Chapter Text
Elena had never been born to burn.
Burning had been Jeremy's fate.
She'd been a water baby through and through - trips to her family's lake house had been filled with visits to the shore; she was always the first one in the pool and the last one out at swimming lessons.
Perhaps that was why her first death at the fangs of Klaus in a ring of fire hadn't truly felt like dying. And perhaps why the flames currently eating at her body felt so wrong.
The Salvatores stood over her, snide comments and barbed remarks firing uselessly at the wall in her mind.
Her body was loud - limbs thrashing against her bonds, throat hoarse from screaming. Her mind, however, was strangely silent - a quiet cave in which she could hide from the blaze of both her emotions and the flames, not unlike the one where she'd once hidden from Rebekah's fury.
But the silence invited in other, more unwanted thoughts.
Isobel.
Another emotionless vampire who found herself burned by being descended from the Petrova line.
It should've been of little to no consequence - she'd only ever been her mother, never Mom. And even then she'd only interacted with her for a matter of hours.
Was this how she'd spent her in her last moments? Empty inside, the flames across her body the only thing she felt?
She was truly her mother's daughter; both of them.
One mother burnt, the other drowned.
And Stefan had found ways to torture her with both.
The fire only made her want to keep the switch off, but fate finding another way to drown her, this time with a flood of emotions? That scared her.
And just like that, the dam in her mind acquired a tiny little crack. Not nearly enough for the water to rush in, but it was a start.
She wasn't sure how long she was there for. Wasn't sure how many times they pulled the curtains back and forth; how many times the foam from the fire extinguisher stung the reappearing burns.
And then as though someone had blow out a candle, it went dark.
She dimly heard the curtains screeching back across their rails one more time, and then the distinct cracking of two necks.
The smell of charred flesh faded from her senses and his scent tickled her nostrils.
Strong fingers snapped the ropes and pulled her into the cool darkness of the cellar corridor. Her clothes had almost completely burned away, and while his touch was gentle, every nerve screamed in agony.
The wounds on her face started stinging, and it took her a moment to realise that she was crying. Everything spilled out; Ididn'twantto,ohgodIhurtthem,JeremyJeremyJer-, Ididn'twantto.
"Elena? Can you hear me, sweetheart?"
I can't see.
Panic took over.
"Elijah? I ca–I can't–"
A brief burst of cold air let her know that he'd vamped away, reappearing at her side moments later.
A familiar crackle of plastic being split and the scent of blood filled the corridor.
Her throat clenched with the memory of vomiting up the contents of her last blood bag.
"No."
"Elena, you need to dri–"
"No, I can't – he told me I can't."
"Who told you?" His voice was still soft, but now had an edge to it.
"Damon. The sirebond, it–"
"Sirebond?" The softness was gone.
He filed that information away for later. Damon's pain could wait. He needed to cure Elena's now.
"What about mine?"
"I don't know. Maybe–"
Maybe was more enough. A burst of speed and he'd grabbed a glass from the kitchen and returned to her side. His fangs ripped into the flesh of his wrist, letting ruby-red liquid flow into the glass. He held it to her lips, shoulders sagging in relief when she accepted it.
Her fangs lengthened as his blood coated her tongue. Warmth, this time comforting and welcome, spread through her body. His blood was richer than Damon's had b–
Damon's.
"Blood sharing, it's kinda... personal."
Stefan had never told her quite the extent of what vampires directly drinking from each other meant, even if she'd gotten the gist of it. Thirst for blood combined with the sirebond had pushed it out of her head. She remembered the moans he'd made when she tore into his skin in hunger. Then later, the one's he'd made when he–
No.
She jumped as she felt Elijah's hand softly stroke her head. While she'd been lost in her reverie, he'd managed to drape his suit jacket around her mostly naked form and sit behind her in support. His hand abruptly stopped. "Elena–"
She cut him off by settling into his embrace and fisting her fingers in his shirt. He was surprisingly warm for someone who'd been dead for a thousand years.
Exhaustion combined with his resumed touch on her head was a lullaby, and she slipped away the darkness once more.