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Say hello, then say farewell to the places you know
We are all mortals, aren't we? Any moment this could go
Cry, cry, cry, even though that won't change a thing
But you should know, you should hear, that I have loved
I have loved the good times here, and I will miss our good times
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She crunches through the forest, through red leaves that spark all around her like the licks of flames. The Sacrifice, they'd called her, like wolves with bared teeth and bad breath, sending a lamb to the slaughter. She had promised to go quietly and as ladylike as she had been brought up to be, but she didn't tell them she has tricks they had no idea about. The sacrifice has a secret, and soon he will be dead and they will fear no more.
She clutches the onyx jewel of her necklace in her hand, squeezing the cold stone between her fingers before slipping it under the black silk of her gown, black for mourning. A lone raven flies in the grey sky, and Bonnie's green eyes rise to the wrought iron of the gates in front of her, and the castle behind, rising like a fairy tale into the clouds.
The gates slide open with a creak as she steps in front of them, and she is confronted with the bowing heads of pale elms that beckon her to them. Her foot hesitates before she steps into the gate- just a little, just enough. She focuses on the smooth glide of her gown as she walks, the rustle of the black silk over the roughly pebbled drive.
It has not been allowed to overgrow. She is almost surprised- the stories of the Beast that came to her spoke of him being an irrational man who shut himself up and raged.
A lone flower drifted in the wind towards her, small enough to catch on the carefully arranged black curls of her hair. She rips and shreds it, carefully picking each of the petals off the central stem, and leaving a trail of white to the gate- gretel left a trail of white breadcrumbs, pure as snow.
Breadcrumbs will not save her now.
Rich cherry wood doors are pushed aside by her hand, cased in a pristine white glove, her very best. Where are the staff? She thinks, for a castle this size cannot be kept by one man, yet no servants would dare to pass in this hallowed hall.
The hall itself is grand, with winding staircases she itches to explore, and there are candles blinking in almost every corner, throwing eerie shadows over it. Something melts out of the shadows to greet her, and she would scream if she were not prepared.
"Lord Mikaelson asks you dine with him," the candelabra says, voice high and reedy. Bonnie finds it most peculiar that the candelabra can talk- she has studied objective attachment, but never thought it possible. She wishes for a moment that she had her grimoire with her, but remembers the Beast and thinks it best that he does not know.
"I am afraid that I shall have to decline, I am most fatigued from my journey, and would rather not exchange courtesies with the man that is going to rip open my throat in a few hours."
The candelabra laughs, the sound echoing off the walls and she takes another step back, almost to the entrance once more.
"Very well then, I shall show you to my rooms," she is curious to see how this being shall walk- he has no two legs he can walk up the stairs with, but she finds he has to hop, tackling each stair with care.
She follows, the click of her heels bouncing around the large hall. It is only when she reaches the top of the double staircase that she finds she must stop and turn to survey the hall- she has the oddest feeling that something is watching her. Of course, with so many shadows, she cannot be certain that nothing is, and the thought has her gathering her skirts in her hand and hurrying to her rooms.
The door opens with a creak when she and the maitre d' approach it, controlled by enchantments as most the things in the castle are.
Her bedroom is almost too grand, high ceilinged and cosy, with a roaring fire in the hearth. She dismisses the servant with a graceful incline of her head, and steps onto the wine red carpet of the room. The heavy red hangings of the four poster in the corner do not satisfy her, and Bonnie steps instead towards the red gold chaise lounge by the hearth, reclining in it for a few precious seconds before something hanging on the dark wood of the wardrobe catches her eye.
It's a gown of glittering purple velveteen, with daggered sleeves that remind Bonnie of the medieval ages. On it, a note, and on that, the print of a gentleman on the yellowed parchment- wear this to dinner. It's obvious that the message has been reused- from the curl of the paper, the slightly faded quality of the words, and Bonnie turns away, bow mouth twisted into an unbecoming pout.
She thinks of the ghosts who have shared this room before her, and finds the sudden urge to explore the castle.
It is dark, but no one comes running to find her when she exits her room, closing the door quietly and walking down the corridor. The maitre d' seems to have disappeared, and she is thankful for it.
