"A philosopher once asked: 'Are we human because we gaze at the stars, or do we gaze at them because we are human?'
Pointless, really.
...Do the stars gaze back? Now, that's the question."
A man, features drawn with weariness, downed another drink in large, gulping swallows. And all too soon he found his cup empty as he twisted it in his hand, only the tiniest of drops sliding along the base. He raised it in the bartender's direction, but the man just frowned at him and shook his head.
"Sorry, I'm going to have to cut you off."
The man reluctantly relinquished his stein, resting his elbows on the bar and burying his head in his hands. He tiredly rubbed his face, palms brushing across several days of scruff. Eyes unfocusing, he peered off sightlessly into the distance.
"Hey! Stop crowding the bar!"
The shout and drunken poke, jolted him from his trance. Perhaps on another the day the man would have put up more of a fuss, but this night he was tired. And with his attention returned to the bar, the noise began to bother him anyway, now that he had no distracting drink in hand.
Clambering from his stool, the man walked toward the door, not quite drunk enough to stagger, but there was a bit of a sway to his gait.
As he exited, the crisp night air brushed against his face, returning a bit of clarity to his alcohol hazed mind. He wasn't really sure if he wanted clarity, thoughts of his loss reswamping his mind.
My love. My love. Why did you leave me?
As if in answer, a slight breeze kicked up, carrying the scent of hearthfire and herbs. For a moment, it felt as if he was once more in his wife's presence, her voice in his ear.
Live. For yourself. For your son. And be happy.
The man found himself shockingly sober, and he stared into the distance. His mood tottered between mournful and fond remembrance, emotions a tangled coil in his gut. But before he could really think about it the man was setting off, his feet having a mind of their own as they moved purposefully toward the wall, the one for which the town was named.
Its guard took a look at his determined countenance and surprisingly stood aside.
"I hope you find what you're looking for, Ansel."
Those words followed him as he made his way through the grass beyond the wall, everything looking surprisingly tame, mundane even. Was it naught but a field across the way after all?
Ansel's disappointment was soon rectified as he came upon a town square a few miles down a dirt path. It was alive with activity, a startling barrage of vivid color and odd scents. There was one woman with a bird cage of miniature elephants and another with what appeared to be a tiny fairy. It was a shock to the senses, and Ansel couldn't help but wonder if perhaps he had passed out drunk some ways back.
This notion of a dream was hardly deterred as he bent over to examine a tall glass container of what seemed to be eyeballs, his stare causing them all to peer back at him.
He leaned away, perturbed to say the least. How much did I drink? He couldn't help but wonder, even as his feet carried him onward. Rounding the stall's corner, he stuttered to a stop as his eyes took in the tall form of a blonde woman leaning on a yellow painted wagon. She smiled at him, hair falling in gentle waves around her face.
He wasn't struck still because she was a vision of beauty, through she was lovely, but because something about the way she stood, the way she gestured reminded him of his wife. Hearthfire and herbs tickled his nose and he moved forward in a daze, was this dream meant to be a blessing from her?
Abruptly another woman stepped in front of him, a brunette with a harsh frown, disdain coloring her expression.
"I don't do business with time-wasters." She glanced over her shoulder, making a sharp motion with her head. "Tend this stall. He'll hardly be beyond your skills." Sauntering away with an annoyed glare, she muttered under her breath, "I need a drink."
The blonde woman walked over, smiling coyly.
"Do you, perchance, see anything you like?"
Ansel smiled back.
"Indeed, I do."
Her eyebrows raised at his confidence.
Tilting his head, he gestured with a hand. "These blue blossoms here. How much for them?"
"Well, they could be the color of your hair. Or," a smirk curled across her lips, "they could be all of your memories before you were three."
Ansel was quite sure his face looked a bit disturbed.
"I can check if you like," she continued. "But you really shouldn't buy the bluebells. Take this one."
The blonde plucked a white flower from the display, its petals drooping and delicate. "It's a snowdrop. She gave it a slight twirl. "It will bring you fortune."
He blinked.
"And what will that cost me?"
She peered deeply into his eyes. "This one costs a kiss," she uttered as she gently tucked the flower into his breast pocket.
Looking down he ran a tentative finger across its petals. It smelled of spring, fresh herbs and morning dew.
