#incyal

[florencessentials]

Florence + the Machine (-Isa) 'Behind Closed Doors' lift gig 2008

[bkgrlrandomthoughts]

Things Fall Apart

Chapter 2

989 AD Ireland

Off the coast of Vodii, deep in the forest there lived a pair of mismatched girls in a small hut so well hidden that it hadn’t been visited by outsiders in years.

A03 Chapter 1

Fanfiction.net Chapter 1

[bkgrlrandomthoughts]

Death, it was the single most potent feeling he had when he saw her. There was simply nothing. No air, no light, no life outside her singular moving frame.

 Was he dying? Klaus thought to check his back for a white oak stake precariously hanging between his shoulder blades. He could feel all the warmth from the blood he drank minutes before drain from his face along with any socially acceptable expression he’d donned previously.

 Time was theoretical, slowing beyond imagination as he watched her palm touch another’s, her feet slide across the marbled floor, her face turning downward as she moved.

“Lyanna” he whispered, so soft that no human ear could detect.

 He was almost too afraid to make it audible- to afraid to call back a ghost he’d so desperately tried to bury in those desolate moors so many years ago.  

 Was this what the end looked like? Was this what had awaited him for so long?

 And if it was indeed death was this heaven or hell? The pain was so exquisite that Klaus was almost positive that it could be nothing else but the worst of all spoken hells. Every description of the fire and brimstone he’d heard the Christians drone on about was now real and the thing that he’d known for so long was probably his inevitable fate. 

 But it was heaven just the same?

 A glimpse of Lyanna’s eyes, it was light after a century of darkness.

 Klaus could feel his feet involuntarily shuffle forward, one step and then another. He was drawn to her beyond conscious will.

 “Lyanna” his whispered again, so hopeful this time. The room around him shifting and melding with memories of the past. Her dress no longer lavender but once again green and pre-tutor in fashion.

 He was back, for a few brief moments, Katherina had never fled and his brothers were nearby. Klaus could almost smell the damp, must from the moors and the fire- it had never happened. His mouth began to twist into the most sincere of grins until he stopped.

 Their eyes met as she turned and in that singular moment of connection Klaus felt his body go cold with caution; his thoughts returning to reality.

 Hannah, Anne and Lyanna, there were three before and now a fourth. Ines’s voice echoed in his ears- “hunter.”

 But it couldn't be. Lyanna was the last of her kind- childless until her last breaths.

 Her back was to him as she turned, and he could feel his fingers reaching towards her in wordless desperation, “Lyanna…..”

 “Do you love me, Niklaus?” She called out to him, taking his hand, finger by finger. Warm to the touch, she smiled, sweet and simple as she led him through the garden.

 Even as he sat lost in his dream, the one Klaus had dreamt so many times he’d lost count; he knew that the moment of horror was coming. Soon his mouth would fill with the taste of ash, the sky becoming so thick that he’d lose her hand in the swirl of blazing greys.

 Only this time he wouldn’t wake in sweat, a curse on his lips. When the smoke came once more, it dissipated into the confusion of music and ballroom candles, thousands of them burning in their eerie brightness, with her face staring back.

 “Lord Mikaelson,” Charles’s aide opened, “I would like to introduce you to a companion of our lord and king, Charles IX.”

 What kind of companion was not mentioned. As he took her outstretched hand, admonishing a quick kiss, Klaus tried to stifle his desire to immediately launch into a series of questions. But when a short silence fell over them, both he and her watching each other cautiously, he could not contain himself.

Lyanna had indeed had no sibling, no child and no relative to speak of but still against all odds Klaus was faced with yet another hunter.

“Do you have a name?” he questioned, half hoping she’d say Lyanna.

In those two moments before she was able to respond, Klaus imagined that every wrong that he had committed in Scrathclyde, and so desperately tried to forget had somehow been unwound.

Perhaps it had ALL only been some terrible nightmare and at any moment he would wake once more in that house amongst the moors.

