The sun is big and bright, high up in the sky, but it doesn't burn. I can't even feel it on my skin, even though it looks as if it could melt a rock. This place is always room temperature, hot and cold never exchanging, but mashing up together and cancelling each other out. Sometimes I wonder can I feel the coldness of the wind because it's really there, or because I expect it to be there.
I don't know how time moves here. Day and night exchange is uneven intervals, so I don't know how to count the days. It doesn't matter anyway.
Damon seems too weak to talk. He's basically dragging himself behind me, looking like death more than usual. I don't know what's wrong with him, so I tell myself he's still suffering from the consequences the arrow had on him. I still worry, though, but my pride doesn't let me show that to him. I guess I'm still mad at him for keeping secrets from me, even though I have no right to that. It's not like Damon and me are best buddies or anything. It still hurts, so I'm trying to think about it the less I can.
Even if he could speak, I don't have anything to say to him, nothing but infinite why's he probably wouldn't give me an answer to. So instead I spend my time thinking about home. I create these scenarios in my head where I imagine my friends and put them in situations I think they might find themselves in. Sometimes I wonder are they looking for a way to bring us home. Even if they are, it's probably futile - it will take them decades to find a way. That thought squeezes around my heart. They might have time, but we don't. I don't. Decades are all I have. I might die here.
I try to ration the rest of the cookies I took from Rupert, but I'm too hungry and greedy to do that, so I eat them almost all at once. If Damon were to his senses, he would probably yell at me about how irresponsible I am.
We walk for a long time after leaving the prophets house, at least it seems like a long time to me. It could be days, or hours. I don't really know. And like I've said already, it doesn't really matter.
I almost give up all hope - I think we've stumbled into hell, so we're walking in circles, infinitely, without even realizing it - but then we come to another crossroad. On our left, there's another forest, and we're standing right on its entrance. And on our right, far, far away from here, there's a large hill, and on it something that resembles a town.
This time, choosing which path to take is a no-brainer for me - I take a step to the right.
Just as I make that first step, I hear Damon's pained voice whispering sharply, "No. Not that way." Vampires don't need any air, they don't breathe, but when he stops talking, he makes a sound similar to inhaling deeply.
I turn to him, my face a mask of confusion. He's standing exactly where I was just a moment ago. "What? I hiss, thinking that maybe I haven't heard him right.
He tries to lift his head up, to look at me, but his head drops as soon as he tries to raise it. "We have to go into the woods," he squeezes out. It's hard for him to speak. I wonder does he feel like his lungs are on fire, that his throat is full of needles, does he feel like I feel when I have trouble speaking.
Out of some unknown reason I spend too much time trying to find similarities between us.
"Damon, I don't really think that's a good idea," I say calmly. Something's definitely wrong. Why would he want to go in there? In the place where fairies. and god knows how many more creatures who want him dead, live.
"We have to," are his final words before he staggers towards the woods. He doesn't get far, though, he stumbles on something invisible and falls down on his face.
"Damon!" I yell his name, each letter bumping against the walls of my throat before jumping into the air. I run after him, my knees colliding with the soft ground. I put my hands on his shoulders to roll him around, since he's not moving by himself. When I do, when I roll him onto his back, I have to suppress a shriek.
He's so pale. His skin is not even white - it looks translucent. If it gets one more shade lighter, if that'e even possible, he will become invisible. I'll lose him to the air and wind and all the things I can't see. There are dark purple veins, some even black, all over his face. I haven't seen them, his head was down for such a long time. His eyes are bloodshot, like a vessel popped in there, coloring the white of his eyes with tiny, red specks.
"Oh Damon," I cry out, stricken by the sight in front of me.
I'm not used to Damon being weak, or looking weak. I didn't even know that's an acceptable state for him.
"What's wrong?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer me. He just stares at me blankly, like he doesn't even understand me. For a moment I think he's not even there anymore, but then he blinks. "Tell me what's wrong? How can I help?" I tug onto his coat.
He tries to say something, but he chokes on his own words.
I almost cry, and the worst thing is that I don't know what I would cry for - for Damon, or out of fear of being left alone in this place.
"Woods," he manages to say.
Maybe lying down he had managed to regain some of his strength.
