A Throne of Crimson and Moonlight

by heythereanna

"She had not been meant for boiling brews and reading tea leaves, no. She had been born for power. Bred for it, baptized in it. Consumed by it."

Title: Seven Devils
Author: heythereanna (Anna)
Pairing: Wouldn't you like to know?
Rating: MATURE; Language, Adult Content, Violence
Disclaimer: I own absolutely nothing, even though I wish I could take shake some sense into Julie Plec sometimes because she took all my ships and threw them into a meat grinder. But, ya know. Difference of opinion.
Author's Note: Keep in mind this is VERY AU and picks up at the end of season one of TVD. A huge thank you goes out to Katie. Thank you for encouraging me with this story, you are amazing and I don't know what I'd do without your support!

- - - - - x - - - - - -

Somewhere in the South of France, 1402

Carefully crafted ivory silk clings to her body. Gliding down her arms and ending at her elbows, it crosses her collarbones before it flows into a skirt that begins at her hips, following the gentle curves to the very meadow she stands upon. Waves of chestnut are pinned loosely from her golden flecked eyes with silver combs inlaid with sapphire, its royal intricacy as effortless as the woman who wears them. The sun gleams bright against the blooming flowers that cradle her on every side, wild and vibrant in her sun-drenched nirvana and she is Persephone that rivals its beauty. Her match stands right beside her, her very own Hades, and he is every bit a monument in his jet black tunic. He is hers, near raven hair swept back from his equally dark eyes, and his normally reserved expression in that of utter bliss. His smile is so rare, so handsome, and she savors every moment that she is a witness to its glory. He is a masterpiece, every inch of him so perfect that she would swear up and down that Lysippus himself carved his features.

Their union has been a tragedy from the beginning, her love already promised to another. But their hearts had called to one another like Apollo to the sun, and blasphemous as it may be she loves him with everything she has and more. It had not mattered that they were promised to other lives, promised to lives that would leave their hearts aching after one another for all of their days. Damned are they to taste such a fruit so forbidden, but who are they to refuse such a gift from whatever powers hover about them? Who are they but two tortured souls, destined to love each other to the ends of eternity, and who are they to deny what has so clearly been decided for them by something as all powerful as fate?

But to him she is more than fate. Powerful and divine, sacred to the blue sky above them and the earth beneath their feet - and he worships her with all of the strength in his soul. He tells her of the jealousy the sun once sparked within his heart, for it enveloped her with warmth so long before his arms could. How he sought to usurp the water that had reflected her visage before he could gaze upon her. How deeply he envied the rain for it fell upon her skin far before his hands could trace its pathways. How he would have gone to war with the moon that she would gaze upon so lovingly, if only to have her eyes meet him with such wonder. He loves her in a manner that he never thought possible, and she loves him so deeply that he forgets all the bloodied steps it took for him to find his place beside her. The bejeweled ring he slips onto her finger fuses to her body, his vows the missing piece of her soul, and she makes a solemn promise to never let it go.

Her promise is soft and simple, so unlike the bold and brilliant fire that burns within her. Joy coats her words like a lacquer, dripping from her melodic voice. She speaks of how she has always loved him, loved him endlessly, loves him to the brink of madness and her own destruction. Of the trust and faith she holds for him, in him; of the peace that he brings her chaotic spirit. Of how unbearably lost she would be without his grace, of how her heart would be swallowed up by the darkness within her without his love guiding her back to the light and all it brings. She binds herself to him from that moment forward and he swears he can see her magic glimmer around her. Tears spring in her eyes as she slips a simple silver band upon his finger before the priest ties a satin ribbon around their wrists. Her hands are as steady and sure as the initial carved into the crafted metal, a solid and permanent reminder that he belongs to her heart alone for all of eternity. There are no questions to answer, no riddles to ponder, no consequences to trouble them. It is a sworn oath they make to each other, a gentle and sainted promise reaffirmed over years of patient silence. He is her beginning, and she is his end. Together, they are infinite.

"I forsake all others and take thee as my husband, my protector, my heart..."

"I forsake all others and take thee as my wife, my love, my eternity..."

An original vampire and an all powerful witch; impossibly in love, willfully binding themselves together for as long as her eternity lasts. They are a rare and dangerous pair, their very existence daring the gods to smite them down with each passing moment - for how they must stew in their envy knowing they are no longer history's most perfect creation.

He kisses her tenderly, his hands cupping her cheeks and a smile spreads across her face as he murmurs his soft adoration held only for her. "Hello, my little witch..." He whispers against her lips, her heart singing because she is finally his. Her prior betrothal no longer matters, their vows blasting it into oblivion. She is immaculately and truly where she has been meant to be after all of her days walking upon this earth, where the cosmos have decreed her to belong - at his side for as long as they both shall live. He will keep her safe, he promises, even if it means burning down the whole world. They will be together for the rest of her life, and perhaps even his it if the heavens will it. They are one.

She wakes at daybreak, but there is no jolt of movement from her vivid dreams. There is only the opening of hazel eyes and a soft reserved sigh. She's grown used to her ghosts swooping in when her mind is left unguarded, when the walls of her mind recede just enough to allow sleep to make its way in. There had been decades, centuries where she would awake reaching for him, grasping at the shadows of the world about her for the familiar lines of his body. She would search for him in her bed only to find rustled sheets and empty air, her heart pounding in her ears while she would struggle to remember where he could possibly have gone. The memories have faded but are never forgotten, much like the man that haunts her dreams. She can't quite remember his face as easily as she used to, only hearing his words and playing through her most treasured moments. She silently thanks Father Time for taking mercy on her mind after the centuries that she's walked this earth.

An endless eternity set forward for her nearly six hundred and fifty years ago on this very day, when she died the bloodiest death a human could. With her throat torn open and nearly all of her blood drained from her body.

The ring still rests on her hand, the jewels glittering in the early morning sun as she begins to rise from the cold and empty bed. She holds it up in the light, watching its prisms shine ever so bright. He'd had it made just for her with gems that he'd amassed over his centuries, each stunning jewel symbolizing a part of her magic. A vivid green emerald for earth, a Mozambique ruby for fire, a Kasmir blue sapphire for water, a canary diamond for air, with sun and moon stones lining the opposite sides of the cluster for their respective makers. In the middle of the woven bands sits a diamond that shimmers like no other stone she's ever seen, the clarity unmatched. When she'd ask what the diamond had stood for, the center of the galaxy that the massive gem is, and he'd simply smiled and whispered, "why you, of course".

In all of her time in this world, she's kept her promise. The ring has never once left her hand, not even in death. She's never remarried, the fairy tale that her love was supposed to have been only bringing pain and loss to her world, and so she's made sure never to put herself through that heartache again. Despite its presence, her vows no long apply to how she lives her life. After all, you really couldn't be someone's wife if you'd been hiding from them the last six hundred years - or at least, that's what she had told herself every scattered moment she had felt an ounce of guilt for being happy in blissful solitude. She had spent centuries on her own, practicing penance for her past mistakes, but her life is more important than a battered promise that she made lifetimes ago. It what keeps her from feeling shame for being with any man other than her beloved husband, from being swallowed up whole by the grief.

She runs her hand through her long honey brown locks, exhaling the pressure that's built up in her chest from her masochistic thoughts. The air feels heavy around her, the weight of her past lives hanging all around her as she takes a deep breath in. She picks up the novel she's been reading, a story all about a scientist chasing an impossible and fleeting comet, and has half a mind to throw it out. She'd only picked it up to get a feel for the local culture - it had been written by a Tree Hill local, after all. Books like this, the ones that preach about fate and destiny, only seem to bring up her past life - one that she has tried so desperately to escape. But she restrains herself from pitching it in the trash, setting it down beside her reluctantly. She chooses to move forward as she's always done, effortlessly slipping out of the room without making a sound.

