RITES OF PASSAGE

A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfic. I welcome any and all constructive criticism, tips, ideas, etc (I mean it – rip it to shreds if you have to!). I know where I want this story to go, I'm just not entirely sure yet how it's going to get there. Thanks in advance to anyone who takes the time to read this and, again, any feedback would be very much appreciated as it can only help me improve.

When this story starts Elena is 17, Stefan 18 and Damon is 22.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Vampire Diaries.

*** WARNING! This story will contain graphic violence/abuse, sexuality and my own personal brand of sailor-mouth-itis. This story will get dark. VERY DARK. You have been warned. ***

CHAPTER 1

"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." - William Congreve

My name is Elena Gilbert and what follows is an honest account of the events that shaped me into who I am today. It's a story about loss and struggle; about falling in love, falling from grace, overcoming adversity, growing, learning and being human. It is sometimes empowering but also ugly and, at times, embarrassing and I wouldn't change anything about it. Why? Because this story is mine.

I was 17 when I met Stefan Salvatore. I bumped into him, quite literally, as we both wandered, with our eyes down, preoccupied with the titles in our hands, through Powell's Books 'Red Room' (Mysticism, Metaphysics and the Occult) in Portland, Oregon. As my books went crashing to the floor, I was scrambling to pick them up as I noticed the stranger in front of me retrieve LeVey's famous work and stare at it with wide eyes. As he handed it back to me I saw a small, mischievous smirk spread across his handsome face. It was adorable and I immediately liked him, before he had even said a word.

"The Satanic Bible? Really? You don't seem like the type," he remarked as he made a show of eyeing me from head to toe.

"Yeah," I blushed, "It's not really what everyone thinks." I glanced at the title in his hands, something on Kabbalah, and shifted through my pile.

"Really?" He asked. "Candles, pentagrams, devil-worshipping goth kids?"

"No, no, not really," I laughed. "I mean, yeah. There are rituals in here and, sure, there are plenty of misguided goth kids who probably take this stuff a little too literally, but I'm mainly interested in the philosophy. It's, like, 'Do what thou wilt', you know? Like, finding a higher power within yourself instead of blindly following some invisible curmudgeon with a bad temper and a revenge complex." I paused before adding, "Who holds grudges."

I was cracking myself up until I raised my gaze and met the surprised stare of my mysterious stranger. Blushing again (What the hell is up with you today, Gilbert? Get a friggin grip, I thought), I nervously tucked a strand of my long brown hair behind my ear. "Here," I handed him one of the books from the pile in my arms. It was 'The Golden Dawn'. "Get this one. When you're finished with your Kabbalah, read it. Trust me."

"But, don't you-"

"No, I already have a copy at home. I was getting this for a friend of mine who's really into all the magic stuff, but I should just lend her my copy. You saved me some money," I said, giggling, as I smiled shyly.

"Thanks," he replied, hesitantly. Then, cocking his head slightly to the side and quirking an eyebrow, almost like he was trying to figure me out, he extended his hand. "I'm Stefan."

"Elena," I responded, taking his hand in mine and giving it a gentle shake.

Handshakes have always felt impossibly awkward to me. I think too much about the mechanics. Be firm, but don't squeeze too hard, don't be too passive, don't hold on for too long, are my hands sweaty? Those are all common thoughts that fly fleetingly through my mind when confronted with the dreaded shaking of fingered appendages. When our eyes met, though, all thoughts of handshake etiquette flew out the window. I had recognized from the first moment that, of course, Stefan was a good looking guy. With his slim, but obviously muscled physique, his perfectly quaffed, light brown hair, chiseled features adorned with smooth, pale white skin and piercing green eyes, he looked like a cross between Ryan Gosling and Joaquin Phoenix. Not bad at all.

What really got me, though, was what I saw in those green eyes. The second they met my brown ones, I was flooded with the pain, the loss, the regret, self-loathing and unequivocal, deep-seated loneliness that was harbored there. This guy, who seemed so genuinely friendly and warm, was clearly damaged beyond belief and it floored me. For a moment I got lost in those eyes, trying to imagine what kind of fucked up things this poor guy had been through. The bright fluorescents, the polished concrete floors, the shelves upon shelves of the book store faded away as I immersed myself in possible scenarios. I suddenly noticed that I was both staring, mouth agape like an idiot, and breaking all my handshaking rules. Palm sweaty, wrist limp, and still hadn't let go.

