fic: the light of the dying day (2/? - guilt)

[pomnit]

title| the light of the dying day (2/? - guilt)
rating| pg-13
words| 2,961
summery| She's never really gotten used to the feeling, her blood being sucked away as sharp fangs bite into her flesh. It's the thing that happens to the victims, not the willing. (Zombie!AU)
A/N| Luckily, I had enough inspiration to write more! Which isn't a guarantee this will be good, (in fact, it probably isn't) so be warned.

 

The can of corn slips out of Elena's shaky fingers, crashing to the floor, the sound making her jump.

Her other hand grips the counter, steadying herself. The can is luckily still in one piece. She takes in a long breath before bending down to pick it up.

She needs to sleep. She hasn't slept in.. How long has it been since she slept? Moving her body is taking every effort in her muscles. Two days, maybe.

She sets the can back on the counter and stares at it. Why does she bother? She has no appetite. Damon doesn't eat any of the food.

She sighs and pulls a can opener out of a kitchen drawer. She has to force herself to eat, she knows that. Food builds strength and she can't be weak.

Her head snaps up when she sees a motion out of the corner of her eye. She puts the can opener on the counter before moving to the kitchen window. She sees nothing but night, a deep darkness that slowly sweeps over the farmhouse they have taken as a home. But she saw something- No, it must be paranoia. She closes the small yellow curtains over the window and makes her way back to the counter.

She stops when something clatters to the floor beside her. She looks down and sees an old calender. It must have slipped.

She picks it up. Her fingers ghost over old dates. She frowns and throws it into the trash. She hasn't kept a calender for over a year. She isn't sure what month it is. It might be December, maybe January. She grips the counter next to her, her fingers pressing into the spaces between the tile. She doesn't know the time either. Her watch had stopped a while ago, and there had more important things to think about than fixing a watch.

She grits her teeth and reaches for the can opener. The idea of eating sickens her but she has to be strong enough to defend herself. She thinks she might sleep for a few hours after dinner.

A thump and a rustle startle her and her hand freezes in mid-air. Her ears pick up, and although she doesn't have the sensitive hearing of a vampire, the constant silence around her has made her ears adapt.

When she hears another thump, she bites into her lip and pulls open another drawer, takes a wooden stake out of it. It's coming from the front door.

She makes her way into the living room, stake tightly clutched in her hand. Her anxiousness builds when she reaches the door. They never come to the house. Some are hungry enough to venture close, but those ones are never stealthy or quiet. She prepares herself to reach for the doorknob, takes in a short breath and holds it when the door starts opening on it's own.

And the first sight of movement, she quickly steps in front of the monster and plunges the stake into it's heart. She hears a gasp and sees that in her panic she missed. She pulls the stake back out and prepares to plunge it back in, until she looks at the monster in the dim light.

This creature's well dressed, short black hair and- Oh no. No, no no no.

She curses, drops the stake and grabs him, tries to steady him. He holds onto the door frame and the apologies come tumbling out. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I thought- They never come here, but I- I was scared and-"

Elijah shakes his head, cutting her off. She watches him carefully, hoping she didn't do too much damage. His eyes are closed and he's breathing heavily. He looks weak, she thinks, and her heart falls when she realizes that must mean he didn't find anything. After a moment, he pulls himself up and she helps him to the couch.

She stays standing while he sits. She notices his wound is only just starting to heal. Her face scrunches up in a frown. He needs blood, very badly by the looks of it. She takes her small army knife out of her left pocket and flips it open. Elijah watches in confusion, recoils when she cuts her wrist and holds it out to him.

She sighs in frustration and sits next to him, still holding out her wrist while she slips her knife back into her pocket. He's always like this when he shows up, always refuses to take blood from her until she convinces him. She could force him, weak as he is now, but that's a last resort.

He glances at her wrist before shaking his head. "No," he chokes out, his voice raspy. He moves away but doesn't get up.

She doesn't understand why he does this. He clearly needs blood. Maybe he thinks he'll lose control and drain her. But when has he ever lost control?

