[Trilijah Drabble] The Devil Inside


Every single one of us, the Devil inside

The Devil Inside

Elijah’s eyes were gluing on Hayley’s form as it faded and faded until in front of him was a glaring empty white space. A part of him, a huge part, had wanted to cross a few inches separating them, catch her hand, pull her into an embrace and whisper apology after apology to her, begging for her forgiveness until she gave it. Another part, a bigger, more rational part, a part that made up Elijah Mikaelson had screamed no at him. Give her space. Give her time. She needed it all to recover from the horror he had inflicted on her today. That Hayley and him were separated by a firm line dividing the living and the dead, Elijah thought it would help. Then another part, a smaller but profound part where all his guilt and self-loathing resided, had chuckled at him. It had mocked him with a truth he himself had already been aware: that even if Hayley might eventually forgive him, she would never look at him the same as she had done prior this incident. There was just no fixing for something that had been shattered, something like trust. So, as a deep, sharp sense of resignation planted in his heart, he had planted his feet firmly on the pristine white marble floor, watching the woman he loved vanish from his mental world.

A creaking of a door shook Elijah out of his train of thought. Alarmed, he whipped his head to where it had come from, one of the doors perfectly distanced from each other along the endless corridor. It sounded old, like the sound you expected a heavy oaken door in an old castle, ravaged by years and rotten by the mites making their nest inside, would make. Light, even footsteps came next, which simultaneously piqued his curiosity and flooded him with wariness. Had his memories overflown, burst the doors and were now roaming the corridor of his mind unrestrained? Had him, after centuries of postponement, finally gone mad?

“It seems the little mutt isn’t able to handle your ‘naughtier’ side,” mocked a voice. “Look how she was scared witless, scurrying back with her tail between her legs.”

The languid footsteps halted. Elijah stared at the figure in front of him with narrow eyes, his expression a blend of suspicion and disbelief.

The newcomer was clad in the same attire as his own, every little detail down to the pattern on the dark-colored tie identical. But the visage was not his; it belonged to someone Elijah hadn’t seen for five years long. Someone he had tried to erase from his mind but had always managed to sneak back in. Someone who should have been dead by now because he himself had died for a while.

“What are you?” he asked, straight to the point, no need to beat around the bush now there were just the two of them in this closed-off world.

However, the man had different idea. He chuckled dryly, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets whereas Elijah stood with his back straight as a pole, his hands by his sides and curling into fists. “I’m quite certain you know the answer better than anyone else. After all, it was you who made me what I am. Or was.”

“It’s precisely because I know what you were that I have to ask. By now you should have been–”

“Dead,” the man cut him, “and buried a thousand feet beneath the cold blue tides, courtesy of your hand. I’m no more alive than you are in this chambre de chaise. Such pristine white! I have to say it is very aesthetically pleasing to the eye, although not quite a match to your soul, isn’t it?”

“Tristan,” Elijah said, stalking closer until they were close enough that Elijah could smell the cologne on him. Same as he remembered. Same as his.

“Yes and no,” Tristan replied, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “The real Tristan died with you – his five-year torment came to an end at last. I am the Tristan on your mind, the one you cannot sink to the bottom of the ocean and seek to forget.”


We made each other, didn’t we? Your mind created me, same as it had created the Beast you tried to hide behind the Red Door. You cannot delete me, no more than you could stop the Beast from going after your mutt.”

“You came out to taunt me,” said Elijah with a sneer. He crossed the few last steps, his shadow looming over the ghost of his first sired. Crimson dyed the whites of his eyes and dark veins were slithering underneath his skin. He heard the Beast’s low growls behind the Red Door.

“No,” Tristan answered, startling him by placing a hand over his breast pocket, “I came out to appease your Beast…” His hand moved and tugged at Elijah’s tie. “… as I have done so for the the last millennium, with or without your knowledge.”

The Beast’s growls became louder. They sent a rumble through the bleach-white corridor.

“Is that so?” Elijah asked. His hand grabbed the back of Tristan’s neck, pausing or a while to savor the warmth seeping into his skin. Without so much as a sign, he pulled Tristan in, and crashed their lips together.

[Rant] Queen Death – The Originals 4×09

Warnings: spoilers, subjective opinions, careless language, messing up the order of events

  • In the last rant, I predicted that Sofya was likely to be killed while Elijah would survive the ordeal, y’know, thinking like a conventional viewer. After watching this episode, I felt the need to grab a facehugger and slap it against my face. Repeatedly. Never have I felt so wrong and stupid in my life, like the writers had super-kicked the chair under me and I never saw it coming as my face hit the floor. Hard.


  • Please excuse me a moment to pick up and put together my broken jaw.
  • So, in contrast to my prediction, Sofya survives whereas Elijah doesn’t. In other world, Taylor Cole’s job is secured whereas Daniel Gillies’ is put in jeopardy.


  • Nah, just kiddin’. Elijah is not gone. His leaving the show would be a risk too big to make at this point. Technically he’s dead – not those temporary, fake deaths we’ve seen at least a dozen times before – but he isn’t gone. Freya manages to grasp his dying soul and put it in the same pendant she used to keep Finn and Hope helps confirm that he is still in there. So the good news is his siblings and Hayley will stop at nothing to bring him back to life.
  • Kinda like the way Stefan was killed near the end of the fifth season and was revived later. To add to the suspense, y’know.
  • That is to say, Elijah haters, please contain your joy. You’re likely disappointed in a few next episodes.
  • Seriously, where are all the hates for Elijah coming from, aside from Davina’s matter? Some overzealous Klayley shippers?
  • (Keyword: some)
  • On the other hand, the bad news is in the tug war between Freya’s witchy power and the Hollow’s, the pendant shatters and so does Elijah’s mind. Cue Hayley’s journey into the labyrinth of the mind of her thousand-year-old immortal lover with lots of psychological issues in order to search and get said lover back. Cue the Red Door storyline we’ve been waiting since its introduction in the second season. Kinda anxious to see the fabled ‘Beast’ behind the Red Door.
  • Wait, is this the Beauty and Beast storyline?!
  • I remember writing an original story similar to this: a beautiful woman wanders into the dark corners and releases the beast, literally and figuratively.
  • Extremely curious about Hayley’s reaction when facing the Beast, a part of Elijah that she has never witnessed for herself. Will she embrace it or will it decimate their relationship?
  • On a side note, R.I.P to all Strix members. Lucky for you Hell is already burnt to crisp (kind of an irony isn’t it?).
  • Rest, dear Tristan, for your five-year torment finally comes to an end. After watching his deleted scene in the third season, I was a bit glad that he was freed from his everlasting cage.
  • Also, R.I.P to my hope of seeing Tristan onscreen ever again. Where the heck is his vampire origin storyline?
  • Forever bitter about it.
  • Poor Rory who is left all alone in this world.
  • Speaking of Rory, where is she? Will she ever come back?
  • Let’s get back to the rest of the episode.
  • Hayley wakes up and is surprised to see half of bed still perfectly made, meaning someone who is supposed to unmake it hasn’t.


  • Hayley and Elijah are obviously sharing a bed, to no one’s surprise.
  • I find myself to be quite fond of these little domestic details.
  • Klaus’ indulging Hope’s sweet tooth in the most extravagant and Klaus-like way as possible. Don’t we love it? Of course we love it *imitating Nathan Lane’s voice*. Every second of it.
  • One of my favorite frame is Klaus’s feeding his daughter a beignet.


  • Hope’s indeed a princess. Her parents were king and queen and her brother is now a self-proclaimed king of New Orleans.
  • Aw, Freya’s making Keelin breakfast. Didn’t know Freya could cook anything other than magic concoctions.
  • Fluffiness doesn’t last long because crazy-ass bitch Hollow has to ruin everything for everyone.
  • Wow, Vincent. He can’t seriously ask the Mikaelsons to give up on one of their own, can he? He said it himself in the second season: “When push comes to shove, always trust a Mikaelson to back another Mikaelson.”
  • I hope Vincent doesn’t let his bias cloud his judgment. He hates Elijah and has been reminding viewers of it for episode after episode, that much we know. What I wonder is whether he unconsciously allows his hatred to invade his decision making process because if it were someone else other than Elijah or a Mikaelson, he probably would try harder to find a way other than sacrifice. Does he realize that what he does, asking the Mikaelsons to give up Elijah’s life, is pretty similar to what Elijah and Freya’s did to Davina five years ago? Sacrificing one life to save others?
  • The sheer amount of Klelijah in this episode alone is enough to kill a Klelijah shipper’s heart with a heart attack ten times over, from Klaus’s offering to literally die for Elijah, Elijah’s asking for Klaus first thing when he sees Freya, to Klaus’s rage, denial and breakdown as he shouts at Freya. He had witnessed his brothers’ deaths before but not once had he broken down. He was indifferent the first time Finn died and sad the second; he was furious the first time Kol died and sad the second but he wasn’t in denial like this. It’s because of all brothers Elijah’s the most important to Klaus. “The monster in me can only be checked by the monster in you” and “Without you by my side I don’t think I can survive my own love for my daughter”.
  • Now I’ve seen some complaints about Hayley’s reaction when Elijah dies, mostly that she doesn’t express strong outbursts of emotions like she did when Jackson perished even though Elijah is her true love. I’d say the reason she hasn’t burst into tears or screamed is because she, like Klaus, is in denial. Jackson was mortal and the moment she saw Tristan’s hand going into Jackson’s chest, things were over; there was no way to save Jackson. But it’s different with Elijah in a way that Elijah could be save and Hayley was counting much on Freya’s power to wrench his soul from true death. The single tear she sheds later as realization begins to dawn on her that Elijah might be gone speaks much more of her pain than screaming or crying out loud ever could. That, in my opinion, is praise-worthy and it proves Phoebe’s acting skill has improved by each season.


  • In fact, Klaus’s, Hayley’s and Freya’s expressions in this scene are all beautifully acted and very heart-wrenching to watch.
  • Once again, Hope’s saving the day when she helps confirm Elijah’s soul is in the broken pendant. I’m crossing my fingers for Hope to kick the Hollow’s ass in the season finale.


  • One thing I forgot to mention in the last entry: Vincent said the Ancestors’ spell to trap the Hollow requires the life of an immortal, and a true immortal like an Original or Marcel, not a normal vampire. Then, who was that immortal that was sacrificed when the Ancestors first trapped the Hollow?
  • Vincent’s venturing into the dark side.
  • Hollow bitch is flesh and blood again. That means she can be killed now, right?


  • Last but not least, one mention of a certain brave blond bartender has Klaus going from bitterly sarcastic to speechless. Has ‘Miss Mystic Falls’ ever managed to do that? Nope.
  • Yeah, Cami would have been proud of him but incredibly sad.

Looking forward to Kol and Bekah’s return and their reaction to Elijah’s death.

[Trilijah] Visit from the Other Side

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairings: very, very slight Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genre: fanfiction

Characters:  Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: The very last thing the Mikaelson siblings, taking refuge from death in Freya’s dream world as they were, expected was a knocking on their door.


On the threshold was casually standing a man whose face none of them had expected or desired to see in this world. 

Tristan de Martel, Elijah’s first sired vampire, who should be drowning in a magically sealed container lying somewhere in the depth of an ocean none of them cared which. 

Aware or not, all the Mikaelson siblings sported a ubiquitous look of surprise. 

The bad kind of surprise. Like, really bad.

The very last thing the Mikaelson siblings, taking refuge from death in Freya’s dream world as they were, expected was a knocking on their door.

It happened not terribly long after they had settled in this darling family home, still figuring out what to do to kill the indefinite time they might have to spend here until Hayley found the cure. Tending to the imaginary, ever perfectly groomed garden? Reading the limited number of books Freya had in the library, most of which being fairy tales of various cultures they had read far too many times to be appropriate? Playing board games?

The knocking was soft, indicating a level of politeness, but every one of them felt it as if it was knocking on their mind.

The rest of them gave Freya a dubious look, and the eldest Mikaelson shook her head lightly as a means of refuting this was her doing.

… which could only be translated as an intruder!

All of them tensed up.

The knocking didn’t cease even when it received no answer from the other side of the door; the knocker, whatever their identity was, was persistent.

Being the most composed amongst them, Elijah stepped forward to answer the door.

On the threshold was casually standing a man whose face none of them had expected or desired to see in this world.

Tristan de Martel, Elijah’s first sired vampire, who should be drowning in a magically sealed container lying somewhere in the depth of an ocean none of them cared which.

Aware or not, all the Mikaelson siblings sported a ubiquitous look of surprise.

The bad kind of surprise. Like, really bad.

