Klaus Mikaelson looks outside to the never-ending rain, and exhales yet another suffering sigh. It has been raining for days, making his journey back to the Ton even more dreadful than expected. But even a harsher crime is the washed away bridge standing right on his route, which stranded him in the nondescript coaching inn that he just checked into that afternoon. Thank goodness they had one last private room left, saving him from the troubles of sharing a room with someone downstairs. But even now, in his own room after a cold meal that was surprisingly not too hard to swallow, Klaus wishes for the hundredth time since his departure that he had listened to his brother Elijah and brought his own linens.

Not that he will ever admit it to the Viscount who would be all too elegant and irritating in his silent condescension.

Klaus eyes the damp sheets before him in distain. After days of travel, it is still something that he cannot quite get used to. Leaning back in the chaise by the window, he resigns to another night of sleeping in his day clothes above the blankets. But maybe this is something that he has to acquaint himself with nonetheless. The long travels, muddy roads, dodgy inns and damp sheets. Away from the deafening bustles of the Beau Monde into a dark, foggy night. Notions that he has humored once or twice in the past, but never truly associated himself with before the past few weeks.

He closes his eyes and feels the phantom weight of that thin piece of paper between his fingers. After a few seconds, his eyes snap open, and he looks down hesitantly to check his palms for any traces of residue ink like he has done countless times, even though that letter he found dated back to years ago. The year that he was born, to be exact.

It was pure fortune (or misfortune, Klaus cannot tell at this moment) that he happened upon the letter while he was reluctantly rummaging through his father's library, trying to help the Viscount find the deeds to one of their less frequented family estates in the countryside. Since the Earl Mikaelson was away on business, it fell upon Elijah to visit Wolfington Park and deal with some errands that Klaus didn't find it in his heart to care. His father's distaste for him was never made a secret in their family, or even in the gossip mills of the Ton. And the Earl Mikaelson had more than once stated in no uncertain terms that he did not want Klaus's no-good blundering fingers to touch any part of their family business.

He had wondered the reasons behind his father's treatment towards him all his life. When he was younger, he used to run to the attic every time the Earl ridiculed or scolded him, where he hid a ledger to keep track of all his misdeeds that might have caused his father's distaste. He tried to steer away from the things he had listed in those painful pages in the hopes that he would eventually win the Earl's approval, but to no avail. Later on he pretended that he no longer cared, playing into or even provoking the scathing words with his philandering ways. But still, he never truly understood why his own father harbored such hatred towards him.

Not until he saw the content of the letter.

Such a filthy secret, he is. The illegitimate son that the Countess was bold enough to conceive, and that the Earl was too prideful to renounce.

Frustrated, Klaus opens the buttons on his shirt collar, revealing a large portion of his chest to the night air. It is almost freezingly cold inside the room, yet he only feels suffocated. The ugly truths of a troubled past and a murky future cling to him, heavy and damp, not unlike the disgusting sheets in every inn that he has been ill-fortuned enough to grace on this trip. He surprised the Viscount in volunteering himself for the task, who hardly concealed the rare emotion with a stoic front, but agreed nonetheless.

"It might do you some good after all," was the Viscount's pensive answer.

Klaus sneered at the time, "do not tell me you are one of those naive enough to believe that the country air is a panacea to all modern ills."

"To the innumerable young ladies you lure to your bed and leave heartbroken? Maybe not. To you, however, a change of scenes could indeed turn out beneficial." Elijah studied him, his eyes equal parts concerned and calculating. At times, that look unnerves Klaus more than the curses of his father. "Is that not why you are offering to go in my place?"

"You presume you know me, Elijah."

"And you get swayed too easily by presumptions."

Klaus bristled, knowing Elijah was referring to their father. Nay, the Earl.

"I do not wish to have this conversation with you yet again when we both know that what I do or believe does not matter," he spat out bitterly. "For one, I would not even be granted this 'change of scenery' if his lordship were here."

"What I know is," the Viscount stared at him pointedly, "that you are still very young – save your protests, Niklaus – and you should not overly concern yourself with the current Earl."

That remark has been plaguing Klaus's mind along with the blasted letter throughout his trip. Nowadays Elijah only uses his first name in full when he is dead serious, and Klaus cannot help but suspect that the Viscount knows a lot more than he lets on.

Running a hand through his unruly hair, Klaus drags over the sketch pad that he always brings with him wherever he goes. He starts grazing charcoal on paper, hoping the task with which he is familiar by heart could stave off the storm going on inside of his mind long enough for him to get a few hours of much-needed rest.


Klaus stares at the drawing in front of him in mild surprise. He squints in the dwindling candlelight, trying to figure out to whom the beautiful face belongs, and how its delicate contours managed to slip so vividly into his memories without the notice of his conscious mind.

He has started the sketch without much thinking, his mind finally starting to quiet down after a few casual drawings of Wolfington. The country house was a majestic thing if a bit too old-fashioned for his taste, the insides in desperate need of a redecoration. But the views of the land were pleasing despite his foul mood, and Klaus did not mind the long walks to the quaint little town just down the hill, or the lovely waterfalls hidden even deeper at the end of the trail.

Klaus studies the face staring back at him again, trying to recall if it was a village girl that he saw during one of his treks. But it cannot be. The lady he has put on paper, whoever she is, clearly has more to her life than minding crops or livestock. Entranced, he traces the slightly creased lines of her eyes with the tip of a finger. For some reason the little wrinkles dishearten him, prickling at his heart with a sense of melancholy that only comes when the finer things in this wretched world are ruined, like silk ripping and wine spilling.

And those eyes. Klaus knows it well enough – those are eyes that have seen real horror. Something so ghastly that it leaves an ineradicable mark on one's soul.

Suddenly he remembers.

