Title: The Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn
Written by: Traciaknows
Rating: R, for images of gory violence
Main Characters: Damon Salvatore, Elena Gilbert, others
A/N: A special thanks to ginzai, my life-coach and sister. Thank you for being my beta and my person. Any and all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement is intended.
In the milky-light haze of the dream, Damon found himself on familiar steps- his feet fighting him and losing as he forced them onward. He struggled to keep his shoulders from slumping under weight of his formal clothing, the wool as heavy as his guilt. Black crepe brushed the back of his hand as he passed the mirrors at the landing. He paused then, to look at the fabric and was grateful that it fully covered the mirrors so he didn't have to look at himself.
As he continued on, he could hear his footsteps echo on the hardwood floor, the sound of them creating a mournful hymn, each breath and heartbeat adding to the dirge. In minutes that lasted years, he walked down the hallway that seemingly stretched out for miles, adding to the anxiety of knowing what lay ahead. Of who lay ahead. He blinked, and suddenly, without warning, he was there at a doorway.
Looking into the small room, which somehow he knew had only ever been used for the most formal of occasions, the coffin stood open and partly draped in black. He squinted at the too bright light that shined in from the windows behind it- a macabre spotlight illuminating on the body of his mother.
Rows of chairs lined the room. The room itself was filled almost to bursting. He had trouble recognizing the inhabitants, although they seemed so familiar. He scanned the room, until he found Stephan sitting in front next to their father; his head bend as if in prayer. Damon stared at Stephan, who was wearing his modern clothes, so much lighter and less stifling than his own.
Moving into the room, he went to stand next to Stephan. He felt the long lost sensation of affection for his brother as he placed his hand on Stephan's shoulder. Stephan didn't look at him. He only lifted his head to look at the coffin. Damon felt a ghost of Stephan's hand as it reached up to lightly squeeze his. They stayed together, both locked in their own sadness. The room was becoming unbearably warm, but he stood still, taking a small comfort in the solidarity his brother was offering.
He looked back at his mother, so alien in her stillness. The loss of her tore at him. Her beautiful raven hair had been combed and braided into a style he knew she had never worn. It made him ache and he looked away. His father turned his face upward then and they looked at each other. Emotion filled Giuseppe's face, first terrible grief and then, with no warning, horrible rage.
"You!" Giuseppe roared at him, rising from his chair, fists clenched at his sides. Damon flinched and stepped back, his hand slipping from Stephan's shoulder. Stephan rose, moving to stand between them- becoming the buffer that their mother had so often been.
"You!" Giuseppe roared again, his face turning red, "You did this! You killed her!"
"No, Father!" Damon denied, shaking his head in desperation. The room became even hotter, his mourning clothes even heavier. "Father, please!"
Giuseppe lunged past Stephan then, grabbing at Damon's lapel. He felt off balance as his father pulled him closer, and watched as he then sneered in disgust. Damon saw Giuseppe raise his hand but was still stunned to feel the slap. His head snapped back and his father let him go with a push, letting him fall back onto the floor. He looked up at his father then, the blow and shame coloring his face. Giuseppe drew in a ragged breath, his rage visibly draining. He looked down then and said with raw but clear intention, "It should have been you."
Damon felt his heart break as he watched Stephan step up, take their father's arm, and lead him from the room. Tears filled his eyes and he blinked at them furiously. He moved to pull himself off the floor when a hand reached out to help him up. He took the offered hand without looking at whom it belonged to until he was standing.
Horror filled him as Tommy Elliot, his boyhood friend smiled at him. Blood dripped from the gapping bullet wound in his neck, pouring down his tattered gray uniform.
"Oh, Tommy, I'm so sorry," Damon whispered, knowing that Tommy's fate had been meant for him. He had been the one to convince Tommy to enlist. He had been the one the Union solider had been aiming at, only to have Tommy jump in front of him to protect him.
Tommy smiled again and gruesomely moved his mouth to speak- but instead of words, blood gurgled from his mouth, choking him.
Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder, turning, he came face to face with Bree. Blood caked down the front of her shirt. She gave him a half smile, her eyes seductive, "Can I get you a drink lover?" she drawled.
Another hand reached out and pulled him around, Zack Salvatore stood before him, the bones of his neck protruding under his skin, "Hello Uncle Damon."
The heat of the room grew even hotter still. He feared he was in Hell. He began to panic, twisting away. He began to recognize the people in the room as they came into focus now. Over a hundred years of nameless victims, rushed towards him, their throats ripped and bloody, reaching out to grab him. Others joined the crowd, Jeremy, Vickie, Lexi, and even Bonnie's grandmother began hitting at him, pulling at his clothes, his hair. "No!" he screamed, "Stop!"
