five. blood of the covenant

.

THE DARKNESS THAT HANGS CLOYINGLY in the air is familiar to Damon—more familiar than his own name. It's a substance, a pair of arms, that he has always returned to, blood on his jaws and madness in his eyes—it's something that accepted him long before Emily Bennett placed the daylight ring on his undead finger.

Hunger claws at his throat, his gums aching as his fangs demand to be released, to seek, to hunt, but he can detect nothing more on the air than the stale stench of age and the faded odour of death that clings to the walls of the underbelly of the Salvatore Boarding House.

With grudgingness, though nonetheless bitter, Damon accepts the fact that it's his own damn fault for getting caught down here, for thinking that spiked glass practically overflowing with vervain was all Stefan had up his sleeve. As much as his baby brother preaches pure-white morals and compassion, he never seems to be able to confront his own vicious streak of vengeance, even if it's in the name of self-righteousness.

"How long have I been down here?" Damon croaks out of a paper-dry mouth, the words more of a strain of his desiccating body than he would like. He can almost hear the blood drying up in his flesh.

"Three days," Stefan answers steadily, but there's no mistaking the victory, the smugness, the ha, I beat you, Damon in his voice. Damon's eyes peek open, spying Stefan's glimmering figure standing behind the barred window of the door, the light pouring over his head like a goddamned halo.

"What—what are you doing?"

"During the Dark Ages, when a vampire's actions threatened to expose or bring harm upon the entire race, they would face judgement. They sought to reeducate them rather than to punish them."

The whole philosophy practically screams Stefan Salvatore in blood-red writing—if Damon didn't know any better, he would've thought that Stefan would've had a hand in nurturing its birth.

"You know what will happen if I don't feed on blood," Damon says hoarsely, and he's not quite sure why. Of course Stefan knows, so of course he wants to drain Damon into desiccation. Damon's not pleading, not begging, because not even the brink of death could get the elder Salvatore to give up his pride.

No, Damon's just reaching out for the little brother that forced blood down his throat—ripped the choice of life and death from him.

( Just like she did. )

Stefan's response is brimming with just a hint of arrogance. "You'll grow weaker and weaker. And eventually you won't be able to move or speak. In a week, your skin will desiccate, and you'll mummify. A living corpse. Unable to hurt anyone—ever."

Damon bears white teeth in a pitiful facade of a snarl. "So, what, you're just gonna leave me in the basement forever?"

( Damon would. )

Stefan only says ( but it's there: the delight of a predator catching his prey ), "Once your circulation stops, I'll move you to the family crypt and then in fifty years, we can reevaluate."

Damon groans, "I'm stronger than you think."

He's not, and Stefan knows it too.

"You always have been," his spiteful little brother responds anyway, "But you're not stronger than the vervain and we both know it. I'm sorry. Didn't have to be this way."

Oh, but it did. It always has been, and they both know it always will be.

Over a woman, no less. A woman Damon didn't want, but had anyway; a woman Stefan wanted, but didn't have.

There's the itch and scratch of lilac gloves ghosting over Damon's pale, pale skin and his eyes snap open, heart thundering sluggishly in his chest, but there's nothing but darkness to greet his gaze.

It's no longer comforting—it now has fangs and lips as red as his once-mortality.

She's been gone for more than a century, but Dorothy Vance never lets things go.

"ELENA."

ELENA SPROUTS UP IN bed, eyes casting over her room, skin gleaming with sweat and fear as her heart slams against her ribcage, screaming with a message—a memory—she can't decipher. There's something in the air too—something irretrievably different hanging in the atmosphere that doesn't sit quite right on her tongue.

She cycles through her memories of the night before. She and Bonnie had a good time at first, but naturally diverged by the time the sun set and Elena had lost all track of her for the rest of the night. Then, she stumbled upon Caroline and Stefan, and became entangled with a strange feud that raged invisibly, but never silently, between Damon and his brother.

Her skin crawls as she recalls how both brothers had looked at Caroline—like they weren't really seeing her, but a ghost instead.

( In truth, Elena sometimes feels like a ghost herself: constantly wandering through the world silently as the grave. )

She throws her covers off, resolving to merely forget about it—even as something pricks at her consciousness, the irritating sense of deja vu that she can't satiate. She moves for the bathroom, the door swinging open to reveal Vicki Donovan scrubbing her teeth at the sink. Their eyes meet and Elena's mouth unhinges in shock.

