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Chapter 2: Exile and Evolution
Word
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Highlands of Scotland, 1062 – The Ritual of the Wolf
The wind howled, and Elijah stood alone.
Around him, stones marked with Druidic runes formed a perfect circle. Within it, three ancient herbs burned, their smoke dancing in unnatural spirals. At his feet: a vial of werewolf blood, stolen after he hunted a descendent of the Pictish bloodline. A full moon hung above, heavy with ancestral power.
The ritual was older than any grimoire. Passed only in whispers. Dangerous. Forbidden.
But Elijah had learned one unyielding truth: what is forbidden is often the gateway to freedom.
He crushed the herbs in his palm, poured the werewolf blood into his mouth, and whispered the incantation he had carved into the inside of his arm.
> "By the moon, the beast, the cursed divine—
I tear the veil, I break the spine.
Let fang meet claw, let blood refine—
That I may take what once was thine."
For a moment, nothing.
Then agony.
His bones cracked. Not the dull shift of vampire regeneration, but the deep, primal grind of something older—a second nature forcing itself awake beneath an immortal shell.
He screamed.
Blood poured from his eyes, ears, and nose.
The magic in his veins raged—vampirism clashing against siphoned magic and the werewolf gene like storms colliding.
He collapsed.
And the forest fell silent.
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Three Days Later – The Cave of Ashes
Elijah awoke in a cave, charred symbols on the walls. Naked, covered in ash and blood. A woman stood over him—tall, cloaked in bone-white cloth, her eyes glowing silver.
"Your soul has been torn," she said softly. "But it holds."
Elijah rose, pain wracking his limbs. "You watched?"
"I guided. No one survives the Triple Path alone."
He stared at her, silent, cautious.
"You are vampire by curse," she said. "Witch by nature. And now, werewolf by blood."
"A tribrid?" Elijah asked, voice hoarse.
She shook her head. "Not yet. You are the pieces. But they are still... unrefined. Fragile. The power will tear you apart if not forged."
"How?" he asked.
Her smile was faint. "Through isolation. Through control. Through sacrifice."
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The Beginning of the Exodus
Word of Elijah's ritual spread through magical circles. The Gemini witches sent spies. The French Quarter witches—still weak from ancestral wars—sealed doors to their knowledge. Even the distant Haitian covens sent warnings:
> "If the Original becomes something more, the balance will shatter."
And so, they hunted him.
Elijah, ever the tactician, vanished.
He abandoned his title. Cloaked his power. Traveled as a ghost across Europe, North Africa, and the Middle East. Always learning. Always perfecting the balance of the three forces within.
He fed not on humans, but on magic—siphoning power from cursed items, tapping ley lines, draining dark objects left by greedy witches.
And he fought.
Dozens of covens tried to capture or kill him. Packs ambushed him under the full moon. All fell.
Not because Elijah was the strongest.
But because he was the most evolved.
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Isolation and the Letter That Was Never Sent
In 1066, Rebekah tracked him to a monastery in Italy. She found him meditating in a garden of nightshade, surrounded by monks who had been magically silenced.
"Brother," she said, her voice quivering. "You've changed."
Elijah stood. His presence was cold but controlled.
"I am becoming," he said simply.
"You abandoned us," she whispered. "Niklaus thinks you're dead. Kol has gone mad."
"I had to leave. To save us."
"Save us from what?"
He looked at the moon. "From fate. From weakness."
Rebekah reached for him, but he stepped back.
"I love you," he said. "But I cannot return yet. The man you knew is... tempering into something more. If I return now, it will destroy what must be born."
She left in tears.
And Elijah, later that night, wrote a letter to Klaus.
But he never sent it.
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The Trial of the Beast
To master the werewolf side, Elijah sought a pack of ancient Nordic werewolves who had never been cursed by the witches. They called themselves Ulfrkin—blood-pure, untamed.
They refused to teach him. Called him an abomination.
So he challenged their Alpha.
The fight lasted seven hours. Claws versus speed. Strength versus strategy. Blood on snow.
In the end, Elijah stood atop the corpse of the Alpha, heart in his hand.
The pack submitted.
They taught him how to control the shift—not physically, but spiritually. Through breath. Through moonlight. Through pain.
It took him years.
But eventually, Elijah could command the werewolf curse like a blade. Not forced by the full moon. Not weakened by silver.
He was more than an Original.
He was a weapon.
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Heretic Power Refined
Back in the ruins of Carthage, Elijah discovered an ancient siphoner's sanctum. There, using centuries-old blood magic and an inverted anti-magic field, he began experimenting with permanent magical fusion.
He bound spells into his bones. Wrote runes into his skin.
He forged a ring from the bone of a siren and imbued it with a spell that let him speak to the dead. Another ring allowed him to walk through witch-bound barriers unhindered.
No longer did he simply borrow magic.
He made it part of his being.
And the covens began to whisper his name in fear.
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First Kill as a Tribrid Candidate
In 1073, a trio of Elders from the Sahara Coven confronted him during a solar eclipse. They intended to seal his magic and stake him into the earth forever.
Elijah gave them a choice.
Leave.
They refused.
He slaughtered all three in under five minutes. Drained one of her magic mid-casting. Used another to boost a barrier spell. Crushed the last one's throat telekinetically.
He stood over their bodies and whispered:
> "This is not evolution. This is justice."
And from then on, the witches gave him a name:
> The Hollowborn.
A creature with no single nature. Neither cursed nor blessed.
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Mikael Tracks Him
By 1090, Mikael—ever the hunter—finally caught wind of Elijah's trail. A village in Romania, burned. Dozens dead. Not by Elijah's hand, but by covens trying to destroy something "unholy."
When Mikael confronted him, Elijah was not surprised.
"Father," Elijah said with calm venom. "You look older."
"You look damned."
"Only to those who fear what I've become."
"You're not my son."
"I never was."
They fought for three days.
Elijah lost the first round. But on the second night, he channeled a ley line beneath the battlefield. Fused magic and vampire strength.
He broke Mikael's sword. Left his father in pieces—but did not kill him.
"Not yet," Elijah whispered.
"I will end you," Mikael spat.
"You'll try."
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Closing Scene – The Mirror Pool, Egypt
Elijah stood before a pool of black water—blessed by the last of the moon priestesses. His reflection shimmered.
In it, he saw not the noble Original.
Not the man in the suit.
He saw eyes glowing gold and red. Fangs. Veins. Runes across his chest.
Power.
Pain.
Peace.
He reached into the water, took a drop, and pressed it to his chest.
The water hissed.
Magic surged.
And Elijah Mikaelson smiled.
He was not just becoming a Tribrid.
He already was one.
Now all that remained…
Was ascension.
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