Disclaimer: sadly I own nothing.

Well this would be the reason why my other stories have not been updated it consumed all my time and became the bane of my life. Its been very emotionally draining to write.

This is actually based on evidence from the show and books. I didn't just put Damon though all that you are about to read because I am a sick puppy I actually believe it happened and it goes in my belief a long way towards explaining a lot about Damon.

Get your tissues ready I cried three times while writing this.

Prologue

1839

The piercing cries of the infant bit through the frigid night air.

The poor baby had been abandoned, or it was sacrilege to even consider. But, just visible through the muslin swaddling, the cima di ruta charm resting on its heaving chest hintedof latent veiled secrets. In the present time, it was a common charm used for protection amongst families of Italian heritage; but, it was once a sign of membership for the Strega families that practiced The Old Religion – La Vecchia Religione. Witchcraft.

The newborn boy was so beautiful, so striking with soft dark curls, like the silky feathers of a raven. She gasped as the child turned its head towards her. His eyes were the palest shade of blue she had ever seen, like burning sapphires. They penetrated her very being, straight to her soul, to the heart of her. They panged her deep inside. Unbidden, she felt the need to offer her protection to the babe. She stepped closer to lift to him from where he lay.

"Don't touch him" Giuseppe ordered.

She dared to defy her husband. Reaching for the infant anyway, Giuseppe slapped her hard across the face. It jarred through her, making her teeth rattle in her head. She staggered back slightly. The imprint of his hand stung on her cheek, red and raw; but, she refused to touch it.

"He is your son," she impressed, leaving the fact that he was illegitimately unspoken- the product of an unholy union before her time.

The baby continued to cry, a naked sound, crying out for someone to touch it, someone to offer it some warmth and comfort. No one did.

"What if I am barren Peppe; we may never have children of our own?" They had tried unsuccessfully for many months to produce an heir; but, she feared that her womb was not able to carry a little one. A number of times she had miscarried, waking in the night to find her nightgown soaked in blood.

"He is no son of mine".

Giuseppe's face was furious, filled with a rage that she feared to see unleashed.

"It is damned, as unclean as its Strega mother. It will bring misfortune on this house if it's allowed to live."

He made to push her aside from where she stood, and to take the boy. But, she snatched it at his hand, and a panicked cry escaping her lips, "You cannot kill an innocent child! If misfortune follows it will be your fault, you did this!"

Her husband paused, staring at her as if he had never seen her before.

"It can live for your grace, but it shall not be afforded grace. It is not yours, and if I ever see you treat it, thus..." The threat hung like a dead weight in the air.

She dearly hoped that the babe's life wasn't over before it had even started, knowing that his path would be difficult and full of woe with no one to help. Her handmaiden watched her silently. She knew that from this day forth, her freedom was just an illusion. She was now bound by bonds unseen. She crouched at the Moses basket with a heavy heart. Her finger brushed his cheek. "Damon," she whispered, her heart heavy with pity and sorrow. She named him Damon for the story of Damon and Pythias, and the love, loyalty and friendship that she feared this life would deny him.

1845: 6 years old

Damon smiled down at the litter of puppies that their basset hound had spent all morning laboriously birthing. He knelt on the cobbled stones by the tired dog. She gave his hand a happy lick, and let his fingers run over the silky fur of the tiny creations. They made small mewling sounds as they burrowed into each other for warmth. Their eyes were still closed.

Damon was fascinated.

A shadow suddenly blocked the light of the sun that was spilling over the pups. Damon looked up. It was his father. He tried to use his body to hide the puppies from sight; but, his father reached down, and easily pulled him away.

"Please! No! Don't, Papa!," he pleaded. But, his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Unable to stop him, Damon watched as his father scooped the puppies up in his hands and stormed across the courtyard. Damon scrambled after him, grabbing onto his pant leg, trying to stop his father. But, Giuseppe shook him off with a kick of his leg and threw the miniature dogs, barely an hour old, into the well.

