A day passes without you knowing, lost in between the slick slide of hours. You didn't sleep the night previous after stealing blood. Between the stiff-necked nights at Klaus's side and hosting an apartment full of the Mikaelsons' mortal enemies, the last good night's rest you got was in a magical coma. The lack has started to wear on you.
Not enough, however, to make you sleep.
There is too much to do.
Well, for the others. Not so much for you. The living room has been arranged into a war room: Klaus at its helm, Elijah and Freya flanking him. You still haven't spoken to him at any length. Not since he woke. Part of you worries that he's angry with you— irascible nature provoked by the fact that you didn't even notice he was in a coma until Freya straight up told you. You won't know until all this is over.
You cast your eyes to him, blue eyes shining so bright they're almost white. He's in his element like this, scheming with his family on his side. Planning a battle is easier said than done, it seems. Well, if battle is even the right word for it. 'Fight'. 'Ambush'. 'Patricide'.
You wonder if there's a word for when you murder both parents. Unfortunately, your high school didn't offer Latin. There probably isn't a prefix for 'both parents and estranged aunt' either. So it's just as good you took French.
Kol and Rebekah sit side by side, lounging in arm chairs, lit up with a nervous energy that manifests solely through sharp-witted retorts and repeated trips to the fridge for new blood bags. Finn sits at Freya's side. There doesn't seem to be a space for you: an extra piece of a finished puzzle. You are not in the business of war planning. You have no strengths to offer.
Restlessness courses through your veins, no tap to let the steam out.
Your self confidence remains high enough most of the time to withstand the inadequacy that occasionally rears its head with the Mikaelsons. You haven't hit thirty. They have lived over a thousand years' worth of lifetimes. They have specialized in the kind of subterfuge necessary to vanquish their oldest enemies, have their more recent enemies capitulate to their demands.
In this kind of company, what possible help could you offer?
Part of you still wishes the others were here, if only to offer a distraction. The apartment feels strangely empty without Marcel's gang of vampires or the simmering rage of the Salvatore group.
"Where did everyone go?" you ask. They hadn't come back since the night before, leaving you with only your loved ones and your inadequacy.
Really, did you steal all that blood for nothing?
"Out to prepare. I thought it right to only have family here for the moment."
"Prepare what?"
Klaus smiles thinly. "Never you mind."
Rebekah rolls her eyes.
"They've picked out the area where we plan to lure our parents to."
"Rebekah."
"What?" she snaps, "She deserves to know."
"It is not about deserving," he responds, "Our beloved baker will not be anywhere near the fray. It is not of her concern!"
You open your mouth to argue. Freya beats you to it.
"No," Freya says, "She should be there."
Her siblings stop mid argument for a brief moment before implosion.
"Have you lost your mind?" Rebekah demands, "She'll only be in danger."
"I need her."
Rebekah asks what's in your mind. "What does that mean: you need her? For what?"
"The real reason there's a connection between us," she says and you freeze, the bile sliding down your throat entirely your own, "Some of my power got stuck inside of her when I was still asleep. I didn't discover it until a few days ago."
"Is it dangerous?"
"No," Freya answers hastily, "But I can use it if I drain it."
"So drain it now," Klaus commands. Freya shakes her head.
"It will just dissipate, I won't be able to use it."
"I don't care!"
"Think of her as a battery only to be used when I'm nearly empty," Freya insists, spots of red rising to her cheeks, "It can help us!"
"We are not risking her life for something that may or may not help!"
"I'll do it," you find yourself saying.
The Mikaelsons stop, splintered in time, before resuming.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Klaus says harshly.
"Darling," Rebekah interjects, "It would be better if you remained here."
Freya watches you with naked attention as the Mikaelsons protest. Rapture that soothes the gormless, writhing thing that's inside of you. It retreats in the heat of your new purpose.
"And I'd still be unprotected here," you argue, "I would be safer if I came along with you all."
Klaus snorts.
"Do you really expect us to believe that? We're not fools."
"I don't really care either way," you say, "I'm coming."
"No, you aren't!"
"What are you going to do, stop me?"
Klaus bares his teeth. "Yes."
"Oh everyone calm down," Finn sighs, rubbing his temples, "She's going to find a way to follow us anyway."
"Thank you, Finn."
"One of us will just have to babysit her at all times."
Less 'thank you, Finn'.
"What happens if we kill them?" you say. "Won't they just come back? It sounds like they've done this before."
Elijah opens his mouth to answer.
"It's taken care of," Kol interrupts, flashing a smile. "No need to thank me."
