XVII. SOME CAGES LOOK LIKE
MERCY

THERE is a particular kind of quiet that comes after betrayal— not wrath, not sorrow,
but a stillness so deep it lies pressed against the ribs.

   That was what Ivy woke to.

   The sun had risen while she was still half-curled on the floor outside the cellar, cheek pressed to the hardwood, and Damon's jacket draped over her like a fallen flag. Her eyes opened slowly and heavily with sleep.

   There were grooves pressed into her skin from the floor— engraved in her skin, reminding her of her choice. Her sin.

   She didn't move for a long time. She wondered if she stayed still long enough; her body would forget how to remember.

   But memories had teeth, and they gnawed at her regardless. Her brother's voice— not Stefan's, but the monster that had borrowed his mouth— still echoed in her ears. And underneath it, worse than anything, the whisper of Giuseppe— old, sick, and forever cruel.

   Her limbs were sore and her throat painfully dry, but she hadn't cried; not yet at least.

   The house was absent— a wrongness.

   She felt it before she knew it— the thrum beneath her skin— the prickling of something ancient grazing against her spine like a breath not entirely there.

   Someone was watching.

   And it wasn't Damon.

   Definitely wasn't Stefan.

   It was colder than that— hungrier even.

   Her hand curled instinctively around the locket at her chest; her anchor and shield. Her grounding proof of now. She sat up slowly, causing Damon's jacket to slip from her shoulder, the floorboards beneath her groaning like they resented her weight.

   Humbling.

   Upstairs, jazz played low on the record player— something old and slow and mournful, like the house itself was in mourning. She followed the sound like a trail of crumbs, becoming both Hansel and Gretel, her Bambi slippers, a cruel joke from Damon, but rather adorable, skimming across the wood as she drifted through the empty hallways.

   She found Damon in the kitchen, and for once, he wasn't holding a drink; he was merely standing there. Still. Eyes trained on the stove like it had wronged him.

   Ivy leaned in the doorway, voice scratchy from sleep. "You're up early."

   "I never went to sleep."

   She nodded. Understood. Some nights didn't deserve the mercy of sleep. He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a once-over. "You look like hell."

   She smiled weakly. "Compliment of the century."

   A beat passed between the siblings. Then he spoke again, this time softer, "You okay?"

   She didn't answer— just walked toward the stove, tying her hair back with a hair tie pulled from her wrist. She began to hum— off-key, quietly— an old lullaby from 1852 that no one alive recognized anymore.

   Damon leaned against the counter, watching as she pulled out the eggs, bacon, and the blood bag she'd tucked into the fridge behind the pickles.

   "You're cooking," he observed.

   He didn't push when she didn't respond again. Just stood to the side and let her move the way she needed— mechanically, methodically, as if she stopped she might come apart at the seams.

   The kettle whistled and poured the hot water into a chipped porcelain cup; one of her favorites of course. Painted and covered in blue flowers.— a hairline crack down the side like a scar.

  While the bacon sizzled on the stove, she hopped up onto the counter, her tea mug cradled in both hands, and her knuckles pale.

   "Do you think he meant it?" she whispered finally. Damon didn't need to ask who. "He said I was like him."

   Damon's expression flickered— not anger, not pity. Something older, protective, and familiar. "You're nothing like him, Bambi."

   "You didn't hear his voice," she said. "He sounded just like,"

   Damon cut her off, "He's sick and spiraling. And when you're drowning, you grasp onto anything that'll pull you up— even if it means dragging someone else down with you."

   Her fingers constricted around the mug. "But what if he's right? What if locking him up," she paused for a moment, "what if that was the worst thing I could have done?"

   Damon was silent at first. Then he stepped forward, knelt beside her stool, and looked her straight in the eye. "You did it because you love him," he said. "That's not what Giuseppe did. Giuseppe locked you up to break you. You locked Stefan up to save him. That's the difference."

   She closed her eyes.

   Tried to believe him.

   Tried to push away the memory of cold stone and bloodied palms.

OUTSIDE the house, beneath the dense veil of trees and heat-hung shadows, someone watched her through the window.

   He had been watching for days now.

   She didn't know— not yet.

   She didn't know how carefully her life had been observed— how her movements were already stitched into prophecy. Had no idea how her sorrow made her shine.