"Drowned, like I should have done to you when I had the chance," his father spat.

Damon whimpered, not knowing what he'd done wrong. He barrelled past his father, and lowered the bucket into the water. He drew it up as quickly as his young body would allow. His trembling arms reached for the tiny forms of the dogs that floated there. They were cold and lifeless. Letting out a cry of distress, Damon clutched them to his chest, horrified.

Giuseppe Salvatore boxed Damon's ears making his head ring. When a servant came to pry the dead bodies from his grip, he only cried louder, howling for the whole world to one listened; but, mixed in with his howls of sadness were the quieter howls of a bitch missing her pups.

Sent to his room without any dinner for causing a scene, Damon laid on his bed sobbing.

The door clicked open gently. She was there, like a guardian angel, pale with flowing black tresses. "Il mio amore," she whispered, kissing his eyelids and wiping away his tears. Hiccupping, he sat up. She smiled, and Damon thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful. She perched on the end of his bed, peeling an orange. "Here. Eat," she urged, offering him a succulent segment.

Cautiously, he smiled back at her. She chortled as she pulled him into her bosom, and ruffled his hair. Her presence soothed him, the steady rhythm of her heart beat and the slighter fluttering coming from her distended stomach. Curiously, Damon lightly touched her rounded belly. Her fingers found his intertwining with them, and they stayed there like that until he drifted off to sleep in her arms.

1849: 10 years old

It wasn't until after his brother was born that Damon realised that he wasn't treated the same as other children: he was different. At first, he was filled with trepidation for this miraculous infant that his father would hurt his baby brother, Stefan, like his father hurt him. He often crept into the nursery at night to watch over him, in an attempt to protect him. But, it soon became apparent that the 'hurt' was reserved for him and him alone.

Damon was woken from an uneasy slumber by a hand exerting pressure on his chest and another covering his mouth. It was his father; he was drunk and smelled of spirits and dirty linen. Damon's body tensed. These night time visits were becoming more common.

He felt, rather than saw, in the inky darkness of the night the bulk and the weight of his father settle on the bed next to him. Giuseppe's calloused hands brushed his face, then moved lower, insensitively stroking his chest and arms before slipping lower still to where they didn't belong. His father moved on top of him, crushing him and rubbing between his legs. Damon lay there with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands balled into fists, dreading what was coming after.

His father often complained that he was too pretty, whispering that he deserved it, that he had the eyes of a whore and that he was asking to be f**ked! Damon feared that it was true. Why else was he treated with such contempt? He was called a perversion. Damned, shunned, denied a place in heaven. Deserving, perhaps, no more than the derisive treatment he got?

Abruptly, Damon was pulled roughly from his bed and forced to his knees. He wanted to struggle, to fight back; but, it was like his body was no longer his, just a puppet to be toyed with. When his father threw him against the bedroom wall, his hands wrenched through his hair. The fetid warmth of his breath against the back of Damon's neck made him wish that he could become as cold and as hard as the stones he was pressed against, so that he wouldn't have to feel anymore. He tried to pretend it wasn't happening to him, to ignore each thrust that rammed into him, to block out his father's whispers of his "despicable nature" and how he "taunted" him.

The next morning, when he couldn't rise from his bed to start his chores because he hurt and he ached so dammed much, she came looking for him.

The look on her face pained him almost as much as his injuries. He would have risen, had he been able to just save her the suffering of seeing him like this. Damon was ashamed as he lay there shivering in sweat- soaked and blood- stained sheets.

It was enough that she cared, even if he didn't deserve it.

She fetched warm water and a cloth to mop his brow and to clean his used and battered body. Stefan tottered in on chubby legs. His green eyes grew large and worried.

"Mama," he pouted, peering round her and up at Damon. She cupped Stefan's cheek.

"Go play with your toys for me Stefan, mio figlio. I have to stay here today. Your brother is sick; he requires my attention more."

