I do not own TVD or TO.
This story will end up being around ten chapters long. The main pairing is Klaroline with side Kolena and minor Kalijah.
Distant screams sent chills down her spine, travelling closer with each second that ticked past, beckoning unspoken horror to her door.
And the horror would find her.
Cowering in her father's house hardly counted as concealment. The plain home sat in the direct path of the incoming terror, and as one of the few dwellings belonging to a wealthy family it was certain to be targeted; where most people in the village had one room, but since they were wealthy they had two.
She huddled beneath the window, wedged into the tight spot that was the darkest point in the house; smoke from the fire billowed through the broken glass, concealing her in a haze. She hugged her legs, praying she went unseen by the invaders. From what she could hear over her pounding heart the brutes were only giving the homes a cursory glance before moving to the next one.
She tucked in tight, rapidly blinking thick smoke from her stinging eyes.
Hide, she had to hide - remain out of sight until someone overlooked her and then bolt for the woods when the coast was clear. But every gasp punctuated sentence stretched endlessly ahead, urging her to risk a look.
Lifting one hand she gripped the window sill and knelt, peeking through the window, careful to keep her bright hair out of sight. A hulking man stood with his back to her. His leather clad shoulders concealed all beyond.
He yanked his arm back and swung round, revealing a blood stained face under hair black as night.
Her eyes snapped to the ashen face of her intended's father. Time until that point had felt slow, and she wished fervently that it was still the case, but the first spurt of red set time in motion, careening faster than it ever had in her eighteen years.
The blood came in rivulets, soaking the front of his tunic and staining his chin. The life drained from Aland's eyes before his knees hit the ground.
A blood curdling scream turned her limbs to stone. She recognized the piercing shrieks as her own when the murderer kicked in her door.
Burly hands shoved her into the wall. Her teeth clacked. A jolt traveled up her spine.
Her chest constricted, screams cutting off. She arched her neck, straining to escape the axe pressing against her rapid pulse.
"Please," she whimpered. Blood spattered his high cheekbones; she couldn't look away. Did it belong to her mother - her father? Was the blood more recent, belonging only to Aland?
"Blása latr kona. Einn vera ekki til deyja dagr." Foul breathe assaulted her senses.
She gagged; swallowing bile. Her throat expanded, pressing the axe closer. Hot blood trickled between her breasts.
His cold eyes followed the line.
He lowered the weapon. A single sweep of his arm sent pottery crashing down. It broke into shards, scattering as he yanked her through the mess and tossed her stiff body over the table.
Her struggles against his hold, but she was no match for his muscle.
Her chin hit the wood, stinging as a splinter embedded beneath her skin.
She tried to push back up.
The ax pressed against her cheek not quite close enough to break skin but a clear warning nevertheless.
"Nei, smíða ekki vaða!"
His free hand fumbled and groped. She made an undignified squeak. Her skirts rose and she squirmed, attempting to throw the brute off of her.
He pressed the ax closer.
A sob broke through her lips. Her mind split in two factions that warred with each other to decide her next action. Two options stood before her, neither idea, but only one would allow for life. Continue to fight and meet the same fate as countless others, or stop.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears leaked out; her brow pressed to the rough wood, cold fingers curling around the edge of the table and dug into the wood.
The rest of her body stilled.
Fabric bunched around her waist. Something hard pressed to her shaking thighs.
She braced herself, wondering whether the submission meant she was weak or strong..
Penetration never came.
She cracked open one eye, rolling it to look up over her shoulder.
The man had craned his neck back, forced to acquiesce to the gleam of metal. The sight brought a surge of hope. For one glorious moment a smile of relief graced her features, but the voice that followed the sword dashed her spirits; it came in the same foreign syllables as her assailant.
"Hvat smíða einn ætla einn vera smíða?" The deep voice clearly belonged to a woman. A faint glimmer of optimism fluttered to life. She dashed it quickly against the table.
"Fregna skaõa kona!"
"Nei."