I furrow my brows. "Why?" I look towards the woods, "What's in there?"
I can't see anything but darkness. Even with the sun making every inch of the surface bright, the forest still looks dark, like there's a big, black cloud looming over it. The treetops are so bushy and lavish, they're preventing light beams from fighting their way through.
"Woods," he says again, meekly.
"We can't go into the woods!" I yell at him, quite irritated by the situation we have found ourselves in. I'm still holding onto his coat, rubbing it gently with the tips of my thumbs. "It's dangerous," I tell him.
But he shakes his head, scraping his nape against the ground. "No," he says several times, "It's different. Look," he talks like a mad man. He's definitely going crazy. I'll have to cut out a part of his brain to make him normal again. "Look!" he insists.
So I indulge him. The trees look the as same as all the other trees do. The bark on their trunks is darker, though. Rougher. Still, nothing unusual, probably a different kind of a tree. "There's nothing there, Damon," I swallow. It's true. It's too silent. There's not even that low hum the woods usually make. The more I think about it, the more it freaks me out. "Just darkness."
"Yes!" he exclaims, his eyes widening, "Black Woods. No danger. Just vampires. Supporters," he makes several one to two words sentences. If I didn't have all the information I do, I wouldn't understand the word he says.
"Vampires?" I crunch my nose, still feeling unfriendly towards the species, "Why would you want to - " I start saying when, in that moment, while looking at his face, a bulb lights up in my head. Of course. He's weak, tired, in a bad mood. Pale. I take his hand into mine and pull up the sleeve of his coat. Dark veins all over his skin, ready to pop. Ready to swallow him whole.
His eyes bloodshot. Like he's falling apart from the inside.
"You don't want the vampires. You want the supporters. You need them," I can't believe I haven't figured it out before. I was so busy with my own hunger, munching on cookies, wasting them, and he was behind me, basically starving to death. I usually don't have to think about Damon's eating habits. He has never eaten in front of me. I remember seeing Caroline and Elena drink the blood from the bags, but never Damon.
"That's what you asked Rupert, didn't you? Where to find them?" he didn't want me to hear. He didn't want me to know that he's hungry and I don't know why. I've been so selfish, and he's been so stubborn. We're such a bad combination. Maybe there's not a person in this world with whom Damon makes a good combination. He's like alcohol, he blows everything up, no matter with what he comes in contact with. He's toxic.
Rupert must have asked him why doesn't he just drink from me, to which he shook his head. No. Not me.
The thought makes me shiver - someone drinking from me. Giving my blood willingly. Serving to someone as nothing but a food source.
I have to ask, though. I have to ask or the question is going to eat me up from the inside. I don't know why it wants to come out, but it's stealing all of my air in the process. I look up at him, his eyes stern and steady on me. "Why didn't you say anything?" I ask with a quivering voice.
As if he knew I'm going to ask that, he has an answer prepared. "Because," the corners of his lips twitch, forming something similar to a smirk, "If I did, you would offer."
He's right, I would. I wouldn't let him starve to death. And it's not like he's just anyone. He's not some random vampire I've met on the street. He's..
..he's Damon.
There's so much behind that name. Damon. The friendliest enemy anyone has ever had. A page of a book you're too afraid to turn because of what you might find there. A sheet of music. A half empty glass. So much hate and anger colliding with a wall and crumbling into little pieces which rearrange into something else. Like two colors falling into each other.
"We're here now," his voice is so gentle when he's tired, when he doesn't have enough strength to be angry at the world, "We just have to find them."
He tries to lift himself up, but falls back down almost instantly.
"No," I lay a hand on his chest, telling him to stay down, "You're too weak. We have no idea where they are, or if there's anything else besides them in the woods."
I pull my hand away from his chest and inhale deeply, filling my lungs with courage. "Here," I put my wrist near his lips.
He looks from my face to my wrist, then back at my face, before saying quietly, "No."
"No?" I frown, "Is my blood not good enough for you?" I don't know why I sound so offended as I say those words.
He doesn't say anything, because there's nothing to say. At least not without offending me. I press my wrist closer to his lips. I can see him wavering when he feels the warmness of my skin on his lips.
