of people who needed her help, it felt wrong. Why had she come? What had she truly hoped to accomplish here? She was no leader. What words could she say to inspire the group of rebels who'd lost just as much as she, if not more? She was no inspiration. What could they possibly stand to gain from a princess who'd been in hiding for ten years, a princess who lost everyone she loved, a princess who was neither well spoken nor mild mannered. Who could she be to them? Certainly, not the person they needed.

Suddenly she wished Stefan were by her side. These shame spirals occurred just as frequently in her younger years, and he'd always known how to help. Whether it meant dragging her out onto the dance floor or sneaking her a piece of cake from the kitchen, he could always put a smile on her face. She didn't doubt that he would know how to speak with the rebels now, much better than she. Probably even better than Jeremy, too. Everyone had loved Stefan, and it was obvious why. He played the role of the second son well and delighted every noble person and commoner he spoke with. Again that same thought stabbed through her skull. Why me?

"Princess?" Alaric said, snapping her out of it as the unraveling of her brain slowly and painfully occurred right in front of him. "Is everything alright?"

To tell the truth or not. "It's just been a long time since I've had to give a speech of any kind. And please, Elena is fine."

His lips pressed into a straight line as if dissatisfied with the answer. "This rebellion could use a princess, you know. It's never too late to step back into that role."

Could that be true? It felt much, much too late to regain footing as a royal in Miria. Even if the rebellion was successful, it wouldn't be her who sat on the throne. Her royal status felt useless. "Maybe," she said. "However, I'd like to keep my status under wraps for now."

Again, he seemed dissatisfied by this. "If you insist." He stood, ready to lead her on a tour of the underground establishment. But the question he wanted to ask continued to plague him. "What are you afraid of?"

He asked it so easily, and the question itself crawled under her skin. "Everyone in my family is dead. He killed all of them. My mother first, then my father. And only recently, Jeremy. I used to think he was good. And then for a while, that maybe that goodness was just buried deep. Now I know the kind of person he is—and I want to kill him. I do. But I also know, Alaric, that he wants to kill me more than anything. The last one standing in his way." Death. Was that what she was so afraid of? The Gilbert's legacy ending? Or was it the man himself? His sword going through her abdomen in a maneuver he'd shown her all those years ago. She could picture it so vividly. The look on his face. The sword slick with blood. And that cold, careless expression that did not befit him. "I'm not ready to announce my status or my stance."

Alaric gestured to the wound on her shoulder. "It's possible he already knows." He crossed his arms over his chest. "A secret weapon, then?" He seemed to ponder the idea. "I can work with that." He nodded toward the hallway. "Come on, let me show you the place."

The rebel base turned out to be much larger than she could have ever expected. It started in basements, small rooms connected by damp reinforced tunnels, and stretched out toward the abandoned mine. Candlelight lit each room and torches lined the hallways, which were just large enough to walk side by side without bumping shoulders. Multiple layers made up the mine, all reinforced with wood and steel. Small bedrooms on one level. Dining areas on another. A few kids practiced with wooden swords in a larger room, all carved right out of the ground. All of this, below the city of Miria. In Damon Salvatore's own kingdom, they planned. It brought a smile to the fallen princess' face to think of all that occurred below his reign in spite of the man himself.

TEN YEARS AGO

The feeling of her mother's body slumped against her own did not go away. After a few minutes, both her father and Jeremy were working together to calm her down. "If you keep screaming, they will find us," were Jeremy's words. Grayson only held onto her hand tightly. The tears in his own eyes did not inspire much calm. After a few hours, she began to pick the dried blood from her skin, letting it flake onto the caravan floor. Her eyes locked on the empty space across from the King where her mother had sat earlier that day. It must have been a nightmare, a bad dream of some kind. But every time she managed to convince herself of such, the caked-on blood began to itch once more. By nightfall, they struggled to remove her from the caravan. She sat frozen still mumbling under her breath. "I don't understand. It's not real. It's not real. I don't understand."

Jeremy cracked eventually. "Shut up." He screamed the words right in her face. The tears that had not fallen all day drowned her, then. But Jeremy did not look on with any empathy. He only carried her out of the caravan, placing her on her feet outside the entrance to her tent. They hadn't made it far enough away. The ambush delayed them by hours, and so their first night was spent in tents on the cold ground. Elena didn't sleep. She let the frozen forest floor leach the warmth from her body until her arms were covered with goose flesh and her bones rattled. How could she allow herself warmth when they'd left Miranda in the road? Anything could have happened to her body. Had the remaining guards survived to bring her someplace safe, or had the Zicon army taken her away—as if killing her had not been enough and they needed her body, too?

Days later and Elena still did not speak other than to babble incoherently, always earning a piercing glare from her brother and a much more sympathetic one from her father. No one talked to each other much, anyway. Grayson often conversed with their remaining guards, trying to determine a plan, but otherwise, the caravan remained quiet. Some nights they stayed at inns, offering as much coin as was required for the innkeepers' promised silence. On those nights, Elena let the fire in her room go out and wondered if she was as cold as her mother's corpse.

It took weeks for the smell of blood to finally leave. It had probably been gone after a few days, but Elena swore she could smell it for much longer, always just a hint, unnerving her. One night, a month or so after their departure from the castle, just outside of Mirian territory, they received word on the status of their home.

Blown to bits by King Giuseppe's own order. The surrounding town, too. With no plan and no home to return to, the group grew wary. Jeremy and their father fought endlessly. The next morning was one of many such cases.

"We have sent word to King Giuseppe stating your wish to speak," one of the guards said as they loaded into the caravan for another day of long travel sparsely interrupted by meager rations. They hadn't taken much money with them and it ran dry. Everything left at the castle had obviously been seized, and even their army now belonged in the hands of the new king. They had no way to fight back. Maybe fleeing entirely had been a mistake. But perhaps if they'd stayed, they'd all be dead by now.

Jeremy slammed his fist against the wooden frame of the caravan and it shook on impact. Elena cast her gaze downward, not wishing to engage in whatever act of anger Jeremy displayed. That was how things were. She became more passive and he more angry. Their father, however, managed to keep his head on straight, somehow. Elena always envied him for that.

"We discussed this already," Grayson said to his son with a pointed glance. "There is no other way forward. If we wish to return to our home and reclaim our kingdom, we must come to a truce. This is how these things are done. I know you know this."

He only shook his head, a snarl growing on his lips. "He killed your wife, our mother, and you're going to sit down with him to what? A nice conversation?"

"Jeremy," he said with a sharp inhale. They tended not to speak about such things so obviously for Elena's sake, not that she noticed the effort. Grief surrounded her all the same.

"What?" he asked, throwing his hands into the air. "It's an honest question, father. You think you can even stand to be in the same room as him? Knowing what he's done?"

Grayson's hand tightened, fingers nearly clenched into a fist before he forced them to relax, his countenance shifting. "If you are ever to become King, you will need to remember that sometimes what is best is not always what is easiest."

