CHAPTER 2: THE GIRL HE ABANDONED
The dining hall buzzed with typical morning chaos. Lizzie's voice carried over the general noise, dramatically complaining about her hair's refusal to cooperate with humidity spells. "I look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket! This is a disaster of epic proportions!"
Josie sat across from her twin, quietly working through a piece of toast while scrolling through her phone. She looked up as Alen approached their usual table, offering a smile that was equal parts warmth and concern.
"Morning, sunshine. You were tossing and turning all night. Bad dreams?"
Alen slid into the seat beside her, muscle memory guiding him to the spot he'd occupied for years. The casual intimacy of family—Josie automatically shifting to make room, Lizzie stealing a piece of his bacon without asking—should have felt foreign. Instead, it fit like a well-worn jacket.
"Something like that," he said, scanning the room with desperate casualness. Auburn hair. Blue eyes. The girl who'd once looked at him like he hung the moon and now looked through him like he was glass.
"Oh please," Lizzie said, waving her fork for emphasis. "You probably stayed up too late researching weird historical stuff again. Dad's right—you need actual hobbies that don't involve dusty books."
"Books aren't dusty anymore," Alen replied automatically. "That's what tablets are for."
Josie laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "See? You're fine. Though you do look pale. Are you eating enough? I know Caroline's been after you about proper nutrition."
The casual mention of his mother—their mother—sent another wave of displaced affection through him. Caroline Forbes-Salvatore, traveling the world to secure funding for supernatural education while missing her children's daily lives. The guilt in her voice every time she called, the way she overcompensated with care packages and video chat sessions that never quite bridged the distance.
His family. His responsibility now.
"I'm eating," he said, forcing himself to take a bite of eggs that tasted like cardboard. His attention kept drifting, searching for—
There.
Hope Mikaelson entered the dining hall like a storm front, all barely contained energy and defensive posture. She moved through the space with the fluid grace of something that had never forgotten it was dangerous, dark hair catching the light and blue eyes scanning for threats that existed mostly in her own mind.
Three years ago, she would have looked for him. Would have caught his eye across the room and smiled that secret smile that said save me a seat. Now she looked anywhere but his direction, her gaze sliding past their table like he'd never existed.
The false memories of loving her crashed into the reality of losing her, and Alen's chest tightened with genuine grief. He'd destroyed something precious—or rather, his other self had, and now he had to live with the consequences.
"You're staring," Lizzie observed, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Like, creepy stalker staring. The kind that ends with restraining orders and campus security."
Alen forced himself to look away, heat rising in his cheeks. "I'm not staring."
"You're totally staring. Jo, back me up here. He's doing that weird intense thing again."
Josie followed her brother's gaze and her expression softened with understanding. "Alen..."
"Don't," he said quickly. "Just... don't."
They knew. Of course they knew. You didn't spend three years watching your brother pine after his ex-whatever without noticing. They'd probably had countless conversations about it—about whether they should interfere, whether time would fix things, whether their brother was ever going to get over the girl who'd clearly gotten over him.
Hope claimed a table near the window, sitting alone with the practiced ease of someone who'd made peace with isolation. She pulled out a book—supernatural history, from the looks of it—and began reading with the focused intensity of someone using scholarship to avoid dealing with emotions.
She's exactly like the show depicted, Alen thought, but more. More guarded, more hurt, more real.
The manufactured memories provided context the show never could. Hope's laugh when she was genuinely amused versus the polite sound she made in social situations. The way she unconsciously touched her left wrist when she was nervous—a tell he'd learned to watch for back when watching her was allowed. The specific shade of blue her eyes turned when she was fighting tears.
All information that was useless now, because he'd forfeited the right to comfort her when he'd chosen Klaus's threats over her trust.
"She looks tired," Josie said quietly.
She did. Dark circles shadowed Hope's eyes, and her usually perfect posture had a slight slump that spoke of exhaustion deeper than mere lack of sleep. The Hollow, Alen realized. Even dormant, it was wearing at her. Whispering poison in the quiet moments, making her doubt her own thoughts.
His hands clenched into fists. The Entity's curse meant he couldn't warn anyone about the Hollow directly, but he could still act. Still find ways to help that didn't require explanation.
But first, he needed to survive the day. And that meant attending Alaric's combat magic class—where he'd be in close proximity to Hope for the first time in three years.
