Okay, so I'm writing this at 3am as I just can't get this ship out of my head. As mentioned in description, takes place after 3x15.
Freya stood on the balcony of her home, watching the flittering people dance up and down the streets, back and forth, back and forth. A warm breeze swept through the city, and her short, golden hair swayed like the drunkards below, and she leaned over the side, drinking in the light. This city she had become acquainted to over the last few months never seemed to take a moment to breathe. There was always something going on – and tonight it was some sort of festival. Whether it was to celebrate something genuine, or just an excuse for the locals to bleed the tourists dry, both figuratively and literally, she wasn't sure.
A sigh escaped her pink lips.
"My dear sister, please tell me you aren't dissatisfied with my presence already?" a calm, eloquent voice called out from the other side of the room.
Elijah sat across the room in a leather chair, his knees crossed and a book in his perfectly manicured hands.
"No, brother. It's just… it's been three days now since Niklaus left with Hayley and Hope and we have yet to hear from them. I'm just worried for their safety is all."
And she truly was. More than for her own. Three days had gone by and they had not heard a single word from their brother, and she could not track them as that would mean disabling the current spell and thus leading to other witches finding out he wasn't actually in New Orleans as they claimed he was. Three days had gone by and no evil threats had reared their ugly heads to threaten them for the whereabouts of the hybrid. No enemies or long-lost sires, not even a raging, psychotic female. No one had asked about the white oaks existence, and there had yet to be a lead on it according to the smooth-talking Marcel. The reagent Vincent had seemingly disappeared from the public eye, which would not have been suspicious had Camille not revealed to Elijah two days ago that the warlock had consulted the ancestors on request of that vampire (Marco, Lorenzo… argh, it didn't matter now what his name was – he was dead) to find the white oak. When she had conducted a spell in order to find him or the white oak, if it did exist, she came up blank – he was masking his location strongly. It had also been three days since they had heard from Kol, too. When Freya questioned whether this was normal for him, Elijah simply shrugged in the most undignified way.
"His body has spent a good few years dead, Freya. I imagine he would like to get his blood pumping a bit before he decides to join us again."
She had thought he meant he needed to feed more, until she saw the suggestive smirk he rarely wore – to which she grimaced disgustedly.
"Davina Claire is only a child, Elijah!"
He just laughed, and it seemed to be the most content he had been in a while.
It probably was a nice break for him; three days without someone staining his fresh, dry-cleaned handkerchiefs, three days without Niklaus' excessive paranoia, three days without the worry of Hayley's whereabouts plaguing him.
But for her, the three days had been utterly boring. Three days seemed almost as long as the hundred years she had to wait to wake up again. For some reason she could not connect with Finn to speak to him, and she didn't want to ruin the fake world she had created for Rebecca by stopping by every two minutes. And Elijah was like a stick in the mud; he insisted she not leave the compound. It seemed paranoia ran in the family.
It was a Friday night, and whilst there was no shortage of red wine and bourbon stocked in the cupboards, she would rather not spend it with someone whose idea of fun was to read A Memoirs of Napoleon. In French of course.
And so the eldest Mikaelson found herself excusing herself from the lounge, declaring she would probably go to bed early, seeing as it was only eight thirty, to which her brother replied goodnight. She waved him goodnight, and shut the door behind her. Once inside the comfort of her own bedroom, the witch cast a quick spell that would hide her presence and cancel any noises.
After an hour of preparation, she stepped back, freshly showered and tall, black stilettos clipping at the ground, to admire her handiwork. Ash blonde hair was curled lightly around her face, and she chose to do something different for her make up tonight, so she wasn't easily recognized. A dark plum lipstick, smoky eyes and defined cheek bones made her take another glimpse at her face. She shimmied the tight, black leather skirt down her hips, and straightened the sheer, white camisole out. Bracelets adorned her wrists and she frowned at her outfit for a moment, deciding what was missing, until she slid a long, simple necklace over her neck and took off the blue gem, giving it a peck before tucking it away under her pillow.
Freya was ready to go, and the excitement of it all was bubbling up in her chest. She had never snuck out before as a child – she was too deathly afraid of getting caught. Now, the fear wasn't there, but the thrill of going against her brother's wishes all too similarly resembled that desire she had as a child to rebel.
Her escape route was down the fire escape and from there it was a short fall that she easily drifted down like a feather. Levitation was like magic one-oh-one.