He's not looking at her. She moves closer and holds her wrist higher. Blood is sliding down her skin and dripping off, making crimson spots on her jeans. She'll have to wash them later.

She only lets him resist a moment longer before putting her wrist to his mouth. He frowns and tries to shrink away, but she grabs his shoulder and holds him in place. "You need to drink, Elijah. Please."

He watches her blood drip, debating whether or not to take what's offered to him, before finally wrapping his fingers around her wrist and sinking his teeth into the cut.

Elena holds back a gasp as he drinks. She's never really gotten used to the feeling, her blood being sucked away as sharp fangs bite into her flesh. It's the thing that happens to the victims, not the willing. She holds onto the couch for support, a weariness cloaking over her, and suppresses a shudder.

He only lets himself drink for another minute before gently pushing her away and wiping his mouth. He's still weak, needs more than what he's took, but she decides to not to push him.

She leans back against the couch cushions and puts pressure on the cut. She blinks, shakes her head and squeezes her arm, trying to keep herself awake.

She watches him through hazy eyes as he looks around the room. He looks back to her and she thinks she hears the question before it leaves his mouth. "Damon?"

He sounds better with blood in his system, she thinks, stronger. Her mind focuses back onto the subject of Damon and she shrugs. Her memory suddenly picks up, telling her where, and she mumbles "In his bedroom, I think."

She briefly glances down the hall to check, but she looks away as soon as she sees Damon's bedroom door. It's closed. She looks down, her hands suddenly fascinating.

When Damon's bedroom door is closed, she leaves him alone. She had opened it once. The generator had been down and she was going to ask him to try and fix it while she made dinner. But as soon as she took one step in, she froze, taking in the image and letting it burn into her mind.

He had been laying on his bed, arms spread out, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression devoid of any feeling or emotion. He hadn't even spared a glance in her direction, just laid there, stock still, as if she wasn't there at all. She had slipped out of the room, quieter than a whisper, and closed the door behind her. The image replays her mind, over and over and-

She doesn't realize she's shaking until she feels Elijah touching her, his fingers gently brushing over hand. She stares down, watches her hands as they slightly lose their shake. He still does no more than let his fingers hover over her skin. This, like all of his actions now, is laced with reluctance and hesitance, like he thinks he might break her, like he thinks he's not worthy to touch her.

Her hands finally still, and she inhales, feels a tremor in her throat. She looks up, her eyes connecting with his. She sees concern and something else she can't place. Her mind starts to wake up and leave it's haze, and for the thousandth time, she wonders why he's still here, why he stayed in the first place.

She thinks it might boil down to their series of betrayals, that maybe he still feels guilty for leaving her with Rebekah. Honestly, she was never very angry with him for that. He was protecting his family, and she would have done the same and more to protect hers. But he was angry with himself and she thinks he might feel like he owes her.

But the more she lets herself think about this, the more memories sprout up. Of him finding her clutching to Matt's broken body and softly pulling her away as she sobbed. Of him helping her bury Caroline and not saying a word as she started weeping halfway through her eulogy, just put his hand on the small of her back. Of him taking care of Stefan's lifeless corpse because neither she nor Damon had the strength to do so.

But why would he care enough to stay? She stops thinking when she gets to that question, shuts down her thoughts and just focuses on surviving. Trying to understand Elijah and his motives is a complex road she doesn't have enough time to go down.

She doesn't suppress the next shudder, lets it flow through her as she quickly takes her hand away and pushes herself off the couch. She tries to get away but her feet are moving too fast for her legs to keep up and she loses her balance, almost falling. She feels Elijah's hand on her back, steadying her, and she jerks away from his touch. Everything is clouding around her and she regrets not sleeping sooner. She uses all her strength to stumble to her bedroom, muttering over her shoulder as she tries not to trip, "Need to sleep."

She thinks she hears a quiet 'Goodnight' before she slams her door behind her. She leans back against it, tries to clear the fog choking her.

What wakes her up fully and drowns her at the same time is opening her eyes and realizing she is not in her room.

No.

No.

"No."

"Ric, please-"

He shakes his head quickly, avoiding her eyes. "No."