The first door she tries is locked, and so are the others, until Bonnie is sure there is nothing in this castle that may be opened by her hands. She tries the last door in a fit of frustration, pushing against it in a way that is decidedly unladylike and would have made her mother shudder, had she still stuck around to see Bonnie grow to eleven, let alone nine and ten as she is now.
Light streams in from the windows, and she must blink before her eyes adjust to find a room completely devoid of any furniture save for a small table. A rose rests on the center of the table, red and half withered. Protected from any nature by a glass case, it looks forlorn where it stands, and Bonnie finds herself striding to the table as if to free it.
"Leave it," comes a voice from the doorway, and she takes a breath before turning to face the man she has heard so much about.
"As you wish," Is her reply, quiet and graceful as she has been taught.
"Why will you not come to dinner with me?" He crosses the room to stand before her, and she examines the breadth of his shoulders beneath her lashes, quelling the sudden urge to run a gloved fingertip over his prominent jawline.
He has no scars- in fact, his face is as flawless as if it was carved from marble.
"I have no need of pleasantness with someone who will kill me. I would rather you be frank with me." She is not stupid, she will most probably die, like the others that have come before her.
"What's your name?" He asked, thin lips curled into a half mocking smile.
"Bonnie Bennett," She says, all too aware that is a country name (she was named for her mother's father, who was a farmer), "and yours?"
She twists the ring around her marriage finger, glinting silver in the light. Twilight is beginning to fall and when she looks out of the windows, she finds a grey landscape dotted with watery pinks and oranges before her.
"Lord Kol Mikaelson, third of his name," She has never held self obsessed males in high regard, and Bonnie Bennett will not begin to do so now, so she acknowledges his name with nothing but a nod.
These are the pleasantries she wished to avoid- the normal conversations and courtesies with the unspoken agreement that he will kill her at some point.
"What do you need me dead for anyway?" She wonders aloud, raising her own green eyes to meet his brown.
"My, Miss Bennett, we are rather aggressive, aren't we?" He chuckles and she wants to burn him for even suggesting her life is anything but precious. "I never even said I wanted to see you die, did I? It seems an awful waste."
"Stop teasing me," She snips flatly, moving her gown and turning away from him with a grand swish that she remembers practicing with Elena when they were three and ten.
"Wait," He mutters, and his hand catches her waist as she moves to leave, his ungloved hand brushing the silk of her corset.
This is awfully improper, she thinks with a half hysterical kind of dismay. Bonnie Bennett, bedded at seven and ten, is speaking of impropriety. She can almost imagine Caroline and Elena laughing at her, and she feels the same twinge she always does when they do.
"Yes?" She is sure to keep her voice caustic, tipping her head back to face him and his hard eyes.
"You will not die. Not in here." She laughs, half shaky and cracked from misuse.
"Spare me the empty promises, my lord." He watches the last silken curl slip from his view, waits until the last proud step has faded, before he moves.
The night spent in the four poster was restless to say the least, but Bonnie rises at a few hours after dawn, washing her face carefully with her washbowl, and dressing carefully in the green velveteen gown provided for her. The sleeves have lace ruffles, she thinks almost giddly, thinking of the yards of material used in this gown. Still, it dips far too low for her, but as she has no other alternative (black silk is far too expensive to be worn twice with the risk of being ruined) she laces up the gown by herself, and heads to try and find breakfast.
He takes a seat opposite her in the breakfast room, with its duck egg blue walls as if it is the norm for him, and neither bat an eyelid when the candelabra returns to serve breakfast. He unfolds his newspaper and takes a sip of his coffee, looking for all the world the perfect picture of the aristocratic English lord. But he can't be- perfect English lords do not kidnap humans and ensure they never return.
"The dress looks nice on you," Is all he says to her before returning to his newspaper.
"Thank you," She replies, and waits for the candelabra to return with the fruit.
There are pomegranate seeds, fresh as if it was summer, and she thinks of Hades and Persephone before reaching for a single seed and squeezing it between her fingers in an effort to escape Persephone's fate- trapped in a dark world, with no one for company but the God of Hell himself- until the juice stains her ungloved fingertips pinky red.