   She was human. That made her fragile. All lace and wound. And yet, she called to him like blood.

   Like fate.

   The girl in the Bambi slippers. The girl who survived. The girl who carried centuries in her eyes and still remembered how to smile.

   She was his.

   She just didn't know it yet.

THE cellar door groaned as she opened it.
The sound echoed— sharp and metallic like a scream biting its tongue. Ivy flinched, fingers trembling around the iron handle, but she didn't stop. Her Bambi slippers made no sound as she descended, only the whisper of her breath and the weak rustle of cotton— Stefan's old sweatshirt swallowing her frame.

   The air grew colder the further she went. Her locket burned against her chest and she almost turned back.

   Almost.

   But he was her brother, her twin; even now. Even here.

   "Steffie?" Her voice was a whisper, a threadbare thing, frayed before it reached him.

   Stefan looked up from the corner, where he sat curled on the floor like a ghost that didn't know it had died. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, but clear, mostly at least. "Ivy," he rasped, his voice brittle. "Come to throw me scraps?"

   "No." She moved closer, stopping just before the bars. "I wanted to talk."

   His eyes narrowed, suspicion curling through them like smoke before he spoke. His tone was flat, not yet cruel, "You might as well stop pretending I'm salvageable."

   "You are," she said softly. "You always have been."

   He laughed, but it was dry and humorless. "You say that like it's true."

   "It is," she whispered. "Even when you hate me. Even when you sound like him."

   "His face twisted. "You're the one who locked me up, Ivy. Don't act like the victim."

   "I'm not," she said. "But I won't let you become one either."

   He stood, slow and deliberate, inching towards her like a predator looming over their prey, but Ivy stood her ground. "You think this is helping?" he hissed. "Caging me like an animal? That's not love, Ivy. That's control."

   She swallowed hard, her throat tightening. "Then I hope you hate me for it because I'd rather you hate me and live than let you vanish into that craving again."

   "I'm not him," Stefan growled. "I'm not Giuseppe."

   "No," she whispered, tears burning the corners of her eyes. "But you started to sound like him. That's how I knew it was time to help you."

   He said nothing then. A stretch of silence sat before them— old and aching.

   "I remember," she continued, voice so quiet that even with advanced hearing, he had to strain to hear it, "what it felt like to be behind iron; how the walls close in and the dark presses against your throat. I swore I'd never do that to anyone else. And yet," she broke off, staring at the stone beneath her feet like it could swallow her, "and yet I chose this because I couldn't lose you. Perhaps that does make me selfish. Perhaps it does mean father lives on in me. But I won't let you harm yourself by doing this."

   Stefan's expression cracked slightly. She reached through the bars— her fingers trembling and palm upturned. "Just hold on a little longer. Please. Let this work."

   He didn't take her hand, but he didn't step away either.

   And that, for now, was enough.

THE rain had started again— not the kind that storms, but the kind that wavers— soft and steady like a confession tumbling from the sky.

   Ivy sat curled on the bay window seat in her room, knees drawn to her chest, and her chin resting on her folded arms. The world beyond the glass was a watercolor blur— ghastly green trees dripping, the wind whispering through the cracked pane, and the thunder too tired to rumble.

A quiet knock came at the door— she stared at the wood, but she didn't answer.

The door pushed open and Elena stepped inside anyway; no makeup, no armor, just her. She shut the door behind her with a softness that made Ivy's chest ache— like she was afraid of making anything worse.

"Hey," Elena said gently. "Is he still?"

"Sleeping," Ivy replied, yet her voice didn't sound like her own, it came out raspy and small. "Or pretending to."

Elena nodded and walked across the room, settling beside her at the window seat. They sat in silence for a moment, the storm outside filling the gaps in their courage. "I don't know how to feel," Elena whispered finally. "I keep thinking if I'd just waited. If I'd found another way."

Ivy's fingers toyed with the frayed hem of Stefan's sweatshirt, still wrapped around her like it would somehow take all of her worries away. "There wasn't another way, Elena."

"But it feels wrong."

"It was." Elena looked up, startled at her words. "It was wrong," Ivy repeated, her gaze still fixed on the glass. "But it was also right. And that's the part that tears you apart."

The rain tapped harder.