The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon as she delicately goes through the motions of her early rise. Each and every move is satisfyingly soundless as the world outside of her kitchen begins to wake. She can hear the swallows begin their morning tune as she stands at the marble countertop, watching the coffee maker sizzle. She likes it black - the color of her soul, she jokes - and so hot that she can see the broiling steam rise from the mug. She slips out the back door while the pot diligently putters away.

She's greeted by her private view of the Atlantic Ocean, breathing in the fragrant sea salt air as she lingers there. Her eyes are closed, a small smile on her lips, and she feels her familiar whisper from the white capped surf. It's always amazed her that no matter where she stands along its borders, whether it be here in North Carolina or across the pond on the frigid banks of the English coastline, her cool breeze still coils around her with a near maternal intimacy.

Hello, old friend. Her mind murmurs.

Welcome home, it hums back, and a serene smile spreads across her lips.

She can feel its power roll through her as she reaches for a nearby yoga mat, rolling the durable foam atop the faded wood of the porch. As she takes her stance, bringing one leg up to meet her knee and settling her hands into prayer, her body relaxes into its gravitational pull. She moves elegantly, her arms outstretching with her palms splayed open as she lets the air whip about her. She begins to stretch out her nimble limbs with each carefully crafted motion, quiet grace flowing through her like the ocean just beyond her. As pointless as it may be, her voluptuous body seems to enjoy the mundane act, reveling in the simple humanity of sunrise yoga. The locals swear by it, claiming the sea air heals the aches and pains that a long life lived brings, and she just smiles and nods when they tell her how lucky she is to have inherited her beloved great-grandmother's plantation, a woman who she bears a striking resemblance to. A dead ringer for Victoria Davis, or so the historical society says.

Foolish humans. How gullible they can be.

Her mind drifts through her memories as she spends the next hour contorting her agile body through an impressive routine, each turn of her body shifting the scene and each more evolved than the one prior. The world stands still about her, the only sounds in her ear the quiet lapping of the tide and the wind whooshing in her ears. In any other setting, she'd be forced to refuse her body's natural poise, to stifle its gifts in order to appear as human as she pretends to be. But here, on her own private stretch of beach that goes on for miles, she can show off as much as she likes. And she relishes in it. The regal maneuvers, the contortions that no body should be able to complete. She skips through decades, generations, centuries as she silently twists and turns to the sound of the waves slapping against the sand, her face the picture of tranquility throughout the finessed poses. Empires crumble, dynasties dissolve, bloodlines end, revolutions rage. And she?

She remains.

"Sixteenth century, Rome, Borgia court."

Her hazel eyes open from the sound of his deep timbre as she maintains her pose - the kala bhairavasana. One leg locks behind her head while the one arm and one foot keeps her body hovering from the ground; her other hand points skyward and her eyes follow its length. The name loosely translates to the destroyer of the universe and she finds it fitting. After all, what else could you call an immortal being who had been alive for over six hundred years?

Her lips tug into an inviting smile, her gaze not shifting a muscle. She doesn't need to look up to know who stands before her, to see the jet-black hair mussed with sleep and the deep brown eyes wordlessly searching her features for some hint of an answer. The man that stands in the doorway beside her is her partner of sorts, a bond born out of trauma and dysfunctional loneliness. He's her ship in the night, although the generation that currently walks the earth would call him her "friend with benefits" - a term that she would rather die that use.

She won't dare reveal that she's heard her lover try to sneak up on her for the last ten minutes or so, from the moment that she heard him open the kitchen cabinet just a bit too quickly. That would ruin the fun of the little morning ritual that they've been practicing for the last sixty years, a small familiar comfort in the wanderlust driven life that she's built for herself and welcomed him into with open arms. He keeps her on her toes, ever the mischievous eternal being, and she adores him all the more for it.

"Eighteenth century." She sighs out ever so quietly, looking up at him as she shifts her body into a handstand with unnatural ease. Her feet lower before her head as she curves into her final pose, the taraksvasana - otherwise known as the handstand scorpion. She gives him a Cheshire cat grin. "Paris, Palace of Versailles, tea time. Marie Antoinette was wearing the most god awful chartreuse hat. The thing should've been burned."

He walks to their nearby porch swing with a soft chuckle, coffee cups in hand as he takes a seat. Her gaze meets his, watching him regard her twisted form in nothing short of amusement as she bends her body to her will. "Gives a whole new meaning to off with her head." His English accent drawls darkly as he tilts his own ever so slightly, concern furrowing his handsome brow. "You're up earlier than usual. The nightmares again?"

She dismounts silently before rolling up the mat and setting it beside the door. Her gaze wanders back to the ocean, giving the ice-cold water one more look before she walks to his side. He always knows when she's been dreaming of the lives long past, having woken her from more than few when her screams would reach him. He can read it so easily that she swears it's tattooed on her skin. She doesn't have it in her to talk about it today, to let those demons unfurl their shadow spun wings. Not when she's nowhere near her full strength and feeling the pull of her visions, and certainly not when she hasn't properly fed in days. Unlike him, bagged blood never does the trick. She's always needed it straight from the vein.

She takes the mug from his hand as she settles in beside him, her legs curling beneath her body. Her free hand tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her heart shrieking desperately to avoid answering the question. "Why can't we ever just start with good morning? Good morning, Brooke. Good morning, Enzo." She teases, relaxing her thoroughly stretched frame into the swing as she sips her coffee. It burns her lips, the pain just enough to keep her focused. "Would that be so hard? To pretend that we're as young as we look and not so...ancient?"

"Mocking me to try to change the subject, hmm?" Enzo grumbles from his spot at her side. His near black eyes drift up and down her curves, studying her with a smirk. He's always had a weakness for her body and she doesn't mind it one bit. Especially if it distracts him from his current line of questioning. "I'll allow it, I suppose - but only because you've got about five centuries on me. So that would make you ancient, not me."

Brooke laughs as she leans back in her seat. She takes another sip of her coffee, enjoying the scalding brew. She's learned to relish in these small moments. Quiet small talk over a hot cup of coffee before the days begun, a song long forgotten popping up on the radio, the smell of a wayward jasmine and honeysuckle laced wind wafting through the trees that surround the property as she walks the plantation grounds. She's sure that to the outside eye, they seem like an everyday occurrence, and as a mere woman that's exactly what they would have been to her - minutes so fleeting that they ended before she could snap her fingers. But immortality had taught her that these passing moments had always been the most precious part of her soul, the facet she grasps at every single day she's spent on this earth since her wholly human heart had pumped its final beats.

Her humanity.

She sighs as she begins to return to the real world, the sea air shifting about them. Anticipation crackles and it does nothing for the hunger that rumbles through her veins, gulping down the burning need that's begun to build in the back of her throat. "How much time before we head to Whitmore?" Brooke asks as she drinks the coffee, debating on filling the void with something a little more carnal.

His calloused hand slides along her leg as if he can sense her body humming with desire, perhaps the shift in her scent or the heat of her skin. Her legs sprawl across his lap and he takes advantage of every inch she gives him with a touch that could melt even the strongest will. "Not enough time for me to get you out of those delicious yoga pants, if that's what you're angling at." He all but growls, looking at his watch and shrugging slightly. "A half hour, at most. You got enough self-control in that gorgeous body of yours to keep your cravings in check, or should I be packing you a juice box?"

She rolls her eyes at his words, smirking. "I can restrain myself - in more ways than one." She says with a giggle, shoving his hand away playfully as her laughter helps to shut down her urges - but the darkness lingers in her hazel eyes. "Leftovers won't cut it today, anyway."