POV: Hope
The training yard smelled of ozone and determination. Hope positioned herself at the far edge of the group, as far from the Saltzman triplets as space allowed. She'd perfected the art of strategic positioning over the past three years—close enough to participate, distant enough to avoid unwanted conversations.
Alaric stood at the center of the circle, crossbow slung across his back and spelled practice targets arranged around the perimeter. "Alright, everyone. Today we're working on siphoning accuracy and control. Remember—magic isn't just about power, it's about precision. Overwhelming force is useless if you can't direct it properly."
Hope suppressed a bitter laugh. Overwhelming force was exactly what she was struggling with. The Hollow stirred in her chest like a living thing, ancient and patient and hungry. It whispered suggestions in languages she didn't recognize, promised power beyond imagination if she'd just stop fighting so hard.
Soon, it murmured in her mind. Soon you will tire of resistance. Soon you will let me show you what we could accomplish together.
She pressed her lips together and focused on the practice target—a spelled crystal designed to absorb and contain magical energy. Simple exercise. Channel magic into the crystal, maintain control, don't think about the darkness coiled around her ribs like a living tattoo.
"Hope," Alaric called. "You're up."
She stepped forward, hyperaware of eyes on her. The other students watched with the morbid fascination of people observing a dangerous animal in captivity. Most had heard the rumors about what lived inside her. Those who hadn't could sense it anyway—predator recognizing predator.
Hope placed her palms on the crystal and began to channel. Magic flowed from her core, warm and responsive and—
The Hollow surged.
Black veins exploded across her arms like ink in water, spreading from her hands up her forearms toward her shoulders. The crystal began to crack under the influx of power, unable to contain what she was pouring into it.
Yes, the Hollow whispered, delighted. Show them what we are capable of. Show them why they should fear us.
"Hope," Alaric said, voice carefully controlled. "Remember what we practiced. Pull it back."
She tried. God, she tried. But the Hollow's influence was like trying to hold back an ocean with her bare hands. The black veins crawled higher, reaching for her throat, and she could feel the other students stepping back.
The crystal exploded.
Magical energy scattered across the training yard in visible waves, sparks of corrupted power that made the air itself taste of metal and malice. Hope stumbled backward, the feedback hitting her like a physical blow.
And then—impossible—the energy stopped.
Every scattered spark, every tendril of corrupted magic, suddenly flowed in the same direction. Toward Alen Saltzman, who stood thirty feet away with his hand extended and his eyes wide with something that might have been panic.
The magic vanished into him like water down a drain. Just... gone. Absorbed completely without any visible effort on his part.
Silence stretched across the training yard. Hope stared at him, and he stared back, and for a moment she glimpsed something in his expression that didn't match the boy who'd ghosted her three years ago. Something older. Sadder. More determined.
"That's..." Alaric's voice trailed off. "Alen, siphoners need touch. Physical contact with the magical source."
Hope watched Alen's face cycle through expressions—panic, calculation, and finally something that might have been resignation.
"I've been training," he said, and his voice carried a confidence that was new. The old Alen had spoken in hesitant stutters when put on the spot. This version met Alaric's gaze directly. "Experimenting. Pushing limits."
"For how long?"
"Months." The lie came easily, believably. "I've been working on extending my range gradually. Started with a few inches, then a foot, then..." He gestured vaguely. "I know it's not supposed to be possible. But magic adapts, right? We all do what we have to do."
Hope studied him with new eyes. This wasn't the terrified boy who'd run from Klaus's threats. This was someone who'd learned to lie smoothly, to deflect questions, to project capability he shouldn't possess.
What happened to you? she wondered. What changed?
The Hollow stirred in her chest, but differently than before. Where it usually whispered aggression and hunger, now it seemed... wary. Uncertain.
Dangerous, it murmured, and for the first time in months, its voice carried something other than absolute confidence. Stay away. It hungers.
Hope frowned. The Hollow had never warned her away from anything. It encouraged confrontation, reveled in conflict, pushed her toward fights she couldn't win. But something about Alen made it nervous.
She looked at his hands—had they glowed faintly gold when he'd absorbed her magic? Or was that her imagination?