Elena swallowed. "When he looked at me like he didn't recognize me, I've never felt that kind of hate before. Not from him."

You did what you had to do," Ivy murmured. "So did I. And now we have to live with it."

But what if he doesn't forgive us?"

Ivy finally looked at her; eyes red but waterless. "Then we keep showing up. Every day. Until he sees us again."

Elena's bottom lip trembled. "He was so good, Ivy. He fought it for so long. And then I gave him blood and,"

You saved him," Ivy cut in gently. "That's not what broke him. It's what kept him from dying. Addiction isn't clean, Elena. It's not linear. It's jagged. And it doesn't care how hard he tried."

Elena leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. "I hate this. I hate that it was us."

Ivy reached out slowly, brushing her shoulder with a trembling hand. "Elena, I've seen what cruelty looks like in its truest form. This, this isn't that. We didn't do this to punish him. We did it to pull him back."

Elena looked up, eyes brimming. "And what if he doesn't come back?"

Ivy didn't answer right away; opting to look out the window again, watching the rain carve rivulets through the dirt on the glass. "Then we go in after him."

THE butcher shop was colder than usual;  maybe Ivy was just colder. She pushed open the front door with her shoulder, the little bell above it chiming like a lullaby for ghosts. The smell of raw meat and bleach was thick in the air, grounding in a way nothing else had been all week.

Lennox was elbow-deep in a carcass. He didn't look up right away— just muttered, "Mornin'. You're late."

Ivy kicked the door shut behind her and shuffled in, her hair damp from the rain, and her cardigan soaked at the cuffs. "I didn't know there was a schedule."

"There ain't." He drew the blade from the ribcage with a sound that made her wince. "But you usually show up 'round ten. It's almost noon."

After passing off his mocha, she settled on her usual perch— the edge of his cutting table, tea in hand.

He finally glanced up, brow furrowing. "You eat?"

"No."

"You sleep?"

She offered him a half-shrug. He set the knife down with a little too much emphasis, wiped his hands on a stained rag, and walked over. Towering as always; all shadow, scruff, and concern that he'd never admit out loud. "Talk to me, darlin'," he said. "Or just sit there and look pitiful. I'll fill in the blanks either way."

She stared into her tea, watching the steam curl upward like an apparition trying to flee. "My brother's not doing well."

"I figured," Lennox said, voice lower now. "Saw it in your face when you walked in; like your bones were beggin' to crawl outta your skin."

Ivy didn't flinch. "He relapsed."

Lennox caressed the back of his neck with a wince. "Damn."

"It's not his fault," she said quickly. "It's something in him. It's worse this time."

Lennox leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "He back on the hard stuff?"

She nodded. "We had to get him somewhere safe. Somewhere he can't hurt anyone."

Lennox's jaw twitched at that. "You mean like a facility?"

She looked away. "Something like that."

He didn't press— he never did. Just watched her like he was trying to see inside her skull.

"You always show up here when you're carryin' somethin' heavy," he said softly. "Don't suppose you ever thought about not carryin' it alone?"

"I'm not used to that," she murmured.

"Well, get used to it." His voice turned gruff. "You look like a goddamn porcelain doll somebody left out in the rain. It ain't right. And it sure as shit ain't fair."

"I'm fine," she lied.

"You ain't." He moved to the back fridge, grabbed a wrapped bundle of meat, and tossed it on the counter.

She raised a brow. "Is that supposed to fix me?"

Nope. Just figured if I can't fix what's up here," he pointed to her head, "I can at least keep your weird brother fed."

A beat passed.

Then, finally, Ivy cracked the tiniest smile. "Thank you, Lennox."

He gave a half-grunt in reply, like gratitude made him itch. "Ain't nothin'. You need me, you know where I'm at."

She hopped off the counter, "If I disappear for a bit,"

"I'll assume you're off savin' the world or diggin' graves."

Her eyes met his, "Hopefully not both."

He paused. "You okay, darlin'?"

She thought about lying again. Thought about saying yes. Instead, she stepped forward— slow and violently hesitant. Then, she pressed her forehead to his chest. Not a hug, not quite. Just a moment of stillness. Of warmth.