Enzo's deep brown eyes meet hers with an insatiable need of his own, brooding and dangerous in its own right. He keeps his thirst quenched with blood bags pilfered from the local hospital, thanks to his devilish smile and outstanding compulsion stills, but this is a different kind of hunger - the kind only she can sate. His hands dart out at lighting speed, yanking her into his lap. Her legs straddle him, his hands sliding up the backs of her legs, and he grins up at her. It's how they operate, using sex to keep each other a little more whole. It's a distraction for them, a helpful pastime to stave off the cravings for blood and kill the loneliness in their hearts. It's simple, it's easy, and it's comforting - and not to mention, damn good. Damage seeks damage, and the two of them are proof of it.

"Remind me why we can't just feed on the locals. It would be so much simpler than driving five hours just to get your fill." He whines, ever the petulant child. At least some things don't change with age.

His touch does nothing to disarm her, her manicured hand trailing along his strong jawline. "Because we don't live where we eat." Brooke says with a certain emphasis. Her hand drops, holding out her arms to the stunning property that surrounds him. "The locals already think this place is haunted with the ghosts of old slaves and right now, we're just an attractive twenty something couple who have taken over my great grandmother's estate. When people start disappearing, they always blame it on the creepy stories. Do you really want someone to come over those gates and figure out what we are? Because I certainly don't."

"Oh come on, one little dine and dash in three centuries wouldn't kill you." He leans in, nuzzling his nose against the curve of her neck.

She opens her mouth to rebut his point, to snap on him, but an unfamiliar voice in the air stops her. Her hand presses to his chest and forces him back into the swing. She can feel him begin to protest but the look that crosses her face is enough for him to stay quiet, her gaze shifting around them as she feels her feet practically tugging her up. Her skin prickles painfully, a dull ache at best. She's ignoring every intuition that's rushing through her body, attempting to press it down as her sense's over-dramatics. She's about to write it off as a yell from down the beach, turning to set about the rest of the day's preparations, when a crow caws from across the porch.

"Lower your hackles, darling." Enzo's words are soft, tentative, cautious - but he doesn't move. He knows far better than to move too swiftly near her when she's in this state.

The rising tide within her is an ominous signal. Something hangs on the horizon on her least favorite day of the year. She needs to watch her step, and she won't dare to doubt whatever sensation is calling out to her. A being of her caliber should know better than to deny what the elements whisper in the corners of her mind, she reasons as her eyes dart around the perimeters. There isn't a sound for miles, but something feels like it's peeking in, intruding on their solace. But she just can't see it, can't focus enough to pin the energy.

She doesn't want to worry him, and so she smiles as if everything's perfectly fine, nudging his nose with hers before she dismounts to her feet. "No locals, Enzo. End of discussion." She says with finality as she ignores the nagging pain that's settled into her side. "There's only so much that we can hide by being discrete. Because there's an animal attack, and then there's..." She pauses, grinning as she leans down to him, grasping his strong chin and bringing her so close to her lips that they nearly kiss. "Well, there's me."

He tilts his head ever so slightly with intrigue, grinning up at her. "Planning on toying with your prey today, darling?" Enzo teases as he leans forward in his seat, sliding his hands up the backs of her thighs and up the curve of her waist. He pulls her in close again and the mirth has returned to his handsome features, the sly glimmer sparkling in his gaze, and he leans in just enough to make sure that his words are a warm whisper on her skin. "Well, I'll be sure to pack my own snack then. A man like me is nothing if not prepared. I know better than to get in your way when you're hungry."

She sighs, shaking her head with a half-moon grin on her own. "What can I say, I'm a little bored of juice boxes and easy kills. Maybe a little cat and mouse will spark my excitement." She presses down on his chest and spins out of his hands with her cat like reflexes, her raspy voice carrying over her shoulder. "You know I love a good chase."

His deep laugh booms across the porch as he remains in his seat, shaking his head. "Brooke Davis and dramatics. Seems like the appropriate gift for your death day, love." Enzo quips as she walks into the house, and his voice follows her all the way in.

But unfortunately for her, it's not the only presence that does.

- - - - - x - - - - - -

Like all dreary awful days do, it starts with a storm brewing. It's the kind of rain that you swear cleanses the earth of its sins, drowning everything in its path. Flood advisories blare on the television, backroads have turned to nothing but mud and gravel, landslides are an eminent threat and the entire town's buckling down to weather it.

But that's not the force of nature that he's worried about. The sky may have opened up into a goddamn tsunami, but the eye of the storm rages just within the confines of the Salvatore Manor.

He's just finished boarding up a busted window in his family home - courtesy of two very pissed off Civil War era vampires who had tried to sneak up on him and his brother, leading to one of the newly resuscitated finding his very untimely end. It's a menial task, but it's better than listening to his younger sibling and his girlfriend yell at him for the mistakes that he's made this time around. Yes, he'd been the one to go and open up that godforsaken tomb because he had been trying to pull Katherine from its confines and yes, he'd been the one to leave the blood bag inside after losing whatever's left of his mind over not being able to find her. All he'd wanted was a second chance with his girl, to end the eternity of pining after her that he thought he'd have to suffer through. This had been his light at the end of the tunnel, and without that...he'd be right back where he started. Driven by his emotions, promising to give his brother an eternity of misery, and utterly alone. And to be completely alone with his switch clearly flipped back on? It's not just a death sentence. It's his worst nightmare.

So he'd thrown a bag of blood at the wall, watching in agony as the crimson liquid dripped down the ancient stones. It hadn't exactly been his smartest move in the last few decades, considering the tomb was infested with desiccated vamps that the world had though burned to a nice smoky crisp, but it's not as if he didn't close the tomb right. That fault lies entirely on the shoulders of the beloved Bennett witches. But are they getting screeched at by Elena Gilbert this early in the morning? No, of course not, because that would mean that precious Bonnie Bennett had done something wrong in her best friend's eyes, and that would be a sacrilegious event worthy of Vatican intervention. Priests would be called, votes would be cast, the whole damn shebang. It would take a certifiable act of God himself for Bonnie to be anything but the victim here.

Stupid. Fucking. Witches. If they hadn't been so determined to trap him in that godforsaken tomb with the rest of those creepy little skeletons, they wouldn't have screwed them all over. They had one job and they couldn't even do that right. Their potion addled brains had been too clouded by their own misguided vengeance. Ironic, considering he'd tried to save Emily Bennett from being burned at the stake all those years ago. Guess they missed that part in the history section of her grimoire.

And then, Grandma Witchy Woo and all her mystical wisdom and power had to go and die on them, because the bitch hadn't done enough damage. Sheila's lucky that he can't reach into the afterlife, because he'd have dragged her back and ripped her pretty little head off for bailing before she could clean up the shit show of a mess she's left him with.

He should've never come back here, he thinks to himself as he hears Elena continue to yell, the sound of her shrill voice something like a gnat flying about his ears. All Mystic Falls has brought him is pain and suffering - oh, and a life without the woman he's supposed to be with for all of time, even after everything he'd done to make sure that he'd be with her in the end. If this town had just cut him one little break, he'd be on some remote island making up for lost time with Katherine Pierce and not watching her doppelganger foolishly attempt to tear him a new asshole. But that would have required his soulmate to not be a conniving, cunning murderous bitch - but then again, he wouldn't love her if she wasn't the monster she so clearly is.

And now he can't leave, not now that Pearl's alive and well. That's a nice little notch in the fuck Damon Salvatore column of his life. He has to stay, all because the new leader of the psychotic little tomb vamp community might know where Katherine actually is after all of this time. He isn't sure what he'll even do to Katherine when he finally gets his hands on her, but tearing her heart out of her chest sounds awful good right now. Or tearing off her clothes. He hasn't made a decision on that one yet.

She's still rambling on when he finally tunes into her soapbox moment, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head from the sheer dramatics of it. "...and of course, Damon gets what he wants as usual. No matter who he hurts in the process."