"Just because the other side is destroyed is not a guarantee," Elijah reprimands crisply.
"So you might have to do this again?" you say.
The lines around Elijah's eyes deepen.
"Strong enough magic can diminish the chance they will return," Freya says, "There is only one way to make sure they won't come back, and that is out of our hands."
"What's that?"
"If they are content and move onwards to the afterlife."
What.
"There's an afterlife?" you blurt out.
"Well," Klaus says snidely, "Since I cannot think of a way to bring our parents everlasting joy, nor do I wish to, let's settle for the magic option. Freya, is this something you can do?"
She nods tightly.
"I can try."
"'Try' isn't good enough."
Her nostrils flare. "With the help of Bonnie and the others, there is a good chance."
"It's—"
"Oh, lay off Nik," Rebekah snaps, "Yelling at her isn't going to do anybody any good."
Privately, you agree.
"No," Klaus snipes, "But it does bring me some measure of enjoyment."
Rebekah lets out an exasperated sigh.
"You obviously don't need any of us here for this. Darling—" She turns her head to you. "Lets go on a walk."
"You can't just leave when—"
"Relax, Nik," she says, "We'll be back in a couple of hours."
Twin red splotches of irritation paint themselves across Klaus's cheeks.
"Am I the only one here who cares our our baker's safety?"
"Yes," Rebekah says waspishly, "I obviously want her to die."
You're getting a little tired of being caught in the middle.
"Klaus," you break in, "It's fine. I think Elijah's apartment might explode if all of us stay here. There are already dents in the walls."
"Oh don't worry on my account," Elijah sighs, "I have already marked this off as a lost cause."
Klaus's jaw tightens and releases.
"Be back in an hour," he grinds out.
Rebekah smiles, not one ounce of it nice.
"Make it two," she retorts and pulls you out the door, snagging your coat on her way out.
"Where are we going?" you ask. Rebekah pauses to drape your coat unceremoniously over your shoulders.
"I figured we'd get lunch. Actually—" She checks the time. "It's almost dinner time. Are you hungry?"
"Kind of, but—"
"No 'but'," she says primly, "My siblings can handle themselves and you have been cooped up for much too long."
"I did go out to get blood with Finn."
She rolls her eyes dismissively.
"That was business, this is pleasure."
"Oh?"
Rebekah looks at you through slanted eyes, smirk painted across her lips.
"Not that kind of pleasure," she says, amused, "We'd need more than two hours."
You flush hot.
The café Rebekah takes you to is a scant few blocks away. You gaze around at the other patrons but don't recognize any faces. You wonder where all of Marcel's people went now that they've vacated the apartment. He brought enough with him to constitute an army. Are they lurking in the city, waiting?
You think back to when you first met him, how urgent he was in his warning. His bloody history with the Mikaelsons.
"Why do you think Marcel is helping?" you say, "Really. I know you guys promised to leave New Orleans alone, but that can't be all, right?"
Rebekah glances at you over her cardamom latte, steam wafting in the air in a coy spiral.
"Who knows what goes on in Marcel's head," she says dismissively. Obtusely, you correct.
"Shouldn't you?"
Rebekah levies a weighted look at you.
"I mean," you continue, "You loved him. Shouldn't you know him better than the others?"
"Darling—"
"And please don't do the whole 'I've never loved anyone like I do you' thing. He doesn't intimidate me."
You gloss over the time period when he very much did. (A time period overlapping with 'now'.)
"I wasn't going to," Rebekah says, amused, "But very well. I can only guess as to what his motivations are. Not wanting to die with his sire probably helps."
"But still," you insist, only a little hot in the face, "He's going through a lot of effort for this. You saw how many vampires he brought."
"I know."
"Do you…" you hesitate, "Do you think he's trying to make amends?"
"I doubt it. More like it's a show of strength to make sure Nik obeys his terms and keeps out of his kingdom."
"You're not a particularly trusting person, Rebekah."
"I am aware," she says airily.
You snort and sip from your tea. You can barely stomach it, nerves too fraught.
You remember, somewhat wistfully, your time after Freya's discovery when you slept for nearly twenty hours straight. Waking up in Klaus's arms.
"I guess you were right not to trust Freya, though," you say after a moment.
Rebekah snorts. "I suppose I can't blame her for wanting to put Nik away."
"Do you think she'll be okay? With Dahlia and everything?"
"Frankly," Rebekah says, "I have enough siblings to worry over without adding one more. Freya can take care of herself."
You think that seems a bit cruel given she's helping her siblings fight against the person she fears the most.
(Perhaps you are too defensive of her. Of them all.)
