A/N: I became obsessed with the idea of a Carmilla inspired Klonnie fic when I saw all the gorgeous themed content on tumblr during Gothic Klonnie week. I'm quite late to the party, but I couldn't get rid of the idea, so enjoy.
"But to die as lovers may - to die together, so that they may live together."
- Carmilla, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
The Bennett witches have always lived in the castle, now old, almost forgotten, a silent sentry standing at the edge of the forest that caught one by surprise after the bend in the road.
At least, it always catches Bonnie by surprise. She remembers the daily evening walks with Grams as they wound their way through the forest on their well-trodden paths, picking apart everything from literature to the spell best cast on a moonlit night.
And it is on a moonlit night that she has returned, the waxing moon smiling down at her, the prodigal daughter, heart sore, and soul weary. She grips the portmanteau tighter, taking the cold air into her lungs with a trembling breath.
Grams had been understanding. A young witch ought to see the world, she had said. She ought to learn its ways.
And so Bonnie had gone out into the world, learnt everything that had come her way, lost herself in cities and scrolls. She had been buried in the origins of spells and the future of magic when the letter came from Madame Pearce.
And now standing in front of her childhood home that is empty of Grams, Bonnie feels her heart twist with renewed anguish. A part of her wishes to turn and run into the forest, disappear into the the darkness forever, erase this feeling that she is at the edge of madness with none by her side.
But that choice is not for her. Bennett castle looms before her, awaiting its next mistress, and Bonnie cannot abandon it once more. So she begins the climb up to the beckoning gates.
Above her, the moon continues to shine down over the trees, and behind her, the air is split by a howl, vicious and full of agony, tearing at Bonnie's heart. Somewhere in the dark forest a creature knows her pain.
There is only her and Madame Pearce. And the priest, of course. The Bennett family had once been respected, revered. But that had been so long ago, that it had been a distant tale told to her when she was still in her nursery. Their fall had been sudden. Trying to protect a people that did not believe in danger was futile.
When none believe you and there is no proof, it is easy to become the fool, Grams had always said.
Bonnie's heart is numb. The sky weeps in her stead, in a gentle, apologetic drizzle that dampens her veil. Madame Pearce muffles her sobs in her handkerchief as the priest drones in Latin.
Afterwards, when the priest has closed his book with a nod and walked off, with a stumbling Madame Pearce clutching his arm, Bonnie continues to stand at the foot of the mound, eyes boring into the freshly turned soil. She watches it turn darker in little patches, growing in size. A worm wriggles through, turning in the dirt. It is aflame with the blink of an eye, before singeing away. Bonnie runs her thumb over her fingers.
The headstone will be delivered tomorrow. Sheila Bennett. Beloved Wife, Mother, and Grandmother. 1802-1876. The inscription has been running through her head all day. It is inadequate. It is all inadequate.
Her mind settles upon the roses at the edge of the garden, Grams' favourite. She beckons them over and they unravel in petals, buoyed over to her by the wind, swirling over her grandmother's resting place in a long, slow, rain-soaked dance, like so many droplets of blood dripping against the grey, overcast sky. And for the first time that day, Bonnie feels her lips lift in a small smile.
It is the pity that Bonnie cannot stand. Madame Pearce's woebegone eyes seem to follow her everywhere with such insistence that Bonnie wishes her a thousand miles away from the castle. She berates herself. After all, it must break the older woman's heart, too. It must hurt to be the only one accompanying Bonnie to the dining table, the drawing room, the well-trodden paths around the forest. Grams had been the head of house for so long that her absence stretches through their life like a raw, gaping wound.
And yet, at times Bonnie can almost feel her there. Sitting at the piano, her fingers running through the well-rehearsed pieces, she can feel a faint touch at her shoulders, a whisper soft brushing against her back, the air kissed with a wisp of jasmine. But when her fingers stop and she gets up, turning to face the room with salt stained cheeks and checked breath, Bonnie is not surprised to find that the room is empty, the only movements the fluttering of the curtains, and the rustling of the manuscript. Her staccato pulse resumes again, almost against her will, insisting, insisting, that she is of this world still.
After weeks, she finds herself in the East Wing, in her old nursery. She has not been avoiding it consciously, she tells herself. The responsibilities of the day have not yet taken her there. It is incredible to her how little time it has taken to tidy away the unresolved remnants of Grams' life. But now, the days stretch before her, endless, empty, demanding to be filled. Preoccupation is the one desire.
Perhaps she will reorder the castle, she thinks. Perhaps bring in new furniture, remove some of the older pieces. She might even start with this room, she thinks.
Her fingers brush over the bookcase, the foot of the bed. It is all exactly as she remembers it. It is almost too perfect to change. She touches the coverlet, light and cool under her hands, so different to that day, the memory of it simmering beneath her skin.
It had felt hot and oppressive against her skin. She had tossed and turned in her sleep, and eventually she had given up on sleep altogether, pushing away the heavy blankets, and sitting up so that the moonlight washed over her face.
She had almost screamed when she saw him standing there in the shadows.
He had moved forward into the light, holding a finger to his smiling lips. His hair curled around his face in waves. His smile made her feel that he was sharing a secret with her. He had a face like the statues of angels she saw in church, striking, mesmerising, a little frightening. He was the most beautiful boy Bonnie had ever seen. She had smiled back at him without meaning to.