He has seen that face merely a few hours ago, when he was having an evening drink in the shadows of the coffee room. It was unusually dim, the room barely lit with the two measly candles that the owner must have been quite reluctant to displace. But Klaus enjoyed the darkness and the solitude it afforded him. He had no intention of interacting with any of the boring fellows here who have nothing in common with him other than the bad fortune of getting stuck in this very inn. The only one that seemed moderately interesting was a Sir Stefan of Monterey, who he had invited to drink with him, but declined graciously with a tip of his hat, and the most curious parting words, "try not to venture into the darkness, Mr. Mikaelson."

Klaus was quite sure that Sir Stefan was referring to some of the less savory conducts they both undoubtedly partook in from time to time, which, chapeau to the young Knight, was a rather wicked joke. But the actual darkness itself was a close friend, mayhap an enabling one, yet endearing all the same. And it was when Klaus was stowed away in the dark shadows of the coffee room and the stench of cheap liquor staining the floorboards that he saw her. The girl that hours later would invite herself into his sketch.

She was with two other women at the time, outside of the coffee room entrance in the hallway, her face just close enough to one of the candles to reveal her undeniable beauty. Klaus, content with drinking in the occasional flickers of her eyes and the pursed lines of her rosy lips, paid no mind to the other two women standing with their backs to him or their whispers until one of them raised her voice.

"I do not care much what you do, as long as you get me what I want. Such a pretty face," the woman speaking reached a hand over to the girl facing Klaus, dark velvet glove brushing a blonde curl. There was the tiniest frown forming between the girl's brows, but she remained quiet. The woman hummed, seemingly satisfied with the submission. "If I were a man, I would soon be falling for your wiles."

The other woman chimed in, "do not you worry, Miss Flemming. The little thing may have a mind of her own, but she has learned." She giggled then, the sound resembling that of a young girl, but when she spoke again her voice was old, the lingering hint of youth shrouding it like a layer of borrowed skin. "You should have seen her the first time, such struggles. Deliciously hilarious, if you ask me. But now you see?" She pinched the girl's chin with two pointy fingers, sharp nails breaking the seams of her silk glove, forcing the girl's face to an angle where the candlelight directly shone into her blue eyes. "Not even one tear."

No. Klaus could see clearly. There were only hints of flames burning in those downcast eyes.

In an instant those eyes flipped up and the flames roared, as the girl shook the woman's fingers away, "I am weeping on the inside for your cowardice."

Even her indignant voice sounded melodic.

"You have the tongue of ten women on you, my little lamb," the woman drawled, her honeyed voice coating the following threat. "So maybe some of the other young ladies in your family have no use for theirs."

"No! You promised -" There was a tremor in the girl's voice now, though her eyes remained fiery.

"So I changed my mind. Can I not?"

A pause. A few seconds of chilling silence where nothing could be heard save for the rain still raging outside. Then all of a sudden, the girl's face morphed into a demure smile, every trace of hidden anger and concern giving way to the perfect curve along her lips. A smile Klaus had seen too many times on the made-up faces of desperate souls. A weapon, an armor, worn out of instinct, never reaching the eyes. Holding the smile, the girl laughed as if she had practiced her whole life, "you jest, Madame Pierce. I know you would not hold back on our...business."

The woman, Madame Piece, turned to the other one she addressed as Miss Flemming with a triumphant sway of her hips, "clever, did I not tell you?"

"I am most impressed, Madame Pierce."

The rest of their conversation fell back into a whisper, and the three ladies soon after dispersed into separate directions. Klaus's last memory of the mystery girl was her back turned to him as she disappeared from his sight, her head lowered, shoulders rigid. The light blue of her evening gown looked as pale as skin in the dim light, her fingers digging so hard into the soft fabric it looked on the verge of bleeding.


He must have dozed off for a while. When he startles awake for no reason that he can recall, the night is still dark, the rain still pouring, and the candle he placed near the chaise has extinguished. Groggily, Klaus looks around him, eyes adjusting to the darkness only to find his sketch book on the floor, the pages scattered around his feet. He is about to bend down to pick them up when there is a noise at the window behind him. Then another, and yet another. Three knocks, against the sizzles of the rain.

Klaus whips around.

Immediately he suspects that he is still dreaming. There in front of him, just through the glass, is the girl that filled his thoughts before he fell asleep. But her face seems too detailed to be a mere dream. Up close he can see the tiny raindrops caught on her golden curls held by a small comb decorated with pearls, the delicate embroidery on the short sleeves of her gown, and the intricate patterns of the silver candlestick that she was holding in her hand, now bare without a glove. Her skin looks almost translucent in the candlelight, and the little smile she is sending his way beautiful, but obscure.

Klaus does not know why she is out there on the gallery by herself, in the middle of the night no less. But before he can form a coherent thought the lady moves away from the window, and a second later his door screeches open, revealing her lithe form. Klaus has yet to rule out the possibility that this is all a trick his corrupt mind is playing on him, but the gentle taps of her heels on the floor of his room feels as though they are resonating under his skin. How can this be...

She stops in the middle of the room, barely enclosing Klaus in the light that she brings. Seemingly in no hurry to justify her bold move, she silently studies him, no doubt drawing great amusement from the way his lips hang open with no words coming out. Still, Klaus cannot help but rake his eyes all over the mysterious woman now taking presence in the limited space, along with her gown that appears too thin for the weather, clinging to her wondrous curves like a longing sigh; thinner are her breaths, quiet as if they were not there. In fact, everything about her appears to be hovering in a strange stillness, except for her eyes.

Those eyes that he tried to capture under his rusty fingers, filled with a thousand words that were never heard. Even now Klaus feels that they are speaking, if not to him then to their beautiful owner, of curiosity, sadness, lust... and contempt.

It's the last emotion that snaps Klaus out of his near catatonic state. Clearing his throat, he addresses the person merely a few feet away from him, of whom he knows nothing, "good evening, my lady. I do not believe that we have been introduced."

The girl smirks, peeking at him from under her lashes, dark and lush like bird's feathers resting on her cheekbones, "but I am no lady, Mr. Mikaelson."

