Her Majesty // Mikaelson

30 Restless

No Rest for the Wicked- Cage The Elephant

I tossed and turned. I couldn't sleep.

Forever your curse will remain. The witches words trickled thought my mind. So far, her prophecy has been true.

Foolish girl. Mary's sneer and triumphant smirk seared into my brain. Like my eyes were branded with that image of that moment forever. Looking down at me one last time as scum, as an imposter before she met her end.

The ability to endure pain is the warriors greatest weapon. Mikael growled, and I winced, feeling my shoulder tighten. It wasn't healed yet, but I could feel Mikaels loud demands, telling me I needed to be strong to avenge my family's "death". Of course, Klaus never actually killed my family, that was just my cover for helping Mikael in those decades after he showed up. He'd beat me, whip me into shape. I one day was able to meet him blow for blow. The images of dirt and sweat swim through my eyes.

Your beauty could kill, Princeps autem inferos. Pale hair, white or grey but also with a touch of blonde. Platinum, the word sprang up suddenly. Cain's hooded, fire eye that burned into mine with all the intensity of hell itself. The cold tough of his skin, the way he had no heartbeat to signify he was living.

That which gives us immortality, may take it away. The League's many ethnicities and voices, accents, faces, all blurred together into Cecilia's. Her white roses and her sharp, business like features. I still had her coat somewhere, one I intended to give back, but never got the chance. It was at the apartment, I think. Or perhaps tucked somewhere in the guest room in the Mikaelson home. The one I lay in now, that I haven't been kicked out of yet.

Merida, Queen of Scots. Alba's voice. Italian, silky soft and like honey. It reminded me of Italy, and Venice, really. He was pure and kind, innocent really. He didn't deserve to die and with that came images of Cain, ripping his heart out.

You were his favorite long before you got the Mark. Onoskelis had said. Her disgusting breath smelled like eggs and salami. Something I'd never forget, her dark eyes like death and her pale face, framed with dark dreads. Hair and eyes dark that they seem to absorb the light shining on them.

Merida of the Winter. Michael. Not the backstabbing, murderous, Mikael. But the serving boy. Young, happy. That smile that lit up the entire room. It was contagious, if he was smiling, they all were. And even if his lips weren't smiling, his emerald eyes were crinkling at the sides and the light in them shone with all the good light of his soul. Even though he was dirt smeared and his hands were calloused, Michael woke up thinking the day would be great, and smiling at the sun with the same brightness it smiled at him with.

My eyes burned and I open them, staring at the ceiling fan. I couldn't stay here, letting my thoughts consume me until the morning. I stood up, dressing quickly. A plan and list for the day forming in my head. I needed to get to the bottom of Zetrov. Who's leading it. If Mary was part of it. Why they were attempting to end my life, and so on.

My clothes were black, because I wasn't about to wear any other color in this god forsaken city of beauty and death. After all, I've learned my lesson in wearing white and pretty shirts. Plus, I've realized that people take me more seriously when I'm wearing black and covered in blood. Blood. I think I'll grab a snack. The clock on my phone read four am. I pull it off the charger. Then walk over to my closet, pulling from the top shelf my bag and then the white oak stake from it. My icy eyes scan the rest of the weapons in there, and I push aside Cain's sword, removing a foot long dagger.

I slide that into the inside pocket of my coat, beside the stake. Well, Cecilia's coat since mine was ruined by that stupid wolf in Venice. Did she not have any regard for clothing? I suppose she didn't now, as she was dead. I rummage through the bag and grab a lighter from the bottom, not realizing I had one in here. I make sure it has lighter fluid and then slip it into my jeans, adding a pocket knife to my collection I wore.