To rule New Orleans as king and sovereign - fear wrought by blood, admiration borne through ash - was a tangible triumph in city, scepter, and crown. There seemed to be a tedium in the air brought about by Rebekah's insistence for commemoration - as if anyone other than Klaus would wish to recognize four and a half brutal years of carnage, of cobblestone streets stained red with vermillion rivers. Of skies tainted with carmine smoke and an ever constant black haze that sank its teeth into the bones of humans and supernaturals alike.
The victorious king of New Orleans had paraded the ingrate that was Marcel in a cage of silver, dressed him in blue robes of silk and satin. He was bound in chains cut by Klaus's own hands, tied and tried before a court of law and witnesses - his conviction was as abrupt as it was merciless. Klaus ripped out his heart as soon as the guilty verdict was reached through that mocking farce of a trial but Marcel had little strength left in him to protest; thrown away for three weeks, entrapped in an underground cavern with half-starved werewolves, vengeful witches, and the consistent slew of bloodied soldiers - his former army - being killed before him one by one had broken Marcel's spirit.
And for the year that followed, Klaus's teeth shone white but his lips were a permanent red. A smile carved from sorrow, hands ever scarred by sin.
They called him the Eternal King, but it was not for his immortality nor was it for his hybrid lifesblood. It was for the maiming and the murders and the inquisitions that seemed to stretch on for days and months and years without end. Peace can flourish for a thousand years and citizens can remember little of their life on the morn. Subjugation can reign for half a year before the people cry out; before books are written and crimes documented.
Odd how such a thing happens, hm?
When the Eternal King found a queen, she came dressed in white with hair of gold. She strode through streets lined with scarred faces and weary souls but her coronation had her riding in a chariot lined with daisies.
Her bright smile penetrated the foggy darkness of New Orleans, almost revitalizing it with something akin to joy. They were base creatures, clawing for the queen's presence like the backward men in Plato's cave did shadows; they reached for her beauty, her faith - but they came away with death's embrace.
The king of New Orleans didn't like others touching things that were his.
And she - the queen - was his and his alone. They stood on their marble verandas hand in hand, her face a smile and his a sneer, but they looked so lovely together that one had to wonder why it'd taken him so long to find her.
Whatever the reason, he'd more than compensated time with affection - everywhere the queen went there was a phalanx of men following. Guards, soldiers, spies, witches, wolves - the like; she could have demanded that her feet never touch the ground and they would have complied. She used them kindly, however, and tried her best to instill some sense of normality whenever she frequented the town; she tried to ignore the stares and whisperings and hollow sense of fear.
She wore diamonds. Beautiful white diamonds excavated from the Mikaelson's private mines in South Africa. She wore them in her hair - the jewels catching the light of whatever sun and sparkling so brightly that their queen appeared to bear a halo rather than a coronet. Sometimes, she wore them in her ears - diamond drops and chandeliers - and even rarer, she wore them around her neck. That had only been one occasion - for the wedding of her sister-in-law, Rebekah, to the king's most trusted advisor and general - Stefan Salvatore with his cut jaw and grim smile.
She'd worn no halo nor drops nor jewels save for a single rope of diamonds around her neck.
But the diamonds were red and the choker tight and when the lights dimmed, Queen Caroline looked like the most beautiful of angels in her blue gown and cut throat.
The maids often overheard snippets of conversation between king and queen. Sometimes they were happy, sometimes they were serious, but in every word spoken there was a caress of love from the queen, a gentle kiss from the king.
But one night a new maid - changing the bed linens of the king and queen's bed - heard a terrible scream and rushed to hide. For the king kept werewolves as pets and, once a month, allowed them to roam freely throughout the palace; more often than not, new staff were hired the next day.
So this little maid ran and hid in a narrow nook that was located behind the queen's boudoir. Gently, she settled the white marbled monstrosity back in place and remained there. Perhaps she prayed, perhaps she cried - but she stayed there until the footsteps came and no - one was light, one was thunder - and she knew she would never survive the night.
"Caroline, love - "
"Don't you dare touch me Klaus Mikaelson!" she wrenched her arm from his grasp and the maid held her breath.