"Show me the library," She commands, tone as proud as the Queen of England, sipping on her tea out of a fine china cup with the Mikaelson crest on it.
He waits until she has finished before sliding out of his own chair and waiting for her to follow. "You would make a good lady," He remarks as they walk, hands clasped behind his back, and she almost wonders if he is hinting at something.
"I am not cut from that cloth, nor do I wish to be," If Bonnie were a lady, gone would be the days of frost speckled trees and bare feet in the summer, of hair unbound and cheeks flushed. Gone would be Elena and Caroline, replaced instead by maids and other ladies.
They continue in silence, until they reach a set of double doors, and Bonnie tries to retrace her steps back to her room, determined not to get lost.
When he does push the doors to the library, she feels her breath stop in her throat at the size of it stretching before her, half as big as her house. The arched ceiling falls to the tops of the bookshelves, of the bound books perfectly arranged on the shelves.
"Have you read all of these?" She asks breathlessly, completely in awe.
"Yes," He says, and his voice is strange when he continues, "I find it gets quite lonely here."
She turns to look at him, green eyes still wide and becomes all too aware of their proximity. Something, she cannot say what it is, prompts her to take a step forward to him and ask in a voice so quiet he should not be able to hear it, "Why?"
He smiles down at her in a smile she knows she should be patronized by, but instead only feels attracted to, and then his lips are ghosting over hers, and she is allowing him that, she can't say why. (Well she can, it feels nice, that is all)
When she accompanies him to dinner that night, he keeps his arm around her waist the entire time they walk, and she hopes he falls half in love with her, enough that he will let her go.
She's only been there for three days and already they have fallen into an easy pattern of talking and enjoying each other's presence, but Bonnie cannot help but prepare herself for death at every turn.
They take a turn around the gardens that afternoon, as they have done for the past three afternoons, and she keeps her hand clasped in his as they walk. "Look," She says, for there is a dead animal on the floor, fresh blood seeping from its neck.
"I have to go," He calls, and walks along the field quickly as if he is trying to get away. She wonders if he is particularly averse to dead animals, picks up her skirts, and follows at a half run to catch up to him.
"Why are you running-" She calls, and when he turns to her, she barely sees the red veins around his red eyes, the fangs bared in a snarl, before something clicks.
"You're a vampire." She says simply, as if it's a fact she's known all along. She's heard of them, read of them in various spell books, yet never encountered one.
"I'll lose control," He rasps, and she places a comforting hand on his arm.
"Don't worry if you do, you can't drink my blood anyway."
"Why not?" He says, curious and calmer now, the veins around his eyes far less pronounced.
"I'm a witch," She confesses, leaning a little closer to whisper her deepest secret, "So I suppose we're already destined to be together."
Inside a room, the single rose begins to bloom.
"Enchanted to remain forever immortal, to fall in love but never convert," He whispers later, into the hollow at her neck, a tangle of sweat soaked skin and sheets, her hair a dark tumble on the pillowcase.
"Until true love's kiss," She laughs, half mocking, "from true love's maiden, I suppose."
"That was no kiss, and you are no maiden," He murmurs half wickedly, arm locked around her waist as he pulls her into him, and she responds in like, extending her arms to wrap around his neck and pull him down into another kiss.
They have children, a little boy by the third year of their marriage, and a little girl by the fifth. The withered rose is pressed into the family album, on a parchment page opposite a black and white photograph of their wedding day.
She finds herself more suited to a ladies life than she thought possible, able to keep the friends she cherished and revel in her new title. Lady Bonnie Mikaelson, curse breaker and beast tamer.
It is a good life to live.
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And we'll run to the future
Shining like diamonds in a rocky world
A rocky, rocky world
Our skin like bronze and our hair like cashmere
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A/N; Loosely based off/ inspired by this picspam on tumblr ( post/53698670183/kennett-au-dark-beauty-and-the-be ast-hades-and)and frank ocean and his amazing music but I got really sloppy near the end so I aplogise.