“Hello, Elijah, Freya,” he greeted them with a cordial smile far too fake for those who had learnt of his many menageries. “It’s been a while, Kol. And Rebekah dear, your beauty is even more ravishing than the last time we met. How many centuries was it?”

“What the bloody hell is he doing here?” Rebekah asked, giving the unexpected and unwelcome ‘guest’ her darkest glare possible.

“What’s your intention?” Freya hissed, joining her little sister in the intense competition to find who could glare Tristan to obliteration first. “Spill it quick before I send you screaming back to your salted rotting flesh!”

Tristan appeared little affected by the raging Original sisters, too accustomed to their combined wrath. Mikael’s blood, both of them. “I have absolutely no doubt of your varied talents, Freya, put in slumber as you are currently. But I’m quite certain you do not want to send your brother Elijah along with me when you expel me from your little ‘nursery school’.”

“What do you mean by that, Tristan?” Elijah asked in his cool, authoritative voice, one he would use with his sirelings to remind them of their position, plus a sharp menacing edge reserved only for his eldest, most stubborn and petulant ‘child’.

“A spell, courtesy of my witches whom you sucked them dry,” Tristan explained, “to make certain that should the Chambre de Chasse be demolished, which it had, sorrily, I would not suffer at the bottom of the ocean-”

“A parasitus honestum,” Kol made a derisive sound.

“Yes, a parasite spell,” Tristan said, unapologetically, “and it is most fitting that the host be my sire, who is an indestructible, omnipotent being.” His eyes scanned their faces, “Though I’m now less confident about the description, seeing all of you taking refugee here from whom? A three-hundred-year-old Marcel Gerald!”

“You’ve been clinging to my brother like a vile disease,” said Rebekah with no intention of masking the disdain in her tone, “and what do you demand now? A place under our roof as well?”

“That would be the best case scenario but I will not stretch the extent of your generosity as I am perfectly content taking resident in the alcove, amongst your lovely rose bushes. However, I come not with malice but with a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Freya.

“A mutually befitting one, for whose details I dare request my sire’s private audience.”

Kol’s and Rebekah’s eyes directed towards Elijah, anticipating his decision. He, in turn, exchanged a brief glance with his elder sister and received her nod.

“Come in,” Elijah said, gesturing his first sired to follow, which he did.

Kol sported a murderous look as he eyed Tristan’s disappearing back while Rebekah and Freya folded their arms, both contemplating what the wicked vampire’s deal was, their brother’s reaction and how they should dispose the annoying little twit some time later. There was no way they would gladly have him sharing their place!

Elijah and Tristan walked a short, muted walk along the corridor and reached a room at the end.

Tristan didn’t have a second to admire Freya’s artistic eye in her selection of furniture because as soon as the door was secured, he found himself pressed flat against the wall by a serenely furious Elijah – there was a smile on his lips and fire in his eyes.

To be completely honest, Tristan did lament the lack of such rough treatment during his ‘non-Elijah’ period, discomfort aside.

He managed to not grimace despite the ache clawing its hooks along his backbone. In this dream world nothing was real and yet every sensation felt so genuine, so true. The power of the mind was indeed a force to be reckoned with.

“You do realize you cannot truly hurt me, don’t you?”

A hand in Tristan’s ribcage was his reply.

Tristan inhaled a sharp breath, his lips slightly quivering as an expected result of a hand’s taking hold of his heart. Elijah arched a mocking eyebrow.

“It’s true you can still hurt me,” he bleated, “… to a certain degree.”

Tristan wouldn’t say he did not miss this exquisite pain either. A masochist through and through, he was aware, in spite of his torture pastime, whose peculiar needs only the brutality of a certain Original could satisfy.

“And if I try a little harder,” said Elijah, his head titling and his eyes piercing darkly into Tristan’s impossibly blue orbs, “I might succeed in uprooting you from this realm and flinging you back to where you belong.”

He punctuated his sentence with a squeeze of his fingers.

“I hate to disappoint you, Elijah, but it requires a much longer, complicated procedure than a heart ripped or a head chopped to legitimately put an ocean between us. The link that binds your spirit and mine was The Sisters’ peak and it is annulled only if my suffering is.”


“When Aya put you and Niklaus in comatose, she had the witches make you the anchor for my soul as secure measures, just in case their crafted world collapsed. Thanks to her thoughtfulness, wherever you are, I am,” he chuckled. “I’ve been lurking in your mind since, seeing through your eyes how the prophecy unfolded. My sincerest apologies for being privy.”

“Now you decided to blow your cover to say ‘hi’?”

“As we’re all here, it’s futile to keep myself hidden… Would you mind retracting your hand? I’m not bothered by our closeness but a palm squeezing my incorporeal heart is very distracting.”

Elijah snorted but pulled his hand out from Tristan’s chest nonetheless. The gaping hole closed on itself just as how vampirism worked, only there was no tear on Tristan’s immaculate shirt and no blood on Elijah’s hand.

“Thank you,” he breathed, adjusting his jacket out of habit. “I imagine Freya wouldn’t be too pleased to spot bloodstains on her rugs. The overall style of this cozy family house is worth appraising; for someone who spent the better years of her long lifetime asleep, she did acquire such refined taste…”

“Do me a favor and cut the wild goose chase, my darling Tristan,” Elijah reminded him. His hand had departed from Tristan’s chest to rest on this throat, his fingernails digging faint crescent imprints on the skin of his Adam’s apple, restraining him in a manner he knew Tristan would fancy rather than abhor.

Feeling the organ bobbing as response to Tristan’s smallest reaction brought Elijah a euphoric sense of dominance. It was even better when the younger vampire was more than willing to submit himself.

Elijah almost felt sorry for the absence of their strange dynamic which he had established with no partner save the one in front of him.

“I would like to trade some information in exchange for Rory’s freedom and mine. I trust the she-wolf packed her up along with her few belongings on the way out of New Orleans? If I can have your words on that, we shall advance to the rest of the deal.”

“She did,” Elijah chuckled. “An asset is still an asset, no matter how low its price has dipped. Provided that we can set dear old demented Aurora on the loose again, how about you? The best we can do is scourge you up from the seabed, no more. As far as I’m concerned, the seal on your genie lamp is marked ‘everlasting’.”

“One thing we’ve learnt from our tangled history with witches is every magic has a loophole. That’s how the mighty Mikaelsons narrowly escaped The Beast’s death sentence, isn’t it? The Serratura is no different.”

Elijah’s dark eyes narrowed, half-suspicion, half-intrigued. “You originally intended to use it to trap us for all of eternity, and now you claim it has a loophole?”

“Loopholes exist despite our will, Elijah,” Tristan said, shrugging. “As a matter of fact, Aya had been working on discovering the key to unlock the Seraturra. Her research, though incomplete, was not without merit.”

“What did she find?”

“I haven’t had your words, Elijah. Rory’s freedom and mine for your cures, including Rebekah’s hex.”

“Should I place my trust in you, huhm?” Elijah asked, leaning in so that his breath ghosted over the shell of Tristan’s left ear.

Once again the vampire had to admire the power of the mind – if the body had experienced a sensation, gotten used to it, the mind would replicate it to ghastly detail.

“After all it was you who co-starred Lucien in this farce.”

“We were allies once but our allegiance was fragile as our mutual trust. In fact, the whole ‘Beast’ affair was the peasant’s brainchild. Besides-”

In a bold move that was outside his usual submissive spectrum, Tristan reached up and fixed Elijah’s perfectly knotted tie, not-so-absent-mindedly pressing his thumb to his sire’s throat in the same manner Elijah’s fingernails were marking his neck. Unexpected yet unsurprised, Elijah allowed his rebellious act.

“If I am to pick a side, yours seems to have the brightest prospect of winning.”

A laugh.

“Considering your dire state, we are the only ones with whom you can bargain.”

“True,” Tristan admitted, “but as a wise man said, ‘make peace with your enemies, not your friends’, and an ally is better than none. I believe we have a common enemy: Marcel Gerard.”

“How is it so? Wasn’t he a prominent candidate that you hand-picked?”

Tristan’s voice was edged with chill. “He took the Strix oath and he murdered his brothers and sisters. You may not bat an eye for those who perished for you, but I do, and I intend to do right by them.”

Elijah’s eyes bore into Tristan’s blue irises, now seemingly ablaze by his rare display of emotions, as if trying to extract his true intention from them. He said, after a silent while, “You have my words. You and Aurora shall both be free, and you may seek justice or vengeance as you please.”

“Thank you. As such I shall fulfill my end of the bargain. For years the Strix had been searching high and low for a particular rare subspecies of witches who all originated from a coven…”

Kol and Rebekah were still giving Tristan the murder eyes when Elijah and Tristan joined them in the living room.

“Don’t tell me the twit is going to breathe the same air as the rest of us,” Rebekah was the first to voice her displease.

“He is going to stay here with us,” Elijah replied. “At least he’s going to provide some entertainment to while away our time here.”

“Hah, you mean by experimenting the various methods of dismemberment on him, then putting him back only to do it again?” Kol chuckled darkly, pointing to said subject of his future ‘experiments’.

“Typical Kol Mikaelson,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “And yet I heard you were softened by the ultimate power of love.”

“Don’t ruin our furniture,” reminded Elijah as he left the three of them to squabble and took Freya to a quieter room.

(By the time the two eldest Mikaelsons came back from their discussion, their younger siblings and Tristan were already engulfed in a fierce battle of who could build a hotel first.

“I’ll be the bank,” announced Freya as she hopped in and claimed her post.)

“The Siphoners… Yes, I heard of them during my sporadic conscious episodes throughout the centuries. They are a strange, dangerous and rare kind of witches who could siphon magic from other witches and dark objects. From what I know, the few of them were shunned by their own people, hunted and eventually trapped in a prison world.”

“And became vampires, or Heretics, according to the Strix’s research. Tristan theorized that their siphoning ability may be the cures to us, even Rebekah’s curse.”

There was a sharp glint in Freya’s light-colored eyes. “He may have a point,” she said, stroking her chin. “Marcel’s bites, Rebekah’s mark and the Seraturra are all sources of magical energy which can be siphoned and rendered devoid of magic.”

“If only we could communicate with Hayley and give her a headstart.”

“Worry not, brother,” she assured him. “With three Original vampires and an ancient vampire here, I’m sure we can come up with a little spell…”


I just really really miss Tristan~~.


[Trilijah] Forbidden–Part II

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: M

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: Took place after Tristan tortured Lucien in The Originals 3×03 – I See You in Hell or New Orleans


Until the end of his life, Tristan could never forget how it felt to have his neck punctured by something sharper than iron and copper.

Until the end of his life, Tristan could never forget how it felt to have his neck punctured by something sharper than iron and copper.

Perhaps if he had never ventured into that shady passage in the corner of the west garden, none of this nonsense would have happened, and he would have remained ignorant of the walking, talking peril so close to his family and himself − there was bliss in ignorance after all. Nevertheless, how many ‘ifs’ would not suffice to alter the reality that Tristan had done the shouldn’ts out of his own arrogance. This castle had been home to the de Martels for generation after generation; why should the future head of the family deter his steps due to fright of a dark spot in his own garden? It was not only absurd but cowardly as well, and cowardice in any form or shape never bode well with his proud lord father.

Tristan spotted a shadow at the dead end of the passage and his right hand immediately went to the dagger lodged in his belt. It would be too cumbersome to carry a sword around in time of peace, so he opted for a smaller, more portable weapon and a well-whetted dagger was perfect. His father had had the exotic blacksmiths from the far East crafted the blade for his eighteenth name day and it had been Tristan’s favorite item ever since.

His ears picked up a whooshing sound and a whiff of crisp air brushed his cheek, seeping into his skin through the pores to raise a layer of goosebumps on his arms. The atmosphere seemed off somehow − unusual, condensed and ominous. It should have alarmed him into retreat, yet he ignored his visceral feeling and did the opposite: brandishing his dagger and bracing himself for an attack. He should have shouted for the guards right at the moment he saw a suspicious figure, later he would reflect on this particular incident, and when he decided to do so, it was a tad too late. Something clamped over his mouth − perhaps a large hand − and any attempted sound never made it out alive. At the same time his left wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. An assassin! His mind deduced. Strong enough to suspend the use of his left arm while cunning enough to bypass the myriad of guards to enter this central area. Someone of this caliber didn’t come this far for a simple sack of gold or jewel; he was determined for blood. The thought of his Aurora, alone and vulnerable in her boudoir flashed. A helpless girl made an easy prey; this scum would no doubt go for her first. He would burn in hell before he allowed it! His free hand that was holding the dagger raised, and all its strength was poured into a single thrust. He was certain the fine blade had lived up to his expectations, and the penetrating wound would be fatal even for a strong, robust man. However, not one to exult over a small triumph, he prized the dagger out of its fleshy grasp for another strike, this time aiming for the assaulter’s chest. Its tip had barely pierced the fabric when his wrist was seized with a pressure so sharp and intense he thought his bone might have already snapped. Were it not for the hand still covering his mouth, he would cry out. His strength fled, his hold was relinquished with sudden and acute introduction of pain and the weapon slipped from his tremulous fingers, clanging as it hit the cobbled ground. His back hit the wall due to a violent shove, the impact of which made his teeth clatter.