If it were possible to storm out, Jeremy would have done it. Unfortunately, as always, they were stuffed into that small caravan together, each of them slowly losing their mind in a different way.

"And if he doesn't agree to the treaty you draw up?" Jeremy asked, anger still lacing each word.

"We don't give up. We try and find common ground, something we can both agree on. If that doesn't work?" Grayson asked, letting silence hang in the air between them as he said, calmly, "I'll take his head."

Chapter Text

PRESENT DAY

The aching emptiness returned within the walls of that rebel base. In proximity to the castle's ruins, grief spread from her fingertips to her heart in an attempt to seize all control. Alaric returned her to the base's clinic to sleep for the night, promising a nicer room once she'd recovered. The quality of the room didn't matter to the consuming pain of memory. Her stitched-up shoulder and sore head paled in comparison to the damage done to her soul.

Each death changed her, altered her permanently in a way she could see so clearly now, looking backward. But to identify the pain was to feel it, too. And once the gates were open, shutting them felt a grand effort. How had she managed to lock out such pain for so many years and why did it have to return now, as she lay on a thin mattress underground with the first lead she'd found in years? Shouldn't that have been cause for celebration? Why instead did she feel as if she'd been plunged underwater? Grasping her throat, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

It made her weak, to feel, to have loved. But there was strength in being alone. Nothing more could be taken from her, used against her. Damon had nothing with which to manipulate her any longer. But even in that relief, there was pain. Which was worse? To have love and fear the loss of it, or to have nothing but grief? An impossible comparison. All she could think in response was how much she missed her mother. How much she longed to be small and wrapped in her arms. To have every problem easily solved by crawling into her bed at night. To have no problems so big she could not fix them.

Only big problems remained, now. How to keep herself fed and alive. How to keep herself out of danger. How to introduce herself to Alaric's people. How to be the Princess they needed. How to force Damon to speak with her. How to end his reign. How to kill him. How to avenge her family. How to sleep at night.

She lay awake for hours, thinking and staring at the carved-out ceiling reinforced with wooden beams. How long had it taken to create a place such as this, let alone without capturing the attention of Salvatore himself? A feat, in itself, even if they didn't manage to overtake Zicon and reclaim Miria. It begged the question, even if they were to retake Miria—who would rule? Certainly not she, as Alaric had only learned of her existence hours ago. Would it be Alaric himself? A commoner with no noble blood? Would the people even follow him?

At least with her mind off the past, finally able to push the visions of her past life out of her mind, she fell asleep. Hours later, she woke, briefly forgetting where she was. The room was still pitch black, but with no windows, it could have been as late as noon.

Another place that wasn't home. Maybe nowhere would be ever again. But here, especially, she felt out of place. Lying in the dark, helpless and injured. All she could do was wait until someone arrived to check on her. An hour or so passed before Bonnie appeared to light the lantern and redress her wound.

"It's healing nicely," she commented while applying another layer of the salve she'd created. "You should be good as new soon enough."

"And then what?" Elena asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed as soon as Bonnie was finished. Bonnie looked at her with a raised brow. "Am I free to go?"

Of course, working with the rebellion would be a good idea, but she had plans of her own, plans that involved working alone. Her agenda did not involve putting anyone at risk except herself.

Bonnie seemed confused by the line of questioning. "You're not a prisoner, Elena."

"No, of course," she said with a nod.

Sighing, Bonnie took a seat next to the princess. She placed a hand atop Elena's. "I don't know what it is you've been doing for the past decade. What you've been through. I can't imagine."

Eventually, maybe it would be easier to talk about. Not now.

Bonnie continued. "The people here believed in your father, and that means they believe in you too. Right? I just mean—you don't have to leave immediately, is all. Besides, I think there's someone here you'll want to see. Come to breakfast with me?"

Elena nodded. She could do breakfast. After all, if Alaric hadn't recognized her, no one else would either.

The dining hall was a thing of beauty. Not in conventional terms, of course. It didn't compare to the castle in the slightest. But as far as underground cafeterias went, it was marvelous. A huge carved-out cavern that must have been used for similar meal breaks back when the mine functioned. Now, however, there were long tables that sat at least ten people each lined up next to each other beside an open kitchen where a few worked to feed the rest.

Bonnie led her toward a line of other rebels waiting for food. There weren't many, maybe fifteen in total waiting, eating, or cooking.

"Alaric said not everyone lives down here," Elena commented, uncertain of exactly the response she was looking for. Starting a conversation with Bonnie was difficult, but difficult was preferable to the heavy silence between them.

"There are only a handful of us. Those who lost their homes and couldn't find new ones to return to. Or people like me, who have important roles and need to be here all the time just in case something happens," Bonnie explained.

"Does something happen a lot?"

Bonnie shrugged her shoulders. "The Salvatore army is ruthless, so I usually have people to treat, especially if there's been some kind of mission or someone's risked going topside for supplies."

It was all very strange to the fallen princess. A group of people who didn't leave the confines of the abandoned mine, yet hoped to overthrow the evil king. How did they even plan to do it? What was their strategy? Did Alaric hold some sort of war council, and would she be allowed to sit in on it? There were still so many questions left unanswered.

"They keep an eye on this area, then?" Elena asked. At first, she thought the attack on her had been targeted, Salvatore's men following her specifically. But now that didn't seem like the case.

"Believe so. They know we're around but they're not exactly sure how to access us. Anyone loitering within a few miles of the castle ruins is automatically suspicious, though."

They arrived at the front of the line, killing the conversation as workers scooped food out onto their plates. It look palatable, better than what she'd been eating in recent weeks—almost nothing. Scraps and things she could easily hunt and roast. Her stomach growled.

The pair walked together toward a table on the far side of the room, sitting across from a blonde woman with a bandanna wrapped around her hair like a headband, only a few wisps dangling in front of her eyes.

"Caroline?" Elena asked, a smile stretching across her lips immediately while her stomach rumbled forgotten in the background. To think that both of her best friends had survived the bombing and were here. All those years she'd thought them lost. They'd probably assumed the same of her.

Caroline's welcome was much more enthusiastic than Bonnie's. "Oh my goodness," she said, dropping her fork onto the plate before her, almost finished. "Bonnie said you were here, but I really couldn't believe it. But there you are, here you are!"

Strange, the three of them together once more a decade later. All changed in so many ways, least of which physical. Taller, defined features, a place in the world. At least for two of them. Elena still struggled to find hers.

"Here I am," Elena said, a bit of her nerves slipping out. After so much time spent far away and alone, being with them again only reminded her of all that had been lost. Memories of the three back in her quarters at the castle flooded her mind, but things were so very different now.

Caroline's gaze was kind, compassionate, her smile never wavering. "I thought you were—"

Elena cut her off. "I know. Everyone did. I'm sorry." She glanced down at her food, but the rampant hunger had disappeared, replaced with bittersweet sorrow. "I didn't think anyone was here, either. I assumed the worst and—well, it's more complicated than that but—I should have come home sooner."

