True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings - William Shakespeare

It's a sword.

It's always a sword.

But this time?

This time it's a sword sprouting from Hope Mikaleson's chest and Lizzie can feel the panic overwhelming her as she glances down at the small pin-prick hole in the front of her sweater from where the point had barely pierced the fabric. "Barely pierced" because Hope Mikaelson had lunged in front of her and taken a sword for her.

The shock is going away, though the sheer disbelief is still clinging to her as she watched Hope crumble to her knees, the seemingly-unbeatable tribrid spitting blood out of her mouth. The vampire at the other end of it is grinning crookedly, looking absolutely sadistic and delighted and maybe that's where the full extent of the disbelief is coming from. Hope Mikaelson has survived loss greater than anything she's ever known and guilt enough to drown in. She has fought dragons and killed gargoyles and blown-up arachnid monsters and yet she's brought down by a stupid school rebellion over blood. The loner is brought down saving Lizzie.

It's a stupid rebellion – small and should be easily crushed, but is in truth scarily well-planned. Their main goal seems to be less about ruining and exposing the school and more about taking over, making it their own so of course they struck while it was vulnerable. The two Headmasters were gone; Alaric attending a Council meeting in town and Caroline on her way back from a last-minute recruitment mission. The school wasn't left unattended; plenty of teachers were up and about and Dorian and Emma had taken charge – but they were spread thinly enough that the little coup might have a chance. With the right hostages, of course.

Said hostages were the Headmasters' children and the primary students; the latter easily retrieved at a moments' notice but the former proving time and time again, with every battle against every new monster that they would put up more than a little fight.

And yet somehow, these idiots had cornered them on their way from the attic stores, and begun to overpower them, one stupid vampire at a time. How unfortunate it was that the successful three had misunderstood hostage and decided abductor had the same meaning as assassin.

Josie was losing magic fast, desperately fighting two at once and had just broken the neck of one when another had struck. Lizzie had tried to help her, siphoning the bastard into unbearable agony when he'd batted her aside. Head ringing, she'd stood ready to melt him into pieces as he tried to sink his teeth into her sister. But a noise drew her attention, like metal singing – the sound of a sword drawn from a sheath and cutting through the air.

It had moved so fast she couldn't see it – barely a flash of metal before all movement stopped and Hope was in front of her, her name being called from a desperate Josie as Lizzie's chest twinged with an unbearable agony – Twin Pain.

Hope's head is tilted down as if she can't quite believe the blade poking out of her chest either and she sways to the side, a hand reaching out to steady herself. The fight downstairs is still raging, contained only by the powerful boundary spell the twins had cast as a split second thought but Hope can't quite compute any of that as the vampire nudges past her to bat a disoriented Lizzie firmly into the wall; the blonde slumping down it, barely conscious.

Josie is pinned against a wall somewhere behind her, magic resistant shackles being fastened around her wrists to stop her siphoning but Hope can barely think past the agony and the memories slowly swarming her.

This was how her mother died, she thinks, while Hope was unconscious and her father was impaled on the floor. This was how her mother was killed.

There's panicked muttering behind her and the helplessness feels overwhelming as she cuts her hands, grasping at the blade protruding from her chest. It hurts so badly – sets her inside on fire and seems to scorch her very blood; her body healing rapidly around it only for her flesh to be cut open again with every shaking breath pressing some part of her into the blade. It hurts so badly – but somehow – somehow she knows, losing Josie would hurt worse than this.

And Hope isn't some desperate, naïve fifteen year old anymore. She misses her parents desperately, just the same as then, but she is different. Mature. Grown. She stopped being that lonely, angry child the minute her mother died and she stopped being afraid the moment her father was ripped from her. She is Hope Mikaelson – the first ever of her kind, a werewolf and a witch and a vampire. She is not helpless. Even impaled and bleeding and very maybe dying, she is strong.

It feels like years since the sword cut into her but she knows it's barely been a few minutes as she slits her skin open on the blade, grasping it with both hands and a sliver of magic and sliding it out of her flesh. The noise it makes is sickening and the feel and the pain is nearly enough to pass out but she perseveres because she will not lose anyone else.

They're so cocky they don't even hear her as she stands. They're so sure of their victory, no doubt made more glorious by taking down the impossible Hope Mikaelson but they are fools and she will help them learn from their silly mistakes. One of them has peeled off, sealing the same shackles around Lizzie's wrists and Hope's own burn in sympathy, remembering how it feels to have her magic sealed away like that.

