The air was thick with somber silence as Eleanor stood by her grandfather's casket, surrounded by mourners paying their respects. The consecrated ground stretched out before her; a quiet sanctuary filled with memories of those who had come before. She tried to focus on the eulogies being given, the kind words spoken about her beloved grandfather, but her attention kept drifting away.
As Eleanor stood there, lost in her reverie, she felt a presence nearby, a familiar aura that sent shivers down her spine. She turned slightly, her heart skipping a beat as she caught sight of a figure she had hoped never to see again.
Damon. There he was, standing at the edge of the gathering, his presence a shock to her senses. His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on her. For a moment, their gazes locked, and Eleanor felt a surge of emotions flood her being. Anger, resentment, and longing, all intertwined in a complex web of feelings she thought she had buried long ago.
It had been years since she'd last seen him, since she'd left Maple Creek and everything associated with it behind. But here he was, his familiar face etched with sorrow, his eyes locking onto hers as if being drawn by an unseen force.
Damon's gaze held hers, and she saw a glint of affection still lingering in his eyes, despite the years and the distance that had separated them. She tore her eyes away from his, feeling the weight of old memories pressing down on her. No matter how far she had come, no matter how much she had tried to move on, her past seemed determined to follow her, to remind her of what she had lost and what she had left behind.
She averted her gaze quickly, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the edge of her black dress. Damon's presence was like a ghost from her past, haunting her even in her darkest moments.
As the funeral procession began to disperse, Damon approached her tentatively, as if afraid she might vanish into thin air if he moved too quickly. Eleanor felt the pull of his presence, the magnetic force that had drawn them together so many times before.
But she held her ground, steeling herself against the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
He stopped a few feet away, his eyes searching hers for any sign of recognition. "Eleanor," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Damon," she replied, her voice barely more than a breath.
For a moment, they stood there in silence, the weight of their shared history hanging between them like a heavy fog.
"I didn't expect to see you here," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves in the wind.
Damon nodded; his expression pained.
"I needed to pay my respects," he replied, his thick voice unnerving to Eleanor's daunted pride.
She could feel his gaze burning into her, his eyes searching for something she couldn't quite name.
"How have you been?" Damon finally asked, his voice tentative as if testing the waters of their fragile conversation.
Eleanor forced a tight-lipped smile, her stomach twisting with discomfort.
"Fine," she replied curtly, her tone lacking any warmth.
The tension in the air was palpable, each word spoken between them laden with unspoken resentment and regret. They had once shared a love that burned bright but had been extinguished by betrayal and heartache.
"I'm sorry about your grandfather," Damon said softly, his voice tinged with genuine sympathy. "I offer my condolences"
Eleanor nodded, a lump forming in her throat at the mention of her grandfather.
"Thank you" she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
Their conversation was stilted, filled with half-hearted attempts at small talk and awkward pauses. Eleanor longed to escape, to retreat into the comforting embrace of solitude. But Damon stood in her path, a reminder of a past she had tried so desperately to forget.
The atmosphere became filled with an insurmountable chasm between them, one that neither knew how to bridge. Just as the silence threatened to become unbearable, their conversation, or rather, Damon's one-sided attempt at one, sputtered to a halt. The air crackled with an unspoken tension, a silent power struggle that had played out between them countless times before.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shadows cast by the looming oak tree. Elijah. His tall frame and easy stride seemed to fill the space on the terrace, his presence a silent shield between Eleanor and Damon.
"There you are, El," Elijah said, his voice warm and genuine. A flicker of something akin to annoyance crossed Damon's face, a fleeting emotion quickly masked by a practiced smile.
"Elijah," Damon acknowledged with a curt nod. The tension in the air thickened, a silent battle of wills waged in clipped greetings and forced pleasantries.
"How are you feeling?" Elijah asked, his gaze fixed on Eleanor, a silent reassurance in his eyes.
Eleanor, grateful for the interruption, offered a genuine smile. "Much better now," she replied, her voice lighter.
Damon cleared his throat, a hint of frustration coloring his tone. "Well, I wouldn't want to keep you two from... catching up." He finished the sentence with a pointed look at Elijah, before walking away.
As Damon's retreating figure disappeared into the darkness, Elijah leaned closer to Eleanor. "Is everything alright?" he asked softly, his concern evident.
Eleanor leaned into his side, a wave of relief washing over her. "It is now," she whispered, her voice laced with gratitude.
The cool evening air swirled around them as Eleanor and Elijah stood before the weathered stone monument bathed in moonlight. Inscribed on it were the words: "Arthur Lockwood - Beloved Husband, Father, and Grandfather." Eleanor traced the inscription with a tentative finger, the feel of the rough stone grounding her in the surreal reality of her return.
"Do you miss him, El?" Elijah asked softly, his voice barely a whisper that carried over the gentle rustling of leaves.
