Chapter 23: Funeral
The sky above Mystic Falls was blanketed with thick gray clouds, as if the grief hanging in their chests had risen into the heavens themselves. The clouds hung low, mourning alongside them for the one they had lost.
They buried Alexander on the edge of the Salvatore estate, at the point where the forest slowly reclaimed the land in silent patience. There, everything was still. Silent. As if death itself held its breath out of respect.
Klaus Mikaelson wasn't there.
He couldn't be.
Not because he didn't care—but because he cared too much.
Because if he had come, if he had seen Alexander's ashes being laid to rest, if he had glimpsed the sorrow in Damon's eyes, or the emptiness in Stefan's gaze… he wouldn't have trusted himself to leave without hunting down Kol and tearing him apart.
So he stayed away.
But his silence… was the loudest of them all.
---
Elijah stood beside Rebekah near the crypt, both clad in black. Their presence was quiet, solemn, regal—as befitted the Originals. Neither had spoken yet—but their eyes told everything. They had lost something. Someone. A brother on the battlefield, even if not by blood.
Bonnie stood at the head of the small circle, a dark candle trembling in her hands.
She said softly:
"This place… wasn't made to bury someone like Alexander. He should have been an unending storm. A fire that never dies. But even storms fall. Even fire dies."
Caroline placed a single white rose at the base of the marble slab.
"We didn't understand him. I didn't understand him. He was harsh, closed off, cold. But I've never seen anyone fight so fiercely for people he claimed not to care about."
Matt Donovan stood at the back, arms crossed, head bowed. Even he—the most human among them—had come. Because Alexander mattered. Because his death touched even those who feared him.
---
Elijah finally stepped forward. He looked at the coffin holding Alexander, then at Stefan and Damon.
He spoke quietly:
"There are moments when even the immortal feel powerless. Moments when we cannot fix, or heal, or save. Alexander's death… was one of those moments."
He bowed his head, then raised his eyes to Stefan.
He continued in a soft voice:
"I never thanked you. For bringing him into our circle. For trusting us to stand beside him."
Stefan's face was stiff, jaw clenched, as if something deep within him couldn't be expressed in words.
Rebekah stepped forward after him, her voice cracking with emotion:
"He was chaos… rage, and pain, and violence packed into the body of a boy. But when he smiled—when he really smiled—you saw it… that small spark of light he tried so hard to hide."
She looked at Damon, then lowered her gaze to the urn.
"He reminded me of both of you."
---
Then came Damon's turn.
He didn't speak at first. He just poured a drink from his flask and spilled it onto the earth.
"To the bastard who refused to die… until death finally took him," he muttered.
He cleared his throat and lifted his eyes.
Damon said:
"I hated him. Hated the way he looked at me. Like he knew something I didn't. Like he saw the worst in me and didn't flinch. But I'll tell you what he did that no one else ever managed—he made me want to be better. Just to prove him wrong."
He stepped back and nodded toward Stefan.
The younger brother moved slowly toward the grave, holding something in his hand.
A broken pocket watch.
It once belonged to Giuseppe Salvatore.
Stefan whispered:
"He wasn't your father… but Alexander was our brother. He always was."
He knelt down and placed the watch beside the urn.
"I should have looked for you. Fought harder. I let myself believe you were gone, because hope was harder than giving up."
His eyes filled with tears, but none fell.
"You saved us, brother. After everything. You saved us."
---
The funeral ended not with words, but with silence.
A soft breeze passed through the trees.
Bonnie lit the final candle and let it burn until it turned to ash.
And for just a single moment, Damon thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. A flicker… a shadow.
Or maybe a spirit… quietly walking into the depths of the forest, step by step.
---
Far away, Klaus stood on a hill outside town, watching the horizon burn orange and crimson.
He said nothing.
But his eyes were wet.
And as he turned away from the sunrise, a single name left his lips.
"Brother."
---
The funeral had ended, but its weight remained in the air like a heavy mist that wouldn't lift.
The Salvatore house was quieter than it had been in years. No laughter, no sharp wit, no angry footsteps of Alexander storming through the halls like a hurricane. Just… silence. And the echo of pain whispering that something was missing. Someone was gone.
Stefan sat alone in the study, in front of a fireplace that held nothing but fading embers. In his hand was the broken watch, the one he'd left on Alexander's grave… then returned to reclaim. He couldn't leave it.
He wanted to leave it for him, but he knew Alexander would have hated that.
He came back after everyone had left. He didn't know why. Maybe guilt. Maybe love. Maybe both.
Damon entered quietly, holding two glasses of bourbon. He handed one to Stefan without a word.
And for long minutes, they shared only silence… and alcohol.
Damon finally spoke, his voice low and edged with something hard to name.
"He hated her, you know. Elena. He couldn't stand the way she looked at people. Said she was too kind. Too pure. Said she reminded him of Katherine… only worse. Because Elena actually believed she could save people."
Stefan exhaled slowly, nodding.
"And yet, he died for her."
"Yeah," Damon murmured. "Because she mattered to us."
The silence thickened, turning into smoke that choked their chests.
Stefan whispered at last:
"Do you think he forgave us?"
Damon didn't answer right away. He looked out the window into the darkness, as if still expecting to glimpse Alexander out there, silently watching.
Then he said quietly:
"I don't think he blamed us the way we thought he did. He was angry. Broken. But deep down… I think he knew we would've come if we knew he was alive."
"But he never said that."
"No. But he… showed it."
---
On the other side of town, Elijah and Rebekah walked through the forest near the cemetery.
Elijah said in a calm tone:
"He wasn't one of us… and yet, I can't stop thinking of him as a brother."
Rebekah nodded slowly.
"He was. Not by blood… but by fire. He fought the war with us. That… makes him family."
Elijah stopped, listening to the rustle of leaves and the whispers of the night.
He asked in a low voice:
"Do you know what scares me?"
"What is it?"
"That this… won't be the end."
She turned toward him:
"The end of what?"
"The war. Kol. What happens when vengeance doesn't get buried with the dead."
She lowered her gaze.
"He'll come back."
"Yes," Elijah said. "And when he does… we'll be ready. For Alexander."
---
Somewhere farther away, Klaus stood in his studio, painting.
Every stroke of the brush against the canvas was furious. Violent. Red.
Not blood. Not fire.
Just… pure rage.
He couldn't go to the funeral. But he couldn't forget either.
He had painted Alexander's face dozens of times. And failed every time. The face always came out too soft. Or too human. Or too cruel… too broken.
But this painting… was different.
This one… was right.
Klaus stepped back, stared at the canvas.
Alexander was in the middle of battle. Screaming. In pain. Half demon… half brother.
Klaus poured a glass of bourbon and raised it in a silent toast.
"To my bastard brother…" he whispered. "The one who made me bleed."
---
That night, Stefan dreamed of him.
They were in the forest again. Just the three of them.
Stefan. Damon. Alexander.
The leaves fell from the trees in shades of gold and flame, as if autumn had set the forest alight with its final fire. Alexander didn't speak. He just… smiled. A warm, genuine smile.
Then he turned and walked into the trees.
Stefan reached out to stop him. But he didn't look back.
And this time… he let him go.
---
.
.
.
.
.
You can contact me through my official page on the following Accounts:
telegram:
miraclenarrator
tiktok:
miracle_narrator
instagram:
miracle_narrator