Disclaimer! I'm just borrowing the characters and the world for fun.
This chapter gave me so much trouble! I started writing it and then started over, and then almost finished it only to decided to completely re-write it again! Finally got to editing it and decided to add an entire section... UGH! I don't even know if it's doing what I want it to anymore, but I hope it is and I hope you guys enjoy it. You guys honestly make all the effort worth it. Also, there's discussion of a poem called "A Dream Within a Dream" by Edgar Allan Poe in this chapter - I'll post it on my Tumblr, but it's definitely worth giving it a read before starting the chapter. (Don't worry. It's a short one.)
Songs for this chapter are: "Mr. Sandman" by SYML, "Turning Page" by Sleeping at Last and "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.
FFT: I decided to change a few details about Damon's transition to suit the narrative of the AU – I want to keep things as close to canon as possible, but it just made more sense for him to choose to turn on his own (with the right motivation) than to have Stefan force him.
Their tree was much larger now, having had almost 200 years to grow. Almost mocking the hollowed, ruined estate in the distance, it thrummed with life: its leaves more lush, even in mid-spring; its branches stronger; its roots deeper.
Damon's hands shook as they dragged against the rough bark, his nails catching on the sharp ridges over and over again.
He had just been here a few days ago searching for a trace of Katherine. This tree held no value to him then – only a spec in the distance decorating the emptied grounds of a place he longed to forget.
This simple tree that represented the most treasured thing in his life.
Shame engulfed him at his forgetting. He pressed his face against the jagged trunk as if to hide it, his fingers biting past the bark and into the wood beneath. Clenching his jaw shut, he forced himself not to apply any more pressure.
He hadn't meant to do that. He didn't want to damage their tree, he just…
He had been here with Bonnie a few days ago and it hadn't meant a damned thing to him.
The realization left him untethered, the constant flux of emotions and shifting memories keeping him out to sea. What was actually important to him? Did he even know?
What else had he forgotten?
He pried his fingers out of the tree and sank down amongst the roots at his feet, heedless of the grass stains and dirt he'd be leaving on his clothes.
Memories overlaid themselves in his mind's eye, blurred and all jumbled together. He needed to sort through the layers and, for the first time, truly remember…
Damon ran the brush methodically over Lenore's coat, his gaze drifting away from his task and about the sleeping stables as it had done repeatedly all night.
It must be well past the appointed time by now…
He sighed, placing the brush aside.
It was becoming evident Bonnie had no intention of appearing this night.
He had hoped the prospect of a ride on Lenore would entice her enough to overcome whatever trepidation she held for him.
Her wariness of him... he could not account for it. It felt more personal than his position or his race.
On the few occasions they had conversed, she would eye him with reservation, studying his every move and gesture and weighing them against what scale, he could not fathom. Yet, recognition coloured her heavy gaze as well. And when she spoke it was with such startling familiarity it quite often took his breath away. He had never before experienced its like.
He wanted very much to hold a proper conversation with her.
As it was, their paths had no reason to intersect and she seemed disinclined to alter this fact. He would not force his companionship where it was not wanted. If she truly did not wish his friendship, he would have to honour her wishes.
It was a great disappointment. She seemed an enigma to him: one he was dying to decipher.
He settled Lenore for bed, biding the mare good night, and began his slow, lonely trek back to the manor.
He was delighted to find Bonnie as fascinating an individual as he imagined her to be: each of their conversations proving more satisfying than the last. She walked beside him now, through the tall grass the horses had yet to graze upon; their steps unhurried as she discussed Edgar Allan Poe's "A Dream Within a Dream" in a fashion he was unaccustomed to hearing from any aside Stefan or Miss Katherine.
"…I think what I find the most interesting is that it reads like the experience of grief in reverse," she said, examining the night sky above them as if observing something in the empty space between the stars. "In the first verse, there's a feeling of acceptance – of letting go and moving forward, come what may – but in the second verse there's a sense of helplessness and a clear desperation to hold on to what was. At least that's how it reads to me."
She brought her gaze forward and shrugged her good shoulder before adding, "Sometimes I imagine it as a call and response, you know, from the one leaving and the one left behind."
The one leaving and the one left behind… He hummed thoughtfully as he considered her words.