"Um," I stuttered as I quickly wrenched my hand from his, like my life depended on it. "I- It's nice to- um- meet you."

Internally face-palming at my own asinine behavior, I turned to leave before I made a bigger fool of myself. I made it all of three steps before I felt Stefan's fingers wrap around my wrist.

"Wait," he said, softly and quickly. Shit, I winced as I turned around slowly to face him.

"What's wrong?" He asked with genuine concern as he saw the anguish on my face.

"Nothing," I lied. "I'm just late for something."

"Oh. Well, I was gonna ask you if you maybe wanted to join me for, like, coffee or something... It's just that... Well, I dunno." He fidgeted with the corner of a book cover, looking more than a little nervous. At least I'm not the only one being weird.

"You just seem kinda cool and I thought... But if you're late for something... Nevermind. Sorry."

Well, isn't this perfectly awkward, I thought. Wait, he thinks I'm cool?

"No, it's just... Yeah." Stefan nodded slowly, looking deflated. This couldn't possibly be going any worse. He was just turning to leave when I rushed out, "I'm just supposed to meet a friend." What a crock of shit, you coward. My flight instinct was screaming at me to run away but I couldn't deny that I was intrigued by this guy. I knew that I certainly did need to escape this situation before I further humiliated myself, because my wits were clearly not about me. However, would I regret it later if I walked away, never to see him again? Probably. OK, plan B.

Gathering my resolve and trying to keep my voice from quavering, I slipped back into my confident facade, squaring my shoulders and said, "Give me your phone."

He looked back at me with wide eyes, like he was too shocked to argue, and slowly reached into his pocket and handed the device to me. I took it with steady hands (that took a lot of concentration) and quickly programmed my number in.

"There. You have my number. Text me some time and maybe we can revisit that coffee idea."

A small, shy smile on Stefan's lips quickly morphed into a gigantic, beaming grin.

We said our polite goodbyes and, after paying for my books (and silently thanking the gods that he wasn't also checking out- how weird would that have been?) I hustled out onto Burnside and turned up 10th towards the MAX. Walking down the street, I was lost in thought and enjoying the crisp air, rife with the decaying smell of autumn, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly retrieved it and unlocked the screen to see a new text. Reading it, an enormous grin spread across my cheeks and I almost walked straight into a mailbox. Laughing at myself, I read the message again.

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. Love is the law, love under will." Thanks for being the cutest and most interesting person I've met in ages. When are you free for coffee?

-Stefan

"Whaddya mean you haven't texted him back yet?!" Caroline all but screeched at me, after I finished recounting my 'meet-cute', as she called it, with Stefan.

"Jesus. Care. I'm one foot away. Inside voice. Please."

I loved Caroline, I really did. But the words 'moderate' and 'filter' just didn't factor into her vocabulary. The blond terror, as I affectionately referred to her, was definitely someone you wanted on your side. She was drop-dead gorgeous, with her wavy blond hair, perfect skin and sky blue eyes, and perfectly versed in the fine arts of seduction and distraction, which made her the ideal wing-woman for all manner of teenaged covert-ops. Always up-to-date with the latest fashion and gossip, her talents were truly indispensable when trying to survive the tumultuous shit storm that was the American High School experience. Along with our friend Bonnie, we had been inseparable since kindergarten and, even though I didn't go to school with them anymore, we were still basically attached at the hip.

"Well, I'm just sayin'..." she narrowed her eyes. "Why haven't you? You meet some totally gorgeous guy that seems to be into you, despite... all this..." she ran a hand up and down in front of me.

"Gee, thanks, Care-"

"And you haven't pounced on that? What are you waiting for? Do I need to do it for you?"

"NO!" Bonnie and I both exclaimed in unison. "Elena, do you want to meet him for coffee?"

Ah, Bonnie. Thank god for Bonnie, always the voice of reason. Dark skin, black hair, high cheekbones, her hazel eyes open and inquisitive, she was a beautiful picture of virtue and honesty. Sure, her metered judgment could be a little annoying at times, but she really was the glue that held the three of us together. She reigned me (capricious, manic, wayward Elena) in and got me to focus on what was important. She held on to flighty, fanciful, exuberant Caroline's kite strings, keeping her in the present as much as possible, and she took a spot in the middle; our own personal Jesus. Or Thoth. Or Buddha. Together, the three of us were truly a force to be reckoned with.