"Well now, I haven't agreed yet."
She looked a bit taken aback as he stared at her with a solemn expression, but he broke the sudden building tension with a smile, eyes twinkling. Lifting her chin, he leaned in and placed a gentle peck on her lips. He let her lead as the kiss grew more heated, tongues and lips chasing one another. She retreat a moment later, breath warm little puffs against his lips. Her eyes were dark, as she peered up at him from beneath half-lidded lashes.
"Follow me."
She swayed backward toward the wagon, before turning sashaying her way up the steps,
Ansel on her heels.
Taking the first step, he suddenly hesitated as he looked down, noticing the slim, silver chain that wrapped around her ankle. The woman must have sensed him stopping for she turned, following the tract of his gaze.
Flicking at her skirts as if she could hide it, she muttered, "Right, the woman from earlier, she holds me captive with this chain."
Frowning, Ansel bent down taking the chain in hand and pulling a hunting knife to cut through the tiny metal links. It cut easily. Then, mended just as quickly, the two severed ends snaking together and resealing with a slight glow.
The blonde looked on in resignation. "It's enchanted. I'll only be free when Dahlia dies."
"Is there nothing I can do for you?"
She held out her hand from the wagon steps, beckoning him in.
He paused eyeing her hand, and took a breath, prepared to refuse, now that he was thinking more clearly.
Hearthfire and herbs.
He accepted
Ansel stumbled home the next morning, carrying the peace and freedom of his dream with him. And for the first time in a while, he could look at his son without wanting to burst into tears.
Nine months later he was shocked when he opened his door in the middle of the night, the wall guard on the front step.
"This was left for you at the wall."
A slightly judgemental look on his face, the guard hefted the basket on his arm, a swaddled infant cradled within it.
"It said his name is Niklaus."
Stunned, Ansel took the basket from the guard, half-stumbling back into his house.
"Klaus, welcome home."
"Father," he returned with a nod.
Opening the door, Ansel gestured his son in.
"How has your shop been going?"
"Well." Klaus rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a carved figurine. "I had some spare wood, it was a bit too small to sell, but I carved this for Henrik."
"He'll love it."
"Nik!" A young brunet boy cried, running toward Klaus and hurling himself into his arms.
Klaus let out a playful omph, catching the boy and spinning the two around. Setting him down again and He ruffled his hair, even as the boy batted his hand away with a whine.
"And have you been good, Henrik?"
"Of course, Nik! I'm not Kol." The boy replied with a snicker.
"Oi!" The two heard shouted from the next room, Kol poking his head out into the hallway.
"Whatever have I done to deserve such cruelty?" With a dramatic hand pressed to his chest, Kol pouted as he stepped from behind the wall.
Henrik raised a practiced brow. With a chuckle, Kol dropped his faux hurt and sauntered into the room, taking the opportunity to pester his brother back and tousled his hair.
Henrik squawked even as Kol praised him. "Ah, we raised you well."
Klaus grinned.
Klaus spent the rest of his day off, playing around with Henrik before heading out. His youngest brother was truly a joy: kind, thoughtful, and with a touch of mischief. Who could ask for better?
Now, he had a very different person on his mind, as he paced beneath Tatia's window, fiddling with a small stone. With a deft flick of his wrist he hurled the stone up, bouncing it off the glass.
He waited with building anticipation as he caught the movement of a few shifting shadows. A moment later, her figure came into view, a beaming smile on her face.
"'Lijah?"
Klaus frowned, both at the mention of Elijah and the way her expression faltered upon seeing him. But she soon smoothed out her features and a new smile bloomed on her face.
"Oh, Nik, good evening!"
"Good evening, Tatia." Rocking back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, Klaus felt almost bashful.
"Niklaus." He heard called from beside him and he turned with a slight scowl.
"Elijah."
"What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same."
Staring each other down, bodies tense, the two brothers' standoff was interrupted by the girl they had both come to visit.
"Don't fight!" She called down.
Forcing himself to relax, Klaus pivoted to peer back up at her.
"As you wish, love."
Walking over, Elijah clasped his shoulder with firm pressure, just shy of painful.
"We shall take our leave then?" His brother half-asked.
The brunette glanced over her shoulder for a few moments before returning their gazes, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. She frown, appearing disappointed.