( Later, she will look back on this and notice that there was a slight smile clinging to the edges of Vicki's lips, that she looked more alive than Elena had ever seen her.

And she will be proud of her brother. Because even though he could not bring himself back, at least he could bring someone else. )

"Oh, I'm sorry," Vicki says around a mouthful of toothpaste, dressed in one of Jeremy's shirts like they're a couple of all things, "I'm almost done."

Elena nods and her mouth shuts with an audible clink of teeth. "Uh, it's okay. Take your time."

Elena backs out hurriedly, allowing the door to swing shut and shoves her hands into her hair, and releases a quiet little laugh.

Her heart continues to ache.

The sound of a door closing and then the subsequent giggles only moments later breaks Elena out of her trance, and she steps into the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief to see it empty. As a precaution, she locks Jeremy's door.

She still doesn't know quite what to think about him and Vicki.

She's not stupid; she knew Jeremy had a crush on Vicki ( everybody did, to put it plainly ), and while Elena never quite approved of it, she was content with the fact that Vicki would never give him the time of day outside of funding her drug habit.

But Elena never saw this coming, and she never planned for it, either.

She doesn't know how to handle it.

( Doesn't know how to handle her brother happy and in love, the fact that she is not. )

The thought of Vicki and Jeremy together consumes her for the rest of the morning, and she moves through her routine on autopilot. It takes Caroline snapping her fingers irritatedly in Elena's face to bring her crashing back to reality.

"Elena!" Caroline snips, "Seriously, what're you thinking about? You haven't said a word this whole morning."

She, Bonnie, and Caroline trek through the school halls, ploughing through the hordes of students shoulder-to-shoulder, like soldiers trudging through the mud.

"Jeremy and Vicki hooked up last night."

Elena really didn't mean to tell them—well, at least not like that, but the words just came bursting out of her before she could plug the torrent spilling from her throat.

Caroline's jaw unhinges and her eyes widen comically. Bonnie seems unfazed, only crooking a dark eyebrow and revealing a small, wry smile as she opens her locker.

"What? Vicki and Jeremy? You're serious?"

Elena nods eagerly at Caroline, lips downturning in a frown. "Yeah—I caught her in my bathroom this morning wearing one of Jer's shirts."

"Wow," Caroline breathes, leaning against a locker as Bonnie sorts through her schoolbooks, remaining silent on the matter, "Wow. I never thought Vicki would give in."

"What?" Elena questions sharply, arms crossed.

Caroline rolls blue eyes, and her lips turn up in a smile. "Oh, come on, Lena. It's so obvious that Jeremy has a thing for her. I just never thought Vicki would give in. Oh, don't give me that look! I know you thought the same!"

Elena did, but she doesn't like to admit it. Her hackles raise anyway. "Vicki's lucky to be with him. But Jer?"

Bonnie snorts, and jumps into the conversation, "Yes, Lena, we know. No one's good enough for your precious little brother. Now, what's this about you and Stefan, Care?"

Elena tenses, and her mouth shuts with an audible click. She vaguely recalls Caroline ranting in the car about Stefan, but it only caused her to sink further into her ruminations about Vicki and Jeremy.

She ignores Bonnie's gaze.

Caroline's head thunks against the locker behind her, releasing a long groan as her eyes slide shut. "He hasn't called in three days. Y'know the last message he left me? 'Uh, hey, Caroline, there's, uh, something I have to take care of. I'll, um, explain in a couple days. Bye'. Seriously?"

Bonnie's lips are pressed flat as if to stop herself from saying yes, yes, I do, but it fails.

Caroline's whole body slumps, eyes rooted on the ceiling, the stars that usually shine brightly in them only faint streetlights now. "I just . . . I thought . . . I thought he was falling in love with me."

Elena's heart is so very close to plummeting out of her chest, splattering right between her feet in a bloody, gory mess. She blurts out, "What?"

The word shocks Caroline out of whatever forlorn stupor she had fallen into as she instantly straightens, shoulders rolling back like a soldier steeling for the bullets and she raises her head high. But, Elena can see what the blonde tries so hard to hide: the hope, the misery, the love.