"I don't know how much more waiting I can do," you say.
Rebekah's eyes grow distant.
"Sometimes it feels like the only thing I'm good at."
The two of you have lunch and chat like the end of the world isn't hanging over your heads. You poke at your food, a triple cheese panini with turkey and barely manage to eat half.
Worry knots your stomach, ties up any available energy with dread and nerves.
You're sick of it.
Rebekah can see it— or at least, some measure of your concern.
"It'll be okay," she tells you, "My family has been in greater predicaments."
"Has it?"
She pauses, gaze obfuscating. "Not really. I'm just trying to cheer you up."
Another pang of guilt beats itself on the inside of your skull. Distantly you're aware that she shouldn't be comforting you— you should be comforting her. She's the one being hunted by her parents.
"You sound like Kol," you say instead.
"Are both of us not allowed to want you to be happy?"
Your gaze softens.
"You are," you say, "Rebekah—" Your hands twist in your lap, napkin torn to shreds, "What happens after this?"
"What do you mean?"
"I— The threat of your parents has been hanging over your family for nearly the entire time I have known you. After this, will there just be more enemies? Will there always be someone hunting you?"
Rebekah doesn't answer right away.
"I don't know," she answers and you can hear the truth in it, "There will always be someone else. I doubt they will ever hold the power our parents have over us."
You think of warm beds and rain soaked boots.
"Yeah," you echo, "No one like parents."
"I'm going to get a spray bottle and make you stop being depressing for ten consecutive minutes," Rebekah says, resting her head on her hand, "Is there anything in the world that would cheer you up right now?"
"Honestly?" You think on it. "I literally think there's not."
Rebekah sighs and leans back in her chair.
"Eat your food," she commands, "You're just cranky, you'll feel better."
"And if I don't?"
"I'm also making you go to sleep the instant we get back to the apartment."
You scowl at her and force another bite of your sandwich down your throat.
"I don't really like you at all," you comment. Rebekah laughs.
"You've been running on empty for nearly a week. It's time to relax."
"How am I supposed to relax now of all times?"
"I will have Freya put you under a sleeping spell."
You balk. "You wouldn't."
Rebekah arches her eyebrows.
"Wouldn't I?"
In the end, Rebekah's better at poker than you are.
Shocker.
You manage to scarf down what's left of your meal. Unfortunately, Rebekah was right. You feel better with your stomach full.
It also has the side effect of putting you to sleep.
"Do you need me to carry you back?" Rebekah says, warm amusement in her voice.
"Shut up."
"Really, it's okay if you need me to."
"Do you ever stop talking?"
The ire in your voice is diminished by the fact that it would actually be very nice if she carried you. You're starting to regret walking here instead of stealing Elijah's very nice, very warm car. With seat heaters.
You trudge back to the apartment, Rebekah silent by your side. She links arms with you in a makeshift leash.
"I'm sorry."
Rebekah looks at you, concerned.
"What for?"
"For— I feel like I am more of a hinderance in all of this. I'm sorry that any of this is happening at all. I'm sorry I can't protect you from it."
"Darling, is that what you were so worried about?"
You flush with something like shame.
"Partially. I— I'm worried about all of you. About what comes after."
Rebekah wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you tight.
"We'll be fine, darling," she tells you, "We always are. It is not your job to take care of us. In fact, it's the reverse."
"Can't it be both?"
Rebekah looks at you, smile in her eyes.
"Yes," she says eventually, "It can."
The rest of the walk back is short and chilly, your nose cold to the touch by the time you walk in the doorway. Klaus looks up as you enter, some layer of tension dissipating from his shoulders.
"Two and a quarter hours, Rebekah. You need a new watch."
She rolls her eyes.
"Drop it, Nik. No one likes a know-it-all."
"I'm merely suggesting that perhaps you ought to pay more attention when our lives are on the line."
"I'll put your life on the line," she mutters loud enough for even you to hear. You rub your eyes until you see spots. When you open them, Klaus wears a different expression.
"Put her to bed," he says instead of whatever he was planning to, "Our baker needs to rest."
You bristle. It sounds condescending coming out of his mouth. Unfortunately, you yawn, undercutting whatever argument you were going to fail to make.
"Whatever," you say, yawning midway through the word.
Rebekah leads you to the bedroom, a four-poster bed stood grandly in the middle. You can't even find the energy to get in pajamas, bartering with your body to at least let you take off your pants. Thankfully, you succeed.
You tuck yourself under the blankets before the cold air can get to you.
"Did you drug me?" you demand, face shoved into your pillow. Rebekah laughs.