How could she express how much she'd missed them, explain everything she'd been through without talking for hours on end? Surely they didn't need to know every little detail about the last ten years of her life. But they both looked on with rapt attention. "After my parents died, it was just Jeremy and I for the longest time and he thought our best bet was to stay hidden."

"Makes sense," Bonnie chimed in. "Old Miria isn't exactly the safest place to be."

"Well, turns out hiding wasn't either. Damon—I mean, the King," she said, quickly covering her mistake as if to showcase a distance in familiarity between the two. Sometimes it was difficult, however, not to refer to her old friend as such. It had been such a long time since she'd seen him last. She should have been able to separate herself more easily. "He found us. I'm not sure how. But Jeremy was killed, and I decided I needed to do something."

If only, if only, if only. Her mind never let her have a moment of peace, never let her remember the past without remembering her part in everything, without remembering everything she could have done differently. But they didn't need to know about all the pain she held deep in her chest. They could probably, at least, sense some of it. They didn't need a full tour of her trauma. Not now when optimism could help them all much more. Optimistic. How difficult it was to be so, even when it was needed most.

"You don't have to explain yourself to us," Caroline said, offering immediate comfort. "We're just happy you're alive, and here."

Caroline's happiness balanced Bonnie's bitterness. "She doesn't plan on staying," Bonnie stated, taking particular interest in the potatoes on her plate.

"What do you mean?" Caroline asked. "Where are you going to go?"

Elena sighed. "I came back for a reason, and like I said I didn't expect that anyone would be here." Taking a deep breath, she continued. "I want to go to the ruins and look for information, but ultimately I came back to kill him. For everything he's done to me. To my family."

"And you think you can do that alone?" Bonnie asked.

"Yes. No. I don't know." Everything seemed so much more confusing than it had been just a few days ago when she'd ridden into town with a clear head and a plan. Find a way to meet with him. Question him about all he'd done. Retake the kingdom. Somehow.

"You need us, Elena," Caroline said, looking at her old friend with a soft expression. "You want to take him out, so do we. But he has an entire army standing by his side. You're just one person. He'll kill you."

Another sigh from the princess. Hearing her innermost thoughts spoken aloud hurt more than she knew what to do with. "I know." But maybe that would be a death worth dying. If she could take him down with her.

"You were nearly taken out by a single arrow before you found us," Bonnie commented. "What makes you think you can challenge the King all by yourself?"

Now she was aggravated. Fists clenched on the table next to the food left untouched. "Because I have to," she spat out through gritted teeth.

Caroline reached a hand across the table and took hold of one of those clenched fists. "Let us help you. Alaric knows what he's doing and we have soldiers too. No army, not yet. But even that is better than going at it alone. Don't you think?"

She knew Caroline was right. That was the hardest part about it. How right her friend was. The entire time, she'd known. Known that everything she wanted to do was just out of reach, was impossible for a lone girl with just a longbow and a few daggers to accomplish on her own. Despite how little she wished to align herself with anyone, she knew it would be a death sentence without them. Hell, it would probably be a death sentence with them, too. And her heart ached at the idea of bringing anyone but Damon Salvatore down with her.

"You're right," Elena said, deflating.

The three finished their food in silence. Elena scarfed down potatoes, beans, and eggs like she hadn't eaten in weeks, then sought out to find Alaric, departing from Caroline and Bonnie with a hug and a promise not to do anything stupid.

Caroline and Bonnie pointed her in the direction of Alaric's chambers before they went their separate ways. Elena followed their instructions, ending up at the end of a claustrophobic tunnel, equally as damp and musty as all the rest. A simple wooden door separated the hallway from his rooms. She knocked, praying that he was in and not on the surface somewhere out of reach. She'd already been idle for two days more than she'd planned. Now, she needed to set her plans in motion.

It took a few moments—in which Elena doubted everything and nearly left to return to the surface by herself—before he came to the door.

"Ah, Miss Gilbert," he said, looking her over. "What do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"I think you're right," she said, no time for niceties. "I think your rebellion needs a Princess."

"Glad to hear you've come around on the subject," he said, delighted by her decision and not at all affected by the abruptness of her decision and her words.

"But," she started. "If I'm going to do this, you're going to do a few things for me, too."

"Spoken like a real royal."

"I am, after all," she said, a tinge of annoyance to her voice. "I need to go to the castle ruins. I'd like an escort and a few guards if you can manage it."

"Is that all?" he asked, a brow raised.

What more should she ask for now, before time to barter passed her by? "No," she said. "More than that. I want to be involved in whatever you have going on. Strategy. Planning. Missions. All of it. If you're going to use me to inspire your forces, I deserve to be a part of the ranks myself."

Alaric nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. With what? Pride? "Of course," he said, extending a hand. She took it, shaking firmly. "When were you hoping to leave for the castle?"

"As soon as possible."

Chapter Text

TEN YEARS AGO

Arrangements were made to speak with King Giuseppe, despite Jeremy's frequent arguments against the idea. The King of Miria could not be dissuaded from speaking with his prior acquaintance. Grayson only saw wrongs that could be righted, treaties that could be resigned, relationships that could be mended. Elena wanted nothing less, however than to go anywhere near the Zicon castle and those who were responsible for the death of her mother. For the Gilberts had not been involved in the death of Stefan Salvatore, but there was no question that the Salvatores had killed Queen Miranda Gilbert.

Unlike Jeremy, Elena had no desire to speak up against her father's wishes and instead chose to suffer in silence as their caravan circled the outskirts of the Mirian region, passed through neighboring territory, and entered Zicon. It felt like no such trip they'd taken before. Zicon, only weeks ago, had been a lovely place to spend time. She quite enjoyed the lush training grounds and the opulent gardens that circled the palace. But now, all that joy was coated in a layer of her mother's blood. Her skin began to itch as they crossed into the Salvatore's territory, and for a moment her hands were covered in blood once more. She saw the moment replay in stark clarity, the arrow embedding itself in her mother's neck and the waterfall of blood that coated her in the seconds afterward.

She jumped back at the sight of the blood on her hands, only to blink it away—a trick of the mind. If she hadn't slipped out of holding and ran into her mother's arms, would the queen still be alive? Had the waterfall of blood been her fault? Did she share the blame just as equally with the one who'd fired the arrow? And where had her fight gone in that moment? For looking back she could only criticize herself. Longbow on her back, just within reach. Why hadn't she fought back? Sent an arrow through the neck of her mother's attacker? It did not matter her young age, she had failed.