A small hand grasped the neck of her dress, hoisting her up. Gleaming metal urged her attacker back. Her eyes burned, darting to the woman, but she made out little beyond the sword than a dark braid.
A word she understood came, spoken with a heavy accent as she was shoved backwards towards the broken door.
She required no more encouragement.
"Run!"
She cut a straight path she from the village; bolted through trees and kept the dirt road in sight as long as possible. Eventually the raucous shouts of men penetrated the loud thump in her ears, forcing her to abandon the road and veer deep into the forest
She crashed through underbrush; it tore at her skirt, snagging skin. Her left foot sank into a hole near the top of a long hill.
She tripped, tumbling forward.
Sticks scratched her arms and stones dug into her hips. She hit the bottom and flopped onto her stomach, taking a second to catch her breath. Her arms curled tight around her rock hard belly, clinging to something she didn't understand. Every inward breath seared through her lungs.
Pain radiated, circling around her ankle and licking up her calve.
Next to her ear a twig snapped.
She flinched, incapable of holding still.
A hand landed on her shoulder. She tilted her head down, catching sight of stained fingers. Where they touched red clung to her dress brighter than blood.
"Vera einn mein?"
She recognized a few of the words by sound – if not meaning – and swallowed, gritting her teeth as she looked higher. He was clothed in wool and armoured in leather with knives and a sword sheathed on his belt. If his words hadn't revealed him then his clothing would have.
He was one of them – one of the invaders attacking her village and murdering her people.
She pushed onto her hands, attempting to move away from him, but using her foot proved impossible. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was injured and there for the taking, but she couldn't stop the sharp cry nor the tears that gathered in her eyes.
She jerked further, pressing her back into the disturbed grass on the hill.
He held out his hands, stained palms facing her.
She swiped at her eyes, smearing dirt and tears across her cheeks. Midnight blue, vibrant purple and bright red decorated his skin in streaks that covered his arms to the elbow, but search as she did she couldn't spot a single drop of blood.
He said something else and reached for his belt.
"Don't!" She jerked back. A rock dug into her spine.
He unhooked something and held it out, pulling a stopper from the top.
Her brows lowered. She at the skein.
A bird broke into song overhead.
She reached slowly until her dirt covered fingers brushed stained ones. A tingle raced up her arms on contact.
She glanced up at his face and back down. It was his own water skein, so unlikely to be poisoned unless he had been anticipating her, but how could he have when she didn't know?
She lifted it intending only a sip, but when the cool water hit her tongue she drank deep stopping only when liquid spilled over her chin and stung.
She lowered the skein and pressed one hand to her broken skin. Something was stuck there and had been since she hit the table. She felt the splinter in her face, but was unable to find it with her shaking fingers.
"Sauõr ek?" He touched his fingers to his own chin and nodded to her.
She gripped the skein of water until the tips of her fingers turned white and shut her eyes. The container was pulled from her hand.
She heard water slosh around. There was a moment of silence where she braced herself again, waiting with baited breath for those fingers to curl around her legs or knock her over.
One act of kindness was surely all she would get.
Her heart stuttered when he finally touched her. Her eyes snapped open.
An expression of deep concentration knit his brow. Gentle fingers prodded her chin.
She hissed, fighting the urge to recoil.
His eyes snapped up to her – somewhere between the colour of the sky and the grass at her back – something akin to an apology flashed through his gaze.
He caught the splinter.
She hissed again.
He pulled it out, held tight between his thumb and forefinger.
She stared at the wood when he dropped it on the ground – roughly the length of her thumb nail.
He pressed a wet cloth to her chin and she yanked her face away.
They watched each other for a moment – neither moving – before he nodded once and held out the cloth, placing it in her open palm.
"Tómr," he pointed to a spot on his own chin and then to his throat.
She cleaned her face and swiped at the dry blood on her neck, trying to forget the ax that had caused the cut.
He motioned to her feet. She curled her legs in tighter and shook her head.
Dirt streaked her dress and skin, but was slowly disappeared under the rag. Leaves and twigs stuck in her hair; he suspected she would knock them free as soon as she became aware of their presence.