"No," she says, amused, "It looks like I didn't need to either."
She strokes your hair and you shiver in simple pleasure.
"I'll see you when you wake up."
You catch her wrist as she pulls away.
"Stay?"
There's a brief pause, one you would interpret if you weren't so horribly tired.
"Alright," she says. She strips herself of her coat and pants and tucks herself in bed with you, arm wrapped around your middle.
You go to sleep.
"Love you," you say sometime during the night.
She squeezes your hand and whispers a response.
You drift back off.
The next morning you wake to an empty bed. You slept over twelve hours, the sun burning bright through the curtains. You really did need to sleep, apparently.
It stings when the Mikaelsons are right. Incredibly annoying.
Your head is clearer now, some of the weight of yesterday lifted from your shoulders. If you're counting correctly, Kol's newspaper classified printed this morning. Today's the day.
You're calmer than you have any right to be.
You make the bed before trodding into the attached bath. It takes very little time for you to get ready. You tie your hair up, still wet.
You look yourself in the mirror and recognize what you see.
The apartment is back to bustling. It's not nearly as full as it was when Marcel first got in town, but there are enough vampires for you to have to politely shoo some of them out of your way. No one speaks to you, even as their eyes watch your every mood.
You wonder which Mikaelson warned them to stay away from you. 'Which ones', you correct yourself with a wry smile.
(Still, part of you finds it odd they're not hiding you away. Yes, Marcel and the Salvatores know of your existence, but not necessarily their other people. You half expected Klaus at least to be far more protective.)
Maybe he's evolving.
Ha.
"There you are, darling," Kol greets cheerily, interrupting your war path to the teakettle, "I got you breakfast."
As if on cue, your stomach rumbles. The aroma of Italian sausage and cheddar rise and coil around your nose.
"Thanks Kol."
He returns your grin. "Of course. Breakfast in your room?"
"I'm not sharing."
"Perhaps I just want your company."
Well, you can provide that.
You allow him to herd you into the previously vacated bedroom. You sit together on the bed, mussing your freshly made sheets. Kol got you a breakfast scramble, well trained on your eating habits at this point.
"It's pretty busy out there," you say, mouth full of potato. One of Kol's eyebrows twitches imperceptibly.
"Yes, everyone is preparing for the big day. Our parents have been summoned for one last final reunion."
"What makes you think they'll come? Won't they know it's a trap?"
Kol grins, teeth sharp.
"They won't care. Even if they die, they can come back. It leads to significant over-confidence."
"You don't seem enthusiastic," you say dryly.
"I am excited for it all to be over. How do you feel about the Bahamas? I could steal you away once this is all done."
Oh, Kol.
"Maybe," you say, "What is everyone else up to?"
"Organizing mostly. Marcel brought along some witches. Freya is instructing them now."
"Should I be jealous?"
He scoffs. "Hardly."
The stress and panic that defined you yesterday have taken a step back. The Mikaelsons are going to be okay and you're going to be okay and everything is going to be alright. You just have to get through this one day.
Rebekah, unfortunately, was right. Sleep and food have repaired your spirits.
Kol eats breakfast with you, steadfastly determined on speaking about fighting or murder. You wonder if he's trying to distract you or himself. The only crack in his facade is when the door opens, Elijah slipping neatly inside.
"What are you doing here?" Kol demands, voice slipping into a growl.
Elijah inclines his head.
"Apologies. I only came to tell the two of you that it has set into motion. We received word a witch that fits Dahlia's description has entered the country. I assume it is only a few hours until she reaches Virginia."
"Well now you've told us, so you can leave."
Kol's grin reminds you of a feral thing, too sharp and white for any human.
Elijah does not depart.
"Brother," he sighs, wavering on the precipice of whatever he wants to say, "I understand you are angry with me, and for good reason. I can offer only my sincere apologies."
Kol rises off the bed, spine warping like a cat about to pounce. "Don't give me that shite you feed people when you betray them, I know your script, Elijah."
"Kol—"
"Get out before I stab you again. This time it won't be with anything so pleasant as a knife."
Still, Elijah stands steadfast in front of the door.
"I'm afraid I need to speak with our baker."
Kol lets out a terrible laugh. For a terrible second, you think he's going to refuse to leave you alone with him, discord between the brothers splintering in the air.
Shockingly, Kol acquiesces.
"Watch your steps, Elijah. As penitent as you are, I will make you suffer more."
He stalks out of the room, leaving the two of you in his wake.
"I think," you say slowly, "He's going to need more of an apology."
"Yes," Elijah sighs, regret lacing the sound, "I suspect you're correct."