Damon turned his head away, biting his lip so that she wouldn't see him cry.

He needed her.

1852: 13 years old

Without any warning, the rasp glanced off the side of his head, splitting his eyebrow and grazing his cheek. Damon tried unsuccessfully to blink the blood out of his eyes. Too late, the next strike sent him reeling backwards, stumbling over the anvil he'd been hammering the horseshoe on. He fell heavily and awkwardly to the ground.

Damon flinched, half- raising his arms in an attempt to block the next set of blows that rained down on him. This time, his father had grown careless in his unfettered anger. He had usually avoided deliberately injuring him where someone might see the evidence.

Resigned, Damon just lay there, letting his father do his worst, as fighting back just extended the punishment. He was struck so many times that his head pounded, and each additional cut burned. It was only when he began to fade in and out of consciousness that Giuseppe eased up.

"Useless bastard," his father muttered, kicking him in the ribs one last time.

Panting, Damon lay there in the rank waters of the stable floor, trying to recover. This particular beating had been heavier than usual. Gingerly, he raised a shaking hand to his face. His left eye was swollen completely shut, and the other had blurred vision. His hand came away, stickily coated in blood. He was never going to be able to hide this.

Cautiously, he tried to raise himself onto his elbows. The slight movement made his head spin, sending a wave of nausea through him. Unbidden, his stomached emptied itself the acrid aftertaste of vomit that was burning his throat. His lungs on fire, Damon tried to sit up again; but, his body fiercely protested. The sharp throbbing in his side told him that his ribs were broken.

Weak from the beating, Damon collapsed back, gasping for air as his breaths came out in painful wheezes. He couldn't move from where he lay. Huddled in a foetal position, Damon began to sob, the saltiness of his tears making every cut sting afresh. Crying softly into the cold dank earth, crying where no one could see him, or hear him, where no one could witness his pain or anguish.

The door to the stables was pushed open, and the last rays of the setting sun broke through the shadows. As if from far away, Damon heard his brother's voice, he sounded concerned, calling his name. A shaft of weak sunlight fell across Damon's broken body, highlighting him where he lay.

Stefan ran to his side. His brother's face reflected how bad Damon must have looked. Stefan crouched at his head, a chubby hand brushing back his matted hair and cupping his chin.

"What happened?"

He tried to answer. He tried to tell him how he'd be careless when shoeing the horses, that he'd made a mistake, got kicked and hurt by accident; but, he couldn't respond. He couldn't muster the energy, even though he wanted to so desperately.

Stefan patted his shoulder, and told him not to worry, that he'd fetch help, that he'd make it better.

She came.

"Oh Damon!," she cried.

Rushing to his side, she knelt in the dirt next to his mangled form, not caring how it soiled her skirts. Her eyes were large with pity. She surveyed him. Her hands trembled over him, not wanting to touch him, lest she hurt him more.

"Please," he whimpered softly, his hand reaching out.

She took his head, and cradled it in her lap. Gently brushing the dirt and blood caked there, she tried in vain to soothe what couldn't be healed.

He knew she wasn't his mother, that he had no real claim to her; but, he thought to himself that if he did have a mother, this must be what it felt like.

To be loved.

1855: 16 years old

"The doctor says that it is almost time".

There was a palatable tremble in Stefan's voice that betrayed his fear.

"She has been asking for you all day, Damon. Please come".

His younger brother plucked at his shirt sleeve, the action begging and earnest. Damon didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded numbly. He would have gone to her earlier; but, his father had forcibly kept him away, despite his fierce protests. He was called now, only in the last moments.

He trailed behind Stefan, barely taking in his surroundings, as lost in his mind as he was in the maze of corridors. The entire household appeared to be gathered in the hallway outside her room. All eyes were on him, eyes that judged, eyes that said you have no right to be here. Damon hung his head, avoiding their stares. Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat, he pushed open the door.