“Don’t move!” a voice inhumanly growled. Tristan couldn’t despite all of him was screaming to, pinned to the walls as he was now. The hand had never left his mouth, its long fingers imbued with virility digging into his cheeks as though penetrating the muscles to crush the bones. The vein on his neck was pulsating to the suffocating pressure on his jaws, protestant of such violation of which he had never been at the receiving end.

They were relatively imperceptible, the twin pinpricks on the side of his neck, as compared to surge after surge of pain on his jawline, yet he felt it so keenly as if it had dimmed out all other sensations to overwhelm his sensory system. Tristan hadn’t an idea what they were at first, until the warm, tingling dampness of soft lips in contrastive with scratches of stubbles gave him hints of what was happening. Truth be told, those were not new to him as the lord’s son had experienced on countable, sporadic occasions where he sneaked out of the castle at odd hours in the night to squalid taverns providing makeshift bed rest at the curtained back and only came back when the moon almost retired. Now and then he would get, encourage even, a scraping of teeth against his erroneous skin, but it never went beyond the definite borderline of playful tease and certainly it was never meant to hurt. What he was subjected to at the moment was the exact opposite: while it was, he admitted with a touch of shame, stimulating in a masochistic sense, to invoke pleasure was not its aim but something more sinister and perhaps impossible to conceive with the conventional logic. Though chance a noble son had bled was low but Tristan had had his blood spilled a number of times as per carelessness or overexertion during combat training; bleeding from the neck, however, was a never-before. He felt it leaving his body in gentle and steady current via the opening of his vein. How marvelous it was for so much blood to be contain in such small vessel, barely noticeable by the naked vision, and for it to be drained so quick. Yet blood wasn’t the only that left; together with it were the ache in his wrist and the biting pressure on his jaws. It was hard to tell whether they had truly drowned or he simply did not retained enough of his mind to be affected by them. The latter appeared to be the likelier case, for he hardly felt the cold, horny surface of the wall on which he was pinned against. In front of his eyes were a spot of black which was growing like a drop of ink in a bowl of water, but instead of thinning out as it spread, it gathered the water and stained it with the same essence. His sight was swallowed up by blackness, and his consciousness followed suit…

Tristan woke up to the sunlight scathing his close eyelids. He made no attempt to depart his old bed yet, having just returned to the land of reality from a peculiar dream, and while he was unsure what to make of it, its after-effect was the cause of his heart’s pounding against his chest. If it had a solid fist, his heart, it would no doubt punch through his ribs. The remnants of the dream in his memory bank was dominated by an obscure figure possessing bestial strength, the kind of which had nearly smashed his wrist bone, and teeth which were akin to man-eaters’. Or ‘fangs’ should be more fitting, considering how the dream had unfolded, further cementing his belief that the malevolent assaulter had been less than human.

Strangely enough, the beast in the dream had carried a sense of familiarity.

Tristan touched his neck, where he had received the pointed ends of the predator’s canine. A jolt ran through him as the tips of his fingers found unsmooth skin, marred by some sort of injury. He put his legs on the ground, intending to search for any reflective surface, when he realized how wobbly his knees were. As a matter of fact, his heart seemed to be the only part of him which was over-rigorous while the rest was beyond fatigue. His breathing was uneven, his temples and palms perspired, and he was plagued with sickening vertigo in a stubborn attempt to force his feeble knees to stand up. He covered his mouth to prevent himself from vomiting, though he doubted there was hardly anything in his stomach. He was frail and very sick, which struck him more than a simple surprise because he had been illness-free for a long time. He did not doubt there was a solid connection between his weakened state and the stinging sensation on his neck he was determined to figure out just what caused it.

Tristan found a basin of water and brought it under the light. His reflection appeared on the surface once the water was free of turbulence; he wasn’t too shocked when it shown two puncture wounds on his vein.

The tips of his fingers were smeared with brown-colored dust after he examined them, this time more carefully. It gave off a faint metallic tang and its rusty taste as he licked his finger confirmed his assumption that it was dried blood.

No wonder he was feeling so exhausted even though he hadn’t performed any laborious task, Tristan thought. His mind was beginning to collect scattered pieces here and there to put them together and form the whole picture. The weighing fatigue, the bloodied wounds, the fact that he wasn’t wearing his nightclothes and the absence of his favorite weapon on his belt all pointed to a conclusion that his memory of venturing into the dark corner in the garden was as real as his crusted blood on his hand. So were the rumors of savage beasts preying in the nights he had heard from a handful of frightened peasants. Being an innate skeptic carrying a relatively atheistic attitude, much to his father and the priests’ dismay, Tristan hadn’t been much bothered by the church’s teachings of evils lurking about. Yet it seemed whoever above had decided to make him see the error of his thinking by providing solid evidence of the darker truth beyond his ignorance.

Even so…

He could have been dead − deprived of his blood and left out in the fields for the ravenous vultures like the victims rumored to be killed by the bloodthirsty creatures − but for better or worse, he was alive despite being burdened with fatigue and vertigo only God knew when would cease. That aside, what troubled him was a burning question: Why wasn’t him dead now? Was it simple carelessness that had made the beast overlook the state of his victim? Unlikely. If rumors turned out to be truth, which they were, then no-one had lived to tell the tale, all rigid cadavers dead for hours before they were found. Those monsters were ruthless as they were conscientious, which had no doubt played the key in their discretion until now. A swift, effortless twist of those steely hands or a simple choke and the Count’s son wouldn’t be on this earth to contemplate his survivor, so why the beast had not only spared Tristan’s life, despite logic, but also carried him back to his room? He couldn’t imagined the castle servants having discovered their injured and left-for-dead young lord without a ruckus to alert his lord father.

Although Tristan never thought himself a foolish man, quite the contrary in fact, he couldn’t fathom the motive yet.

There was another that added to his confusion. As his mind regained more of the missing fragments, the sense of familiarity also grew stronger while it had been vague before. The arms that had eradicated any shred of his resistance, Tristan believed he had tasted a fraction of their might in countless parrying matches. He had suspected their owner holding back the whole time, minding not to crush his ego perhaps, and now his suspicion was confirmed. If it was swordsmanship, Tristan was confident that he wasn’t inferior to anyone, yet in terms of raw strength and endurance, he was clearly no match. Last night had proven it.

Arms aside, it was the voice that gave him a true daunting sensation. True it was hoarse, bordering on inhuman, but the timbre, the thick, sort of outlandish accent, those weren’t easily masked by the rawness in the voice. To the ears hearing it almost on daily basis, it was even harder to conceal the identity of the speaker.

Not to mention the hearer was especially keen on voice recognition.

To learn that the monsters were living and breathing right under his roof, being wined and dined at his table every day… such notion gave him a bone-chilling thrill. They may have spared him so as not to cause a ruckus and get themselves exposed; still, if push came to shove, who dared guarantee they would not lash out and massacre the whole castle? With their superior in strength, even numbers weren’t in the humans’ favor.

As the holder of this secret, he had to tread very carefully.

There were knockings on his door, followed by Aurora’s sweet voice. “Oh Tristan, wake up you lazy bones. Don’t you want to be late and upset Father?”

All the jumbled thoughts and blood-loss-induced sickness had diverted Tristan from today’s schedule − a hawk-hunting with his lord father, which, Tristan admitted, was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

He pulled the collar high and tight, checked whether it safely covered the marks before going to open the door.

Seeing her vibrant with energy hit him with a pang of guilt. For all the time he had wasted pondering his attacker’s intention after awaken, he should have sprung out of this room and checked for her well-being first thing.

“I might have overslept a little,” Tristan explained.

“For goodness’s sake, brother,” Aurora gasped. “You look ghastly pale. Are you feeling unwell?” She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, the same gesture her brother often used to check her temperature. “And you’re really cold, too. You must be ill.”

“I probably caught a cold during the night,” he lied through his teeth. “Careless me. You go down first. I’ll change and be there shortly.”

“No!” Aurora protested, pushing him back with the strength of her petit body until they reached the bed. Amused by her, Tristan allowed himself to be forced to sit down.

To tell the truth, standing made he feel dizzy. He didn’t want to throw up in front of his little sister.

“You will stay in bed and rest,” she ordered with her hands on her hip, her trademark pushy little lady’s stance. “I cannot have you riding all day long in this condition. You’ll fall off the horse in any minute.”

That might very well be true, Tristan thought.

“Father and his ceaseless boring hunting. He won’t chastise you for missing one of those due to illness. Besides the Count du Guise’s sons will have all his attention occupied.”

The monster siblings. Tristan’s heart sank upon their mention. Could he trust them not to harm his father in broad daylight and the presence of many?

“Rest, dear brother,” Aurora said, gently pulling the blanket to his chest. “I’ll come back with breakfast. Your favorite.”

He nodded and closed his eyes in a pretense of sleep.

Thus Tristan spent the day in his bed resting for an illness he didn’t contract, with Aurora within arm’s reach to aid him with every big and small task he could otherwise perform on his own. The sight of Aurora busying herself like a fussy mother hen was his only source of amusement. She seemed excited being able to take care of him for the first time, her brother who was usually the one to care for her when she got sick. She even canceled Rebekah’s date for a picnic by the lake to be at his side.

He would tell her to go and have fun with her new friend if it wasn’t Rebekah du Guise. He had better not allow Aurora to come too close to them.

To Tristan’s confusion, at the end of the day, he received a surprise from Elijah du Guise, who had heard of the Count’s son’s illness and sent his best catch in his sincerest wish for his quick recovery. It turned out to be a full-grown stag that was sent to the chef to be processed into sumptuous dishes.

Looking at the pair of impressive antlers mounted on the wall of his room, Tristan honestly didn’t know what to make of Elijah’s intention.

To be continued

[TO] Sins of the Father


Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairings: very, very slight Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel and Tristora – Tristan de Martel x Aurora de Martel

Genres: fanfiction

Characters:  The Count de Martel, Tristan de Martel, Aurora de Martel, Lucien Castle

Warning: none

Summary: Fan-invented flashbacks


Elijah and Niklaus. The Count recognized the names. Those were names of the evils that had brought doom to his family. Those were names he should curse on his road to hell.

“Remember this well from today to the end of time: You are Elijah Mikaelson, son of Mikael and Esther, brother of Finn, Niklaus, Kol, Rebekah and the late Henrik. You are not human, cut from your mortal coil by your deceased mother’s meddling with the black arts, and neither are your siblings. You are fiend, and you are hunted. Hunted by your equally fiendish father, who is in possession of the object capable of ending your existence, aside from the sun and the flame. Hide you will, cleverly, vigilantly, or he will find you and destroy you all. When you can no longer hide, flee! As you run with your siblings, never separately, you will protect them with everything you possess, even if that might cost you your life. Lie, cheat and kill should the situation requires to survive. Show not mercy for mortals, for you are beast and you have none. Finally, wherever you go, you will remember to always leave a trail for your father to chase after.”

His children had gone mad.

The Count du Guise’s children had left as early as dawn the day before, after expressing their gratefulness to the Count de Martel’s generous hospitality during their lengthy stay. They seemed to have been in quite a rush to set off, if the ubiquitous strained look on their countenances and the impatient fiddling of the younger ones’ fingers while their elder siblings spoke to the Count had been anything to go by. Dubious signs had been all over the place to read, yet the Count de Martel couldn’t have cared less about their poorly concealed anxiety. Frankly speaking, the siblings had worn out their welcome for a while, their time here a tad too long as compared to their father’s proposal, and their departure rejoiced the Count. Ill luck appeared to have followed their steps to this land, where many a peasant had asudden contracted a mysterious, unheard disease and perished one after another during the course of their stay. With them gone, this land would return to how it had been, peaceful, prosperous and unfettered by malaise.

… So the Count had thought.

Soon after the siblings had bid their adieus, bad omens began.

It was his daughter, Aurora, who claimed to be ill and holed up in her chamber all day long until the sun retired. She skipped her music and poetry classes and only sneaked out for a piece of bread or some wine from the kitchen and then locked herself in again, feigning deaf to every of her handmaiden’s plea for a good doctor’s visit. Whispers amongst the servants implied that Aurora had grown fond of a Count du Guise’s son, perhaps the fierce Niklaus or the eloquent Elijah, and his straightforward rejection, coupled with his homecoming had spun her into an unfathomable depth of despair, resulting in her adopted eccentric lifestyle.

