four. to poke the dragon
.
THE FORESTS ARE DEEP AND DARK, and she is running.
She knows she cannot stop, because if she does, he will catch her ( and he will never let her go ).
She threads through the trunks of the trees, feet slamming over the branches and crackling leaves, breath sawing out of her, hair wild and tangled around her face. She imagines she looks no better than the animals that crawl through the underbrush.
Her eyes dart upwards, the panic sluicing through her squeezing her heart tight as she spies the moon hanging high in the sky. Full and fat and heavy with promise. But it's not a promise she ever agreed to, and come hell or high water, she would never see a vow through that she never made.
Behind her, fires bloom like weeds, leaping into the black night like spears of light, smoke drifting into the air and slithering through the woods. It comes for her.
He comes for her.
"Oh, beloved," his voice resounds, sweet and seductive, but that makes it all the more deadly. There is no hint of the rage that she can taste even from the distance between them, "Come out, come out wherever you are."
Human instinct—the desperation to survive no matter the cost—bludgeons through her and her eyes seek out a clump of trees sprawling with bushes. She can't outrun him, this she knows with terrible certainty, but with smoke clinging to her clothes and the blood of soldiers metallic in her mouth, perhaps she could hide from him.
She dives into the bushes, swallowing down her whines at the feel of sharp twigs digging into her flesh, clamping a hand over her mouth in a poor attempt to muffle her breathing. But it's hope, and hope is really all she needs.
She just needs to get out of here—needs to leave and run away and never come back. All he brings is death and broken promises and shallow rings.
( The need to survive is not just instinct; it is a promise etched in her blood that goes back centuries—that will carry forth centuries more. )
She curses herself for her foolishness, but at the same time, how can she be blamed for her own foolishness when she is but a girl compared to his years and years and years of experience and strategising and planning?
He's had centuries to prepare for her; she's had days.
"Oh, my darling girl," he croons, close—too close. She stifles her breathing and squeezes her eyes shut, willing her heartbeat to slow, "I simply wish to talk. There is no need to be afraid of me."
Oh, but there is. There always is with men like him: them with the thrilling smiles and molten eyes and sweet, sweet promises he rains upon her like the kisses he runs up and down her arm.
She was once naive, but she is no longer gullible. She won't be entranced by him any longer.
God, she should've listened to her mother when she said to never engage with the wolf. Should've listened harder to the fairytales her sister would tell in lieu of lullabies—should've realised they were never stories, but warnings.
The only thing to herald her doom is the feel of a hot breath against her ear. Then, a voice ( of nightmares and moons and wild things ): "Found you."
CAROLINE WAKES SOBBING AND SCREAMING for a mother that died long ago. A mother comes anyway; Liz Forbes bursts into Caroline's bedroom with a fierce snarl pulling at her mouth, her blonde hair bed-mussed and a silver gun clasped in her hands.
The sight only causes Caroline to scream more.
Liz blinks, eyes swooping over her daughter's bedroom before she realises there's no intruder. She rushes over to her daughter and drops her gun on the nightstand. "Baby. Baby! What's happened?"
Caroline tries to speak around the tears clogging up her throat, tries to enunciate the pure fear and terror and the awful certainty that she was going to die, but it all clumps together in a lump between her teeth.
Liz understands anyway.
Her face softens and her shoulders slump, tugging her daughter into a tight embrace and the sound of Liz's loud, steady heartbeat calms Caroline down enough to feel like she can breathe, finally finding air and peace ( but never freedom and life and everything she should've had— )
"Мајка?" Caroline mumbles, slurred like she's knocked back a bottle of tequila she snuck from her father's liquor cabinet. Weighed down by exhaustion and the last few shreds of terror from her nightmare ( memory ), it takes Caroline a moment to process what she said.
Liz still hums an old lullaby in Caroline's ear, but Caroline hears what she said—and knows it perfectly. It terrifies her, because she shouldn't know that, but she does and what the fuck does that mean—
In her head, a cold, chilling laugh resounds off the walls of her skull.
Caroline swallows heavily and buries herself in her mother's embrace, so rare nowadays, allowing Liz to rock her back to fitful sleep, but still, she can't escape the part of her that seems to be older than Caroline herself.