He recalled the work in question, the image of a man clutching to sand as it slipped unimpeded through his fingers, and was struck with the sudden remembrance of his mother's parting. She had clasped each of her son's hands gently in one of her own, a look of peace settling on her pale features before she closed her eyes as if to sleep. And he, in turn, had placed his head against their joined hands and wept, knowing they were to be forever parted.
"Yes, I…" his throat constricted and he cleared it roughly, "I take your meaning."
"…Damon?" Bonnie's gentle voice led him away from his quickly coiling thoughts and brought him back to the moment at hand. They must have drifted to a stop while he was unaware, for Bonnie stood peering at him through the darkness with an element of disquiet. "Are you alright?"
"Yes!" he reassured brightly, affixing a smile to his face.
"Right…" her simple response was weighted, perhaps his assurance was poorly preformed, but she was kind enough not to press the issue.
It was only a moment or two later that they resumed their stroll, the soft sounds of night cocooning them. He clasped his hands behind his back, but felt oddly restrained, so he released them and let them rest at his sides instead. His fingers brushed absently against the fabric of his trousers again and again before he caught himself. Frowning, he returned his hands to their position behind his back.
Glancing over to Bonnie revealed her to be in a similar state of unease, her head tilted down and brow furrowed. She seemed at war with herself, her countenance fraught with indecision.
He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling suddenly foolish. What poor manners to lose himself in such remembrances whilst in the company of others. He wanted very much not to burden his new companion with his sorrow. It had been difficult enough to convince her to indulge this friendship; she might find him more bother than he was worth if he troubled her further with something so personal.
Beside him, Bonnie released a harsh breath. With some degree of trepidation, he opened his eyes to find she had stopped once more. His insides twisted at the serious expression she regarded him with.
Carefully, she spoke, "If… there's something troubling you, you can tell me, you know."
He grimaced, "That is very kind of you to say."
The last thing he desired was to burden her with such obligations.
Sensing his reticence, all vestiges of indecision lifted from her. Her eyes, brilliant jade even in the dark of night, pierced through him as they were wont to do – seeing to the truth of him, to the depths he was too often afraid to show to others.
"I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," she vowed firmly.
He was beginning to discern that her consternation may outweigh her decorum on this point. It would doubtless behoove him to concoct a suitable excuse and lay the matter to rest.
Steeling himself, he began, "My mind has been occupied with…"
Bonnie's stare remained steadfast and he was unable to tear his gaze away. Her earnest offer of friendship held him captive and he found himself entirely powerless to deny her.
"With thoughts of my mother," he confessed in a sudden rush. Apprehension kissed along his ribcage – there could be no unsaying what was said.
"Oh?"
She did not question further, waiting patiently for him to elaborate on his own accord.
As a matter of course, he relented to her. "…In the past, I would often sit and discuss books with her. Sometimes she would simply be my silent companion as I read, but, more oft than not, she would have me recite aloud to her. She claimed I had a pleasant voice for reading."
Bonnie nodded her assent.
Damon paused, his tension easing a degree and being supplanted by an agreeable warmth at the notion of her concurrence. He should like if his voice pleased her, but now was not the moment to inquire if it did.
"On occasion," he continued, "Stefan would join us in our discourse, though he was more inclined towards works of a serious nature. Principally, though, it was an occupation shared betwixt only the two of us, one that became more frequent as she neared the end of her life. I find I now feel my mother's absence most keenly whilst in the midst of a novel."
He laughed lightly at his own candour, but the sound held no humour.
"There's nothing shameful in that," she assured, her voice as soft as silk.
"My father would have me believe otherwise," he smiled bitterly.
Bonnie made a curious expression, her lips twisting down and eyes narrowing, before abruptly turning her face away. Was it his imagination or… was she refraining from speaking ill of his father?
Genuine amusement traced his smile at this. Feeling a little safer, he took a small step closer to her.
"Your observations struck me deeply," he confided, lowering his voice – though only the night accompanied them, these words were for her ears alone; not even the stars could be privy, "When my mother passed, I felt a profound sense of helplessness. I could do nothing to alter the course my life had taken, I could do nothing to keep her here with me – to call her back to my side and have her offer words of wisdom or censure or… to ask to be read to."