She could only have come from the village.
They had spent a week scouting out the area before mounting an attack and there were no other villages near enough for her to have come from.
He suspected he knew why she shied away from his touch, just as he suspected he knew how she had escaped.
He could hardly grudge her desire for distance, but if she didn't let him help her soon then any chance for a complete escape – assuming she could run at all – would be gone with the raiding party's return, but persistence and force were not the way.
So he left her to her devices for a few minutes and stepped away to the campsite he had been left to guard. A few horses pawed the ground at his appearance, but otherwise remained calm - more than familiar with his presence.
She had fallen just outside of camp so he could see her through the trees. He kept his back to her. The fact that she didn't try to run told him she probably couldn't.
The berries he had turned to paint remained precisely where he had left them. He picked up one of the shallow bowls the brush and a cloth before straightening up and whirling towards a snapping twig.
His eyes widened.
She swayed on her feet and he dropped his materials in time to surge forward and catch her under the arms.
"Notum autem vobis facio," she trembled, pushing against his chest.
He caught her under the knees, lifting her up.
"Prohibere!" She kicked her feet and shoved his chest, face turning bright red.
His legs bent as he knelt, placing her on a low stool in front of the fire.
"I need to look at this," he gestured to her skirt.
She curled her legs as close to the stool as she could and glared. Her fists shook at her sides.
Defiance shone in her eyes and pinned her shoulders.
"Very well," he moved to his own stool, picking up his art supplies again, "when you're ready, love."
She crossed her arms, forced her stiff fists to open and curled her cold fingers around her elbows, all the while steadfastly refusing to look at him. Instead she cast her eyes around the clearing. Once upon a time she had played in the field with her friends, but the trampled grass was covered with tents. Fire pits dotted the landscape and horses pawed at the dirt.
Despite the abundance of visual entertainment her eyes continually drew back to him.
His focus was on the cloth spread over his knees and supported by a length of wood, but she sensed he watched her - as keenly aware of her presence as she was of his.
She tilted her head, tracing the stick in his hand with narrow. Thread wrapped around the end, holding damp bristles in place. The moisture left a dark stain on the edge; every few minutes he would dip the stick into a shallow bowl for more of it.
Curiosity got the better of her and she braced her weight on the stool and her right foot so she could bend and pick up one of the bowls he wasn't using. A sweet smell rose from inside that she recognized as raspberries; the first of the season.
She dipped a finger inside, running the pad over the bowls curve, catching the runny liquid. A red bead ran down her finger when she lifted her hand, leaving behind a stain similar to the ones decorating his skin.
Her finger blurred as she focused beyond it finding him watching her carefully.
She held her breath and waited for him to snatch it away, or bark at her in those strange syllables but he didn't. He just tilted his head and watched for a moment before looking down and making sweeping motions with his hand.
He did that several more times before she moved, setting down the bowl with care and then gritting her teeth while moving it when it wasn't in the exact spot she had taken it from.
"Einn smíða ekki hafa smíða Þann, ást," he chuckled, tapping her wrist with the brush. The sound of his voice lulled her towards relaxation.
"What?" She blinked shaking her head.
He repeated the words, moving her hand back and nudging the bowl away from where it had been until the distance was glaring.
"Oh," she flushed, itching to right the situation. "What is that?" She pointed to the cloth, altering her focus.
Wordlessly he held it out and she took it, looking down at the bold sweeps and narrow lines he had made with blueberries. Her own face stared back at her, but it was her as she had never seen herself with a light in her eyes and something undeniably fetching in her features despite the debris in her hair.
Her hands flew to her head. Crushed leaves and blades of grass fell about her shoulders and into her lap.
He reached out slowly, keeping his hand in sight as he plucked a twig from her hair.
Tremors traveled up her leg from the ground as dozens of feet approached.
The invaders returned to their encampment amidst raucous laughter and mournful sobs.
A man clad in blood slick leather held a rope towards the middle of the crowd, leading bound individuals from her village.