"No, you are not," Klaus states, unnerved by her knowledge of him. Leaning back in his chaise, he sweeps his eyes once again over her form, making no move to stand up and greet her. "But surely you have a name, Miss ...?"

"Do you not find the rules of our society bothersome and confining?" She slightly inclines her head, "what good is it if I offer you the name of my father, or grandfather?"

Klaus huffs at her insolence, though intrigue tickles at his heart, "accountability, for one. If I suffer a tragic fate at your hands, my family can at least seek revenge from yours." The words came out of him as a joke, but as soon as he hears them his mind recalls the vague rumors of the coaching inn being haunted in recent years, and the anecdotes of unsolved murders with which Sir Stefan has regaled him during their talk. The notion leaves a bad taste at the back of his tongue, but the girl interrupts his thoughts, as she so often seems to do.

"So rarely do I see a gentleman scared of being harmed by a lady."

"I thought I wasn't in the presence of one?"

The girl pauses, taken aback, then smiles somewhat bitterly, "and I guess you have quite the experience in that."

Klaus shrugs. He never tries to hide his promiscuity; if anything, he flaunts it at every chance he gets. "My name precedes me," he fixes a sharp look on her, silently demanding an answer. "But you have yet to grant me yours."

"'What's in a name'?" The girl starts towards him slowly. She has an elegant air about her movements, but somehow the graceful steps scream the greatest seduction, every tiny sway of her body making his breath catch. She stops just out of his reach, enveloped in candlelight and his heated gaze, "call me by any other name and I would be just as..."

"But that is the problem, is it not?" Klaus cuts her off, suddenly frustrated, "I've no idea how to finish that sentence, since I do not know a single thing about you."

The girl bites her lower lip in an act of shyness, "there are surely other ways to know me, Mr. Mikaelson."

Klaus is no stranger to the flirtatious look she was sending his way, or the suggestive tone she's now assumed. In this instant she looks no different than the wantons that he used to associate himself with in the darkness of private gardens or anonymous bed chambers of the Ton, batting eyelashes, affected smiles, eager bosoms pushed up to raised chins with the waistlines of their costly gowns higher and higher each season. For the first time since he met her, Klaus is in familiar territory, a game he has played so many times that he might as well have written the rules.

Yet all he feels is an inexplicable anger.

He watches as she skillfully gets the hem of her gown "caught" by whatever non-existent splinter at the foot of a bedpost, bending down to untangle it, the candlelight shining strategically on her breasts, and then the garters holding up her silk stockings above her knee. He catches her eyes flitting to him in the compromising position, and coldly stops her in further lifting up her skirt, "you seem to have deluded yourself into thinking that I actually care to." He enjoys the sight of her stiffening from his words.

"I do not know what you are insinuating," her eyes turn defiant, a frown marring her features.

"I am not insinuating," Klaus taunts. "I am telling you, no matter who you are – a lightskirt or a common whore – that I have no intention of taking you up on your very forward offer."

She flinches, as if hit in the face, and for a fleeting second Klaus regrets his words until all too quickly, she fixes her face into that of a blatant seductress, "I am what you would like me to be."

Klaus clenches his fists. Something hidden in her eyes infuriates him to no end, even though on the surface they only speak of shameless lust and desire. "Right now I would like for you to leave."

"And why is that?" She purrs, brushing her own face with the back of her fingers, "is my face not pretty enough?" Her fingers travel down, "are my breasts not full?" Down still they go, "my waist not slender? My hips not supple?"

Klaus swallows. Every part of her is perfect, utterly perfect. His eyes almost desperately follow her hand, like a parched man following the hint of a dark cloud in the endless desert. But then he notices her other hand, motionless like a statue, holding onto the candlestick. Drops of wax gather on the smooth skin of her wrist, eliciting not a sound. Her lack of a reaction towards the physical affliction tugs at his heart. A familiar sensation gnaws at his core, quiet but relentless, something he has tried all his life to bury that he almost failed to recognize in her eyes.

Pain. Unadulterated, shameful, soul-crushing pain.

He shakes his head, stopping her with a sigh, "your eyes not willing."

She gasps.

"Now leave, before I raise my voice and wake the entire inn."

Panic creeps onto her face and his heart clenches against his will. Involuntarily his voice softens, "nothing happened here. It was the middle of the night, and I was sound asleep."

She lowers her head, nodding, still in a daze. It is in that moment that his scattered sketches catch her attention, grand mansions and flourishing trees, a face that was supposed to be lost in the consuming darkness.

She looks up at him, trembling lashes and open lips, a thousand words in her eyes but only one was given a voice, "what..."

He rises to open the door for her. Resigning, she hurries for the exit, her smell inundating his senses as she brushes past him, cold and crisp. Out on the gallery, she stops briefly and looks back at him over her shoulder, the rain almost drowning her whisper, "it is Caroline." And then she was gone, together with the light.

In the returning darkness Klaus feels the name on his tongue. Caroline.


He meets Sir Stefan again the next day at luncheon. The young man greets him with a strange excitement bouncing under his skin, brows dancing with joy as he gracefully chews on his cold cuts. Compared to the other murmuring patrons in the dining hall, his spirits seem unusually high, the incongruity of the scene placing a smile on Klaus's lips.

"Apparently news of murder agrees with you, Sir Stefan," he quips, referring to the scandal shaking the coaching inn, and possibly the surrounding towns since that morning.

A Mr. Damon Salvatore was found dead in his room, with no possible suspects identified. Even the cause of death was not entirely clear. As a hostler who was far too eager to gossip told him, the businessman had no mortal wounds nor signs of struggle. Upon careful inspection, only a row of small holes was found in his palm, but it was highly unlikely that he had bled to death from such a minor injury. Mr. Salvatore's neighbor helpfully offered the information that the victim might have had a woman with him during the night, claiming they "kept him up for quite a while", but no one saw any lady entering or leaving the businessman's room.