Elena's mouth goes dry.

Caroline says, voice all steel and gunfire, "I refuse to be one of those girls whose whole life revolves around some guy. So, the Sexy Suds Car wash is tomorrow. The football team and the band have committed. Well, not all the band, just the ones who can pull off a bikini. I want in-your-face sexy—I mean, it's a fundraiser, for God's sake."

Bonnie and Elena let her have this—let her have her this out, her pride, her dignity. They are what Caroline treasures most, after all.

Bonnie scoffs as Elena sinks into herself, the shards of her broken heart running through her veins like acid, the jagged edges pricking and stinging and tearing bit by bit. It feels unjust, unfair, and not at all what Elena thought would happen when she was ten-years-old.

( All that love, all that pain—for nothing? She should know better, but she wanted something because the Disney films never prepared her for this. )

"Elena."

The voice is loud and strained in her ears and she whirls, heart thundering once more, eyes wide as her gaze sweeps over her surroundings. But there's no one behind her who would have spoken to her.

"Lena?"

Elena turns back around, spying a perplexed Caroline and worried Bonnie.

"Lena, what's wrong?" Bonnie asks, and she looks like she knows.

"Didn't you hear that?" Elena questions, brows furrowed as her heart slams in her chest like a drum. She has the sickening sense to run, while there's a thread in her gut tugging her somewhere.

"Hear what?" Caroline replies, her puzzlement fading away into a spot of concern, "Lena?"

Elena's teeth click together as she closes her mouth, thinks, and throws the thought away. "Nothing. Just my ears playing tricks on me."

STEFAN'S AN HOUR LATER TO the Grill, and each tick of the clock feels foreboding. Each tick feels like a broken promise, one after the other.

When Stefan had commandeered Caroline earlier that day, promising to explain his mysterious, worrying absence and hinting at something that could-be-love-but-might-not-be, Caroline had felt that things were finally looking up.

After the silent yet deafening rivalry that she and Elena had front-row seats to at the Founders Ball, Caroline had nursed a sickening sense in her gut, as well as nurturing a sequence of dizzying, confusing dreams that left her weeping and sobbing like a mother who just lost her child when she woke up.

And when she woke up that very morning, plagued by another of those damn dreams that left her speaking forgotten tongues ( of an awful pain that left her breathless and broken, of a babe ripped from her arms before those arms had ever carried them ), the weight of Stefan's heirloom was the only thing to drag her out of her misplaced grief.

The heirloom sits over her heart—a sign, almost, that not only does the necklace belong to Stefan, but maybe her heart does too.

( That's the problem with Caroline: she tends to fall in love far too easily. )

That morning, it felt like something more than the dreary, grey ordinary of Mystic Falls; it felt like something worth fighting for.

Now, it feels like a fool's wish, the final nail in the coffin, a betrayal—she was meant to have better than this.

Stefan arrives, golden and gleaming, like he always is. It enamours Caroline just as much as it grates at her.

"I'm really sorry. It was unavoidable," the angel says like it explains everything, like it makes up for wringing her heart out like a wet towel, for the nights she spent up and thinking about everything they said, dissecting better than a FBI forensic.

"What was unavoidable?" Caroline demands sharply, arms crossed like a shield. It's her armour, because her knight never came, and she's knee-deep in the trenches.

( Why is everything a battle? She just wants to lay down her sword and rest. )

Stefan's gaze ducks low, the guilty plea practically branded on his forehead, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows his secrets. Silence.

Caroline scoffs, pretending like her heart isn't burning itself into ashes, deposits money for her drink and stands to leave. With unbelievable, impractical gentleness, Stefan's nimble fingers wind around her wrist, but she shakes it free.

"No," Caroline snaps, and there's the tell-tale sting of silver tears, "No, Stefan. You left me waiting here for an hour, and you can't even give me any sort of excuse as to why. But, let's recap: there's some weird shit going on between you and Damon and it's clearly about Dorothy who, yet again, you won't tell me anything about. What am I supposed to think, Stefan? How am I supposed to believe—"

"—I know you."

