Um….surprise? Heck, even I'm surprised I'm writing this story. But, after basically being on deadline for 12 consecutive months, I'm needing a little bit of a break so writing stays fun. So, what should I do? Write more – of course, that makes sense.

I feel the need to warn you. This story is angsty – even for me. Last night's episode put me in an odd place emotionally. I kind of need to work through it.

I'm NOT trying to follow (or predict) the show. This one's all mine, but some events may overlap – intentionally or not.

Warnings: Mature – adult content, character death, blood, gore, violence, language, alcohol use, Stefan

This is the PROLOGUE. I know it's short. I like to take a running start at the beginning of my stories. Enjoy!

Damon strode down the all-too-familiar pathway. He could hear the unmistakable roar behind him as the flames consumed every tangible memory of Elena's earlier existence, barring the clothes she wore and whatever she might have left behind in his room before their ill-fated trip to the island from hell.

Glass shattered, and a loud rumble hinted that the upper floor was gone. He wouldn't know. Stefan could take care of looking back for all three of them. Damon's eyes were fixed on something far more precious…and even more broken.

Elena.

The second he'd done it, he'd regretted it.

Bowing to pressure from Stefan to fix her and from the overwhelming mask of pain and grief spilling from her eyes, he did it. With a single request, he'd made her turn it off. And in an instant, everything that made Elena who she was had disappeared.

The girl who'd stood in the middle of the chaos churning around both of them and asked him to take the cure with her so they could grow old together was no more.

He saw it in her eyes the instant before she dropped the match.

His Elena was gone.

Now he followed her as she marched down the sidewalk, oblivious to the neighbors beginning to creep onto their front porches, watching the Gilbert house in horror. In the distance, a fire truck's siren wailed. He had to hand it to Mystic Falls' Fire Department. Their response time must have set a record.

"Elena, you okay?" Old Mr. Whithersbee yelled from his front porch.

Elena never even blinked.

Damon stood and watched the flames flickering in the fireplace, not wanting to go downstairs quite yet. Stefan had the radio playing some inane top 40 station in the attempt to conceal his conversation with Caroline. It didn't work. If either he or Elena really wanted to hear their discussion, they could have. But why bother?

He knew the drill.

Caroline would be sitting on the couch with her hands clasped tightly together. She'd talk about plans…lists…things they had to do.

Stefan's eyebrows would knit together. He'd pace. He'd say that they needed to fix Elena…because that was what he did – ever since she'd turned in the first place, his brother had wanted to fix her, even when she hadn't been broken.

But she was now.

Elena should have been crying in the shower, overwhelmed with grief and loss. She would have sobbed until her eyes blurred and he had to help her move through the familiar motions of simply going to bed. She would have sobbed and wailed and gulped for air until she was exhausted and fitful sleep overtook her. In the morning, the sun would still be shining, and she'd be sad – but things would be better…because he'd be beside her.

They all would have been.

But that's not what happened.

Bowing to the idea that had been burned into him so long ago that Stefan was always right, he'd done exactly what he'd been trying so hard to avoid. He used the sire bond to control her – and not just something as simple as sending her home…to change the very nature of who she was.

Now she really was broken, and he couldn't fix her.

He'd seen the instant it happened. She'd looked at him through her tears, but she trusted him to fix it – to make everything alright somehow. When he told her to turn it off, she already wanted to, he'd been able to read her that well…she just needed permission. Once the switch was flipped, though, something else changed.

The light that signaled Elena was still in there was gone.

Fear crept through him.

The sire bond was based on her emotions.

What happened when she didn't have emotions any longer?

So he'd tried an experiment when they'd gotten home. Stefan and Caroline had gone on ahead. Elena sat in the car, her eyes not really fixed on anything in particular. He'd reached in and taken hold of her hand.

He led.

She followed.

It seemed like a good omen.

He walked into the library and poured a glass of his best bourbon. She needed the good stuff tonight. He held it out to her. He even told her it would be a good idea for her to have a drink. She'd feel better.

Elena just blinked back at him, still caught in the odd zombieish vampire state. She ignored the drink. Instead, she walked past him, up the stairs, and into the shower…where she'd been for the last half hour.

He'd busied himself with building a fire, not oblivious to the irony of thinking it would somehow make her feel better…or simply feel something.

Now he heard her behind him. Still silent. She hadn't really spoken since they'd left the house. She was rummaging through his closet, obviously looking for his shirt that she'd claimed as her own.

Sheets rustled on the bed, and the bed sighed as she climbed into it, taking her customary spot. He still didn't turn to face her. Before he could count to ten, her breathing changed. She took long, slow breaths. Even though he'd taken away her emotional pain, he hadn't repaired the physical exhaustion. She was asleep.

And he was glad.

He walked to her bedside, and with her eyes closed, he could pretend she was still there. His Elena. Her wet hair fanned out across the pillow, and he cautiously stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

She was still there.

Somewhere.

Deep inside this Elena…the real Elena was hiding. He wouldn't give up until she was ready to come back out.