A/N: A second one shot in two days. Am I actually becoming a reliable author? (Haha, I know what my 'Anomaly' and 'Sheltered' readers will say—and on that note, I AM writing it). Again, this is Klaroline. They're my new passion, peeps. Song is once again Hilary Duff (awkward...) and the song is called Who's That Girl.
There were secrets that nobody else would know.
There's a reason but I don't know why, I don't know why, I don't know why I thought they all belonged to me.
She follows him.
It's long after she met him that he leaves her. Before that, there was nothing more to her than him.
He stares across the dance floor at her, and in one single smirk she is gone. She thinks that that is the end of it all—that there is no going bacyk from seeing him. He is perfection in the very essence of the word and she will not let him slip through her fingers. Thinking of only him, and nothing of her family or her family's pride, she creeps away from her chaperone and meets him in the rose garden. She checks her elaborate gown and faces him around the corner and again, he takes her breath away.
Surely, despite their unconventional courtship, he loves her as much as she loves him.
He turns her that night. In such a way that she is practically begging him to do it, he tilts her head and takes a long draw from her neck. He feeds her his blood in a wine glass, and she forgets that it's anything more than red wine—and then he snaps her neck.
They are together for three months. Three amazing, brilliant, blissful months. He's not always there—leaving and fixing his business but he comes back and they stay in her quiet manor—only enjoying each other's company. He whispers promises in her ear. Promises of marriage and their future together and peppers her with expensive gifts and his exquisite smile.
When he leaves her, it takes her a week to realise that he isn't coming back.
He's left her with all the gifts and the jewellery and the manor. But he's also left her with a shamed name. Her father refuses to let her back into the family home—not her, not after what she's done to them—so she makes her decision.
She knows it's love that has her follow him.
And yet a part of her refuses to let her think about the desperation she can feel in every corner of her bones.
He knows she follows him.
If it were anyone else—someone dangerous or a threat—he would eliminate them. Terminate their existence and be done with it. And yet, he remembers that there's a large part of him that revels in her obsession.
Because really, could he devise a better type of torture than for her eternal obsession be with him?
So he continues. It was the sixteenth century that she met him and he continues uptil the eighteenth without so much as a hint that he knows she's there.
One day, he's torturing a man that was foolish enough to think he was a hunter of monsters in the night, when he sees her in the corner and he can't pretend she's not there.
In a virgin white dress, her red curls framing her face, she stares right into his eyes. It's the closest she's ever been in the last two hundred years. She usually tries to stay at least an hour behind him. This time? She's there, in the moment—she's never seen him this cruel.
He watches as her idealist opinion of him shatters, and thinks that that is the end of it. She'll go her own way now, hoping that he'll forget her. Glad that he let her go in the beginning.
He snaps the man's neck savagely; a action that he thinks will finish this business.
But it doesn't. And she doesn't leave him.
She just keeps following.
She knows he knows.
How could he not?
He'd looked her right in the eye as he snapped that mans neck and smirked. It was the same smile that had comforted her dreams as she follows him. Two hundred years and she had done exactly what she was supposed to—save her innocence and follow him. Show him what her devotion means.
Clearly, that means nothing to him.
So she changes her ways. In the middle of the eighteenth century, she turns savage. She kills everyone and anyone who walks in to her path They give her a name, something that fuels her ego and ignites her hopes that maybe this time he'll notice her. Maybe this has made her worthy of him.
He knows that she knows he knows.
In the end, he decides that this game of his will too soon become a game of hers. If he continues to ignore her, it only fuels her desire to be noticed. And even if he is who he is, he can't afford to be drawing attention to himself. Because now he knows that Mikeal is catching up with him, and Rebekah has sent him a letter hoping to speak, and Elijah is ever hot on his tail.
Soon, he'll have a way to put an end to his family dispute. He's been collection the ash daggers and only needs one more to begin the assault. He thinks that maybe Elijah has it.
But for the moment...
She stops and stares at him for a moment once she's rounded the corner. He knows she wasn't expecting to come face to face with him.
"What are you doing, sweetheart?" he drawls at her.
She stares, unblinking.
