The Hellhound In TVD

Michael and Tyler moved in silence through the heart of what used to be the eastern woods. Up close, the devastation was much more terrifying . At this edge far away from the middle of the explosion, every tree looked more like a blackened finger pointing accusingly at the sky. There were no bird calls, no rustle of squirrels. The only thing Tyler could hear was the crunch of charcoal beneath their boots and the haunting whistle of the wind through hollowed-out trunks.

Tyler stopped, turning in a slow circle. From the manor, it had looked like a distant fire; but from here, it looked like the end of the world. The ground was still warm, radiating a dry and unnatural heat that made the soles of his shoes feel tacky.

"Sheesh," Tyler muttered, wiping a streak of soot from his forehead. "You couldn't have taken the fight a few miles outside of town? Or, I don't know, a different zip code?"

Michael didn't slow his pace as he walked with his hands behind his back and his eyes scanning the horizon with a detached look, "No. The geography of a hunt is rarely a matter of convenience, Tyler."

He paused while looking at a tree that had been fused into a pillar of glass at its base. "But, if it makes you feel better, consider this my formal apology for the... excessive nature of the property damage. Though, really, shouldn't I be getting a thank-you note? I managed to incinerate a primordial horror without burning down the Grill or your precious town square. That's practically surgical precision, wouldn't you say?"

Tyler stared at him with his jaw dropping at the thought of what he'd just heard, "Precision? Michael, you turned miles of old-growth forest into a giant charcoal briquette! You want a compliment for not nuking the post office?"

"A little gratitude goes a long way," Michael chuckled, the sound dry and echoing in the dead air.

Tyler let out a long, frustrated sigh, kicking a pile of ash that disintegrated into a grey cloud. "Whatever. What the hell are we doing here? Why did you drag me out to the middle of your private wasteland? What do you want with me?"

Michael stopped and turned slowly at the werewolf, a smirk playing on his lips as he tilted his head, "What, I can't just check in on my star trainee? Is it so bad to want some quality time with the only perfect werewolf in town? Or did you think our relationship was strictly professional?"

The sarcasm dripped from his voice, followed by a look that dared Tyler to challenge the absurdity of the situation. Tyler just groaned, rubbing his face, "You're a sociopath, I do hope you know that, right?"

"So I've been told," Michael replied, his amusement vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He grew still, his stature suddenly shifting back into that of the entity who had faced down Hell itself, "We're here because we need to talk about Matt and your mother."

Tyler's entire body stiffened up at the mention of those two, his agitation vanished, replaced by a desperate look on his face,"What about them? Did your 'Death Dealers' find them? Are we going to rescue them now? Is that why we're out here, to track them?"

Michael looked Tyler directly in the eye, his expression unreadable and cold.

"No," Michael said flatly.

"What? Why?" Tyler's voice cracked, "They're out there, Michael! We have the power, so why are we just standing here in the dirt?"

Michael didn't blink as he heard that question, "Because that is precisely what they want you to do. Think, Tyler. Use that tactical mind Brandon's been trying to cultivate."

"About what?" Tyler snapped, his frustration boiling over.

Michael let out a weary sigh, tracing the rim of a scorched crater with the toe of his boot, "They need a blood sacrifice of the three distinct species to break the seals of the spell that birthed Malivore. Under normal circumstances, killing Niklaus would have been the efficient route, it would have checked off two of the three criteria in a single stroke of the blade. But that plan is currently off the table unless they want to attempt a head-on assault against him again, which, after tonight's display, would be suicide."

Tyler shook his head, still lost, "I still don't get it. What does that have to do with Matt and my mom?"

"They took them as bait," Michael said as his voice finally took on a cold and analytical edge, "They took them so you would come running. They need a Werewolf to fill the final slot in the ritual. The fact that they have already secured Finn means they are moving with a terrifying velocity. Once they have a wolf, they can complete the triad."

"Wait," Tyler challenged, "what's stopping Esther from just snatching one of Klaus's hybrids? There's a whole pack of them or there was."

"They aren't pure," Michael countered sharply. "They have been tainted by the vampiric magic used to turn them. For a ritual of this magnitude, one designed to undo a primordial creation. Nature demands a specific frequency of blood. The hybrids are a chaotic noise; Esther needs a clean signal."

"Then why was Klaus the 'best candidate' if we're talking about purity?" Tyler asked, pacing a tight circle. "He's a vampire too, isn't he?"