The words are simple and short, but they hit like bullets. They ring like the strike of midnight, echo like the silence of a funeral, and skitter across Caroline's skin like ice. Her hairs raise.

She whirls, coming face-to-face with a husky man with midnight skin, his dark, unfathomable eyes pinned on Stefan, digging for something that has Stefan frozen and stiff behind her. There are ghosts in his gaze. "My God."

"I'm sorry?" Stefan replies, and it's innocent ( but it's not—it's dangerous ).

"I know you," the man repeats, staunch and convinced and convicted like a innocent man facing a guilty charge, "How can it be?"

How can it be? How can it be? How can it be?

The words repeat on and on like a broken record in Caroline's head, something deep and dark and old latching onto them and refusing to let go. Her eyes flutter to Stefan and it strikes her in a heartbeat: Stefan's scared of this man.

It shocks her, terrifies her, intrigues her. She digs deeper, tries to peel back Stefan's Apollo-glazed flesh and yank at his Aphrodite-blessed hair and tries to look, but he's all iron and steel and hammer and anvil—he refuses to budge.

"I think you have the wrong person, sir," Stefan responds politely with a civil smile, but it's too sharp and keen to be anything but a warning.

The man who knows things Caroline doesn't isn't deterred. "You haven't aged a day."

( That voice of acid and daydreams and lost little babies cackles in the back of her skull. )

Stefan looks unsure, almost surprised—like this wasn't meant to happen—and stutters out, "I'm sorry. Excuse me." He turns to Caroline, his claws receding, his eyes softening, the animal melting back into the man. "Hey, can I take you home, and we can talk about it?"

His hand is on her lower back, and she senses that it's not a request, but a demand. Caroline pulls away, because Caroline doesn't take orders from anyone, not even angels, shakes her head and says no. She leaves the Grill, but not before giving the man who knows everything one last, long glance.

Caroline will find out, by hell or high water.

"ELENA."

AT HIS HEART, STEFAN SALVATORE is a romantic. When he was young ( when they were still brothers ), Damon would often tease him for burying his head in books such as Pride and Prejudice and Jane Eyre, for picking flowers in the garden, for imagining a life with a wife and children.

But as much as he teased, Damon kept his secrets. If Giuseppe ever learnt of his youngest's fantasies, he would have ensured that Stefan would've never daydreamed again.

That night, he plies Elena into letting him into Caroline's house, Sheriff Forbes squirrelled away at Lockwood Mansion for a Council meeting, complete with a bag of food, ready to be sliced and diced right into Caroline's intoxicating heart.

( He ignores her Rosalind-eyes. He keeps his Romeo-gaze fixated on his Juliet-girl. )

Eventually, when Caroline ventures from her room to find him in the kitchen, slicing up celery sticks delicately, the sight of her has him winded and breathless, and feeling like a seventeen-year-old for the first time since 1864.

( This, this is why he adores her. She makes him feel alive. )

"Stefan, look," Caroline sighs, wary and guarded and dutiful in the protection of her heart. It nearly breaks him; he never wanted to be seen as an enemy, something to defend herself against. To be her sanctuary was what he desired: where she could undo her armour and lay down her sword and let someone else look over her shoulder for once, "I get that you want to make up for what—"

His desperation wins out, but he hopes he hides it well. "—You wanna know me, right? Well, if you're going to dump me, I figure you should know who you're dumping."

Something melts, just a bit, just enough, in her lava-fierce gaze.

"So, let's start with Dorothy."

( Even the sound of her name causes him to break, to lose control, just a bit. She's always had this power, been a force of nature, something so wild that it couldn't be tamed. )

Caroline remains silent as she waits for him to speak, arms crossed, eyes cold and calculating as waits to make her judgement.

( Judge, jury, executioner: the power she holds in a soft, uncalloused hand. )

"She . . . she was the most beautiful girl I had ever met. It was love at first sight—for me, at least. I'm not sure what she felt, really. But, she had this gorgeous porcelain skin and the brightest smile I ever knew. And no matter the situation, how miserable you were, how hopeless you felt, she knew exactly what to say to make you laugh. It was her thing. She liked to say she knew enough sadness, but never enough happiness. But . . . she had a bit of a mean streak. She could be selfish and greedy, especially when it came to her possessions. Honestly, it just made me love her more—her imperfections were some of the best things about her."

