Inside the stately antebellum mansion, Elijah Mikaelson drinks aged-scotch, riffling through yellowed parchment paper and broken wax-sealed letters next to the sleek apple laptop, on the hand-carved mahogany desk, in the crimson damask covered walls of his younger brother's study.
Although he is freshly arrived to New Orleans off an eleven-hour flight, no one can tell, mainly because he is a vampire, and jet-lag is non-existent, but also because he is another rare being, one who also manages to keep himself unruffled. His black, finely tailored suit is still impeccable, his Italian shoes are polished, and his cuffs are white and crisp, and fastened with the elegant heirloom cufflinks of his family's crest.
He was in Florence, visiting a recently acquired estate and dear human friends, and he had intentions on traveling to Rome for holiday and then an extended stay in Prague, but the last correspondence he received from his mercurial sibling left him unsettled, and he booked the first flight to Louisiana.
He sips his drink, the alcohol burning his throat, temporarily resolving his concerns as he thumbs through the letters. Picking up one from their sister, he reads as she mentions not rushing home at Niklaus's request because she and the bus boy from Mystic Falls are still in Amsterdam, and she can't conclude their European excursion without him visiting the red-light district. As he finishes, he focuses on the heavy footfall of his brother's boots swaggering up the palatial granite stairs toward the imported floral-etched double doors of the front entryway.
Flicking the letter back on the pile, he sits at his brother's chair, and listens to the commotion his brother stirs in the home just by setting one foot into the dwelling.
Servants bustle down the stairs, Marissa and Claude, and before the faithful and compelled housekeeper and butler are able to inform their employer that his brother is in his study; Klaus throws open the wooden door of the study and he is a sight. Shirtless and scowling, he stomps across the threshold of the room like a Medieval Lord, and considers Elijah and looks to the four corners of the room, ruling them empty, and back at his brother, always suspicious, always suspecting. Elijah is used to such displays, and he holds up his glass, "Pleasure to see you too, brother," and he walks over to embrace his sibling when his full attention is pulled to the petite woman hiding behind him.
Elijah nearly drops his drink, the weight of it light as a feather, as he forgot he was holding it at the sight of the witch. He shakes his head slowly at the manifestation of his fear in front of him, and asks, "What have you done, Niklaus?"
Klaus's glower morphs into a sly smile, "You have met Bonnie before have you not, Elijah?
The Mystic Falls witch is barefoot and wearing his brother's oversized and dirty t-shirt, her black curls are tousled and her face is smudged with dirt, and Elijah who is never without panache and grace, stumbles over a response, and he musters a 'hello'.
"Hello," Bonnie says to the man who awkwardly stands in front of her, "We could have met before, like Klaus said, but," She adds, biting her lower lip, "I don't exactly remember much right now; Mama T says one day I will though." She says hoping that will suffice and that the expression on Elijah's face will disappear and stop making her feel she should run far away.
Elijah swallows the remainder of his drink and nods, keeping his eyes on the bottom of the empty glass in his hands, "We have met, and you were lovely then as you are now, and I hope your reason for being in our home is a pleasant one, "He finishes, shooting a dark glare at his brother.
"Such niceties," Klaus snorts, pouring himself a bourbon at the crystal-laden bar, "Marissa" Klaus orders, pointing to the auburn-haired maid with the round-face poised at the threshold of the study, "Show Bonnie to her room," and the maid grabs Bonnie's hand and Bonnie casts a look at Klaus and Klaus gestures that it is okay for her to follow Marissa.
After the door is shut, and Elijah can hear the running water of a bath being drawn, he sits on the plush velvet chaise, his head in his hands and he whispers, "Why is Bonnie Bennett here, in New Orleans? In our home? In your shirt?"
Klaus settles at his desk chair, relaxing into the familiar leather grooves, and he tilts his full glass toward his brother, "Are you concerned that I may be plotting your death with the little witch as you tried to do with mine?"
"Do not play, Niklaus, what are you doing with the Bennett Witch?" Elijah asks, hoping that whatever his brother has done to Bonnie Bennett that it can promptly be undone.
"We were sans a witch, Elijah. We cannot fight a war with a punk hiding behind magic, if we do not have magic as well." Klaus says, huffing at having to explain his actions.
"What about her friends? We do not need the irritation of the Salvatores?"
"Her friends," Klaus laughs, "Her friends do not suspect a thing, per usual they are busy with protecting the vampire doppelganger."
