Really, their story is all about genealogy: Klaus hates her because she's her mother's daughter, because he didn't turn her himself, because she couldn't be his daughter instead; and she hates him because she's her mother's daughter and hatred for him is a thing that is etched in her bones, a thing as essential as hunger.
Of course you could say that backwards. You could say love, instead of hatred. It wouldn't change much.
*
There's family and then there's what they are, the five of them. A tribe, a grapple, a horde -- five long-fanged children with a thirst for blood, and Klaus, the thirstiest of them all, the cruelest, the most dangerous.
If Rebekah had thought about it, she would have known. Of course it couldn't end well. There's always that one rule in myths and fairytales, that there's never more fantastically terrifying thing than this: the beast is human, and it has risen from the dead, therefore breaking the two sacred rules: the beast must be alien, to fit into the evil of otherness; and death is the only barrier that can't be broken backwards.
Of course they're not allowed to all exist at the same time. Atlas's shoulders would yield.
*
Klaus cuts his way to a trinity. He used to fight his brothers head-on, with a sword, and could never win; but he learned from the humiliation and now he's cunning, he plots and schemes and brews the darkness in a careful alchemy. Rebekah figures she's safer at his side, and she's right.
She watches Finn fall, first, then Kol and then, later, Elijah - if she could predict the future she would see it right there, the endless cycle of life's horrors, daggers escalating into stakes made from ash and oak, fire. Klaus will grow to like fire.
For now, she keeps silent. The world is newborn, and Klaus shoulders the grief easily, like a strength; he packs his bag and takes with him three wooden coffins, his sister and the ghost of their dead mother, dark cloak wrapped around him, pilgrim-like.
*
(You don't forget it so easily, being a maiden. Rebekah tries, starts, she doesn't drink blood, she can't - She wears her hair in braids and for a while she pretends like nothing's changed, even plays house with a boy. But the boy turns out to be a vampire hunter and there won't be babies and flowers after all. "It was silly to believe," Klaus tells her instead of I'm sorry, even as she wrecks her throat with sobs, her head against his chest.
He takes her face in his hands, then. There's blood everywhere, but Rebekah's coming to understand that's what life is for them now, branded with blood. "I will never let anyone hurt you again," he growls at her, his eyes ablaze, not knowing, of course, that he'll be the one to hurt her the most.)
*
For the first hundreds of years he's older than her, more cruel, but sweeter: he leaves her in immense brick houses and she languishes until he comes back with lunch, a German peasant girl with round eyes and a rounder bosom. He feeds her with laps of his tongue, cleans her, takes care of her - loves her the only way he knows how, like a child, like an animal.
But she grows bored. She goes to him and she says, "I'm a monster too, I want my pound of flesh."
She still remembers his face when she said that. She thought it was going to split in two, open and reveal someone new, someone even more monstrous, their father -- but instead he took a step towards her, another and another until she was pressed against the crummy, damp wall of the abandoned castle where they were staying, and he said, "Yes."
He breathed her in, the skin at the juncture of her neck, where he likes to bite. He didn't bite. He stayed there for a moment, enough that she could've killed him if she'd wanted, stabbed him in the back with this dagger she always keeps, and when he pulled away his eyes were shining.
He took a step back. "We shall hunt together, then," he said, sounding ferocious.
the undone and the divine l Klaus/Rebekah l R
Really, their story is all about genealogy: Klaus hates her because she's her mother's daughter, because he didn't turn her himself, because she couldn't be his daughter instead; and she hates him because she's her mother's daughter and hatred for him is a thing that is etched in her bones, a thing as essential as hunger.
Of course you could say that backwards. You could say love, instead of hatred. It wouldn't change much.
*
There's family and then there's what they are, the five of them. A tribe, a grapple, a horde -- five long-fanged children with a thirst for blood, and Klaus, the thirstiest of them all, the cruelest, the most dangerous.
If Rebekah had thought about it, she would have known. Of course it couldn't end well. There's always that one rule in myths and fairytales, that there's never more fantastically terrifying thing than this: the beast is human, and it has risen from the dead, therefore breaking the two sacred rules: the beast must be alien, to fit into the evil of otherness; and death is the only barrier that can't be broken backwards.
Of course they're not allowed to all exist at the same time. Atlas's shoulders would yield.
*
Klaus cuts his way to a trinity. He used to fight his brothers head-on, with a sword, and could never win; but he learned from the humiliation and now he's cunning, he plots and schemes and brews the darkness in a careful alchemy. Rebekah figures she's safer at his side, and she's right.
She watches Finn fall, first, then Kol and then, later, Elijah - if she could predict the future she would see it right there, the endless cycle of life's horrors, daggers escalating into stakes made from ash and oak, fire. Klaus will grow to like fire.
For now, she keeps silent. The world is newborn, and Klaus shoulders the grief easily, like a strength; he packs his bag and takes with him three wooden coffins, his sister and the ghost of their dead mother, dark cloak wrapped around him, pilgrim-like.
*
(You don't forget it so easily, being a maiden. Rebekah tries, starts, she doesn't drink blood, she can't - She wears her hair in braids and for a while she pretends like nothing's changed, even plays house with a boy. But the boy turns out to be a vampire hunter and there won't be babies and flowers after all. "It was silly to believe," Klaus tells her instead of I'm sorry, even as she wrecks her throat with sobs, her head against his chest.
He takes her face in his hands, then. There's blood everywhere, but Rebekah's coming to understand that's what life is for them now, branded with blood. "I will never let anyone hurt you again," he growls at her, his eyes ablaze, not knowing, of course, that he'll be the one to hurt her the most.)
*
For the first hundreds of years he's older than her, more cruel, but sweeter: he leaves her in immense brick houses and she languishes until he comes back with lunch, a German peasant girl with round eyes and a rounder bosom. He feeds her with laps of his tongue, cleans her, takes care of her - loves her the only way he knows how, like a child, like an animal.
But she grows bored. She goes to him and she says, "I'm a monster too, I want my pound of flesh."
She still remembers his face when she said that. She thought it was going to split in two, open and reveal someone new, someone even more monstrous, their father -- but instead he took a step towards her, another and another until she was pressed against the crummy, damp wall of the abandoned castle where they were staying, and he said, "Yes."
He breathed her in, the skin at the juncture of her neck, where he likes to bite. He didn't bite. He stayed there for a moment, enough that she could've killed him if she'd wanted, stabbed him in the back with this dagger she always keeps, and when he pulled away his eyes were shining.
He took a step back. "We shall hunt together, then," he said, sounding ferocious.
*
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Did you just fill three of my prompts.
OHHHHHHH MYYYYYY GOOODDDD.
What a day!!! xD
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