"Yes, I suppose that's best. I shall see you tomorrow, then?"
"Of course," both brothers chorused together, each slightly frustrated by the other, though they did their best to hide it. They continued to smile up at Tatia until she vanished back into her room.
Their mutual beloved now out of sight, the two brothers pulled away. Klaus glared and Elijah returned his disgruntlement with a severe frown of his own.
"We should settle this now should we not, brother?"
"Indeed, brother," Klaus agreed, whipping around and stalking toward the forest.
Klaus hefted his blade, giving it a practiced flourish, feeling the familiar weight in his hand.
"I've always been the better swordsman, brother. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Ah, but I have something to fight for, Niklaus."
Klaus' lips pursed at the implication that he was not also fighting for Tatia.
"Prepare to lose all the same."
Blades hefted, the two brothers clashed in a flurry of steel, neither seeming to have the upper hand. Blows traded, blocked, and parried, until Elijah miscalculated, taking a fraction too long to follow through. In a whirl of motion, Klaus lashed out, cutting clean through his brother's belt.
Vexed, Elijah withdrew, stiffly running a hand down his tunic, smoothing the wrinkles from their battle.
"The match is yours, brother."
"Oh, Nik…"
Tatia trailed off, worrying her lip.
Concern welled up in his chest, and Klaus faltered.
"Tatia?"
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, big doe eyes welling with pity. "But I-I promised my hand to Elijah."
"When was this?!" He cried, voice a bit harsher than he intended judging by Tatia's flinch. Softening, the blonde apologized.
Accepting his sincerity Tatia answered, "Late last night. A few hours after you departed."
He forcibly kept his face impassive even as he internally raged. And his brother claimed to have honor.
"Will you not allow me to at least plead my case?" Carefully absorbing her expression, he observed the obvious conflict painted across her face.
"Very well."
"Goodness, Nik, this must have been most of your savings!" Tatia cried as she peered at the impressive spread of food Klaus had laid out on the blanket.
"Oh, you'd be surprised, love." He gave a casual roll of his shoulder and looked over at her fondly, trying not to boast too boldly. "Even if it were, I can always make more. That's the beauty of it, my love. And one day I will travel the world."
"I've always admired that about you, Nik. You dream so grandly."
Opening his mouth to offer it all to her, he was interrupted. "...Did you know Elijah is traveling all the way to Ipswich?"
"Ipswich?" Klaus laughed, concealing most of his bitterness. "Tatia, I would take you to London or Paris, any, all of the great cities. Ipswich," scoffing Klaus continued, "for your hand, I'd cross oceans or continents. I would go to the gold fields of San Francisco and bring you back your weight in gold. I would," he insisted as a look of half skepticism and half wonder glinted in her eyes. "I would sojourn to Africa and fetch a diamond as big as your fist."
She looked tempted, but his elation deflated as he watched the woman suppress it.
"You're wonderful, Klaus. But it's getting late, and I should really get going." Rising and dusting off her skirts, Klaus scrambled after her, hurt by the change in address.
"Tatia, wait!"
She turned to peer over her shoulder at him, face apologetic, but she only muttered a soft 'sorry' before running off toward town.
Slumping, Klaus lashed out, kicking the basket with a snarl.
An aged man, once fierce and proud, laid tucked amidst decadent bedding a definite increasing frailty in his limbs. Yet despite his approaching death there was still a ferocity in his countenance.
"Where is Alaric?" The man demanded.
"He's on his way, father," another replied, a man with a strong jaw, dark hair, and hazel eyes. Beside him stood his brother, features a bit narrower with a noticeable wave in his hair. And beside him, stood another brother. This one younger with lighter, even wavier hair and green eyes.
"Then, we shall wait," their father intoned.
As if summoned, Alaric came strutting through the double doors.
"Sorry, I was late, Father. I came as swiftly as I was able." Coming to a halt between his brothers, the man knelt at the foot of the bed, paying his respects to his father, the King.
"Lucien." He nodded to his narrower faced brother before turning to each of the others in turn. "Tristan," he acknowledged, this time to the other dark haired man. "Stefan," he concluded.