His voice broke and, blinking fiercely, he focused on the shaded silhouette of the oak tree in the distance.
"I have never reflected on my experience in that manner before, but your words articulated it precisely. Perhaps Mr. Poe felt much the same when he wrote the piece."
Bonnie fluttered away a few steps, the scent of rose and sandalwood lingering in her wake. The smile she gifted him now was kinder than any before, though still coloured with her familiar hues of reservation. "Since your thoughts are with your mother, why don't you tell me about her."
His eyebrows lifted of their own accord. "What would you like to know?"
She cast her gaze about aimlessly as she hummed – a pleasant sound. After a moment, she asked, "What book did she like best?"
"Jane Eyre," he answered easily.
"Ah," she nodded sagely, "a classic."
A classic…?
Damon tilted his head as he regarded her with interest.
"Aristotle's Metaphysics is a classic. I do not believe that Jane Eyre, though very well written, meets the criterion."
A look of startlement flashed briefly across her face before she laughed, "Of course! But it's one for the ages, I think."
"So you've read it?"
There was a momentary pause before she answered quietly.
"No."
His remaining melancholy gave way unexpectedly to sheer puzzlement. He could do little to hide it and Bonnie flustered under its influence. Waving her good hand fervently between them, she clarified, "I haven't yet, but I'd like to! I've heard really good things."
A more peculiar creature he had never met, but he was more than happy to indulge her.
"Would you like to borrow a copy?"
"Oh," she startled further. "I don't… Is that allowed?"
"Who is to stop us?"
Her teeth worried her bottom lip in a most distracting manner as she hesitated.
"I believe the terms of our friendship are ours to define," he assured, dragging his gaze resolutely to meet hers. In this moment, he hoped the night covered the warmth he was certain would be visible on his cheeks otherwise.
Resolve beginning to soften, she countered, "I don't really have anything to give you in return."
He smiled at her continued reservation. It was very like her to desire things to remain equitable.
"Simply tell me your thoughts after you have read it. I should be curious to hear them." His lips quirked further in amusement he could not temper. "I have recently been told by a qualified source that it's a classic."
"Ha, ha…" Bonnie responded dryly.
They continued forward in the still night, the stars seeming brighter above them. Or perhaps his experience of the world was now brighter for the company he kept.
Damon picked at his breakfast idly. The pit in his stomach would not allow for sustenance and the thought of attempting to force the food down made his mouth dry. He could not forgive the unkindness he had done his friend.
How could he say such things?
Yes, he cared for Miss Katherine and it had been out of turn for Bonnie to speak of her in that manner – they were not even acquainted, to his knowledge – but Bonnie was a kind soul. She held no ill-will; he was confident of that.
It had been a few days since, and he could not bear to look in her direction: he felt such shame.
Across the table from him, Katherine leaned in to whisper conspiratorially in his brother's ear. A familiar sight: one that, generally, would stoke embers of envy, but now only served to feed the pit inside him, encouraging it to grow.
He pushed at a portion of his scrambled egg with blatant indifference.
"Are you not eating, Damon?" queried Katherine.
It seemed the two had pulled themselves away from one another long enough to notice him.
"No appetite, I'm afraid."
"You did not have much at dinner, either," chimed Stefan, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Not fond of veal," he responded blandly.
"Perhaps lunch will prove more enticing," Katherine suggested kindly.
"Perhaps." He offered her a half-hearted smile.
Doubtful. Nothing seemed enticing.
The world felt suddenly grey without the promise of Bonnie's companionship. A companionship he had single-handedly destroyed due to his… what precisely? His pride? His duty as a gentleman?
He loved Bonnie's candour. There was no guile or craft: when Bonnie spoke, she spoke plainly. To be the one to chide her frankness… it made him ill. It must have taken great courage to speak to him in such a manner. She must have trusted him greatly to be so honest.
Bile rose to his throat and he pushed himself away from the table, his chair making a ruckus as it scrapped across the floor. Both Katherine and Stefan looked at him in question.
He swallowed thickly, managing, "Forgive me. I feel unwell."
He must look something awful, for neither doubted this hasty proclamation. Stefan's earlier concern intensified. "Do you need anything?"