His gaze narrows dangerously, a silent warning that his temper is threatening to burst out of control. She really doesn't get the whole vampire thing. Like the fact that he could rip open her carotid artery and drain her dry without breaking a sweat, all before Stefan could even breathe. He's not his bunny bound little brother, and sometimes he thinks that she would do well to remember that.

"You don't have to be snarky about it." Damon snaps, his blue eyes piercing through the war that wages between them. The dance that they've been stomping into the floor has worn through to the ancient ground that lies beneath it and he's tired of doing the same little two step with her. She thinks he's an impulsive asshole, he thinks that she's a child pitching a temper tantrum the size of Texas. There's a bevy of repressed sexual tension in the air whenever he gets near her, which she denies with every breath inside of her lungs. She eventually forgives him and he wonders if he'll ever be worthy of her.

But this time, his patience with the elder Gilbert is wearing thin.

Elena matches his rage, indignantly folding her arms across her chest. "I woke up this morning to learn that all the vampires have been released from the tomb. I've earned snarky." She volleys in response, and he nearly groans just from the cliched trope of her petulant behavior. Boo hoo, someone pissed in your cheerios. Buck up kid. The world's a big scary place, might as well get used to it. Especially when your bed fellow is a vampire eight times your age.

Damon flops into a nearby chair with a beleaguered look of annoyance, trying to placate her as best he can. "Exactly how long are you going to blame me for the tomb being opened?" He sighs out with a certain melodrama to his voice, keeping his normal snide smirk from appearing on his lips. "It's getting a little old. Kind of like your lectures."

But she holds firm, refusing to cave to his side step. The sneer on her face is enough to make his blood boil. "I'm not blaming you, Damon. I've accepted the fact that you're a self-serving psychopath with no redeeming qualities." Elena dead pans, and it takes everything in him not to snap her neck right then and there.

He hates the way she speaks to him, the ridiculous sense of superiority she carries as if her life depends on it. And the way that she pretends that there's absolutely nothing between the two of them doesn't do her any favors with him either. She's his brother's girl, she's a Gilbert, she's a Petrova - he gets it already. She thinks she's far too good for him and he knows that his brother is the better man. But he's grown tired of dealing with her impish behavior for the umpteenth time. Instead of throwing another jab her way, he just gets up and walks out because there's clearly no point in trying to reason with someone as self-righteous and narrow minded as she is.

Or at least, that's what he tells himself - because there's no way a self-serving psychopath has feelings that could be hurt, right?

He misses when he had just been the bad guy, when his switch had been flipped off to the outside world. It had made dealing with this so much easier. An eternity of misery, that's what he's supposed to give his brother. Not stick around to play some twisted version of house with him and Elena. That's the furthest thing from what he wants, especially now that his switch is back on and there's all sorts of uncomfortable emotions when it comes to Elena. Sensitivity to her wants and desires, explosive responses to her rebuffs, jealousy when she shows her love for Stefan, this absurd need to protect her. It makes him rash, makes him destructive, makes him dangerous to everything around him.

Things would've been so much simpler if Katherine had just gone into the goddamn tomb.

He's winding back the old grandfather clock to keep himself occupied after the threesome's little spat when he hears Stefan come around the corner, the rain pounding on the roof like a tropical monsoon. Damon leans back from his task to find his little brother dressed for the weather, raising an eyebrow at him in curiosity as he passes. "Hunting party?" His tone is nothing short of condescending, as always.

Stefan glowers and he breezes past him. Ah, there it is, the high horse that he likes to ride in on when he's judging him for his choices in life. Maybe that's why Elena loves him so much, because he holds the same regard for anyone who disappoints him in the slightest. They should get matching horses. Saddles, bridles, the whole thing. "That guy did a number on me last night when he stabbed me, gotta get my strength back up." He mutters, clearly irritated with his antics.

Damon smirks, unable to stop himself from taking a jab at the resident wildlife patrol. It's just not natural. To live without human blood is denying every instinct a vampire has - intuitions that they're going to need if something more than a home invasion comes of the tomb vamps. "I've got two liters of soccer mom in the fridge, if you feel like actually being a vampire today. We wouldn't want the forest animals to stage an uprising against you." He drawls, raising an eyebrow brazenly. He likes to make it well known he doesn't approve of his brother's non-carnivorous lifestyle, especially during times as risky as these. It isn't like he's asking him to go full ripper, to completely give in to the insatiable need for blood that Stefan carries with him. It's a blood bag that had been given willingly, no lives lost and no violence needed.

But Stefan looks like he's just asked him to rip the head off of some innocent cheerleader, looking at him with his normal reserved disgust. He's ever the martyr, no surprise. Woe is me has always seemed to fit him best anyway. "Talk when I get back?" He sighs out as he zips up his jacket - as if he needs it.

God, he really is an awful vampire.

Damon rolls his eyes, his smart mouthed grin in full force. "Give my regards to the squirrels." He calls after him, laughing softly to himself.

He's expecting him to be gone an hour, maybe two tops. He's not exactly sure what the bunny to vampire ratio needed is for a recovering stab victim, but when hour three rolls around he gets a nagging feeling in his gut that something's wrong. By hour four, he's called Elena six times with his concerns - all of which she's blatantly refused to answer. Normally he's got a soft spot for her, but right now she really needs to stop being a bigger pain in the ass than usual. There's twenty-six vengeful tomb vamps on the lookout for them - well, twenty-five after the one that they'd staked last night - and not a ray of sun in the sky. The thought of the Pearl and her cronies pulling a snatch and grab on Stefan isn't a far-off possibility. In fact, it's closer to being a certainty, by the minute and he's not dragging Elena into what's clearly a family matter. She shows up at the last moment, demanding to know why Stefan isn't answering her calls, and he's convinced into letting her come along - as long as she doesn't take one step out of his car.

He approaches the little brick farmhouse on the outskirts of town that they've holed up in, the rain pounding down on him as he practically runs up the stairs. It looks so innocuous, like the door would open to reveal a perfectly normal family. But he knows better, knows that things are never what they seem. It's the perfect choice for a hideout, completely under the sheriff's radar and far enough away from town that no one will actually stumble upon it. His choice is usually the most expensive foreclosure in town, the ones that realtors can't ever manage to get rid of, but to each their own.

His fist slams against the door as he yells out to whoever may be listening, his voice filled with vengeance. "Pearl! Open this door, or I swear to God I'll bust through it and rip your condescending face off!"

The door swings open only to reveal the vampire who'd attacked him and Stefan the night before and he mentally cringes. Twelve hours ago, he'd ripped the heart out of the man's comrade in arms and this guy had shoved a stake in his brother's gut. This isn't going to go well.

"Miss Pearl's not home." The man drawls lazily, leaning out of the door to the house with a smirk as he gazes up at the sky. There's a glimmer of satisfaction that makes his skin go on edge. "Hmm...beautiful weather we're having, don't you think? Not a ray of sun to be seen."

"Where is my brother?" Damon all but snarls, leering at the man in his way.

The malicious grin that sweeps across the man's face sends a chill down his spine, watching as he turns into the vampire laden house. "Hey, Billy? Damon Salvatore's looking for his brother. You seen him?" He calls down the hallway behind him, and the twisted smirk that reaches his lips tells him all he needs to know before his little brother is dragged into the hall with two revenge seeking tomb residents.

Stefan's choking on air, bent over with his arms pinned behind his back and scarcely able to walk. One of the vampires holds a wooden stake precariously close to his chest, aimed just below his heart, while the other holds him still. His mouth hangs open, slack jawed as he tries to get sound out, but no noise comes from his strained chest. The aftereffects of a vervain injection are written all over his anguished features as he sags to the scuffed hardwood floor, unable to hold up his own body. There's only one thing he knows for certain as he watches his brother in agonizing pain.

He's going to kill them all.