She sat on her stool, thin fingers tensed in her lap; she recognized young women she had played with as a child and a few men her parents had withdrawn her from years ago when she approached marriageable age. It appeared that the young and able bodied had been taken from the village after inflicted injuries.
Matthew bled from several cuts and a broken nose.
William and Turstin could barely stand.
Cassandra, Viviane and Letitia huddled as close as the ropes would allow appearing unharmed but shaken; sandwiched between the others it took her a moment to notice Viviane's pronounced limp.
Although in her defence she was also rather distracted, it was difficult not to be at the sight of a woman in full battle armour. Until that moment she had been certain she imagined her rescuer, but there she stood shooting a dirty look at the leering jailor.
That same jailor turned his gaze towards the fire, lighting on her. She fumbled, stumping from her stool. Her unease increased under his scrutiny, growing stronger when he tossed the rope at the woman and strode through camp. She curled her fingers in the grass, only becoming aware of it when her vision was blocked.
She tipped her head, blinking at the man's blonde hair and broad shoulders. He stood shorter than the dark haired man by a couple of inches, but it made no difference. What he lacked in height he made up for in vehemence.
They exchanged heated words back and forth. Every time the one soaked in blood tried to advance he was shoved back. On the third push he drew a blade, and her heart leapt into her throat.
Metal rang, meeting n midair. Every conversation ceased; even the captives stood frozen at the display, watching as the two men glared at each other.
Tension percolated, rising until it circled back to her.
"Niklaus, Heimir, gnógr!" A man lifted his voice to a booming shout. "Þekja sinn vápn eõa Þýõa!"
She watched them shoot one last glare at each other before sheathing their swords. With the threat of metal gone she gripped the stool she had fallen from tightly and got to her feet, balancing on her right leg.
She didn't need words to understand the dispute regarded her, or that the older man with greying blonde hair held the deciding vote. Her fate rested in his hands.
She would not have it delivered while cowering on the ground.
There was no disputing her status as a prisoner. She understood war and conquest; her father had fought for their liege lord in his youth and told stories of battles, men carted off for hard labour and women stolen for their bodies. Her mother always begged him to stop talking then.
Her stomach shook, as unsteady as her left ankle. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin in time for the older man to meet her eyes; she held his stare with one of her own.
"Faðir, gleðja."
He gripped her chin. Had she possessed two working feet she would have jerked away, but as it was the action would have caused her to fall flat and that was not an option.
"Mikael, hon vera ek elska."
Mikael's eyes flickered over her face; his fingers threatened to leave bruises on her mottled skin.
"Faðir."
"Einn finna sinn," Mikael's hard blue eyes cut to the taller man. "Ek mogr vesa hon." He hummed in thought, then gave her a shove.
She stumbled into a broad chest, stabilizing her weight with the help of his arms on her waist. Lifting her gaze she felt sharp stubble scratch her cheek and met those mesmerizing blue-green eyes.
"Hon vera sinn frilla."
The next few hours trickled past slowly. Like the rest of her people she spent the time watching the proceedings, but unlike them she was not on her knees.
The men presented to Mikael all of the stolen treasures of her village. It wasn't much: a handful of coins and the finer goblets from her own home.
The real prizes appeared to be them.
Everything else divided equally among them, but dividing three prisoners amongst two dozen men; the rest had either been pre-decided or were not worth fighting over.
There was little to distinguish one person from the other apart from the occasional shift in address. Most of the brutes referred to Mikael by name or 'Jarl', or 'Jarl Mikael', but a handful called him 'faðir' as the man seated beside her had done.
Each of the handful bore a striking resemblance to Mikael, and after so long sitting with nothing to do but watch she realized that the man who possessed her looked much like those who resembled Mikael as well. The likeness grew more prominent when one of them joined the pair of them.
He held Cassandra by the elbow, steering her to sit in on a stool. He was joined by the sole free woman in their party.
The shouting continued as different men stepped forward, trying to claim either Leticia or Viviane.
The woman's lip curled as she spun on tense legs, ready to stomp back into the fray.
Her blonde hair gleamed in the firelight as she turned her head back and forth, watching the swift exchange of words for anything she could understand.
