One week later.
The voices were hushed, tense.
Elena's eyes opened slowly, painfully. The curtains of her bedroom were slightly open, two figures stood in front of them, talking animatedly. Elena's mouth was dry and she swallowed back. Her eyes adjusted slowly, shaking off the webs of sleep and sick. She moaned slightly as she struggled to sit.
Matthew had been talking at length with their royal physician. An examination did confirm the pregnancy of Princess Elena as well as a tentative estimation of the date of conception. Part of Matthew was slightly disappointed. He had expected validation for his suspicions. He had meticulously mapped out his plan of vengeance and it was all for naught. Little did he know, though, that Elena had been with Damon and John within the same time frame. Along with the confirmation of her pregnancy, Matthew was also delivered a rather stern warning from their doctor.
"I don't think you quite grasp how dangerous this pregnancy is to the Princess," He said.
"Are you trying to advise me, the Prince of Bulgaria, to terminate my wife's pregnancy? To essentially murder one of my royal heirs?"
The Doctor blinked rapidly, suddenly silent.
"No, I…" He trailed off for a moment. "She must stay on bed rest. It is very important that she not over exert herself. It could prove fatal to the fetus…and the Princess."
Matthew rolled his eyes.
"Oh, please. She'll be fine. But I shall heed your advice, Doctor. She'll stay on bed rest."
The Doctor nodded and it was then that their attention was averted to Elena, who had finally rid herself from the confines of a restless sleep.
"You're awake," Matthew said smoothly, walking towards the bed. "Did you hear that? The Doctor wants you on bed rest."
Elena blinked and nodded.
Bed rest. How could she find Damon if she wasn't supposed to move? Then she remembered.
Count Damon de la Salvatore is no more—justly slewed by my hand. He is dead.
She watched as Matthew all but pushed the Doctor out of the room.
"How are you," He asked formally, walking towards the bed.
"Is he dead?"
Matthew's face hardened and she watched how his jaw twitched.
"What if he is? What then?"
Dead. Blue eyes turned to ash.
Elena said nothing; her heart was hammering in her chest.
"Personally," Matthew said aloud, "I doubt you're as sick as everything seems to think you are. You were fine when I found you. So, I've had enough with this act. The Doctor kept you sedated with laudanum, so beyond the drowsiness…"
Damon, are you out there? Are you alive? Is Matty lying?
"Is he dead," Elena asked again, blinking back tears.
"I'll have no more talk of him. Besides, we have much pleasant activities to entertain ourselves. You're home now with me, where you belong."
A bird flittered onto the window sill of her bedroom. It was yellow, small. Golden Oriole. What Elena wouldn't give to be a bird—to fly away. Fingers whispered across her skin. She refused to remove her gaze from the window, even when Matthew turned her face to his as his lips dipped to hers. It was cold, passionless. She shut her eyes.
"I don't want you, Matty," Elena whispered.
Matthew, now shirtless, stilled on top of her for a moment. His hands slid through her hair lovingly and he kissed her temple.
"You're such a child," He cooed into her ear. "Marriages aren't built on love. Husbandly rights don't hinder on whether or not the wife wants to spread her legs for him. She just does it because that is what is expected. She does it because that is her duty to husband and to her country. So you either choose to enjoy it or choose to hate it. It makes no matter."
She hated it. She hated him.
Sofia.
Jeremy swore to himself that once this ordeal was done, he'd never step foot into Bulgaria again. It brought him nothing but trouble and grief.
He'd called to Damon for the last three days that he had been in town and had no word of him. He wasn't dead. He would have felt it. But still…something was wrong. Something was keeping him from communicating to him and it was disconcerting.
The Royal Palace was surrounded by a low brick partition of undressed stone. It would be remarkably easy to vault across the wall if the grounds weren't crawling with guards. Naturally, since the Princess's return, security had been extremely severe. Jeremy stood in the shade of a grand oak tree a block from the palace, his back pressed lazily into the bark. He pulled a rolled cigarette from his pocket case and smoked thoughtfully as he studied the grounds.
"Where are you, Damon," He said between puffs. "I'm here."
"It was like fucking a dead body," Matthew shivered. "Her skin was cold enough."
He took a sip of bourbon from his glass and stared out of the window.
"Then why did you do it," Tyler asked.
"To prove a point," Matthew said shortly. He waived his hand dismissively. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't have a wife. You might have, if you hadn't gotten so hasty."
Vicki.
"I didn't meant to hurt her," Tyler said softly.
"Mmmyes," Matthew took another drink, "Her crushed windpipe was quite the indication of your gentle nature."
"What do you intend to do," Tyler changed the subject.
Matthew shrugged nonchalantly.