Reminders of that failure followed her all the way to the castle. It looked exactly the same as the last time they'd visited. Elena and Stefan had read books together in the library, and she'd dueled Damon many a time—of course, losing each. As they approached, those memories fell away, only replaced by blood and carnage, the feeling of the ground shaking in the safe room. Her last conversation with Damon and the pleading and pain behind his eyes. Would she get to speak with him once more? Would he have anything more to say? Most of all, she couldn't help but worry that they were all marching to their deaths. But Grayson reminded his children many times over before they left the caravan that both he and Giuseppe had agreed to a temporary ceasefire to discuss the path forward.

They were guided from the gate to temporary quarters that had been provided for each of them, the same temporary rooms they'd always stayed in, which had an air of permanence to them before but not quite so much anymore. Now, for the first time, they actually felt temporary. Perhaps this would be their last stay.

Encouraged to keep to their rooms before dinner later in the evening, Elena began to flip through the small library of books next to the bed. Most of which Stefan had brought her over the years, always recommending something new for each of her stays. Of course, on this one, there was no new book to read at his guidance. The shelf felt wrong without. Empty.

If she slipped out, would anyone notice? Were her rooms being guarded? Only one way to find out for certain. Unlike her own castle, now in rubble, there were no passageways to sneak through, so the bright, open halls would have to do.

By the looks of the palace, one would never guess that a war had just been waged by its occupants, or that the youngest son who once resided within had recently passed. But despite this, Elena could still feel his presence everywhere. As she walked toward the library, with no guard or maid commenting on her decision, she saw nooks in which they'd hid together and windows they'd looked out, watching Zicon's soldiers training. Every inch of the castle was swathed in painful memory.

The library stood untouched, vast, with floor to ceiling bookshelves as far as the eye could see, made from mahogany with delicate and detailed carvings on the edges of the shelves. She took in the collection for a moment, running her fingers along the spines of familiar books and letting dust collect under her fingernails.

She took an older book into her hands, one she'd seen Stefan with before, but not one she'd added to her guest room's collection quite yet. Less dust collected on that one, as if Stefan had only slotted it back into its home in the library recently. Her eyes stung, but she attributed it to the dust and nothing else, refusing to allow herself more tears over matters long cried out.

Taking the book, she settled onto a settee in the loft overlooking the library, pulling a blanket up over her feet. She could almost convince herself that nothing bad had occurred within the last few weeks, that she hadn't lost her friend or her mother. That they were just visiting on vacation, and any moment Stefan would arrive to bother her about the book she'd found.

It wasn't his voice that interrupted her reading, however.

"I thought I'd find you here."

Elena snapped the book closed, lying it on the side table next to her as she forced herself upright. "Your Highness," she said, flicking her eyes upward to meet his. She even feigned a curtsy in her seat, but not without ceasing to glare at him.

They existed in silence. Elena eying him distrustfully and Damon trying to figure her out. He was always trying to figure her out. But where her gaze had once been full of feeling, full of shame for her feelings, she only felt hatred now. No shame in that.

"Have you come to kill me?" Elena asked, breaking the silence but not the eye contact. It seemed the likeliest answer. "First my mother, and then me. Is that it?" The familiar stinging pricked the bridge of her nose, but she did not let it turn to tears.

Damon's eyes softened, brows drawing together as he looked at her. "Your mother?" he asked, taking a step forward. Elena shrunk backward into the settee and he moved no further, recognizing the fear in her eyes and hating himself for it.

Just as he saw the fear in her eyes, she saw the confusion in his. Something changed in her then, the fear melting into anger. She stood up. "Your army killed her." Another step toward him. "She died in my arms." Another step and she stood right before him, fists clenched at her side, head tilted up to look him in the eye. He'd finished growing and she hadn't, but despite the height difference, she thought for a moment she might be able to take him down. Maybe the anger alone would finally grant her a win. If only she had a sword.

"Elena…" he said, tilting his head to the side, words full of sympathy she wanted nothing to do with.

Her fists only clenched tighter, nails leaving half-moons in her palm. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to remind her of this moment hours later. She almost wanted to draw blood, to leave scars behind. So when she sat alone in her guestroom later that night she could remember this hatred clearly. A reminder not to long for anything else.

He reached out to place a hand on her upper arm and she stepped away. "Don't," she said with a snarl.

"I didn't know," he started, searching her eyes for any sliver of recognition.

She cut him off. "You warned me that we were all in danger," she said, her voice devoid of feeling, exhaustion setting in. "You must have known something."

"Elena, you have to listen to me," Damon said, trying one more time to get through to her.

She shook her head. "No," she said, finally turning away from him. She picked the book up off the side table and brushed past him, her shoulder making contact with his upper arm as she said, "I don't," and left the room without looking back.

Hours later, a few of the Queen's maids appeared in Elena's sitting room to ready her for dinner. They coated her face in paste and powder, doing their best to cover up the dark circles under her eyes, puffy from crying. They dressed her in finery she hadn't seen the likes of since leaving her own quarters back home. A pink dress with golden accents and lace. It made her feel like a princess again instead of a girl fleeing her home. They set her hair in curlers while they worked, letting them down at the last second. She hardly looked fourteen, but more mature. Almost like her mother. She held back tears.

The lady's maids left and Elena used the opportunity to slip a few daggers beneath her skirt, never wishing to be without a weapon. A guard, unarmed and without armor collected her from the door and led her to a place atop the stairs where her father and brother waited.

Her father kissed her on the cheek, remarked upon her lovely appearance, told them both to keep their chins up and led them down the stairs into the grand dining room.

The room was sparsely decorated but remarkable nonetheless. The two families had taken meals there together quite often, but the marble columns and gold trim never ceased to amaze the young princess. Although, her amazement didn't last long when her eyes met Damon's again. She wiped the smile from her face. It didn't belong. Her father and brother bowed to the King and his son, and Elena offered a small, half-hearted curtsy. Damon and his father did not return the kindness, and the two families took their seats. The two seats belonging to the two Queens sat empty next to one another. A third empty to Damon's left.

"I am sorry my wife could not join us tonight, she has fallen quite ill after the loss of our boy. It has been difficult to rouse her. I'm sure you can understand," Giuseppe said, looking across the table at Grayson.

Grayson only nodded. "I am sorry to hear that."

They ate in silence for some time. Elena moved the food around on her plate, never taking a single bite. How easy it would have been for them to poison her in this way. That, and her appetite was small if not non-existent.

Once the plates were cleared, Elena's still full, the conversation truly began. She kept her eyes averted for most of it, knowing that looking at either of the Salvatores would only bring about that same rage she felt in the library, an anger she wished to contain for now.

Grayson started. "I know that there is much to discuss, and that we have—of course—said this before, but I do want to extend my family's greatest condolences to yours. Whether you believe us responsible for your son's death or not, we are truly sorry for his loss."

"I hoped to marry him one day," Elena said, without thinking. All eyes fell on her. "I mean, was that not the plan? Everyone talked about it as if the two of us didn't know. But we did. We joked about it often, but I think we would have been happy together."