Courage.
He needed the courage to face Bonnie long enough to apologize. Not that he believed himself worthy of forgiveness, but she was owed this much. But he was so frightened… Had he always been such a coward?
In lieu of all that, he said, "Only to lie down for a while."
Then, with some effort, he stumbled out of the dining room.
He could not pinpoint the exact moment when his affection deepened into something more profound. It must have occurred slowly over the course of their early friendship. Incrementally, his intentions shifted until it was not quite friendship he sought from her. It made him feel foolish and selfish in equal measure.
But he was powerless against the delicate yearning that arose within him.
He had never met her equal. Her friendship was perfectly invaluable to him. Was it not wrong of him to covet more? Was this not already more than he deserved?
And what of Miss Katherine? Did he not still hold some affection for her?
Perhaps he did… But when he thought of Miss Katherine, it felt as though he was reaching for an ideal more than a person: a reflection of himself, mayhap distorted, but present.
Bonnie was an entirely other matter. Both women saw him for who he was, and both accepted him in their own ways, but where Katherine indulged him, Bonnie quietly expected more from him. These expectations were neither heavy nor demanding. It felt more like a curiosity for her: a question – Can you…? Will you…?
And he longed to answer, 'I can! I will!'
"This is silly," Bonnie said, not for the first time, as one of her hands found purchase on the lower branches of their tree.
"You needn't bluster, Bonnie. If the task is too great, you need only say so," he commented offhandedly from his perch higher up, knowing full well it would rile her.
She shot him a short look, before hefting herself up. "You try doing this in a dozen skirts," she huffed under her breath.
"Perhaps I shall, if only to amuse you."
Chuckling, she righted herself and settled closer to the crook of the tree where the branch met the trunk. When she looked to him, her smile was soft, "Happy?"
He was aware she was referencing their small expedition, but it felt like a great deal more. Her kindness in indulging his whims, and the warm affection with which she regarded him made him flush with joy. Having the assurance of her love was a heady feeling, indeed.
"Exquisitely so," he finally confessed, and was pleased when she ducked her head shyly in response.
He held Bonnie's letters between his hands.
It was not until she had extracted herself from his presence he discovered he possessed very little evidence that she was ever there: only a small square of fabric and a handful of letters; his most precious keepsakes.
He took the time to read them once more, and then he found a small box and emptied it of its contents, placing the letters in their stead. Then he took Bonnie's favour and pressed it briefly to his lips before laying it delicately on top and closing the box. The very thought of anyone other than himself touching the few things he held of hers made him recoil with revulsion.
He could not allow for such an occurrence.
He scoured his room until he located a loose floorboard in the corner, just beneath the left legs of the writing desk he rarely touched. He pried it the rest of the way and tucked the box inside, replacing the floorboard and desk to their original positions and stepping away to examine his handiwork.
It looked perfectly untouched. No one would be the wiser to its presence.
And now, with that secure, he could set his attention to the next point: Bonnie's warning him away from Miss Katherine.
It struck him as odd that Bonnie should possess such intimate knowledge of Miss Katherine despite having spent so little time in her company.
It was possible Emily, being kin to Bonnie and a fellow witch, had confided in her. It would be reasonable to assume that Emily would be privy to Katherine's nature, being in her service. Still… something did not feel correct about that supposition.
Damon sank onto his mattress as he continued to ponder.
Bonnie sometimes spoke of Katherine as if they were personally acquainted, as if she knew her true character from experience. She had warned him of it, to varying degrees, from the very beginning of their friendship.
It was a fact he was having trouble reconciling. If Bonnie was from the future, then how in the world could she be already acquainted with Miss Katherine? And further still, Miss Katherine seemed completely unfamiliar with Bonnie. It defied all logical explanation, unless…
His pulse quickened.
If the legends were to be believed, vampires were creatures of extraordinary vitality, rumoured to be nigh immortal.
Then… it could be possible for Miss Katherine to, in fact, be acquainted with Bonnie… just not presently so.
His mind spun at the possibility and he was suddenly quite relieved to be seated. Releasing a heavy breath, he gripped the sheets on either side of him to brace himself.
If Miss Katherine lived to meet Bonnie 150 years from now, then…
Could he…?
