THE MUSE | n. mikaelson

iii - the tale of a woman

chapter three, the tale of a woman

     OPHELIA HAD FORGOTTEN HOW PAINFUL IT IS TO BE ALIVE. It wasn't the ache in her body, the barely standing legs, or the deep, forced breaths igniting life back to her organs, reminding of the hunger, of the thirst, of the need to sleep. No, it reminded her of the void in her chest – always aching, always there. Of the burden on her shoulders which she had no one to share with. Of the loneliness even if she always used to be surrounded by people. Living is painful.

And now that she looked at her brothers, in a house she has never been before, she felt dissociated. Ophelia never believed in ghosts, even if the town she grew up in was full of dark stories that scared her before sleep. But she never expected to see her brothers again. Even in death, there was no peace for her – just the same, repeating nightmare. But she found them here. In ways she didn't understand.

The Salvatore siblings were silent. They were looking at each other as if to understand if this was real. Ophelia was doubting. The other two knew it was real. But it wasn't easy for them to see their sister like this – on the edge. Clearly, she was risen up from her rest for some sort of revenge. The witches talked. Even when they were dead.

The image of her brothers' dead bodies flooded her brain, but now, in front of her, they looked fine – a bit strange and unusual, but the clothing didn't change the fact that it was Damon and Stefan. Blue and green. Ocean and forest. And there was her – fire, brown eyes clouded by sadness, but holding so much rage. Not for them, for life.

The light in the house was making her slightly squint her eyes – it was unnatural and too bright. It wasn't compared to the warm light of candles. But she couldn't take her eyes away from her brothers, afraid they will disappear if she will turn away. She won't be able to handle that. And yet, she didn't know what to say. Was there anything to say at all?

"You're safe, Ophelia. No one will hurt you here," Stefan softly reminded her, not moving an inch closer. He didn't want to scare her. He already noticed that she was hanging on by a thread.

Ophelia slowly nodded, clasping her hands together, clearing her throat slightly: "I do not know—what happened, I swear." Her voice was silent. She couldn't talk any louder as the aching throat reminded her that it wasn't used for God knows how long and she was unbelievably thirsty.

"You don't how to explain yourself," Stefan reassured her, slightly extending his hands in a calm manner. He always did that when they were children—he'd always push his hands slightly out as if opening himself to her so she would trust him. Ophelia was a really sensitive child when growing up and there was no one else to blame but father. He didn't want a girl.

As a matter of fact, she always had to explain herself – where she was, what she was doing, with who she was and why. Women had no rights and always had to be chaperoned. When she was with her brothers, it wasn't as bad, but when she was watched by her father...