Klaus was uneasy when he heard the news, a sick feeling clawing at the back of his mind. Midnight rendezvous, mysterious woman... All the clues point to something, or rather someone, that he was not quite ready to associate with the vicious crime.

"We do not know if it was a murder yet," Sir Stefan reminds him with raised brows, but something about his tone tells Klaus that the young Knight knows exactly what it was.

"Was it not you who introduced me to the past murders of this fine establishment?" Klaus muses, "in fascinating details, might I add."

Sir Stefan inclines his head and smirks, "I have always enjoyed a good story or two."

"Ones with corpses in the narrative? How curious."

"Is not death a part of life? Why cringe at what will inevitably become of us?"

"No need to involve dead bodies," Klaus sips at his drink, thinking back to the life stories that Sir Stefan has openly shared, "we have our fathers for the that."

Sir Stefan pins him down with a piercing look, and Klaus stares squarely back, smirk and wine glass at his lips.

Suddenly, the young Knight bursts out laughing, "I know I liked you for a reason, Mr. Mikaelson." He studies Klaus for another moment, "you look like you have not got any decent rest."

Klaus hums, "it should come as no surprise. There are very few things to expect from a coaching inn, and sleep is sadly not one of them."

"Mr. Salvatore's quarters were just down the hall from yours, were they not?"

"Thinking of joining the Bow Street Runners, Sir Stefan?" Klaus searches the young man's face for any trace of deception, but Sir Stefan merely smirks again, sipping his own drink with leisure.

"As I told you, I am only interested in a good story."

"Then I am afraid you are asking the wrong person. Might I suggest the hostler down at the stables? The lad's got a craft weaving tales like Homer, if I do say so myself. And the chamber maid on duty today seems quite resourceful at procuring the tiniest piece of scandal in town. Do you know that the blacksmith's son and the daughter of the inn owner are secretly courting, even though he was caught stealing from the kitchen here?"

Sir Stefan shakes his head, "you, my friend, are too humble about your talents." He pauses, then adds in a whisper, "and I have an inkling that if you do decide to tell a story, it will bear a lot more credibility than what has been flying around."

The happenings of last night flash through his mind. Light blue gown, blonde curls, candlelight coming almost as soon as it was gone. Eyes that held so much and voiced so little, haunting him in every way that he existed. Sir Stefan was wrong. There is no credibility to his story. He cannot even tell if it were not just a figment of his wildest imagination.

Though his heart seems to ache whenever it is brought back to him.

"I'm sure I do not know what you speak of," Klaus stands up from their table and bids his companion good day.

"Mr. Mikaelson," Sir Stefan calls out to Klaus, his expression showing the first hint of hesitance. "Do be careful. Some stories are more than just stories."

Klaus nods without fully turning back, feeling the sketch that he gently folded into his jacket pocket that morning throbbing against his chest like a second heart.


It looks like he has made a habit of falling asleep on the chaise. And scattering whatever he was holding on the floor apparently.

Irritated, Klaus stretches to gather the slightly wrinkled pages, letting out a humorless laugh as he tries to smooth out the creases. The Viscount would not be pleased if he ever sees what his letters are subjected to at Klaus's hands. Elijah takes particular pride in his meticulous penmanship even if he never outwardly admits to it, elusive as he often is when it comes to matters that he truly cares. Only those that are close to him can attempt to decipher what sharp wits or sinful thoughts he conceals with his acclaimed eloquence.

The letter Klaus holds is testament enough. It was the last letter he received from the Viscount before the heavy rain erased all hopes of correspondence. In the extensive pages, his brother relates the recent goings-on of every member of their family, inquires after his health, and asks about the errands at Wolfington scrupulously. Klaus has always thought that if Elijah were not to inherit the title of the Earl, he would make a fine clergyman. Alas, it is Klaus himself who is the worthless second son, who has to find a way of employment despite having no interest in any of the reputable avenues.

Especially after his untimely discovery.

He cannot possibly stay where he is not wanted, knowing that he does not belong. But what can he do? He will not go into the army because of the Earl's deep military connections. Neither law or medicine has really caught his fancy, and he does not think he can picture himself as a clergyman without going into hysterics. At the end of his letter, the Viscount hinted at bringing him into the family business, now that Klaus had had a taste of managing the estate. But having been shunned from every business-related conversation under the Earl's spiteful watch, Klaus does not feel comfortable or competent even considering the line of work.

It is a funny thing how a house that never truly welcomed him inside has also been surreptitiously rejecting him a way out. He grew up in the life of another, someone spoiled, resentful, and inadequate; someone that is simply not meant to be.

And now, as he silently watches his previous life come crumbling down, he is surprised to find his mind wandering off to someone else who is perhaps more desperate than even he. The most expressive blue eyes that he has ever seen, trapped in a life that so obviously does not suit her.

He should be scared, on alarm. All the warning signs are staring eerily back at him. He should have promptly left the coaching inn decorated with murder upon murder, and checked into another hotel in town; or at least earlier that night he should have bolted the door to his quarters, drawn all his curtains, and waited for the morrow to come with eyes wide open. Instead, he has been sitting in the chaise by the window again, looking outside onto the gallery, as if waiting for something... someone, to happen upon him.

With a huff, Klaus stands up and heads toward the bed. He is acting ridiculous. He has enough to worry about as it is; he does not need to add another's trials and troubles to the mix. And whatever situation she has got herself into, this Caroline...

Caroline.

It is just a name. A beautiful one – fitting – but still just a name. Yet every time it enters his mind, all the other clamoring thoughts, the doubts, the frustration, just fade away into the endless rain that he has learnt to tune out. The feeling reminds him of when he first got a view of the village down the hill from the edge of Wolfington Park, the little houses and paths gilded by a setting sun into something ethereal, and in that moment all that he was, all that he comprehended and believed, paled to near non-existence.

He forgot his breath, he forgot his heartbeat, he forgot himself.

