Rebekah's grip tightens, sure to leave deep purple finger marks under the faded fabric of Aednat's peasant clothes. The girl whimpers, her face growing ruddier the more frightened she becomes. Aednat wishes she could shut her eyes tight and she would awake in her lumpy hay bed next to the insufferably snoring Bartley with small Cabhan cuddling in between them, still suckling his little thumb, or maybe with her daughter Betha murmuring gently as she slumbers in her bassinet, no hair yet growing on the lass' wee head. But that is not so as Aednat cannot even make her eyes move at all, let alone close them to whatever horrors may come next.
Aednat cries out as she is pulled back into the chest of the man behind her, one of his hands securing itself around her throat, gripping with just enough force to stop blood flow to her face, but not enough to cut off her breathing entirely.
"She was my snack!" Rebekah complains immediately with her nostrils flaring, veins appearing underneath her eyes in such an unholy manner Aednat begins to fear for her life and the lives of all those around her. She begins to think of all the things she has left unfinished, how her children are still wee little toddlers, how they hadn't even yet learned their own names, how nice her Bartley's muscles looked before he started drinking ale with his mates, and the laundry she left hanging from clothespins in the yard. Aednat began murmuring the Hail Mary under her breath, clasping the wooden cross necklace she wore at all times feverishly between cold sweaty hands, and praying for her end to be merciful.
"On second thought," Elijah speaks, pausing to run his hand downwards away from Aednat's neck to the large suit of arms on her chest claiming Aednat as property of the Murrell estate, tugging on Aednat's dirt-covered apron. Aednat wonders why they bother to speak in Gaelic in front of her, hearing the slight Norse accent behind their thick English ones, why they speak so she can hear their terrible plans. "The girl wears the same crest you wear, sister. She's of the family we have begun to pose as. She could possess useful information."
"I could torture it out of her if you like." A brunette man comments as he walks up to the now growing throng of people, blocking the view from the rest of the fair-goers as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth onto the cuff of his sleeve, a familiarly stitched sleeve, one that she stitched herself when her husband tore it on a smith's blade, her Bartley's sleeve. A ring of blood stains the collar of the shirt as well, enough blood to assume death by a slit throat. Blood on the very shirt Bartley had buttoned up this very morning and complained about the terrible scratchiness that makes up Aednat's sewing abilities when it comes to repairing clothing. A gasp tears its way through Aednat's stomach and through her chest, erupting from her mouth as a forlorn sob as her knees give out from under her.
Elijah is quick to catch Aednat before she falls to the ground rather ungracefully, frowning in annoyance as the girl's head lolls to the side in her unconsciousness, her mouth hanging slightly ajar from the near-scream she just emitted. Elijah and Rebekah send a quick glare to their brother Kol who simply shrugs with a devious little smirk upon his rather bloodstained mouth.
Ena sips her tea as she scrolls through a news article of a gory murder on her cellphone with mild interest, not looking up from the short read as a man sits across from her at the small rickety wooden table, fitting the aesthetic of the creeky and old tea shop. The room is decorated with dried flowers and various other herbs, mason jars, old stained wood with carved Celtic designs, deep green tapestries, and the aroma of freshly brewed loose leaf tea. The man makes himself comfortable and leans back in the squeaky chair, his arms folded brutishly across his chest in a guarded stance, indicating his wariness.
"Mr. Gerard." Ena acknowledges, setting down her phone delicately, looking up into the dark eyes of Marcellus Gerard, protégé of her Niklaus, of the hybrid Ena used to call her own. She takes a small sip of her tea before folding her hands in her lap, her lips pressing together as she rehearses what she is to say to the King of New Orleans, her mouth not quite dry with this stale piece of business, but also not quite comfortable either.
"Ena," He speaks slowly, "Or Aednat. Whichever you go by. I'd say I've heard a lot about you, but no one seems to know who you are. Klaus gets infuriated by the sound of your name, but other than that you've been wiped from history. You don't exist. All that I know is that you, Ena, are old. Older than old, and I know old, I'm old. You're only a few centuries short of the Mikaelsons themselves. Now tell me, miss nobody, what does a dusty old vampire who doesn't ring a bell, other than the fact that she pissed off an original, and the only hybrid one at that, want with me?"
Ena's mouth twitches upwards into an amused smirk, a quiet and soft chuckle sounding from behind her teeth. She inhales deeply through her nose and slowly pulls out a pressed manila envelope with a stamped wax seal from the inside pocket of her grey wool trench coat. Her fingertips dance across it with hidden nervousness as her smirk grows into a somber smile, grey stormy eyes stilling with a glossed-over look of nostalgia and loneliness.
"I, my dear Marcellus, made a grave mistake when I was your age, give or take a few decades." Ena begins, her voice growing more and more tired with each syllable. She continues to muse on: "I do not care for the details, but do know that they are gory indeed. I do not regret my decision, but I regret the consequences it had and what those consequences took from me." She says, pausing with a bit of pained hesitance, "I am here to atone for my sins, Mr. Gerard, and as such, I need a witness and a messenger."
"That's all fine and dandy, but why am I here? You could get anyone else to tell your sad, sad tale of woe to. Hell, compel a human to listen to you ramble for all I care." Marcel grumbles, unfolding his arms in order to stand up, eying the envelope with suspicion.
"You," Ena continues, her eyes narrowing dangerously as she warns him to stay put with a simple glare, "Are for all intents and purposes, Niklaus' son. His family. I need someone to hold onto this, should things go terribly awry in the coming days. I have decided to entrust this with you." She pauses, looking at the crisp envelope in her hands, daring Marcel to leave with her eyes, but knowing that he won't as he settles into his seat once more.
"Well, what is it then?" He asks impatiently, but curious nonetheless. His interest is piqued just enough that he won't strut out of the door and forget all about Ena, as one could easily do.
"This envelope holds six separate letters. One to yourself, dear Marcellus, to Camille O'Connell, to Kieran O'Connell, the beautiful Rebekah Mikaelsson, the gentlemanly Elijah Mikaelson, and then a collective letter to you five that is my last will and testament. Deliver these if I do not contact you again by the time three midnights pass. It is imperative that you do so." Ena demands, twisting her voice just so that it seems Marcel is given no choice, none whatsoever. She smiles devilishly at him. "Any questions?"
Hello my lovelies!
This is the second installment of My Family of Bréagadóirí, and I do hope you like it. It's still a bit short for a chapter as my taste goes, but I wanted to get another one up as soon as possible. I would like to know what you think and who you think Ena should end up with, if anyone at all!
Leave a review, they are much appreciated!