Would this mean the death of their queen? Would he kill her?
She'd seen others die for far lesser a crime.
But no, the king held his ground and let her arm go (for she'd never been able to separate herself otherwise). He stood back watching her, eyes careful - like a lion stalking its prey.
"I can't see why you've become so upset."
It was the wrong thing to say, the maid knew, for her highness's cheeks flushed pink and her fists clenched by her sides. "I'm not going to say I condone all the things you've done here in New Orleans and what you do in your spare time with your friends is none of my business. But that, that Klaus is pointless. It's wrong and awful and - " she shuddered. "I don't want to see you doing that here."
The king's lips tightened and the maid pressed a hand to her mouth, to hold back her shallow breaths.
Everyone knew what happened on Thursday evenings. The king went for one of his infamous hunts throughout the palace; virgins were brought in and the maze of Archimedes was set up. First, the wolves would be released - werewolves - and the traps sprung; an hour later, the king and his comrades came out to play.
It was a massacre - a dreadful bloodbath of decay and death that would seep into the palace walls only to be washed away and replaced the following Thursday of the first month. It was the one concession towards peace that the king would not compromise on and at the expense of the populace, a pact had been made.
Five virgins - they could have been captured from France or Newark for all the king cared - set in a maze that promised death, hunted by royals drunk on blood and terror.
It was the prayer whispered by every citizen at night - oh, please, they would beg (pitiful and underfed) let the golden queen do something. Oh please, they would mourn, let our children find peace when the queen -
"You have an entire city to rule over but you still manage to trek all this blood into the house. Well Nik, you're going to have to build a new maze - one in the gardens or something - because I'm getting tired of coming home and seeing my brand new Valentino's stained with some girl's decaying organs!"
The maid froze.
The queen moved towards the king, arms still crossed, but a playful smile dancing on her lips; her eyes were crinkled at the edges, signaling a smile, and she tapped the king's nose lightly. "Make it something Grecian and spectacular - I'll design it! We can hold a proper tournament with candles and music and food - and everyone has to be dressed in black tie."
It was by the grace of god - the mercy of heaven - that the maid held back her cries.
The king reached forward, grasped his queen by the nape of her neck, and pulled her in for a wild, unburdened kiss of passion. Chests pressed together, her hands in his hair, his mouth attacking her throat - kissing and sucking the skin that protected her major arteries, hands bruising her pale skin. Her hands clawed at his henley, ripping it in two down the back as her nails - painted the most beautiful shade of violet - clawed down his back, leaving behind a melange of criss crossed red.
Momentarily, the king stopped; one hand roughly reaching out to grasp the queen's hair - spun gold - and yanked it, forcing her head back.
He laughed. "You win, love. I'll hold my games outside from now on. You'll keep your clean floors and I'll keep my place by your bed. I should have known better - four months is all that I would have of my fairs once you became queen, hm?"
"You were pushing your luck as it was, Nik." she returned, matter-of-factly.
"And I suppose you'll want to turn my little sport into some disgusting parade of gliterazzi and velvet ropes and baby vampires falling at our feet?" he teased, "you and Rebekah both."
She huffed. "It's my event to plan. Your only job is to show up." she paused. "Wait, did we just finish our fight? Already?"
He smirked. "I think we're getting rather good at this martial business, don't you agree love?"
"But I only got your shirt off." she pouted, golden hair aglow in the sunset wave of sky. "Last time we were already fucking before you even apologized."
"I never apologize, love. I reconsider."
He moved to kiss her again and she giggled. From behind the boudoir, the queen's laughs sounded like hoarse cries of the dying; like the painful rip of heart from chest.
They'd all been wrong, the maid weeped, they'd all been wrong, wrong, wrong.
That was no angel the king had married - that was the devil's consort made flesh.
He was her hybrid sovereign and she, his ichor queen.
A/N: I'm not really even sure what this is. It just...happened LOL. I don't usually write dark Klaroline (and I'm pretty sure this is like a baby soufflé compared to some other works) but hey, I'll get there...eventually!
Reviews are smiles and sunshine and 4th of July BBQ's.