Grayson placed a hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles. It did nothing to help with the pain in her chest. Nothing could.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking down at her empty place setting. "I suppose I just mean that… we all loved him very much. There has to be some mistake—"

Jeremy shot daggers sideways at her. "Elena."

"What?" she asked, that same anger bubbling up once more. "Is this not what we're meant to talk about? They think us guilty of killing our friend. My friend. What of our mother, Jeremy? Is that not enough bloodshed?" Jeremy tried to stop her, but the words kept pouring out. Grayson made no attempt, only watched with a bit of pride. "If we did have a hand in Stefan's death, wouldn't our mother's set us equal? We need not lose anyone else. Either of us." Elena huffed, out of breath.

Silence settled around their shoulders. Eyes shifted. Giuseppe and Grayson exchanging glances. Jeremy and Damon. Elena, looking only at the empty seats. Families on both sides who experienced loss. To think that Damon might have felt the same feelings she did. That perhaps his eyes stung with tears he could not cry.

"My daughter is right, Giuseppe. And we have no interest in fighting you," Grayson said, folding his hands on the table before him. "We have no home to return to. It's been destroyed. We just wish to live without continued threat to our lives."

Giuseppe put a hand on his chest. "You think we have threatened your lives? You killed my son, Grayson. Poisoned him. In front of your entire kingdom. Retaliation was required. Necessary. Lest we look weak in front of our people."

Grayson shook his head. Did her father hold the same anger in his chest that she did? Did he struggle to contain it just as much? "We both know how long it takes to travel between kingdoms. We know because we've been friends for decades. Your army could not have arrived so quickly after the news of your boy's death."

"You accuse us of what, then?" Giuseppe asked, leaning forward over his own pair of folded hands.

"I accuse you of nothing. Because we are friends, Giuseppe. I won't so quickly cast you aside no matter what has transpired. I only wish for answers. For peace," Grayson said.

Silence again crept in. Elena tensed.

Giuseppe took the napkin from his lap and dropped it on the table, pushing back his chair to stand up. "We've repaired your caravan. It will be ready for your departure in the morning." The king turned, walking away from his son and his oldest friend. Damon made to stand up as well, dismissing himself with a nod.

Grayson shot up from the table, walking after him. Too far away to hear, Elena could only watch as her father spoke calmly. Then, with widened eyes, she watched as Giuseppe turned to leave once more and as Grayson withdrew something from his coat pocket. She shot upward too late, realizing the glinting metal in his hand was a blade in the same moment that Damon did. Grayson grabbed Giuseppe from behind and slashed across his neck. Damon was just as fast and always armed with a sword.

Elena ran toward him, picking up her skirt and reaching for a dagger as Damon's longsword went through her father's back and came out just below his chest. The knife Grayson held clattered to the floor, Giuseppe dropping with it. Grayson stood for longer, turning to catch Elena's eyes before dropping to his knees. Damon withdrew the sword and her father fell forward into a puddle of his own blood.

Dagger forgotten under her skirt, she dropped to her knees next to her father, more blood soaking another dress. She flipped him over and he sputtered as she pressed her hands to his wound, knowing even then that it was too late but unable to stop herself from trying anyway. Blood pooled around both bodies, the blood of old friends mingling. Together in death even if they could not be during the last dregs of life.

"Please, no," Elena begged. "Don't close your eyes. Don't go."

Jeremy was behind her, looping an arm around her stomach and hauling her upward saying, "We need to go."

On her feet, her eyes found Damon again, standing stock still with the blade in his hand. The sword coated in her father's blood. His eyes didn't meet hers, only stared into space, shocked by the carnage that unfolded before him—because of him.

Elena thrashed in Jeremy's arms, screaming. "You did this!" She managed to locate one of the daggers underneath her skirt. "Look at me!" she screamed at him, begging for his attention. Jeremy only hauled her further and further away as she continued to kick and scream. She threw her dagger and Damon watched as it soared toward him, sinking into his thigh. He did not react. "I'll kill you for this!" she screamed again. Jeremy finally dragged her out of the room, her screams turning to sobs as she went limp in his arms.

Chapter Text

PRESENT DAY

The following day, Alaric collected Elena after dinner and brought her to the rebellion's strategy room. Like all the other rooms in the underground fortress, wooden beams supported dirt walls. Nothing entirely exciting to look at. In the center of the room sat a large, circular table. For the first time, Elena wondered how on earth they'd gotten such large furniture through the narrow halls of the mine. Not a particularly important line of thought, but it distracted her enough to be caught off guard when a soldier stepped in front of her with a hand outstretched.

He bowed at the waist. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Highness," the man said. He was clad in dinged armor and held a matching helmet in his arms. The sets of armor held no royal crest.

Despite her desire to insist he drop the formality, she kept silent. Alaric wanted everyone to know her status, wanted her to use it as a tool to inspire. Still, the honorific did not feel quite right. A title that did not belong. Just as lost as the kingdom.

"The pleasure is all mine," she said.

"You'll use the entrance out of the old mine and head directly to the castle with your team," Alaric said. He motioned to the man who'd introduced himself, "Tyler will keep a close guard with the rest of his men. You have the next few hours to find what you're looking for and return. I do not want to spend additional resources recovering you and the team, so please don't get into any unnecessary danger."

Alaric ran a tight ship. Apparently, being the princess didn't actually give her any responsibility in his hierarchy. It just made her a tool.

The small force moved out, using a different entrance than the one she'd arrived through. Thankfully, because it was unlikely that these heavily armored men would be able to fit through that small hole in the wall that the child had used. At a certain point on the trip out, the rebel base turned into a mine again, with pickaxes scattered on the ground, mine carts, tracks that no longer went anywhere. In one place, she caught a pile of bones collecting on the ground out of the corner of her eye. Was all of this enough to ward off soldiers if they came looking? What if they were caught exiting? How were Salvatore's soldiers not entirely suspicious of the location?

As the group got closer to the exit, lanterns were doused and they proceeded in dark silence. At the mine's exit, there was no light to illuminate their path, no light by which any soldier could see—even their own. Complete and utter darkness wrapped tight around their bodies, sheltering them from prying eyes and keeping their rebellion safe and secret.

Silence continued on the mile long walk toward the old castle. Nothing along the way was a pretty sight. Everything had been demolished just as the village atop the mine, just as the castle had been. Having seen the destruction once didn't make it any easier. Its far reach throughout the kingdom only tugged at her heartstrings. Families displaced, people killed. All for what?

Hearing that your family home was reduced to rubble is one thing. Seeing it is another entirely. A hand slipped over her mouth, covering a gasp. Moonlight did not illuminate the entire picture, only a sliver of a clock tower here and an archway there. Hardly any structures remained fully intact. Half walls and piles of stone weighed on the ground, like the entire plot of land could be swallowed up at any point.

Elena exchanged a glance with Tyler. Even in the short time they'd known each other, she could tell his glance meant caution. The slightly raised eyebrows and the tilt of his head almost reminded her of Jeremy. But she nodded, despite her innate desire to ignore direct commands from those in a higher position than herself.

