IMPORTANT NOTE: This story is set slightly after the episode "All My Children" in which Esther attempted to destroy her children. This means that all the events in episodes after that are firmly being ignored for the purposes of this story. Therefore, Elena is still human, Finn and Sage aren't dead, etc.

IV.

–

–

He happens upon her the evening of their playful chase within the garden, a lonesome figure in an abandoned corridor.

She leans against the wall in a state of dishevelment, carefully pinned curls tumbling to a lank demise down her back with each sob that wracks her body.

What was it that had hurt her so? He had never played observer to anything but coy merriment or ladylike kindness from her.

Elijah slides one hand gently to her shoulder – painstakingly slow, as to not startle her – and nearly recoils as Katerina's bowed face jerks violently upwards, teary eyes finding his own concerned ones.

His lungs compress sharply, a harsh gasp finding passage from his lips, when recognition strikes and her gaze narrows with animalistic hatred.

It is a sight he had witnessed before, when his father first allowed Elijah to accompany him on daily hunts as a boy. It was the sight of a cornered animal, inherently aware of what fate was promised them by the predator's glistening teeth and hungry eyes. It was the loathing of the deer for the hunter.

His worried attentions are rebuffed with a shove to his hand and a vitriolic voice that shouts "Leave me be, Elijah! I don't need your false concerns, your pretenses of friendship. I don't need you!"

There is a whirl of voluminous skirts, followed by rapid, unsteady footsteps, and Katerina's figure disappears around the corner.

Later, barraged by the furious screams of Klaus and his own unfurling anger, he will discover her half-mad flight from the manor.

–

–

About one month later, standing on her front porch, Elena Gilbert decisively breaks both Salvatore brothers' hearts when she rejects the two of them.

She wants to move on with her human life, she says without a single tremble in her voice. She needs to move on with her human life. College, growing up, and the entire world is stretching like a great maw before her, and the endless quarrels, the heartache, and drama are stressful entities that she just can't cope with.

Not right now.

Not like this.

It's like a mantra, though it lacks the desperation so commonly associated with the word: I'm eighteen, she repeats coolly and emptily to their thunderous expressions and pained eyes. I'm eighteen and I have a younger brother to look after and an entire life to start planning. I'm eighteen, and I just can't take care of anyone else right now. I'm eighteen and I want to start making my own choices again—no more seeking approval, no more doubting, no more loss of control.

She can no longer squander the life given to her by her parents, by a father who pleaded that she be saved – the blood thrumming through her veins was bought at too steep a price.

I love you both, she chokingly tells them. But not the way you need me to. Not the way I did when I was hurting and sad and needed someone who couldn't be killed, who was truly invulnerable, who couldn't leave me.

With silent fortitude she bears Damon's wild temper and unrestrained raging, listens expressionlessly to Stefan's guilt-inducing pleas and eventual martyr-like words.

Elena is as of one cold and carved from granite, and despite the romanticism of poets and authors who take pleasure in comparing great beauties to the majesty of sculptures and statues, there is no beauty in her lifeless form. There is only an internal understanding that if she does not withstand the boys' reactions in such a stolid way, she will almost certainly crumple under the brunt of their emotions and everything she has worked towards will be for naught.

She succeeds in maintaining the façade throughout their tirades (Damon) and soliloquies (Stefan). The mask stays in place well until they've both bounded away—and then promptly shatters into a thousand tiny shards five seconds later. Elena is strong, persevering, resourceful…but she's also human. So, so human, and sorely lacking in the convenient emotions-be-gone switch that vampires enjoy.

And the human girl in her can't bear the responsibility of harming two people that she dearly loves, even if it's no longer in the way that they wish her to.

Contrary to what she's always been told, contrary to the strong front she's always tried to uphold for Jeremy's sake, Elena collapses lifelessly onto the old familiar porch swing, lowers her face into her cupped hands, and unabashedly weeps like the little girl she sometimes still is.

Because Jeremy is not here, and there is no need to be the dependable, smiling older sister now.

Because Elena still wants to believe that when she cries, her mother will rush to hold her, to rock her back and forth, to soothingly ask her what the matter is, and resolve everything as only a mother can do.

Everyone has their individual breaking point, and hers was two years and too many deaths and two ravaged hearts later (three if she counts the one she ripped out of Matt's chest, four if she's including her own).