"And what of this Mama T she spoke of, why is it that she does not remember me?"
Smiling wide, Klaus dawdles, shooting the last of the ice from his glass into his mouth and crunching on the cubes, "She doesn't have her memories because before a few hours ago, she was dead. I dug her up out of a sewer in Mystic Falls and had a neighborhood witch bring her back. She does not know who I am, or who you are. She does not even know who she is really." He beams at his brother, happy at their current circumstances, "Today is her birthday."
Elijah shakes his head again, "When she does remember, she will kill us all."
"Possibly," Klaus admits, "But we will cross that bridge when we come to it, until that time, she will assist this family in taking back what is ours," He says, wagging a finger at his brother, "Which is why there is no time to waste, arguing over whether or not I should go after Marcel, when the only answer is that I am."
"This war you speak of, nothing good will come from it Niklaus."
Throwing up his hands, sending paper scattering from the desk onto the floor, Klaus bellows, "For once in your bloody life, can you be on my side?"
Elijah narrows his eyes at his brother, and gently states, "I am on your side, which is why I discourage you to seek this war with Marcel; it is not what you truly want."
He stands, and makes his way to the bar to refill his glass, "And what do I want, Elijah, pray do tell."
And Elijah hears Bonnie's soft voice through the wood floors, and sheetrock, and pipes. She is thanking Marissa for laying out a robe on the bed, and he slowly stands, running his hands over his lapels, "There is no convincing you of anything otherwise, Niklaus. You have made your decision and I will honor it."
Klaus arches his brow, "Running away again?"
"No brother, I am not." Elijah says, curtly, "I am going upstairs to make our walking time bomb feel at home, and I am going to speak with the staff and have them appease her every want, and need and I am going to try my best to remedy the last impression this family made on her."
"Oh, Elijah, always the knight in shining armor," Klaus snorts, gesturing his hand to his brother that he was free to go, "Do what you must, as she is here to help this family," He adds, "But remember," his face darkening, "She is my witch."
BK
Contrary to how Klaus has so delightedly described Bonnie to Elijah downstairs; she is not a blank slate.
Amidst the thick fog of her consciousness, absolutes pierce through the haze like the brilliant beam of a watchtower, sporadically illuminating what she knows. Like how she needs air to breathe, that it is gravity keeping her feet on the ground, and that if she adds the numbers 2 + 2 it equals 4.
And though she can't remember Klaus; she does have some memories. In the clawfoot tub, submerged to her chin in steaming hot water, her drenched hair cascading over the porcelain rim, Bonnie rediscovers pleasure, and a knowing — 'oh, I must have loved this.' She gazes up at the fancy ceiling, the decorative crown molding, and glimpses another ceiling, far from fancy, one she might have stared at for hours. It's not a clear picture, but a mismatch collection of moments.
"Thank you," she says to Marissa, who acknowledges her by dutifully adjusting the terry-cloth robe on Bonnie.
There is a knock, and from behind the closed-door Elijah asks if he may visit.
She nods to Marissa, and the maid hurries to open the door.
Elijah directs a straight, white smile at Bonnie, and strolls into the room, assessing her accommodations, ensuring it is up to par for her stay. "Supper or tea, Bonnie?" Elijah inquires. With only a wary gaze in response, he turns to Marissa. "Could you return in thirty minutes, measure her, and give me her measurements? I'll arrange for a wardrobe to be delivered by the end of the week." He plans with maid, and then adds, "Currently, she lacks suitable clothing. Would you mind selecting a few pieces from your closet for her to wear? I apologize and assure you that your items will be replaced when her wardrobe arrives."
After she leaves, Elijah lingers, ever the gentleman, "I hoped we might talk, but I do not mean to make you uncomfortable, "He says smoothly, gesturing to the four-poster bed decked in virginal white bedding, "If you wish to rest, we can converse tomorrow."
She takes a seat on the bed, "What did you want to talk about?" She asks, her sodden hair dripping onto the duvet and saturating the collar of her robe.
"May I?" He asks, and she nods and stares at him as he opens the double doors and steps out on the landing.
From where she is positioned on the bed, Elijah is hidden from her, but she can hear him when he asks her if she has by chance in the hours since her resurrection had any remembrance of her life, specifically as a witch.
And she contemplates the question from the invisible vampire, inhaling the thick smell of magnolias that rushed in with the muggy night air.
'You are a witch.' Klaus had told her on the car ride through the French Quarter.
But what did that mean for her? To be a witch?