Lennox didn't move for a second. Then, his big, calloused hand came to rest on the back of her head. "Whatever it is," he said softly, Southern voice like molasses and gravel, "you'll survive it. I can see it in you. Like somethin' in you already has."

She didn't cry, but it was close.

SHE didn't know he was there.

Not when she passed through the iron gate that creaked under ivy and rust.

Not when she knelt in the garden behind the house, hands buried in the earth, coaxing fragile herbs back to life.

Not even when she stood barefoot in the grass, tan legs streaked with mud, sundress sticking to her rain-damp frame, her head tilted to the sky as if asking it to exonerate her.

But he saw her; Every breath. Every tremble. Every smile she gave to nothing and no one.

He watched from the tree line, where the light didn't quite reach, where the wind made the branches wail like old bones. The shadows welcomed him— they always had. He was a creature born of them.

But even he had never seen something like her.

She was not power. She was not fire. She was not the kind of woman who tore kingdoms apart with teeth and blood and fury.

No.

She was something quieter. Deadlier, in her own way. The kind of girl the world overlooked — and then remembered too late. She moved like someone who had survived something vast. Carried it in her shoulders. In her silence.  The weight of a childhood stolen and sealed behind stone. And still, she smiled at the bees in the rosemary. Still, she hummed lullabies no one remembered. Still, she pressed wildflowers between the pages of books like they were sacred.

She didn't know yet. Didn't know what fate was wound around her like a silk thread and an ancient prophecy.  Didn't know the power in her blood or the danger that pulsed beneath her ribs.

Didn't know she was his.

Not in the way that girls are owned— he had never believed in that. But in the way that fate engraved names into the bones of the world. And hers had always been carved beside his. He stepped closer— quiet as ash on the wind.

She looked up— finally pausing with furrowed brows.

No fear on her features; no recognition either. Just a sense of awareness; her breath catching in her lungs, but she surveyed the trees, nose flaring when she saw nothing, but the tension in her spine said she felt it.

Felt him.

She pressed her hand over her locket, instinctive and protective— and loitered there, her eyes never leaving the shadows.

He stayed still, waiting until she finally turned away, brushing her dress clean, and her fingers were streaked with dirt and life. And when she disappeared into the house, he didn't follow.

Not yet. But soon.

The girl with the quiet fire. The girl no one had saved. The girl who survived the tomb, the father, the silence— and still softened at the sound of a rainstorm.

He would wait.

He always had.

THE toaster betrayed her again. It hissed. It snapped. Then it launched two charred slices into the air like it had something to prove. Ivy nearly dropped her tea.

That thing hates me," she muttered, backing away as if it might grow claws and lunge.

Damon didn't even look up. He leaned lazily against the counter, sipping bourbon like it was water. "It's a toaster, Bambi."

"It growled at me."

"It made toast."

"It was aggressive."

He smirked, finally turning toward her— eyes roving over her oversized hoodie, the mismatched socks, Bambi slippers on top of them, and the stubborn tangle of curls pulled into a half-hearted braid. "You've faced vampires, tombs, and Giuseppe Salvatore, and this is the thing that rattles you?"

"At least vampires have the courtesy to hiss before they attack."

He laughed something short and genuine. It slipped through the kitchen like something rare.

Ivy tugged her hoodie tighter, still eyeing the toaster. "You lot have turned everything into a machine. It's like you don't trust yourselves to do anything slow."

Damon shrugged, "We're a generation raised on fast food and faster phones. Patience isn't exactly trending these days on Facebook."

She snorted, padding across the floor in her Bambi slippers. "And yet you all think therapy is revolutionary."

THEY ended up on the couch. It had become a ritual— tea for her, bourbon for him, and a throw blanket that still smelled like lemon soap and old books draped over both their legs. The television flickered blue in the corner of the room.

Ivy's eyes followed the images, fascinated and bewildered all at once. "What are we watching?" she asked, tucking her legs beneath her.

   "Some kid reviewing energy drinks. This is apparently content now."

   She tilted her head. "This is the Tube, isn't it?"

   Damon blinked at her words. "You mean YouTube?"

   "I refuse to call it that. 'The Tube' feels far more ominous."

   "Well, it is a black hole of chaos and weirdos. You're not wrong."

   "I watched a video the other night of someone painting their face like a frog," Ivy said, deadpan. "It had five million views."