He felt himself falling to his knees, pulling his arms over himself for protection. Abruptly the pummeling stopped. Breathing hard, he looked up through his arms. Seeing no one, he carefully drew himself up. The room was darker now. Enough light still came in through the window to show the silhouette of the casket and to see Stephan standing next to it looking down at the body.
Damon blinked and he too was standing next to the casket. He didn't want to look at the body, knowing that he didn't want his last memories of his mother to be any more tainted. Instead he looked at his brother.
"Stephan…" he began, "Stephan please believe me- I tried to protect her. I tried to keep her safe."
Stephan looked at him then. His face looked so like Giuseppe at that moment. Misery etched his features. "I know. But she's still dead Damon. She's still dead and it's your fault." Stephan shook his head and then slowly moved away, leaving Damon with his despair.
Every fiber of his being ached with his failure, with loss, and with the unrelenting weight of his sins. He panted, trying to catch his breath. "No…" he whispered, "No… No…"
"Damon…"
He looked up upon hearing his name, his eyes unintentionally looking into the coffin. Elena Gilbert lay in the casket instead of his mother. A low wail escaped him then. Not Elena. Not Elena who was so precious. Who he had sworn to protect even though she didn't belong to him and never would. Elena who he loved with what was left of his tattered soul.
"Damon…" he heard again, and this time it was Elena's voice that called to him. But that was impossible. She was dead, and though he didn't know how, he knew with certainty, it was his fault. Elena's death one more failure in a lifetime of failures.
"Damon!" Elena's voice called more sharply. He forced himself to look at her lifeless face, pale now and waxy smooth. Her eyes opened, looking straight into him as if she was looking into an abyss, and again she said, "Damon!"
He awoke with a start in the middle of his bed. Twisted in the covers, drenched in sweat. Elena sat next to him, leaning towards him, pale light from the bedside lamp lit her face enough to show him that it was filled with concern. One of her hands reached for his, holding it as if to anchor him. "Damon are you awake? You were having a nightmare."
Damon sat up, his eyes wide with residual terror. Without warning, he yanked her forward, crushing her to him. She didn't resist him and for an instant, he forgot that she wasn't his to touch this way. He turned his face into her neck and breathed her in her soft scent. Her hair brushed his cheek and for just another moment, he pulled her closer still. He listened to her heartbeat. Not believing that it was real. That she was alive. His hands shook as he ran them across her back, touching the warm skin not covered by her tank top.
"You're alive," he croaked out, "You're alive."
Elena began to whisper to him words of comfort, "Shh… it's ok. It was a dream. It's over now. I'm fine Damon. I promise, it's alright." When his trembling slowed, she began to pull back from him. Remembering himself, he let her go.
"Why are you here Elena?" he managed roughly, as she sat up and moved far enough away from him so she could pull her legs in and wrap her arms around them. He took in her sleep tussled hair and sleepwear.
"I couldn't sleep at the house. With Bonnie and Caroline away, and Ric at the his loft, I didn't think you'd care if I was here… I… hope that's ok."
"Well, it's still technically your house. You know you can be here whenever you need to be."
She smiled then, "Thank you. Damon… it must have been a terrible dream."
"It must have been that O positive and nachos before bed I guess…" he said ruefully, sitting up himself, desperately trying to use humor to cover his rapidly growing embarrassment.
Elena looked at him carefully, "Do you want to talk about it?"
His answer came swift- "No."
She reached over and lightly brushed her finger tips across his cheek- unknowingly the same one that his father had struck in his dream. It took all that he had not to lean into the touch. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, and then closed it. She gave him a slight head nod before climbing off the bed and headed towards the door. "I'll let you get back to sleep then."
There was no way that he would be able to back to sleep, and it was entirely possible that he would never sleep again. He wanted to ask her to stay. To beg if he had to. But he didn't. Couldn't.
Halfway to the door, Elena stopped and looked back at him. Although he wasn't' looking directly at her, he could feel her eyes on him; feel them studying him, seeing through to the real him. Gently, he heard her say, "It's almost morning. You want to watch the dawn with me?"
He met her eyes. Relief filling him as he saw that she didn't pity him. "Sure. I don't seem to have any other plans."
Now he moved from the bed, and towards her. She smiled at him softly and reached out her hand again, which he took, gratefully, in his. Together they made their way to the French doors and went out onto the balcony, quietly leaving the dimness of the bedroom to wait for the light.