The front gates and the main doors of the castle sat open, a painting of the moment just before the bombs, when everyone fled. The Gilberts hours gone, abandoning their home to its fate. Elena walked up the front steps and through the open doors, only to be met by more piles of rubble and ruin, walls half crumbled, and archways leading into different wings. Holes in the roof let in moonlight, but she lit a torch to see the destruction more clearly.

It took careful movement to navigate the castle. Some rooms were caved in and entirely unaccessible while others sat outside with the ceilings blown off. Long past seasons damaged expensive furniture. Snow, rain, wind. Leaves stuck to the thrones still upright at the back of the main hall, only uncovered after she wrestled with a large tapestry that had collapsed atop them. She caught glimpses of the scene, filling in the rest with memory. A Gilbert family centuries prior. The first. Happy. Smiling. Coated in layers of dirt. Nothing about the Gilberts could be described as pristine any longer. It was, more than anything, a fair portrait of her family, past and present.

After digging through the throne room, she managed to find her way toward the East wing of the castle, where her family's quarters were located. The guards followed closely for a while, before departing to look for the armory—with specific promise to meet up in the ballroom when they were finished. Any cry for help from either Elena or the guards would be immediately heard, given the open air nature of the castle.

With the armory in the West, some space sat between her and the team, but she liked the distance. Exploring her childhood home, blown apart by war, should have brought tears to her eyes, should have triggered memory after memory. But with strangers close at hand, it was nearly impossible to feel anything other than annoyed. Fine, maybe Alaric was right. A single arrow had almost taken her out completely, but she learned something from that attack, too. She wouldn't make those same mistakes again.

But now, by herself, running her fingers along jagged pieces of stone as she walked through the Eastern wing's wide hallway, tears began to sting at the corners of her eyes. How many times had she walked these halls? If she focused, she could almost see them again as they once were, untouched by Giuseppe's confusing war.

She could still remember running through them that final morning, when the only thing on her mind was Damon and how he'd dared to stand her up at dawn. Oh, how she missed the simplicity. If only that morning had gone differently. There were those words again. If only. If only. They made her head hurt.

Walking blindly and without reason, she came upon her own quarters, situated across the hall from her brother's, with her parents' the next over, at the end of the hall. The door to her own quarters remained in perfect condition, while she could see the entirety of Jeremy's rooms from the hallway. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated.

Following a lead, that's what she'd told everyone when they questioned her motives. But was there really anything to find within all the rubble? Could anything within those fallen walls really lead her to Damon? Or had she just wanted to see the damage for her own eyes, wanted to see what more he'd done to her? Had she only wanted to add fuel to her own fire with the remains of his? Her fist clenched at her side, her hand tightened on the doorknob. If she wanted to find Damon, she should have marched up the front steps of his still-standing palace. Maybe with the element of surprise, she could have killed him with ease.

She twisted the handle and let the door fall open inward. At her feet, a line of demarcation divided the quarters from the hallway. Elena's quarters sat perfectly and completely untouched. Curtains hung from intact windows, and dust gathered on the coverlet atop her bed. Not even a stray book littered the floor next to her shelves.

The sight dizzied her. To see something so perfect and preserved against the layers of damage just a few steps away was rattling. Certainly, this was no act of divine intervention. For despite the fact that Elena had attended church as a young child, she'd never prayed to the divine more than required, and thus they would have no reason to save her alone. Besides, what good did saving her room do when she had not even stood inside it at the time of impact? No one had gone to any trouble to save her mother when the bombs fell, to save her father from Damon's sword, to save anyone that actually mattered.

She pulled out a seat and sat at the small table where Bonnie and Caroline used to play cards. Running her fingers over the divots caused by thrown knives, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. There were happy memories within those walls, no matter how hard they were to find.

But why had she come? Why had she come? Hoping to find clues within those scattered stones seemed to be a lost cause, though the memories found flowed freely. Her father's study. The council room. The war room. Those were the places that could hold clues, not her childhood bedroom, which only held stories and clothes that no longer fit. She'd taken everything important on her last departure. Weapons, mostly.

Stepping from her old chambers, an ear-shattering scream pierced the air. Distant and faint but horrifying all the same. With a hand reaching for the handle of a dagger, she sprinted from the room, deftly moving through the rubble toward the sound.

The princess fell. Once and then again, over jagged rocks unavoidable. Her hands hit the floor hard, pieces of glass cutting through the fragile skin of her palms. Armor shielded the rest of her body, but her knees still reverberated against the metal on impact.

Looking up, her eyes met the tip of a sword. She followed the length of it upward, slowly, and met an unfamiliar face. Not one of her own guards. Scrambling to her feet, she drew her own sword. Alaric had equipped her nicely. The iron short sword moved fast in her grip, and with her own lovely little dagger in the offhand, it was easy enough to disarm and disable the unknown soldier. Now he lay flat on his back, with her sword pointed at his throat.

Wind whipped by her ear. No. Not wind. An arrow. Familiar with exactly how long it took to restring and fire again, she jumped to the right behind yet another pile of debris. The soldier she'd taken down was wounded, but not dead. Though he didn't look as if he would rise to fight anytime soon. Moonlight glinted off his armor, just catching the Gilbert crest.

What? Could Salvatore really not afford new armor for his soldiers? How sad. If her family had killed another and invaded their country, they'd at least find some way to get rich because of it. Although, of course, the Gilberts never would have committed crimes so heinous. It made her laugh all the same, to find that the Salvatores still needed the Gilberts in some strange roundabout way.

Enough thinking. She popped up from her hiding spot and threw a dagger as soon as the archer revealed themselves, catching them between the eyes. For a moment, she stood transfixed by the blood slipping down his face before she took off down the hall, grabbing the dagger off his corpse on the way.

Another scream pinpointed exactly where she needed to be. She continued forward, vaulting over more rubble with more care than before. She couldn't afford another fall, not this close to the fight where someone could easily remove her head without giving her the chance to fight back. And that certainly would not do.

She crept around the corner, careful to keep her movements silent. What had once been the grand ballroom was now littered with the bodies of rebel guards. They had been meant to protect her, but this still felt like a personal failure. If only.

A man with broad shoulders and full plate armor faced away from her, holding the body of one of the guards. Tyler, maybe? She couldn't tell from a distance. Nor could she tell whether or not he still took breaths.

Time was of the essence, but still she found herself taking a beat too long to analyze the situation. Would it be better to run at him with her sword, or would a throwing knife suit her purposes better? Quiet, quick movements would be best. She drew her bow, stringing an arrow and carefully aiming. His armor was much more impressive than the others. A helmet protected his head and neck, and the chest plate wrapped around to his back. Gauntlets and pauldrons protected his arms. She aimed for the unprotected spot where the helmet ended at the base of his neck. Steadying her breathing, she released the arrow.

