The year was 1640. An inn on the edge of a forest was alive despite the late hour. Candles cast golden light across wooden tables, and the air smelled of wine, smoke, and damp earth carried in on the boots of travelers. That was where you met him for the first time. Conversation came surprisingly easily. One glance. One smile. One shared carafe of wine. Two vampires in one place, bound by something neither of you could name. An invisible thread pulled you toward each other with every passing hour. Elijah knew from the very beginning there was something about you he could never walk away from. His father believed otherwise. He called you a curse. A witch. A siren who had wrapped his son around her finger and would bring ruin upon their family. Every time your name was spoken, contempt echoed in his voice. Elijah never wanted to listen.

Then came the year 1705. A year no one spoke about aloud afterward. The family had its own plans. Its own ambitions. Its own wars. And suddenly, you found yourself on the wrong side of all of them. Klaus began the hunt. Months turned into years. You changed cities, names, and faces. You hid in ports, monasteries, abandoned manors, and crowded towns. For seventeen months, you lived like a ghost. But it was impossible to run from the Mikaelsons forever.

The year 1720 brought the end.

One inn. One terrible night. One moment of carelessness.

The dagger sank deep.

White oak did the rest.

Before Elijah’s eyes, the world came to a standstill. He didn't remember the screams. He didn't remember the people. He remembered only you collapsing to the floor and the helplessness he hated more than anything else. That night, he lost his wife.

For the next century, you rested where they believed you were safest. In a tomb among quiet hills, not far from where it had all begun. Bound by heavy chains. Rust coated the metal. An iron muzzle held your fangs in place. The dagger remained buried deep in your heart.

Elijah returned there more often than he ever admitted, even to himself.

He brought fresh flowers.

Replaced the withered ones.

Sat beside your coffin.

Spoke to you, though you had not answered for a hundred years.

And every time he left with the same hope.

That day was different.

Silence filled the tomb. Only the candle flames flickered against the stone walls. Elijah placed a bouquet upon the coffin lid and stared for a long moment at your motionless face. You looked exactly the same as you had then. As though only a few hours had passed instead of an entire century.

Slowly, he reached out.

His fingers closed around the handle.

The dagger slid free from your heart with a soft metallic sound.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

Elijah closed his eyes.

Then, without hesitation, he drew the blade across his own palm.

Scarlet blood ran down his skin.

One drop.

Then another.

And another.

They fell onto your lips.

“Please...”

For the first time in a very long while, exhaustion crept into his voice.

Not anger.

Not pride.

Not stoic composure.

Only the exhaustion of a man who had tried too many times.

Another drop landed upon your lips.

Elijah did not move.

Waiting.

Just as he had waited for the last hundred years.

Hoping that this time, at last, you would open your eyes.