"Hello." His voice was soft, softer than she expected. His eyes glinted in the moonlight.
"Hello," she replied. "Who are you?"
"Don't you know me?" he asked, still smiling.
Bonnie shook her head. She had never met him before. And yet she felt they had been friends all her life.
He tilted his head. "Are you sure?" He still hadn't moved.
"I - I feel as if I know you."
"Yes," he said. And his eyes seemed to flash in the moonlight.
And then he had disappeared, and so did the moonlight, and Bonnie had felt her heart stop. There had been something heavy and hot against her, breathing, like an animal, before something pierced her throat, and there was pain, so sharp and blinding that Bonnie had felt like she would never breathe again. But she must have been able to, because the next moment she had open her mouth and screamed as loudly as she could.
Bonnie touches her hand to the base of her throat. She looks around the nursery, feeling slightly foolish, slightly hopeful. But it is as bright and empty as it was when she entered it.
"We have such few clear days that it is a blessing to be outside today, despite it being overcast."
Bonnie nods, only half hearing Madame Pearce's words.
She can feel the forest rustling with life around her. It seems restless today, as if there is something at the heart of it that has disturbed its usual repose. Critters dart in and out between the foliage, and occasionally, the sudden, startling flap of feathers sounds overhead. The ground is soft underfoot from days of rain, and it sends up smells of fresh earth and tree root. It is during days like this when Bonnie wants to drop to her knees, dig her nails into the dirt, and pull up the magic from the earth. It might be one way to bring back something of Grams' presence.
But Madame Pearce is next to her, and Bonnie clasps her hands together, following the curving path between the trees.
A clattering up ahead makes Bonnie's heart stop. The noise splits through the forest, breaking through whatever tranquility there had been.
Bonnie just manages to dart into the trees, pulling Madame Pearce with her, when a carriage swerves around the corner, rattling at breakneck speed. It is jostling in an alarming manner that the only cause could be a broken wheel. In the next moment, it topples, the back wheel breaking off and sliding down the incline, while horse, rider, and carriage collapse in a heap.
The next moment all is quiet again. It is as if there is a spell on the forest, and for a second Bonnie has to rub her hands together to check that no magic has escaped.
Bonnie feels her feet frozen to the ground, and she is reluctant to move closer, if only because the pull she feels from the carriage is overwhelmingly strong. Something urges her, wants her to come closer, investigate. Her fingertips crackle, and she clenches her hands into fists.
She moves to step forward, but Madame Pearce's hand clutches her arm.
"Be careful, dear. You never can be certain of what's safe in this forest."
Bonnie does not want to admit that there is fear in her heart. It is not a familiar feeling. A witch ought to always know that the most fearsome thing in a forest is her. Grams words come unbidden to her mind, and despite the situation, Bonnie almost smiles.
She pats Madame Pearce's hand before pulling away. As she moves closer she sees the horse struggling, the harness pulling at its throat, its eyes almost white. Bonnie loosens the harness with a flick of her wrist and the horse relaxes.
The rider is a few yards away, lying with his neck at a sharp angle that Bonnie knows death was instantaneous. She pauses, staring, because the man's pallor seems to suggest that he has been under the touch of death for far longer than the few seconds he has lain there. His skin is a mottled grey, his face sunken. His eyes, which are open, stare at her in frozen horror. The face is emaciated, as if he has been wasting away for months.
Again, she feels the contradictory forces playing on her, urging her forward, keeping her back.
There is a groan from within the carriage and Bonnie turns, staring at it. It is on its side, one of the remaining wheels broken in half. Bonnie moves back, eyes on the carriage, her hands raised in front of her. The carriage lifts, righting itself, but with only three wheels Bonnie has to concentrate to keep it upright. Her hand is still aloft as she moves forward, the door swinging open for her to peer inside.
The figure inside is crumpled on the seat, covered by a velvet cloak, but Bonnie can see that whoever it is still breathing, still alive. She feels her own heartbeat pulse in response. She spreads her magic around the stranger, holds them up, coaxes them slowly out of the carriage door before they stumble into her arms.
The man - for it is a man - is heavier than she expected, and she stumbles, before lowering to her knees, careful not to jostle him. The cloak tips back and Bonnie's breath catches in her throat.
It is him, she is sure of it. The boy from the nursery, all those years ago.
His face is harsher now, and the angular panes of his face are dotted with stubble. His lush lips are open as he takes in short, shallow breaths. Bonnie places a hand on his chest and feels for his heartbeat. It is so faint that she almost wonders it is there at all.
She brushes his forehead, startled at how cool it is. She had dispensed with her gloves before the walk, certain that they would not run into anyone, and now she is almost glad of it because her fingers burn with him in her hands, burn much hotter than when magic is building within them. She does not dwell long on this curiosity because he stirs in her arms. His eyes flutter, and the half-dazed look in them disappears as they settle on her. They are a bleak grey, like the sky before the rain, like a lake before a storm. Like a wolf's before it feeds.
She cannot move.
His hand reaches up, his gloved fingers brushing her cheek.
"At last," he rasps. "I've found you."
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