The Count wasn’t particularly surprised or worried by his daughter’s queer behaviors; acting over-dramatic was never beyond her area of expertise. Aurora had been a difficult one from the moment of her birth until she reached maiden hood, and her ludicrous antics could be stomached and forgiven by none but her brother. If he was completely honest with himself, the Count de Martel had scarce love for his daughter. He had anticipated a second son but The Lord had seen fit to give, or punish him with, a first daughter, whose disappointed arrival propelled his beloved wife towards untimely demise. Though his resentment towards her had faded over the long years, he couldn’t find himself providing Aurora the same warmth and affection he gave his son, even if she was showing more and more of his wife’s endearing traits as she matured into full bloom. A gorgeous rose Aurora was, her value to the Count and the de Martels amounted to finding herself a lord husband whose status and wealth would then enhance her older brother’s. As long as her beauty was untarnished, who would not turn a blind eye to her hysterical bouts?

It was not Aurora, with her difficult handling, that upset the Count; it was Tristan, his bright, loyal son whom he had every pride to declare his rightful heir. Out of his two children, Tristan was the one whose virtues shone with enough light to make up for his sister’s grievous flaws and filled the Count with joys. Then all of sudden, his impeccable manners had taken a wild swing – as far from the expected behaviors of a model son that he was as possible, which for the last few days had caused tremendous distress in the aristocrat’s heart. Same as his sister, Tristan had been isolating himself from the rest of the castle by the barred door of his room for no comprehensible reasons. A few servants spoke to one another in hushed tone that perhaps the young Lord had fallen to the du Guise belle and had his heart broken by her hasty leave, but even they thought it preposterous considering how little contact they had had, barely registering each other’s presence out of necessary. If it wasn’t the Lady Rebekah’s charms then what could it have been the cause? Not only had Tristan forsaken his strategy and politics study – something nonexistent before, he had turned down every invitation by fellow noble sons to socialize, even his usual favorite hunting sessions with his lord father. He only set his foot out of his self-imposed confinement when the sun burnt out his last ray and usually at the odd hours in the night. Corpses of peasants turned up in accordance to Tristan’s nocturnal and inexplicable activities, corpses drained of their blood with a dreadful expression etched on their pallid faces. The Count ordered them cremated to ash, every single one, lest poison seeds be spread amongst the peasants, take roots and breed unrest into their feeble hearts.

Then, there was one servant who claimed to have seen the Count’s son and the supposedly dead Lucien together, wearing faces of beasts and cloaks of blood.

The Count had the servant’s tongue torn from his head before he got a chance to utter his blasphemous discovery to another soul.

Even with such extremities done, rumors still traveled, strongly and swiftly like wild fire, that the Count’s children were possessed by evils.

The Count had each of them who dared to voice such nonsense whipped publicly to set examples to the rest, and if such was not enough to mute them, he would make sure those were their very last words. His brutal methods yielded instant fruit: the rumors were brought down from a raging fire to shimmering.

Once the outside battle calmed down, the one inside began. The rumors’ insidious essence had slipped through the hair-like cracks on his awareness and nestled in his mind. He fought them back with his love for his son and occasional sympathy for his daughter, trying to bar his judgment against the assaults of doubts and suspicions, and as the same time he started a silent surveillance on his children.

It didn’t take long for the Count’s worst fears to be confirmed: his children had gone mad.

The statement was swirling in his head like a twister gathering his shock and appall to grow giant, as he watched them, his children, from a darkened corner. It was akin to the perpetual threat those priests preached about so often in their repetitive sermon, of demons lurking where God’s light did not reach, gnawing on innocent souls with their venomous fangs. Although Tristan and Aurora were hardly the vicious monsters in the priests’ warnings, nor the young peasant lying pliant in their grip an innocent soul, the scene laid bare to his witness did strike startling likeliness. Their mouths latching onto human flesh, Aurora’s at the neck and Tristan’s at the wrist, they suckled like two needy babes at their mother’s teats, but instead of the sweet milk, it was life flowing down their throats.

If his children were not monsters, and the Count betted his life on the truth that they were not, then their unspeakable acts must have been puppeteered by the real evil, which was also present in this hellish scene, indulging his odious appetite to the feast of young blood provided by another victim.

Lucien. The Count ground his teeth together. The mention of that name left a stale copper taste in his mouth. Lusting after Aurora’s beauty, the lowly servant had been caught sneaking to her chamber and thus disciplined by Tristan. When he dared to attack the siblings, he had been executed on the spot by a guard. It was either spears could not slay the fiend for good or he had somehow found a God-forbidden method to cheat death and come back a vengeful wraith of a single-minded goal: to punish the direct culprits of his demise by contracting them with his demonic malady.

The Count held his breath, swallowing his urge to vomit brought forth by the slurping sound and fetid smell of blood outside body. It didn’t take them too long to finish their ‘meal’, all too voracious eaters. They looked dazed as though wandering in dream, the blotches on their clothes unnoticed. Having come to their senses a while later, the three escaped through the window, leaving in their murderous wake two bloodless bodies whose faces were eternally distorted and a lord hunching in the blind corner, throwing up bile with scorching tears in his eyes.

The fastest rider galloped from the castle the same night in the Count’s order to invite the holy priests at every cost.

The Count de Martel saw his children huddling together with the fiend Lucien in a shady spot, seemingly asleep, once the guards tore down the locked door of Tristan’s room. The vast place looked dim with all the thick curtains blocking the sun and the air gave off an overwhelming smell of stagnation. The Count strode in, his booted footsteps thudding with the heaviness that was weighing down his heart and soul. Silently following him were a small group of priests all wearing ornate robes and darkly solemn expressions. They were clutching the holy books tomes in their wrinkly hands like soldiers holding onto their weapons on their marching to war.

This was a war as well, of the holy and the unholy, the good and the evil. This room would soon be converted into a battlefield.

Lucien’s eyes snapped open, roused from his dream by the noise, and faster than he could alarm Tristan and Aurora, the Count had gestured the guards. It took four muscular men to bring the fiend to his knees and keep his head to the ground, and the same number to restraint Tristan and Aurora each. Since when and where that frail daughter of his had gained such manly strength, the Count wondered to himself as he watched the four of them struggling greatly to hold her with grim eyes. Did it come as a reward to the repulsive gluttony he had seen the other night?

The priests never waited for his cue to step up, forming a tight circle around the fiend. Their unified chanting, imbued by The Lord’s holy blessing were unraveled by the fiend’s growls, which was rapidly injecting horror into the guards’ hearts. Fear perspired through their pores in the form of bean-sized sweats clinging to their furrowed eyebrows and the tips of their noses. The whites of their eyes were covered by a thin red veil due to the strain they subconsciously put on them. They would have directed their eyes elsewhere had the combined force of horror and curiosity not already dictated they had to watch until this surreal nightmare was over.

Ignoring the shouts and vulgar curses from Tristan and Aurora to release Lucien, the priests carried on with their exorcism. Holy verses chanted, holy water sprayed and all holy symbols raised to invoke the power of God − they carried out their task with the swift efficiency of not only normal clergies but experienced soldiers, trained all their lives to combat evils wearing human guise. The Count watched them with a sense of awe, his temples and the palms of his hands, hidden in his long sleeves, dampened with cold sweats.

One of the priests yanked the voluminous curtains open, and a pillar of light instantly penetrated the space. Blood-curling cries made the Count’s senile heart skip an agonizing beat. The afternoon sun bathed the fiend and his children in its golden glory, and it burned them like fire. Their skin reddened, blistered and was aflame in the length of a breath. Their bodies convulsed and their excruciating screams horrified the guards into releasing their gauntleted grips on them and taking a distance from the wailing demons, who did not need restraint now as they were rolling on the floor. The priests remained motionless, their stern faces conveying a strict determination to see it through the gruesome end.

Their cries morphed into a dagger carving into his heart. He felt physical pain, not just metaphorical one, and it was tearing him from the inside out. God no! Tears streamed down his face, filling the creases imprinted on his old skin. Their lives would be extinguished in any moment. Not his children! God, please have mercy! His wobbling knees drew strength from his panic and he crossed the room in two strides, and sealed it from the lethal sun beams.

The fire extinguished as quick and mystically as it had been set.

“What in the name of—” Staring at him with wide eyes, the head priest opened his mouth to question the Count. His speech was halted however, his eyes bulging as though they could fall off his sockets.

Neither the other priests nor the guards dared to breathe a syllable.

The Count stared at the priest’s chest, his gaze zooming on the hand that protruded out of the fabric.

The priest’s eyes rolled up in his head, the pupils barely visible, and a second later, his lifeless body collapsed on the floor with a heavy thud.

The bloody hand wasn’t moving. Inside its palm was a fleshy glob still beating.

How marvelous it was for the life of a man to be confined in the size of a palm.

The Count’s eyes scraped the hand to the wrist, up the length of the arm and finally settled on the face.

He knew the face but did not know it at the same time. He knew the chiseled jaw line, the straight bridge of the nose but did not know the gray veins writhing beneath the skin − healed from all the burns and blisters − like abominable insects. He knew those winter-blue eyes but did not know the solid red superseding the white and accentuating the blue in a most freakish sense.

He did not know the monster standing before him.

Like the guards earlier, he was unable to avert his sight, held under a devilish spell that compelled him to look at this monster with his ‘trophy’, while lost to the carnage going around.

Bones snapped, limbs torn and hearts ripped, one by one the guards and the priests fell. Corpses piled up, and the room became a human abattoir. The savage beasts within them awaken by rage, Lucien and Aurora copied Tristan’s method and invented a few of their own to slaughter every man in sight, all the while wearing the same ghastly visage.

On the contrary, the demon in the Count’s son’s remained motionless, seemingly frozen in time. The blank look in his eyes did not give any implication to what he desired with the only human left standing.

“Elijah,” Aurora spoke softly, tugging at Tristan’s arm once the massacre was over. His gaze shifted to her face, the normal, humanly beautiful face that would enchant every young man’s heart but for the dotted crimson, and he himself returned to being the Count’s son.

The heart was discarded without a thread of concern.

Lucien stalked closer. There was blood in his hands and blood in his eyes.

The Count was anticipating his death – what else? – when Tristan, or ‘Elijah’ as Aurora addressed him, spoke, “Let him live, Niklaus.”

Elijah and Niklaus. The Count recognized the names. Those were names of the evils that had brought doom to his family. Those were names he should curse on his road to hell.

Sporting a look of defiance, Lucien eyed Tristan, Aurora and his murder target. He scoffed but did not challenge Tristan.

Faster than the eyes could follow, they vanished – three phantoms dispersed at the blush of dawn.

His knees finally gave out from pressure. Then the Count began to weep like he had never wept before.

His children hadn’t gone mad. They had simply… gone.

“You seem contemplative, brother,” Aurora whispered, draping an arm around Tristan’s shoulders.

He greeted her with a smile, he always did. “I’m reminiscing, sister. Of an ancient memory buried under layers of time. How I have almost forgotten it.”


He glanced at his closed fist resting on the hardwood table before answered, “Do you recall the day Father brought the priests home for his children’s exorcism?”

“Only vaguely, I’m afraid,” Aurora replied. “So many happened in that afternoon while my mind was too hazy. He almost burnt us to death, didn’t he?”

“That was the priests,” Tristan chuckled. “One thing they did right to destroy a vampire. Father saved us in the nick of time before we all were reduced to ash.”

Resting her head on the juncture between Tristan’s shoulder and neck, Aurora pondered a respond. “You were always his favorite child,” said Aurora, pouting. “How could he bear to let you die?”

“The only thought in my head in that instance was how I lusted for his vein, how I wanted to tear his head from his neck and drank my fill. How young and needy we were. I supposed I should have been grateful to Elijah for his instruction to ‘leave a trail’ so that Mikael could follow.”

“Gone soft on him, haven’t you?” Aurora giggled, lightly nibbling the outer shell of his ear.

Au contraire, sister. My resolution was hardened thanks to that. Tonight, their sire lines will be torn from them, and they will die. Both of them. Alone. Only by that can our vengeance be completed.”


I ended up writing in the Count’s POV~. My attempt for the flashbacks we deserve but haven’t got to see. I’m gonna bitch about that unfair treatment until the Trinity is given justice.