–

–

This is the way that Elijah finds her nearly an hour later, having arrived to return to her a few school brochures and pamphlets that she had mistakenly left at his home.

Elena can barely muster the requisite strength to raise her heavy head when she hears him say her name quietly, worriedly – the only indication that he had even arrived.

The low timbre of his peculiarly accented voice washes over her, a blend of all the places he has ever been in his thousand years of existence, all of the people he has ever encountered, all of the experiences that have ever befallen him and have yet to touch him. If Damon's voice is passion, and Stefan's voice is calm rationale, then she firmly believes that his voice is raw power, cleverly buried under countless layers of courteous politeness and practiced indifference.

She's suddenly ashamed of her tear-streaked face, her runny nose, her flushed cheeks and wobbly lips – not for any superficial reasons, but because Elijah has always regarded her as a beautiful example of humanity. She's only ever showed him the resilient, indomitable part of her, the part that never gave in; never capitulated against the obstacles the world tossed her way.

But now she's little more than a defeated girl hiding from that same world on a rickety porch swing – and she knows he'll be standing as tall and unyielding as ever, immaculate in his outer splendor and incomparable in his ancient wisdom.

And since she can't bear for him to be witness to this weak child, someone even she doesn't even recognize, and think less of her for it, her face remains firmly ensconced in her hands.

Though she hides her face, she can't exactly manage to stifle the continuing sobs that slip out raggedly through lips that are wobbly pressed together. It's all too obvious that he will, without a doubt, be able to hear them as easily as if she were wailing in his ear; be able to smell the natural salt of her dripping tears as though it was his skin they were falling upon.

Stupid vampire senses.

He'll depart soon in disgust, she morosely tells herself. He'll go soon, because she's nowhere near as brilliant and wonderful and mature as she's always tried to be around him. He'll discover that she's just another human, struggling to get through each day.

Because being 'Just Elena' has never been enough: she has always been unwittingly fitted into the role of Elena the Doppelganger, Elena the Sacrifice, Elena the Princess-that-Needs-to-be-Watched, Elena the Look-Alike-to-a-Past-Love.

Who would ever wish to be with 'Just Elena', anyways? A normal girl who fancied herself an aspiring writer, who blushed when a cute boy smiled at her, who liked dull, humdrum things like going to the movies and ice skating when it grew cold enough.

Not exactly the dashing stuff heroines were usually made out of. Not exactly the stuff that would make someone stay.

Her heart gives another wrench with these thoughts—a pain that has nothing to do with Damon and Stefan and everything to do with the thought of Elijah leaving. It's not a feeling she can describe with any degree of verbosity, not a feeling that can be translated into anything except as pure hurt.

Two cool hands grasp her wrists softly, just below where her hands are pressed tightly upon her messy face. It's sufficient in startling her out of her morbid and well-deserved self-pity.

He hasn't left yet.

Latent marvel stirs deep within her—she resolutely squashes it a second later, irritated at the fact that this man's opinion had become so vastly important to her and when wondering when, precisely, that occurred.

Probably sometime between a sunlit walk around a lake and being rescued from a half-crazed sister intent on maiming her in an abandoned parking lot.

"Elena." His voice is close; close enough that the gentle breath her name is caressed with stirs the limp bangs on her forehead. "Elena, look at me."

Perhaps it is juvenile, but she refuses to comply with the simple request.

Instead, she buries her face further into the dark cradle of her hands, finding safety and peace in the blackness that envelopes her eyes. She's more than aware that should he choose to, Elijah would be capable of easily prying away her hands and forcing her to look at him.

However, she's secure in the knowledge that he's too much of a gentleman to ever manhandle her in such a rude fashion.

She has long since learned that chivalry is as much an integral part of Elijah as impulsiveness is to her brother, a set of courtly rules that mold the facets of his temperament into refinement, something that causes every other modern-day man's personality to appear as uncouth imitations in comparison.

She's flung back into unpleasant reality by his intruding voice.

"Elena, are you hurt?" He sounds restless, strained, with a barely hidden fury simmering somewhere below it all that causes a brief jolt of surprise to shoot through her. "Look at me, sweetheart."

The endearment rolls effortlessly off his tongue, so naturally that a disconcerted Elena wonders if he's even mindful of it. Elijah, unlike Klaus with his carelessly thrown about 'loves' and 'darlings', never applies such epithets to anyone (or at least not to her).