For some reason when she thinks of the word, she sees floating feathers, and she looks back at the pillows behind her and pats down their fluffiness. "No, I don't." She answers, "But I know Klaus needs me to."
Elijah appears from the balcony, his brow creased. "Has Klaus divulged the reason for his need?"
Bonnie squints up at the dapper vampire, who when he talks to her makes her feel how one squirms when they don't know which fork to use at a fancy dinner.
"Who are you to Klaus?" She asks, playing with the ends of her hair, her eyes downcast on the comforter.
He sticks his hands into his pant pockets, curious by her tone in her questioning, "We are brothers. I am the surviving eldest of the children born of Esther Mikaelson."
Her big green eyes hone in on him, "There are more of you?"
"At present there is only the three of us, diminished from seven."
She whispers, "I'm Sorry."
Elijah acknowledges her with a customary thank you, a rote response, while genuinely thrown by the rare sincerity. Closing the distance, he steps closer to the bed, placing his hand over his heart. "Let me differentiate myself from my brother," He says, smiling down at the petite witch, "Klaus will be the one to give you any answers you seek, but my intention, if you allow it, is to be your friend."
"Were we friends when I was alive?" She asks, feeling an unease in her bones.
"No, "Elijah answers, "Our alliances did not allow for amity, but, now, I would like very much for us to be friends," He says before asking for her hand so he may bid her goodnight.
He brushes his lips over her crisp soap scented knuckles, and she is overwrought with a melancholy that was not there before because she would like a friend, someone to genuinely be there for her, a confidante to help guide her through this new life. The sadness sits heavy on her chest because she can't remember ever having such.
BK
Five minutes past three in the morning, Klaus meditates on the second-hand gliding in one full revolution around the face of the gold table clock resting on the corner of his desk.
The Bennett Grimoire is in his lap; the tattered book opened to a page with protection spells. Spells he has seen over and over, nothing original. But also, in his hand is a bill of sale; the stained receipt of purchase of one unnamed Negro boy to Niklaus Mikaelson.
Klaus gulps his scotch, distracted as he runs his finger over his signature of the aged document, recalling the day he had sauntered in to his lawyer's dusty office on Canal Street and had him draw up a separate contract.
Emancipation Papers. For the unnamed boy in his possession.
He had tipped his hat to the stout American attorney and strolled out to the waiting equipage. A tight-lipped servant opened the carriage door, and in the dark of the carriage was his beautiful sister who had hastily asked what the impish smile on his face was about, and he had made a show; pressing his mouth to her cheek, he had pulled out the papers hidden behind his coat and handed the handsome young man sitting across from them his freedom.
Warm brown eyes settled on him and his sister, and he considered the boy and said, "You are my son, and we are descendants of Gods," He grinned, Rebekah intertwining her fingers into his, showing her unity, "From now on you will answer to Marcellus, the God of War."
He finishes off his drinks, agitated over the smiles and endearments of that distant memory, and he eyes the balled-up letter from his sister.
The cruelest of the cold blondes.
They tumbled into a succession of disappointments: his mother, his half-sister, and the one currently cutting images from magazines to delude herself into happiness.
And why reserve this judgment for the women? The men have been equally frustrating.
He walks over to the bar for another drink, and foregoes the glass, drinking from the decanter. And he reflects over his final words to his brother before he ran off to comfort the witch. She was his and he is tense that had to make that clear to Elijah, his own brother. For if he had not, it would be Elijah to gift-wrap her and ship her to the Salvatore's doorstep, even though he had stood in his study and gave his word that he would honor his decision.
Klaus knew his brother, and he did not want him undertaking a war with Marcel.
"She is my witch."
Four words.
A threat, really; which he sadly has to make time after time in order to have his siblings' loyalty.
BK
There are not many unfortunate things about being a hybrid, but if Klaus has to choose one, he thinks it has to be the inability to stay properly pissed.
After downing two more bottles, he has drunk past the point of hostility, and is experiencing that rarely achieved, lifted feeling, that weightlessness that will flee in another hour or so.
He wants it to stay.
He twirls an unopened vodka bottle in his hand, switching to the clear alcohol since he is out of Scotch, and the theme song of the TV show, Bewitched, blasts from upstairs, beckoning him.
He climbs the stairs, strolls to the end of the hall; to where the bright light shines through the cracks of the door frame, and creeps from under a gap, and spreads outward onto the delicate Oriental rug in the hall, and over his black boots, where he stands right outside her bedroom door.