fic: the light of the dying day

[pomnit]

title| the light of the dying day
rating| pg
words| 2,285
summery| Elena's nails, now crusted with bloody dirt, dig into each of the corpse's legs as she drags it towards the others. (Zombie!AU)
A/N| I have no idea what this is or where it came from or why I wrote it - plot bunnies are weird that way - but it was fun to write. Enjoy? (I sort of want to continue this, but my inspiration is fickle and I don't like making commitments, so this is marked as complete for now.)

Elena's nails, now crusted with bloody dirt, dig into each of the corpse's legs as she drags it towards the others.

She lets go when the monster is close to another and grabs it's arms, starts pulling it onto the pile of others. She feels brief guilt for calling it a monster. It was a man once. Once. Once.

The thud that comes from the body when she lets it drop onto another shakes away the sympathy fogging her thoughts. They are no longer men. Beasts. Creatures. Not men.

She walks away from the heap, moves to grab another body and passes Damon. He's carrying a body, has enough strength to do so. She turns and watches as he gently lays the girl he's carrying down onto the others like her.

The girl's hair is covered in muck and dirt, hints of blood splashed across the brown strands. Elena remembers her. She had said her name was Madeline. Damon called her Maddy. He had hope for her.

She forces herself to turn back around when he brushes Madeline's hair away from her face, swallows down any pity she might have for him, lets it rot in her stomach with her sympathy and sorrow and grief. Those emotions are useless now. Anger and fear keep her going, sadness weighs her down. She drills this into her mind as she grabs onto the legs of another corpse and pulls.

She tries to keep her eyes off Damon as she drags the corpse closer. A part of him died when he was forced to burn and cremate his friends, when he was forced to put a stake in his brother's heart. But yet he still feels pain for a dead girl they've known no longer than a week. He still had faith that they could only go up from here, that she would somehow be immune to the vampire bite.

She knows how easy it is for a vampire to turn their emotions off. She wonders if he's tried.

She wonders if there's something wrong with her for thinking like this, so inhumanly.

Inhumanly. Ridiculous. Nothing around them fits the definition of human anymore. Why should she?

She sets the corpse's legs down softly when she reaches the pile, despite her arms begging her to just let them drop. She breathes heavily, her body moaning with fatigue. She has to push herself to heave the body onto the pile.

When she's done, no more bodies to move, she sees that Damon is still next to Madeline. He's on his knees, watching her with a dark intensity, his hands on her chest. She knows what he's doing. Memories flood back, of watching a still chest, waiting for a breath, a sigh, any sign of life. Pressing an ear to ashen skin and willing for a heartbeat. Begging, pleading, only getting lifeless orbs in return.

When she moves towards Damon, sits next to him, she thinks of the one comforting thought she had when the virus had ripped Stefan from them.

He had not been her Stefan when he died. He had been a ghost, a pathetic copy. Her Stefan, the one she loved and lost, had died long ago. Klaus had torn him away, not the virus. She did not mourn the thing that wore his face when it was killed. She mourned the fact that it dragged her hope down with it.

Her Stefan had already been long gone. As she watches Damon cling to the small girl, she realizes he doesn't even have that. Madeline was still Madeline before she attacked them, before he had to kill her.

They need to light the fire. Night is falling around them and the bodies need to be burnt. Damon must notice too, but he doesn't move. She grabs his shoulder and shakes him. When he doesn't move, she shakes harder, eventually having to pull the matches out of her pocket and wave them in his face.

The matches startle him, and he looks at her, blinks in confusion. He glances between her and the matches, then nods slowly, understanding. He looks back at Madeline once more before getting up. He walks away from the pile and she watches as he grabs a can of gasoline and comes back. She silently moves out of his way.

They don't speak anymore, not outdoors or in new places. And even in places they know well, they're only brave enough to whisper. Call it paranoia, but one wrong sound could set off a hidden ghoul. The monsters are often around them, so they have to be careful.

The silence cuts into her sometimes, makes her anxious, and she's almost grateful for small sounds. Footsteps and clinks of plates and rustling of leaves. She's almost surprised how little she used to appreciate them.

Damon douses the corpses in gasoline, the splashing sound making her stomach clench in disgust. He drops the jug when finished. He gestures towards the pile, her signal to the start the fire.

Her eyes glide over the pile before striking the match. Only six today. Five strangers. A week ago there was twelve.

She throws the match into the heap, steps back as the bodies light up in a blazing flame. Damon stays still. The light bounces off his face, a deep contrast to the night around them.

They should move, find shelter. But when she sees tears on his cheek, she realizes she doesn't have the heart to pull him away just yet. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes. His eyes shut and he breathes in shakily. She looks back to the fire. Sometimes, she wishes she could afford to feel like he feels, to cry and mourn.