Eleanor met his gaze, a well of emotions swirling within her. Years of resentment towards her family had been a shield for so long, but now, facing the stark reality of her grandfather's absence, the shield seemed to crumble. A tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek.
"Yes," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "He was… the anchor. The one who held everything together."
The weight of a forgotten memory settled on her chest. "I remember," she continued, her throat tightening, "the last time I saw him before I left. He was sitting in his armchair, reading a book by the fire. I was angry then, angry at the expectations, and the suffocating atmosphere of this house. I barely spoke two words to him."
Shame gnawed at her. "And then I left," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Part of me thought I was escaping, finding freedom. Now, I just feel… lost. Like without him, everything will fall apart."
A warm hand closed over hers, grounding her. She looked up to find Elijah gazing at her, his eyes filled with understanding and a flicker of something more.
"He wouldn't want you to carry that burden, El," he said softly. "He was strong, but he wasn't everything. This family, this house, they have roots that run deep. And maybe, just maybe, with a little effort, this family can help each other remember how to stand tall again. To honor him by building something new."
The last rays of the setting sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and red. As the twilight deepened, a hush fell over the Lockwood Manor. The day's mourners, townsfolk who whispered tales of the strange Lockwoods behind cupped hands, had long since departed. Now, only the family remained, gathered in the dimly lit grand hall.
Uncle Barnaby, his face etched with grief deeper than any they'd witnessed, stood before them. His voice, usually jovial, was raspy with emotion. "The night approaches," he said, his gaze sweeping over the assembled Lockwoods – cousins with nervous tremors in their hands, aunts clutching rosaries tighter than usual. Eleanor, her heart pounding a frantic tattoo against her ribs, stood beside Elijah, his hand a comforting weight on her arm.
For generations, the Lockwoods had carried a secret burden, a curse passed down through the bloodline: the curse of the Lycan. With each rise of the blood moon, a crimson orb bleeding into the night sky, they transformed into monstrous werewolves. Tonight, with Arthur, their revered leader, gone, the ritual of ascension would take place. A new alpha would rise, the responsibility of controlling the pack falling upon their shoulders.
Barnaby cleared his throat. "We gather tonight not only to mourn Arthur but to witness the continuation of our legacy." He gestured towards a clearing in the center of the room, where a large rug had been laid out. In its center, a silver chalice gleamed under the flickering candlelight.
A collective shiver ran through the room. The air crackled with nervous anticipation, the weight of the ritual pressing down on them. Eleanor's breath hitched. Would it be her? The thought filled her with dread. She'd spent years running away from this life, building a life in the bustling city where anonymity was a shield. Now, here she was, trapped in this ancient ritual, facing a part of herself she'd always feared.
The atmosphere smelled like petrichor and the cloying sweetness of lilies thickened in the air. The funeral pyre for her grandfather, Arthur Lockwood, crackled merrily, casting flickering orange shadows on the assembled family. A shiver ran down her spine, not from the cool evening air, but from a primal unease that gnawed at her from within. Under the crimson gaze of the blood moon, the tradition as old as time unfolds; when the leader of the pack falls, a new one rises. bathed in the full moon's glow, as the power of the pack shifts, and the fallen leader's mantle awaits a new successor. It was a moment that held a far more sinister significance for the Lockwoods. It was the hour of the transformation.
The flames danced higher, casting grotesque shadows on the faces around her. Her cousin Jacob, ever the stoic, stood stiffly, his jaw clenched tight. Her Aunt Agatha, her disapproval a constant presence, wore a veil that did little to hide the glint of fear in her eyes.
The air crackled with raw, primal energy as Barnaby's final words echoed through the grand hall. Penelope, her youthful innocence stark against the impending chaos, let out a whimper. Her eyes, wide with a terror that mirrored Eleanor's own, darted from the transforming figures to the increasingly blood-red moon.
Seeing Penelope's distress, Elijah walked towards her. "Come, Penny," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm in the rising tension. "We can't be here."
Penelope, her lower lip trembling, clung to Elijah's hand as he led her away from the churning mass of Lockwoods. Eleanor watched them go, a flicker of despair mingled with relief in her chest. At least Penelope wouldn't have to witness the horror firsthand, wouldn't have to succumb to the curse just yet.
Being a mortal, Elijah also couldn't be part of the ritual. He reached for the massive oak doors behind them that sealed off the hall where the ritual was taking place. With a determined nod towards the assembled gathering, he produced a set of ancient keys from his pocket and swiftly locked the heavy doors, their ancient hinges groaning in protest.
Eleanor alone now, squared her shoulders taking a deep breath, she turned away from the sight of the locked doors, the barrier between her and the beast within her family was a battle she couldn't avoid, not tonight. But somewhere deep within her, a spark of defiance flickered. Tonight, she wouldn't succumb. Tonight, she would fight.