"Elskling," her companion grasped her elbow. "Þar vera einn smiða."
"Hann vera sannr, Elena." He smirked at the younger man as he sat down, pulling the woman onto his knee. He said something further making his dark eyes roll as he wrapped his arms securely around her waist until his hand spanned her leather clad abdomen.
"Einn kona vili halda ek barn," he kissed the woman's cheek and nipped at her bottom lip.
"Eta," he grinned. "Ef vatn kona vera einn kunna vesa Þveit sinn vili sinn fagr barn."
The woman said something and combined the words with a sunny smile and a decisive nod. Her cheer dissipated quickly in favour of a frown directed towards the chaos.
She turned her attention to the men tossing what sounded like jibes back and forth. Their interactions and similar features made her think they were brothers, and if she had guessed right they were sons of Mikael.
She wasn't sure whether that boded well for her or not.
"Are you alright?" Cassandra whispered, peeking up through her eye lashes.
She could feel the burning cut on her throat and the dull bruise on her chin along with a few more down her arms nobody could see… yet.
Her eyes cut to the man at her side.
She nodded once, turning her face back to Viviane and Leticia, but Viviane was gone to a man with deep red hair.
"What's going to happen to us?" Cassandra hugged herself. Her eyes flickered over the crowd, darting from one sheathed weapon to the next.
The man from her house grinned as Mikael granted his desire and gave him Leticia who he immediately dragged away. He pulled her until they were gone from the firelight.
Phantom hands grasped at her thighs; cold metal brushed her neck. She took a deep breath and twisted her fingers in her skirt, resisting the urge to reach for her throat.
"You already know.".
She assumed, or perhaps she hoped, they would sit there for a while yet while the crowd laughed and broke into song, but her eyes drooped with exhaustion and no amount of determination could conceal her weariness.
A hand appeared in her vision, berry stained and open.
She hesitated for a moment, letting her mind search for resentment she knew she should feel, but if it was buried deep inside and out of reach. Perhaps she would grasp it in the morning and channel every ounce of anger on his head, but for now she was tired and sore, and he offered a hand that she required to stand again.
Warm fingers curled around her hand and further up at her elbow, lifting her before she could even try to place weight on her injured leg.
She limped at his side beyond a fire and paused.
He said something and squeezed her elbow, urging her to look up at him. He repeated himself and gestured to her legs.
Her eyebrows lowered and she tilted her head, understanding dawning only when he let go of her elbow and moved his arm to her shoulders. His other hand gestured to her knees once more.
"No," she shook her head, glancing behind them to the large gathering. She was strong.
She could walk.
She would walk.
Nobody could see the fatigue he had already noted.
She had to walk.
She had to.
With her jaw set she took a step and then another, making it three paces before her ankle wobbled and she pitched forward, stumbling and hopping to catch herself on her right leg.
He didn't give her the option of refusal again.
The second she straightened up his arm was around her waist, pulling her gently into his side. He steered her, taking her weight with him until he reached a tent.
She watched him lift a flap before she was pulled in to the dark.
He let her go and she stood completely still, listening as he moved around. The only sounds to fill the tent were his quiet movements and her heavy breathing.
"What are you doing?" She followed her ears and took one hopping step forward. Her knee banged wood and she yelped
"Smíða ekki vaða," his voice drifted over her. It was the second time someone had said that to her, but his tone was decidedly softer than his clansman.
Steel scraped over what sounded like a flint stick and she spotted sparks from the corner of her eye. He struck it again and a candle flared to life, filling the space with the rising smell of tallow and a flickering light.
The wood she had hit belonged to a small table. Aside from that there were a couple of stools, a chest and a pile of furs that looked unbelievably inviting.
He motioned to the pile.
Would she find her resentment before morning?
She sank down, squeezing her eyes shut against the sharp scream that broke through the singing.
Leticia?
Viviane?
Cassandra?
Would that be her?
She shifted her weight onto her hip and hands, but it was several minutes of rummaging before he came to her, so long that she opened her eyes to see what he was doing.