   "Sounds about right."

   "And another where a boy screamed at a bagel for seven minutes. I was oddly captivated."

   "Your standards have plummeted."

   "They were never that high," she said with a mock sigh. "We had Punch and Judy puppet shows. Stefan cried during one when the puppet died."

   "Of course he did."

   "But it was gutting."

   Damon raised a brow. "Tell me more about how the 1800s were the pinnacle of culture."

   "They were," she said, deadpan. "We had butter churns and duels. And dances where you only touched fingertips. It was steamy."

   "You all repressed so hard I'm surprised you didn't combust."

   "We did," she said, sipping her tea. "Internally and often. It's why consumption took so many of us."

   He laughed again, head tipping back against the cushions. "You're ridiculous."

   "I'm learning from the best."

   There was a pause— one of those soft and breathless ones that hangs in the air between people who've hurt too long to pretend.

   Ivy's eyes lingered on the TV screen— someone was teaching their cat how to use a toilet. She didn't understand why, but she admired the commitment.

   "I've missed so much," she whispered. "Whole decades, movements, music, wars, joy." Damon didn't answer right away. Just sipped his drink, letting her words settle. "I feel like a ghost sometimes," she continued. "Like I'm haunting a time that doesn't remember me."

"You're not a ghost."

"Then why does everything feel like a memory I don't belong to?"

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "Because you're rebuilding."

She looked down at her lap, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on her sleeve. "I don't know where I fit anymore. I don't know who I am when I'm not surviving."

Damon set his drink down and turned toward her. "You're Ivy," he said. "The girl who threatens to beat my ass with a hairbrush. The girl who cries over commercials for dog food. The girl who makes two vodka sauces, one for people and one for vampires, and doesn't complain about the mess. You wear slippers with cartoon deer on them and watch press flowers in every book you get your hands on. You're not lost."

She blinked fast. "That's a lot of detail."

"I notice things."

She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I don't want to be scared of the world anymore."

"Then start small," he said. "Pick a thing, learn it, and make it yours."

She thought for a moment. "How do I download music onto a what's it called? An eye... pod?"

He groaned. "Oh, Bambi. We have so much to work on."

THE house creaked like it remembered. The floorboards sighed beneath Ivy's steps, murmuring secrets of lives once lived and lost inside its walls. The shadows were thicker tonight— the kind that made her feel like something was listening. She padded barefoot across the upper landing, a satin pajama set hugging her frame, and a mug of lukewarm tea cradled between her palms. Outside, the wind was picking up, hauling tree limbs across the windows like fingers that didn't belong to anything living.

Downstairs, she could hear them— Elena's voice, soft and trembling, and Damon's, biting as ever. She paused near the stairs, just out of sight, listening.

"It's hard to see him like this," Elena said.

"You're the one who locked him up," came Damon's easy, cruel reply.

"You helped."

"I couldn't have him running around chewing on people, could I? Not with the town sniffing around for vampires."

"You didn't do it because you care about him?"

"Your thing, not mine."

Ivy flinched at that and she turned away from the staircase and drifted down the hallway likea spirit in her own home. Each step carried the memory of another; her fingers digging into cold stone, the scent of mildew and blood, and the sound of a door locking from the outside. It all lived in her still. It always would.

She drifted down the stairs and wavered outside the library where Damon now lounged on the couch, flipping a strange silver contraption between his fingers. Elena stood stiffly across from him, arms crossed and her voice low. "Did you ever figure out what that is?"

"Nope. Whatever it is, it doesn't work."

"Pearl didn't say anything else?"

"She thought it was Jonathan Gilbert's vampire compass. But that was a pocket watch. This," he tossed it up, "who knows. Johnathan Gilbert was a lunatic."

Ivy stepped into the doorway, hair damp from the bath she'd never finished, lips pale. "Elena," she said gently. "You'll stay again tonight?"

Elena looked up, surprised by the question. "Yeah, I was planning on it."

"Good." Ivy looked over at Damon. "He needs us."

Damon scoffed. "He needs blood, Bambi, but sure, let's keep pretending he just needs love and warm hugs."

Ivy ignored him— she was learning to do that more efficiently now. Her voice dropped, thoughtful. "It's strange sometimes, when I look at him, it's like I can see our childhood covering his face; the way he held my hand when we were afraid of thunderstorms or the way he'd sneak books into my room when Father banned fantasy. I want to believe that boy is still in there."