Tension lingers in the air like dust. You are still not entirely at ease around Elijah, not entirely sure how long it will take for things to return to baseline. If that's even possible.
"What did you want to tell me?" you say instead. Elijah steps into the light streaming in from the window, segmented in thirds by panes of glass. His eyes glitter in the sun, turning amber. You're struck by how much you miss him even when he's standing right in front of you.
"Be careful today. You are going to need to stay by Freya's side and do not leave for any reason. Not only can she protect you better than the rest of us, but she will also need to use your strength when it comes down to the wire. Do you find that acceptable?"
"To save your lives," you say, "Absolutely."
Relief ripples over his face. He steps closer to you, hand linger in the air like he wants to cup your cheek. He doesn't.
"I… I am looking forward to this being finished."
You look back up in his dark vacillant eyes.
"I am too."
The apartment is nearly empty again when you exit the room, Elijah at your back. He immediately departs, leaving you with only your worries and hardened determination to get you through the days. You don't see Freya yet but you will. She wouldn't leave without you.
You could really use some tea.
There's someone already in the kitchen, using the (your) kettle. The girl turns.
"Oh, hi. We haven't really met yet," Elena says and privately you think she could have picked a better time for this, "I'm Elena."
"I know," you say instead of anything clever.
She smiles, a little uncertain, but her eyes roam over your face.
"There's some water left, if that's what you came in for."
You snort, taking a cup out of the cabinet.
"I see my tea drinking habits are common knowledge."
"It is when it's vervain."
"How was I supposed to know verbena and vervain are the same thing?" you murmur under your breath. Elena smiles and bends down to rest her elbows on the counter, steam cup warming her hands. Her eyes are dark they suck the light in. You suppose if you are to be a copy of another woman, it's not a terrible face to be stuck in.
"You're the doppelgänger, right?" you continue.
Elena smiles wryly.
"Not anymore. I'm just a vampire now."
"Oh."
You didn't know that part. (Are the two mutually exclusive?)
"Bonnie says you're nice," Elena says.
You cough a laugh. You spill water on the counter as you fill your cup, teabag staining the water green.
"I'm kind of surprised. I was convinced she thought I was stupid."
"She does."
"… Oh."
"I think," Elena continues, "She just wants you to be because she can't think of another reason someone would willingly get entangled with the Mikaelsons."
"And you can?"
She smiles wryly.
"I know what it's like to love monsters."
Some of your inner core softens.
"I'm sure," Klaus says from the doorway, startling you, "You've now been involved with both brothers now, correct? Shame you ditched Stefan, he is much more fun."
Elena doesn't respond. The only sign of tension you can identify is the stiffening of her neck.
"Klaus, what are you doing here?" you say in her place.
"I need to speak with you."
"Must be going around," you mutter under your breath, "Can I finish my tea first?"
"I'm afraid this can't wait."
You offer Elena an apologetic glance before following him.
Klaus leads you back to the bedroom. (You're starting to hate this room, even if it is the only real place of privacy in the mid-sized apartment.) The door clicks behind you. Klaus tilts his head as if listening to something. He smiles, satisfied at whatever he hears. Your brow wrinkles.
"What did you need to—"
Klaus presses you up against the bedpost in one quick motion and handcuffs your hands behind your back.
"Klaus!"
"You shouldn't be like this for too terribly long," he says, "I don't expect murdering my parents to take more than a few hours. Besides, you're clever enough to get out on your own."
"What are you doing?"
"I thought that was fairly obvious."
"I'll scream!" you threaten.
"Everyone else has already gone, love. Elena left the minute we abandoned her. There's no one else here."
"The neighbors will hear."
He tilts his head in terrible amusement.
"I am not convinced they will."
The handcuffs rattle behind your back as you struggle. Klaus's eyes are bright, blue and coherent. He doesn't care what you say, you realize with a sinking feeling. One of Klaus's predominant traits, outside a penchant for spectacle, is being completely and utterly secure in his own superiority. He will always think he is right. And there is nothing you can do to convince him.
Dreads sinks its teeth into you.
"Why are you doing this?"
"This is the safest place for you and you know that." He strokes his thumb across your cheek. "The apartment is warded and you will be protected and safe.
"But what about Freya?" you blurt out, "She needs me."
"No," Klaus says, "She doesn't. We will be fine without you, and you will be fine here."
You tug against the bedpost, handcuffs clanking against the wood. The only thing you achieve is a twinge in your shoulder. You're out of arguments he won't listen to. Out of excuses. Out of time.