( You never will, that old part hisses, I didn't. )
SOMETHING'S WRONG. CAROLINE CAN FEEL it in the air. There's just something that bubbles right under the surface that has her hackles raised and teeth fighting the urge to bare themselves in a warning snarl to anyone that looks at her wrong. If Caroline's truthful, it's been there a while, been there since before Tanner's murder, but it's been growing stronger and stronger in Stefan's presence, what with the truth he speaks, yet doesn't say and the secrets he covets in his eyes.
And then there's the matter of his hand. Caroline could've sworn—can swear, actually—that Jeremy's bottle ripped through the precious muscle of Stefan's hand and that there was blood spiderwebbing down his fingers. But when Caroline finally managed to claw Stefan's hand open, there was nothing but a faint smear of blood that Stefan avowed wasn't his own.
But Caroline's not stupid. Her mother's always said she's had the nose of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out lies, and Caroline's digging for the bone.
( And there's that dream. )
She resolves to ignore it and will face the storm when she's well and truly out of the eye. Until then, she'll stew in newly-coupled bliss and writhe under Stefan's hot, measured kisses that he rains down on her neck, even when he abruptly pulls away.
While disappointed, Caroline shakes it off. They've been dating for less than a week. It doesn't all have to be at once. And Caroline would like to savour the firsts they have.
Dizzy and in love, Caroline is caught in Stefan's golden web, his green, green irises that shine with an emotion that she's yet to comprehend ( but she will ) and drowns herself in his warm embrace. Eventually, painfully, they part and Caroline goes to meet up with Elena and Bonnie at the Grill, high on love and all the good things.
She slips into the booth Bonnie and Elena have commandeered, smiling so wide her cheeks hurt. Bonnie wrinkles her nose in disgust. "You and Stefan are so disgusting."
Caroline throws her a wink. "Jealous?"
"Nah. Blondes aren't my type, anyway."
Elena snorts and before she hisses as Bonnie's kick at her shin lands true. "Ow, Bon!"
"Keep your mouth shut and we won't have any problems."
Elena pouts and props her heels on the seat of the booth. "Dictator."
"So," Caroline cuts in, leaning over the table with a teasing gleam in her gaze, "Who's going to the Founders Ball?"
Bonnie groans and Elena's face scrunches up. It doesn't escape Caroline's notice, no matter how much Elena tries to hide it; that the brunette is lovesick for more than just her parents. Caroline ignores it.
"Oh, come on," Caroline whines and pretends like she doesn't notice the difference between a week
ago and now, "Please. You have to go! I don't want to be there by myself!"
"You won't be there by yourself," Elena points out flatly, "You're going with Stefan."
"Point. But he's my boyfriend, not my best friend. Unlike you two. Now, c'mon, work with me here!"
Bonnie's face is shrewd. "I'll go, but only as long as Lena's my date."
"Oh, I thought you'd never ask."
"What about Damon?" It bursts out of Caroline before she can stop it and as her friends turn to look at her, she dearly wishes that she'd kept her mouth shut. Even with the mention of his name, the atmosphere has dampened.
"What about Damon?" Bonnie questions, brows drawing low. Elena shifts in her seat, picking at fraying stitches of the booth.
"Why don't one of you go with him?"
"Care, we don't even know him that well," Elena points out, "I dunno about you, but I wouldn't be comfortable with that."
"But it'd be like a blind date!" Caroline insists and tries to keep that image of a cruel, calculating smile out of her head.
Bonnie's nose wrinkles and her dark eyes gleam. "Isn't he the Older Sexy Danger Guy that Kelly Beech is obsessed with?"
"Kelly Beech is obsessed with Stefan's brother?" Elena asks in shock.
Bonnie shrugs. "She couldn't get her claws in Stefan, so she switched targets. Apparently, they met up last night. She hasn't shut up about it since."
"Ew," Caroline groans, "Well, I guess Damon's out, then. Anybody who hooks up with Kelly Beech is not good boyfriend material."
"Care, you literally dated her ex a week after they broke up."
Elena's dry comment is met with a scathing glare. "I thought we agreed to never talk about that again."
"Times change, Care," Bonnie grins, teeth snapping down on the straw of her drink, "You should keep up."