Damon glanced up. "That boy is still in there. Unfortunately, so is the monster."

LATER, in the cellar, Ivy stood on the other side of the bars. The room was damp and cold; the scent of old brick and iron lingered beneath the burn of vervain. Stefan hadn't touched the blood Damon brough— again.

He sat in the corner, hunched, and refusing to look at her.

"Steffie," she whispered. He didn't move. She pressed her forehead to the bars, letting the cool metal sting her skin. "I know it's hard," she said, "but you have to eat. We're losing you."

"I don't want to survive," Stefan muttered.

Ivy flinched. "Elena gave you blood because she wanted to save your life."

"It was a mistake," he whispered. "It should have ended."

"You don't mean that."

He finally looked at her— eyes hollow, ancient, and not entirely his. "Ivy," he rasped. "You know what I've done. What I am. You should've let me die."

Her grip tightened on the bars. "Ti amo troppo per permettertelo," she murmured. I love you too much to allow it.

ELENA had gone down to the cellar alone while Ivy stayed upstairs, pacing, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she could hold herself together if she just pressed hard enough. She heard Elena's voice. Muffled and pleasing. "You need to drink, Stefan. You can't survive without it."

"I don't want to survive."

The silence that followed wasn't silence at all; it was static. A hum beneath the floorboards. A shudder behind her ribs. When Elena reemerged, her face was pale. "He's worse," she whispered.

Ivy nodded once. "I know."

The two girls sat on the stairs together, the cellar door closed behind them, its latch gleaming dully in the light from the hall. The house groaned around them, old and restless.

"I thought locking him up would help," Elena murmured, her eyes glassy. "I thought if we just gave him time"

"I know," Ivy said again, her voice barely a whisper.

They were both so still. Two girls— human girls, as far as the world knew— who had made an impossible choice.

"feel like I failed him," Elena admitted.

Ivy didn't answer right away. Instead, she closed her eyes and let herself remember. Just for a second. The cold of the tomb. The voices that had guided her back. Five of them— all women. Soft and ancient like wind across aged stone.

They had spoken her name like it belonged to the earth itself. "We brought you back, Ivy Salvatore. The world is not done with you yet."

But she hadn't told anyone. Not even Damon.

Not yet. So she breathed in and then out. And placed a hand over Elena's. "We did the right thing," Ivy whispered. "Even if it feels like a sin."

LATER that night, Ivy went to check on Stefan herself. The cellar door creaked open under her hand. She stepped inside, barefoot again, her steps soundless on the stone. Her locket pulsed gently against her chest— a reminder, a heartbeat not quite her own. Stefan sat in the shadows with his back to the wall— his face was violently blank and vacant.

   When he saw her, something flickered behind his eyes. Not recognition and surely not warmth. Calculation. "You know," he said slowly, "Damon hasn't fed me vervain in a while." Ivy didn't move. "I could be at those bars in a flash. You'd be dead before you screamed."

Her voice didn't tremble. "No, I wouldn't."

He stood, slow and deliberate, "You don't believe me?"

"No," she whispered. "Because I don't think you're gone yet."

His expression darkened. "You're taking a stupid risk."

"I've done worse."

"Leave."

"No."

"Leave, Ivy. Or you'll regret it."

Ignoring his words, she stepped forward, holding out a mason jar of animal blood.

He knocked it from her hand. It exploded against the wall, red streaking across the stone like war paint. His face twisted— not vamped, not fully— but not his own anymore.

Ivy froze and for one awful second, she saw someone else in his fac— Giuseppe.

She turned and fled, up the stairs, heart pounding, and with the sound of her own breath crashing in her ears.

THAT night, she couldn't sleep.

   She sat in the armchair in the library, knees pulled to her chest, and stared into the fire. Her locket glowed faintly in the darkness.

Elena appeared in the doorway, pale and shaken. "He's worse," she said again.

Ivy didn't look up. "He's losing himself."

"I think," she paused on a shaky breath, "I think he's trying to die."

A long silence followed before Ivy whispered, "I can't let that happen."

Neither of them noticed the open cellar door until it was too late.