"Klaus, don't do this," you beg, edge of hysteria coating your voice.
"I have to," he says.
Klaus looks at you, eyes forming deep pools of blue, and kisses you. His lips are warm against yours, so briefly you don't even register it until he pulls away.
"You will be safe here," he says, hands cupping your face, "Do you understand?"
"Klaus, please."
He doesn't listen, not even as you beg, just turns his back on you and shuts the door behind him, locking you in this cold and empty room. You yell his name, but all you hear is deadened silence. There's no one there. No one's coming.
You're going to strangle him when you escape.
You cast your eyes to the bedpost you're handcuffed to. Solid wood. It is unlikely to break under your exertions. But it doesn't go all the way to the ceiling; if you can get the handcuffs over the top of it then you at least won't be tied to the bed anymore. It'll be tricky to do— if at all possible given your extremely limited dexterity. You climb up on the bed, weight pressing you down into the cushiony mattress, losing those precious few inches of height. Leaning against the bed post, you lift your hands as high as you can behind your back. It is not enough. You can't clear the top of the post. Maybe if you jump.
The floor seems awfully far away. Well, you tell yourself, at least the Mikaelsons can heal you if you break your arm.
You inhale a shaking breath and count.
You make it to two when the door opens. Panic leeches out of you.
"Freya?"
"What on earth are you doing?" she demands.
"What does it look like I'm doing."
"Get down from there!"
Gingerly, you step down off the bed back to solid ground. She waves a hand and the metal cuffs click open from around your wrist. Feeling returns to your fingers, nerve endings tingling.
"How did you know I was in here?" you question, rubbing the red indents left on your wrists.
"I am aware that my family is stupid," Freya says with a grimace.
"Thank you. I— I didn't want to be stuck in there while everyone…"
While your loved ones die. When they've invited a monster they don't know the limits of and then hindered the abilities of the one person who does.
Her face softens. "I know. Now hurry, we have to go."
She takes your hand and liquid gold shoots up through your veins.
Freya leads you to the battleground, an entirely unextraordinary clearing in a wood you don't recognize. It's forty minutes away in a small town you've never been to and don't really wish to return to in the future.
"Wouldn't it have been easier to do this closer to the city?" you question, nearly slipping on fallen pine needles. It is the least of your concerns, but you do not have the ability to give voice to the bigger ones.
"Agreed," Freya says, "But my family are suckers for drama, it seems."
"You didn't know that already?"
Freya even half-smiles at that. "It is easy to pick up on. Fighting to the death where my siblings grew up is a particular sort of irony."
You stop in your tracks.
"This is where they grew up?"
She looks at you, brow wrinkled.
"Yes, Mystic Falls. Didn't you know that?"
"This is Mystic Falls?"
Freya blinks. "Wow," she says, "They really don't tell you anything."
You save that in your bank entitled 'arguments to start later'.
The clearing is empty to your eyes, witches working overtime for their respective friends and allies. Idly you wonder where Bonnie is. You're somewhat mostly friends at this point. You think.
You hope the Mikaelsons don't back out of their deal. Bonnie deserves a thousand grimoires for putting up with them longer than five minutes.
"Is everyone here?" you ask Freya. Her brow furrows and releases.
"Supposedly. It's difficult to tell with everyone shielded."
"Is that bad?"
"On the contrary. It means Dahlia won't be able to sense them either."
"Do you really think we can kill her?"
Freya looks at you grimly.
"I think for the first time in my lifetime, we have a shot."
You'll take those odds.
Time passes slowly in the forest. You wait with Freya for what feels like hours. It's more likely much less. Time stretches and folds in on itself as you stew in your worries until they are tear-apart soft. The cold of the forest floor starts to seep into your feet, making them slow and tense. You pace to keep warm. You need this to be over.
"Can you stop doing that?" Freya says, "You're making me anxious."
"I think you're anxious from other reasons," you say, but obey and crouch down next to her. Freya's eyes remain fixed on the clearing in the wood.
"What if they don't come?" you venture to ask.
"They will," Freya says. She doesn't continue.
You wish you had her faith. Worry gnaws at your insides. What if you did all this for nothing? What if your ambush fails and they succeed? What if they bring more reinforcements than the Mikaelsons?
(What if the people you love die?)
You shake your head, knocking out your thoughts.
Everything will be fine, you tell yourself. Stop worrying.
Two figures seep into view in the clearing, like watercolor brush strokes painting them into existence. Your heartbeat leaps to your throat. You jab an elbow needlessly into Freya's side. You don't recognize the woman, shorter with ragged blond hair piled high on her head, braids snaking in Celtic knots. But you recognize the man.