"I mean... Yeah, I do. I'm just nervous, I guess. I know, I know. I'm nervous. Weird. But, it's just... like Caroline said, there's all this to deal with," I said, gesturing to myself and hanging my head. Sexy and/or physically appealing was not a typical descriptor used for little old me. I was a jeans, t-shirt and converse kind of girl, who never wore makeup and rarely attracted male attention of any sort.

"Please. Easy fix," Caroline announced.

"Maybe it shouldn't be fixed. Maybe it's not broken, Care," came Bonnie's stern reply.

"IT is sitting right here," I shouted, moving my straight chestnut hair to completely cover my face like Cousin It from the Adam's Family.

"Elena, I just think the best thing to do, if you're actually into this guy, is to be yourself," Bonnie advised, after our giggles dissipated. She added, "As obviously strange as you are, I mean... You don't want to build something on a framework of lies."

"You don't want to build it on a framework of flies either. So text him back, tell him you're free tonight, and good grief! Take a friggin' shower, woman!" Caroline teased.

Rolling my eyes, I picked up my phone, "OK. Here goes..."

I was surprised to find that conversation with Stefan flowed quite easily and the nerves that had built up in the minutes before meeting him had dissolved almost immediately. He was warm and accepting of my odd behavior and eccentricities.

"So you just punched him in the face? Just like that?" He was asking through riotous laughter.

"Fuck yeah!" I exclaimed. "What kind of person asks a girl which one of her boyfriends taught her that? After she has the 'balls'" using finger quotes, I rolled my eyes emphatically, "to make a compelling argument!?" After a brief pause to collect my thoughts I added, with faux sincerity, "And why the fuck do people assume having balls makes you tough, anyway? I mean, fuckin' hell. Balls, nards, gonads, cojones, they're so friggin' sensitive! And you guys hang them on the outside, like idiots. Now, vaginas, they can take a pounding."

For a second I thought Stefan was about to have a stroke, he was laughing so hard. "Betty White, right?" He asked, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Yeah, but she just stole my idea and made it famous," I smirked and winked at him.

"Well, you've got fire. I'll give you that. But didn't you ever hear of fighting words with words?" Stefan asked, still trying to regain his composure.

"Of course. But clearly my words weren't getting through to him. He was either too preoccupied with staring at my tits or perturbed by the fact that he was being outsmarted by someone who didn't have a penis! I figured my best bet to get through to him was to speak his own language. Caveman."

Shaking his head, Stefan muttered, "Elena Gilbert... Where the hell did you come from?"

"A web of lies, mistrust and ignorance. What you should be asking me is how I'm sitting here in front of you with a smile on my face." Shit. I did it again. TMI. Think before you speak, Gilbert!

"Uh... -"

"Shit. Stefan, I'm sorry. That's neither here nor there. What about you? I feel like I've been monopolizing this conversation." Give me a pile of sand and I will dig a head-sized hole.

"Well, since I can see you want to change the subject, and for that reason only, because I wanna get into all that more later, if you'll let me, what do you wanna know about me?"

"How 'bout we start off with the basics?" I asserted with a nod of my head. "What does the mysterious and broody 18 year old have to say about his parents?"

Stefan's whole body stiffened and his eyes went cold. Obviously hit a nerve, there. For fuck's sake, people should come with an instructional manual. I had thought it was a pretty benign question; barely more than small talk. Clearly, though, it was not. I wondered if he had family drama like mine and, also, if it had anything to do with the deep seated pain I saw in his eyes when we first met. Inquisitive, by nature, I wanted all the answers and I kinda wanted them now. But I knew I couldn't push him to talk about a sore subject so I would have to let it go, for now. Change the subject, Gilbert!

"Um, actually, why don't you tell me abou-"

"It's ok, Elena. I'm sorry. It's just hard for me to talk about, but I'd like you to know. My mother died when I was 4. Cancer. I don't really remember her. My father changed after she passed. He turned cold. Hard. Heartless. But he was worse on my brother than he was on me. Incidentally, I also don't remember my father being anything but cold and heartless. Damon always told me he used to be fun though. That's the Cliff's Notes version, anyway."

"You have a brother?"

Stefan let out a huge sigh and rolled his shoulders in a way that, on anyone else, might've looked like someone being relieved of stress. In Stefan's case, however, the way he slumped looked like Atlas had just decided to go on his lunch break and the weight of the world was transferred to Stefan's shoulders.

"Well, he's not one to brag," came a velvety voice from beside me. "Hello, brother."

A/N Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!