It's all too easy to ram the sword through chest as he stands before she callously rips it out to carve across his throat. If her strength just so happens to cleave his head from his shoulders, well, it only adds to the feel she's going for.

Josie's captor looks up at last; his speech about how her death will warm the stomachs of the revolution and change the face of the school forever interrupted by the clang of metal as she drops the sword to the ground. The smell of his pride turning to bitter fear is everything as she stares him down, adjusting the hem of her shirt where it had ridden up and brushing her hair gently behind her ear with a bloodied hand.

He gapes at his beheaded comrade and the bloodied chasm torn open in his chest. The blood pools on the floor, is sprayed onto the walls and Hope herself is doused in it – not just from the body on the floor, but from the bodies she'd littered the hallways with on her way to the twins' aid – and for a moment, can't help but feel that her father would be beyond proud of her intimidating visage. She gets her flair for the dramatic from him, her mother had told her once, everything had to be a statement.

"Well," Hope hums, "interesting problem here, isn't there?"

Her thumb brushes a bit of blood from the corner of her lip and she recalls with relish the vampire she'd sunk her venom-filled fangs into.

"Oh?" Mark's eyes gleam with fear, but he puffs his chest, casually turning to glance back at Josie as he drags a thumb across her jaw before he looks back to Hope. She makes a mental note to draw his death out a little longer and cut it off. She's not quite as well-versed in torture as her father, her experience limited to that one-time she magically made Roman's brain start haemorrhaging out of every facial orifice, but she's sure it's not that hard. And well, trial and error seems more like a torture device than a strategy, so it should be fine.

"Yes, Mark," she takes a languid step forward, eyes darting to examine a crooked painting on the wall that she adjusts, "You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with."

Mark's eyes follow her constantly, a trickle of sweat at his brow and the smell of fear growing that tid-bit stronger before he regains himself at the feel of Josie's pulse hammering beneath his hand.

"That is interesting," he says instead, like none of her languidness has angered and unnerved him. It has, she knows, she's seen her dad do it before and she knows exactly the effect it has on those insecure little nobodies latching onto their first taste of power and trying to play ball. Hope's only a little sad she can't take a page out of her Uncle Kol's book and feed him a bat. "But I think you're forgetting who you're dealing with. I've got the girl; I'm the one in control here."

Hope smiles, a gleam of sunshine and ice-cold rage, watching him falling into her trap – his attention so focused on her words and his own jilted feelings that he hasn't even realised how close she's gotten.

"How wonderfully delusional of you," she says, before the shackles clatter off of Josie's wrists with a click of her fingers.

The siphon's hands are on him in the time it takes the blink and as he fights the agony of being drained to try and break her neck, so is Hope. She cleaves his arm from his body and drags him away from Josie and towards her mouth, sinking her teeth into his neck with furious righteousness as he yells and screams. The bite burns no doubt, and she wonders, watching the venom spin out from it across his flesh in a flurry of darkened veins, if it works faster than her father's. An interesting experiment she could commit to if any of the leeches in the hall are still alive.

She pulls back carefully, holding him up by his shirt collar and grinning delightedly at the way his eyes widen in response to her own glowing ones. She can see the reflection of them in his, gleaming back at her, and it only adds to the thrill of the kill.

"You tried to kill her," she tells him, "and for that I ought to string you up as an example for everyone to see. You lay a hand on her and you'll lose it. But maybe that's not enough."

"I'm sorry – I'm sorry –" Tears of sheer horror seem to rise and spill from his eyes, the moron seeming to finally understand the gravitas of his idiocy and the truth of who he is dealing with. Not loner Hope, the girl who kept herself away from other people, the girl with no friends. But Hope Mikaelson – the daughter of the Great Evil of the world – the tribrid legend, spawn of the hybrid nightmare.

"You're not. But you're certainly going to be," she snarls into his face, "Did you know that as a vampire you could survive losing all of your limbs? All I'd have to do is make sure you don't bleed out – and even then, you'd only desiccate. You'd still be alive, just trapped in your mind in a body that'll never move. I could mount you on a post like a scarecrow and everyone would know just what would happen if anyone tried that ever again."

Mark whimpers like a pup and Hope scoffs, more than ready to begin pulling limbs.

