The air was heavy with the promise of rain, a storm brewing on the horizon. Great billowing clouds loomed above the Salvatore estate, casting long shadows over the sprawling grounds. Wind whispered through the trees, sending a wave of brittle, curled leaves skittering across the earth. The house stood sentinel, groaning in the wind, its dark windows rattling with the impending storm. At one of the windows stood Damon Salvatore, his piercing gaze fixed on the edge of the woods. His sharp, blue eyes caught every movement, every bough that swayed, every leaf that danced, every animal that scurried for cover. A low rumble of thunder carried in the distance, and a faint smile ghosted across his lips as he heard his brother, Stefan, retreat from the library window.
Being thrust backward in time had been… unpleasant. War had greeted him- screams of the dying, the acrid stench of blood and burning flesh clinging to the air like a fevered dream. He had not lingered. Extricating himself with ease, the shackles of responsibility that had been so eagerly thrusted upon him had been tossed aside swiftly. Feigning injury had been the first true taste of liberation and watching Stefan's wide-eyed concern had been a small pleasure upon his return home. His brother's naivety and affectionate nature made the fleeting reunion with their father tolerable. If only for a breath before the rot of the past began to choke him again.
Damon had moved through his old life like a ghost in borrowed skin. A skin too small, too worn, stretched thin until it tore at the seams. It split and ripped, revealing what lay beneath: the festering remains of a man who had been too weak to break free. This time, he would be different. There would be no mercy, no hesitation.
His eyes narrowed as the flickering candlelight from under the library door drew his attention. Stefan, sweet, innocent, Stefan. Still so human, so fragile. Damon's lips twisted into a smirk, the taste of bourbon lingering on his tongue as his thoughts drifted back to their father. The man had been a fool and received what he had deserved— Damon had made sure of it. But, Stefan… Stefan was not like him. There were other ways to handle his brother. More lasting ways.
Damon's gaze laid intently on the library door, his ears prickling at the soft rustle of paper turning and Stefan's heartbeat from within the other room. The hunger stirred, familiar and insistent within him, but it was tempered by something else. A darker pull. Damon swirled the bourbon in the glass he held, watching Stefan's shadow pass under the closed door. Stefan would remain by his side, Damon was certain of it. He would make sure of it.
A sudden knock came from the front door. It shattered the quiet, the cloying scent of another vampyre permeating the house. Damon's expression darkened, the intrusion pulling him from his reverie. With a low growl, he turned, the smooth surface of his carefully maintained world beginning to ripple.
Within the library, Stefan sat in a high-back armchair, a quill poised in hand and the inkwell balanced precariously on his knee. The journal on his lap lay open, untouched, the page stark and blank, as his thoughts wandered in dark, twisting circles. Troubling thoughts had begun to plague him since the death of their father. Damon had changed. Or, perhaps, it was not a change, rather something that had always been lurking beneath the surface, only now laid bare. Something innate within Damon had changed, and Stefan could not quite explain what it was. Damon felt different.
The war, he reasoned, must have tainted Damon. He had heard tales— men returning home with their minds fragmented, hollowed by the horrors they had seen, and done. Still, it seemed something more, beyond the war. A shadow that walked his brother's footsteps.
Stefan's eyes flickered toward the door, and pressed his mouth into a line, recalling how Damon's piercing blue gaze so often followed him, tracking his every move with unnerving intensity. It was as though Damon never truly left him, even when they were apart. There was a heaviness in the way his brother's presence lingered. Stefan should have been comforted by it, after all the war had stolen Damon away for so long. And without their father's oppressive ways, Stefan could relish each embrace, every playful remark without fear of reprimand. Yet, Damon was different now.
There were no more parties, no gatherings. Damon had dismissed every social engagement with cold finality once he had become head of the house. Stefan was forbidden from going into town. Stefan had balked at the confinement and had not relented until Damon had silenced his protests, so firmly, so unyielding, that Stefan had not dared to broach the subject again. Weeks had passed, the house growing strangely quiet and subdued. No visitors, no letters. Even Sheriff Forbes had been sent away, charmed right off the property. That was the last Stefan had seen of anyone from town.
The servants whispered often amongst themselves, their voices carrying through the still halls. They spoke of the strange happenings, of the sudden death of Giuseppe, of Damon's shunning the outside world. Most of them concluded Damon was grieving, that the war and then death of their father had simply been too much for him to bear. But, a few murmured of a curse on the Salvatore name, an affliction that had crept into their bloodline. Stefan dismissed it, of course. Such talk was born from superstition. Yet…
There were moments. Unexplainable, disorientating moments. Stefan would feel Damon's hand under his chin, forcing his gaze upward— those eyes, cold and bright, locking with his. And then… nothing. He would wake in his bed with no recollection of the evening prior, or find himself standing in a room without knowing why. Once, he had wandered the estate in the early dawn, barefoot and disheveled, without the faintest memory of ever leaving the house.
A sudden gust rattled the window panes, and the candlelight wavered, shifting shadows swaying along the walls. Stefan shivered, pulling the woven blanket tighter around his shoulders. Darkness encroached as the storm clouds outside gathered over the land and it would not be long before rain began to fall. Stefan set the quill aside and closed the journal, its pages still blank. Perhaps a book— something familiar, something comforting— would be enough to quiet the unsettling thoughts haunting him.
Yet, as he reached for the nearest volume, his hand paused. The thought flickered at the edge of his mind, unbidden and unwanted. Damon was still his brother.
Nothing more.
Was he not?
A/N: Welcome, welcome to my first and likely last foray into Gothic Horror. This is also posted on Ao3 and I would recommend checking out the tags there.