"Either she'll learn to accept me or…" He drifted off. "I cared for her once. She charmed my mother which was a feat unto itself. She was bright and lovely and," He shrugged, "She changed. Nothing was ever enough. She dared to ask me if I'd been faithful. This was before Matthew was born." He laughed dryly. "Misery. Always misery with her. But regardless—she is my wife. I will bed her as often as I choose."
Tyler watched Matthew keenly.
This was the man he loved—a cruel, vain and beautiful man.
"I meant what do you intend to do with Damon…?"
Matthew smiled into his glass.
"He took her," He said shortly. "He took her from me and debased her. It sickens me. I had my good doctor inject him with vervain. He hasn't moved in days. I'll rebuke him accordingly and have him executed when I decide that his punishment is just."
Matthew lifted his glass and clinked it to Tyler's.
"Cheers!"
"Cheers!"
He was cold, weak. In his cell, he heard sickening moans that would not end.
'Poor bastard,' thought Damon.
It took days for him to realize the moans came from his throat. It took several more to realize that he was under the incapacitating influence of vervain. Verbena. The Ancient Roman word sounded like a curse from Alaric's lips the first time Damon heard it.
"Verbena," He spat. "Juno's Tears. Devil's Bane. That is your Achilles' heel, Damon. All beings—supernatural or otherwise, have a weakness. It will do you well to familiarize yourself with yours."
It was then that Alaric's gloved hand pressed a charming violet flower bud into his chest. It burned in an ungodly fashion. His skin seared like meat over a fire. Damon had screamed in anguish in a way that he never had before. From that day forth, he remembered Vervain and inwardly hissed at the mere mention of its name.
There were no flowers pressed against him now, however. The advancement of medicine brought forth the ability to extract essential oils from flora. This was more dangerous that flower petals pressed to skin. This was the very essence of the blossoms being inserted into his body. It traveled through his vampire veins. His blood pushed itself through his circulatory system, moving on its own accord without assistance of his un-beating heart. And it burned in a way that he could not articulate.
He laid immobile in a cell beneath the Royal Palace. Here, there was no light and no sound—save the methodical drip of stagnant water from the ceiling to the stone floor. It was so dark that if Damon hadn't been bequeathed with vampiric vision, this cell would have been a tomb. Every morning at sunrise, a light tread of footsteps echoed across the dungeon. The sound grew louder until it was at his cell. A small man, a doctor perhaps, would inject Damon with vervain and disappear into the darkness while Damon writhed in a fog of pain.
On this day, though, the doctor did not come. Perhaps the doctor had something else in store for him, Damon couldn't say. But on the seventh day of his imprisonment, Damon received no vervain. He awoke.
When his eyes opened, they dilated to the darkness almost instantly. His bed was a stone slab covered in a thin, rough sheet of burlap. Imbedded in the stone were manacles, which held his wrists in a firm grip. He was naked, swollen and frail. His legs were free and he shuffled them weakly to and fro, pain ricocheting through his nerves. Damon grunted softly and bit down as he wriggled his toes and bent his knees to loosen the joints. His fangs sheathed wearily. He shut his eyes for a moment and turned his head, gazing through the darkness. The cell was small, no larger than eight feet by eight feet. It was fortified with thick slabs of brick and large bars in lieu of a door.
Damon had no concept of time in this space. It was a dank place that reeked of death. Damon could smell the lingering perfume of old blood. His fangs unsheathed with an incredible pang of hunger.
Where are you, Damon. I'm here.
He nearly cried out with joy. It was as if Jeremy was in the room with him. He had to be close. He was here. A tiny flicker of hope spread across Damon's chest. He might get out of here after all.
I'm in some sort of fucking torture chamber. I don't know where. Can you feel me nearby?
Damon waited a beat—hoping Jeremy would respond.
Yes. I feel you. I'll find you. Conserve your strength.
Damon closed his eyes with relief. He paused a beat and then…
Elena?
There was no response from Jeremy for a long moment. He felt himself tense, his limbs began to shake uncontrollably. What happened? Was she okay? The baby…?
She's in the Palace. We'll talk more when we meet. Be safe, brother.
Damon felt a pressure deflate from his chest. Relief. Just then, his attention was diverted to the sound of footsteps.
Hurry.
"Good," Matthew smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "You're awake."
Matthew stood in front of Damon's cell, his hands clasped casually behind his back. Beside him was Tyler, carrying a large torch that illuminated the dark dungeon with an bright orange glow. Matthew gestured towards the door and Tyler procured a key, opening it.
Matthew took the torch from Tyler and walked into the cell, placing it in a mouted fixture at the wall.
"Leave us," Matthew said over his shoulder.
Tyler's cool gaze turned alarmed as he turned to Matthew.