That's the feeling that consumes him when he thinks of Caroline.

After mere moments, in the darkness of the night, in the most unimaginable tableau there ever has been. What is girl doing to him? Dropping back on the bed, Klaus closes his eyes, once again feeling utterly stupid. It has to be the rain. He has been trapped in this godforsaken inn for two days now, without a sliver of sunlight. Or it could be the inn itself. Maybe it is indeed haunted, like Sir Stefan and so many others have hinted at. Either way, Klaus is quite sure that he is going insane.

One current piece of evidence emerges in the form of a strange sound in his ears. A weird thump from the gallery. Klaus frowns, body tensing. It is the wee hours of the night, and because of the torrential rain and the broken bridge, the coaching inn is uncharacteristically void of the busy sounds of horns, coach bells, and the clicking taps of hoofs on pebble. The whole place is in slumber, silent like the dead. Then what was that sound? Who would be ...?

Klaus leaps out of the bed in one swift move, and is out the door before his thoughts can fully catch up.

He sees her at the end of the gallery, just at the top of the staircase leading down into the yard where the stables are located. She is leaning heavily on the bannisters with her back to him, head bowed and shoulders slumped, in despondence or exhaustion Klaus cannot tell. He starts toward her, keeping his steps light so as not to startle her, but when he is just a few feet away he hears her tenuous voice, "do not come any closer."

She is still not facing him, but from the short distance Klaus can see that she is trembling violently. Just like last night she has on an evening gown too thin for the weather, the flimsy ivory white material blows helplessly in the wind like it is going to take her to a mortal fall. Her hair looks disheveled, the knot almost completely loose dangling at her nape with tangled blonde curls fallen messily around. The comb with a line of pearls that she uses to pin her hair is now clutched in her fist, her bone-white knuckles protruding beneath the papery skin at near inhuman angles.

Anxious that she might be hurt, Klaus forgets all about how incriminating the scene looks and takes one more step forward, his hand outreached, an inexplicable ache in his bones.

But Caroline, who for all traces and signs seems at the end of her thread, whips around with the fierceness of the dominating darkness itself. She freezes Klaus in his move with one hard look that brooks no argument, even with her face pale, eyes red-rimmed, and tears staining her cheeks. Klaus gasps, his own heart clenching at the sight, not because of the sheer venom she tries to instill in her glare, but rather how affected he actually is by her tears.

He has seen women cry before, far too often than he would have liked, being surrounded by a string of lovers and his own little sister. He is stoutly of the belief that ladies are trained from a young age to use their tears as a weapon, since the world refuses them any other type of arms. And therefore men should counter the attack with the arsenal that they are afforded, namely indifference and hypocrisy. It is a fair game, however mundane and asinine.

Yet Caroline's tears are different. They shake him to his core, and leave him with a painful hollow in his chest. He recognizes the despair reflected in the tiny drops. These are not tears of weaponry. These are tears when one has no longer anything to bleed.

Klaus forces himself to stay silent, somehow knowing that right now any word from him would only hurt her more. Though even the silent stare seems agonizing on Caroline, for she turns around and flies down the stairs, and in a few breaths' time can no longer be seen.


The next hour he spends restlessly pacing his room, torn by the million ideas that were equally ridiculous, equally stupid, but just reckless enough to feed his racing mind. What he just saw in the gallery eats at him, inch by inch tearing down his resolve that was not so steely to begin with. He wants to find her, to get her into a warm room, offer her a handkerchief and help her fix her hair; he could also demand that she tell him what happened, track down whoever is behind this and slay them to pieces; part of him wants to leave, pack his bag and just get out of here in the camouflage of rain and night, walk the miles to the Ton if he has to.

But he can do nothing. He did not even get to learn her full name. All that he knows is that there is a Caroline out there somewhere with a thin dress that is surely half-soaked by rain, alone, in pain.

The notion unsettles him. He does not care. Should not. Especially not about a stranger who tried to seduce him just the night before with murky intentions at best, who could very well be a murderer – could possibly have killed him. Yet every time his weak mind goes down that alley it ends up replaying her retreating form and poisons him with a crippling regret that he should have gone after her.

His room feels more stifling by the minute, and finally Klaus cannot bear anymore the walls that appear to be closing in on him. Grabbing a cloak, he strides out onto the gallery. The rain is lighter now, the sky a dark cottony blue, and the damp air tastes bitter in the back of his throat. He approaches the banisters and look down into the empty yard. A shadow near the stables catches his eyes, and Klaus squints to get a better look.

He sucks in a sharp breath, unable to believe his eyes. There at the other end of the yard, still in her ivory white gown, is none other than Caroline. Klaus tries to debate with himself, about decorum, about danger, or whatever rules and values that might have kept him there on the gallery. But really there is nothing to debate. His legs are already taking him where his heart yearns.

He has to go to her.

Klaus does not try to disguise himself, going straight across the yard towards Caroline. He knows that she must see him, but she makes no such indication, her eyes trained on the stables where the horses rest. The pearl comb is back in her hair, though the blonde curls are still messy, a few strands sticking to the side of her slender neck. Her gown is indeed half soaked, clinging to the soft lines of her body, though she does not seem to be shivering. Still, when he reaches her side Klaus silently raises his cloak above their heads to shelter her.

Caroline does not give the tiniest acknowledgement.

For a few moments, he stands there beside her, watching her from the corner of his eyes. Her face is clean of tears now, in their place a cold hard anger, burning in the purse of her lips, the tight clench of her jaw line, even the rapid flickers of her lashes that are weighed down by tiny drops of rain. She looks so small in her slip of a dress against the rain that fills the world, yet her silent fury roars like thunder in the listening ears. Klaus knows that it is not directed at him, but still feels the stubborn edge of guilt licking at him.

Something that he so rarely experiences that it unnerves him into finally breaking the silence.

"Do you like horses?"

He sounds like an imbecile. The silence stretches on. He has convinced himself that there would not be an answer when Caroline's whisper comes.