That was of course until she responded, “And who are you to ask?” breaking the fantasy as the knot that had hung loose around his throat, the knot that he had so frantically been trying to untangle for over a century, only tightening further.

Little did Klaus know Christine knew who he was and more than he could imagine. As he stood solemn and confused pondering a quippy remark she was completely composed. Not from innocence, a naivety that would tell her that she had nothing to fear. No, Christine looked upon Klaus Mikaelson as thought he was the most familiar thing in her life- for indeed he was. Unbeknownst to Klaus he had been her every waking and last lingering thought, ever day over the last decade and more.

She was not Lyanna’s ghost but instead the reaper that had come for the debt that was to be paid. As every hunter before her and those that would follow, Christine had already breached the outer wall of his carefully crafted defense. Only Klaus- Lyanna’s Niklaus, hadn’t the slightest clue.

“Klaus Mikaelson,” he answered, with no offering of title.

Smiling, her lips so beautiful and haunting in their curve, Christine responded, “Christine.”

“No other name?” he questioned, trying to decipher the name of her father, some tangible thing to tie her back to Lyanna.

“Was my given name not enough?” she questioned, pinning him for a moment. They were like to snakes, circling each other, fangs slightly bared.

“I gave you mine…” he responded almost childishly.

“Yes, Niklaus… you did.”

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[bkgrlrandomthoughts]

Warm hands, the smell of incense and him- those would be the first memories of her childhood. In those early years Christine knew nothing of the streets, the city outside, sunlight or other people. The world to her was four walls, damp floors and halls that were occasionally filled with the sounds of music, filtering down from above. Christine spent most of her childhood, living in the underbelly of the St. Hubert Basilica, where she had been brought as a child and where she would stay until she was eight and ten.

 Her only window to the outside world was one man. Over the years she would call him many things, Father, Cyril and him, with a distinct hatred. But in the beginning he was Father, an earthly demi- God that was sent there to tutor her in her mission for the God, of marble, prayer and the Bible.

 During her days, Christine would follow the young priest with his brown robes and soft hands down the long dimly lit halls that lead into strange rooms filled with objects, books and other things that he used for up there- that place from which the music came. Whatever existed above those cobbled ceilings of her isolated stoned village was a mystery. For many years as a child, Christine thought whatever flourished above those chambers was heaven, where God sat and watched her every move.

 She marked her days until she was six by father Cyril’s comings and goings. To her there was no morning and no night. Time only began and seemed to end, marked by his presence and absence.

Yes, in those early years Christine lead a simple life with only few possessions to her name: a blanket, a few candles, the Bible and a picture.

 Wax slide down the candle stick like water, pooling on the wooden surface, edging ever so much closer as it threatened to burn her at any moment. The six year old stared at the charcoal face of a man she’d never met before but whose mere existence had formulated her own.

Her fingers hovered over the sketch, tracing each line. It was just a picture. Nothing real, breathing or tangible about it but still it was enough to inspire endless dreams for Christine. Ones that made her wake in sweat, trembling, calling out to no one in a dark room. That face was as familiar to her as her own. It haunted her both in sleep and in waking.

 “Klaus,” she whispered, letting the last syllable linger on her tongue. Her eyes peered around the room, as if just saying it would conjure him to appear.

 Focusing on the sketch once more, she studied every wrinkle in his forehead, every crevice under his eyes. The man that had brought her here as baby to fulfill her life’s purpose, had drawn this sketch for this exact purpose- so that she would know. He was her soul purpose in life. Someday she would meet this man that she studied. Someday Christine would confront the man that had taken so much from her.

 Her

 The only name Christine had for the woman that should have been her mother: the person that Father spoke of few times but when he did he told Christine stories of a woman who was Godly and obedient. The Father, told her of a mother that was unlike any other, one that was directed by God to rid the world of a certain pestilence. Those few words became stories in Christine’s mind. Ones to rival those read to her from the Bible. Until in Christine’s mind this woman was more unearthly than human.

 She was an angel, warrior of God that had been taken by this man in her sketch.  