A Street Car Named Desire − The Originals 3×14

Warnings: ranting tendency, inappropriate comments alternating between grim, serious mood and blasphemous jokes


Again, unlike many other viewers, I wasn’t the least excited about the whole crossover business as The Originals and The Vampire Diaries seem too completely separate shows to me now. I’m never a Klaroline shipper, you see, and their supposed ‘reunion’ gives me nothing but a frown because it provides (false) hope for their persistent shippers, not to mention sort of undermines the relationship between Klaus and Stefan − it appears as if Klaus, after throwing Stefan out of the bar, comes to his rescue only because he promises Caroline to keep Stefan safe, not because he wants Stefan safe, which he should since Stefan is not merely his “old friend” but one of the few Klaus couldn’t bear to kill no matter how Stefan crossed him. I don’t know whether the writers are aware or not, but the way they handled it makes it so cheap considering Klaus and Stefan had a history dating way back before Caroline was conceived.

Anyway, sorry about my irrelevant The Vampire Diaries ranting; sometimes I can’t help it. Back to The Originals. More than chipping the beauty of Klefan friendship, the crossover would also get viewers who watch only The Originals tremendously confused by a throe of questions that cannot be answered without watching six seasons of The Vampire Diaries (and telling themselves to stay calm and endure its fuck-logic logic and tedious teeny love drama every few minutes):

Who the hell is this Stefan character?

What’s his relationship with Klaus?

Why they keep talking about that Caroline character?

And what the hell is the whole ‘Huntress’ thing that could fight a horde of ancient vampires? If she is so powerful and threatening to the vampire race (that Aya has to leave the de-siring scene to deal with her herself), how come she never got mentioned in the entire expand of two seasons and a half? What happens to her after Aya ‘kills’ her?


I imagine they would be my very frustrating questions if I hadn’t decided to use the tedious teeny love drama to kill boredom while waiting for the new season of The Originals one lovely day (the fuck-logic logic came as a bonus).

In terms of boosting the ratings, the crossover aspect has done a good job as it has satisfied fans watching both The Vampire Diaries and The Originals; nevertheless, I don’t think it merits much to the plot of The Originals in general. Stefan’s leading Rayna to The Strix’s mansion is a crucial plot device, but it’s not as if it is completely irreplaceable. Instead, they could have had Hayley and Marcel bursting in The Strix’s mansion with an obscene amount of guns and explosives (too Quentin Tarantino?) or planting dynamites under the mansion using the various tunnels and secret passages Marcel claims to know like the palm of his hand. Explosives would have caused as much trouble as one Rayna Cruz and don’t tell me Marcel, as current king of the city, can’t gather some (remember all the bombs he used near the end of season 1?). And frankly speaking Stefan doesn’t contribute much to the rescue plan besides being Rayna’s bait. Or, instead of relying on a one-episode character, they could have had Lucien, the CEO of a big corporation slash leader of his sire line, doing much more than just being Freya’s magic battery, like rallying the vampires of Klaus’s sire line to battle The Strix and giving us viewers the epic war we’ve heard so much but never witnessed. Since it’s their sire’s existence is endangered and so are theirs, they have every reason to answer the call. Sadly, due to budget (probably), Luci’s resources are severely reduced to just himself and his amazing “stamina”.


Crossover aspects aside, this is one brilliant episode filled to the brimmed with emotions of all sorts and action (don’t I just love action?). Klelijah shippers are treated to a hefty delicious chunk of brotherly love between Klaus and Elijah. I don’t doubt that the scene where Elijah rushes to his brother and embraces Klaus in the pool has given many fangirls/shippers a sleep-deprived night. A few months ago I was once such fangirl and the abundant Klelijah moments would have made me squee in a manner that was very disturbing to surrounding people but not now. While I still experienced a tingling warmth to watch those two caring for and protecting each other, I was too occupied with the emotional train wreck, which I will elaborate later, to react like a proper fangirl should. I do not intend to write much about Klelijah in this weekly rant because I feel it’s already been analyzed by many on Tumblr and I don’t have anything new to add in. Although it isn’t officially stated but I guess, judging how Elijah jumps to fire insults after insults at Aurora and Tristan to defend Klaus, he has forgiven Klaus’s murder of Gia and his cursing Hayley. Also, he has revealed Rebekah’s fate (quite an unexpected and anti-climatic reaction from Klaus’s side, not to mention off-screen) to Klaus so it appears the chinks in their relationship have all been smoothed out and the two brothers are on good terms once more, hopefully for a long time before the writers decide to stir the stew. “Dangers bring the brothers closer,” the essence of the Mikaelson relationships holds true as always. While a make-up kiss is a pipe dream that is only realized in slashy fics, fangirls are pretty much content with the pool hug, which is, from my point of view, may be even sexier and more intimate than a kiss.

Like, unofficial title
Mostly because of the water, duh.

One significant plot point of this episode is the use of representational magic. This sort of magic is nothing too new, of course, as Finncent already executed a similar spell in season 2. But instead of the animal motif, this time it’s object motif that is used. Stuck in the mental world with Tristan and Aurora, Elijah and Klaus must find what represent them in a vast chambre full of things, big and small, in order to burst themselves out. Sounds like finding a needle in a haystack, doesn’t it? But not to worry, Tristan and Aurora, like any villains who are always kind enough to explain to us ignorant viewers what kind of trap they’re using on the heroes, are there to provide clues that ensure said heroes will be able to solve the riddle. Honestly, much as I love the de Martel dysfunctional siblings, all I want while watching was smack them in the head and tell them to shut up and go play the violin or anything. I don’t underestimate Klaus and Elijah’s intelligence but even with their combined IQ, the task to find the right objects would have been impossible, or at least never in time to break the ritual, without Tristan and Aurora’ incessant supply of hints. Klaus doesn’t come remotely to the answer (katana and later, King pieces) and Elijah is only slightly better (the chessboard, the Knight pieces). Aya’s truly clever to represent them with the Queen pieces, playing their masculine thinking into her advantage. Too bad she didn’t take into account those siblings’ mouthy tendency: Tristan and Aurora, especially Aurora, just cannot shut up…



More than what represent Elijah and Klaus in the chambre, I’m interested in what represent Tristan and Aurora. My speculation is that the violin is Tristan’s anchor. It should have had some other purposes than showing off Tristan’s musical ability (and Ollie’s), ‘torturing’ Elijah and jabbing his sire’s chest. The chambre and objects were designed by Aya and Aya, as someone who has known Tristan for centuries and had much respect for him, would have chosen something of elegance and style, something he would be pleased with. Based on that description, what comes to my mind is the violin, which resembles Tristan in some ways. Tristan exudes an air of nobility and it’s very easy for people who don’t know him to have an impression that he’s a gentleman who wishes them no harm and drop their guard around him. Ollie’s boyish look adds to this as well. Back when he was first introduced, some shipped him with Hayley, thinking he was mini-Elijah and thus perfect for her. However, he’s merciless and deadly to those he considers his enemies, or those defy him and hinder his schemes. We all know how he dealt with Hayley after those sweet words praising her beauty and exquisiteness. Similarly, the violin seems a harmless instrument and then we’re reminded that Dahlia killed Josephine with the violin bow; with the right use and the right hand, it could be deadly − push the right buttons and Tristan will show his sociopathic side.



As for Aurora, I believe Aya sees her as a katana (one of those swords she used to practice with Tristan). A katana is a sharp, dangerous weapon the Japanese are proud of. In a clumsy hand, it’ll be the dead of the wielder. Dealing with Aurora is pretty much the same: one careless step and she’ll turn on you in a heartbeat (unless you’re Tristan, of course, but even Tristan has to tread carefully). She could sleep with Klaus, whispering only sweetness to him and at the same time, sink Klaus’s sister at the ocean and believe nothing was wrong about that. Aurora is also like unsheathed blade: she doesn’t give the impression that she’s harmless − just hearing her laughter and you can tell there’s something not okay about her. In fact, her appearance, voice and personality remind me too much of Blood+’s Diva, who is deemed insanely dangerous by every character who comes across her. It’s interesting in an ironic way that in Tarot, the sword represents the mind and Aurora’s mind is chaos at best.


Last but not least, I want to write a few words about Aya’s death. I was sorry to feel a little happy when I was spoiled her death by the hand of Hayley − I hadn’t watched the episode, merely picking up spoilery scraps on Tumblr. I had been thinking that she’d betrayed and abandoned Tristan and I had hated her because treachery of any kind doesn’t sit well with me. Then into a few minutes at the beginning, my attitude towards her took a 180-degree turn: back to my initial impression of her − fierce and loyal, thus I dreaded thinking she would have been dead before the credit rolled. Different than the gut-wrenching pain I felt with Tristan and Aurora, Aya’s death caused me a painless but deep sadness. Hayley had every right and reason to kill Aya and still, I was a little angry at her when she did. The sad feeling I felt towards Aya’s end, on my recollection, resembles the one I felt for Xandrie’s and possibly Darren’s death in Wasted on the Young: to choose death when her plan was shattered and all hopes lost was understandable, yet to choose it over life seems wasted, utterly wasted. As long as you remain breathing, there’s always hope (which is my optimistic thought about Tristan’s and Aurora’s situation) and a chance to change things, especially in a world like The Originals, where no victory nor loss is permanent.

Highlights of the episode:

  • Finally we learn where Luci disappeared to. Did he somehow lose his company while tucked in the closet? He’s going to have his hands full with trying to rescue Kingmaker’s stocks values once he comes back.


  • Aya’s not abandoning Tristan. I was overjoyed and relieved to learn that she retained her loyalty/friendship/whatever relation between them. I dread to think I would have to rewrite my Trilijah Collection and edit her out if she had truly betrayed him.
  • Tristan’s playing the violin and it’s really good (bonus point: Ollie plays). Anyone sees Elijah tapping his foot to Tristan’s music? I mentioned it once and I’m going to say it again: Tristan’s sooooo Elijah’s type. Here’s why:


  • Tristan’s kind of torturing Elijah with his music
  • Tristan’s poking at Elijah’s chest with the violin bow. Someone’s just trying too hard to be mature and fails utterly.


  • Now it’s official that Tristan is Elijah’s bastard son. He says it himself!


  • And Elijah’s referring to himself as dad!
  • Elijah’s sounding like a teenage mom with unwanted pregnancy


Is ‘you’ here singular or plural? My take is singular because 1. Tristan and Aya are two vampires canonically sired by Elijah. The rest of The Strix could have been children of those two and those children’s children, 2. Elijah implied in Dead Angels that he turned Aya out of choice so it’s unlikely he’s “shackled” by her existence and 3. He likes to dress Tristan down so saying Tristan’s existence is a burden to him is not out of character.

  • Their conversation at the chessboard. I believe deep down inside Elijah thinks what Tristan says is true and may feel regret for abandoning Tristan and Aya; that’s why he doesn’t outright deny Tristan’s accusations. He wouldn’t be Elijah Mikaelson if he hadn’t put his family before anything or anyone else.
  • Elijah’s seeable pain and reluctance to end Aya’s life. No wonder Rebekah didn’t kill her when she had the chance in Beautiful Mistake; she wouldn’t want to cause her dear, good brother pain.
  • Klaus’s being Klaus as he buries Aurora like Damon and Stefan did Katherine


  • Kol’s permanent, naked return to the land of the living


  • The nexus vorti created by Klaus’s stolen energy − could it be something also comes back alongside Kol? We’ll see.
  • Freya and Lucien’s blatant flirting


  • Lucien’s being endless entertainment
  • Hayley and Stefan (Hayfan? Steley?) − the most crack couple and yet it feels so right to ship them ( ̄▽ ̄)
  • Tristan and Aurora looking like a happy married couple
They don’t even need to get married to have the same last name
  • Tristan’s using his last breath and thread of consciousness to tell Aurora he loves her. Kudos to Rebecca and Ollie for their stunning performance, which would give me gut-wrenching pain for days to come. I don’t do incest shipping with the exception of Mikaelcest; don’t make me change my principle, please.


On a side note, now I know why their scene strikes me so hard. This whole thing about saying heartbreaking farewell as the world crumbles and shatters around them is too familiar for me to not be hurt. Two of my ships that I will definitely go down with − Alicia x Rufus in Valkyrie Profile: Silmeria and Saya x Haji in Blood+ − both have their last scene together in that manner.

A Ghost Along the Mississippi – The Originals 3×10

Warnings: usual ranting tendency, improper jokes and spoilers the size of swelling Jupiter. Also, massive sympathy for a character you may wish to die a horrible death and little concern for a character you very much want to sympathize (but may or may not fail to).