Fear chased excitement through his bloodstream.
An image filled his mind: Bonnie crumpled on the front lawn, looking up into his eyes with an equal measure of recognition and bafflement as she spoke his name before losing consciousness.
Had she known him?
From the first moment of their acquaintance, had she known him?
She had claimed to have seen his portrait. He had chosen to believe her as nothing else could account for it. Now, though, the lie began to reveal itself.
…She knew him.
And there could only be one explanation.
The world continued to tilt violently around him, so he chose to lie down and close his eyes. Despite the gradual, steady shaking of his frame, a smile snaked its slow way over his lips for the first time in hours.
Perhaps all would not be lost in the end.
The tremors seemed to be increasing, accompanied by a strange sense of lethargy spreading throughout his body like heat. He felt inexplicably heavy, the thought of moving suddenly impossible. He had so much to set in motion, so many things to plan for, he could not possibly rest now, and yet…
His thoughts felt far removed, unfamiliar and disconnected. It was becoming difficult to grasp one for longer than a moment before it slipped away as if it had never been there. How curious.
His body continued to sink into his mattress and it wasn't long at all until there were no thoughts left to grasp.
The music filling the room was saccharine, and the alcohol coating his tongue extraordinarily bitter. There was no compliment to be found in their marriage as he watched Katherine glide across the floor in his brother's arms. Damon took another large swig of his bourbon, though it offered him little comfort, and cursed himself again for his short-sightedness. He had never loved anyone in this way before. How had he been fool enough to encourage Stefan's affections when he felt like this?
The depth of his love consumed him. He knew she must feel the same – had felt it at one point, he was certain. But there had been a marked shift in recent days. Her love felt different, not as he remembered: foreign.
It could only be due to her attentions being divided between him and his brother. Stefan must have gained some ground and dislodged whatever hold Damon had on her heart.
He gritted his teeth, gripping the glass tumbler like a vice. It was no matter; he would simply prove that he loved her for who she truly was and not for the mask she wore.
He knew there was more to her than what met the eye. He could not put his finger on exactly what, but he felt it would be the key to their future together. He needed only to close the distance betwixt them. It was imperative.
Keeping his gaze set on his goal, he blindly deposited the tumbler on a nearby table and made to bridge the gap.
The sun was warm against his skin.
He looked placidly at the body of water before him, taking in the way the light reflected off its still surface. He listened intently to the birds in the distance and to the soft rustle of the tall grass surrounding him.
This may very well be his last sunrise, irrespective of the decision he was to make.
He had pursued Katherine knowing precisely what she was – it had not frightened him. It was her dark nature that drew him to her. The pull had been gravitational; the thought of turning, both terrifying and exhilarating.
But now, given the chance to cast aside his humanity and become something greater… he found himself hesitating.
Some unnamed fear nagged at his centre and, for the life of him, he could not quell it. There was something he would lose in the gaining of immortality – something he was meant to safeguard, something precious.
Damon Salvatore would die here today, but what would rise in his stead?
A foolish notion, but one that would not quiet.
Had he not longed for this? Had he not reached for this with open arms? Why, then, was he now faltering?
Katherine was gone… Perhaps that was why.
What was an eternity without Katherine? Only an empty approximation at life.
His sorrow swelled and he brought his knees closer to his chest to shield himself.
He had failed to reclaim her love. Until the very end, she had been torn between him and his brother, and now… she was gone. All that remained was his deep affection – that lingered, as it always did, in the depths of his soul.
Was that what frightened him? If he lost his soul, would his love vanish with it?
The very idea was repugnant. No, he would much rather die here. Rather carry this feeling to the grave with him than live without it.
Decision made, Damon closed his eyes to focus on the feeling of the sun against his skin for the last time.
Emily had come to him not long after and revealed the truth about the tomb and Katherine's plans. Or at the very least, what Emily believed to be her plans.
If she had not, he would have died that day.
He imagined it wasn't for his sake that she encouraged him to turn. And it certainly wasn't for Katherine's.
They were never close, even after she had charged him with the protection of her bloodline in exchange for the safekeeping of the amulet. She had always seemed cold and calculating to him, and he could never shake the strange feeling of apprehension whenever he was in her presence.