"I thought I told you to stay away."

"And leave a lady in distress? Even I can conform to some gentlemanly ways."

She laughs coldly, "I am fairly certain that we have established that I am no lady. What title did you decide for me last night? Lightskirt? Common whore?"

Klaus sighs, turning to face her with a sincerity that feels foreign to his skin, "you. I could not possibly leave...you, in distress."

"But for what reasons? What do you really know about me?" The question that he has asked countless times, now thrown back in his face by the very mystery herself, and suddenly Klaus finds him no longer in need of an answer.

"I am in the hopes that you would grant me the knowledge."

"And what, pray tell, do you want to know?" She sounds so weary, like she has not had a rest for years. Something Klaus suspects to be the truth.

"Anything you are willing to share," he prompts softly, "like your predilection for horses."

"Have you ever felt the urge to release them?" She looks lost in thoughts, "poor things, a life spent in shackles and yokes, laboring away to another's will until the very last breath." A sharp, hollow laugh tears out of her, "but were I to free them from the reins, how many do you reckon would stay right where they are? And out of those reckless and naïve enough to run, how many would survive? After all, they have been fixed to the life of a prisoner."

"Even a prisoner can be salvaged," he tries, voice on the verge of desperation, not just for her sake but for his own. There has to be a way.

She does not answer his platitude, earnest as it was. "You see, Mr. Mikaelson, I am fond of horses." She tentatively reaches a hand toward the guileless creatures. But the horses, which have been looking on with docile eyes, immediately shirk away. "But they are scared of me."

A question dies on the tip of his curious tongue at the hint of devastation in her eyes. "They are merely scared of what they do not know."

"Are you?" She turns to him then, her curls brushing the side of his jaw by accident, and she seems to finally realize how close they are, their breaths mingling under the shadow of his cloak, cold, but lingering.

"Yes," the honesty startles even Klaus himself. He does not miss the flash of hurt in her eyes, "but not of you."

"You should."

"All my life people have been lecturing me about what I should or should not do. Let me assure you that none of them succeeded."

His smugness brings a smile to her face. But all too quickly she turns away from his gaze, her expression softening in reminiscence, "when I was younger – three and ten years if I am not mistaken – our neighbor hosted a ball and invited all the families around. But mother forbade me from going because I was not old enough. So I snuck out with my maid and went there myself. But when the lady of the house found me, she only laughed in amusedment and plied me with snacks." Her voice turns wistful, "I never did get to have a proper dance when I was..."

She trails off, something cold and distant fogging her eyes again. Klaus is instantly filled with the urge to keep whatever is troubling her away, if only for the last few shreds of the long, long night.

He drops the cloak and bows down to her, smirk under his already dancing eyes, "may I?"

He can see clearly a war raging in her eyes, but slowly the battles quiet down and Caroline takes his hand, grazing him gently with the coldness of her skin where there is supposed to be the coldness of silk. He circles her waist with an arm, hand hovering over the small of her back, but never touching.

So they dance. In the whispers of the rain, surrounded by the dreams and nightmares of the rest of the world. But for them the world is as small and as vast as the eyes looking into their own. They do not exchange meaningless words like so many do, for appearance or from habit. They dance as two strangers whose hearts happen to beat close.

When she abruptly stops their movements and steps away from him, Klaus is assaulted by the chills of the early morning, a part of his temperature escaping along with her body, cold and damp just seconds ago in his arms. And when she opens her pale lips, the soft wonderment and childlike fascination all wiped from her face, Klaus feels it again. The unbearable prickling at his heart when all good things inevitably end up ruined by the capricious cruelty of the world, as silk rips and wine spills, as the blue eyes that have bewitched his heart and soul drown in a dark ocean of sadness.

"You cannot save me, Mr. Mikaelson. Do not try." She nearly breaks him with her little smile, "thank you for the dance."

As he watches her leave Klaus falls slave to the fear of the unknown. He has no idea if he will ever see her again.


The next day brings the news of two more murders. Mr. Alaric Saltzman and Mr. Matthew Donovan, both found dead in their own rooms, with no other injuries than a row of tiny bloody holes in their palms.

The inn is clouded in an air of anxiety and horror. People gather in the corners in hushed whispers and furrowed brows, all weighed down by the daunting possibility that they would be the next, few with a solution. Between the consecutive murders and the guests relocating into the only other hotel in town, the private quarters on the second floor have all but cleared out. Klaus and Sir Stefan seems to be the only two left.

He sees the young Knight again around dinner time, both too preoccupied to hold a full conversation. But Sir Stefan does bring one piece of good news to the day: the bridge leading to the next town is nearly fixed, and carriages are expected to be able to cross as soon as the morrow. Their trapped days are finally coming to an end.

"You must be eager to leave," the young man muses as they share a drink. "'Tis a sinister place after all."

Klaus cannot tell him that he feels torn, that whether he leaves or not he is afraid that a part of him will forever be lost. So he settles for a cliché that neither believes, "I have been on the road long as it is. Indeed home is calling."

Sir Stefan sways his glass, "I myself am not terribly opposed to traveling. Mystery murders aside, there is something appealing about being in a different place every other day. The world is far more than what we are used to seeing." He gives Klaus a knowing look, "I suspect you have one of those restless hearts such as mine."

Klaus raises his glass at that, plastering on a smirk that matches Sir Stefan's. But long after the Knight retires for the evening he sits there, thinking back to what Caroline said last night about horses and their destined fate. He cannot help but relate to the speech, all his fears and doubts mirrored in her sorrowful words. But even more than that he senses in the depth of his darkened soul the pesky little taps of something akin to hope. A hope that what he himself answered last night would for once be true.

Maybe Sir Stefan was right. The world is far more than the Mikaelson household, the Ton, or even the country. Maybe somewhere faraway there would be a place for a no-good bastard like him.

But even then he would not be entirely soothed. For his heart is not just restless. It is haunted.