"You. Are. Dead." Damon seethes. He charges forward, gripping the frame of the door he's currently trying to get through. The petrified wood squeals beneath his hands, but his efforts are futile as he slams into the imaginary wall between him and the inside of the house, and his eyes go wild with rage.

"Woah, I'm sorry. You haven't been invited in." The man before him says with a snide smile. "Miss Givens?"

No, no, no. There can't be a human here, because if there is...

"Yes, Fredrick, honey?" A brunette woman steps forward and he grimaces. The middle-aged woman, looks like your typical Susie Homemaker, apron and all, but that's not what makes his stomach churn. Miss Givens, if that's even her name, has neck lined with bite marks that have yet to heal. His eyes drift south to find that her wrists too are imprinted with razor sharp wounds. They're using her as a blood bag and as a vampire free shelter - but she's none the wiser thanks to the compulsion that she's been placed under.

He'd been wrong earlier. All thoughts of a life without Katherine slip from his mind, flowing away as fast as the rain hits him.

This is his worst nightmare.

The vampire pauses, his eyes glinting with malice. "Never let this bad man in." Fredrick says quietly, turning to look at the helplessly innocent Miss Givens as he utters his command.

She smiles dreamily, her pupils dilating as the compulsion takes effect, and her voice is almost child-like when she repeats the words back to them. "I'll never let him in." She parrots under the control that grasps her mind, her faultless gaze drifting up and down Damon's body. There isn't another word before she tilts her head like a marionette doll and walks away in her conscious slumber.

No. This cannot be happening. He can't be stuck out here, mere feet from the torture that's occurring. He's supposed to run in and save the day. He's supposed to protect his younger brother, not watch helplessly while they rip him to shreds like some kind of rabid animal because of a goddamn supernatural technicality. The expression on his face is nothing short of dread as he slams his hands against the door frame in futile anger, clamoring to get in and race to his brother's defenseless side, but all he's met with is the smug comments from the vampire before him.

"One hundred and forty-five years left starving in a tomb thanks to Katherine's infatuation with you and your brother." Frederick growls, his voice dangerously low. There's a certain madness to his gaze, a manic twitch to his features as he speaks. There's no reasoning to be made, no deal to be brokered. This is senseless revenge at its finest. "The first few weeks, every single nerve in your body screams with fire. That kind of pain? It can drive a person insane." He hisses, his feral gaze shifting behind him once more. "I thought your baby brother might want to get a taste of that before I killed him."

On the man's cue, a wooden stake is shoved into Stefan's side, plunging through his flesh with ease. He wordlessly bellows from the wound, sucking in air as he collapses to the ground. Damon's forced to watch, utterly at the mercy of the delinquents before him. He can't even get words out as he tries to process what's happening. He can't get in the house; he has zero back up and his brother's all but dead. He doesn't know what to do, his flailing thoughts trying to come up with some sort of plan - there isn't enough time. The madhouse has been opened and all of the patients are running wild in this godforsaken city, except Damon doesn't have nearly enough cages to coop them all up. There's no way through that doesn't end with blood on his hands and someone he loves paying the cost.

Frederick, the clear ringleader of the group now that Pearl has run off, wears a maniacal Cheshire Cat grin as he swings the door shut in his face, his words ringing out like a gunshot.

"You have a nice day."

- - - - - x - - - - - -

She should have taken the damn juice box when she had the chance, because drinking a bag of thick cold coagulated blood had to be better than this.

Her move had been to get to Whitmore as soon as possible, to stifle whatever energy that had begun to reach for her with fresh blood slipping down her throat, and so she'd rushed Enzo out at breakneck speeds. She'd tried to write it off as her death day weighing harder than usual, as the worry of the rain making the hunt all the more difficult, as wanting to get back to Tree Hill before the full moon crept up on them. She'd thrown everything but the truth at him, and he'd finally caved. She'd even allowed him to take her in the ridiculous truck he insists upon driving, the one he'd never quite been able to rationalize to her, without even so much as a peep. She just slipped into the front seat without a word, rested her forehead to the door and turned up the music.

The rain had started to come down in sheets about an hour ago, back when she thought she could play through the pain. It ricochets off the windows of the truck, turning the roads to muck. Enzo had mumbled about how this is the reason he'd bought the truck in the first place, but she'd refused to engage with him. She'd kept her eyes focused on the rain, willing the water to mold to her bones and heal her body of its current ailment. She'd pictured in slipping in through a crack in the door and crawling onto her skin, envisioned it travelling to her side and holding it close. She'd willed it to be real, for the pain to stop, but the second they'd hit the Virginia state line it had skyrocketed through the roof. It's as if crossing the border had torn off some mystical band aid that had been holding over the discomfort she'd felt earlier. Her entire body feels as if something monumentally bigger than herself is dragging her down tooth and nail to the pits of hell. The ache, the crow, the nagging feeling in her gut, it's all colliding at once and she feels agony rear its vicious head.

Enzo's watches her curl up in the front seat like a feral animal for the next two hours, scrunching her body up in every position possible in an effort to make the sensations stop. Every time she catches his eye, his concern has only magnified. There's no point in hiding it from her protector as they drive through what's looking to be the storm of the decade at break neck speeds - which she's sure is for her own good. Even if she had wanted to bury it deep, she can't. Her strained face tells the story all for her and his speed increases with every mile. She's still telling herself that it'll all be alright, that her hunger's just taken a new turn for the worst for the first time in five centuries, but when she nearly doubles over in writhing torture even she has to admit that this is outside of the realm of even her normal constraints.

She can't outrun this; can't find the escape hatch to the mess she's found herself in. It roars through her bones like a freight train, decimating any sort of stability that her mind has managed to cling to. She struggles not to cry out in pain as she feels a stabbing pain in her side, ripping through her body like teeth sinking into skin. The feelings that she'd only just begun to endure at their home have gained new life, flying through a second wind with a vengeance. The same jagged voices begin to scream through her mind like banshees, torturing her with their venomous hiss and snarl. And when she can no longer quiet them, she knows with absolute certainty that something is terribly wrong. This isn't her body begging for blood or her energy needing to be charged. This is old magic, an ancient energy that's clawed its way out of someone's grimoire and has turned her into the prey.

The apex supernatural predator, turned into a sniveling desperate mess by magic. If she hadn't felt like ripping her own skin off sounded like a viable option for the mess she's currently in, the irony would have probably sent her keeling over in laughter.

"Brooke, I need you to talk to me." Enzo helplessly pleads from her side, trying to keep his eyes on the road as they dash between the muddied mess and her crippled features. His voice is strained, and for the first time in a century, he looks genuinely scared. "Should I turn around? Should I keep going? What should I do?"

His hand slides over her thigh, trying to find some way to console her, and she shoves it off with a strangled moan. Her skin burns from his touch, hissing at the intrusion. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but she knows the horror that must crease his handsome features. Touch is how they communicate, how they connect, and now the thought of him laying a finger on her skin makes her stomach roll.

She wants to tell him that everything's going to be okay, that she can ride the pain out a little while longer, to lie through her teeth one last time if only to save him some hurt. But the torturous heat that spreads through her body like wildfire takes over. An apology bubbles up her throat but when her mouth opens to speak, the pain lances across her chest with the force of a hunter's knife and the scream that erupts from her is enough to make any man's stomach turn.

And her lover? It would make them wish they were dead.

And it does. Enzo grasps the steering wheel and throws their truck off the road so hard that they nearly wind up stuck in a ditch - which would just be the icing on their proverbial clusterfuck of a cake - and unbuckles his seat belt. He's moving towards her now, but the world around her feels like it's underwater. Everything moves in slow motion, and then a voice breaks through the haze.

Get out get out get out get out get out.