“People want laughter when they see a show

The last thing they’re after is a litany of woes”

Keep It Gay  – THE PRODUCERS (2005)

Mel Brooks spoke the universal truth of shows and entertainment via a uniquely gay musical number in The Producers, one of his most successful works (which I strongly recommend you to store in your laptop − we’re gonna need a lot of comedy for future episodes, that’s for sure). Entertainment isn’t synonymous to tears, heartbreaks and major headaches, and yet somehow a number of show makers find it entirely justified to engineer plots and scenarios solely for the purpose of gorging their audience’s heart out (pun very much intended). And we, the viewers, despite our desire for pleasure, comfort and fun when we turn our TV on after a hard day’s work, cannot help but willingly subjecting ourselves to the emotional torments − the masochistic paradox of human nature. This is exactly what The Originals’ show makers aim to do with the show’s tenth episode, right after their torture of having us waiting for nearly two months with a humongous cliffhanger.

Perhaps with a tiny fraction of remorse for their loyal viewers’ wait, the show makers sought to resolve the issue of a blood-drenched, breathless Cami on Klaus’ bed quite early, and if I’m honest, a bit too early for my liking. But first, let’s enjoy about five minutes of peaceful philosophical discussion of death and life between Klaus and Cami, which is paralleled with a furious and wounded Klaus screaming like a madman and heavily trashing the room while his psychiatrist slash new, hard-earned Christmas girlfriend lies dead. Classic Klaus-ic grief and rage. But hey, people in his neighborhood need to sleep, too and they’ll sue if they are deprived of their resting time, Klaus probably reminds himself (what is he but a good-mannered hybrid?), and so all the noises stop as Klaus holds Cami in his arms (sobbing inside – him, not me!).

And then, Cami gasps back into life in a kind of anticlimactic manner. They could have delayed her revival a little longer, but I suppose they need her for the episode’s plot. Much as I do not want to link this to The Vampire Diaries, I have to admit Cami’s situation resembles Elena’s a great deal: from sudden death by the hand of an ancient vampire, much tears and some furniture destroyed to the swift revelation that they died with vampire blood in their system. What’s next? The scenario of ‘will she or won’t she’, of course. Again, similar to Elena, Cami struggles with the knowledge that she is mostly dead (but still slightly alive – I’ve gotten this phrase from Galavant), and is torn between wanting to live (who doesn’t?) and keeping her humanity. It doesn’t help that Klaus reacts like Damon did, trying to force her to consume blood. More shouting and argument ensue.

Well, I guess the similarities in their cases are inevitable as they’re both good-hearted human girls who got romantically tangled with bad supernatural beings, in shows that are sisters, no less.


Klamille seems to be a large focal point of this episode (and later episodes probably) as much screentime is devoted to them. Now I won’t say much about this couple partly because they’ve been discussed over and over on Tumblr and the likes and partly because I don’t ship them. True I’m fine with their romance and unlike some other viewers, I’m not annoyed when it takes up a hefty portion of the episode; that also means I won’t be so affected if it goes totally kaput, as Michael Narducci kind of implied in his interview. You know, in shows like The Originals, the villains have a tendency to do right while the heroes tend to do the exact opposite. Turning Cami may be Aurora’s wisest move yet, as she foresaw that a vampire Cami, with her altered personality and newfound powers, would inflict damage upon the fairytale beauty-and-the-beast relationship between human Cami and Klaus. Perhaps Aurora saw that human Cami resembled her former self: mostly sweet but always with a streak of darkness, and that Klaus would love the vampire a little less than he did the human. Personally I don’t think Cami will go entirely, helplessly dark (like Aurora, who no doubt went through centuries of shit) or become a Ripper but she will be darker than her human self for sure. Vampires are creatures of impulses and it’s in their nature as predators to kill – even those who try to be good and vegetarian vampires like Caroline and Stefan couldn’t help killing once in a while.

Well, whether Klaus will be taken aback by this new Cami or their romance will endure remains to be seen; for now I’m more worried about Will Kinney’s fate once our good cop slash human token returns to town after the holidays. Remember him? The tall, fairly fair cop who stalked and stole Cami’s laptop, got compelled the shit out of him by Lucien and almost snuffed his own life but for Klaus and Cami’s intervention? Cami and Vincent are the only two in New Orleans to give a damn about Will’s wellbeing and now, with Vincent’s being too busy with his new responsibilities and Cami’s concern for humans becoming a wee skewed, let’s again hope the actor’s popularity is good enough to last him until the season finale. We still need a human to represent us in this supernatural show, don’t we?

Speaking of couples, a great number of Haylijah shippers have a reason to cheer loudly when Tristan does you-know-what to you-know-who. Finally the unnecessary element in the unnecessary love triangle no-one is too enthusiastic about (this is an adult show, people, not a teeny one) is gone and this time, for good. Although I once wished that dear old annoying Jack would be destroyed, hopefully be one of the Trinity – Jack’s behavior wasn’t exactly likable since the wedding onwards, but when it really happens, I didn’t rejoice like I had thought I would; I was kind of upset even.  Don’t get me wrong − I don’t give a damn whether the wolf boy is breathing or not. What upsets me is that it’s Tristan who does the deed and thus, has earned a great amount of hate from fans (I was tremendously ignorant to the sheer number of Jack’s fans – where were they before?), which I feel isn’t very justified. Of course I won’t unreasonably deny Tristan’s act is not brutal and horrible because he’s my fave (swiftly took Elijah’s place in my list), yet is it fair to shower him with hate and calling him ‘beast’ or ‘monster’? He does what? Kills a werewolf who is his enemy (who killed a number of his subordinates in earlier episodes) in order to hurt a hybrid who is also his enemy. So, may I ask what is utterly wrong in torturing and terminating your foes? All is fair in love and war, and this is definitely war; given the chance, both Jackson and Hayley would do the same to him in a heartbeat. If you think his act of making Hayley watch is what earns him the prestigious title of ‘evil’ and thus should be heavily punished, please allow me to raise a little reminder that almost everyone in this show is more than qualified to be ‘evil’ – this is a villains’ show after all. Let’s list a few of their deeds:

  • Marcel killed Jane-Anne Deveraux in front of Sophie and then denied her plea to get her sister buried.
  • Klaus burned Gia alive in front of Elijah (one of the hardest scene to watch).
  • Klaus broke Tyler’s neck in front of his friends. That’s Klaus for you.
  • Elijah ripped Thierry’s heart out right in front of Marcel’s eyes.
  • Rebekah got Genevieve infected with tuberculosis although they were friends.
  • Davina hired a hybrid to kill a witch who threatened her, which results in a massacre.
  • Hayley led 12 hybrids to their brutal slaughters and tore apart a dozen Versailles witches even though they never, ever crossed her.

from Galavant S02E01
So, may I ask why Tristan is condemned while basically everyone else in the show, maybe except Hope and human Cami, is no less devious? What makes it even more unfair is Hayley’s speech as she closes the door on Tristan. I see the writers intended for it to be epic and whatever, as they’ve been trying to boost Hayley to be a badass heroine; nevertheless, it turns out incredibly hypocritic: Hayley, of all the examples above, is the one who gets out of her crimes relatively clean – no-one has tried to get revenge on her, she hasn’t suffered any consequences and heck, she has never been called out for her acts. Favoritism much. Anyway, I’d say losing someone she loves may just be karma coming back to bite her.


Now, onto Jackson’s death. His death may have garnered a lot of sympathy from viewers and may even rescue him from the crappy heap of boring, tedious characters. Nonetheless, if the writers truly wished to redeem his characterization, they should have kept him in the show and given his personality more layers, more development instead of writing him off. I guess that would be impossible since the actor is leaving for another show.

Back to the Haylijah shipping business. Jack’s death may prove to be an even bigger obstacle for their romance than his life and frankly I’ve given up on this ship since mid-season 2, no big thanks to Jackson’s nuisance and Hayley’s inconsistency in her character. How many people are  writing her actually? She keeps flickering between declaring to be a member of the Mikaelsons in one episode and then claiming she has “never met anyone who was always just there for me [beside Jack]in the next. Elijah and Rebekah just left her to live or die on their own and were never there for her, never showed her love? And even Klaus, who helped her during her transition to a hybrid. Klaus, of all people. Seriously, I wanted to laugh so hard hearing her say that. So, Haylijah is a no-no for me now and I believe it won’t happen very soon, as Hayley is busy grieving over Jackson’s death, blaming herself and maybe blaming the Mikaelsons, too. (What? She does have that tendency, doesn’t she?).


To Haylijah shippers, Jackson’s lingering presence may be summarized like this:

And if you have to leave

I We wish that you would just leave

‘Cause your presence still lingers here

And it won’t leave me us alone

My Immortal – Evernescence


If there is one occasion where I find it so difficult to appreciate and enjoy Cami’s, Freya’s and Vincent’s badassery, that is when Tristan is at the receiving end of it. Heartbreaking as this twist of event to his fans is, let’s hope this won’t be the last time we’ve seen Ollie’s face as Tristan. It’s only the tenth episode and there’s still a long way to go before his fate is sealed. Aurora, unlike Aya and The Strix, will never abandon Tristan; she will absolutely try to save him and Lucien may help her since he’s still in love with her after all these years (he did save her from the Mikaelsons, didn’t he?) – that guy’s love is truly, preciously admirable. Beside, locking a character in a box and maybe drowning them is not a very effective strategy/punishment. It’s been done too many times on The Vampire Diaries and it didn’t work. At all. They locked Katherine in the tomb – she got out after a few episodes. Bonnie fossilized Silas and then Stefan went to dump him in the lake – he got out after half an episode and put Stefan in his place. Stefan was drowning for months and none of his friends knew but Quetsiyah fished him out. Bonnie left Kai in the prison world and he found his way out, even bringing back some Heretics as souvenirs. Now, both Stefan and Damon were trapped in the Phoenix stone and Stefan was out already while Damon was on his way. So, yeah, locking/trapping/whatever is merely a means for suspense; Tristan will be out and up for vengeance (bonus: Michael Narducci did spoil that not killing Tristan “maybe a mistake”). Plus, since every magic spell has a loophole, there’s a chance that the Serratura has one, too. Something that is neither dead or alive can pass through, right? So Aurora  needs to find a witch who could put Tristan in that mostly-dead-but-slightly-alive state and she would pull him out via a rope (objects can pass through the barrier). Bonnie succeeded in putting Jeremy and Matt in that state and perhaps something similar could be devised for the sake of twist, too.

On a side, the Trinity and the Serratura might just be decoy antagonists; the real dangers lie in the mysterious weapon that can kill the Originals and the new faces coming to town (i.e. Cortez, Sofya and a blonde witch whose name I can’t remember). And if we are lucky, we’ll get to see the Trinity ally themselves with the Originals to fight the danger of extinction.

Highlights of the episode:

  • Jackson’s arguably anticipated death. He’s been on the show far too long while we’ve lost Oliver, Aiden, Gia…
  • The ultimate sinking of Jackson x Hayley ship, Jackson x Freya ship and Hayley x Tristan ship (it exists and some ship it). Should we nickname Tristan Ship-Wrecker?
  • But he did waste his Daddy’s love rival, didn’t he?


  • What happens to Tristan


  • Sexy vampire Cami. This new vampire persona appears to be more attuned to Elijah than Klaus. Is it too early to hope for something between them two?
  • Vincent’s showcasing his power. How many cars per season is the budget allowed to trash?


  • Tristan’s obfuscatingly low IQ in this episode. Honestly who put such a dangerous thing in his pants pocket? I guess Aurora’s wellbeing has played a major part in Tristan’s intelligence. If she’s fine, he’s all calm, cool and smart; if she’s endangered, his IQ goes downhill.


  • Elijah’s inspirational speech to his spawns


  • Aya and The Strix’s betrayal. Oh my, it’s something I didn’t see coming. I thought she was loyal to him and they were sort of buddies/ partners in crime, but she discards him way too fast. Part of me hopes it’s just her pretending to preserve their members so that she can find a way to free him later; if not, well, let’s hope she earns the full wrath of Rebekah once the Original sister is out.

[Trilijah] Within Arm’s Reach

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: K

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel (short of)

Genres: fanfiction, slash (short of)

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: A ‘deleted’ scene in The Originals 3×10 – A Ghost Along the Mississippi


“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


“How does it feel?”


Elijah’s hand pulling the rusty metal door halted as he heard a voice from inside.

There was but only one source for that voice within the bowel of the shipping container, and it just spoke to him, asked him a question to be precise, while it had remained utterly silent since every other soul but Elijah left the auto shop: Klaus to run after an in-transition Camille, Hayley to retrieve her late husband’s body, and Marcel to join his fellow Strix who had just overthrown and abandoned their leader to rot in a metal cage. Resigned to its doomed fate, Elijah thought it had.

He was halfway from sealing the container when the voice was raised.

“How does it feel,” the voice repeated, “to know that the breathing nuisance in your epic romance with the hybrid has, to use the vernacular, bit the dust, which I suspect he did often in a literal sense?”

“You waited them to all go to start blabbing, huhm? It’s been mere minutes since your confinement and your mind has already shown signs of deterioration? I’m a little disappointed.”

