Chapter 4: The Stuff Of Fairytales
Elijah was the first to break the silence with a cough that was clearly designed to muffle his laughter. "If I ever doubted that you were a true Mikaelson, sister," he said, "I have no such qualms any longer. You not only brought up the matter of the elephant in the room, you climbed on its metaphorical back and clubbed it into submission." He inclined his head as if Freya were some sort of queen. "I salute you."
"Thank you, brother," Freya replied with an irritatingly wide smile.
"How touching," Klaus grumbled. "I'm so glad that your shared amusement has provided you both with this heart-warming familial bonding moment. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bottle to finish."
"Niklaus," Elijah continued, "it behooves you to at least entertain the possibility that you are indeed the key to unlocking the curse."
"You do know those bedtime stories you read to Hope aren't actually true?" Klaus sighed. "You of all people, Elijah, should realize several things. First of all, you know that that 'she-devil,' as you call her, will play all the cards in her favor. She wants me to pay for taking her beloved brother. Do you really think she would allow a way for this curse to be broken? And even if she did, you and I both know I am hardly the stuff of fairytales."
"Not in the conventional sense, but just as Freya has been inside your head, I have been inside Camille's, and—"
"Do not finish that sentence," Klaus said threateningly, "unless you intend to shatter our fragile alliance, brother."
Elijah took a long breath. "So you would rather allow your doubts, your fears, to prevent you from pursuing every course of action at your disposal? Even if it means condemning Camille to a lifetime of oblivion?"
You are such a coward.
This is not about me.
Her words returned to him, unbidden and unwanted, as if echoing what Elijah was saying. They always had a way of entering his consciousness long after she'd said them. Sometimes they were like a warm embrace, and sometimes they were like daggers. He'd never felt the sharpness of their blade more keenly than now.
He hated the feeling.
Klaus threw out his arms. "You wish to pursue every course of action, no matter how ludicrous?" He went up to the head of the bed. "Very well. Never let it be said that I'm not a good sport." With a jaunty bow, he bent to place a kiss on Cami's lips, making a loud smacking noise as he did so for the benefit of his siblings. "There you are. True love's kiss. Klaus Mikaelson saves the day yet again."
He didn't stop to look at the figure on the bed, nor his brother and sister, before he marched towards the door. And if he paused for a fraction of a second in the doorway, it wasn't in the hope that one of them would call him back, that a miracle had occurred, that he had somehow managed to bring her back to him.
Because he had lost his faith in miracles an eternity ago.
He spent the next few hours in his study, alone with his dark thoughts and a bottle of bourbon this time—much cheaper than the Dalmore and just as efficient. Long after Elijah and Freya had retired to their rooms, he crept along the hallway and returned to the room where she lay sleeping.
He closed the door and slumped into the chair beside her. The soft lamplight illuminated her exquisite profile—the perfect curve of her nose, the full lips, slightly parted now, the eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks, the stubborn jaw.
How it suited her, that jaw. After all, it was that stubbornness, that insistence of hers that she could take on beings much more powerful than herself, that was partly to blame for her being here.
You are tenacious, he'd told her. It's one of the things I like most about you.
His brave bartender.
Now he cursed the qualities that had won his admiration, something which was seldom sought and even more rarely given.
"Damn you, Camille O'Connell," he growled. "Damn you for allowing this to happen. Lucien was right. If you hadn't tried to rescue yourself, if you'd only stayed and waited—waited for me…"
That wasn't fair. Aurora would have come for Camille regardless. But he found himself clenching his fists as the words continued to tumble from his mouth—words he didn't even believe, but felt compelled to say anyway. "Damn you for not letting me get to you in time. Damn you for not letting me save you. Damn you for making me go through this bloody charade." His nails dug so deep into his palms that rivulets of blood began to drip onto the floor. "And damn you to hell for not letting me be the one."