"Your Grace," He asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
Matthew turned his face back towards him.
"Leave now."
Tyler paused a heartbeat, looking at Damon, before he bowed.
"Yes, Your Grace."
Matthew watched as Tyler walked down the corridor, his footsteps growing lighter and lighter until he heard nothing at all. He then turned back to Damon, tilting his head as he stared at him.
"Seven days in a insufferable hole and you still look like a God," He remarked cooly.
Damon said nothing, though his eyes were pained, their gaze never leaving the Prince.
Matthew brushed imaginary dust off of the burlap sheet beside Damon and sat down near his thighs.
"Do you have anything you'd like to say," Matthew asked.
Damon watched Matthew for a long moment before speaking.
"Do you know that, even now, I could wrap my legs around your scrawny neck and snap it so fast that your head would seperate from your body."
Matthew chuckled.
"No need for empty threats, Salvatore. Killing me would accomplish nothing. You'd still be chained to a rock in an underground dungeon. Eventually, my men would find me."
"Your men," Damon asked, "Or your lover?"
A smile spread slow across Matthew's features.
"Lover. Loyalist. It makes no matter," He paused. "Did you suppose I'd feel threatened of your knowledge of who I take into my bed?"
Damon rolled his eyes, saying nothing.
"Speaking of my lovers," Matthew leaned forward, his hands drifting over Damon's face. "Can you smell yours?"
A small wave of scent drifted into Damon's senses. Cloves. Bourbon. Cologne. Roses. Elena. Elena. Elena.
His eyes dilated further and his teeth unsheathed so quickly that it was painful.
Matthew leaned back, a small smirk on his lips.
"I would have thought you'd smell her as soon as I walked into your cell. I'll excuse you-only because you've been heavily drugged for a week. Tell me...how does she smell...to a vampire?"
Damon's hands shook, his fingers curled into a fist.
"I can imagine," Matthew continued. "that she smells quite like...Perfection. Yes. Perfection. Rose water. Lemon Cakes. And right now, I'm sure you can catch the scent of her sweet little cunt."
Before Damon could even stop himself, his legs shot out clumsily towards Matthew, knocking him across the room. The sound was thick, solid. Matthew grunted and laid still on the floor for several beats before letting out a shaky chuckle. Damon yanked at his chains, the metal biting into his skin.
Matthew stood and dusted himself off.
"Did I offend you, Count," Matthew asked sweetly, his eyes transforming from mild fear back to calm. "Good."
"What do you want," Damon said between gritted teeth.
"Why did you kidnap my wife," Matthew asked. "What did you want?"
Damon stared at the stone ceiling as Matthew began to pace the room.
"There was no ransom note. I recieved no word of demands. So why did you take her?"
Matthew settled back against the bars for a moment.
"Or was it her you wanted," Matthew asked before laughing. "My sweet little wife. Did you think that you could just steal her away from me? She belongs to me. She belongs to Bulgaria. I own her."
Damon swung his head towards Matthew.
"You don't fucking own any part of her," He spat.
"Is that what she told you?" Matthew laughed. "Oh, I own her. I own her mind, I own her soul. I own those slender fingers and those long legs. I own those dainty feet that she dances on. And I even own that tight little sheath between her legs. I own it all. She belongs to me."
Matthew's voice had raised significantly. He pulled out a dagger from his waist and walked towards Damon, putting it under his throat.
"I had her this morning," He said softly. "She spread her legs for me like an eager whore. She moaned my name and thanked the Lord himself for my royal cock that was buried inside of her. That's my child she's carrying in her womb, sir. It was my seed that quickened there. My child."
He slid the blade softly across Damon's neck-ear to ear.
"You came into Sofia with a smile that hid lies and deceit. You played the wrong hand to the wrong Prince, my friend," Matthew paused for a long moment. "I know you fucked her."
The point of the dagger slid down his chest and stopped at his belly. Matthew held the hilt firmly and pushed deep. The blade penetrated through Damon like a sword through a cloud. Smooth, sure. Damon groaned, his eyes widening. Blood bloomed around the blade, creating red rivers that slid down his skin and into the burlap. Matthew twisted the knife half of a turn and leaned foward. His face was so close that if Damon hadn't felt dizzy, he could have bitten his neck. Damon arms shook violently, the pain spreading from his abdomen and through his body. Matthew pressed a kiss, softer than the brush of a feather, on Damon's lips.
"I'll leave this here as a reminder of your miscalculation."
He straightened and moved back, taking the torch from the wall.
"See you soon," He winked before moving out of the cell and locking it behind him.
Damon writhed in agony, his eyes were slits as he stared at the dagger that was plunged to the hilt inside of him.
Darkness washed over him, his body providing the only comfort it could give.