The arrow did not slip between those two pieces of metal and deep into his skin. Instead, it froze in midair an inch before making contact. The man did not turn, did not move, barely even registered the interference. While the arrow hung in place, she worked quickly to restring another. Crackling energy surrounded the suspended arrow, dissolving it from end to end. Ash fell slowly to the ground.

Elena released the tension on her bow and whipped around the corner, holding her breath in hiding. She rubbed her eyes with gloved fingers. Surely a trick of the light had confused her vision. Shaking her head rapidly, as if to knock the seconds old memory loose and straighten herself out, she peeked around the corner. Slow and steady. As long as she kept her nerve, everything would be alright. Don't overreact. Don't assume. Her bow returned to her back. A hand on the hilt of her sword. Breathe.

Peering around the corner, the fallen princess was met with only bodies and heavy, aching silence. No. There had been someone there. Tyler's body lay twisted where the man had stood only seconds prior. This wasn't insanity. It couldn't be. No other exits offered escape. He had to be within.

Despite her best judgment, she stepped free from her hiding spot. After all, it only protected her from sight from inside the room that now stood seemingly empty. This proved, immediately, to be the wrong decision.

Someone, silent as a wraith and much stronger, slipped a crushing arm around her midsection and hoisted her backwards. Their armor clanged together, echoing through empty halls. A hand came up, gripping the hilt of a longsword. He held it close to her neck, but not quite touching it. Taunting.

"Well, what do we have here?" the man whispered, lowering his head to her ear. A full body shiver wracked through her. A voice she hadn't heard in ages, tainted by an evil she didn't understand.

It would have been easy to freeze, to let him take her or kill her or do whatever he wished after all this time. But Elena Gilbert refused to go down without a fight. The arm bracing her back against his chest only pinned one arm in place. Her left was free, and with it she palmed a dagger and slashed upward against his sword, pushing it out of the way on the upswing and down into the top of his other hand on the down.

He did not react.

She held the blade against him, driving it deeper into his hand. Blood oozed out, darkening the glove. By this, he seemed unbothered. He only chuckled, dark and eerie. "Anything else you'd like to try?"

"How about you set me down and we have a fair fight?" she snarled. She didn't thrash in his grip, didn't kick and scream like she had as a child in a similar position. No. Here, she only calculated, only worked through plans in her mind until she found one that just might save her life.

"I'm afraid no fight against me will be fair," he said. The familiar snark in his tone cut deeper than any blade.

"Then what are you afraid of?" she whispered, trying to keep the fear from her words even though she almost certainly would die here.

Another chuckle, dry and full of what could only be described as loathing. Loathing of her? Of her people? Of what he had to do? Impossible to know.

Finally, she steeled her nerves and quieted her best senses. "Damon," she said, appealing to any bit of humanity left behind his cold words. "Please."

His own name struck him harder than the dagger, and he flung her away. Elena flew forward, hitting the ground hard and rolling through rock and dust, coughing but not crying even as pain overtook her. Stitched on her shoulder reopened, and blood poured down her arm, dripping onto the stone as she forced herself upward, sliced up palms in the dirt.

Not without a fight.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

People really needed to stop knocking her unconscious. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the harsh beams of light that entered through slats in the caravan. Caravan? Her brown eyes shot fully open, only burning slightly in the sun. The caravan was empty. Her wrists and ankles were both shackled, with chains connecting to bolts on the floor. Someone had removed her armor, and the weight of her weapons was gone, too. No comfort from a bow on her back, a sword on her hip, or knives hidden anywhere. They'd searched her too well. Even the familiar feeling of the dagger in her boot was gone.

Panic started to set in, settling around her shoulders and then diving through skin and bone, making a path for her heart, squeezing it tight until she was breathing heavily. She yanked one hand toward her chest, hoping the feeling of her palm would steady the rapid beating. The chain wasn't long enough. It caught halfway, yanking her hand backward. No comfort allowed.

She could only rest her head against the caravan wall to steady herself. Where was she? What happened? The fight with Damon. His sword coming down. She'd thought it had been her death. So why was her head still attached to her body? Why—again—had he left her alive?

Run. The word echoed through the caravan. The magic. The misty look in his eyes and the vacancy that took over shortly after. Something had to be wrong with him. But that would be too easy, wouldn't it? For all of this to be some mistake, some magical intervention? There was no time for believing in stories, because that was what they were. There was no world in which Damon and his father were innocent in all of this, and she wouldn't, couldn't waste time wishing otherwise.

But the magic was certainly curious. There had been tales of magic usage throughout Miria and Zicon, even when she was a little girl. But the magic spread in gossip around the kingdom referred only to witches in the woods brewing potions and spells used to ward homes from danger in the night. Never once had she heard of magic the likes of what she'd seen. Protection spells that turned arrows into dust, healing that stitched the skin back together like it was nothing.

Bonnie would have answers. Or at least more insight than she did. Unfortunately, it was fairly obvious to the princess that she was not returning to her new base of operations. It seemed her once friend and now sworn enemy sought to take her back to his castle, a place full of memories she wished to never remember.

Why? It was the only word her brain seemed capable of producing. Why hadn't he just killed her? It seemed easy enough to remove Grayson and Jeremy from the world of the living. What was so difficult about killing her? But then again, her own moment of hesitation played repeatedly behind her eyes. If only she'd twisted the blade. If only she'd never left Jeremy's side. If only she'd been able to protect her father. If only she'd known what happened to Stefan. Ten years of if onlys swarming, loud and overwhelming.

Sick of sitting still, she rattled the chains, looking for a weak point in any of the links. If she could just find one, maybe her sentence as Damon's prisoner wasn't imminent. She tugged at each strand individually, but none budged, the iron links much too strong to be broken by some weak, fallen princess. He could break them, she thought absentmindedly.

"Settle down in there," a voice called from the front of the caravan, likely the driver. Unfamiliar. Not Damon's.

"Or what?" she yelled back, anger intricately woven in each word. It was all she had. There was no response. Elena rattled the chains, wrapping her hands around the metal and smacking them against the wooden seat. "HELP!" she screamed the word at the top of her lungs. What were the chances someone passing by might hear and come to her rescue? Funny that she'd once imagined Damon as her knight in shining armor, but now he'd been the one to cage her.

The caravan slowed to a stop, and for a moment, she had hope. Maybe someone heard. Maybe she did have a real knight in shining armor out there coming to her rescue. She'd kiss him for his bravery, and they'd live happily ever after. The hope shattered into a million pieces when one of Damon's soldiers threw back the door and leaned over her, stepping on the chains connected to her hands to keep her from moving. With his hands free, he removed something from a pocket. Elena kept squirming. What he planned couldn't possibly be in her best interest.

He held a small vial in one hand and a needle in the other. She reared back, trying desperately to get away from him. There was nowhere to go with her back pressed against the wood paneling and his boot on her chains. And when the needle slipped into her bicep, the world went dark once more.