The heavy curtains were drawn, and her dark room smelled of sickness and death. She seemed so small and frail in the bedding, swamped by her dark hair, which now fell lankly around her sunken cheeks. She held out a weak hand, beckoning him closer as she breathed his name.

"I have failed you in so many ways, Damon."

He sat next to her head, and took up her limp hand, stroked her paper thin skin. His eyes burned, threatening to spill hot wet tears down his face.

"Don't hate me, Damon."

Damon shook his head. How could he hate her when she was the only one that cared?

She took a shallow breath, which rattled wetly in her chest, and indicated the he pass her a black box that lay on the table next to her. With great difficulty, she drew out a silver charm, and pressed it into his hand holding it there.

"This is yours."

She smiled at him through her pain.

"I want to leave you something else," she coughed violently from the effort of speaking, blood flecking the white sheets. "... something much better. Let me live in your heart, Damon, as well as in your mind. Love does not die; people do. So, when all that's left of me is love, give me away as best you can."

Her hand slipped from his, as the last of her life breath fled her body. As she took her last breath, Damon felt something inside him wither and crumble the last of his hope.

An unearthly cry ripped through the room. Somewhere dimly in the back of his mind, Damon knew that the sound came from him. Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him backwards, pulling him away. He fought tooth and nail to stay; but, they forcibly dragged him from the room. Stefan was there with his father. His brother said and did nothing as they dragged him off, tying him down to his bed, calling him mad, possessed, and left him there.

Damon had no way to describe the pain he felt, the utter confusion. He wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, take solace in denial, and avoid the devastation he felt. It was like his heart had been taken from his chest, and burst like an over-ripened tomato. He felt broken. He couldn't stop obsessing about the fact that he would never see her again. Waking in cold sweat in the night, he was convinced that he could feel her presence.

Damon hadn't spoken in days, not a single word, to a single living soul, not since she had died. He'd barely moved, barely eaten or drunk anything. It was like his will to live had died along side her.

No one noticed.

1857: 18 years old

Damon opened his eyes. His head hurt. Memories of last night came back in flashes of hot bodies, tangled in a sweaty release, an escape. He winced, and absently drew the sheet up around his waist, careful not to disturb the girl sleeping naked next to him. She murmured slightly in her slumber, moving her long brown legs restlessly against him. In these moments, he sometimes felt normal. Then, reality set in. Swallowing the bitter taste in his throat, Damon fumbled for a bottle on the floor, one that wasn't empty.

It's easy to escape reality when you're a child- to be caught up and taken away in a moment. At least, Damon thought it had been. He vaguely remembered swimming in the falls and lying in the long grass, watching rainbows form in the water droplets that misted around him on windy days. He guessed that growing up was finding it harder and harder to find your way back to a place where you could be taken. He still tried to escape reality, just never really succeeded for long.

The only time that Damon ever saw adults with the same sort of look on their faces, caught in a moment, was when they were falling in love for the first time. Damon felt lost. He'd never experienced this look of love. No one ever looked at him like this. Sometimes, he wondered what it might feel like to be normal, instead of always feeling so wrong.

There was a noise outside the door. His brother, Stefan, entered the room without knocking.

"Damon?," Stefan questioned.

His eyes darted past him and on to the girl in his bed, and curiosity lightened Stefan's eyes for the briefest of moments before the interest was gone.

"Father says that you shame the family name with your gallivanting."

Shame the family name.

The familiar words rang in Damon's ear like the toll of a bell ringing a dirge. Shame, shame; it was always shame on him. His father was so concerned that the name Salvatore was respected; but, Damon didn't care. No one afforded him any respect, ever. He was even treated like he wasn't really worth anything by his younger brother, and even Damon struggled to believe otherwise. Stefan had always been favoured, treated better than he was.

Stefan surveyed him contemptuously. His brother's lips curled into a sneer that was unbecoming in a young boy.

"You shame yourself, however, by consorting with mulligan."