"Niklaus is an Original," Michael explained, "The magic that binds him is the 'Source Code.' He is an authentic, apex anomaly, a true hybrid born of a specific alignments. His blood carries the resonance of the first curse and the first blessing simultaneously. He is an exception. The others? They are just copies of their . To Esther, they are only useful if they remain in your original, un-vamped state."

Michael paused, his eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous red light. "Which is why I want you to do something for me. There aren't many pure-blood werewolves left. My Death Dealers are technically wolves, but they are saturated with my own essence; Esther can't touch them without being incinerated by the proxy of my power. The only other concentrated group of pure-bloods nearby is the Appalachian Pack."

"The Appalachians?" Tyler repeated.

"Specifically, a place called the Mad Crow Diner," Michael said. "I want you to go there. Secure the pack. Convince them of the danger and move them to a safe house. Brandon will send you the coordinates once you're on the move."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Tyler stepped back, his hands up. "You're sending me away? Now? What about my mom? What about Matt? You're just going to leave them in a cave with a witch who wants to turn them into ritual fuel?"

"I told you," Michael said, his voice like iron. "Do not worry about them. I am going to handle the extraction personally. But if Esther finds a replacement wolf while I'm busy playing rescuer, the world ends anyway. This needs to be done quickly to prevent the ritual from reaching its tipping point."

Tyler opened his mouth to argue, but he looked at Michael's face, the face of a man who had seen civilizations fall and the words died. He sighed, shaking his head and looking at the ash-covered ground.

"What if they don't listen?" Tyler asked quietly. "I'm a werewolf who has your essence as well. They'll probably try to kill me before I can say 'hello'."

Michael began to walk away, his figure already starting to blur into the shadows of the dead trees. He looked back over his shoulder, a small, grim smile on his face. "Then make them listen, Tyler. Tell them they will be rewarded. Tell them that if they agree to help us, I will grant them an exit from the agony of the monthly transformation. I will give them the freedom their ancestors spent centuries praying for."

Tyler stood in the silence for a long moment, absorbing the weight of the task. "I hope you're right about this," he muttered, looking aside. "When am I supposed to leave?"

"Now."

Tyler snapped his head back. "Wait, what—"

The space where Michael had been standing was empty. Only a small swirl of ash remained, dancing in the wake of his departure.

"I hate it when they do that," Tyler whispered to the dead forest

———

The fire in the Salvatore parlor crackled, the orange light dancing across the amber liquid in Damon's glass. He was slumped in his usual leather armchair, his feet propped up on the hearth, staring into the flames as if searching for a roadmap that didn't lead to a cliff.

The floorboards groaned upstairs, followed by the steady, rhythmic descent of Stefan. Damon didn't turn his head to his brother and just raised his glass toward the ceiling in a silent toast of misery.

"Remind me again, brother," Damon started, "How exactly did we get into this mess? I feel like I missed a very important turn in the road a few months back."

Stefan paused, leaning against the cold stone wall that led to the study. He crossed his arms, his expression one of grim reflection. "We didn't miss a turn, Damon. We were dragged into the deadliest family feud in history."

"Ah, right. The Mikaelsons," Damon muttered, taking a long pull of his drink. "It used to be so simple. We wanted to kill Klaus. We spent every waking hour coming up with creative ways to put a piece of wood in his heart. Now? Now we're his glorified protection detail. If he catches a cold, we're the ones making the chicken soup because if he dies, our entire bloodline turns into garden mulch."

"Oh, don't worry," Stefan said, his voice dripping with dark irony. "We're still on the verge of that. Even with Michael acting as a one-man fire brigade, we're one bad afternoon away from extinction. If Esther gets the blood she needs, the 'Save the originals' plan goes up in smoke anyway."

Damon finally turned, looking at his brother with an uncharacteristic intensity. "What exactly would happen though, hypothetically, if we did... nothing? If we just let Mother Dearest turn them all into mortals and finish the job? Would that actually affect us as well."

Stefan walked over to the sideboard, the glass decanter clinking against the rim as he poured himself a heavy double. He didn't answer immediately. He took a sip, the burn of the alcohol matching the tension in his jaw.

"I don't know," Stefan said softly, "But them being human would be the least of our worries. Even if we hypothetically survive that, we'd be left in a world where the leash is gone. Esther would have unlocked the basement If the spell to release Malivore is completed, we aren't just looking at a few rogue vampires like we are used to brother. We're looking at monsters and godlike entities that have been starving for a God knows how long. They won't just want blood, Damon. They'll want the world."

