chapter fifteen,      the interlinked minds

         OPHELIA WAS the most obedient companion Klaus has ever had. He was supposed to feel delighted about this because she didn't cause any scenes or try to escape at any given moment. Understanding well why she was so obedient, he was waiting constantly for her to cause a scene, but she didn't.

          She answered all the questions he asked her. She told him if she was tired or hungry. But she didn't say a word more, and Klaus was supposed to enjoy this silence, but he didn't. Because next to him, during the entire trip to find werewolves, sat a very traumatised woman.

          Mostly, she just looked out the window, watching the passing scenery. She folded her sweaters neatly to put them underneath her head for comfort in the car. She was so silent that Klaus understood how much he didn't enjoy silence. It was making him feel as if something was going to happen. As if she was going to explode. But once again, she didn't.

         During the nights, he heard that she wasn't able to sleep. She'd snooze off lightly, but then she would wake up flinching a few hours later, and with shaking limbs, she would hug herself, trying to doze off, but rarely succeeding.

         He noticed that she wasn't a big eater. He soon realised that modern food was unappealing to her, making him try and find some healthier options. She had a specific liking for Italian food, considering her heritage. She enjoyed drinking herbal teas and water, as sodas made her eyes water, and she'd sneeze. He was observing her at any given moment; at first, to understand when she would throw a tantrum, but now, he watched her so he could understand her from beneath. That he could understand her silence.

         Two and a half weeks have passed, and Ophelia was the perfect hostage. Klaus was driving with a lead to find a werewolf pack. Beside him, in the passenger's seat, sat Ophelia with her head pressed against the side of the car, sleeping. It was a late evening, and he wanted to drive the whole night, wanting to reach Knoxville faster.

          As always, Ophelia flinched and gasped for air, quickly moving her limbs slightly and leaning back to her seat. Klaus looked at her, noticing that she was looking out of the window, but it was getting dark.

         "What are you dreaming about?" He asked, wishing to interrupt the silence.

         "Usually, my death," she responded, she always did.

         "How did you die?" He insisted.

          Ophelia gently shifted in her seat, sitting up straight. "They've drowned me. They hanged me by my feet and pushed me into the river. A witch trial."

          Klaus knew that she had died early in her life, but didn't expect her to be murdered. To be given a witch trial in the nineteenth century. He looked ahead on the road, left hand on the wheel as he analysed what he had heard. "They blamed you for the murders?"

          "They did." She explained. "Back at that moment, I did not understand why. But now... I was a fair target – silent enough as if I was hiding something."

          "You are silent."

          Ophelia finally turned to her left, looking at him. The little lights splattered around the car lit him up as she wanted to see where this was going. With her silence, she learned to read people, and she has been reading him through and through all along. He was waiting for her to explode, but she wasn't going to give it to him.

          "I learned that it is not the words that bring fear, but silence. Many people can bite back, but not as many can stay silent." Ophelia answered.

          "Is that what you're trying to do? Ignite fear in me?" Klaus looked briefly at her, meeting her dark eyes.

          Looking ahead, she diverted the question. "Do you even have fears?"

          Klaus chuckled. It would be so easy to say a simple no. That's what he wished to be, and he thought that he was – fearless. But there were many things he was afraid of, and he tried to turn that fear into anger. Otherwise, he would have gone insane.

          Since she was honest with her answers, he decided to be as well. "We all do."

          Ophelia sat silent for a few moments, and when Klaus thought that this was all he was going to be able to get from her, she asked him: "Would you kill me if there was a way to get the power from me?"

          An instant yes sat at the tip of his tongue, but he took a moment to answer. Yes, he'd do anything to have this power to himself, just like he deserved it. Yes, he'd bloody his hands more times than he has already had to get his power. But would he kill her in a heartbeat?

           "I already killed you once," he reminded her, wanting her to understand that his answer was yes.

          Sitting in a car with a murderer, Ophelia simply exhaled, taking a sweater from her lap and folding it neatly. She pushed it to her right side, leaning toward it. She got the answer she wanted; now she could submerge herself in her thoughts, in her silence.

          "Are you afraid of me?" He asked, clinging onto this opportunity to talk and not drown in her silence.

          Ophelia didn't know how to answer him. She was. But she knew that there were different levels of fear. Was she terrified of him? No. Was she afraid of her upcoming death? No. He was a mere executioner, ruthless and hot-headed. That man brought out enough fear in her veins, but just enough to make her feel like a human. Or—whatever she was right now. It only meant she was alive. Did she want to be alive? What for?

          "Yes," she finally replied, her voice steady.

          Klaus analysed her enough in her silence to understand that fear did not motivate her as much as it should. "Many in your seat would be shaking out of fear."

          "Who says I am not?"

          He spared her a look. She was still like always, statue-like. Pretty. "Funny." He faintly smiled.

          "You want me to be afraid. You are a predator," she stated. "I fully acknowledge the situation I am in, and I deem it useless for me to fight back." She turned her head to look at him. "You want me to fight back."