Elijah swung the door fully open, causing a ‘clang’. There he found his damnable first sired sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretching out on the floor. For an immortal prisoner condemned to an eternity inside a flooded box, his posture and facial expression were far too relaxed.

There were hints of queer amusement in his tone and an odd glint in his blue eyes so bright that it made questioning his sanity a horrible offense.

“I am being gnawed by the curiosity of how you are feeling at the moment as the redundant hyphenated part in Hayley’s surname is now officially deleted.”

“Murderous, you can imagine,” Elijah replied. “Were it not for this impenetrable barrier, you would find yourself short of a small organ fitting snuggly in my fist. For now I have to content myself with a life sentence rather than capital punishment.”

As if hearing not a fraction of Elijah’s malice, Tristan seamlessly picked up his previous speech, “I believe you’re quite mad at me, understandably so, as I have stolen your chance to gorge that heart out yourself. Feeling its last valiant struggle through the skin of your palm would have been divine. Or… all this time you shied from the deed in fear of incurring that mongrel’s wrath and waited patiently for someone else to do it?”

“Are you quite done?” said Elijah with a small smile. His left hand was fiddling with the daylight ring on his right. “I consider myself overly generous to allow you your last words on this earth, but you seem to prefer wasting your chance instead. Well, you cannot begrudge me for my lack of interest in your gibberish once you’re drowning in the deepest, darkest depth of I-don’t-give-a-damn.”

Tristan laughed a wry laugh, which, Elijah admitted, was unexpected from him. “Oh certainly you do give a damn, Elijah. And you won’t drop me. Swear on my life and Rory’s, you won’t.”

“What makes you think that I will not have this fine shipping container sunk in the Mariana Trench for good? I heard down there it is quite a fabulous sight, if you could see, that is.”

“Every reason,” he replied. “Before I share with you one such reason, allow me to ask: How is Rebekah now? Is she enjoying her slumber? A knife in her heart wouldn’t cause her much discomfort, would it?”

A loud, short noise echoed in the mostly empty auto shop. On the ground laid a hefty chunk of metal from the door.

“How?” Elijah growled in a deep baritone, his eyes changing color. “She was supposed to be—”

“On the run,” Tristan cut him. “That was also the Strix’s report. Yet I always knew the only way to hinder the stake’s curse was to jam a mystical silver knife in its place, which meant either going on a rampage or sleeping, and the former was unheard of.”

“And you know how to break the curse as well, I guess.”

“Tragically I’m one of the only two in possession of the knowledge.”

“Your psycho of a sister or Aya?”

Unbeknownst to himself, Tristan was mimicking his sire’s earlier gestures with his daylight ring. He twisted the ring off his ring finger, smoothly slid it back in and then repeated as he spoke, “Neither, Elijah. The other was the witch who crafted the stakes. Dark-hearted and bright-minded she was, a true femme fatale. I saw to it that from then she was only spoken of in past tense…”

“…thus making you the sole ingredient in my sister’s release. I taught you too well, didn’t I, Tristan?”

“I suggest you keep me within your arm’s reach in case you need me as ‘Prince Charming’ to dearest Rebekah’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’.”

“It appears you’re adamant,” Elijah said, “uncompromisable. Perhaps your resolution would soften in front of the sight of Aurora’s tremendous suffering.”

“Your threats are becoming rather uncreative, Elijah. If Rory were captured, she’d make sure Niklaus learn of Rebekah’s fate first thing. I wager the Original hybrid wouldn’t handle it too gracefully.”

Tristan stood up, approached the entrance in leisure strides and stopped just where the barrier was erected as though he could see it with his eyes. “You were wrong, Elijah. This is not going to be my end. My end lies in my own hand,” he said, placing his right hand upon his heart.

Elijah advanced forward until he and Tristan were separated only by a few short, uncrossable inches. “I suppose I should heed my advice and keep you within my arm’s reach so as not to jeopardize Rebekah’s release. But I can’t guarantee it will be an improvement from the bottom of the sea.”

“I will certainly not complain.”

His smirk was eclipsed by the shadow of the door’s being closed.

“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


[Trilijah] Mine to Give, Yours to Choose

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: T

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: some angst stuff at first, maybe


“If you draw from me as I am now, Elijah,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another source.”

“Don’t be too rash to assume I always come for what is flowing in your veins, clogged with poppy at the moment, no doubt.”

A sarcastic remark had already formed on Tristan’s tongue when he decided to swallow it down his raw throat. He opted to survey Elijah, who was standing by his dead limbs, instead.

It happened all too fast.

He was in pursuit of a particular cunning fox which had been evading his grasp for the better part of the hour. What a fine creature it was, with its sinewy body covered by a fiery lustrous coat that stood out amongst the green bushes like a precious ruby. Its fur would make a splendid pair of gloves for his little sister on her upcoming birthday. Aurora was always tearful during the week of her birth, for it was also the annual mourning period of their lady mother when everyone in the castle was plunged in the hassle of preparation while their lord father was too busy resenting the cause of his wife’s untimely death to pay proper attention to his only daughter. It mostly fell on Tristan, the only one to acknowledge her existence during this time, year after year to figure out a way to cheer her up and hopefully, a thoughtful present from her beloved brother would be able to lighten up Aurora’s mood. Imagine how the gloves would compliment her hair.

Such was the instant thought hitting Tristan’s mind upon spotting the canine. With a scarce reckless disregard for everything else manifesting in his heart, he immediately kicked his horse after it, leaving behind his servants. That was the first and most grievous mistake he had ever made in his twenty-five years of life. The fox proved to be as fast and clever as it was beautiful, and while it managed to dodge every of Tristan’s well aimed arrow and the sharp jaws of his hounds by the skin of its teeth, it led its pursuers deeper and deeper into the forest. Eager to capture his game, Tristan had not noticed such, and when he finally did, it was a tad too late.

The fox vanished behind one of the larger bush and out of it sprung, a black lump moving too fast for Tristan to determine just what sort of beast it was at first. His strayed arrows must have missed the elusive fox and lodged themselves into the creature’s flesh instead, rousing it from a peaceful slumber into a soaring rage. Frightened by the sudden introduction of a ferocious threat, the horse took several steps back, maneuvering around the beast’s assault, and neighed loudly. Tristan squeezed his thighs and pulled the reins with all his arms’ strength, fighting his horse’s panic and barely winning. He was able to see it now: a furious black boar with its nostrils flaring white puffs of fog, its tusks protruding from its mouth like a pair of crescent-shaped knives, and its stout legs impatiently plowing the soil beneath. The end of the arrow stuck out from its left socket, from which blood continued to water the withered grass. His hounds were growling, the kind of low, ominous sounds they made to alarm their master of imminent danger. Never before had they encountered boars and thus, at the moment, they appeared unsure of the next move, their eyes zooming into the target and their jaws hanging open in anticipation for their next order. Truth be told, Tristan himself was not any certain than his hounds since it was the first time he’d been met with a raging boar − boars, said to be more fearsome than wolves, were almost nonexistent in this area. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. He had to think and act fast…

His concentration was ruptured with a blood-curling cry from his horse and the sudden shift in balance. It was as though for a split second the sky and the earth had swapped places.

Later, as he recalled that disastrous turn of event, Tristan would swear he had heard the sound of his bones snap like a dry wig when his body hit the ground, thrown off his mount’s back in a violent response to the beast’s attack. Nonetheless, at that crucial moment, he lost all his other senses beside his ability to feel tremendous agony. Pain spiked through his spine straight into his brain and in an evil stroke of luck, his right leg had been impaled on a sucker that grew vertically like a javelin. His brief cry was lost in the cacophony of the horse’s neighs and his hounds’ raucous barks as they divided and circled the boar, fully baring their dripping fangs.

He wished he had felt the pain, for pain denoted that the level of damage was not yet lethal and that his injuries were still curable, but not so long after that heart-jabbing ache he began to feel nothing from his waist down. Not even his calf, bleeding profusely from where it was fixed on the sucker, gave the slightest sensation. Despite a part of him’s knowing that he could not, as he had heard so many dreadful tales about this devastating condition, he tried to do something with his legs, anything at all; nevertheless, his desperate efforts were in vain because he could not feel his toes, let alone produced any sort of movement with his limbs. Total paralysis. Terror and absolute despair were the last things he remembered with clarity before the damp, cold hand of darkness clamped over his eyes.

Tristan had no way to tell how much time had passed with his consciousness’s flickering like a moribund yet persistent fire on a mostly burnt out wicker. Refusing to be extinguished, it hungrily devoured each and every sporadic wind to flare up, albeit momentarily, allowing Tristan a few blotches of image, sound or sensation, before withering down once again. He heard his hounds’ howling and the boar’s screams but there was no way for him to decide for himself what had and was happening. And even when they were very near, in his ears they sounded distant like echoes carried by the winds. He felt something warm and sticky plastering his face which he vaguely guessed to be blood − the boar’s? His hounds’? Perhaps both. He knew his hounds as loyal and fierce, sometimes to the point of being bloodthirsty − had personally and diligently trained them to be so; and despite their initial apprehension, they would not flee with their tails between their hind legs and abandon their injured master, not once blood had been spilled, theirs or their designated target.

Tristan woke not with pain but with the sore absence of it; truth be told, there was a dead numbness that blanketed him from his waist down while his torso wasn’t much more active. Poisoned with deadly lethargy his arms and shoulders were, so much so that moving their stone-weight muscles seemed a herculean task. His own flesh felt alien to him as though he was a mere specter dead-locked inside a host body; although the gracious host tolerated his parasitic existence’s latching onto it’s true master’s, it granted him zero access to the use of its flesh. He tried fighting for control, even a tiny fraction of it, yet the foreign shell was beyond adamant and he himself too feeble to make any change, however insignificant.

How he wanted to blame this depressing condition on the effect of copious amount of poppy flooding his veins in place of the blood he had spilled, if the nauseously sweet smell pervading the air he breathed in with exertion was any indication. How he wanted to believe it would only be temporary, and once the medicine wore off − it would soon, he would be screaming his heart out for the soothing embrace of insensitivity again. Or perhaps all the poppy in his system was still not enough, for he was much aware of his surroundings and situation: bedridden and paralyzed. Perhaps it would be better if he would just succumb to the poppy’s gentle hand and cast himself adrift in the dreamless current, all the while holding onto an unwavering optimism that once he woke up, his condition would greatly improve. No. His mind remained staggeringly clear despite the body’s relentless effort to keep it muddled, and he knew rather than be aware that his state would never discontinue as long as he remained breathing. Any chance of recovery had already been splintered with his spine.

It would weigh a little less heavy on his heart if he could cry out. There was heat pricking under his eyelids and his eyesight became a tad blurry as the result; nevertheless, his eyes were painfully dry.

The only silver lining in this bleakness, Tristan mused, was that he was lying on his dear old bed, in his dear old room − far better than lying in a bed of scorched leaves with the starry sky above for proof. In the opposite corner of the room was his dearest Aurora, draping over the table in a very unladylike manner that normally would be the subject of her brother’s endless tease. Of course Tristan was in no bloody mood to make fun of her; in fact, her posture caused a single tear to roll down his cheek while everything else could not have. Even in her sleep, weariness was visible on her countenance, etched in the tiny crease between her eyebrows and the glittering tear stains around her closed eyes. Sobbed herself to sleep she must have. He remembered vaguely her crying his name over and over like chanting a broken mantra. He wouldn’t dare the thought of what would become of Aurora if fate had dictated that the human known as Tristan de Martel should perish tonight.

In spite of his body’s protest, Tristan extended his right arm towards the small table by his bed. Slowly and shakily, as if it was wrapped in a bulky cloth made of lead. Swear to god he couldn’t feel the nightly chill raising goosebumps on his skin. His throat was so parched that a sip of the cold water in the jug would feel heavenly. Should he raise his voice loud enough − he supposed he could do that much, Aurora would wake and instantly come to his aid, and that was precisely what he didn’t want to. Let the poor girl have her exhausted sleep. Besides, if he was unable to perform this nothing-task, he might just bite off his tongue right now. He couldn’t bear leaving Aurora behind, but death would be a thousand times more preferable than a useless, lingering existence, a boulder blocking her life road ahead.

Sweat dampening his forehead, Tristan uttered a silent curse. His fingertips had already reached the grip; if only he had had a little more strength in his quivering hand. He ground his teeth, trying once again. This time his effort was fruitful: he could pull the jug towards him. Just a little more. His joy was stillborn however, because when the jug was at the edge, its bottom hit a chink on the wooden surface. That, coupled with Tristan’s effort, produced an unfavorable outcome of the jug’s tumbling down.