When they noticed, they raced down the stairs— Elena first and Ivy right behind her.

The cot was vacant and Stefan was gone. His daylight ring still sat on the edge of the mattress like a promise he had no intention of keeping.

HOURS had passed. Ivy didn't remember falling asleep. Only waking up— curled on the living room couch, blanket twisted around her legs, and Damon sitting beneath her sprawled out legs.

The front door creaked open. She sat bolt upright.

Stefan.

His clothes were wet and his skin was gray. He looked like something half-drowned, yet half-born. Elena walked beside him, her hand cradling his, but they didn't speak.

Ivy rose slowly, uncertain if she should go to him— if he would even want that.

But Stefan paused at her. Letting his eyes meet hers, something in them softening, only slightly. But it was enough. "Hi," he whispered.

She nodded. "Ciao, fratellino."

He passed by her without touching her, but that was okay. He was alive. He was here, and, for now, that was enough.

IVY didn't go upstairs— not yet. Instead, she lingered in the shadows of the hallway, watching her brothers in the library— framed by firelight— ancient and quiet. Stefan stood near the hearth, shoulders tense, and guilt written into every line of his face. Damon lounged in a chair, whiskey in hand, and his expression unreadable.

"Thank you," Stefan said softly.

Damon raised an eyebrow. "No, Stefan, thank you. You're back on puppy blood and I'm the big badass brother again. All's right in the world."

"I mean it. Thank you. For helping them take care of me." There was a pause after Stefan finished.

Then, quieter, Damon spoke. "You brood too much. Everything on this planet is not your fault. My actions, what I do— they belong to me. You're not allowed to carry my guilt."

Ivy pressed her forehead to the wall and shut her eyes— because she did carry it. All of it. Theirs. Her own. Even the weight of things she hadn't remembered yet. Things that whispered to her at night when the veil between worlds thinned.

Damon's voice dropped. "If I wanted to feel guilt, I could. Emily waited until after I turned to tell me she'd protected Katherine with her spell. She didn't want it to impact my decision."

"She didn't want either of us to turn," Stefan murmured. "She said it was a curse."

"Witches. Judgy little things."

Ivy flinched, yet didn't understand why,  but something in her stomach contorted— a flicker, a spark, a whisper of something ancient twisting around her spine. Her locket pulsed once, but she didn't touch it.

She didn't need to.

OUTSIDE, beneath the trees, someone watched the house. The windows glowed gold with candlelight; with memories and reeking of pain, but he didn't look at the house.

He looked at her; the girl with ghosts in her eyes. The girl who spoke to the wind in her sleep. The girl who had been touched by magic long before she ever understood what it meant to be chosen. She was still fragile. Still pretending to be just a girl. But the truth was blooming beneath her skin— slow, sacred, and unstoppable.

She didn't know what she was yet.

But he did.

And soon enough, she would remember.

THE butcher shop was cold, but it didn't bite the same way today. The bell above the door gave its usual grating chime as Ivy stepped in, cradling a thermos of tea and wrapped in Damon's leather jacket like a suit of armor. Her hair was swept into a loose braid, bits of rosemary and wild chamomile tucked between the strands like secrets she hadn't decided whether to share.

Lennox looked up from the meat counter, cleaver in hand, and his apron stained in ways that would horrify the health department— or at least Elena. "Well, hell," he drawled, slow and Southern. "Thought maybe the wolves finally got you."

Ivy closed the door behind her with her foot, the sleeves of her jacket flopping over her hands. "They tried, but I offered them tea and emotional baggage, so they backed off."

Lennox huffed a laugh through his nose. "You been watchin' one o' those drama shows again?"

"Maybe," she said sweetly. "Or maybe I'm just naturally poetic."

He leaned on the counter, eyeing her from over the rim of his glasses— the cheap reading kind he only wore when he was pretending not to care. "You look less like death today."

"Why, thank you," Ivy deadpanned. "It's always been my goal to look moderately alive."

"Coulda fooled me last time," he said, patting his hands on a bloodstained rag. "Came in here lookin' like you hadn't slept in a year and smelled like regret."

"That was my perfume. 'Melancholy by Dior.' Very exclusive."

He let out a bark of laughter and gestured to her cup. "You got any more o' that witchy tea in there, or is that just for comfort?