          He grinned. "I enjoy obedience."

          "It bores you."

          The corner of his lips twitches, and he spared her another glance. "Just how much did you analyse me?"

         This time, she leaned back on her chair, gently gripping the little handle on the side of her seat to push the seat back. The way he taught her. "Enough to understand that you hate silence."

         "So, you're doing this on purpose?"

         "I do not really have anything to talk about," Ophelia shrugged.

         His fingers tapped the driving wheel. "I basically forced your brother to become a ripper in front of you. We can start from that."

          Ophelia exhaled deeply, looked through the window, and shrugged. "And what do you want me to say about that?" She didn't even want to think about that. All that gore. The spilt guts, the river of blood and him—her twin in the middle of all that. She knew that whatever it was, it was Klaus' fault. She didn't understand why or how it happened, but she understood enough that something was utterly wrong with this world. Her brothers shouldn't even be alive. She shouldn't be.

         Klaus visibly deflated with a loud exhale. "You are so boring. Give me something – anger, pain, yell at me? I could even deal with some crying right now," he said it as if he was being generous.

          "Does my silence bother you that much?" She raised her eyebrows slightly as she looked at him. And the look on his face only affirmed her question. "You know what I must do? I must put my head on this sweater and stay silent for a couple more days. How does that sound?"

         "You vex me," he mumbled.

         Those words made her smile, just barely, and he took a double look. His fingers gripped the wheel tighter and mentally sighed. She had such a pretty smile.

         "You did your task well," she stated as she leaned her head back on the sweater.

          "Which task?" He raised his eyebrow.

          "To make sure I would be terrified to try and reach out to my brothers now," she mumbled, and her shoulders dropped with her exhale. "Why is Stefan a ripper?"

          To that, Klaus didn't have an answer. "No one knows. Something happens during the transformation process. Rippers are rare."

          Ophelia silently sat there for a couple of minutes. It was easy to sink into her terrified and endlessly screaming mind. Most of the time, she foolishly believed that this was all just a dream, and she held onto that thought. It was easier to cope. How else could she cope after seeing that diner drenched in guts and blood? How else could she cope with the fact that she was kidnapped for reasons she didn't understand? How else could she cope with all of this?

          Then she turned her eyes on him and watched him for a few seconds. He realised through those two and a half weeks that he didn't like it when she just watched him, gloating in her silence. She didn't know what she was thinking, but at least he knew one thing - she won't lash out. Her eyes seemed drained, exhausted from the pain and sadness. The darkness around them made her look like a rag doll, as if each breath cost her an immense amount of energy.

         "C'mere," he mumbled and outstretched his arm and placed it over her cheek, pushing her towards him so she could rest her head on his shoulder. The power in them interlinked instantly, joyous for the skin-to-skin contact. The feeling was warm, fuzzy and comforting. Even if Ophelia was terrified of him, even if she knew what he did, she still leaned on his shoulder as if blinded by the fuzzy feeling in her veins.

           It was wrong on so many levels, but what was right in her life? Will she be damned for eternity for resting her head on his shoulder? For leaning into his warmth? But wasn't she already preparing for the inevitable death?

           Her chest deflated as her body relaxed inch by inch. He was warm. He smelled like something comforting with a hint of green tea that was in the flask bottle in the backseat. The power buzzed in her veins, admiring this contact and in return, it eased her overflowing thoughts.

          His hand moved to the back of her head and gently touched her hair, feeling her flinch from the contact. He took in a sharp inhale as he quickly pulled over on the side of the road, a jabbing pain appearing in his head. Images flood his mind with the light of speed, and he retracted his hand, not even feeling how she got out of the car. He pushed his fingers to his temples and groaned out as he clung to some of the images.

          A shut door. A corset that hid a blossoming bruise on the ribs. The smell of powder. The smell of alcohol. The shattering of a bottle. A hand in her hair, gripping it.

          He sharply inhaled and looked at the wheel, and quickly got out of the car. He just experienced fragments of her memory. And outside, he was met with a chilly breeze and a very still woman who was hugging herself. His hand in her hair triggered her memory, and somehow - he saw it too.

          Her father abused her.

          Knowing the feeling too well, he didn't go around people soothing them as he knew how many got abused every day. From being abused, he became the abuser. He didn't have it in him to comfort, even if he knew the chilling fear in his spine, the quivering heart which waited for another strike. He looked down at his hand that touched her hair, and it felt like he was the one who gripped her hair and dragged her around.

          And he felt immense guilt.

          It came crashing like a tide, and he didn't know how to deal with it. He has done so many terrible things that most of them were a blur by now. Some faces he remembered, some he forgot. But there was so much soil that had been stained by blood from his hand. He didn't mend his mistakes. Hell, his family was in coffins, with daggers in their hearts because it was convenient for him.

