England, 11th Century – Decades After the Birth of the Originals
The world had changed.
The whispers of gods had faded, replaced by the clang of iron and the wailing of war. Kingdoms rose and crumbled like waves upon a shore. But Elijah Mikaelson stood unchanged, untouchable—eternally cloaked in tailored poise, his movements precise, his tongue razor-sharp.
Yet beneath that veneer of nobility, something stirred. A hunger unlike the thirst for blood. Not for violence. Not even for love.
For control.
Control of destiny. Control of weakness. Control of the curse that turned him into a predator, bound by sunlight, vulnerable to white oak, and condemned to eternal hunger.
He was no stranger to strategy, nor to patience. So, when strange phenomena began to disrupt the flow of magic in the northern lands—rumors of witches who could draw power not from the earth, but from others—Elijah took interest.
And he went alone.
---
Yorkshire Forests – Winter, 1053
The air was damp with rot and mist. Elijah moved silently between trees, his senses sharpened. He was tracking a witch—if the village rumors were to be believed, a siphoner—a rarity even among magical circles.
The girl's name was Isolde. Seventeen. Exiled from her coven for "stealing" the power of her elders. She had not been seen for weeks. But Elijah had found the trail—scorch marks in the snow, animals drained of not blood, but life force.
When he found her, she looked nothing like the predator described by villagers. Just a girl in rags, trembling near a stream, skin cracked from cold.
Elijah didn't approach immediately. He observed.
Then, without warning, a surge of golden light burst from her hand as she touched a dying bird—and life returned to it. The bird flew off.
Elijah stepped forward.
> "Impressive," he said, voice low, measured.
Isolde gasped and scrambled to her feet. "Who are you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he studied her closely.
> "You're not a channeler. You're not linked to any circle. And yet you draw power. From what?"
She hesitated, but his presence compelled honesty.
> "From others. From things. I—I don't know why. I just can."
Elijah's eyes narrowed slightly. "A siphoner."
A pause. Then a whisper: "Am I cursed?"
He stepped closer. "No. You are... potential."
---
Weeks Later – Isolde's Sanctuary
Elijah built her a small shelter within the forest, enchanted with minor protective sigils. He visited her often, testing her abilities, pushing her limits.
He offered her blood—not human, but animal—to see how magic and mortality danced within her. He watched as she drained the power of enchanted objects and used them to light fires, lift stones, and briefly levitate.
But then came the turning point.
One night, during a ritual with an old artifact, Elijah placed his hand on hers, stabilizing the object. A surge passed between them.
A current.
A draw.
Isolde flinched and pulled back. "You… you have something inside you."
Elijah's gaze sharpened. "What did you feel?"
She swallowed hard. "Not magic. But something—old. Dormant. Like a spring beneath stone."
He walked away in silence, but inside, his mind was spinning.
> Could it be… me?
---
A Mirror of Himself
Over the following weeks, Elijah tested his own body. Ingesting small charms. Touching cursed objects. Reciting words of power.
Nothing at first.
But on the eve of the solstice, something cracked.
While holding a relic from the Druidic order, his palm sparked—not from the relic's power, but his own reaction to it. The magic was drawn to him, through him, like a whisper across a canyon.
Elijah's heart stilled.
> I am not just vampire. Not just Original. I… can siphon.
The realization was sobering. He'd never heard of a vampire—let alone an Original—being able to wield magic, even indirectly. It was supposed to be impossible.
But it explained so much. Why he'd always sensed witchcraft even before his turn. Why ancestral energy never repelled him as it did others.
He was a heretic.
And suddenly, the limits of his curse began to fracture.
---
A Dangerous Experiment
Elijah didn't sleep. Didn't feed. He spent days drawing magic from ancient sources—charms, totems, wards carved into stones by long-dead witches.
His body accepted it.
Hungered for it.
But it wasn't enough to siphon. He needed more. Needed to cast, to control.
So he sought out an artifact used by the Gemini Coven—a ring that stored magical energy. He fed it power stolen from a shaman's amulet and tried to channel it back.
The result was catastrophic.
The air exploded in a burst of force. Trees were shredded. Isolde, standing nearby, was thrown a dozen feet.
Elijah didn't move. Blood streamed from his eyes. But he was grinning.
For the first time since Esther's spell turned him into an Original, he had cast a spell.
It was crude. Wild.
But real.
---
Breaking the First Rule
Elijah returned to Mystic Falls briefly to retrieve an old grimoire his mother had kept hidden beneath the floorboards of their first home. Rebekah was there—briefly.
"Why do you vanish for decades, brother?" she asked, her voice sad.
Elijah, ever composed, replied, "To prepare for the storm."
"Which storm?"
> "The one that will either free us… or destroy us."
He left without another word.
She would not understand.
Not yet.
---
Revelation and Ruthlessness
His research led him to a sect of witches in North Africa, the last descendants of a line older than the Hollow. They spoke of "dual-natured souls"—creatures born with one path but carrying a second within, dormant, waiting to be awakened.
They warned Elijah against pursuing it. That merging magical nature with vampire essence would corrupt him.
He responded by compelling the leader to hand over her scrolls and burning the rest.
His ruthlessness had grown—but not without reason. He no longer saw mercy as strength.
He saw knowledge as survival.
And every step he took brought him closer to shedding the weaknesses of the Original curse.
---
The Heretic Emerges
By 1060, Elijah no longer needed to siphon from others. He had absorbed enough magic, stabilized enough spells, and created a cycle of magical storage and usage.
He could levitate small objects.
He could cloak his presence from other supernaturals.
He even burned through the effects of a witch's compulsion—something no vampire should have been able to do.
He was evolving.
Not just surviving. Ascending.
And he knew the next step would require blood.
Werewolf blood.
---
A Letter to Niklaus (Never Sent)
Brother,
You and I have often stood at opposite ends of purpose. You chase glory, I chase order. But we are alike in one thing: we will never accept chains, not from others, and not from fate.
I was made an Original by our parents' will. But I will remake myself by my own.
One day, you may see what I have become and fear it. Or you may admire it. I no longer know which would please me more.
But know this: I do not seek to leave you behind.
I seek to become the weapon that will ensure we are never prey again.
—E.M.
---
Closing Scene
Elijah stood alone at the edge of a cliff in the Scottish Highlands, wind whipping his coat around him. In one hand, he held a glowing crystal—pulsing with the stored magic of three dying witches. In the other, a scroll inked with an ancient ritual.
He was ready.
Ready to shatter the first ceiling.
To become something the world had never known.
Not just vampire.
Not just witch.
But Heretic.
The first step toward becoming the apex.
The Tribrid.