ELENA'S UNCERTAIN ABOUT WHAT SHE'S doing here, at the Lockwood Mansion, hair straightened and body wrapped in a glittery, tangerine dress, the skirt whispering against her knees, the colour of rubies so bright and velvety, she has the strange sensation she is wearing blood.
( She does not understand why the particular thought is so foreboding. )
She doesn't know how she keeps getting roped into these functions, these plays at normalcy, but her love is so acute that she will gladly chip away at her weary soul so Caroline and Bonnie won't have to worry about the darkness pulling her over.
But, when she's staring at the freshly-polished gleam of her parents' rings, holding memories of what-was and bearing the sheen of what-never-will-be, Elena's soul starts to buckle under the weight of it all.
On loan from the Gilbert family. The words are delicate and extravagant, cold and distant. They could not even hope to encapsulate the hope and the horror and the glee and the grief held in those rings.
Even Elena strains under the weight of it, and she has been swimming in those memories for months now.
( But she has never liked the water. Much preferred candle flames. )
Elena clears her throat and moves on. There's no point dwelling in the past when she's already neck-deep in it.
She slips through the Mansion, Bonnie lost amongst the people God knows where. Elena merely wanders through the hallways until she strikes ( rusted ) gold.
"Elena!" Caroline chirps and waves her into the room, "I was wondering where you were. Come look at this."
Forever powerless to Caroline's trilling tones, Elena steps into the room, bypassing a silently-observing Stefan, something cautious in his gaze and something apprehensive in the tight set of his jaw, as Caroline hooks her arm through Elena's and directs the brunette's gaze to the age-stained scroll pinned to the wall.
Elena is instantly enamoured. She's always liked the old things, the ancient things with rust on its bones. It makes her feel powerful—makes her feel like she clutches time itself in the palm of her hand, fiddles with the story of mankind between her fingers.
It doesn't take long to find what Caroline was pointing at. "Is that . . . Stefan Salvatore?"
From the corner of her eyes, Elena watches as Stefan shifts on his feet.
"Uh-huh. And look—right here! Damon Salvatore!"
"The original Salvatore brothers." Elena flinches at the sound of Damon's cool, crooning voice and whirls in sync with Caroline as they turn to face him, a glass of alcohol cradled more gently in his grip than Elena thought possible. "Our ancestors. Tragic story, actually."
"We don't need to bore them with the stories of the past," Stefan cuts in, voice sharp and searing as he pins a dark gaze on his brother.
Elena and Caroline exchange a glance and lowered brows. They both get the sense that the stories of the past must be something more than just stories—maybe they are tragedies.
"Ah, but they are so interesting, don't you think, brother? I think the ladies would find it thrilling too."
"We would, actually," Caroline says and Elena disguises a wince. She wonders if Caroline can detect the silently snarling animals prowling at Stefan's and Damon's feet and then quickly discards the thought. Of course Caroline can; she's just always had a taste for blood.
Damon throws his brother a smug, victorious smirk. "Well, back when this all took place, the Salvatore name was practically royalty in this town until the war. There was a battle here—"
"—The Battle of Willow Creek," Elena cuts in succinctly, "Yeah, we covered it in history. Confederate soldiers fired on a church with civilians inside."
There's a wry twist to Damon's lips. "What the history books left out was the people that were killed, they weren't there by accident."
Caroline leans in closer, eyes gleaming with hunger ( for power ). "What do you mean?"
"They were believed to be union sympathisers, so some of the founders on the confederacy side back then wanted them rounded up and burned alive. Stefan had someone he loved very much in that church. When he went to rescue them, his brother, Damon, went with him out of loyalty, but they were shot. Murdered in cold blood."
Damon tells his story like it's his and Elena doesn't miss how Caroline's eyes snag on Stefan, eyes rooted to the ground.
"Who was in that church they wanted to save?" Caroline's question is probing, and layered with double entendre. It's like she's screaming it.
Who did you love, Stefan? Caroline is accusing, what aren't you telling me?
Damon's ice-blue gaze pins itself on Caroline and digs deep. "A woman, I guess. Doesn't it always come down to the love of a woman?"
Stefan tenses, ducking his head to the side like he cannot bear to look; Caroline's necklace gleams viciously in the low light.