"So, to the matter of succession." Their father began, instantly silencing the room. "Of my seven sons, four of you remain still," the King announced pointedly. "It is quite a break with tradition. I had 12 brothers and they all fell at my hand when my father was still hearty at seven and forty."
"We remember, Father. Your triumph is truly an inspiration, a mark of strength and courage," Lucien praised.
"And cunning," the King added, a trait Lucien had purposefully failed to mention. Cunning was his greatest weapon after all. Shifting his eyes the King addressed his second son, "Alaric."
"Yes, father?"
"Go to the window, my son. Tell me what you see."
Confident and hopeful, Alaric strode over to the large open face window and peered out into the night.
"I see the kingdom, Father," he called back, voice filled with pride, "the entirety of Stormhold."
"And?" The King prompted.
"My kingdom, perhaps?"
Behind his turned back, a subtle expression of distaste crossed the King's face.
Smirking, Lucien slipped over on silent feet, stopping just behind Alaric. With a harsh shove, Lucien easily sent the idiot to his death. Alaric's plummet marked by his echoing scream.
The King chuckled darkly in his bed, a certain schadenfreudic joy also in his tone. Stefan stepped beside Lucien and peered down, just catching a glimpse of Alaric's rapidly shrinking figure. He brushed a bit closer to his brother, but the brunet whipped around quickly and stared him down. Stefan raised his hands in a gesture of innocence even as a tiny smirk bloomed.
Unseen to all, the ghosts of their dead brothers watched on. Each reflected the circumstances of their death, some more gruesome than others. One was covered in terrible burns with about a third of their face near melted away. Ironic perhaps, as in life the dark haired, blue-eyed Prince often bragged about being the most handsome of his brothers. Another was covered in frost, pale and blue tinged with the occasional blackened patch on their fingers. The last appeared normal albeit dour. Unlike his other two brothers who cackled with glee, the frozen one seeming particularly delighted, this one sat unfazed having no particular response to the death of Alaric.
They were soon joined by said brother, his hair windswept and half of his skull caved in. His brothers each greeted him, and Alaric glanced at them in surprise.
"Finn?" With increasing shock, Alaric's eye landed on the burnt and frozen forms of the other two. "Damon? John?!" He neared shouted.
John scowled. "We are trapped like this, in limbo, until the new king is crowned."
Alaric moaned in dismay, a tiny fraction of himself hoping his brothers were somehow still alive despite their appearances, that he was alive. "I was that close."
"Well, at least you haven't lost your looks," John taunted sarcastically, casting his gaze back and forth between Alaric and Damon. The barb struck, and Damon sneered back; a gruesome image on his ruined face.
"Well, at least I wasn't moronic enough to let Alaric over there lock me in a freezer."
John glared, retorting, "And what a load of good it did him, the new King of Stormhold. Oh, wait. No. He's here, with us, skull crushed."
Alaric jolted, his ghostly form may have appeared deformed, but he couldn't tell. His vision seemed normal and he was in no pain. Yet when he reached up he realized that the whole right side of his face must have taken the brunt of his fall. His fingers traced newly flattened planes of shattered bones and his burst, half-crushed eye.
Ripping his hand away, determined to ignore it, Alaric took the opportunity to launch his own taunt.
"Still bitter, John? It was ten years ago."
John opened his mouth to shoot something back, but was interrupted by their most silent brother.
"Enough. If you would all stop bickering like children then perhaps you will be able to hear Father's verdict."
Disgruntled, but acknowledging the logic, his other three brothers resolutely ignored each other as they turned to peer at their still living relatives.
"Esther? Esther?" The King called, voice a bit hoarse now, as he peered about the room. Stefan glowered at the tiny smirks on his brothers' faces.
"No, father it's me. Your son," he reminded, "Stefan."
"Oh," the King sighed, an obvious note of disappointment in the sound. "Where is your sister, Esther?"
Tristan stepped closer as he answered, "Apologies, Father, but no one has seen Esther in years."
"Lucien?" The King drawled as he turned his head, a bit accusatory.
Sauntering closer, Lucien defended himself. "I certainly didn't kill her, Father. Why would I, when these two yet live? It's not as if she could inherit the throne. See," Lucien gestured toward one of the far corners where two women looked on, the blonde with apparent disinterest and the red-head with a tiny smile. "Freya and Aurora are alive. If I were mad enough to kill one sister, surely I would have killed them all."