Damon looked down at the slave girl quivering at his side, her dark eyes liquid and worried, her arms desperately covering her breasts. He tried to reassure her wordlessly that she would not be punished. Punishment was reserved for him.

Resigned, Damon looked up and smirked at his brother. Humourlessly, as he threw back the sheet and stepped from the bed, he gave a lewd grin. Naked and shameless.

Stefan's eyes flashed from Damon, to the girl, and back again.

"Perhaps, you don't know what you're missing? You think father doesn't ... gallivant?" The last word stuck in his throat, and a sickly chill came over Damon.

Stefan had grown up in the last few years and changed. He was becoming the perfect imitation of their father. He postured like the wealthy young men he saw about town, airs and graces.

"What would mother have thought?

Bitterly, Damon replied. "I don't have a mother!"

1861: 22 years old

Bucked and gagged. Again.

Every joint in Damon's body ached. His raised knees and outstretched arms are painfully tight; but, he couldn't move or speak. The wood in his mouth was giving him splinters, and the string tied behind his ears to keep it in position chaffed and rubbed raw. He was soaking and cold from sitting in the mud. It was an ingenious punishment thought up by his commanders, as it didn't waste time or manpower. It usually left soldiers weeping uncontrollably, and unable to walk after half a day.

"What was it this time, Salvatore? Drunkenness, insubordination, disrespecting your superiors, leaving a post without authority?"

It was a rhetorical question. It wasn't like Damon could answer. His commanding officer was growing increasingly frustrated at the lack of effect the punishment seemed to have on him. He had been bucked for almost twice the usual length of time. It was only because Damon had suffered much worse. Humiliation and pain stopped having much of an effect on him many years ago.

The officer sighed and removed the gag. "Are you ready to obey and heed the Articles of War?"

Damon knew he was tempting fate; but, he sneered as best as he could, and spat. It would mean a flogging. At this point, Damon didn't care. He'd had much worse beatings at the hands of his father.

"Do you have a death wish, Salvatore? It will be the firing squad for you one day, if you don't give up this attitude."

He'd already died a thousand deaths. He was already dead in the inside. Maybe one day, it would be final.

Maybe, today would be the day. But, it never was.

1864: 25 years old

Emily surveyed Damon over the top of her fingers, a sly smile playing around her lips. Damon studiously ignored her.

"Why do you love her?" Emily questioned. "Despite knowing what she is?"

Damon sighed, turning another page of the book he was pretending to read as he waited for Katherine. Even Emily didn't understand, and he didn't want to explain. He was a monster himself.

Perturbed by his silence, Emily continued, "I know you drink her blood willingly."

Damon shot her a glance.

"If you have ever lost someone very important to you, then you already know how it feels. If you haven't, you cannot possibly imagine it," he answered without further explanation.

He wouldn't suffer it again. Life without Katherine was meaningless. He had to be with her whatever the cost. He had to escape.

"You know she is with Stefan."

Damon's insides clenched. He didn't want to believe it; but, a part of him knew it to be true. Damn his milksop brother. Lies and more lies. Had Stefan turned Katherine against him?

"She picked me. She chose me. She was with me first!" he muttered stubbornly.

Slowly, Emily rose from where she sat, and stalked towards him. She was sashaying her hips, a dangerous look playing around her lips. She straddled him, lifting her skirts, and exposing her naked thighs. "Forget Katherine, I could take you to heights you've never dreamed of!" She cocked her head, and observed him sideways. "And I'm sure that you could teach me a thing or two, I've heard them talk whore."

Damon was frozen where he sat, the book lay forgotten, as Emily grinded in his lap. Her fingers were roaming the broad expanse of his chest. Suddenly, Emily drew back in shock, in her fingers she held the amulet that had hung round his neck for the last decade.

"Where did you get this? Who gave you this?," she demanded.

"It's mine."

As if nothing had just happened, Emily returned to where she had been. "Damon Salvatore," she murmured. "You are a dangerous man."