For yet another evening Klaus lounges in the darkness of the coffee room with nothing but wine and his thoughts as company. He has made all the arrangements to leave in the morrow, and sees it fit to treat himself to a few more extra drinks. For now he is satisfied with the privacy his chosen spot affords him – the Chesterfield sits in the corner with a perfect view of the whole room as well as the entrance, but itself is hidden behind an old pianoforte that was left there when the finely decorated hall was borrowed to host the last ball of the town. He sips his drink in the shadows, mind gratefully numb for the moment, with no stables nor dances in the rain nor dead bodies vying for his attention.

One more drink.

And then he will pull himself up back to his quarters, sleep, or lie awake through the night. Then he will leave, with the name Caroline and all that it entails sealed into a distant memory, never to be examined with a sober mind ever again.

But first, one more drink.

When the wine cools his lips he feels rather than sees a shadow taking a seat in front of the pianoforte. Not for the first time during his stay in the coaching inn Klaus ponders if he is dreaming, or simply succumbing to the wonderful powers of liquor. He focuses his blurry sight on the glass slightly shaking in his hand. A reflection, of someone so familiar, yet almost impossible.

Caroline.

In the next moment the empty room is graced with the melodies of the pianoforte. Her playing is in no way flawless, but Klaus listens on in a trance. He longs to stand up, walk around the only barrier between them, and see her. But something in the stumbling notes stops him, keeps him rooted in his spot regardless of the twitching in his bones. She always does know how to converse without speaking.

And when she does speak, it is always something unexpected.

"Why did you draw me?"

Klaus considers the whispered question. It seems so long ago now, the night that his sketch of her was left on the floor. Now it rests inside his jacket, the scrap of a memory so quiet sometimes he forgets it is even there.

"You surprised me. I heard you talking to that woman... Madame Pierce, was it? You looked so small and fragile, yet as soon as I saw your eyes I knew that you were so much more." He does not miss the tense of her shoulder when he mentions the name, his fist clenching to a vice, "it is her. She is forcing you to do all these, is she not? Caroline..."

"I am here for three things, Mr. Mikaelson," she interrupts him. "The first one is to tell you a story. Will you listen till the end?"

The graveness of her tone halts him. But it is the silent plea that yields him to a nod. The pianoforte continues, and so does her whispers.

"You are right in your suspicion that Madame Pierce is forcing me, but it is not exactly as you might have thought." She pauses, missing a note in her playing, but soon catches herself. "Though who would have guessed? That... that I am a ghost. And Katherine Pierce a demon."

Klaus gasps quietly. Questions swirl in his mind, but he promised that he would listen till the end. Whatever she reveals herself to be, he would not break that promise.

"I died a few years ago. And I should have stayed dead. But unfortunate for a wandering soul like me, Katherine Pierce had use for my face and my body." She bites out with contempt, "she and her demon friends had been coveting human spirits for years, but demons are forbidden to get involved with the living. So she wanted me to do her dirty deeds. She tormented me for months." There is a small tremor in her voice, and Klaus clenches his eyes shut for a moment. He dares not imagine what she endured in those months, or what was to come.

"I did not want to cave. But then she threatened my cousin." Caroline breathes a sigh, "Violet is my only family left, and I could not let anything happen to her. So I agreed. I did everything Katherine dictated. I seduce men, sleep with them, and stab them in the palm when they are spent with my hair comb. It is made from the bones of a demon, and the wounds it leaves allow any demon to suck the spirits out of a living human."

His skin crawls when he thinks of what she is telling him, when he sees the pearls of the comb still shining on top of Caroline's blonde hair. But when his eyes lower, catching the steely set of her jaw and the nervous swallow of her throat, something tender grows in his chest, feeding on the anger that has been fuming ever since her story started.

"At first I was disgusted at myself. But in time I became disgusted by the men. Every one of them..." The words were underlined by the harsh press of the keys, "maybe their sins were not punishable by death. But if someone were to die, they deserved it, more than others." Slowly the tune under her fingers changes, the notes softer, tentative, "that was, until the night when I met someone who would not be seduced."

"Believe me, Caroline," Klaus smiles, "I was thoroughly enchanted."

She gasps, but recovers quickly, "I did not say that the story was at an end."

"And what I would not give for that to never happen."

A hint of smile lifts the corner of her lips, yet soon she turns somber again, "alas, I have two things left to do."

"Ah yes, your list," he cannot help but be amused even when he knows deep down that it is something of grave importance. Or she would not have appeared to him and attempted this talk under the guise of the pianoforte. Before the day that he is set out to leave.

"The second is a warning," She ignores his teasing. "Whatever excuses you forge, stay with Sir Stefan in his quarters tonight."

Klaus is certainly taken aback by the unusual request, "and why is that?"

"You two are the only guests left upstairs. Katherine will be coming for you. But she does not know about Sir Stefan," a cold vengeance tints her voice. "I managed to track him down and call him here. He is a demon hunter – he will keep you safe."

Klaus hesitates. Stunned as he is by the knowledge, his own safety is not at the forefront of his mind, "does this mean... you will be free?"

"I cannot say for sure." He has to strain to hear her now, her voice so soft as though she could not bear to think about the possibility lest it turns out only a dream. "And that brings me to the last thing. I have a favor to ask you, Mr. Mikaelson. And please do not answer me -" She hurries to stop him before a promise can slip from his lips, or rather from his heart. "You do not have to do this for me. But if... if you find it in the kindness of your heart to go through the troubles, I have nothing to give you but my gratitude."

"Tell me."

"About a mile west to the inn, where two rivers meet, there is an old birch. I was buried under the tree without a tombstone. Get my bones and bury them somewhere faraway, then the demons here should not be able to touch me anymore."

