Forever Is Not Enough

The Soldier

1864 - Frederick County, Virginia

Damon kept his head down, watching his feet slowly sink into the muddy ground with every step he took. He imagined what this land must have looked like before an army marched across it. It was a wide-open area with trees on either side. Occasionally, he would spot a patch of faded green grass that persevered, but mostly, there was mud. As more and more mud coated the hems of his pants, they grew heavier. The men he traveled with - a group of maybe 100 new recruits like himself - were ragtag, to say the least. Damon wore the full uniform his father had purchased for him, but he felt silly when he examined those around him. Most of them were from small towns like Mystic Falls, but they couldn't have been more than the sons of farmers. They sported bits and pieces of the uniform, but it was likely they just couldn't afford the entire thing. The boy next to him was young - too young, he thought. He couldn't have been much older than Stefan. His face was dirty and he only sported the trousers and a cap.

Damon knew his group must be getting close to the camp when he could smell food wafting over the hill. It wasn't before long the smell of something else caught his attention. His counterparts noticed too as their noses rose in the air and groans of disgust filled his ears. The man who led them laughed, "It's the sinks," he called back. "You won't get used to it."

Damon ducked his head to hide his disgust. This is where I'm supposed to be, he repeated internally. I am doing this for honor, glory, and adventure. I am doing this for my family. I am doing this for Elena. But the words were a little hollow.

The sounds of camp caught his attention, and he spotted it just as they went over the hill. It was bigger than he imagined. There were thousands of little white tents for as far as the eye could see. Groups of men stood in lines upon lines and drilled, repeating the same moves over and over.

Damon readjusted the bag on his shoulder and stood silently as he received orders. He reported directly to the man in charge of him. The officer was a compact man, but strong. A long scar stretched up from his neck and onto his face, but he wore it as if it were a medal. "I prefer you address me as Elijah," he said. "My father's name didn't mean anything when I got this scar, and it won't mean anything when this war finally catches up to me." The crowd of men shifted uncomfortably and Damon's thoughts wandered to his own father. Now that he'd been dumped here, he and Stefan could live happily ever after. Or not. Damon was coming back. He wasn't that easy to get rid of. "You," Elijah continued, "will go by your last names until you're important enough to say otherwise."

Damon received his pack and an old weapon that looked like it would fall apart before it could shoot. He struggled to set up his little white tent, frustrated heat rising in his cheeks. He looked up, embarrassed, to find a set of eyes watching him. A gangly man, sitting on a crate about five feet from him, made no effort to hide his amusement. "I take it you're not a builder?" the man laughed.

Damon sat back, letting the cloth fall to the ground. "Not in my whole life."

"You buttoned it wrong," he explained, taking a bite out of the hard bread in his hand, "and you'll want to lay that mat down first if you want to keep from getting wet."

Damon grabbed the oilcloth mat from his pack and inspected it. He'd assumed it was just to keep him warm. "Does this mean you're a builder?" he asked the man.

"I've been at this for more than two years," he shrugged. "If I couldn't build a tent by now, I'd look a fool."

Damon nodded, standing back to evaluate his work. It wasn't as good as the ones around him, but it would have to do. "Thank you," he said.

"Of course... I'm Alaric Saltzman, but everyone calls me Ric."

"You're important enough to go by Ric?"