"Leave us," came Katherine's sultry tones from the door way. Damon realised that Emily must have heard Katherine coming. Emily nodded to her mistress, and left.

Damon rose to meet Katherine. She pranced towards him, coy and girlish, and pressed herself flush against his body. She giggled at his body's response.

"Were you with Stefan?" He questioned. He had to know the truth.

Katherine laughed a lilting sound, and stroked a finger down his chin. "It doesn't change anything does it, dear Damon? You want me still? As I still want you..."

Katherine's eyes grew dark and veins erupted around her eyes. She gazed at him hungrily, her fangs protruded over her bottom lip.

"Do you love me Katherine?"

In response, Katherine crushed herself to him tighter. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, pressing her centre against his swelling manhood. The action beseeched Damon to take her. Was this kind of supplication love? Katherine wanted him, needed him, desired him physically.

That was enough.

Wasn't it?

1994

Damon moved in the night like a silky black shadow. He naturally hugged the darkness to him, and it, in turn, embraced him like a shroud. It was late, and the streets of Cambridge were deserted, even for a college town. Pausing across the road from a building, Damon stepped into the pooled light of a streetlamp. Stefan hadn't been very hard to find. He hadn't seen his brother in gone a decade, maybe more. But, Stefan was the only constant in his existence, and Damon had no one else.

He haunted Stefan; but, acute loneliness haunted him ever present like the ghost of a shadow.

He'd sworn to Stefan to an eternity of misery, and Damon had, so far, made good on his promise. But, it was for no reason- beyond the fact that he was trapped in an infernal battle, playing a part that seemed assigned to him, one from which he couldn't escape.

What did it matter if the anger had now faded, and this was no longer what he wanted? He knew that his brother hated him for choices he had made, and continued to make, so that Stefan no longer could see him any other way. His role was fixed. If things could have ever been different, that time was long gone.

Stefan's perception shaped his identity; he had no other. Sometimes, he felt like a wraith, as insubstantial as the shadows he hid in: always in danger of ceasing to be. It's better to be the bad brother than no one at all.

Damon smiled wryly to himself. Why would the pattern of their lives change now? Maybe he should've just given up a long time ago. You could fight without ever winning; but, never ever win without a fight. Damned if you do; damned if you don't, Damon thought. A bloody paragon of hope that was hopeless.

Silently, Damon flitted across the street and knocked on the door of the Harvard accommodation.

The girl that opened the door was eerily reminiscent of Katherine with her long wavy brown hair.

"Yes?" she questioned sleepily.

Damon gave her his most winning smile. "Is Stefan here? I'm his brother, Damon?"

The girl perked up, interested flaring in her eyes. "Stefan didn't tell me he had a brother!"

Stefan appeared behind the girl. "I don't have a brother anymore; my brother's dead."

Damon knew his eyes betrayed his emotion, flashing in anger. Stefan never noticed anyway.

He recovered his composure, and snarkily intoned in a lazy drawl. "You got the dead part right!"

"You're not welcome here, Damon, nor wanted."

Damon pushed the tight bundle of emotion, the ball of pain that existed within him further down and further away. He resisted baring his fangs. Instead, Damon sighed. He was always on the verge to something better, but never allowed to experience it.

Stefan began to close the door on him, pulling the girl away. But, Damon was faster and stronger. Before Stefan could get her completely to safety, Damon grabbed her and pulled her to him. His pupils dilated as he turned to the girl, forcing her to look at him. Enthralled in his raptor gaze, she monotonously replied "yes" when Damon compelled her invite him in. Smirking at Stefan, Damon stepped over the threshold. His stance wary and ready, Stefan stepped between the girl and him. This amused Damon to no end, as Stefan was no match for him physically.

"Look, I know we've had our disagreements in the past."

"That's the understatement of the century, Damon."