She had watched placidly from the sideline as he threw himself in Katherine's path with a single-minded desperation; all the while, understanding his motivations better than he did.
He should have questioned her unexpected candour, but he hadn't – too relieved at the prospect of being reunited with his "great love."
Hindsight truly was 20/20, he snorted darkly, his head falling back against the large trunk of the oak tree as he gazed sightlessly into the branches above.
Everything about his past was becoming excruciatingly clear to him. It was such a strange thing to see it both for what it was and for what he remembered it to be. Stranger still to realize everything he believed about himself and his motivations was… wrong. At its core, everything had always been about Bonnie.
When she left, she hadn't taken the love he felt with her – that remained. It lingered without reason, so his mind concocted a tale to make sense of it. He placed his devotion at Katherine's feet. Surely, the feelings of being seen, valued and loved where due to her attentions. And it was only natural his own interest had blossomed into something deeper without his notice.
So, he showered her with a love she had not earned while he sullied himself for a love she could not give.
It was all a sick joke.
He brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them much like he had while basking in those last morning rays as a human.
The purest thing he had ever possessed was his love for Bonnie.
But that was tainted now. Everything was tainted – he was tainted.
He had barely deserved her when he was human, but now… How could he face her with his hands covered in blood as they were? How could she ever love him like this?
The man he had once been – the one she had loved – was dead. He had died the moment he forgot about her. What was left in his wake was a monster brazenly wearing his face, one that shamelessly sinned in pursuit of his selfish desires.
He had hurt so many of the people around him: his brother, countless times; Elena, Jeremy, Caroline… and Bonnie…
He had hurt Bonnie.
He could still see her bleeding on the forest floor – feel Stefan pushing him abruptly to the side in order to save her. A raw anguish had threatened to consume him at the time, and he believed it was his failure to free Katherine that inspired it – even when he could not tear his eyes away from Bonnie's broken form. He had felt so alien in that moment: bereft in a way he couldn't comprehend.
It was only a few weeks later he discovered Katherine's betrayal. Ultimately, the discovery had cost Bonnie more than it cost him. The self-hatred that followed: the sorrow and disgust he couldn't seem to shake… He was convinced it was due to Katherine playing him for a fool for almost 200 years – and in large part it was – but now he wondered if Bonnie's suffering didn't contribute as well.
He had been aware of it, Sheila Bennett's loss and what that meant, but it had been periphery. Instead, he fixated on tearing down the hollow alter he had built to find a worthier one to place his love.
Elena.
He had burdened her and put strain on her relationship with his brother to satisfy himself. At the time, it had seemed the natural course of action. Katherine was meticulous in how she presented herself, like a carefully constructed spider's web – beautiful and easy to be entrapped by. Elena was nothing like that: she was honest and genuinely kind, so surely…
If Katherine couldn't offer him the love he sought, then surely Elena could. Someone must be able to love him the way he imagined being loved, the way he swore he had been loved once before. It was a constant itch under his skin begging for his attention: to discover who this person was.
And all this time she had been right in front of him, but for the life of him he couldn't see her. It was as if his mind couldn't focus long enough for him to fully comprehend her – thoughts of her flitting away from him faster than he could take note of.
But now, for the first time in his long life, he had a clear picture of her. He could see her for all that she was and… it scared the shit out of him.
Bonnie Bennett hated him; she had tried to kill him on more than one occasion. Yet, she had offered her friendship to him, she had allowed him closer, had humoured his mad schemes, had comforted him in his sorrow, had forgiven him when he wronged her (more than he realized, more than he deserved).
She had loved him.
She loved him.
He buried his head in his hands and cried.
Hours later, he stumbled to his feet and made his slow way over to the manor proper. He picked his way carefully through the debris, up the broken staircase and onto the second floor.
The door to his room stood just slightly ajar, inviting him forward, but when he pushed gently it only moved an inch or two before the wood lodged against the frame. Looking closer, he noticed the top hinge had detached, either from the weight of the swelling wood or the rust - most likely both. He had the strength to open it, but that wasn't the issue: the condition of the house around him was.