Her name is a whisper but she hears it anyway. She looks just barely over Mark's head, to where Josie is leaning unsteadily against the wall beside her sister. She can feel brown eyes beseech her, imploring, and though the rage burns in her bones at the sight of the bruises on Josie's throat and the blood Hope can smell from a distance, the sheer desire to be done with this is prevalent.

She snaps Mark's neck with barely a thought, chaining him up with the same ones he used against the twins and dumping him on the floor.

Hope doesn't look up from the floor until Josie rocks over to her unsteadily and brushes her fingers under Hope's chin, gently guiding her gaze up until their eyes lock. There is no fear in Josie's eyes, only warmth and gratefulness and understanding.

Hope told her once, the first time her mother's anniversary coincided with a full moon, what had happened. How her Uncle – though amnesiac at the time – had sided with the family of Nazi vampires. How he had stabbed her father as he'd come to rescue them and Klaus had slumped onto the floor in agony, unable to rip the spike out of his chest. Hayley, with a vampire's hand gripping her heart and her werewolf side sealed away, had ripped the woman's finger off, daylight ring and all – and forced them into the sun; enemies burning to ash together in the daylight.

She'd been unconscious, Hope said bitterly, but even if she wasn't Roman had put shackles on her to stop her using magic. She hadn't even known what had happened until her aunt had told her and the guilt had overwhelmed her even when she'd seen her mother again.

Josie looked around the room they're in as Hope ripped Mark's arm from its socket and the parallel was obvious. Even if it wasn't; the glaze over Hope's eyes, the shift in her mannerisms, the calm stalking steps and the casual adjustment of her clothes as if she wasn't drenched in blood – it all spoke of her family; of her trauma.

"I'm not afraid," Josie tells her, when Hope's eyes don't brighten like she expects; still dull and disheartened. Josie could almost read the way her thoughts were spinning; the expectant bracing of her shoulders, like she thought Josie would yell at her, scorn her for saving her and her sister, call her a monster.

"I wouldn't blame you if you were," Hope mutters.

Josie shakes her head – a serious mistake, as the headache that surges forward seems to melt her brain – and strokes her thumb over the crest of Hope's cheek, the other tugging her waist forward until their torsos press together. The moment they do all the tension in Hope slips away and her arms wind around Josie's waist, Josie's twining around her shoulder as they curl into each other.

It's everything they both need in the moment; warm and comforting, safe; that last bit of reassurance – as their pulses race together, their hearts hammering away at each other through the shelter of their skin – that it's over and they are both alive.

Hope brushes her lips gently against Josie's cheek, Josie returning the gesture a moment later.

I was so scared, it says.

I know, she says back.

The squeeze of their arms around each other is much the same; Josie's the worried press, gentle and tentative and Hope's the grounding squeeze, solid and unyielding.

I thought I lost you and You never could.

They pull away a moment later with a quiet gasp at the sound of footsteps hammering down the hallway towards them. The fear slips back into the room but there is a new strength in the gaps between their bodies and the pause as they separate into two people again, in the space between their fingers as they lace them tight.

Hope turns, eyes already furiously glowing, stood protectively in front of Josie. The movement is fast and together, with the burning in her chest and the spinning of the world around her, it's all too much. She stumbles then and the pair of them, both dazed and unsteady, tumble into the wall together.

They slip down together, Hope cradled in the seat of Josie's lap, one hand holding Josie's and the other braced in front of them, ready to strike. Josie's free hand reaches for her sister, slipping around her wrist and holding steady there with a finger pressed against her pulse. Both her hands glow red, the smallest amount of magic siphoned from the tribrid at her urgent look and shared along the chain between her and Lizzie. It's enough to rouse her sister and her dazed eyes lock on the door, all three of them weary and wounded but willing to fight.

Their fears are unfounded when a desperate Alaric rushes into the space; Caroline speeding ahead of him. The adults take a moment to look around the room before surging towards the trio and it is with this assurance of safety that Hope finally passes out.

/

Hope wakes up in an infirmary she didn't even know they had; a pair of warm brown eyes smiling at her and fingers tangled in her own. The gaping wound in her chest is gone, healed over, though there is the barest hint of a line where it once was – as much of a scar as she'll ever have, she supposes. She's still in her bloodied uniform, with barely two hours having passed since the coup came to an end, surrounded by the bloodied survivors of the student body and a few mutilated would-be corpses. They're going to be tried, Josie says, like suddenly there's a justice system and a supernatural jail that'll take them.