The King turned his head, taking in his two other daughters with slightly softer eyes. "Indeed." Casting his gaze back to his sons, his tone regained its harsher edge. "As three of you live, we shall resolve this matter in a non-traditional manner." Reaching up the main unclasped a thick golden chain from around his neck and held it aloft.
Everyone looked on, even Freya and Aurora stepping a bit closer, as the ruby at the necklace's end drained of its color, until only a clear, faceted stone remained. The jewel began to pulse with light, and the King released it, allowing it to float. The necklace bobbed in the air, the chain seeming to slither back and forth from the magic enveloping it.
"Only he of royal blood can restore the ruby. And the one of you who does so, shall be the new King of Stormhold."
Sacrificing the last of his life force, the King propelled the necklace far from the room. It hurtled out the window, just past the grasping hands of his eager sons, in a streak of light.
Even a brush from death, the King had conjured enough power to send the necklace catapulting into space where it struck something in an explosion of energy. A ball of white hot plasma came shrieking down, burning away the atmosphere as it descended.
Klaus was distracted from his spiraling thoughts as a burst of light fell from the heavens. He stared at it, a wild idea forming in his mind. Perhaps, seeing as Tatia did not desire anything of this world, she would accept something from beyond it as his courting gift. Surely, a far better token than a mere ring from Ipswich.
The star continued its rapid descent, flying over the head of a contemplative olive-toned woman, before finally crashing into the earth. Dirt and rock were forcibly expelled from the impact of the landing, the nearby vegetation incinerated.
In the crater, rock had melted into one largely continuous sheet, some barely surviving plants at its edge in flames. And nestled at the very bottom was a beautiful blonde woman, clad in a long silver dress. One that flowed and gleamed like liquid starlight, a mark of what she was.
Groaning, the woman turned her head to look at the necklace that laid beside her, the cursed thing that had knocked her from the sky.
"Seriously?!"
Miles back, the olive skinned woman was still staring at the sky, gathering her thoughts. With a slight hum, she moved from the balcony and waltzed deeper into the castle she called home.
"Ayanna? Qetsiyah?" She called.
From another room, two other women emerged. One looked similar to the caller, both of them possessing dark, wavy hair. Although this second woman appeared a few years older, and her skin had a lighter more golden hue. The third woman at her side was the oldest of the three with rich brown skin and hair styled in careful cornrows.
"What is it?" The oldest inquired.
"A star has fallen."
"A star has fallen, you say?" The other asked, looking a bit more interested.
Seeing her nod, the three moved as one toward the divination room.
"It can't be left to wander," one muttered, cornrows swaying as she moved.
Features tightening, the other grumbled, "It certainly cannot."
A chuckle. "Are you still feeling bitter, Qetsiyah?"
"Would you not be?"
"Don't start," the oldest reprimanded as she moved toward one of the animal cages.
"Yes, Ayanna," the other two chorused with fond exasperation.
Ayanna returned with a ferret in her hands, stroking its fur apologetically. Stretching its squirming body across a stone table, Qetsiyah appeared at her side, knife in hand, and cut a deep line across its belly.
All three peered over.
"If these divinations are correct then the star lies 100 miles from here."
"Which of us is going to fetch it?" Qetsiyah wondered, Ayanna having wandered farther away to cremate the body of their sacrifice.
"I shall," declared the original woman, and the other two agreed, not particularly bothered.
Klaus stood before his father's door, barely remembering to give him notice as an image of Henrik flashed through his mind.
It only took a few quiet knocks, before door swung open, his father in the entryway. He looked surprised, but after a quick scan of his face he seemed to reach some conclusion.
"You have something to tell me." It was a statement not a question.
Klaus fought the sheepish expression that wanted to emerge. "Yes."
Opening the door wider, Ansel beckoned him in.
"That's quite the tale," his father replied, having silently absorbed the details of Klaus' self-imposed quest.
"Is this girl truly worth your struggle? When she toys with you and your brother both?"
Klaus couldn't hide his surprise, having not mentioned Elijah at all.
Ansel snorted, a wry grin on his face. "Come now, Klaus. You and Elijah may have both moved out in an effort to ease my financial burdens, but I am still your father."