Undeterred, Damon continued, "But, I'm willing to look over that. Let it go. Let bygones be bygones. We can start afresh. Be brothers again. What do you say?"

"You're not capable of change, Damon. You are who you are, a monster. I accepted that a long time ago."

Damon growled in frustration. Stefan wouldn't understand, and Damon, it appeared, couldn't do anything to make him. They were worlds apart, with nothing in between. No understanding, no kindness, no compassion, no love.

Had it ever been real between them? It was the realest thing he had, but still based on a foundation of lies. They were blood brothers, bound together in this infernal existence through blood, through Katherine's blood. They had once shared everything. Damon wanted to make Stefan understand; but, he didn't know how. He couldn't do it: be that person.

"Yes," Damon hissed. "...I'm a monster!" Nightmares and monsters had power only because people believed in them. Believing in them gave them power over you. "Thanks for believing in me brother," he intoned sarcastically. Even Damon didn't truly know what he meant by that. Was there any truth hidden in his sarcasm?

Without warning, Damon flashed behind the girl, the poor girl, who looked so much like Katherine, snapping in her neck. It gave him no pleasure. Stefan had once taken Katherine from him; but, destroying everyone that Stefan ever cared about in return had gotten old many years ago. Stefan was still the only constant in his life. Sometimes, Damon wondered if Stefan even remembered or cared that he'd forced Damon into this vampire existence just so that they could be together. All Stefan had done for the last hundred years was resist Damon, and even if Damon never admitted it, it hurt.

Stefan turned on his heels, and made to walk out the house the door ,slamming behind him resolutely. This irritated Damon to no end. It was so easy for Stefan to get to him, to make him feel emotional, to cause him to act out; but, nothing he ever did seemed to cause much of a reaction in Stefan. It was like Stefan just didn't care.

And Damon was alone again.

A broken heart that the world forgot, in a world that he can't rise above.

Epilogue

2009

Damon was reading by the half light of the fire, swilling a glass of amber liquid in one hand. He looked absorbed. Elena smiled to herself. Damon was incredibly hard to surprise. Hyper vigilant to an inane degree, he usually automatically knew who had entered a room without looking a sixth sense, alerting him to the presence of others. It wasn't a vampire thing; it was a "Damon thing" Stefan wasn't anywhere near as aware.

However, she may have gone unnoticed for once. Carefully resting her bag on the ground, she silently snuck up behind him and gently blew on the back of his neck. Whatever response Elena had expected was not the one that she got!

Damon sprang from the sofa so quickly that there were metres between them before Elena could even blink.

"Don't ever do that again!"

The venom in his voice was frightening.

"Damon, I'm..."

His eyes were like burning ice. He turned from her, cutting her off before she could say anything else. Elena gaped as Damon ferociously hurled his glass into the fireplace. His leather clad shoulders hunched and tense. He was like an animal caged, but not by any physical bars or restraints. Trapped instead, Elena realised, by the past.

"Damon," she tried again. "I," Elena paused and switched tactics, pleading. "Why don't you ever talk to me or tell me about your past? How am I supposed to know what I did wrong, unless you tell me?"

Without warning, Damon appeared in front of her. She knew that she should step away from Damon, away from his invasion of her personal space; but, she didn't. She never did.

He answered her in barely more than a whisper. "And why would I give you more reasons to hate me?"

She tried to search his eyes for meaning; but, Damon's blue eyes were dull and glazed, and he seemed to be focusing on something else, somewhere else. How could a man be so haunted after more than a century, she wondered.

From behind her came Stefan's voice interrupting the moment- Stefan,who had silently entered the room from the hallway.

"What's going on here?"

Damon swallowed visibly before he focused on Stefan over her shoulder. He shrugged, appearing blithe as usual.

"Nothing, brother, I was just leaving."

Damon moved towards the steps to head out of the boarding house.

"Good, because nobody wants you here."