Caroline doesn't speak and lifts a golden eyebrow as a silent indication for Stefan to continue. Forever the slave to her wishes, he does.

"Then, there was Damon. I still don't really know exactly what happened between him and Dorothy, but something did. He doesn't like to talk about it, and neither do I, to be honest. I did some things I'm not proud of and . . . and my biggest regret is not being able to make it right before she died.

"I miss her . . . I miss her everyday, in the name of being honest. But, it doesn't hurt as much as it used to. A part of me will always love her—she was my first love, and I don't think you ever really let go of someone like that, but . . . but, I've grown and I'm ready. I'm ready to love again, and to love you just as much as I loved her."

There's a pause, before Caroline breaks, throws her armour to the ground and smiles. It's like the sun, bright and warm and fills up the cracks in his soul until he's fit to bursting with Caroline Caroline Caroline.

( It's enough to burn away the ash-like taste of lies on his tongue. )

"ELENA."

CAROLINE SHOULD PROBABLY TRUST STEFAN, but that deep and dark and old thing inside of her is warning her not to, to dig and pry and look until she finds what he's been hiding, what he keeps so close to his chest.

That man with the unfathomable eyes—the man who looked and saw Stefan so much it terrified him—plagues her waking moments, her mind picking and pulling at his words until she feels like she's going insane.

How can it be? How can it be? How can it be?

When she sleeps that night, Stefan haunts her dreams. They begin in bed, tangled together like golden vines, lips battling in a war so much more intense than she's used to, and then Stefan pulls back, and she takes the pause to gather her breath. Her eyes flutter open to connect with Stefan's green irises, but they don't.

Because she's not locking eyes with Stefan, lust-addled and hair-mussed, but what must be a monster: dark, black eyes that gobble her soul up whole, veins spiderwebbing down his cheeks, and sharp fangs that gleam even in the darkness.

A heartbeat passes—a heartbeat of panic unlike she's ever felt before—and in it she realises she was never the lion, but the lamb, and Stefan hides his claws well.

Then, the heartbeat passes her by and Stefan snarls like a wild animal, like a beast of ancient times, and pounces.

She just feels the agony of his fangs tearing through the flesh of her neck before she sprouts up in bed, hands flying for her throat to find it intact, the only damage being the scrape of her nails.

That deep, dark, old thing that now lives and breathes inside her doesn't come forward in that moment, in that dream. It merely resides quietly at the back of her mind, and if Caroline really concentrates, she can feel such sorrow it nearly swallows her up whole.

Caroline retreats quickly.

But, she knows where that dream ( that vision ) originated from.

They came from a night of forgiveness and laughter and the scent of crackling chicken in a pan hanging in the air. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Caroline felt that this could work, this thing between her and Stefan, but the moment is intruded upon by the slice of the knife through her palm.

She gasped at the sting, didn't bother to look at Stefan as she rushed to the sink, running her hand beneath the spray, watching the blood pour down the drain. She looked up into the window, almost absent-mindedly and gasped.

It was only for a mere moment, but Caroline will never be able to erase the image of that monster crawling across Stefan's face, overcoming him before he whirled around. She raced to him, pulled at his shoulder, heart hammering, almost unwilling to believe.

Then, Stefan relented, revealing his pensive expression, but that look on his face shocked Caroline more.

She knew, she knew, she knew.

It's like when Stefan cut his hand but didn't really, like how she still hasn't got the whole story, like the man with the unfathomable eyes.

"Hey, Care, pay attention!"

Caroline blinks rapidly, dropping back down to reality, eyes swooping over her surroundings before everything clicks together.

Oh, yeah, the fundraiser.

Fuck.

"Care, are you alright?"

Caroline's gaze ducks towards a frowning Bonnie, who stands at her side with arms crossed. Caroline scrambles for an excuse. "Yeah, Bon, just . . . just got a lot going on right now."

It doesn't feel right—not telling Bonnie the truth. Ever since kindergarten, nothing but the truth ( or little white lies like it wasn't Caroline who ate the ice cream when it clearly was her ) had ever passed her lips when talking to her friend. It feels like the Earth has tilted on its axis.