Still a bit stunned, it took him a moment to reply to his father's original question.
"Of course she's worth it, Father."
His father eyed his determined demeanor, noting his vehemence.
"There's something you should know then, if you intend to cross the wall."
Stunned silent for a second time, Klaus blindly reached behind him to grasp the back of a chair, spinning it around to sit in.
"My mother?" Klaus repeated hoarsely. The enclosed space of the attic now seeming much too small for the emotions swelling within him.
Stepping around to the table, Ansel nodded, setting down a basket and pulling out a white flower, still perfectly preserved and a thin, silver chain.
Running his eyes over them, Klaus noted that they appeared exactly as his father described them. Neither of the two were much for pranks (that was more Kol's purview), certainly not one like this, but he still picked the chain up, making his own cut with a knife from his belt. It severed with ease, slithering back together in a glow of light. Klaus dropped the chain with nerveless fingers, it was true?
Klaus took a moment to process that thought, the idea of his mother. Oh, he had always known that his father's wife, the woman who bore Rebekah, Kol, and Henrik, was not his mother. Neither was Elijah's, his father's first wife and dearest love. Klaus had always felt a little less for that, though he said nothing. And now his father tells him he had stories to tell of her. Magnificent stories that had little to do with liquor fueled trysts. Or at least not only liquor fueled.
"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked, managing to keep all but a trace of bitterness from his voice.
To his credit, Ansel appeared regretful. Reaching over, the man picked up the flower and tucked it into the button hole of Klaus' lapel. He smoothed the collar as he gathered his thoughts.
"At first, it was because you were too young to understand. And then, because I didn't want to hurt you." His father looked up, knowing him well and expecting his fury. "I see now that I failed. And I am sorry for that. But can you honestly tell me you would be happier knowing your mother existed so close, but beyond your reach?"
Klaus stood abruptly, pacing the small space. "Well, we'll never know now, will we?" Running a hand through his short curls, he huffed, torn. He refused to say it, but perhaps his father was right, his thoughts now vacillating between Tatia and his mother. He intended to travel beyond the wall anyway, surely…
"One last thing," Ansel added, reaching for a cylindrical wrapped package from the basket. "This was left as well. It's addressed to you and I never opened it."
Klaus frowned, reaching for the package, accepting the olive branch. Unraveling the parchment he saw it was a letter rolled around an odd black candle.
My dearest Niklaus,
Please know, I only wanted the best for you, and had my mistress allowed it, I would have kept you in a heartbeat. Perhaps that was selfish of me, wanting to raise you where you would have been the son of a slave. But know that I did and do love you dearly. And as such, it is my dearest wish that we will meet someday.
I've enclosed a candle in this letter as the fastest way to travel is by candlelight. To use it, think of me and only me.
I will think you of you every day, for always,
Your mother
Klaus arched a brow, pointedly reading the last part aloud. He watched Ansel's shoulders slump, took some pleasure in his retribution, but ultimately relented. His father didn't know.
"Do you have a light?"
His father looked up, still apologetic, and struck a match, taking his question for what it was. Until Klaus returned, they would let the matter lie for now.
As soon as the match touched wick, igniting it with a small tongue of flame, golden light enveloped him. It was an odd sensation, traveling by candlelight, seeming to float at a standstill and move rapidly all at once.
Before he could take the time to process the feeling it ended, and Klaus collided with a blonde woman. The force of the impact sending them both crashing to the ground, he on top.
"Mother?" He asked hesitantly. She was blonde and blue-eyed, as he was, but she appeared fairly young, maybe his age or a few years older. Certainly too young to be his mother in England, but perhaps that wasn't the case in Stormhold? Did magic make people age slower?
The fallen star had passed out not long after glaring at the necklace, head still pounding with the force of the blow and then the fall. When she woke again, it was sheer spite that had her fastening the jewelry around her neck. As if she would give it the chance to whack some other poor, undeserving star about the head. Perhaps, she could destroy it somehow? Grind it to dust?
The thought gave her pleasure, pleasure she used to buoy her mood as she stumbled to her feet, a dull ache crawling up from her ankle and shin. She grunted, displeased as she staggered on newfound legs toward the lip of the crater.
Far, far from amused when something else collided with her.
For the second time!