The words sing their torturous melody into the air as his weathered hands reach for her, desperately trying to soothe her pain. She doesn't think, doesn't falter. She simply obeys because whatever is coming isn't going to stop when it reaches her. Enzo will forgive her someday for not allowing him to be her collateral damage, that had never been part of their deal. No one would be harmed but her in this. The doors to the pick up fly open with flick of her hand before he can get a hold of her frame, leaving him to find only empty air slipping between his fingers.

"Brooke!"

She can just barely hear his bellow when she dives out of the truck like a madwoman. The rain pelts her body like small liquid bullets, thunder rolling through the air. She lands straight into a puddle of pungent mud and rain, howling out wordlessly as she tries to draw in relief from the water she's found herself in. The elements are all around her in the storm, crackling in the air and flashing through the sky with their godly force as they overwhelm the world, but the foul voice from the beach still hangs in the air like a specter. She wills nature's power into her body, pulling at her magic as her very skin sops up all of the magical energy around her like it's her last meal. Her actions are frantic, all caution thrown to the wind. She's lapping at any energy she can find, not giving a damn where it's coming from or who might be looking in. Something's coming, something more than a simple spell or possession, and she needs to be strong enough to fight it.

But not even the power from the torrential downpour is enough to combat whatever force is coming for her. The water can't give her what she needs in this fight. The intruder is older than a grimoire, something she's never felt before, and there's not many of those types of magic left in this world and not many beings strong enough to wield it. Unless...

Brooke convulses as her unseen attacker stabs at her skin, her thoughts slipping from her mind as agony becomes the focus. There's no blood, no open wounds, just a trail of absolute venom seeping throughout her body. Her hands follow its unseen path and clutch at her sides, her chest, her bare wrists. The pain surrounds her like a deadly poisonous haze and there is no salvation to take away her torment. Only the rain and the screams and the flames that burn under her skin are her answer, licking at her with malice. She can't think, can't shield herself, can't keep her counterpart safe from whatever's coming after her. All of her magic is handcuffed by the pain. Every part of her body feels like it's been doused in battery acid as she crunches her eyes shut to fight it off, but there's no use. The villain that seeks her isn't of this world, the power tearing through her like her mind as flimsy as a garden gate, and she can't fight back anymore.

She's thrown onto her back by the presence, her spine arching painfully. She can hear bones popping, ligaments tearing, and her surrender to the violence is anything but sweet. All she can do is let her voice tear her lungs out as she relinquishes all control to whatever's trying to grasp her reins, praying the oblivion doesn't reach him too. "RUN!" Brooke screams out in her final lucid moments, willing him to flee from whatever is coming.

And then, she's flying.

Her entire form is all but thrown straight towards the sky, her hands hung forcefully above her head in mid air as her feet just barely drag across the ground. She becomes a human voodoo doll to the potent momentum that courses through her body, subject to whatever her captor desires. She can feel her mind open up to the all-consuming energy calling out for her, and she prepares to open her eyes to any of the countless enemies that she's made over the last six centuries. She's exposed, vulnerable, and helpless - three things that a being of her caliber has trained never to be.

There are ways out, ways that she could guard her mind and protect her secrets. But she has to know who it is, because to see the soul who's been seeking her out for the last four hours is the only offensive move that she can make. She needs an upper hand in this, to understand how to battle, and so she finally opens her eyes.

But the world has shifted.

Gone is the rain and the woods and the terrifying agony, leaving Brooke hung somewhere she's never seen before. Her body still soaked to the bone, shivering from the cool air that now surrounds her. Her body's still hanging in the air somewhere close to Whitmore College, and she realizes that the pulling she'd felt hadn't been hypothetical. It had been transporting her here, wherever here is, and she tries to get her bearings in this illuminated vision. Her eyes dip to her feet, to the dirt that sits beneath her boots and the dingy white brick walls that surround her, and she knows she's deep beneath any sort of structure. A basement? A root cellar? What the hell would want her here in this place so far from the rest of the world?

A groan about ten feet before her sets her on edge. Hackles stand at attention as she bares her fangs, jagged daggers replacing the normal stunning smile. Her eyes turn a perfect shade of gold as she prepares to face whatever may lie before her, and Brooke finally raises her head up to meet whatever's dragged her down here.

Her attacker's face is hidden, his head hanging low in defeat. She can see every detail with a supernatural clarity: his hair matted to his forehead, the bead of the sweat rolls down his tightened jaw as he jerks against restraints that hold him upright, the scorched skin beneath them. His face strains with harrowing anguish, his handsome features contorted from the excruciating toll he's endured. His body's mirrors hers, strung up and teetering in mid air while his captors yank him higher and higher from the concrete floor his feet skate over. He groans out in pain, his muscles seizing in the most unnatural of ways as he swings in the air like a pendulum. Mustering up what strength he has left, he throws his head back, revealing himself to her.

The moment his hopeless gaze locks on hers, her entire body sags. Fangs recede, hazel and emerald return, and a sob escapes her lips. Of all the magic that she'd thought she'd been fighting, all the powerful witches, she'd never considered the most obvious answer.

That the magic had been her own.

Her own spell. Her own energy. The very power that thrums beneath her skin spun around a ring that she had created so long ago that she had nearly forgotten about it.

A ring made to protect her dear friend, a man that had been used as a toy by one of the most spiteful women she's ever had the misfortune of meeting, a human that had been tricked into becoming a vampire.

A ring that she'd bound in with a caveat, a back door, a mystical smoke signal for if they truly would need her. That the need only close their eyes and search for her, and there should be before.

And as she chokes out a sob, she knows that she'd recognize those amber eyes anywhere.

"Stefan?"

- - - - - x - - - - - -

He sees Elena come out of the car as he goes running back to his Mustang, grimacing as the foolish little human comes running out with her umbrella. At least she'd waited in the car until he came out, he can only imagine the holy hell that would've occurred if a human had come to that door - especially one that's a dead ringer for the vampire they all despise. Would they have tortured her like her boyfriend, or would they just have torn her to shreds on sight? He doesn't want to even risk finding out the answer.

The rain is pelting down on him when he gets to her. Every drop feels like a thousand-pound weight hanging from his neck, dragging him further down into the pit he's dug himself. But it's not him at the bottom. It's Stefan. It's the brother that would rather snack on bunnies and chipmunks than hurt a human, the one who's done everything in his power to be a better man. It's the one that had been compelled into keeping Katherine's secret, the one who doesn't deserve their wrath. Stefan's paying for Katherine's sins, for his rage, for all of the things that he had no had in - and now he has to explain to his brother's girlfriend why he may not be coming back to them.

"What happened?" She demands, her doe eyes flooded with concern. "Where is he?"

Damon pauses, shaking his head. He'd give anything to turn off the guilt in his chest, but this one he has to take. "They...they have him." He can see the pain flash into her eyes, the agony, and he realizes how painful it is to watch her - because he longs for the day that she'll feel that much for him. "I can't get in." He utters in defeat.

"Why not?" Elena all but sobs, looking around him as if the answers are somehow lingering in the rain that falls around them.

He tries to keep her calm, choosing his words as carefully as he can. He knows to tread lightly, that one wrong will send her doing something he'll have to save her from. "Because the woman who owns the house is compelled to not to let me in." He says as soft as silk, praying it'll keep her from doing something stupid.

But her widening eyes show him that he's left it too open ended, and her body begins to follow as she tries to get around him. "I can get in." The brunette says firmly, her feet shifting forward.

Damon's hands lock onto her arms before she can move a muscle, gripping her just enough to keep her where she stands. Any stronger, and he'll wind up snapping her arms like the twigs they are. "You're not going in there." He growls.

She struggles against him, slamming her hands against his chest in a futile attempt to get past him. What does he expect, really? This is the man she loves, the brother he chose - and she is not Katherine. She'll give it all for the people she loves and expect nothing in return. "I'm going!" Elena cries out, the tears welling in her eyes.