"Only cowards hide," Mikael announces, features cold and sharp in the light, "You always were a disappointment, Niklaus."
There is no response to his taunts.
Esther, because that's who she has to be, places a hand on his forearm.
"Wait," she hisses, "Listen."
There is only silence: the absence of grasshoppers and bird calls, of skittering chipmunks and chatter of squirrels. All living things go silent in unison, the silence louder than any war horn.
Something warps.
Kol's newspaper trick must have worked, you realize. A brunette woman you don't recognize except for fractions of her features she shares with her sister, splintered into her six offspring, strides out of a copse of trees.
Freya's face goes white.
"Hello sister," Dahlia greets, a cruel and malicious smile you recognize the shape of painted across her mouth, "It has been a long time."
Esther, to your surprise, manages to respond.
"Not long enough."
"Why are you here, witch?" Mikael sneers. Dahlia steps forward. His feet remain planted in the ground.
(Brave, you think, and stupid.)
"I'm here for what is owed to me."
"Nothing more is owed to you," Esther insists, "Not here."
Dahlia's smile turns mocking.
"On the contrary. My long lost prize lurks in the shadows." She turns her head and you catch sight of her eyes. A shiver runs down your back. You wonder if she can see you, even through the layered enchantments. (That's ridiculous, you know. She has no interest in you. She only cares about Freya.)
"There is nothing for you here, witch," Mikael spits, "Be off."
Your hand finds Freya's, cold and tense.
Dahlia sighs.
"So is this your game, then?" she calls out, "My dear sister and her beloved husband get in my way and I take care of them for you? Is that it?"
No one responds. You wonder if the others are okay.
They have to be.
"Sister," Esther says, "Perhaps then it would be in your best interest to leave?"
Dahlia turns to her.
"Would it?" she asks airily and then harder, with vitriol in only the way siblings can— "You never were much of a witch. Lucky your daughter showed more promise than you ever did."
"Rebekah is not a witch," Mikael says.
"No," Dahlia says, "But Freya is."
Whatever silence coated the clearing shatters. Mikael, for all his strength and purpose, cracks.
"Freya died as a child. Whatever joke you are playing is not funny."
Dahlia looks over his shoulder to her sister.
"Esther," she says, clucking her tongue, "You really never told him? After all these years?"
A twinge of what almost feels like pity lights in you.
(Sympathy for the devil.)
"Tell me what?" Mikael says harshly.
"Your wife promised her firstborn to me in exchange for a family. One for seven, I consider that an even trade. Freya was the only one who showed any kind of worth, anyway."
Mikael roars, a startling sound, and attacks. Perhaps Kol was on to something, because Dahlia discharges him without even blinking. He flies to the side, thwacking hard against a tree.
His stake remains firm in his grip.
"Really, Esther," Dahlia sighs, "You couldn't have done better?"
"Sister, please," Esther pleads, "Our children must be eradicated, you know that."
"I know no such thing. I am here for only one reason."
"Then take her and be on your way. We have business here."
Freya's breath escapes in one long exhale and whispers something under her breath. Fire sparks jump from her hand to the tall dry grasses in the clearing. They lick greedily at the cold dry straw, racing towards the sisters.
Vampire speed is too fast for human vision. All you see are blurs.
"An ambush," Mikael growls, "How juvenile."
Freya's grip on your hand is viselike as she chants. You know on the opposite side of the clearing, Bonnie and Marcel's witches are doing the same.
Static electricity builds. Dahlia laughs.
"Do you think this will do anything?" she calls into the nether, "None of them can stop me from getting you back Freya, dear."
"That's enough!"
Esther, of all people, dead or alive, snaps and sends a bolt of something too fast for you to see at her sister. Her mouth twists and warps into a small angry slash, red rising in her cheeks.
Dahlia brushes her aside easier than a gnat.
"Really?" she mocks, "You want to play this game? I thought your pathetic dedication to your family ended a millennia ago."
"You stole her from me!"
She laughs.
"You traded her for the children you're trying to murder. Fair deal, wouldn't you say?"
Freya was right, you realize. Esther is no match for her sister. Freya's hand grows clammy with sweat and you can almost see what she does: colorful auras attacking each other, made up of the same materials they both grew from. Whatever forest creatures linger still in the woods fall silent in a ripple. A flash of movement too fast for you to see and—
A blade sticks out of Esther's chest.
"Sorry, mother," Finn says grimly.
Esther falls to her feet, blood soaking the earth, seeping down to the red clay earth.
Mikael hisses as if in pain.