"Where are you hurt?" he repeats, tersely, urgently.

His hands tighten on her wrists, as though he's preparing to knock her hands awry and destroy the last flimsy shield she has between her and the rest of an unwanted reality. She's inwardly bewildered, and wholly confused—contrary to her previous thoughts, it seems as though Elijah is growing desperate enough to do exactly what she would never have expected of him.

To stave off having to face him, she finally gives him a watery and stilted answer through her hands. It's hardly scientific, and it's babyish and simple, but she's somehow confident that he'll understand.

"My heart," she confesses to him almost inaudibly, as though imparting a terrible weakness. "My heart hurts, Elijah."

There is no reply, meaning that Elijah is probably stringing all of the unspoken pieces together with his usual keen perception. Elena crying, plus the conspicuous absence of any Damon or Stefan fluttering about her like two mother hens, should be answer enough for him.

Elena smiles humorlessly to herself, just waiting for him to admit defeat and leave her be to stew in the mire of her own unhappiness. Because after all, what can somebody do about such a wound? Vampire blood certainly can't fix it. Elijah, for all of his worldly insight and talents, certainly can't repair a lacerated heart.

Or so she thinks.

In one swift flurry of movement and a squeak of surprise from her, Elena feels herself abruptly tugged off of the hard bench and settled against someone infinitely softer. The old porch swing creaks miserably under the combined weight of two people, but neither the immortal man nor the fragile girl he holds close pay it any mind.

"Elijah?" she gasps from her newfound position on his lap, her upper body supported against his chest and his arms engulfing her securely.

"Hm?"

"Ah…what are you doing?" Successfully shocked out of her numbing grief for the moment, all she can sense is her own pounding heartbeat, reverberating deafeningly in her chest.

Because she's being held.

By Elijah.

Something here isn't adding up quite right….a math equation where a few crucial variables are glaringly out of place. Unfortunately she's too entrenched in his arms to manage a sharp pinch to her skin to check and make sure she's not having a severe hallucinogenic episode brought about by emotional pain.

Hell, it wouldn't have been the first time that happened. After her parents' death, her brain had often saw fit to conjure such imaginings: Her father perched at his desk poring over his newest medical journals, glasses sliding perilously close to the tip of his nose. Her mother, laughter lines crinkling the corner of her warm eyes, greeting her a chirpy good morning as she fumbled over the stove and inevitably ended up burning the breakfast pancakes into a charcoaled mess.

Pressed against Elijah as she is, she feels firsthand the cultured laugh that rumbles from deep within at her question. "Endeavoring to comfort you, I suppose. I haven't done this in quite a while, unfortunately—I'm rather lost as to the particulars of such a thing."

Had it been anyone else, Elena would have reacted with a shout and a thorough slap across the face, suspecting them of licentious intentions with such a move.

But this was Elijah…Elijah, who had never trespassed into the dangerous territory that went beyond of the role of 'friend', 'ally', or 'protector'. Elijah, who from the moment of their very first meeting, had beheld her with a lurking admiration and strange sort of respect.

Elijah, the ancient, erudite creature who was now trying to dredge up remnants of a painful human past to soothe away her hurt.

A hard, cloying feeling rises resolutely in her throat, and she decidedly casts off all initial inhibitions and relaxes her stiff posture until she melts against him.

Because…because she honestly can't recall the last time she'd been held like this. The last time she'd been afforded such a simple, undemanding intimacy.

Stefan's idea of comfort tended towards the side of making out and passionate embraces (well he was perennially stuck as a seventeen year-old boy and the hormones that accompanied such a stage). Damon's followed a path of offering her a clean slate and blank mind, courtesy of his handy vampire powers. Alaric shied away from physical affection like the plague, and Jeremy's awkward attempts at consoling his sister usually were limited to pats on the back or a quick hug.

She decides not to question the irony that despite it being vampires who had been the source of her past and current pain, it was a vampire now who sought to alleviate it.

(Elena had, in actuality, decided to stop questioning the conundrum that was her life quite long ago—somewhere between finding out the hot new guy at school sucked platelets for fun and that her best friend could set things on fire with just her brain and a mean look).

His fingers are combing through her hair now, lightly caressing the long strands with all of the pleasant illusion of cherishment. Her eyes close at the sensation, dazedly thinking that despite Elijah's words, he was quite efficient at this 'comforting' thing.