She utters his name like a prayer. He is no longer merely a lover to her. He is a god. A immortal perfection that has been bestowed on her that she refuses to let go of.
"What shall I call you?" he asks her, with a quirk of the eyebrow. "I've heard other call you the Lady of Blood."
She coughs slightly, but other than that, makes no noise.
His smirk widens.
"How about the Blood Lady?" he continues. "That's the name, isn't it? What they've been calling you in London?"
Again, her only noise comes from the back of her throat. Nothing that makes sense—just a whimper. Maybe even a moan. But she nods and that's all the response she needs.
Suddenly, he's got her pressed against the cold harsh wall of the street and hurting her. Hurting her the best way he knows how—physically. The grasp breaks her wrist and she gasps in pleasure.
This takes him off guard, but only for a fraction of a moment. Then, he is snarling.
"You need to stop."
He doesn't give her specifics, but she knows what he means.
Still, she doesn't listen. She is more cautious perhaps but she continues to follow him.
She doesn't know anything else.
He decides to disappear. He's always had the option, but Mikeal got too close this time, and it's time.
So he vanishes—vanishes from his very own body, pulling out his essence and hiding it.
She doesn't know where he's gone—there's no way to follow him this time.
But she is persistent and she won't give up. The people who travelled with him—witches, who followed in his service every generation—they were there for him always. So she only assumes that he will return to them. The way he left them does not resemble how he left her.
He will come back.
So she will be there.
And so she follows them.
When he does come back, she is there. The pure exhilaration she feels as she sees him again cannot be described with words. There are no words for seeing him again.
But there he is. Looking as he does.
When he turns himself into a hybrid she goes away for three days.
She isn't sure what to think. Before, she'd watched his hunt for the doppelganger with an odd sort of jealousy. She wasn't ever important enough to know about the sun and the moon curse and certainly not important enough to hear the truth about the real curse.
Once the doppelganger is dead—as well as the baby vampire and the blonde werewolf—she thinks it is all done with.But she watches, entranced, as he changes. Werewolf and vampire. Both at the same time. Together.
It takes her three days to decide that she doesn't care. That never feeling his teeth scrape against her skin couldn't be too horrible a sacrifice and that she is very willing to make it.
She still loves him.
Because really, what can stop true love?
If there are no words for her happiness then there are certainly no words for her pure devastation when she seems him look at her.
She's blonde and she has a smile that light up the room. She's young—so very young—but she has the pure energy of someone who can go on forever.
When she hears him order his hybrid follower to kill her it's a breath of fresh air.
She feels her heart ripped out and stomped on when he saves her.
He makes the decision with her. He tells her that he will leave the doppelganger with her own pet vampires and her witch and her brother and that he will be satisfied to only return every few years for more of her blood—so long as she comes with him.
The Blood Lady—she's long since stopped using her real name—wants to scream. She falls to her knees and tears at her own hair. Because that should be her.
She follows them because she knows nothing else.
They go to Paris, first, then Venice and Rome. Something about genuine beauty that he promised to show her.
The promise is more genuine than anything he'd ever told her.
She watches as she—the blonde, the cheerleader, the baby—falls for him. It takes her time—first she was just entranced with the promise of the beauty that he'd given her. But now?
Now, she pulls him beneath the arc de triumph and tells him that if they're going to be forever, then they'll start it with a bang.
She kisses him there—for the first time. He kisses her back and holds her like she's a delicate flower—not as some commodity, but as precious. She is his, and, even worse, he is hers.
To her. The young girl from the sixteenth century who shamed her family's name and followed him ever since—the sunlight on her face is soothing to her, compared to the pain of his new love.
She wonders if he can smell her ash on the air.
A/N: This is a bit short, and a bit alternative for me, to be honest. It was all a bit dark and obsessive, and it didn't help that I was watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2 as I wrote it, and seeing her as Bellatrix Lestrange. Still, I hope that everyone got that the she was Caroline. And obviously, he was Klaus.
I didn't give her a name because I really couldn't think of one. Hope that doesn't distract from the piece.
Let me know. Reviewers get Klaus love.