Dahlia freezes, eyes trained on her sister like she's waiting for her to get back up.
"No!"
"Now," Freya says.
Three things happen in quick succession.
One: The enchantments drop around the witches. Bonnie comes into view through the fog, hand outstretched in front of her. Marcel's witches doing the same as they close in around the Mikaelson Aunt.
"Do you really think this does anything to me?" she hisses, "I am the most powerful witch in existence! You are born from me."
"Not likely," Bonnie says and forces her to her knees.
It is not enough. The force of the magic holding you to the ground barely touches her, even as Freya's face twists and sharpens. Dahlia is stronger than them all.
Two: Freya turns to you and holds out her hand, palm stretching to face the sky. There's a brief moment that hangs weightless in the air.
(Two and a half: You take it.)
Freya's grip turns hot and molten. You taste the crackle of smoke and iron. She drags magic unwillingly from your core, so lodged in you it doesn't want to leave. When Freya first mentioned this shard of magic you thought little of it: a small piece of her that has allowed the two of you to have this connection. The little you could do to help in the destruction of their enemies. You did not expect this.
It feels like she's trying to peel open your skin, ripping out your heart.
You drop to your knees, mirroring Dahlia save for her expression of pure hate and the grayness of your own face. You can't hear the din of fighting over this expansive and terrible pain, the roar of your heartbeat in your ears.
The other witches join hands and chant, a golden band of energy encircling them and—
Three: Dahlia, one of the most powerful sorceresses on earth, keels over and dies.
There's a moment of jubilation, a release you can sense in Freya before concern takes its place. She releases your hand. A mistake that sends you tumbling to the ground, head rattling against the hard ground.
"—you hear me?" she demands.
Your eyes flutter, attempting to concentrate on her words.
"Yes," you say, or at least you think you do, faculties still not working entirely correctly. You're dimly aware of her raising her head, calling for help. There's no response, other witches scattered to help their respective friends. She hoists you over your shoulder, buckling under your weight.
"Come on," Freya grunts, "We'll get you out of here."
Easier said than done.
Freya is weak, you realize, not nearly as weakened as you are, but she is not strong enough to carry you. She staggers and trips, sending the both of you to the forest floor.
You moan, head ringing. You blearily open your eyes only to see pine needles and endless sky. Someone is yelling your name, you realize. You want to tell them you are alright.
The most you can manage is an aborted twitch of your fingers.
"—reya," you try to say, but your lips won't obey.
The sun is eaten, consumed whole by a figure, enshrouding you in shadow. You squint tired eyes in the darkness, unable to make out who is standing above you.
The contrast flattens. Your heart jumpstarts.
Tired arms attempt to drag yourself along the forest floor, away from Mikael, to no avail. He steps forward, easily matching the distance.
"Terribly sorry about this," he rumbles, "I… Well, I suppose it doesn't matter."
He raises his stake, metal edging glittering in the light.
Your teeth chatter.
And he kills you.
At least, that's what you think happens for the short, heart-stopping seconds between hearing a sickening crunch and spurts of blood and realizing that you feel no pain at all. The few seconds before you realize Elijah has a stake sticking out of his chest.
"No!"
Mikael blinks, entangled in the unexpected consequences of his actions, before wrenching the stake out of his son's flesh. Elijah doesn't made a sound outside a soft ragged gasp you only hear when he falls on top of you, weight knocking the breath out of you.
"Idiot," Mikael spits. The vitriol would stun you if you had any care for anything other than Elijah. You flail, trying to shift yourself out from under him. Elijah clamps onto your wrists, shielding you.
Mikael hisses, wrenching him out of the way, stake destined to lodge in your heart.
He doesn't get a second attempt.
Klaus kills his father with his own weapon, unceremoniously and impartial. No emotion passes his grim expression, even as his father bursts into flame, consuming him until there's nothing but dust and ash. Mikael dies without speaking to his eldest child: the only one he ever really loved. He dies alone, his wife dead before him.
And you do not care.
Elijah sits crumpled on the forest floor, too far for you to crawl. You can't tell if he's breathing.
He's not breathing.
"—lease, Klaus— help."
Warm arms scoop you up off the cold forest floor. Your eyes roll back in your head.
And you pass out.
This chapter was so much longer than intended. Oops.
Also since we're at the penultimate chapter, I thought it would be a nice time to share the extent of my insanity with you all. I have kept a detailed excel spreadsheet of Patisserie stats since chapter 8 and according to my elaborate calculations, Kol's chapters are the most popular :) Love wins.
(Yes I know I'm insane)