CAROLINE'S HACKLES ARE RAISED AND Stefan can feel them as he sweeps his hands down her back as he holds her close as they sway together to the soft music. Mentally, Stefan curses Damon with every last one he knows, every single one he has learned over the last century and a half because of course he couldn't just leave well enough alone and of course he had to aggravate Caroline in the process.
"Was everything okay with Damon?" Stefan asks and wishes he hadn't, because he has the strangest sensation he just poked the dragon.
The dragon stares up at him with a probing look in her eyes to mask the deep-set insecurity beneath. "Yeah, he was fine. You were there, Stefan, you know this."
"Damon has a way of getting under people's skins. I just wanted to check in on you. I care about you, Caroline."
The fire in her eyes softens. "I'm fine, Stefan, I promise. But . . . are you okay?"
Stefan frowns and can't help the way he tenses. Caroline's gaze narrows; she notices. "I'm fine, Caroline. Why're you asking?"
"About Dorothy . . . what exactly happened between you and her?"
Their slow swaying comes to a halt. Stefan takes a step back from Caroline, but still clings tightly to her hand, still cinches his arm around her waist, too afraid to let her go. "Why're you asking? What happened, Caroline?"
Stefan's arm slips from her waist as Caroline takes a step back, but their hands are still bound together. "Do you not remember the last week, Stefan? Damon told me. Were you ever gonna tell me about her yourself? Or were you just never going to talk about her?"
"Of course I did, Caroline. Don't listen to anything Damon says, okay? He gets inside your head, twists the story around—"
"No, Stefan," Caroline says and breaks free of Stefan's grip, "No. Stop blaming this on Damon. Why can't you tell me anything about her? Are you still in love with her?"
The monster in his chest cackles. "No, no, Caroline—no, never. You have to believe me."
"How can I when I don't know the first thing about you? The 'mystery boy' thing you had going for you was fun at first, but now it's just exhausting, Stefan. You haven't opened up to me at all. I don't even know why you and Damon hate each other so much. You won't tell me a single thing! I'm done with it, Stefan."
And with that, his golden angel marches off in a flurry of raging blue eyes and wild, blonde curls and Stefan is left reeling, jaw gaping and suddenly bereft of his anchor in the storm.
How'd it all fall apart so quickly?
( Because of ice-cold eyes and a cruel smile. )
THE NIGHT OF THE COMET ONLY served to remind Damon the sway Dorothy had over him; it reminded him of a promise he made over a century ago that he had pushed away, convinced himself that he would never have to see the fruition of—but here he is, staring at that damned yellow crystal that had represented his downfall.
This crystal bears the key for the tomb of vampires under Fell's Church; this crystal bears the key to unleash Dorothy Vance upon this world once more.
He shudders at the prospect.
He told Stefan that he was here to fuck with him, rain misery down upon him, and in truth, that was a reason why he was here. But, regardless whether Stefan ended up in Mystic Falls in 2009 or not, Damon would be here.
Damon Salvatore would be here to ensure that Dorothy Vance never walked this earth again.
The canary-gold gleam of the crystal glistens cruelly in the low light of the study, yanking Damon further in and he's abruptly reminded of Dorothy's golden tresses and that when brushed, she would hum contently like a cat.
It reminds him of lazy days in bed, the painful sting of her fangs as she drank lazily, greedily from him, and in his compelled-laden mind, he knew no better.
( But he did. The whole while, some part of him, the human, begged and screamed and scratched at her chains, begging for mercy. )
Back then, he thought he knew love.
In reality, all he knew was insanity and cold, iron chains.
He shuts the box and does not look back. But it remains in his mind—a physical object of Damon's steely determination to save Dorothy from his own father, the strings she pulled so deftly.
Damon can't stand the memory of Dorothy on his consciousness, can't bear the phantom ghost of her touch and craves the hot, sweet taste of blood on his tongue and down his throat to wash her away. In over a century, it's the only thing that's proven to peel her claws from his mind.
He finds Kelly Beech: young and greedy and everything a teenage girl should be in this day and age and he doesn't hesitate as he drags her to a secluded spot and sinks his fangs into her neck and pulls, near-moaning at the liquid that gushes over his tongue—
He chokes.
Falls.
Burns.
He only catches the blurred sight of a victorious, glorious Stefan standing above him before his eyes slide shut and he allows the darkness to carry him away.
( Her giggles take chase; they always do. )