"Who was the last person you did this with?" she whispers, curling her fingers into the finely tailored suit jacket he wears. An irascible sense of jealousy slowly rises up within her as she asks, visions of other dark haired girls bearing her exact face emerging unbidden in her thoughts.

There is a brief pause in the glide of his fingers through her locks, so quick that she nearly misses it before he resumes.

"My sister." In a reserved tone, he expounds shortly, "The day that we awoke, and found ourselves no longer human. She was…the most distraught."

The answer is unexpected and Elijah offers no more on the subject—Elena can't imagine the brash, spoiled blonde she's acquainted with as being afraid, hurt, and seeking comfort from Elijah's steady presence….much like Elena was doing now.

"Oh," she murmurs lamely, the shame of obtrusiveness bubbling in her stomach. "I thought…I thought maybe…"

Katherine, with her wildly bouncing curls and sly smile. Or maybe the first Petrova, far 'prettier' than Elena, as Rebekah had callously mentioned that night in the gym.

Both girls that Elijah had cared for in some way; Elijah describing his affection for Katherine to Elena himself and Damon derisively mocking the Original brothers' scornful attitude towards the Salvatores when they themselves had faced a similar romantic triangle with the first Petrova.

"Will you tell me about her, Elijah?" Elena asks suddenly, tossing all caution to the proverbial wind. But she desperately needs something to distract her troubled mind, and this seems the ideal topic with which to do so. "Tell me about the girl I look like. Tell me about the girl…who had to make the same choice that I was faced with."

–

–

"Tatia."

Her shoulders stiffen, and it is with a barely restrained sigh that she turns to face him. The smile that is plastered on her lips is tight and perfunctory, her eyes irritated.

"I expected you would find me. Klaus did earlier." A bored gaze sweeps over him. "What have you come to say to me then, Elijah?"

He has never become accustomed to this – feeling inadequate and ashamed in her presence; a lowly serf bowing and scraping before a queen. "An apology," he says quietly. "I –"

"Did you think I would be pleased? You coming to blows with your brother, over me? In the middle of the village?" Her expression is scornful, mirroring a tone devoid of her normal playfulness. "I have endured your and Niklaus' antics with remarkable forbearance. But I cannot anymore, Elijah."

The impending finality of her words strikes him with all the brutality of a javelin, piercing straight through his chest with a jarring sensation.

"You are refusing me, then?" His tongue was leaden within his mouth. Eloquent, wily Elijah, capable of enthralling his siblings with stories and dueling with learned scholars.

"I am," she affirms. Her hand snags his wrist, a cold iron manacle where warmth and delight might have once been at the action. "I don't want you, Elijah. I can be nothing more than a friend and sister to you, and you…more than anything, you need to make amends with your brother, and cease this foolish quarrel."

–

–

Silence consumes them as her words fall heavily; for both of them are well aware that this is not in reference to Katherine. She chances a peek up into his eyes, and cannot suppress the hushed intake of breath at the emptiness that emanates from their depths.

For a frightening second Elena is sure that she has crossed some invisible line in their friendship, violated some sort of trust that has existed between them ever since she yanked a dagger from his cold form in the basement of the Salvatore house.

There are some things, she knows, that people can't speak of, that they lock deep into a small corner of their heart and try desperately to forget.

Perhaps this girl, this Tatia, that Damon had mentioned in passing to her after dining with Klaus and a newly-awakened Elijah, is such a thing to Elijah.

Elena had been mildly curious upon learning the name of her ancient ancestor, as well as surprised at the small stab of jealousy when Damon had relayed the fact that not only Klaus had loved her, but Elijah as well.

Elijah, who had always seemed so untouchable and distant, who had coldly promised in the Lockwoods' parlor that he would never allow himself to care for another in such an intensely intimate way again, had once loved someone who was a precise physical replica of herself.

It was impossible to stave off inquisitiveness about such a thing.

"Which one told you?"

She's abruptly jerked from her inner musings at the sound of his detached voice, trepidation washing over her at the tone. "Damon," she admits sheepishly, tucking her head down further to avoid seeing his expression. "Elijah…I'm sorry. It wasn't fair for me to ask that of you, after all you've done for me. Just forget—"

A finger is pressed to her lips lightly, shocking her enough that her gaze flickers up to him.