He squeezed his eyes in heartfelt anticipation of an avoidable shattering noise. Seconds passes and nothing happened; in his chamber it was quiet as ever. When he opened his eyes, he found a tall figure looming over him. The jug was held steady in the man’s hand, hence its narrow escape from its death.

The man’s was a familiar face, too familiar and the last one Tristan wished to see. Not in this pathetic state.

“Elijah,” he breathed the name.

The bloodsucker gave a light nod in acknowledgment of Tristan’s default ‘greeting’ for their nocturnal rendezvous. He reached for a bowl on the table and filled it half-full.

His touch as he laid a hand under Tristan’s neck and lifted his head up with unexpected but otherwise much appreciated tenderness was cold like an iron blade dipped in frost. And that wasn’t because Tristan was suffering from a rampant fever.

“I waited for Aurora to fall asleep,” explained Elijah in soft voice, as if he felt the need of an explanation for his unusual low body temperature. His voice was even and steady, suggesting the hours basking in the late autumnal winds had had little effect on his person, as expected from a supernatural being. He stirred the bowl gently to damp Tristan’s chapped lips first, before helping the human consume the entire content.

The water was bland, yet it brought a cool relief to his thirst.

Elijah’s thumb swiped his thumb across the corner of Tristan’s lips, collecting a strayed drop.

“Some more?”

“No…. Thank you.”

He settled the bowl and the jug on their former place, making not the smallest sound.

“A boar, wasn’t it? I heard from the servants that followed you. Pursuing a beast in its own territory without your human company wasn’t a wise move, I must say.”

“It was originally a fox,” said Tristan with a smile that wasn’t very much a smile. “The boar was a lousiest twist.”

“It may not make you feel any better, but the ‘lousiest twist’ was found eradicated by your fierce and loyal hounds. Not without a dire price, of course. One of them managed to lead the servants to your site, where both his alive and fallen friends were guarding.”

Having known even before Elijah’s tale didn’t prevent a sigh from Tristan.

“If you draw from me as I am now, Elijah,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to find yourself another source.”

“Don’t be too rash to assume I always come for what is flowing in your veins, clogged with poppy at the moment, no doubt.”

A sarcastic remark had already formed on Tristan’s tongue when he decided to swallow it down his raw throat. He opted to survey Elijah, who was standing by his dead limbs, instead.

His hand was on Tristan’s left thigh, and even without the voluminous covers, he knew he could not feel the touch. He supposed he could keep a straight face as he watched Elijah tear his calf from his knee with a fraction of his inhuman strength.

“Your father was beyond furious,” Elijah informed him. “And he almost had the doctor drawn and quartered for daring to reveal the dreadful truth about your injury.”

“That I was aware.”

Elijah’s gaze lingering on Tristan’s face evoked a vague sense of uneasiness in him; from Tristan’s perspective, the bloodsucker appeared to be scourging his expression for hints of other emotions than blankness. Would he delight in the mortal suffering, Tristan wondered, knowing that such a doomed fate would never befall him, a creature that continued to cheat death and time with each breath he drew?

A sort of unfounded anger rose in Tristan’s guts; he clenched his fists and refused to avert his eyes from Elijah’s gaze.

“The scent of your blood under the bandage was distracting,” Elijah said. “The pain should be too great for poppy to neutralize it.”

“Even if you tore my legs from me,” he voiced his earlier, macabre thought, “I wouldn’t feel any difference, from now on and always. The lord’s son, crippled for life.”

“It isn’t necessarily so.”

And with a saturnine look he did what Tristan least expected: his eyes shifted color to a shade darker than red and his fangs became visible from his parted lips. Using them, he pierced his own wrist.

His tone was eerily serene despite his haunting visage as he spoke, “Mine is a fiend’s blood — you yourself have said so, and it can do what only fiends can.”

The puncture wounds closed in front of Tristan’s widening eyes, and the skin was mended with the perfection that could invoke the best seamstress’s jealousy.

Tristan started to catch his implication.

“It may fix this disastrous turn of event. The question is, would you—”

“Give me your blood!”

Hesitation was free from his weak voice, reduced to mere whispers, only resolution.

The risk that he might be locked in an everlasting curse like Elijah and his siblings was well-perceived and Tristan was willing to take it, consequences be damned. Any kind of existence would be better than one of a cripple, dead from his waist down.

With no further ado, Elijah ripped open a gap on his wrist, considerably wider and deeper than his previous demonstrative one. His own blood colored his stubbly chin, dripping onto the front of his beige tunic. There, a piece of flesh bitten off should take a little more time for his demonic blood to heal than neat puncture wounds. With one hand supporting Tristan’s head, elevating him up so that he wouldn’t choke, Elijah brought the other to Tristan’s mouth. Rather than repulsed by the close-up view of mangled flesh drenched in blood, he was pulled in by a peculiar magnetism. Pressing his lips to the wound in a mockery of a chastest kiss, he sucked like a babe starving for its mother’s milk, and for the first time in his life the human had truly known what it felt to have the life essence of another in his mouth. Savory and strong, its was a unique flavor unlike beer or any kind of wine, and he had tried many kinds of wine as one privilege of a wealthy lord’s son. More than just taste, it was imbued with virulent power he could feel literally whirling on his tongue. He swallows it as fast as he could in an absurd fear of having it taken back by the generous giver.

Not long after Elijah had put a distance between them, Tristan sensed the life rushing back to his deceased muscles. Truly felt it by the marrow of his bones. He tossed away the many layers of covering, ripped the bandage with haste and found his legs as they were prior the incident.

Elijah’s thumb swiped across Tristan’s lips, doing away the telltale smudges. “You may want to contain your scream of joy or risk ruining Aurora’s sleep,” he reminded Tristan, a faint smile clinging on the seam of his lips.

“What am I now?” Tristan asked. “Something like you?”

“It’s rude to refer to your savior as ‘something’, the lord Tristan. I could use a little gratitude,” he replied. “You are not like me, not yet. However, in the following day if you managed to get attacked by a boar the second time, you might.”

“That was how Lucien showed up in front of me wound-free, wasn’t it?”

Elijah’s smirk never failed to churn his inside. “That smart head of yours had better be used to come up with an explanation for your miraculous recovery overnight.”

One foot on the windowsill, Elijah turned his head and said, “How about your heartfelt prayer was answered by merciful God and an angel descended?”

Then, he plunged into the depth of the night.


The title came from Bartholomew’s The Silent Comedy. 

 Tristan agreed to be Elijah’s personal human blood bag, hence their nocturnal rendezvous. 

[Trilijah] Forbidden–Part I

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: M

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel

Genres: fanfiction, slash

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: Took place after Tristan tortured Lucien in The Originals 3×03 – I See You in Hell or New Orleans


“Supposed that I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”


Only when he was one step within the safe vicinity of his chamber did Tristan allow himself to release a lengthy breath he had been desperately holding. As if picking a cue, his heart started trampling his ribs like a mad stallion screaming for release. Although he secured the door with a heavy iron lock, he knew it to be futile: there was nothing that could hinder them, those monsters in civil skin, if they truly wanted to demolish a citadel, let alone a well-worn barrier.

Tristan was quite certain he had just infuriated one of those monsters and upset another. Some nerve he had to have betted his life on unbacked threats and faked calmness. Not awfully bad for the very first theatrical act he had pulled. One of them, the murderous younger brother, could have snapped his neck as easily as squatting a fly, and had nearly done so had his elder sibling not intervened. His throat was much sore from the assault and he did not doubt its remnants would be visible for days to come. He should put his mind into inventing some believable reasons if his lord father questioned them − what would suffice for purplish finger-shaped bruises on his throat? He had been stretching his luck, he was painfully aware, and next time might not be so unfortunate. Still, given another chance, Tristan would do exactly as he had done mere hours ago. He wanted to protect his family, he had told them such, and there was every ounce of truth in his words. Lucien had led them into his home − that he was unable to change − so what Tristan could do was trying everything in his ability to keep his lord father and Aurora away from those bloodthirsty fangs.

… Even if that meant Tristan should put himself in them.

… And he had. Again and again.

He sank into the feather-stuffed mattress, not bothering to change out of his soiled clothes or wash his face. Lucien’s blood had turned dark, gotten cold and coagulated on his skin in ugly, shapeless blotches. The thought of that wretched servant clawing at the filth of the dungeon in immense agony somehow brought a sense of tranquil to his frantic heartbeats. He had been furious back then, each strike flying with all his body’s strength and his heart’s toxic ire. God knew how long he had waited for the opportunity to make Lucien pay for his many a crime. For daring to harbor vile desires for Aurora he deserved death, yet that was not the sole reason for Tristan’s long-brewed yearn to turn Lucien’s life into hell. His most grievous sin laid in leading a troupe of monsters through his family home’s gate, jeopardizing the lives of hundreds with little regard. To make matter worse, his sin went silent, unknown even by those who had been robbed of their chance of life in the mute of nights, and thus it scurried beneath public awareness like despicable vermin. And Tristan, despite being a lord’s son and conscious of what Lucien had committed, seethed in the frustration of his own impotence to give the servant his just dessert. Not until now…

The moon was high and Tristan felt he should have gone to sleep − preservation of his strength and stamina to accompany his lord father on his hunting expedition tomorrow was imperative. It would be a long, trying day and the least he wanted was to fall from his horse, making a joke for all the court to see if he didn’t make a cripple out of himself first. One to value mighty display, his lord father had no tolerance for any sight of weakness, especially if it came from his only son. Tristan had learnt it the hardest way at the tender age of seven.

Despite all of it, his eyes, red-rimmed and starting to hurt with fatigue, stared at the ceiling as though there was a magnificent mural worthy of admiration there instead of the monochromatically dull color of ancient stone. He appeared to be waiting from an outsider’s perspective and he might indeed be. He had had the door barred but left the window wide open − expecting something, or someone, to enter his chamber through it, no matter how ridiculous that notion might sound; his place, after all, resided at the peak of this wing, impossible to reach without the use of stairs or ladders. It would take a pair of wings or a lizard’s feet to climb the vertical and weather-worn, moss-covered surface outside to penetrate his room.

And then, as he had silently expected, from the only opening a shadow crept in. His footsteps lighter than the rustle of the foliage when a breeze passed through, the tall figure hastened to the center of the chamber, where the flickering light from the fireplace cast some shades on his visage, accentuating his chiseled features, which were made sharper and thus more intimidating than usual by his underlying menace.

The atmosphere had shifted at the moment of intrusion, heavier and condensed. Tristan’s barely soothed heartbeats picked up its pace once more. The tips of his fingers and toes felt chilling.

“You seem vexed,” Tristan commented without sitting up to have a proper look at the intruder’s countenance.

“Should I not be?” asked the intruder in monotonously even voice. Footsteps were heard and not soon after, Tristan felt the heat wave from another presence encroaching his personal zone. The old bed groaned with an additional weight − it always did whenever having to occupy one more person beside its master. A pair of toned arms were firmly placed on either side of Tristan’s head, supported a torso that was hovering above Tristan’s − barely touching.

Perfectly trapped. No way to escape.

Tristan lay very still.

“After your filthy lies hours earlier? Huhm?”

Breath ghosted warmly over his cool cheeks, and he shivered inside.

“I wasn’t lying,” he corrected. Not rebuked, just corrected. His voice had a slight quiver due to his racing heartbeat.

“Another lie. I could hear your telltale little organ even in the courtyard. Screaming as it is right now. ‘Lie!’“

One hand pressed against Tristan’s chest, the pressure further provoking his heart. It started to hurt.

“Pray tell, what did I lie about?”

“The maiden that survived Kol’s assault − it was a blatant lie! I see to it there’s never any survivor.”

Tristan breathed a laugh. “Always the diligent brother, aren’t you? Never miss a single one.” His tone was edged with sarcasm. “Supposedly I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”

The last word had a considerably weaker articulation than the rest because of the sudden constriction in his throat, the reason of which being the sight presented to his eyes: gray veins gathering around the sockets housing a pair of eyes as dark as thick blood. Gone was the mask of man: this was the core of his lie coming back to bite him.

“Perhaps I did miss one,” he growled, his fangs gleaming. “What shall I do to make amends for my fault?”

His hair stood on end at the hint of stubbles rubbing against the skin of his neck. There a major vein resided, pumping blood from his heart to his head. He once witnessed an unfortunate soldier get knifed in the neck and blood had gushed out like a broken dam. So much blood in so little vessel − what a miracle that was the human body. Since then he had held an obsession with that particular image and more or less, driven by it to venture down the abattoir to watch where his family’s lavish feasts originated from. Now he felt much like cattle himself, lying still to be preyed upon by a predator. His eyebrows knitted with the pricking sensation on his pulse.

To be continued