These are the ears that ring with hate. This is the face that'll never change. This is the fist that grinds you down. This is the voice of silence no more.

-Some Kind of Monster

Damon seethed in the secluded upstairs room of the old house, with not a single thought of mercy passing through his rabid mind. The centuries of numbness had only known the companion of hate, and it never liked a new playmate; it was mutilated and dead before the night was over. The blackness seemed to rid Damon's body of every foreign invader that did not fit the sadistic and survivalist profile it expected for success—and kindness was always the first to be killed off. He wondered how long it would be this time, before he was drained of all feelings akin to pleasure. The process had already started; it wouldn't be long now.

It had been exactly three hours and ten minutes since he had stormed out of Elena's presence. Her crime was not severe in the eyes of most humans—she had wanted to care for him. In terms of vampires, make him human. Damon could never allow that, no matter how much his insides screamed for it. He was a prisoner of his own conscience, forced to believe in a set of ethics not even the most twisted of people could follow. Damon was a wreck. In all of his centuries, it had only happened once: right when he had first turned.

The hunting grounds had always been pleasant during the early March season. Flowers were budding, supplying illuminating hues of blues, pinks, yellows, and whites for the passing traveler to notice with awe. The sweetly seductive plants had always been Damon's secret passion. He had given each color of elegant flower its own special name, and he was careful never to mix them up. His secret little gods would not like the inconsiderate gesture.

In Damon's mind, the precious plants held the powers of the springtime. They could strip away the benevolent weather and successful harvesting just as easily as they had placed them in humanity's hands. The flowers had quite a temper.

The blue flower Aquila possessed the power of the rains. This was Damon's most cherished beauty. Thunder, lightening, and all that it implied had always left him awestricken, wondering how the tiny creature was able to formulate such a misty gray sky.

Looking down to the little blue hued flower beside him, it seemed to be encouraging him to ask it his questions. He knew it was impossible, though. He'd tried many a time to speak to the flowers he so worshipped, but their only reply had been their pedals rustling in the warm breeze.

The flower colored pink, Aulus, was the controller of sunrise and sunset. Damon could not help but show undying respect for the innocently hued creature. It was she that dictated how the world worked, and how much time was alluded to day and night. He quite loved when she decided to prolong the day, because that was his favorite time to reflect. Damon had never worked well in the nighttime. Whether it was a subconscious stress, or fear of the unknown, Damon still could not decide. But, he always breathed a sigh of relief when Aulus showed mercy on his heavy soul.

The yellow flower Decima held the mystical magic of the sun. Whether she sometimes made it too hot or not, had little effect on Damon's image of her. She was the master ruler of the spring, allowing everything to flourish below her brilliant colors of yellows and oranges. It was Decima who gave life to the world. The least Damon could do in return was to pay her a daily homage, thanking the brilliant yellow goddess for all that she had provided.

The white flower Lucia was the reminder of winter. She was certainly the darkest of all her flower-mates, but also the most feared. She was the one that held all of the wrath; all of the suffering. Damon had never liked winter. The bitterer climate and shorter days had done nothing but pain him. But alas, he still felt compelled to love Lucia; in some ways, more than any of the other flowers. He'd learned from her that fear was the one to pull in the most discipline. And if one was to try hard enough, they could even terrorize people to bear the powerful feelings of love and respect for them. Yes, Lucia was a wicked one.

But this spring, the flowers meant nothing; they had little to no purpose for Damon. The province was dying, of some terrible sickness. The god of death Pluto was obviously very displeased with the city of Ravenna, and had unleashed a nasty spell of death no one could seem to fight against.

Except Damon.

He had been coughed on, bled on, cried on, yet there were still no terrible symptoms coming his way. If anything, he would have expected to have the severest blow of the illness. Indeed, he had worshipped his nature friends over the gods ruled by Jupiter and Juno. He would have expected the pair to sic their greatest weapon of Pluto on him, but instead they seemed to show him intense mercy.

When the sickness struck, instead of seeing massive welts filled with thick, gooey, yellowish pus, and being clouted with massive fevers, he started to feel his senses heighten. Every noise had become agonizingly loud, and there was nothing he could do to silence the obnoxious tree branches twitching about a mile or so away.

Even from the secluded grounds, he could smell the food being prepared for the townspeople's meals. Since the wicked disease had struck, the daily pottage had become more and more watered down, until it only consisted of a scarce amount of wheat or millet. The luxurious sauces were gone; there were no vegetables to add, since hardly anyone was strong enough to grow them; there was no meat to add to the mixture—most had died of starvation.

How could such a bustling and growing city fall to its knees in such a rapid harshness?

Worst of all, Damon could only watch. He was not a Healer, and he did not know the ways of the dark arts. All he knew was how to handle a knife or sword lethally, and how to obey a general's orders without wincing at the screams barked into his ears.

He'd always considered those skills a great accomplishment.

But when society collapsed, how well one could handle a knife against an opponent became obsolete. People were in dire need of people who could save them; people who could feed them.

Damon had never been good at either. His father had taught him to be a destroyer; a killer of the enemy. He had always been showered with gifts of food from those around him, so he hadn't the slightest clue about how to plant a seed; bake a loaf of bread; milk a cow for dairy. He could kill some game. A hare possibly, or even a squirrel or deer. But that was where his helpful skills ended.

"Master Damon," he heard the servant Klaus call timidly. Damon hadn't quite figured out why, but the savage British boy had always been terrified of him. Turning around to face the man, he shot a hard and dead stare in the servant's direction. The bolder pace Klaus had begun to pick up slowed dramatically, and he bowed his head. "Dinner is almost prepared."

"Let them have it," was his icy and numb reply. "They need it more than I do."

He was referring to his parents. Vibia and Quintus had been nothing special of a couple. Both from upper class families, they were guaranteed a comfortable living condition, with free and easy access to the luxuries held by the senators and emperor himself.

Vibia had always been a kind soul. She rarely ever raised her voice. And when she did, it was when someone asked her to speak louder. A loyal and devout mother and wife, she was all anyone could ask for.

Damon had always wished that he'd turned out more like his mother. He wanted the love of those around him… and he wanted it to be genuine. But alas, it was only a vague hope. He was his father in every way possible.

Quintus was a stern force; a brute of a man, really. He could give someone a scar just by looking at them intensely enough. He gained his respect by the warrior getup he wore around like a trophy, and gained the love by the amount of extra dollars he spent on goods and food; but mostly his cherished wine. The red liquid was probably still warmer than the blood that circulated in sheets of ice through his veins. He was the man everyone secretly despised, but were told to love. Quintus had passed down that evil curse to his son. He was a wondrous warrior, strong and determined on a battlefield. But the second he touched ground on the homefront, all those rules and way of life changed. That reality was something Quintus had never been too talented at accepting.

Damn them all, Damon thought as he picked at the skin on his lifeless fingers. He was not that boy anymore; sometimes he wondered if he ever really was. The flowers could all die; every last one of them. Alive or dead, spring would never come again for Damon.

I suck at updating; end of story. I know an apology will not make up for the fact that these updates are so sparse. But still, I am really sorry. The school year has slowed down a lot though, so expect much quicker updates! Please still give me your thoughts though; I really do need them. Also, for any fans of Supernatural (and/or Vampire Diaries) I have a new crossover story called "Evil Never Loved You". Please consider checking it out, and telling me what you think.

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