Freya put a few blocks between her and the compound – she knew where she was going and where she wanted to go first. New Orleans had definitely provided a good scene for a thousand-year-old immortal like herself who had woken from the depths of slumber to a world filled with new inventions every hundred years. She liked to have fun, blow off a little steam. Apparently, her and Rebecca were the same in that respect. A good distraction was what she needed for her to fully enjoy her 'break' – unlike Elijah, she wasn't one much for musty books. She preferred her distractions to be tall, young and naïve. It was better that way.
Physically speaking, she would be about twenty-four. That was when she stopped aging completely, which was strange because her brothers were turned when they were older than her – Niklaus at the age of twenty-five and Elijah at twenty-seven – and Rebecca at the same age despite their being a six-year age difference. Men these days who were twenty-four, usually had the mental capacity of a sixteen-year old teenager; they only cared for sex. And that was fine with her – it was all she expected of them anyway.
As soon as she stepped to the line for the front door of her favourite club, at least fifty people waiting at the door, she waltzed right past everyone and waved to the bouncers, who opened the door for her hastily, despite protests from younger girls waiting in line.
The music spilled on to the street, and smoke outpoured. She smiled and stepped into the warm embrace of the thumping music.
It was dark in the club, save for the flashing lights that blinded anyone who wasn't used to them. She found that out the first time she had attempted to go clubbing with Hayley. After a while, she began going by herself, which was sad, but she had made a few friends so far.
"Hey gorgeous, long time no see!" the tall, handsome bartender yelled over the loud music as she approached the bar and sat on a stool.
"Hey Danny, I need some shots, pronto." She had attempted to adopt a "current" way of talking, as people had stared at her strangely. Freya forked out her token platinum American Express, curtesy of Elijah Mikaelson, and attempted to pass it to him. The owner stepped in, a burly man named John Smith (she was sure that wasn't his real name), and pushed her hand to the side.
"No need, I told you I was buying you drinks the next time you came in here. I don't know what you did, but you saved my club!" He praised her, and she smiled.
"It was nothing, really!" the blonde shook her head. A month ago they had been having a drop in business, due to an influx of vampires hunting in here and people being compelled to forget they were ever there – which lead to them forgetting that the bar ever existed. She fixed that problem by asking Marcel to kindly ask the vampires to stay away from this bar and a few others. Should they not, she would make sure they would be getting a visit from Niklaus.
Having the most psychotic-murderous hybrid in history as your brother had its perks.
And so she accepted as many free drinks as she could handle, and another perk of being a Mikaelson was that she could handle a lot. She was sure by the tenth shot they were beginning to regret not accepting her unlimited credit card balance.
Freya had been having a good time so far, chatting away with the handsome bartender and dancing with the young men who offered their hand. By some stage the grinding turned in to dancing on table tops, and the glasses of wine here and there morphed into tequila shots off the washboard abs of the bartender.
At some point it had occurred to her that she was having far too much fun, far too quickly and needed to sober up before she spent the rest of the night on the floor. The eldest Mikaelson told the bartender she would be back, before going to the VIP area of the club, a secluded spot sectioned off by red velvet curtains that hung from the ceiling and had their own private bars. She pulled back the curtains to find an empty one but came up short – the only other one that wasn't currently hosting an orgy or cocaine addicts already had an occupant slumped over the side of the couch. She snorted; someone couldn't handle their alcohol, she thought smugly.
Turning on her heel to leave, as if her brain was purposely trying to make her out as a hypocrite, she swayed from side to side and had to catch herself from falling.
"Ahh, why not. This person is far too drunk to care whether I join him," she mumbled to herself.
She sat down on the same couch as the person, and laid her head back, staring up at the high beamed ceiling. A crystal chandelier hung down like icicles, bathing the area in a soft light. It was nice, peaceful, calming. The music had slowed down significantly to some eerie house music, and it was lulling her to sleep. She could just stay here forever, suspended in time, just reliving this weightless, feathery feeling over and over again. It was as if she was levitating in her consciousness.
Blue eyes snapped open immediately.
"What am I doing? I'm going to get killed if I leave myself so vulnerable like this." Freya berated herself, combing a hand through her wild hair.
She stood for a second and helped herself to the private bar, nodding in approval at the drunk man's taste as she poured herself a glass of aged wine. Her lips had just touched the rim when she heard a voice behind here.
"Excuse me, don't you know it's rude to help yourself to other people's alcohol? Then again, with an arse like that, you can help yourself to whatever you want darling…" the voice was heavy with sleep and rough, but still thick with both an accent and arrogance. She spun on her toes, ready to throw the drink in his face for such a vile comment, but found herself nose to nose with the perpetrator.
Who was none other than Lucien Castle.