But he doesn't shift, doesn't falter. He holds her, protecting her above all costs. For Jeremy, for Bonnie, for Matt, for Caroline, for Stefan. For himself. "You're not going in there!" His tone is firm, unrelenting.

The brunette caves into his words as her gaze darts frantically around them, as if his brother would somehow appear out of this air. He forgets how little fight is in her, how utterly human she is...unlike the woman whose face she wears like a mask, taunting him of what could have been. "Why are they doing this? What do they want with him?" She whimpers, obviously fighting back sobs.

Because of Katherine. Because of us. Because we loved her. Because we died for her and so did they. Because of this town and the families that sought to keep it pure. Damon wants to scream it at the top of his lungs, that he isn't the only villain in this story, that he didn't mean for this to happen. But deep down, he knows that she'll blame him anyway, so why bother?

"Revenge, they want revenge." He says earnestly, keeping it to the point.

"We've gotta do something."

"I know."

"We can't let them hurt him, we've got to get him out of there bef-"

"I know." Damon's voice breaks as he looks down at her. His brother's girl, she's his brother's girl...and yet he finds himself reaching for her, his hands cupping her cheeks. He wants to take it away, to take her pain and pull her close. But such things were only meant for one Salvatore brother. "Elena...I know." He murmurs, shaking his head. He pulls back, about to tell her that he doesn't know how to get him out.

And then it hits him. Hits him square in the chest, dead center, with a force that nearly knocks him back into the mud. The rain. The thunder. The lightning. It might as well be written in the sky.

Davis did always love a good thunderstorm.

He laughs, actually bitterly laughs, because he realizes what he should have done in the first place when that godforsaken tomb had been unsealed. Before the world had flipped. Before Stefan had been taken.

"What could possibly be funny at a time like this?" Elena snaps.

But he just keeps smiling. He should've never allowed the Bennett witches to do his dirty work, but he'd known that she wouldn't have done it for him. She doesn't mess with the balance of nature, something about pissing off the spirits of dead witches that she had no business dealing with. There's also the fact that she despises Katherine more than any other person on this earth - but maybe if he'd convinced her to just let him get his way for one time in a century and a half, there wouldn't be twenty-five undead souls looking to put his head on a spike and his brother's body in a bonfire.

Or he could've just not gone in the tomb...but that's a mistake to torture himself for at another time.

He walks back to the car and grabs his cell phone without so much as an explanation, making the first phone call of the day that he knows will get answered. It's for emergencies only after the last time the three of them had been together, a number that he's made sure never to abuse, but he's pretty sure that his brother being ripped to shreds and an impending vampire apocalypse covers her ever so firm restrictions.

It rings once, twice, three times, and just when he's about to give up hope...he hears the line pick up and he knows he has to speak first. "Brooke?" Damon practically whispers into the phone, his voice tentative at best. He can hear panting on the other end of the line, but it doesn't sound like her.

"It's Enzo. Something's wrong with her, I can't calm her down..."

He can hardly hear him through the line, her partner. But that isn't the sound that makes him realize he doesn't need to tell her what's happening, that she hadn't been lying all those years before when she'd promised they'd have a way to reach her if they were ever truly in trouble.

She howls Stefan's name into the air like it's the only thing keeping her alive, and Damon does the impossible.

He thanks God and everything holy for witches and their promises, because it's probably what's going to save his brother's life.

- - - - - x - - - - - -

Somewhere in the South of France, Present Day

"I forsake all others and take thee as my husband, my protector, my heart..."

"I forsake all others and take thee as my wife, my love, my eternity..."

He doesn't know why he still comes back here after all this time. Five hundred years have passed, and above all else he's learned that time is nothing more than a cruel punishment for his mistakes.

It's quiet here in the meadow. That's probably why she had loved it so much in the first place. The wind skitters through the wildflowers of the estate, of the lands that he used to call home. The trees sway as he sits in the tall grasses, hidden from the world around him as he takes his quiet refuge. His suit jacket is hung over a branch of an apple tree, his sleeves uncharacteristically rolled up to his elbows. Water laps at the river's edge just a few hundred feet from him, slipping over the rocks, and nothing about the image of him matches the calculated and vicious shadow that he's carefully crafted over the centuries. One day, that's what he allows for himself. One day to linger in the man he'd been before his world had turned.

His memories surround him here, of the time that he shared with her here. Her soul is still imprinted on this land. The sound of her voice on the breeze, the herbs and flowers surrounding the estate that she ordered to be planted upon her arrival, the way the threes seem to lean in whenever he enters the woods as if to comfort him. His brown eyes drink it all in, the world around him suddenly timeless, and he swears on everything in his immortal soul that she's wading in the water before him.

Six hundred years he's been without her, and yet he still longs for the beautiful woman beckoning him into the babbling brook. Porcelain hand outstretched to him, hazel eyes glimmering with a power not of this world, her chestnut curls blowing in the breeze, a mischievous smile playing on her supple lips; everything about her had implored him to loosen his iron control for just one fleeting moment with her. You cannot be this serious for eternity, Elijah. I simply will not have it.

How persuasive his little witch had been, even then. A goddess in her own right, a woman deigned to be a queen above all queens, splashing in the river like a common chambermaid in a ballgown fit for her role because she had deemed her dress would not keep her from enjoying the sunshine. What a magnificent sight she had been to behold.

He'd only been her protector than, she the betrothed witch and he the guarded vampire gazing down from above. He'd watched her from his room in the castle for hours, as she sat on its edge and bided her time. Some days she'd be lost in whatever sketches she could dream up, others she'd be willing the water to do her bidding with a smile blossoming on her lips. He'd guarded her patiently, his keen eye on her as her gifts blossomed and grew like the wildlife around her. He'd found himself fascinated with the little witch who held more power in the palm of her hand than most immortal beings could possess in an eternal lifetime. Even before he'd broken his own rule and allowed himself to open up to her. Before he'd fallen madly in love with her. Before he'd vowed before God and this field and everything in between that he would love her until the day he'd leave this earth.

He simply hadn't known that she would leave so very far before him, so long before her time that he could never have prepared himself for a world without her love and light in it.

And so he comes back to the estate where she'd lived out her final days every year on this godforsaken day, the day that he'd lost half of his soul to the dirt he rests upon. She'd died here, just a few dozen feet from him, in the brook that she loved so dearly that she would ruin a handmade gown just to wade into its waters. His brown eyes darken at its sight, and the memories held within its bounds. He'd run into the river for the last time that day, when he'd found her after following the scent of her blood to the banks. Her lifeless body had been thrown off the highest turret of the castle that looms over the land like a haunting presence, her body so horrendously wounded that the river had run crimson with its anger for hours after her death. He can still feel her limp body in his arms, hear his own broken howls reverberate off the hollowness of the air, smell the tang of her wounds seeping onto his hands. There isn't a moment of that day that isn't engrained into his brain, not a single one.

Six hundred and some years, and he hasn't gotten any closer to the river than his current spot. He knows that she had found it as her sanctuary, as the heartbeat of the home that she had always been meant to find, but he can't bear the thought of the crisp cool water on his skin. Not after it had all but torn him apart when he'd carried her out, after it had left a mark on his soul that he has never been able to spring free of.

Can you still see me, darling?

The wind coils around him lovingly as the voice whispers along its path, coaxing him to speak. Her magic crackles around him, sparking through the air, and he smiles at the melodic sound. It had been her gift to him for when they had received word that her betrothed would come for her, casting a spell over the woods that she had deemed theirs. They had sat under these trees, his arms wound around her like ivy, and she had promised that they would be safe there from all those who would try to separate them. A place for them to slip into when watchful eyes grew to close, and a secret for only them if she would be taken from him. It would comfort him in her absence, she told him, for however long they would be parted. She'd looked up at him under those long dark lashes and whispered that she would always be with him when he walked through this land, even if death cleaved her from him.