Bonnie's shrewd eyes dig into Caroline. "Okay, sure. You'll be okay?"

You can have your secrets, but I'm here if you need me.

Caroline's shoulders droop and she shoots Bonnie a grateful, relieved smile. "I'll be fine, Bon. Seriously—hey, have you seen Lena?"

Bonnie's expression becomes pinched in her worry. "No, not in a little while. But, she's probably around here somewhere. Tell me when you find her?"

"Yeah, don't worry. Seriously, you can go now." Bonnie moves on, leaving Caroline to herself. Caroline eventually takes over the money table, Elena nowhere to be seen. Worry begins to brew in her gut at the mysterious disappearance of her friend—because that's not like Elena, even in the depths of her grief—but all those thoughts vanish in an instant.

"That'll be $20," Caroline says monotonously, eyes unfocused as she works on autopilot, until she holds out the change, eyes flickering up to the man before her. Recognition strikes her, "I saw you last night. You were talking to a friend of mine—at the Grill."

The man pauses, his eyes that know everything yet not enough falling on her and surveying her. "Well, I thought it was somebody I knew."

Somebody she thought she knew too, but time is quickly unravelling that assertion.

"Stefan Salvatore." His name in her mouth is a weighty thing, heaving with secrets and black eyes and gleaming, shining fangs that tear necks wide open.

The man seems almost unwilling to believe it, his conviction from the night before melting away before Caroline's eyes. Fear begins to creep in. "No, it can't be. It was just my mind playing tricks on me."

Caroline should be kinder, should be gentler, but she was never made for cotton and silk and china. She was made for war and steel and bullets. "Where do you think you've seen him before?"

The man hesitates, considering, weighing his options. Caroline bites her tongue, but she can't tame the desperation roiling inside her, begging for answers, for clarity ( for life and daughters and love ).

The man caves. "When I first moved here, I stayed at the Salvatore Boarding House . . . Stefan was just passing through to visit his uncle. I mean, none of us knew he was even here until the attack."

The story rings bells, loud and clear and alarming, in Caroline's head. She picks at the threads further. "Attack?"

There's a heavy sadness in the man's eyes, nurtured by time. "His uncle got killed—mauled by an animal in the woods."

( Ice-cold eyes singe and burn. )

"Zach?" Caroline blurts out, the sound of his name falling from her tongue sending shivers cascading down the knobs of her spine because she knows, "Was that his uncle?"

The man shakes his head forlornly. "Joseph."

Caroline's lips pinch together as she thinks, plots, calculates. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't think I'm familiar with that story."

"Well, how could you?" the man chuckles bitterly, "I mean, this happened years ago."

But not long enough.

Caroline leans forward, eyes piercing and hungry like an empty stomach growling for sustenance. "Are you sure about this? That the man you saw, that you know, his name was Stefan Salvatore?"

The man nods firmly. "Yes. I remember his ring and his brother."

Caroline doesn't expect that. She recalls the ring that sits snugly on Stefan's nimble fingers—the paradoxical way in which Stefan treats it. Twists it around his finger like he needs to reaffirm its where it should be; the way in which sometimes he hates its very existence.

And his brother . . .

"Damon?"

"Yeah. Stefan and Damon Salvatore."

"Ah. The original Salvatore brothers."

Caroline sweeps her tongue over suddenly dry lips. "When was this?"

The man's brows furrow as he thinks, and there's the feeling of doom and gloom swelling in Caroline's gut. "It was early June 1953. Yeah: June 1953."

Caroline looses a heavy breath, and feels like she's just treaded on a minefield—this was something she has the sickening sense she was never meant to uncover.

( With her, it was only a matter of time. )

"ELENA."

ELENA'S HEAD SNAPS TO the side, where the voice that has chased her this entire day originated from, but again, there's no one there.

She thinks she's going insane.

"Elena."

Clear and sharp like a diamond. She has the nagging sense she's heard it before, but she can't place where.

There's that tugging her gut, too—the thread that has become a rope that has become a lodestone, pulling her feet in a certain direction. Bonnie had to physically stop Elena before the brunette realised she was going the wrong way home.

"Elena."

Without meaning to, she takes a step in the direction of the voice, eyes focusing and unfocusing. She locks eyes with icy irises that burn with time and agony and shadows.