His heart clenches at her careful tone. So fierce as to scheme to take down a demon, yet so fearful of expecting a good deed from... him. Suddenly his lips feel heavy, and before he can voice his assurance she cuts him off again, "I do not know what may come after tonight. Should our paths not cross..." She turns to fully face him for the first time that night, a shiny mist in her sad smiling eyes, "Mr. Mikaelson, I fare thee well."

With that she disappears into thin air, like she has never been there in the first place, an apparition to his drunken mind. Only the last few off-tune notes of the pianoforte are still echoing in the empty hall.


Klaus lies awake with his eyes shut, the chaise soft but confining under his tense body. The rain that has been pouring for days has almost stopped, leaving every sound in the air painfully clear. He listens to the long steady breaths of Sir Stefan on the bed beside him, seemingly sound asleep.

It has been a total farce trying to stay in Sir Stefan's room. He had to douse himself in wine to feign a drunkenness so deep that he not only could not find his own quarters, but was all too clumsy to be escorted back. He acted a drunk the best he could, waving around his arms like a maniac, spouting nonsense in mumbled speech. Finally he watches gleefully through pretended drowsy eyes as Sir Stefan lets out a long-suffering sigh, and concedes.

"Fine, you may stay the night, but you will not share my bed."

So now here he is, per Caroline's directions, lying in the chambers of a man whom he has only known for three days, dying to open his eyes and take a peek at the windows on the other side of the room. He does not know if the demon Katherine will come, if she has already come and gone.

He keeps his eyes shut.

After hours, or maybe just minutes, he detects a subtle change in the young Knight's even breaths. His heartbeats accelerate in alarm.

And then he hears it. An eery scraping sound like a snake slithering on the ground, paired with a tiny shriek, high and sharp, as if piercing directly into his skull. The room suddenly feels cold as the harshest winter, the air thinner and thinner.

He keeps his eyes shut.

A rumble of the windows. A giggle, half like a crone, half a young child. Then a scream, so loud he has to bite his lips not to cry out at the booming pain behind his eyes. Then everything is back to silent and still, and Klaus would again suspect a dream if not for the rustling of Sir Stefan getting out of bed. He hears the young man's fast steps towards the window, then something wooden and heavy being opened and closed, like a chest.

"We meet again," Sir Stefan murmurs, a strange giddiness in his voice.

Klaus listens as Sir Stefan gets dressed, pacing around the room gathering his things. He stops close to where Klaus sleeps, huffing a laugh, "I stand by what I said. You are too humble about your talents, my friend." Then he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

Klaus keeps his eyes shut. He counts to a thousand.

Then he leaps up from the chaise and throws the door open, heading straight into the darkness.


The shovel meets no resistance as he digs in. The ground is softened by days of rainfall, the earth heavy and slippery.

By the time he found the birch tree Caroline spoke of, the rain had completely stopped. The sky glowed a silvery blue where it met the vast plains, and Klaus knew he did not have much time left.

That was about an hour ago, as far as he could tell. Now he has a deep pit before him, but still no bones. Klaus drops to his knees and digs the shovel even deeper.

He made no promises to Caroline. She did not let him. Yet in the darkness of the night, in the squishy sound of water and mud, in the recurring shivers that tear through his body at the horrifying events earlier that night, Klaus discovers something harder to break than even a promise. His own sheer will. He does not care if he will never meet her again. He will see her safe. He will keep her away from harm. He will find her, even if in bones that are buried six feet under.

He has to.

He suspects that he will never sleep a wink for the rest of his life if he fails her.

Suddenly he feels the shovel touching something hard. Without a second thought he jumps into the pit, crouching down and digs his fingers into the mud. Blindly he feels around until he grazes the hardness with his fingertips. It is a long sturdy bone. Probably her femur. He wipes it carefully with the cloth that he carries inside his now filthy jacket, and places it in the case that he brings with him.

After that it becomes easier. Bit by bit he gathers her skeleton, until he reaches the skull.

He does not recognize her this way, but he cleans the bone in gentle reverence, thinking of her pale skin and blonde curls, eyes drenched in darkness, yet reflecting the brightest light he has ever seen. Such a grotesque scene, in the middle of nowhere, a man standing half under the ground, holding the bones of another. If anyone saw him right now surely they would be scared mad. Caroline would get the humor though. He aches to hear her laugh softly at the ridiculousness of it all. Klaus realizes that he has never heard her laughter.

He places her skull into the case, and shuts it with a sigh.

When he drags himself out of the pit, the edges of the sky are turning white. Klaus picks up the case and, with suspended heart, looks around.

No one is there.

Running muddy fingers through muddy hair, he knows how out of sorts he must look. He needs to get back to the inn before most of the patrons – what is left of them – wake up, get changed, and be on his way. Looking down at the case secure in his hand, he whispers, "let us go." When he takes a step forward he does not expect an answer.

Yet he gets one.

"Dare I ask where to?"

He whips around and sees her standing under the birch tree, a teasing smile adorning her lips, eyes bluer than the boundless sky that envelops them. Taking a shaky breath, he tries to calm his voice trembling violently from a hammering heart, "Caroline? You are... you are here."

She smiles wider, "you came for me."

"Of course. How could I not? Caroline..." He stumbles through the inept words, her name his only anchor.

"Yes?"

"Are you free?"

She nods, "as free as I can be. I truly did not know what would happen when my bones were moved. But now it seems that where my bones go... I will follow."

Klaus closes the distance between them in strides, an urgence burning in his chest. Placing the case on the ground, he reaches for her hands, but stops abruptly when he sees his own covered in dirt. Using the cloth that he shoved into his jacket to clean his fingers as best his can, he finally reaches for her hands again, and holds them precious, "I have your bones."

She inclines her head, a little confused, "it would appear so."

He shakes his head, "you do not have to follow me. Anywhere that you wish to settle, I will take you there, and help you... find peace."

The words hurt his throat.

Caroline blinks, once, twice. Then she laughs, soft and watery, "how about the Ton? I've never been."

This is the first time that Klaus has heard her laughter. He suspects he would never want to part with it for the rest of his days.