The banister beside his door was hanging haphazardly over the edge of the landing, the floor coming away and suspended in a wooden facsimile of a waterfall. It was clear that one wrong move could be what finally brought this house of cards down. Normally he wouldn't care, but he needed things to stay as they were for just a little while longer.
Crossing his arms, he took a large step back.
Brute force, his usual answer to everything, was obviously not going to work in this case; he had to be smart about this.
Haven't done that in a while, he thought sardonically before turning his attention to the remaining hinge. The metal was just as oxidized as the one that had detached and, therefore, just as brittle.
The gap between the door and the frame wasn't a sufficient width for him to access the hinge by hand, but if he could find something thin enough…
He didn't have much on him aside from his phone, and finding what he needed lying around the manor was unlikely. Any metal thin enough would probably be corroded, so that wasn't a viable option. But a spare piece of wood… that he had in plenty.
Ripping up a floorboard was a terrible idea, but - he swept his gaze over the landing for inspiration and found some in the small side table down the hall. He walked over to it. The table itself was in pretty good condition, all things considered. It seemed to have a little drawer. He pulled it open and smiled.
Not needing to hold back with this piece of furniture, he swiftly pulled the drawer the rest of the way out and snapped off one of its walls.
Perfect.
He tossed the ruined box onto the table and turned back to his room.
Crouching down, he slotted the newly acquired plank between the door and the jamb, his smile spreading in satisfaction when it went in without issue. Holding it firm, he lined it up just right and then brought it down hard.
The hinge snapped into pieces and Damon shot forward, catching the door before it could succumb to its sudden lack of support. He repositioned it carefully to one side, laying it flat on the ground and away from the threshold.
Mission accomplished: he'd opened a door.
Giving a little huff, he straightened up and surveyed the room.
The window across from him was missing, which meant the floor underneath it was going to be dangerous. The writing desk was situated to its right, all the way in the corner – the floor underneath it looked a bit green, but it might have been able to avoid anything too severe. There was also Stefan's room next door to consider with its partially collapsed roof.
Frowning, he made his way over to the desk. He shifted the small wooden table to one side and got on his knees. He let his hand glide over the boards, searching for one that was loose. It didn't take him long, his fingers latching and lifting one and then a few more for good measure.
He couldn't see the box from his vantage point, not for all the debris that had gathered over the years. He rolled his sleeve up and reached blindly into the hole he'd created. Cobwebs and old decayed leaves clung to his fingers as his hand passed through them until finally he brushed against something hard and square. Grasping it tightly, he pulled.
The box was not in good shape, discoloured and water damaged around the bottom, and a pit formed in his stomach. Carefully he unlatched the lid.
The scent of mildew was the first thing to greet him.
He lifted Bonnie's favour from the box. It stuck to itself, the material a mix of green, grey and an assortment of black specks he could only hope were dirt, but suspected were something more serious. Regardless, even if it was something less savoury, it wouldn't kill him. It might be salvageable. He would wash it – by hand would be better; a machine might destroy it – and see what condition it was in.
He stowed it safely in his back pocket before returning to the box.
It splintered in his grasp, tiny pinpricks of wood lodging themselves in his skin, but he barely noticed, his eyes locked on what remained of Bonnie's letters. Even folded, their ruin was easy enough to see. The coarse paper had weakened significantly. He reached for one, feeling it flake slightly under his fingers: its texture brittle and delicate.
He attempted to flatten it out, but the effort proved too much and it split into two halves. He clenched his jaw so tight it felt like his teeth were cracking from the pressure, his shoulders bunching around his neck as he tried not to scream.
What did it matter anyway?
It was an illegible mess.
He crumpled forward, pressing his forehead to the wood of the floor.
He had preserved nothing: not his keepsakes, or his promises, or his soul. All that remained was like the letters in that box, too distorted and molded over to mean anything.
Ruined. Tainted.
She deserved so much more than this. Especially now, understanding everything she had experienced and how much he had hurt her, her love overwhelmed him.
…And he had nothing to offer in return.
He squeezed his eyes shut, like that would lessen the keening ache filling his every cell. His throat burned, and he was aware he'd be unable to take a breath if he tried – only short, hitched breaths would escape him. He brought his hand to his face, the splinters scratching his skin and causing it to sting when it met with salt.
He curled in on himself and did not move for a long time.