It had been in that moment that he'd known he couldn't ever be without her, that he would die at her side when her time came, and he'd asked her right there in their hiding place to run away with him, to bind herself to him, to elope with him in secret.

And the way she'd smiled...it had been like the heavens had opened up just for him.

He reaches for his ring instinctively at the sound, only to find bare skin. It's somewhere in that water, his wedding band; thrumming with the remnant of her power in the depths, hidden beneath the reflective surface. He'd pitched it in a few centuries back, when he'd mourned her so fiercely it almost consumed him. Thrown it in amidst his own tortured screams and buried his heart down there with it. He couldn't have a heart for who he would have to become to let go of her, for what he would have to do to ascertain his revenge upon those who had played their part.

He flexes his hand, a pained grimace tugging at his lips. "Always." He murmurs to the trees, swallowing back his emotions.

No matter how far I am from you, I'm still here. Always.

His brow creases and his eyes slip shut, a small sigh escaping his lips. He bows his head as if to pray, but the gods have long abandoned his blackened soul. Every year, this happens, and every year, he answers her with the same soft plea. "Then come back to me." He whispers. "Come back to me, Victoria."

He's awaiting the soft breeze to caress his cheek, to feel her spirit still lingering in the air. He's ready for it, prayed for it, wished for it. It's the moment he longs for every year, the one where he still feels that small piece of her with him. It's what helps him hold on, helps him be the indestructible force that he needs to be to survive year after year of solitude.

But something is different. Everything is different. The whole meadow goes quiet. The birds cease their songs, the wind dies in the air, the trees freeze. Everything goes silent but the brook, the lapping of the rocks thunderous against the hollowness that surrounds it, and a chill crawls up his spine. His eyes flicker open, his body tensing, and he feels it all the way into his bones.

He is not alone.

He rises slowly from his hallowed ground. Every inch of his body poised to attack. He's left himself vulnerable, here in their sacred land that's been hidden to the outside world, and his skin prickles with rage. How dare someone force their way into this paradise, into their safe haven? How could it be possible?

His gaze shifts from one peripheral to the other as he surveys the space around him, not a soul in sight. He can feel it now, feel the scent of a stronger magic on the air than his wife's spell, and prepares to defend himself from whatever foe is on the horizon. Something is searching for him, tugging at the energy all around him, and he wants to be ready for it.

But there is no being ready for what's coming for him.

The silence is shattered as muffled screams fill every inch of the air around him, sending icy tendrils under his skin. The sound is buried under white noise, scraping at his nerves like a red hot poker. There isn't a soul for miles and yet he can hear the shrieks of agony like someone is just mere feet from him. His brooding gaze skitters all around him, thrashing through the air as he tries to find the source of whatever deep magic is rumbling to the surface around him. Every inch of his sinewy frame stands at attention until his heightened hearing finally finds the point of origin.

The river.

His brown eyes focus on it, at the water than now seems to pulse with power as it ripples across the rocks. The voice isn't hidden, it's underwater. Something lingers deep beneath those icy waters, something dark and devilish in its own delights. It might as well be taunting him from wherever it lurks. He fidgets at the thought of that water touching him, of the river that ran red with her blood lapping at his body. He gulps down the thought, shaking his head at the water as if he's refusing its wishes. He can't go in there, he's not capable of it.

But the muted screams grow more jagged, ripping through the air almost painfully, and all he knows is he needs to make it stop. It calls to him, reaching for him. His hands go to the sides of his head as he wordlessly growls at the pain that begins to throb behind his eyes. He'd rip it out if he could, pull it from his brain, conquer it the way he would any advancing enemy.

Come find me.

It's shrieking now, howling as the once gentle breeze turns into a punishing gust. He can feel the presence dragging down the sides of his mind, its jagged claws slicing through his immortal strength like it's nothing more than tissue paper, and he snarls in agony as he staggers forward. Before he can catch his balance, the wind is wrapping around him like a lasso and dragging him closer to the river banks.

"You wouldn't dare." He snarls at the woods, swearing up and down that this is somehow her doing, revenge for not bringing justice to her memory. Her enchantment had been placed on these woods centuries before. How much magic could be lingering here after all this time? Enough to force him into doing whatever she deemed justified, even in death?

He fights it with all he has, shredding at the invisible tethers while the pain tears through his mind, but there is no halting whatever is pulling him into the water. Sheer energy whips him forward. His feet drag against the soil as he fights with everything he has in him. His body is completely at its mercy as he's yanked to the edge, teetering over it as the soft voice comes back, as her voice comes back to him.

I'm still here, my love.

And then, he's flying.

The water is frigid at best as he's hurdled into the shallows of the river at an impossible speed, plunging beneath its icy surface as he gets drawn into it like a caged beast. The jagged rocks slice at his skin, every wound healing at his unnatural speed, and he's slammed into the riverbed. Unseen hands shove him down into the silt and the water fills his lungs, his body straining as the water burns him like a brand. He thrashes against it. Scrapes the floor of it. Kicks and snarls and lets every ounce of oxygen leave him in his pursuit of freedom. The only thing that's grown clear is the screaming that becomes more distressed by the moment, but before he can get a good read on it, the power takes ahold again.

It whirls his body and he slams backs into the ground face first. His left-hand wrenches forward before it's pinned to the ground. The pace of the current picks up and shoves his face up, forcing him to gaze at his hand through blurry vision. His chest is on fire and he can feel his mind begin to drift, feel his body wavering into darkness. He may be immortal but even he can't stop his body from succumbing to the water. It'll just happen over and over and over again, a never-ending cycle of drowning, and he finds it a fitting punishment for not saving the one person who could have stopped this from happening to him.

The screaming abates for a moment as the rushing of the river fills his ears, whooshing around his head as he's frozen in its grasp. His eyes are wide open as everything kicks up around him. The force is no longer searching for him, he realizes. Its focus has turned to the riverbed in a violent fashion as it drags the river for whatever it's looking for, flipping over everything in its path.

Until it finds its trophy.

Time stands still. The water returns to its lazy pace as his lungs begin to give out. The magic around him seems to glimmer as something begins to drift towards him, too far away for him to discern its trophy. His gaze wavers on the edge of darkness and a small smile appears on his lips as he begins to slip away, his mind muddling as temporary death creeps in. He can hardly feel the energy almost lovingly slide over his hand, and he swears he can feel his wife's fingers slip over his skin...and return something to him that he had lost long ago.

His wedding ring.

He's thrown out as quick as he entered the stream, gasping in heaps of air as he struggles to clear his lungs. His eyes are wide as he looks down at his hand, horror turning to disbelief while her carved initial presses into his skin.

"Why?" He shouts at the top of his lungs. How? How is she doing this from six feet under? "Why now? Six hundred and fifty years of agony has not been enough for me?"

Pure pain shoots from the ring and he is the one that is screaming as he clutches his hand to his chest. He rolls onto his back and clenches his eyes shut, tears rolling down his cheeks from the anguish. He's praying for death now, begging his life to end. He'd give anything for it to stop, for his memories of this wood to not be darkened for a moment longer. He wills his end as strongly as he'd vowed his love to her. He pleads with the universe just one last time to answer his call. For her to answer it, here in her holy place. In theirs.

But when his eyes open, their Elysium is gone and her voice is nowhere within ear shot. His eyes are not his own, gazing through the vision of someone else, at a vampire bound and chained like an animal. Someone has let him into their mind, whether they know it or not, and he's been forced through the door.

"Stefan?"

The voice as clear as day, and he swears it can't be real. It can't be, because she's gone. She is gone, dead and buried in the ground below him, her body long consumed by the earth. He swears it's a trick, a cruel gift right before his death, and yet...

A sob escapes his lips, and her name slips out like a broken prayer.

"Victoria?"