A rework of the poem "Duality" centering the love triangle between Damon Salvatore, Stefan, and Elena, in the form of a short drabble.

This is based on the story-line of books, not the television show.

No ownership of anything the wondrous L.J Smith has created.

There is purity in his kiss, a tenderness in his eyes that is solely reserved for her. A mystical quality encompasses his face, immersing his body in a contentedness she didn't know she could bring anyone. Men had called her a lot of things, but peaceful was never one of them. His mouth brushed hers, the iciness of the stars on his lips, filling her lungs with the serenity of orbit, the intoxication of levity, balancing her completely with the feeling of amity. His hands shook as he held her, as if he was afraid she was made of colorful glass, and when she said it was alright, they clung to one another for dear life. For, they were one another's life.

To hell and back she would fight for him, for he was her love. He was the one who believed in the goodness of her spirit, back when she used everyone she now held dear like little pawns in a living chess-battle, only to appease her soul that thirsted for manipulation of the lesser beings. They had called her a goddess, and death deposed that title of her. In hiding, she pieced together her identity, shard by shard, until she understood that with the rebirth of a thunderclap and a field of lightning, she didn't want to be such a disgraceful person anymore.

And upon her rebirth, there he stood, holding her shivering body close to his, kissing her filthy skin, telling her she was loved, that he was whole now.

Stefan was her purity; but Damon was her passion.

The touch of his fingertips to her forehead alone was enough to send a conflagration of white-heat through her veins, fire racing through her body as if in the attempt to bring every part of her to a higher plane of existence. Dark eyes, eyes the color of the starless sky of an unknown she was now comfortable with mesmerized her, caught the shape of her mouth, her face, the ambivalent expression on her face. Rose petals traced her lips, her mouth, a flower blooming against her face, as if in the attempt to imprint the image of seeming beauty in its core.

Once, he had wanted her to be his princess of the night, and she refused, for he was someone wicked back then, in a time when she asked him to enter her home, only to throw him out again when the game became a little too real.

Now he was her comrade in arms, someone who would venture with her anywhere in order to get his brother back from the belly of hell. If not for him, she would have returned to the netherworld from which her spirit had been cast away into, bound and hindered without the ability to protect Stefan.

For, that's how it all began, this incessant tugging of a heart's duality: a mission. One way or another, one day very soon, either upon the witching hour, or the dawn of a wakeful slumber, she would have to make a decision: the quintessence of space, or the sunlight in the fibers of a leaf.

After all, she had the best of both worlds once; fate was rarely invested in giving girls who came back from the dead another second chance.