Part One

Chapter One

The Visitor

Mystic Falls, Virginia

1864

In the crisp autumn months of 1864, the golden leaves falling from the trees seemed to be the only thing stirring in Mystic Falls, a quiet township to the west of Richmond. There, the Earth seemed to make an effort to prolong the changes that were just on the horizon, with one day enveloping the children in a blanket of warmth and the next biting them with the cold. A sense of foreboding had grown in the bellies of weary mothers and wives who wrote letters to their loved ones in the war. Horses whinnied in their pens and dogs howled at the moon. Infants cried late into the night. The heart of the Earth beat through the soil, making even the strongest man wary of the future.

Days passed with cautious eyes peaking out from covered windows when, finally, the change came on the coldest day of the year. Children wiped their little red noses across the thick fabric of their sleeves while their fathers stayed in for the day, sitting with their wives by the hearth. Though it was midday, the sun could not be seen in the overcast skies - a dreary background compared to the stylish carriage that lazily made its way into town.

The driver kept his eyes ahead of him, ignoring his surroundings as he passed. Even as a group of children ran alongside the carriage, shouting and giggling excitedly, he gave no indication that he noticed. From the window behind him, a gold fan hid the face of the visitor, her dark eyes squinting from behind it. She raised her hand in a small wave just as the stagecoach became too fast for the children to keep up.

The town, though small in community, was quite spread out. Most of what came through the small carriage window was the sight of farmland. Miles passed before they finally approached the town square. It was an eerie sight; all the doors were closed and no light or warmth came from inside the buildings. The occasional passerby kept their head down. The cold wind was the only sound to be heard, accompanied by the occasional ring of a bell.

Just as the sun began to set, the woman found herself riding up a wobbly dirt road that led directly to a large estate. The massive trees that lined the road had already lost most of their foliage to the coming winter, giving them a haunted appearance. The main house of the Gilbert Estate sat square and tall at the end of the tunnel, a beacon of light. Red brick peaked out from behind the large and numerous windows, and thick smoke billowed from both of the chimneys. On either side of the stagecoach, hundreds of rows of tobacco ran out of eye's reach.

From the distance, hooves could be heard beating at the ground. A rider was coming. He gave his greeting to the near-comatose driver, to which the woman abruptly shoved her arm out of the carriage to receive the rider's welcome.

By the time the three reached the house, the entire household and its staff had made their way to the front porch to welcome the visitor. It was a small group of people, the woman noticed, for it was not possible for so few people to work the land she had just seen. Those who did appear to work outdoors and in the stables stood off to the side. Slightly larger in number were those who worked in the house, all of whom stood to the back. At the center stood Johnathan Gilbert, his niece Elena, and his nephew Jeremiah - the last living descendants of the Gilbert line.

Johnathan was a small man, only months away from shrinking beneath Jeremy's impressive stature, it seemed. Though once he might have been handsome, the difficulties of life showed on his pale face. Even his wheat-colored hair seemed limp and lackluster.

He had only been a resident in Mystic Falls for a little over a year, arriving shortly after his wife, Isobel, had been struck down by a wandering bullet from a Union soldier's gun at Vicksburg. He came at the request of his brother - Elena and Jeremiah's father - Grayson Gilbert, when news came that his wife was dying of consumption. Grieving and alone, Johnathan arrived at the Gilbert Residence directly, and within the month, Miranda Gilbert was dead.

Grayson sat by the shell of his wife for days, even as the town united in mourning. His brother only persuaded him to move when the stench became too odious for anyone to bear.

From then on, Grayson's already deteriorating mental state quickly declined into insanity. He would lock himself away in his study for days, studying old books and journals on the supernatural. The church was furious upon learning of this, and the Reverend himself publicly declared that it was blasphemy. Yet no amount of public scorn or shame could tear Grayson away, for he was sure that his family was cursed and his wife's life was taken by a spirit. When neighbors came to offer their condolences for her untimely death, he would very calmly state that she had not simply died. "My wife was taken by the devil," he would say, "and I will face the him in hell if that is what it takes to save her soul."

Another month passed before he was found hanging in his study. No one expected that of him. He was one of the few rational voices among the founding families, and known for his level head. Everyone always thought his incoherent babbling was just a part of his grief.

Left behind were just his books, his home, and his children. Until Jeremiah was of appropriate age to oversee the household, Johnathan agreed to stay and act as a regent of sorts. It was no coincidence that he simply had no other place to go.

Following these strange and tragic happenings, a letter arrived, addressed to the dead Miranda Gilbert from her sister. John replied, rather awkwardly, that she would not be able to reply. Apologies followed for not informing her, but it became apparent that nobody knew Miranda had a sister, not even her own children.

A series of correspondence passed between the two before it was finally decided that she would make the journey from Atlanta posthaste. An odd number of circumstances, John thought as he found himself standing between two children whom he still felt were strangers, that led to him meeting this woman.

She gracefully exited the carriage with help from her driver, her solemn eyes looking up to the people in front of her as though she had known them from long ago.

"Katherine, I presume?" Johnathan asked politely.

She broke into a smile upon hearing her name. "I am so pleased to finally meet you all," and then solemnly, "though I am sorry it has not happened sooner. You must be Johnathan Gilbert."

"Call me John."

He stepped forward, taking her hand and bringing it up to his lips before turning to face the children. "It pleases me to introduce you to your nephew, Jeremiah. We call him Jeremy."

The boy was broad and handsome for a boy his age, taking after his mother's dark eyes and brown hair. He did as his uncle did, and kissed her hand before offering a reserved smile.

"And your niece, Elena."

She stepped out from behind her brother, hesitant to approach the woman. She was taken by the familiarity of her aunts face. Though she looked similar to Miranda, Katherine more closely resembled Elena. They both shared the same oval-shaped face and olive skin, but it was their almond-shaped eyes that truly mirrored one another. The biggest difference, it seemed, was that Katherine carried herself more confidently then Elena had ever seen anyone walk. She could feel her shoulders straighten just at the sight of her. Never taking their eyes off of one another, they curtsied slowly.

Elena startled when Katherine stepped forward suddenly, gently grabbing her by the chin to assess her face further. "Now that is the face of a-," and she faltered for just a moment as though she had forgotten the word. "Pierce," she said finally.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi! Thanks for reading. This is my first TVD story and hopefully not my last. Please review, if you like. I won't pretend I don't love reading them. I'm horrible about replying, however, so if you have any serious questions, don't hesitate to message me.

Please note that there are a number of trigger warnings in this story. Proceed at your own risk.