She takes his hands in hers. She wishes she was strong enough not to cry. "Ric, if we kill you while you're wearing your ring, then you'll come back, you'll come back the same-"

"No."

"The vampire bite won't have any effect, it'll be gone, you'll be okay, just let us-"

"No!" He shoves her away and she stumbles back, hits the wall. He looks at her in shock, as if he doesn't understand what he just did. She moves to him, trying to touch him, but he steps back. "I- I can't hurt anymore people, I can't-"

"Ric, the ring-"

"No! The ring does it to me too, it makes me different and I-" A sob cuts him off and he can't look at her, sinks to the floor. "I don't want to hurt anyone, Elena. Please, just let me.."

He doesn't finish his sentence, lets it trail off and disappear, but she knows what word comes next. Let me die. Let me kill myself or do it for me.

He's right, he could hurt them, he could kill them. The vampire bite will infect him, the virus will destroy his mind. It has no cure. The ring has a high chance to do the same. And honestly, they don't have any idea if their method will work, if the bite will simply disappear when he dies. They do however, know the odds of that happening, even if they aren't willing to admit it.

She knows what the right choice is here, but she can't just let him-

She crouches next to him and her hands cup his cheeks. "Please, Ric, just consider. Please, for me."

He doesn't speak for a long time, still can't look at her, but he eventually answers. "..Okay."

Deep down, she hears the lie in his voice, hears the broken acceptance of what he has to do to save them, to save himself, but she doesn't want to hear it, blocks it out. She just cries, holds him, pretends everything will be okay.

That night, Alaric hangs himself.

Her knees hit the floor with a sickening thud and she chokes on a scream. She wheezes, coughs, falls to her hands, digs her nails into the floorboards and tries to get the scream out. A nausea is building in her stomach, climbing up her throat, and she can't do anything but violently cough and gasp, her body trying to expel bile that she doesn't have.

She has to leave, she can't be here, she can't-

Everything is foggy and dim as she fumbles with the doorknob, as she pulls open the door and hears it slam against the wall, as she stumbles down the hallway towards the bathroom and thinks she hears someone calling her name behind her but doesn't care.

Elena crashes to the bathroom's tile floor, her knees again breaking her fall, and crawls to the toilet, leaning over the bowl and heaving. Her body has very little food in it's system, making every heave dry. Tremors shake up her spine and hot tears are making their way down her cheeks despite her efforts to hold them back.

She feels pathetic, weak. But the most overwhelming feeling of all is a deep loneliness. That's why, even though she doesn't want anyone to see her like this, crumpled up on the bathroom floor, she feels a tinge of relief when she feels someone holding her hair back as she heaves over the basin.

But an anger quickly takes over, consumes her, causing her to shrink away from the touch, to hold back her heaves and push herself into a corner, to curl up there and hide. How can someone be so kind to her? They must know what she is, what she did. How could they be gentle? Why would they try to comfort her? She was a selfish coward, forced him to drown in his pain instead of relieving him from it. She pushed him until he saw no other way out, pushed him to kill himself, to tie a rope around his neck and hear it snap, when she could have helped him, made his last moments painless and happy.

She thinks there are fingers in her hair, hands against her skin, so she snaps away, closes her eyes and digs herself further into the corner. "Go away," she grits out. She doesn't deserve comfort. She knows who's standing in front of her and it only makes her angrier. He of all people should know, should be able sense what she did. He should hate her.

She feels his hesitance to leave and covers her face with her hands, dirty strands of hair brushing against her fingers. She wants to scream, to yell and cry, but her throat has become sandpaper, so the most she can get out is harsh whispers. "Leave me alone."

There is silence for an instant, but then she hears footsteps. The thud of the door as he closes it behind him echos in her head, making her feel more alone than before. The nausea returns and she leans back over the bowl.

She is alone, just as she always was and always will be. Everyone will eventually be stripped away from her. She will watch everything fall away until she is left standing deserted in the aftermath. She will be alone until the day she dies, and it will be of her own doing. There will be no one left to blame.

She empties what little is left in her stomach.