"There is no need for such agitation, Elena," he reassures her, faint amusement at her flustered reaction evident. "It is no real secret, after all. And you undoubtedly have the right to be privy to the information regarding your own ancestor's past."

"Maybe," she says slowly, the word rolling heavily across her tongue. "But it doesn't give me the right to intrude upon yours, Elijah."

That gives him pause. Elena feels the arms around her tauten for the briefest of instances before subsequently loosening.

"She herself was a child in many ways," Elijah says without prelude, voice suddenly archaic with the burden of recalling. "She basked in admiration, relished the attentions that others bestowed upon her. Unfortunately, she also carried a child's inherent insensitivity to the feelings of others—unintentionally, but cruelly, treating all who loved her with equal affections."

"That sounds like…" Elena stops herself before the words can slip out, but Elijah makes a dim hum of agreement with her unspoken observance.

"In that she was indeed very much akin to Katerina, though she had none of the talent for subterfuge and self-serving cunning that her descendant would later possess." The disdain for the latter woman, so strange in Elijah's normally polite and carefully regulated manner, cuts sharply through the air.

"Even so…you loved her." It isn't a question.

"I did." The reply is equally as blunt, a simple statement of the truth. Elena is momentarily taken aback at the hard honesty, accustomed as she is to the men around her who liked nothing more than to deny their feelings, to flounder about in conversations while abstaining from divulging any real answers.

"And…Klaus?"

There is a guarded hesitance in his voice. "Niklaus…loved her as much, I believe, as he could allow himself to."

Elena digests his words slowly, mulling them over in her mind. The idea that Klaus could have ever indulged in something as human as love is an odd one to her.

Because in the bedtime stories, the monstrous villain was always simply that: a mindless, unfeeling creature who held neither the ability to love nor the desire for it.

And yet, a sly voice interjects at the back of her mind. Wasn't Elijah once that wicked, plotting villain all of your fairytales so disparaged? And here you are, well on your way to falling—

With an increasing efficiency at shutting out thoughts she has no particular inclination to examine too closely, Elena blurts out impetuously, "Then what did she do? Who did she choose? If she cared for both of you…but didn't actually love you or Klaus…how did she choose?"

She hardly cares that she has forsaken subtlety, that a selfish desperation lines the question and What do I do? echoes long after she has spoken.

"She chose neither," Elijah murmurs after a quiet moment, body tense and gaze locked in a time long, long ago. A rueful half-smile lingers on his lips, before he continues in a tone nearly too low for her to hear, "She chose well, in the end."

It is not without weariness and a touch of sadness that a wavering sigh rushes from her. "So what I did...was right?"

Committing the same crime of almost severing the bond between two brothers, committing the same crime of irreparably damaging the hearts of those brothers as well.

And perhaps, in the end, sacrificing all potential futures in order to preserve the sacred love that existed between the two siblings.

She feels a sudden pang of pity for her ancestor, empathy for the choice Tatia had faced mixed with sympathy for the pain that had surely accompanied it. For, whether human or vampire, Klaus and Elijah were far more intense, far more passionate, than either Stefan or Damon would ever be. To be caught between two such men…Elena can barely imagine it.

"You are not Tatia, Elena." It is an assertion that leaves no room for dispute, something close to relief laced within his words. She can't deny that a similar relief sweeps through her at that admission, the underlying fear at being yet another replacement abating somewhat. She cannot withdraw her eyes from his gravely handsome face anymore than she can shut off her hearing to drown out his deep tone. "And…you are most certainly not Katerina."

Her head bows, her meager strength incapable of holding it up beneath the crippling strain that had been suffocating her world for months now.

"But…" It is inevitable—she wavers.

Elena manages only that one word before her voice splinters wretchedly, her entire self threatening to follow in its ruined wake.

Damon and Stefan had been pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling, over and over again without rest or respite—and she suddenly can't flee from the feeling that had relentlessly haunted her ever since her parents' accident: that of being trapped underwater with the darkness stealing her breath and clouding her vision and no possible avenue of escape available to her. Elijah's presence had managed to push it back momentarily, but the terrible panic was seeping through again.

She is saved by a hand that cups her cheek, lithe fingers tilting her face upwards in a refusal to allow her to succumb to her burdens, to cede to the onslaught of feelings that lurked with the intention of overwhelming her tired soul.

Elena stares up at Elijah, wondering in blurred bewilderment when, precisely, he had gotten so close.