Damon looked back at the fire, the flickering light casting deep shadows over his face. "So, stay a vampire and protect the man who we once tried to kill, or get eaten by literal myths. Door number one or door number two." He let out a sharp laugh at the irony. "There's no way out of this, is there?"

Stefan walked over and sat on the edge of the sofa, his eyes fixed on the embers. He shook his head slowly. "Not this time, no. The stakes are too high, and the players are too big. We're just trying to keep the house from burning down while the owners fight over the matches."

He sighed, "And don't even get me started on the literal Devil waiting for us upon our death.

Damon's laughter started as a low rumble in his chest before erupting into a full, dark peal that echoed off the high ceilings of the parlor. He leaned his head back against the leather, staring at the crown molding as if it were the funniest thing he'd ever seen.

Stefan raised a skeptical eyebrow, his glass paused halfway to his lips. "Care to share the joke? Because from where I'm sitting, the punchline looks a lot like a funeral pyre."

"It's just the sheer, poetic beauty of it, Stefan!" Damon gasped, wiping a stray tear of mirth from his eye. "We are utterly, completely, and cosmically screwed. There is no exit. No 'get out of jail free' card. We've spent over a century being the big bads in every room we walked into, and now we're just... collateral damage. It's hilarious."

Stefan let out a long, heavy sigh, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "When you put it that way... yeah. It's messed up. But it's true." He looked down at his drink with his expression softening into something more somber, "Elena almost broke down tonight. After you left with Bonnie, it all just hit her."

Damon's smirk faltered slightly and his gaze shifted back to the fire.

"She can't handle this, Damon," Stefan whispered, "This wasn't what I wanted for her. I wanted her to have a life where the biggest drama was a high school graduation or a bad grade. I wanted her to be happy. Now? She's running for her life, constantly looking over her shoulder for Originals, Hellhounds, and god-like entities that want to use her one way or another. It's a nightmare she can't wake up from."

Damon took a slow sip of his bourbon, "The 'white picket fence' dream died the moment we rolled back into town, brother. You know that. We're the ones who brought the darkness to her doorstep. We can't act surprised when it decides to move in and start a family."

Stefan looked away, the guilt was evident in the tight set of his shoulders. After a moment of heavy silence, he cleared his throat. "And Bonnie? How's she doing?"

"Better than you'd imagine," Damon said, "She's handling it well. Considering she's just as rattled as we all are, she's remarkably composed."

Stefan nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied his brother's face, "You two seem to be getting close. What's that about? I don't think I've ever seen you play the concerned chauffeur for anyone who wasn't Elena."

Damon chuckled as he looked Stefan dead in the eye. "That's none of your business, brother. A guy can't appreciate a little witchy competence without being interrogated?" He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Besides, shouldn't you be happy? I'm not chasing after your dear, precious Elena anymore. I'd think you'd be throwing me a parade."

Before Damon could take a step, Stefan blurred in and In a heartbeat, he was standing directly in front of his brother, his face inches from Damon's, his expression hard as stone.

"What are you planning, Damon?"

Damon scoffed, leaning back just enough to maintain his personal space. "Who said I'm planning anything? Can't a vampire just enjoy a platonic friendship and a shared sense of impending doom?"

"I know you," Stefan said, his voice a low warning. "You have that look. You're up to something. You don't 'get close' to people unless there's a move being made."

"Oh, please," Damon said, rolling his eyes. "I'm hurt, deeply and truly. I'm just a changed man, Stefan. I've found religion. I'm thinking of joining a monastery once the world stops ending. Or maybe I'll just take up knitting. It's very therapeutic for the soul."

Stefan didn't move or blink and the joke certainly didn't ease the tension in the room one bit.

"Relax, okay?" Damon said, his signature eye-smirk returning in full force. "Me and the Little Wicked Witch of the West have just developed a bit of... synergy. We speak the same language. We both know that when the gods start throwing lightning, the smart people start looking for a grounding wire."

He patted Stefan's shoulder firmly, a condescending but oddly sincere gesture, "Seriously, relax. We're just friends. Nothing for your brooding little heart to worry about."

Damon then walked around him, his footsteps jaunty as he headed toward the door. Stefan stayed rooted to the spot, watching his brother's back.

"Friends, huh?" Stefan whispered to the empty room. He let out a sharp, cynical scoff and shook his head. "Yeah. Right."