You remember nothing from before this place. The people here are kind. They take in the wandering child that you used to be and keep you safe, giving you a name when you can't remember your own. They raise you as if you were truly their blood.

You become Katerina Petrova in truth on the day Mama makes your sixth birthday, the day she and Papa defend their claiming of you against his brothers.

They're your support, your protectors against everything. And then you bring shame upon them all with your nighttime activities and are banished.

To be honest, a part of you always expected it.

When you arrive in England, it takes a little while to adjust. It's cold and damp here, and the language is barbaric. You force yourself to understand it, force your tongue into unfamiliar shapes and syllables.

(And yet somehow it's not unfamiliar at all.)

Court, now that you understand most of what everyone is saying, is even more fascinating than when all you had to go by was body language and dress.

The men who can't understand a word of your beautiful mother tongue flock to you like moths to a flame. They are drawn in by your body, by the faint accent that remains in your voice, despite your attempts to do away with it entirely, and by your being what Lady Rosalie sneeringly calls exotic when she thinks you can't hear.

You're all alone here in this cold country, and you can never quite turn down an invitation from a pretty face for a night in a warm bed.

And Klaus definitely has a pretty face.

"What is your name?" the man asks when Lady Rosalie makes the introductions.

You curtsy as you offer him your hand and say, "Katerina Petrova, my lord," ignoring the part of you that whispers, 'That isn't my name.'

But what other name could you possibly have? It rests on the tip of your tongue for an instant, and you can nearly taste how the syllables would smoothly slip their way past your lips.

As usual whenever you try to think about the past that you can't remember, it slides away just before you can fully grasp it.

You're nineteen years old (you think), and you have no idea that the handsome man pressing a kiss to the back of your hand will be the one to drive you to your death in less than a few months.

You kick the chair away before you can lose your nerve, knowing what will happen if Rose takes you back to Klaus, and what the consequences of the three of you running would be when you were caught- and you would be caught. You all know it, even foolish love-struck Trevor.

For some reason, you feel sorry for him when you say, "Better you should die than I."

You nearly want to apologize for breaking his heart.

Nearly.

But even when your conscience speaks up, you still have no patience for fools that would swear blind that sex means love. Instead, you blur out of the cottage with your new speed, and never stop running.

He killed them, a part of you repeats numbly. He killed all of them.

You cradle the cold body of the only mother you've ever known (a fleeting image of another you calling another woman Mama passes through your mind, but that can't possibly be true) in your arms and weep.

Three hundred and seventy two years as a vampire. Three hundred and seventy two years of running, always running, looking over your shoulder for Klaus and Elijah, never quite sure if they're far enough behind to rest for a few months.

You haven't dared to use the name Katerina Petrova for three hundred and seventy.

You're tired, so very tired, of running and never feeling safe.

This town is the safest you've felt in some time- since before you met Pearl and Anna in Germany during the Thirty Years War-but you know that it's time to move on.

You've lingered too long as it is, the town is starting to grow suspicious of the deaths, and Klaus must know where you are by now, but you can't do it.

You can't leave Stefan, not after you've done something you swore you'd never do again (not after what happened with Klaus) and fallen in love with him.

This seems familiar somehow, like it's a story you heard before, once upon a time.

The only reason that Elena is still alive is because something inside you flatly refuses to kill her.

There's something important about this girl with your face, and you don't know what.

You start to figure it out, though, piece by piece, and once Klaus is taken care of, you talk to Lucy and attempt to strike a deal: you'll owe her a favor if she does a spell that you have in mind.

Thankfully, she agrees. You don't want to stoop to trying to bargain with little Bonnie Bennett in order to pull this off.

You'd been right, back in 1864: you had heard this story before- from yourself, while you- she (the lines between your memories are starting to blur now that you've realized the truth)- had been stuck in that tomb.

You look at Elena as she lies unconscious in the witch's circle and silently wish her good luck as Lucy begins the spell.

You had needed this- will need it- to survive long enough to complete this wheel that you've been caught spinning in ever since you woke up as a toddler in 1473.

You're finally done. The need to survive that's been pushing you for over five hundred years is gone, disappeared with Elena to the fifteenth century.

You realize that you haven't hidden your tracks as well as you should (could) have when Damon tracks you down and Stefan slams you against the wall with a stake against your heart. "What did you do to her, Katherine?" he demands. "What could you possibly have to gain?"

You study him, taking in the bared fangs and the rage in his eyes. You can see Damon over his shoulder, curiously silent.

'My life, Stefan. I gain my life as I remember it, and yours, and mine again, in this fucked-up circle that I've been stuck in for as long as I can remember. But I won't tell you that.'

"You can't mess with time, Stefan. This was always going to happen. This had to happen," you whisper instead, before you look at Damon. "Keep Jeremy safe for me?"

It feels odd, caring about someone besides Stefan or the memory of your Mama after so long. But you care about your brother (how is it possible that you hadn't figured out who he was to you the instant you tasted his blood?), and you want Jeremy safe.

Damon nods, visibly confused, but it's enough for the part of you that still thinks like Elena Gilbert- naïve, caring, trusting Elena Gilbert- to relax and go back to sleep for now.

"What did you do to her?" Stefan repeats desperately, as he struggles to control his rage- at you or himself, you can't tell.

You smile serenely at him, but don't say a word. You're taking a perverse sort of pleasure in watching him come apart at the seams over your-her disappearance.

"Katherine," Damon says quietly, and you tilt your head like you had when you'd been human. Like he's seen Elena do so many times.

He makes one of those connections he's oh so good at making, and his eyes widen.

Now he gets it.

"Elena."

Your first memory is blurry, really just impressions on your three year-old mind: stubby baby legs weak and wobbly underneath you as you wander through cobblestone streets; a pretty lady asking you questions; a name to replace the one you can't remember, however hard you try.

Katerina.