          And he didn't know what to say because he didn't have to explain anymore. But his hands shook, his heart quivered, and the power in his veins was burning him from within. His eyes zeroed in on her, and he didn't know how to breathe anymore.

          With a swift move, he wrapped her arms around her. Her stiff body was slightly trembling, her eyes stuck open as she was reliving strike after strike. He wanted to apologise, but his throat was dry. His hand snuck at the back of her hair and he soothingly stroked her hair as if to ease the pain from the memory. She felt so fragile in his arms. Like a little bird with a broken wing - a perfect target for an abusive father.

          She was taut like a string on the edge of snapping as if her frail body hadn't experienced an ounce of comfort in her life. There were no tears in her eyes, dark brown pits of pure pain and expectation to be struck. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again...

          But he just held her, his hand stroking the strands of her hair, looking down at her petrified expression. He didn't want to think about how he just saw the images in her head; it didn't matter. Now he knew the reason for her silence. The reason for her sharp eyes. The reason for her fragility. The reason she was so obedient when he was the one hurting her.

          "Ophelia," he whispered, and made her raise her head to look at him. Her brown eyes were full of so much pain. God... "I've hurt you. I've traumatised you. But I'd never raise my hand at you." He cupped her cheek, his eyes dropping on her trembling lips. "I wish I could promise you that I won't ever bring you pain, but that's not who I am... I'd never raise my hand at you," he promised again.

          And she didn't want to believe him. But her traumatised mind, the power in her veins, was assuring her that he wasn't lying. The emotional pain he brought her was enough for centuries and on, but here he was, promising that he won't hit her. And as terrified as she was of him, she believed him. Because with all the ritual, all the yelling, all the kidnapping and turning her brother into a monster, he has never physically hurt her. It didn't matter if he was speaking the truth or not. She couldn't expect people to be nice to her. She was just an easy target.

         "You will," she exhaled. "You would kill me in a heartbeat." She remembered their previous conversation.

          He sucked in a sharp breath and pressed his forehead to hers. He'd kill her for the power. But not in a heartbeat. "I will get my power one way or another," he said as he stroked her cheek gently. "But I'd make your death painless."

          And those words, she believed them. In the ritual, he has been as gentle as no one to her. He hadn't struck her for his pleasure. He hasn't forced her to talk. As much as she wanted to pry as to why he would care so much about making her death painless, it didn't matter.

          Nothing ever mattered when it came to her.

          But he has said before, during the ritual, that no pain will come her way. And even if her whole mind was damaged, her body wasn't bruised. A small victory, right? A selfish one, indeed.

         "Do not feel pity for me," she asked. "I do not need it."

        "I don't feel pity for you," he lowly said, his tone almost soothing. His arms were soft around her, but held her strongly as if he'd never let her go. He cradled the power that was within her, the power that had a human form, and his touch turned soft.

         After a moment of silence, he admitted, "I don't know how to get this power from you, and I don't think I will. But while you have it. You can use it to grow stronger." He cradled her cheek, his thumb swiping over her cheekbone. "Rage is liberating. Addicting. Powerful. And you—" his thumb brushed down over her lips, "have a lot of rage inside you. Don't fight it. Let it out."

        Ophelia exhaled, her breath hitting against the pad of his thumb as she raised her eyes to him. The lights from the car were the only source of light beside them. "You are asking to let my rage flow. As of this century, the only one who has wronged me is you. Are you asking me to fight back?"

        God... Klaus' lips curved into a slight smirk as his hands stroked her cheeks. He admired the way she talked. "Would you fight back?"

        "I have plunged a knife in your throat once," she reminded him, their eye contact unwavering, their energies and power rattling in their veins, desperate to be out.

        "You have," he murmured. "It felt good, didn't it?"

        It was for her survival. A desperate act. Perhaps, it felt good when she realised that she fought back for the first time in her life and as a result, he didn't die. She didn't know what she'd do with the guilt, even if he deserved it. "You deserved it," she concluded.

        "I deserve even worse," he said. "Fight back, Ophelia. Lash out. Let me take it."

        "My silence hurts you more than violence."

        "It does. Why don't you try to hit me?" He picked up her hand and placed it on his chest.

        "Why do you want me to lash out?" She furrowed her eyebrows slightly. She would love to, but what was in it for him? So he could have a pretext to hit her? Beneath her hand, she could feel the rhythmic pulse of his heart. It almost seemed eager for her touch or eager for her to do something.

          "Think of me however you like," he replied. "But I do enjoy some well-deserved rage. It's the best feeling, after all."

           Something glistened in her eyes, a glint of gold in the depths of her brown. Her fingers curled around his shirt and, with a sharp movement, plunged deep into his chest.

guess who's alive? I really disappeared for almost a year - I am so sorry! It has been a very challenging year at the university.

and I absolutely love seeing Klaus talk about killing her left and right while touching her as if he is about to marry her, like come on— when does he ever touch people he doesn't care about?

please vote and leave a comment or two! I'd appreciate that!!