The table was moved closer to the furs and set with a basin of water, the tallow candle and several rags.
He perched on the stool and reached for her leg.
He spoke quietly, hand hovering over her toes.
She pressed her lips together, chewing on the bottom one. Her stomach trembled in a combination of nerves and hunger.
Drawing in a slow breath through her nose she gripped her skirt and pulled until her left leg came into view.
He lifted her leg, propping the heel on his knee. He untied the leather strings and dropped the shoe on the ground. He trailed his palm over the side of her calve, dragging her blue skirt higher until he reached her knee.
The ribbon holding her hose in place came loose.
His fingers rolled the cloth down and off before carefully prodding the skin.
Her ankle throbbed.
She tore her eyes from his face to risk a look, steeling her nerves for discolouration. She felt suddenly grateful for the lack of food in her stomach. She was prepared for horror beyond her worst nightmare, but was met with small swell.
He rolled her ankle slowly in a circle.
She hissed, wincing at the pain shooting up her leg.
He dipped a rag into the basin, wringing out the worst of the water before wrapping the cold cloth around her ankle.
The tension slowly melted away as the cool seeped into her body. Between the gentle ministrations and the continual swapping of compresses she felt herself starting to drift off.
She might have fallen asleep, but then he wrapped something tight around her ankle and tied it in place. The sudden change brought a grunt from her lips.
"Ek epli," he murmured, rubbing her ankle gently. "Epli."
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip as she nodded, understanding his meaning from the apology in his gaze.
He slid off the stool to kneel at her side and used his hands to ease her down on the furs, lowering her head to a pillow. He folded a thick fur, propping her wrapped ankle on it before covering her with another.
Her eyelids drooped as she watched him move, stooping over the candle and cupping one hand behind the flame.
"Wait," her fingers darted out, curling around his sleeve.
He paused, turning to watch her push up on one elbow.
Her mouth opened and closed, unsure how to communicate before reaching a decision.
She swallowed and touched her fingertips over her fluttering heart, sucking in a slow breath.
"Caroline."
"Caroline?" He pronounced her name slowly, tasting the syllables on his tongue.
She nodded and he mirrored her motion, touching his palm to his chest.
"Klaus."
"Klaus?" She murmured. She tilted her head, throwing her mind back to Mikael. "Niklaus?"
He nodded, holding her tired gaze as she processed.
Her hand slipped under the fur, taking the folded cloth from her belt to look at in the flickering light from the candle. She hated the mess in her hair, but denying the talent that created the image was impossible; he had made her beautiful.
"Thank you," she looked up through her lashes, nodding to the image and then her covered foot.
He nodded his head and turned back, blowing out the candle.
She sank into the bedding, pulling the fur around her chin, and still shivering. A small amount of light she hadn't noticed before hit the tent wall, illuminating just enough that she could make out his shadow.
He moved, pulling his boots off. His belt was removed and dropped somewhere out of sight; a heavy thump announced his sword had hit the ground.
She clutched the edge of the fur as he stretched out on his back and held her breath, but he made no move to pull her closer. The only acknowledgement he gave to her presence was a quiet whisper.
"Góðr draumr, Caroline."
He stared at the ceiling for a long time. At first he waited for her to fall asleep, not daring to leave her alone in case Heimir decided to ignore his father's shocking ruling; he would have been well within his rights to take the man's life for a crime against her body, but he would rather not subject her to a display of brutality.
He remained awake long after she drifted off, listening to the ebb and flow of voices. The distant sobs of the woman unlucky to land in Heimir's possession slowly tapered off.
He knew Kol would be holding his wife back for most of the night, and was probably thinking of any way to be rid of his father's man.
If only Elena were the one to scream out in the night his brother could have run the man through, assuming his wife didn't beat him to the task. He knew she would have loved to.
Eventually the noise died, giving rise to the chirp of crickets and her soft exhalations.
She shifted in her sleep, seeking his body heat in the dark. Her head pressed to his shoulder and he looked down, tracing the curve of her cheek with his eyes.