"You are not obligated to repeat the decisions of your predecessors," he tells her gently. His thumb slides slowly across her tanned cheek, wetness tickling her skin as he wipes away a new tear she hadn't known had fallen. "Nor are you obligated to learn from their choices. The only responsibility you have to yourself, Elena, is to freely decide what you want in life, what you wish to do. And so long as you are content, whether or not that decision, by some happenstance, coincides with what others have chosen in the past is of no consequence."

And just like that, Elena (not Elena the Doppelganger, Elena the Sacrifice, Elena the Princess-that-Needs-to-be-Watched, Elena the Look-Alike-to-a-Past-Love) feels her heart rise so far into her throat in a sharp swell of emotion that she nearly gasps for breath.

Ever since her discovery of Katherine's existence, that night in Stefan's room so very long ago, Elena had felt akin to a shadow – doomed to retrace a life already lived by another.

Her hand is grasped; Elena is pulled from the perilous water yet again.

She clasps the broad hand resting against her face with both of her comparatively small ones, breathing out a faint "Thank you, Elijah".

His eyes flicker strangely at the gentle gratitude, stilling beneath the touch of her fingers. Her breath catches painfully in her throat as he leans down ever-so-slightly in that age-old movement that precedes a kiss.

And for that brief moment in time, she truly believes he's going to kiss her.

She chalks it up to her overemotional, distraught state, but she somehow doesn't mind. For it seems as natural that Elijah would do so as it was for the sun to set each day, or for the stars to fade with the oncoming rays of first morning light.

The selfish part of Elena, the one she usually strives to keep thoroughly tucked away, even craves the possibility.

So she's a little disappointed when his lips instead brush lightly against her forehead, but not too disappointed. Elijah is one of the most reserved people she knows, and not physically demonstrative—a kiss on the forehead is a far greater closeness than he grants others, and it spreads a heartening warmth through her chest.

It's with a small sigh that she leans back against him, not quite ready to surrender the comfort of being held like this. This feeling of safety is one she had believed lost after her parents' death, when the world had turned dark and cold and monstrous. His arms come back up to wrap around her securely; his fingers resume dragging languidly through her dark whorls of hair.

Just a little longer, she tells herself as she presses her cheek into the smooth cloth of his suit jacket, and then she'll go back to being strong, dependable Elena.

Just a little longer.

–

–

She leans against the doorway, framed by the light streaming from within the house.

He still worries for her pale face, the raw redness that engulfs her downcast eyes. Elijah suppresses the nagging urge to find the Salvatores and suggest they find a newfound and permanent residence on the other side of the planet. Lamentably unimaginative and less violently final than he would prefer, but he expects anything else would cause Elena further hurt.

However, all murderous thoughts are swiftly dispelled at the tentative sound of his name.

"Elijah," she murmurs sweetly, a small smile touching the corners of her lips. Unthinkingly, his body tenses as his mind summons two similar situations – standing before a Petrova, wishing for reciprocation and earning only recrimination.

Elijah, I don't want you.

I don't need you.

Which, he thinks grimly, will come from Elena's mouth as the last nail in his figurative coffin?

"Elijah, I am.…so glad that you found me."

But then again, he should have remembered that Elena Gilbert never adhered to one's expectations.

–

–

I wrote this in very sporadic bits while studying, so forgive me for any typos and whatnot. But I'm slowly but surely keeping my promise of updating all my Elejah stories! Next will hopefully be Meddlers ;)

Also, thank you for all of the lovely reviews on my other Elejah one-shots - I was frantically trying to divide my time between school and getting this written so I didn't get the chance to reply, but I DO read everybody's reviews and I love hearing your thoughts. It's awesome that there's still so many Elejah shippers around!

I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter...sorry for the angstiness of it. But it was sort of a personal-satisfaction chapter in that Elena finally told the Salvatores to go to hell (I make no apologies about the fact that I was thoroughly weary of Elena being the personal ping-pong ball of the Salvatores on the show. And from what I hear, apparently that hasn't changed. I'm almost impressed they've managed to keep that tripe going for 5 seasons).

Anyways, this chapter is for all of the lovely people who asked for another one, and helpfully messaged me with requests for updates (that actually helps me, being that I'm a horrible procrastinator.) And if anyone wants to chat about Elejah, feel free to PM me on here or on my tumblr, which was: somniferous-me. tumblr. com.