"Help me."

The voice is strained, desperate in a way that just sounds wrong, but it pulls Elena onwards anyway, that lodestone dragging her forwards, her mind entrenched in a pool of stars and blood and mothers gone mad.

( A wolf howls. )

She trudges over concrete and stone, wades through grass and mud, soldiers through branches and leaves, dragged and dragged and dragged, those blue eyes pulling her in and in and in until she's drowning—brimming with magic and death and pocketed full of strings like a marionette.

There's a door in front of her.

Elena blinks, the blanket of calm and numbness and just listen to me, just do as I say encouraging her to push the door open, to step into the ornate hallway that's old in more than just time. Something in her mind niggles, something inside her fights back, because there's something intensely familiar about this house even though she's certain that she's never stepped in here before.

Like metal moving to a magnet, Elena pads over the rich carpet, ducking around corners until she reaches a set of stairs that invite her into the dark depths of the basement. The shadows that cling to the walls are not kind.

( This is where monsters lurk. )

Elena treads down the stairs softly, almost afraid to disturb the shadows, to even meddle with the still, still air as if it will attack her and leave her bleeding.

( She's a fool; like it would ever let her go. )

There's a door and it's cold to the touch. She knows there's someone ( something ) behind the door, the flame to her moth as those eyes command her to undo the heavy lock. She does, and the weight in her gut vanishes, sense returning to her.

She stumbles back, gasping, heart hammering. Elena knows she should leave, should run screaming, but there's something inside her ( something that is drawn to monsters ) that begs her to open the door, to discover the source of this whole maddening day.

Elena obeys.

( If there's one thing she's subject to, it's herself. )

Pale fingers prod gently at the frigid door and it swings open easily, almost invitingly, if not for the sinister atmosphere and the body splayed out on the floor.

Then, Elena does something really stupid. "H-Hello?"

There's a pause, an aeon-long stretch of a heartbeat. Then: "Elena."

Realisation strikes her like lightning, but she can't even do anything but breathe before Damon Salvatore gets to his feet, moving at supernatural speeds. He crashes into the doorframe, the whole building shuddering at the force and—oh, God.

His face.

It's nothing human, nothing natural or sane or holy.

It's demonic and hellish and nightmarish. It's got black eyes and grey veins and fangs fit for murder.

Elena screams.

She bolts, feet tearing for the staircase. Damon snarls behind her, kicking her overworked survival instincts into overdrive as she races up the staircase, her heart hammering, adrenaline barrelling through her better than any drug.

Dust rains down on and the walls quiver as Damon crashes again, and her mind and heart and soul are screaming at her in awful harmony: run, Elena! Run, run, run!

She obeys, careening through the house she shouldn't know, but does anyway—hears Damon behind her with ragged breath and deep grunts as he chases after her. Elena bursts through the front door, the feel of the sunshine over her skin falling over like armour, like hope.

She doesn't look back.

Doesn't look back the whole way home, even as her lungs ache and her legs scream. There's only one thought in Elena's mind: run.

Run till she's safe, run till he can't get her. Home is the only answer.

The door slams against the wall in a way that would have Aunt Jenna shrieking in outrage if she was home, but she's not, so Elena doesn't worry about the dent in the wall as she bangs the door shut, locking Damon and white fangs out.

Elena dives into her bed, curls under the sheets like she's five-years-old again and afraid of the dark. And, finally, she cries.

She cries and cries and cries until the tears run out, paces and thinks and ponders until she's gone near-insane, because she must be because there's no way what she saw was real.

( Please, don't let it be real. )

Night has fallen by the time there's a frantic knocking on the door downstairs and Elena freezes, heart stopping dead in her chest as her mind kicks into overdrive, thinking that Damon's here and—

"Lena! Come on! It's me! Open the door!"

The sound of Caroline's voice is more soothing than any lullaby, and the panic crawling up Elena's throat retreats just a bit as Elena climbs to trembling legs like a newborn fawn.

Caroline keeps rapping at the door as Elena trudges down the stairs, and she greets her best friend with a pale face and fierce scowl as she opens the door. Her friend is similarly pale.

"Care, what the hell—"

"—Stefan's a vampire."

( There's no going back now. )