"I have something else for you!"

"Is it another one of those weird biscotti sticks that taste like dry regret,"

"It's not a biscotti," Ivy interrupted, feigning offense. "It's your obscene mocha latte with extra vanilla pumps and mocha drizzle. The one you pretend you don't like but drink in two minutes."

He grumbled but opened the lid, steam rising. He sniffed it, took a sip, and groaned. "Damn. That's sinful."

You're welcome."

He took another long sip, then glimpsed at her over the rim. "So. What's got you floatin' in here like the world ain't ended?"

Ivy paused, because she hadn't realized how different she felt— not healed, not fixed, but lighter. Her shoulders weren't braced like she expected to be struck and her voice didn't tremble when it left her mouth. "Stefan's doing better," she said. "A little."

Lennox nodded once. "Figured. You don't look like you're carryin' the world anymore. Just maybe a small town."

"Only Mystic Falls," she said dryly. "And perhaps the state of Virginia."

He smirked. "You'll get there."

She reached into her tote bag sling over her shoulder and pulled out a mason jar, sliding it across the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world. He accepted it without question, placing it gently beside the register.

"Still not gonna ask what it's for?" she asked, arching a brow.

"Nope."

"Not even a little curious?"

"I figure if it's blood, and it ain't mine, and it keeps you and that brother from fallin' apart, I don't need to know the rest." He sipped his latte. "Besides, I like a little mystery."

Ivy smiled— finally a real smile, full and with teeth. "You're a strange man, Lennox Tate."

He tipped his cup in her direction. "And you're somethin' else entirely, Miss Salvatore."

She started toward the door, the bell above it chiming as she reached for the handle, but before she stepped out into nature's grasp again, she looked back and said softly, "Thanks for always letting me show up without needing to explain."

Lennox didn't look up. Just said, "You keep bringin' coffee, you can show up covered in blood and speakin' Latin for all I care."

Ivy grinned. She didn't tell him how close he was to the truth.

THE piano still echoed in her fingertips. She'd played for hours— Chopin, Debussy, old hymns her mother used to hum when she thought no one was listening. Her hands ached now; the bones swollen and the knuckles sore. But it was a good pain. The kind that reminded her she was still here and somehow still real.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting gold over the garden in slow, syrupy light. The air smelled like turned soil and crushed rosemary, with hints of mint and violet tucked between the rows.

Ivy knelt in the grass, her sundress dirt-stained at the knees, with a small spade in one hand and a sprig of basil in the other. Her fingers were caked in earth, nails broken at the corners. But there was something divine in it— the way she moved, the way she pressed life back into the ground like an offering.

She hummed softly under her breath, not a song, not really, merely sound— Gentle. Aimless. Human.

A smudge of dirt was streaked across her cheek where she'd brushed away a loose curl. The locket around her neck rocked gently as she leaned forward, whispering something to the plant like it could hear her. "I'm not sure you'll make it," she murmured. "But I'll try anyway."

She wasn't talking to the basil— not really.

The breeze answered her— tugging at her hair and brushing the hem of her dress like a sigh. Ivy looked up for a moment, her eyes narrowing at the line of pines that bordered the estate.

Nothing.

Just the woods— dark and patient.

For whatever reason, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted anyway. She straightened, wiping her hands on her dress, with the spade dangling loosely at her side. Her hands trembled slightly, overworked from the piano, but she didn't mind it.

It felt like proof that she was still capable of feeling something that wasn't grief.

Then she stood there, staring into the treeline like it had whispered her name, but the trees said nothing.

And yet— he watched. Not close. Not near. Just far enough to stay hidden.

Close enough to know what she smelled like; wild lavender and warm vanilla crushed between bare hands.

She didn't know she was being watched; not yet.

She didn't know the weight of her bloodline.
Didn't know what stirred inside her runes when the right kind of magic brushed against her bones.
She didn't know what her voice sounded like to someone who had waited centuries to hear it.

To her, it was just another dusk. Just another evening in the garden. Another moment between the storms.

But to him, it was prophecy made flesh.

He didn't speak. Didn't even breathe. He only watched. And the wind carried her humming like a thread meant to be followed.

________

qotd: if you could have a spin off of any storyline what would it be?

copyright © -loonylupins