"Well," Alaric said after a long moment. "I guess we'll need to discuss your... innovations... after class. Everyone else, pair up for containment exercises. And Hope?" He caught her eye. "Good control at the end there."
But it hadn't been her control. They both knew it.
As the class dispersed into training partners, Hope found herself watching Alen from across the yard. He moved differently now—more confident, more purposeful. Like someone who'd found their center after years of being lost.
Three years ago, he'd told her he couldn't be near her because of her father. She'd assumed Klaus had threatened him—not an unreasonable assumption, given her father's protective instincts and history of murdering inconvenient suitors.
But this Alen didn't look like someone who feared Klaus Mikaelson. This Alen looked like someone who might actually be able to stand up to him.
Which raised the question: if it hadn't been fear that drove him away, what had it been?
And more importantly—why was the ancient evil living in her chest suddenly afraid of a teenage siphoner with impossible abilities?
Hope touched her left wrist unconsciously, the nervous gesture she'd never managed to break. Across the yard, Alen was helping his sister Josie with a levitation spell, patient and encouraging in a way that seemed both familiar and new.
I don't know who you are anymore, she thought. But I'm going to find out.
The Hollow whispered warnings she chose to ignore.
After all, she'd never been particularly good at staying away from dangerous things.
"Alen." Alaric's voice carried across the training yard as students filed out. "A word."
Hope paused in packing her bag, close enough to overhear without being obvious about it. Whatever had just happened deserved investigation, and she'd learned long ago that information was often more valuable than direct confrontation.
She watched Alen's shoulders tense as he approached his father. The confident mask he'd worn during the demonstration slipped slightly, revealing something more vulnerable underneath.
There you are, Hope thought. The boy I used to know.
"That was quite a display," Alaric said, voice carefully neutral. "Want to explain how you developed ranged siphoning without mentioning it to anyone?"
Hope saw Alen's hands clench briefly before relaxing. A tell. He was nervous despite his newfound confidence.
"I wasn't sure it would work," Alen said. "I didn't want to get anyone's hopes up if it turned out to be a fluke."
"And the experimentation? How long have you really been working on this?"
A pause. Hope could practically see the calculations happening behind Alen's eyes.
"Since summer," he said finally. "I've been... I guess I got tired of feeling helpless. Tired of watching everyone else be stronger, faster, more capable. So I started pushing my limits."
There was something in his voice—a pain that seemed deeper than simple insecurity. Like someone carrying guilt for failures that hadn't been his fault.
Alaric's expression softened. "Son, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? If something's been bothering you—"
"I'm fine, Dad." The words came out sharper than intended. Alen seemed to realize it and forced his voice back to calm. "I'm handling it. I just... I need to be better. Strong enough to protect the people I care about."
His eyes flicked toward Hope for just a moment before looking away.
Oh, she thought, puzzle pieces clicking into place. This is about me.
Not in the way she'd initially assumed. Not some grand romantic gesture or desperate attempt to win her back. This was about guilt. About a boy who thought he'd failed someone important and was determined never to fail again.
The Hollow stirred uneasily in her chest, its whispers taking on an edge of genuine concern.
It sees us, it murmured. It sees what we are and it still reaches out. Dangerous. Foolish. We could destroy him.
Maybe, Hope thought back. But maybe he could destroy you first.
The ancient spirit recoiled from the suggestion, and Hope felt a spike of satisfaction. For three years, the Hollow had been her constant companion, her unwanted advisor, the voice that turned every conversation into a potential conflict. But something about Alen's presence made it nervous.
That was worth investigating.
"Alright," Alaric said, still studying his son with concerned eyes. "But I want you to be careful with the experimental magic, okay? Power without proper foundation can be dangerous."
"I'll be careful," Alen promised, and Hope could hear the lie in it. Whatever he was planning, careful wasn't part of the equation.
As father and son began walking toward the main building, Hope made her decision. She fell into step several yards behind them, close enough to observe without being noticed.
For three years, she'd avoided Alen Saltzman like he was a curse waiting to activate. But curses, she'd learned, had a way of finding you whether you ran from them or not.
And something told her that understanding what Alen had become might be the key to understanding what she was becoming too.
The Hollow whispered protests all the way back to the school.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
Can't wait for the next chapter of [The Originals/Legacies Im A Saltzman]?
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them (20+ chapters ahead!). No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1