The smell of ashes and blood and burning flesh wafts over her and she coughs, has to look away from the fire.

She freezes when she sees the figure watching them in the shadows, the fire not reaching them. Could it be- No, she recognizes the outline. Anger courses through her and she lets go of Damon's hand.

He seems to notice the sudden movement and opens his eyes, looks at her and follows her line of sight. When he sees the figure, she sees the rage on his face and knows he recognizes him too.

He hastily tries to move past her, but she blocks him, plants her hand firmly on his chest and shakes her head. Damon is not in the right place to talk to him. He'll get himself killed.

She starts walking towards the figure before Damon grabs her arm. She looks back to him and he glares at her. She nods her head at the figure and tries to communicate with her eyes. Someone has to see what he wants. It has to be her. Damon seems to get the message, because he just shakes his head and tries to pull her away. She shoves him and shakes his hand off, makes her hands into fists and glares back at him. I have to. She grabs the part of her arm where a vervain dart is hidden. I'll be fine.

He clenches his jaw and she shakes her head. She turns on her heel and tries to walk away again, this time successfully. Damon doesn't grab her again, but she can feel his eyes burning into her back as she walks.

When she reaches the figure, the moon casts enough light for her to see his face. It's him. Klaus.

Klaus' eyes briefly flick past her, looking to the fire, then back to her. "I'm looking for my brother."

She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to her other foot and looks down. "He's not here." It's not a lie, though she wouldn't tell Klaus if he was.

He glares at her. She thinks if she stepped any closer, the anger radiating off him might burn her. "I can see that, sweetheart. If I thought he was still with you, I would have assumed he was in your bed." To his credit, she flinches at the dig. She makes fists at her sides and wishes she could send one into his jaw. "I was hoping you could tell me where he is."

She looks back up at him, hissing her words. "Screw you. Find him yourself."

She turns back around, intending on marching back to Damon, but Klaus grabs her arm and spins her back to him. She gasps and tries to shake him off. She can almost feel the way Damon tenses, prepared to run to her rescue, but she knows what Klaus will do to him if he does. She raises her hand as a signal to stay back, quickly shakes her head and harshly whispers "I'm fine." She knows he can hear.

Klaus' fingers tighten on her arm and she can see any patience he has left is seeping away. "Where is he, Elena?"

She feels relief when Damon stays away, albeit watching her carefully, but it doesn't compare to the anger billowing up in her stomach. "Why does it matter?"

"I need to speak with him."

"About what?"

His nails are digging into her arm and she thinks they're drawing blood. "None of your concern," he snarls.

He's trying to scare it out of her. She glares back instead. "Then go ask someone it concerns."

She tries to shake him off again. He releases her arm this time and she steps back, her fingers squeezing around the crescent cuts as she glares at him.

Her eyes flicker over Klaus in his angered state. He's healthy, she notices. He looks like he's drunken blood in the last few days. The anger in her stomach is boiling to rage. Elijah is out searching the country for any remains of blood, human of otherwise, and he never finds anything. He always comes back half starved, and she practically has to force her wrist into his mouth. Damon is barely living, their stock of blood bags getting smaller and smaller each passing day. At this point, it'll surprise her if Elijah even comes back. They both refuse to drink from her but are dying in the process.

And meanwhile, the bastard that started all of this is full and healthy. A desperate part of her wants to ask him where he finds blood, but she swallows the question down roughly. The day she asks for Klaus' help is the day she willingly walks into the arms of one of the mindless monsters hunting her.

She forces herself to turn away from Klaus, to try and walk away. "If that's all you want, then we're done here." Her body is shaking with a deep hatred and it's hard to move her legs. Every part of her body screams to lash out at him when she hears his next words. "I notice the history teacher is missing. Did he abandon you as well?" His voice is lacking of any hint of amusement, any attempt at humor. His words reek of a bitterness that is thicker than the smell of the fire.

She doesn't turn, doesn't face him, but she wants to rip him apart and shred his lungs because how dare he?

She spits the words out before she can stop herself. "We buried him next to Caroline." She can feel the way the jab hits him, knows her words have hurt him more than any physical blow could have, but his pain brings her no pleasure. She wants to tear out her own tongue because how dare she?

She walks away and he doesn't stop her again.

When she reaches Damon, her eyes are blurring and her hands are shaking. The fire is bouncing all around her, she can feel it's heat. She has to leave.

She grabs his wrist and tugs, starts pulling him towards the car. He follows with reluctance, glancing back at Klaus as she drags him. "We're leaving," she hisses. She can't be here anymore.

When Damon starts the car, she looks back and sees that Klaus is now standing by the fire, looking absently into the flames.

She hopes the fire somehow reaches up and chokes him, slices through him and pulls him down into the heat.

She hopes she can hear his screams as he burns.