She didn't know what compelled her to grab another letter from the box. In fact, she didn't know why she had even thought of the letters again. It had been a week since she'd read the first one, and she hadn't thought about it since. Then she'd stepped foot in the spare bedroom again and the first thing her chocolate gaze had narrowed on had been that intricate box.

It was a dark cherry wood, Celtic looking designs carved into the sides. The latch to the box was one that should have required a key, a brass lock that was open and unlocked. The lid was beautiful to look at, a painted landscape of a pasture in front of a forest. Horses grazed in the background, behind a dark wooden fence, while two teenage guys lounged on the railings. The tallest one leaned back against the fence, hair black and lips smiling – the only thing that resembled Damon was the color in the eyes, a diamond with a hint of blue or green, depending on the light. The other was in his early teens, the smile on the lips the same as the one Stefan sometimes got when thinking of something he'd never speak of.

Elena reached in and plucked, carefully, another yellowed letter, the paper brittle and hardened in her hands. This one was smudged, too, like the last, though the spots were clear, unlike the reddish tint that had signaled the stain had once been blood. Elena was thankful for that small favor; she hated seeing dried blood, as odd as that was. It was just crusty and nasty.

June 10, 1864

My brother,

We are in Virgina once more, brother, and I am trying to gain leave. After our victory, if you wish to call it such, at Cold Harbor, I am hoping that my commanding officer will allow the rest of my unit some leave time. Of all the units in his section of the army, ours is third in age. My men had been together the longest, have fought the longest and hardest, save for two others, who are all but decimated after that last battle, God have mercy upon their souls.

I am looking forward to home. It is, in fact, the hope of seeing you that keeps me going throughout these battles. It is horrific here. My hands are bathed in blood, and I wake, night after night, to the sounds of suffering and screams in my ears. Some of them are mine – others belong to my men, while the rest belong to my supposed enemies.

Personally, I do not understand why we fight, why Father sent me into this war. I do not believe in the so-coined right of the Southern people to hold another humans life in their hands, to own souls. I, for one, have wished for year upon year that the black men would be freed. I can only hope you feel the same – as humans, it should not be within us to debase another in such a way that we do, in the way the Father does, no matter the hue of their skin. When you truly think of it, Stefan, some of the black men are more human than our supposed superior race. Do you remember our former cook, whose name we never discovered, he was so dehumanized? Was it not him who hid me and took my beating from Father whenever he could manage?

Truly, when I reflect upon the cook's actions and our Father's reactions, I come to believe that the black man was more humane than our own white Father. God bless his soul, whether it be in Heaven, as I believe, or in some pagan Hell, as the church decreed.

The next few lines were smudged, as if someone had dabbed the...whatever it was that was used to write back then (quills?) with too much ink. The words had blurred together, blocking each other out.

I know, in all likelihood, that I will be unable to receive a response from you, whether it be because I am deceased or because I have moved camp, I am not sure. Still, please promise me that you will not endeavor to join the army, brother. I took this hell upon my own shoulders to protect you, Stefan, and now that I am in the middle of the war...now that blood paints my hands and my face, now that scars decorate my body, now that my eyes have witness unthinkable horrors...The urge to keep you from this life has not lessened; it has merely intensified, multiplied by thousands. Continue your study of literature and art, but please, please, do not ask Father to join me in combat. I know you will think to do so after reading this letter, but I beg of you, allow me the honor of protecting you, as an eldest brother should.

I must depart now, brother. Our unit is to scout ahead. I hope to see you soon.

D. Salvatore

Elena carefully folded the letter and placed it back into the box, swallowing back the sadness that came from reading Damon's letter. She'd know him for months and she'd never glimpsed any of what the letters revealed. He'd been sadistic, uncaring, arrogant, but never protective, never...never anything like these letters suggested.

"Elena?" Stefan's voice floated into the spare room. She knew it was politeness's sake only; his vampire hearing and senses, Stefan had once explained, had made it easy for him to track her, wherever she was, in his house.

She placed the box back where it had belonged, dragging the dust cover half over it, half off of it, like it had been before she'd disturbed it. "In here, Stefan."

Pushing the thoughts of Damon and his letters from her head, she turned her smiling face to her boyfriend, abandoning her morose thoughts for the day. Now wasn't the time for thinking about memories not her own; now was the time for making memories.