Her hatred begins when they arrive in the south of France.
France is different than England - the water is a cool, transparent blue; the gold sand reflects like stardust against white sea foam; vivid colors of red poppies, open sunflowers, and delicate lavender stems. Even the cold chill of winter is less biting, more romantic.
These are things Elijah would appreciate, Rebekah thinks. The scent of hyacinth in the meadows, the relentlessness of the tide. But not her - Rebekah is too fast-paced to sit back and enjoy the beauty of the natural world - and why should she?
After all, her beauty compares to no other, and she is the most unnatural, ungodly creature to ever exist.
They settle into their roles quite easily - brother and sister retreating to their tragically deceased parents' french estate while they prepare to return to England and run their father's business - and it would have been alarming, almost, to see how quickly they morph into their masks and become anew, puppeteering what feel like the corpses of a different life, but this game is a practiced one and the south of France, although paradisal, is not their first stop, nor is it their last.
For days, Rebekah busies herself with preparing their grand chateaux. She selects threaded rugs to lay beneath antique, imported armchairs; pale silk curtains to soften the ever present sunlight; fine ceramic dishes painted with age-old acrylics. Klaus disappears for days at a time without telling her, returns solemn but delighted to see her in her butter-soft, blue gown that is all the rage in the big city ( and a gift from him ). She knows he is hunting for someone - a doppelgänger, perhaps, or maybe one of her brothers. It doesn't matter who, really - whoever it is will not outrun him for long.
"Brother," Rebekah begins. It is early morning, and the sun is creeping up above the horizon. "I think France is growing tiresome."
Klaus looks up from pouring their chilled lemon water ( his favorite, although she hated the sour twang ).
"Already?" He asks, teasingly, grinning. "We've only been here but two months."
"Yes, well," She answers, trying to match his amused tone, but damn her, she's never quite been his match. "I'm sick of the weather. Let's go somewhere cold."
"Cold?" Klaus questions. "You hate the cold."
"No," She answers. "I don't."
He snorts ungracefully.
"Oh, please, Rebekah. If we leave now you'll be begging to return within the year, I guarantee it." He graces her with a smirk. "I know you, dear sister."
She pauses, gathers her courage. "Maybe not as well as you think."
They stare at each other in silence. The sun rises and illuminates the dead body of a nearby villager on the ground before them, sucked dry.
The next morning, Klaus is nowhere to be found. Rebekah does not want to admit she spent an hour searching for him. Instead, she settles on the patio overlooking the gentle sea with a bowl of fresh plums and does not count the hours until his return.
She feels in her heart that he is returning. It's been his longest disappearance yet, and while she pointedly ignores the emptiness of their French estate, Rebekah cannot help but understand that her self-preservation is more important than any pride.
That is where she and him differ.
She dons a cream, silken dress. Does her hair up into a curlicue braid, taps some rouge onto her lips. A picture of feminine beauty, and innocence. The unconscious body of a passing merchant she found walking through the cliffside is settled on a dining chair, poised for dinner.
When Klaus enters the house, she smiles demurely, reaches deep down and finds some semblance of the baby sister she used to be and steps towards him.
"Nik," she says. "I'm so happy you're back."
He raises a brow. His eyes are cold and cruel, and for the first time in a long time they do not soften at her.
"Is that so?" He asks.
Rebekah soldiers on, nods. "I've missed you, truly."
Klaus' gaze shifts to the still breathing body behind her.
"Oh, for me? Sister, you shouldn't have."
The mockery is there, but amusement is creeping in. His eyes have softened from their rage. Perhaps she is safe.
As they drain the corpse, Rebekah says, "I love you, Nik. Always and Forever."
He looks up from dragging the body to the window and gives her a smirk, but it isn't cruel.
"Always and Forever, love."
One day, Rebekah ventures to the guest villa on the estate. She's bored, until she sees the coffins.
She returns to the house in a fury.
"Nik," She says.
He appears as if he were summoned. One look at her face - which perhaps reads more as panic than dangerous, white hot anger -and his entire stance becomes tense and on guard.
"Bekah? What's wrong? Who is it?"
"Nik, how could you," She's screaming it, even though there's a ringing in her ears that makes everything sound muffled. "Why would you? Don't you love us? Don't you love me?"
"Rebekah," Klaus says, placatingly, grabbing her silk-clad arms and forcing her fists away from his face and chest. "What is this?"
His nonchalance only angers Rebekah further, and though she knows he is stronger than her and she will never be able to defeat him, will never be rid of him the way she convinces herself she doesn't want to be, she pushes back from him and her hand is grabbing a butcher knife off of the counter and throwing it.
Klaus catches the knife, and his look turns dark.
"Don't start something you cannot finish, Rebekah."
It's a threat, the voice in her head screams. Its sounds like Henrik and her father and her brothers all in one. It's a threat and he will never abide by your vow.
She throws another knife, and another, and then an ancient Mayan ceramic dish that she spent months searching for, a glass vase from Elijah's old house that he gifted her when he left, a carved arrowhead that one of her past lovers had folded into her hands before Klaus murdered him, until all of a sudden he is no longer fighting back and Rebekah can't stand any longed, finally lets the anger ebb away as the tears gather in her eyes.
She sinks to her knees, crying and weak, in front of the one man - the one monster - that has defined her since the say she died.
Still, her pathetic whimpering persists.
"Don't you love me?" She asks, words slurred together in her weeping.
"Oh, Bekah," Klaus drops down in front of her, eyes soft and hard at the same time. He clutches her hands, envelopes them with his cold fingers. "I do. More than you know."
She lets him comfort her. But she knows.
Another month passes. Winter shifts into spring, and flowers bloom.
Rebekah sits outside on the patio of their chateaux, picks cherries off of their stems and lets the sweet, red juice coat her lips. There's the body of another villager on the ground at her feet. Perhaps the red on her lips is from him.
Klaus steps behind her, silently. He leans down, rests a hand on her shoulder and presses a kiss to her temple.
"Time to go, wouldn't you say?" He asks, but it is not much of a question. "I think the weather in France is growing tiresome. Perhaps somewhere colder, next."
"Yes," She says. The cold sounds lovely.