Maybe I'm crazy for doing this. Maybe I should go into the woods and find vampires and their sympathizers by myself, and tell them I have a vampire in need. Would they believe me? Or would they think it's a trap?
I'm also afraid. Damon already tasted my blood, when he ripped into my throat and almost killed me. I would be dead now if Stefan hadn't saved me. When I close me eyes, I see that imagine - Damon speeding towards me and sinking his fangs into my skin. Then darkness.
Things are different now, I have to remind myself. Our relationship is different. If he's not, the way he sees me is.
"Damon," I use a voice one would use when addressing a child, "You have to."
A moment later, he opens his mouth. His breath is warm, moist, it reminds me of steam that rises from the pot when I cook pasta. The tips of his fangs touch my skin, and my breath catches in my throat. I can feel my skin tearing.
I remember when Elena told us she's feeding Stefan her blood. I was shocked. It seemed so inappropriate to me, so taboo, so strange. She wasn't doing it to feed him, it wasn't a necessity. It wasn't about survival.
At least, back then, I didn't think it was. I didn't understand Stefan's situation well enough to realize that small portions of her blood kept him at bay. And it wasn't just about blood. It was about Elena. It was about trust.
I can feel blood pouring from two tiny slashes on my wrist into his mouth. He pulls his fangs out of my wrist and shuts his lips, savoring the taste.
"Damon," I say his name with a warning, "That can't possibly be enough," he still looks as bad as before. Those few drops did nothing for him.
"It's fine. I'm fine," he growls.
I guess those few drops had some effect after all.
"No, it's not," I don't move my wrist from just above his lips, taunting him.
His eyes light up, pleading me to understand. "I haven't fed in such a long time," he cries out, "I'm afraid I won't know where to pull a line."
I guess this is my biggest problem with Damon. He divides people in two groups - those he cares about, and those he could give a shit about. The world is black and white to him. He doesn't trust himself, so he doesn't want to drink from me out of fear he might hurt me. But he doesn't have a problem with doing that to someone else.
It was about trust.
I don't feel the need to change Damon Salvatore. I don't want to make a better man out of him. He's not evil at his core, but he's looking at the world through smudged windows. And he's the only one who can wipe them clean.
At this point, I'm annoyed by his choice to insert me into a group of people he cares about, so I say the only thing there is to say. "It's okay," I say soothingly, "I trust you."
He looks at me in a way you look at someone when you want to see through them, not at them. He searches my face for answers, for a glint that would tell him I'm lying. Trust is a strange and new concept for Damon, especially coming from me.
I guess hunger takes over, because he sinks his fangs back into my skin, at the same place he did the first time.
This time sharper. Harder. Rougher. I can feel a sting, once, twice, three times. My wrist is becoming numb from all the pain I'm putting it through.
I watch as Damon's mouth moves, his lips pressing onto my skin. My blood is not leaving my body in drops anymore, but in heavy streams. He can't get it all in, so some of it falls down my arm, on his clothes.
I wonder will my wrist bruise.
He eats messy. Greedily. Hungrily. He's starving.
I can't feel my wrist anymore. I can see it, but it doesn't feel like it's attached to my body anymore.
I'm becoming dizzy. I'm losing too much blood. But it doesn't feel wrong - it feels like someone spiked the punch and forgot to tell me about it, so I drank three cups straight, thinking I'm drinking pure juice. It hits me right in the head and makes me want to dance.
This haziness comes too fast, before the pain even subsides. It's unnatural. Intensity is too big and intervals are too short.
It's a feeling I've never felt before, like adrenaline that's slowing you down instead of speeding you up, pushing you in the direction opposite of gravity.
When Damon pulls his fangs out of my skin, the pain comes back, and I start floating towards reality. I don't feel like flying anymore - I'm rocketing towards the ground. Wind envelops me and hurts my skin.
I look down at Damon. There's some blood on his lips, my blood, but he's got his color back.
"Woah," he says, his hands squeezing my shoulders. I started towering to the side, but didn't even notice. He keeps me straight.
His reflexes are back, he's fast again. Agile. Strong. I can feel his grip on me.
He's still holding me, even when I feel like I can hold myself.
And somewhere in the back of my head I can hear him saying - thank you, Bonnie.