Hope can see a few of them baring the sweats and her bite and knows immediately it's only a formality – a show for the students that these people who sought to ruin everything they've built together and to kill people would be dealt with appropriately. There's nothing a supernatural crowd loves more than revenge and she imagines the trial will be more over whether to let them die by her bite or be cured and gotten rid of in some other way – as if there's any cure left to give them with her dad gone and her very much unwilling to help them.

Lizzie is safe, Josie says, though she's been taking to the hospital to sate Alaric's worry that his very mortal daughter might have brain-damage even though she was magically healed.

"What about you?"

Josie blinks, sitting up a bit straighter on the side of Hope's bed and absentmindedly rubbing at her throat; a phantom pain, maybe.

"I'm fine," she smiles as she says it, but at the furrow of Hope's brow, she squeezes their tangled fingers, cheeks warmed by the concern, "I promise."

She nods, sitting up in the bed and scooting forward towards Josie until she can, with a nod of permission, ghost her fingers over the once bruised skin – now smooth and unblemished. The smell of blood is gone from her except for the stains on both their clothes and a little ball of tension in her chest unravels at the physical proof.

"I was so worried, I thought I wouldn't get there in time," she mutters, still staring fixedly at Josie's throat and trying to pretend she hasn't noticed how close they are; the way Josie's exhales are soft breaths of heat against her skin, tender sighs that only make her lips all the more tempting.

Josie squeezes their fingers again, the touch allowing Hope to divert her gaze to them instead. It only lasts a moment before she looks up, past her hand against Josie's skin and towards her mouth. She lingers there as it gets that nearest bit closer and Josie presses their foreheads together in another exhale.

"You did. You do – you always do," the laugh is soft, Hope's lips crooking upwards in response; her mind alight with the memory of the first time she'd run to Josie's side.

Her fingers trail up Josie's neck to tangle gently in her hair, the siphon resting her hand against Hope's arm. There's that glint of disbelief in her eyes, like she can't quite comprehend that Hope is here, real and alive, their skin touching and breaths intermingling. Hope can't quite believe it either. She's seen her father impaled but he was the Original Hybrid – wolf and first-vampire; immortal and un-killable. She can't quite believe that she's apparently the same.

Josie pulls away from her, her eyes glassy and reddening with the threat of tears. The panic that lurches in Hope's chest is unreal and frightening; her hand rises to Josie's cheek to brush away her tears.

"You saved Lizzie," Josie says at last; a hitch in her breath and that disbelieving look returning – as if she thought it was some kind of choice and that Hope would let her die.

"Of course I did," she tries to temper the tone of her voice, not quite wanting to betray her incredulity but isn't sure if she succeeds. She knows why Josie is saying it; remembers Lizzie storming into her room to bitch at her to stay away from Josie more than once. The last time was barely a few days ago but over the weeks of the recurring event it had developed; evolved; becoming less jealously induced and more protective, cautious; and at one point, Hope is almost certain it became a Lizzie-fied shovel talk. Her laugh is breathy and rich with the memory of it, a slight smile to her features as she tugs Josie back towards her, their foreheads against each other again, "She's important to you – your sister, your best friend. Of – of course I did."

"I know I just – you saved Lizzie. I thought I was going to die – or that I would lose her but you were there and you saved her but I just –"

"Just what?"

Josie grazes her nose against Hope's leaning in closer than before; every breath she exhales now the air that Hope breathes. Their lips brush together with every word she speaks, each one like a brand seared into Hope's soul

"I almost lost you. I don't ever want to lose you – I won't – I…I can't, Hope."

She says it so emphatically that Hope has no choice but to understand and when words fail her afterwards and she lurches forward, pushing every unsaid feeling into the press of her lips on Hope's, Hope can feel more healing in her than just a wound.

The siphon peels away with reluctance though there is an undercurrent of earnestness; she needs Hope to understand, to see that she does with her own eyes; the pair of them already so sick of misunderstandings and hurting each other. This tentative build, the fluttering feelings that have blossomed for so long cannot crumble now.

Hope smiles at her, sure that Josie can see it in her eyes and only too eager to press it against her mouth until she is grinning back at her.

She brushes a brunette strand behind her ear, following the curve of her face to cup her cheek and press their mouth back together, the glide of their lips together carving the words into their souls.

I understand.

I love you too.