Damon's body stiffened. He stopped, turning slowly back to face his brother. His face was unreadable. "Yes, they do!" He didn't look at her. She had no reason to think he meant her; but, somehow, Elena was gladdened by his words.

"No, they don't, Damon. You're toxic to any situation. You poison everyone and everything around you!"

Stefan squared up to Damon, continuing his tirade. "It's just who you are, your despicable nature!"

Elena watched the pain etch itself across Damon's face; but, Stefan remained oblivious.

"There's a reason Father favoured me over you. There's a reason Katherine didn't want you."

Stefan was interrupted by the force of Damon's body slamming into him. In the blink of an eye, Damon had Stefan against the wall by his throat. His vampire features on full display.

Choking slightly, Stefan continued, "You're impossible to love. Your own mother didn't even want you!"

With a sharp intake of breath, Damon's face returned to normal, and he released Stefan, stumbling backwards.

Stefan rubbed his throat, "Everyone hates you, Damon!"

Elena knew that the words Stefan had said did more damage than he realised. They fortified the only image Damon had of himself - other people's.

For the entire world, Damon looked like he was rooted to the spot, unable to move as he wildly looked between her and his brother. Then, he was gone. using his preternatural vampire speed to from the room.

Angrily, Elena faced Stefan. "Can't you tell that he believes you?," she demanded. "Every word!"

She looked for Damon, and found him huddled in a corner of a disused room in the boarding house, head buried in his arms. He gave no acknowledgement of her presence. She crouched at his side.

"Damon?"

"Elena, please don't."

His voice sounded thick.

"Damon," she pleaded. "Look at me."

Her hand hovered over his shoulder. She was unsure if she should touch him or not. Damon jerked away from her near touch.

"Leave," he demanded.

She didn't move. "No. I want you to talk to me, Damon. I'm your friend. That is what friends are for."

Stefan had opened her to feel things she'd never even thought possible. But, Damon... Damon, he ... he was like an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, disguised a puzzle. Elena thought that they had made some headway recently while Stefan had been coming off human blood. But, now, she realised that she had been mistaken. Understanding or not, she knew nothing, really, about Damon or about his past. She'd never really given any thought as to why Damon was the way he was.

"Go Elena. I don't need you or your pity. I don't need your help or your friendship. None of it matters anyway. There's no point," Damon trailed off.

He did,though. He really did. This much she knew. He needed her. She'd never seen him like this before, so defeated so upset. It frightened her and confused her- Damon being so human. Kneeling in front of him, she frowned. The wretchedness of the situation broke her heart. Elena couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to be Damon- to be hated, rejected, abandoned, pushed away at every opportunity and repeatedly betrayed. No wonder he was so untrusting, bitter and cynical. What did it take for him to have that glimmer of hope and try anyway, or was he just that desperate that he didn't care how people ended up treated him?

Elena could see it clearer now- what had been done unwittingly to Damon. She scooted closer on her knees, and wrapped her arms around him, hugging Damon as close as she could. It didn't feel like enough, but what else could she do? What words could she offer him? How could she heal the hurt? By damn would she do nothing; she couldn't do nothing.

"It does matter, Damon. You matter, Damon!"

He trembled slightly in her embrace. She knew he was crying; but, she didn't say anything. She stroked his hair and held him close. trying her best to soothe away decade's worth of pain.

Even now, he was so shut off and closed down, like no one had touched him or hugged him in such a long time that he had forgotten what it meant. Elena was desperate for some kind of response or reaction from Damon, some evidence that he was capable of moving forward, healing. It was just a hug. But, Damon felt stiff in her embrace.

She saw that, under it all, his protective exterior, was just a confused, hurt, little boy, who is in need of some attention. He needs someone to be there, to offer comfort, and tell him that he was loved.

"I love you, Damon," she whispered into his ear again and again.

A/N

Please Review tell me what you think. Feedback would be totally awesome! And because I spent so long on this gratefully received. Tell me how you feel about Damon now. Do you understand him better because of the past I have unveiled.