In a field full of flowers, the princess twirled in a gown made of delicate cloth, rich and heavy in texture, with lace detailing. She wore a beautiful crown inlaid with sparkling gems. Her hair fell in tight curls over her shoulders, and the smile on her face could not be removed without great force. The air was fresh and cool, whipping through her skirts and her hair as she spun with reckless abandon. Nothing else seemed to matter. There was no pain, no sadness, no all-encompassing grief heavy on the girl 's shoulder. Nothing but joy and relief and the feeling of the sun on the apples of her cheeks.

The girl did not know her own name, nor anything about herself. She didn 't know of any family she had or whether or not they were alive. She only knew of that moment and the flowers that grew up her shinbones, attempting to bring her down into the earth.

Veins twisted up her legs, pinning her dress to her skin as they crawled higher and higher. Still, she could only feel joy, even as they wrapped tight around her already corseted waist and threatened to take her breath away. Roots found her hands, twisted up her wrists, around her shoulders, creeping toward her neck. They pulled hard, bringing her to her knees, only to wrap around and around until the fine gown could no longer be seen.

Still, she smiled, even as they crept into her mouth, and in through the space between eye and lid. Before her vision went dark, she saw a handsome prince with crystal blue eyes, holding an ax, kneeling in front of her with sad, sullen eyes. His mouth formed around words she couldn 't hear, but as her vision went black, she could feel him hacking away at the vines only for them to regrow, tethering them together, ax and all, bound and buried for eternity.

When she woke, it was not with a scream. They'd clearly learned their lesson since the last time, and had since gagged her—silencing any sound that would have resulted after the nightmare that burned through her brain. She was on her knees in a dark room, unable to see more than a few feet in any direction. Her chains were shortened, connecting her wrists to the ground with only a few links.

The darkness was all-consuming and overwhelming, not like the dark of night, where silhouettes and shapes can still be seen. This darkness was pitch black. She could barely see her own hands, could barely see the floor only a foot from her face. There was no leeway, no ability to feel around. They had thrown her in with no ability to get her bearings, and she felt as if she might be falling, despite the cool stone underneath her. Nothing anchored her well enough. Not really.

She'd never seen the dungeons underneath the Salvatore castle, but where else could she be? The rebels couldn't overthrow the king. It was a pipe dream, barely anything, especially when they had no plan. She would die here. Like her father.

Time ceased to exist. Seconds dragged on like hours, and hours like weeks. There was no way to know how long it had been since she'd been dumped into the dungeon and forgotten. She had no memories of the journey, even though it must have been a long one. At least a week. Maybe two. Had they kept her sedated the entire time? No wonder her body felt brittle. If she could raise a hand, certainly she would be able to feel her ribs pushing through skin.

But she wasn't hungry either. Not really. She wanted for nothing, except maybe death. But if Damon wouldn't give it to her then, he likely wouldn't now either. No. For some reason, he could not bring himself to kill her. Not face to face. So this was his only option. To let her rot in the dungeon, to die out of his sight. At his hand, still, yes, but not right in front of him. Not where he had to watch.

Phantom vines crawled up her legs, and forgetting herself, she tried to scurry away, only for the steel bracelets to cut deep into her wrists, producing a muffled yelp that only served to remind her how dry her throat was.

Hours passed. Maybe months. It stayed equally dark and silent, until it didn't.

Voices rose louder and louder, some kind of commotion in the distance. The rattling of metal and then a soft circle of candle light, emanating from a lantern. Even the faint light hurt her eyes. She closed them. Everything felt safer in the dark, somehow.

The light became too bright for her to look away. It shone through her lids, turning everything orange. When she opened them, it was to a ragged-faced man with a mess of a beard and soft blue eyes, that despite everything else, seemed unchanged. He placed a hand on the cell door now visible between them.

"What have I done?" he whispered, perhaps thinking that she couldn't hear him. But she could hear it all, the crack in his voice and the deep sadness that seemed to encompass him.

There was nothing she could do except look at him. Bound, gagged, and starved, she could only bore her brown eyes into his and force him to look, too. Nothing made sense. Nothing. Damon Salvatore wore many faces. The face of a man who sought to kill her, the face of a man who told her to run away, and this one. The face of a man who looked just as beaten up as she did, who looked as if he carried just as much grief, and shame, and fear.

No words passed between them for a long time. One unable to speak, and the other ruined beyond repair by the sight of her alone. He looked on the verge of breaking. He looked just as she felt, and she couldn't help but wonder if she looked just as terrible. But why was he here? Why had he come to face her in this way? Why couldn't he just leave her be, leave her alone to die? Why did he feel the need to keep interfering? Telling her to run, finding her here. The confusion almost hurt more. The not knowing. It gave her a twisted hope. It bloomed in her chest beneath rib and muscle and fought against everything she believed to grow. It needed to be squashed, her hope. Destroyed.

It only blossomed further as he pushed open the cell door and stepped inside the cage with her. Kneeling in front of her, she could see just how truly terrible he looked. Pale skin and hollow eyes, damaged beyond repair. With a key from his belt, he freed her shackles from the floor. They remained on her wrists and ankles—clearly he didn't trust her entirely, a good decision.

She didn't attempt to move. Despite all the fight stirring in her brain, her body would not respond to instruction. As soon as the chains were gone, she sank lower into the ground, no longer forced into a position of discomfort.

It wasn't long before he had her in his arms, tucked against his shoulder, one hand holding the lantern as he walked out of the dungeon with her and into the dim light of the castle. He avoided the main halls, bringing her upstairs to his own quarters.

The rooms he used now were his father's when she'd last visited on good terms. He walked with her through the sitting area and straight into the bedroom, setting her on the quilt. His eyes searched her frantically, looking for some kind of response that she could not give, or perhaps trying to figure out the best course of action. Kill me, she wanted to scream, her own eyes finding and boring into his, too, trying to project the years of anger she'd built up for him, trying to ignore the bloom in her chest that said maybe, maybe.

No. She fought against it. There was no maybe. Not when he'd killed her father, her brother. There was no maybe. Not with him. Never with him. And when she had her strength back, she would finally kill him to finally stanch the growth of her misplaced hope.

His hands reached out toward her face, and she thought, maybe this is it. Maybe he'll suffocate me. But instead, his deft fingers found the tie of the cloth that gagged her. Once untied, he pulled it away, a look of alarm in his eyes. She could feel the indentations in her skin that it left behind. How long had she been down there? No way of knowing. Not now.

"Why?" she croaked, her throat dry and her lips cracked, the word alone causing her pain. With that pain, the floodgates broke open, and her body came back to life. The nausea of hunger took over, and a deep ache settled into her bones, radiating throughout her entire body.

He shook his head, letting his eyes close gently as if unable to look at her any longer. Look at me, she wanted to scream. Look at what you've done to me. He did not. He only lowered his head and exited the room without another word.