 “Klaus,” she said his name again, bolder this time.

 He had crippled Christine before birth; making her an orphan in this world and slave to the church’s crusade against him. And although Klaus may not have known who she was Christine would know him, memorize him and every detail she was given of his existence.

 He was inhuman, unclean and evil and she only a girl but they were more connected than father and child, brother and sister, husband and wife. His existence had bled into hers and now there was no way out. Even as a child Christine knew this intrinsically. There were four things that kept her child’s mind busy during those long periods of solitude: her mother, the Father, God’s request to her, and Klaus.

 Dipping her fingers into the burning wax, Christine scribbled Her on her forearm temporarily branding herself with the memory of a mother she’d only ever meet in her imagination, for it was there only, in Christine’s mind mother had a name face, hands and a voice. All of which that longed to hold her long forgotten child.

 “You are still awake?” he hovered in the doorway watching her as she played with the wax.

 “Do you wait for me?” The Father smiled as she nodded her head. With him he’d brought her food and something else, another book. The volume was heavy and shook the desk as he dropped it.

 While she ate, he read to her part of Ephesians speaking of God’s directives to children on their parents and finished with the relationship between a husband and wife.

 As Christine crawled into bed and he finished his lesson, Father Cyril hesitated when shutting the book and then started, “When you wake Christine, we will begin as we should.”

 Shivering under her thin blanket, she welcomed his warm hands on her legs and thought nothing on his words. In a child’s mind words often collected and scattered holding no meaning or weight.

 “Yes, Father,” she murmured.

 “God expects things of you, my child. You understand that?”

 The heat from his hands and the feeling of food in her stomach, the comfort of another voice was lulling her to sleep, “Yes Father.”

 “Our God is wrathful God. When he asks something of us, we must comply,” he continued.

 “Yes Father.”

 “Do you know what happens to those that disappoint?” his hands stopped rubbing warmth into her legs, prompting Christine to open her eyes.

 Slowly she shook her head, unsure of what to say. She was afraid that if she said the wrong thing he would disappear, leaving her alone again too soon.

 “He punishes them. Worse than we can imagine and he punishes those we love….” He lingered knowing perhaps that she knew no one other than himself and therefore could love no one other than perhaps one, “your mother.”

 Christine’s eyes grew wide.

 “Hell is a horrible place, Christine. Would you wish to send your mother and I, there?”

 The little girl licked her lips, thoughts of her angel falling from heaven, her demigod leaving her forever in these empty halls.

 “No.”

 He nodded shortly approving of her answer. “Go to sleep child, for tomorrow you finish what your mother could not.”

 As he rose to leave, the little girl fought her urge to call out to him and beg him to stay. Turning at the door Father Cyril bid her good night, “Say your prayers child, as I showed you. Pray for your obedience, pray for success and pray for your Father.”

 As the candle continued to melt itself down, Christine did as she was told. She prayed for her mother, that God would spare her soul and not fling her from heaven because of his displeasure with Christine. She prayed for her paper enemy’s demise, for Klaus’s death and she prayed for Father Cyril.

 The last words that slipped from her mouth, in the last hours of her childhood innocence were those that were written on the back of the drawing. The words that Christine always assumed were her mother’s.

 The way, the truth and the light.

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It’s not real… whispered through the back of her mind as he touched her.

 Every movement was calculated, so calculated that she could have timed it down to each second that every undulation occurred. Christine had watched him, hiding behind doubled doors, thick tapestries- endless hours in cramped spaces. As an uninvited guest in his room no less than a dozen times she studied him as any hunter would their prey. In dark, cramped spaces she discovered who Nicholas really was; how he seduced, fed and fucked.

 Slow...steady, she thought, regulating her breath and subsequently the rhythm of her pulse with every movement as she had all those times stifled in his room.  

 Nicholas… she longed to call him. Christine knew him as Klaus, as a series of movements, words and touches all leading to the same inevitable end. She felt like in that moment he could have been Nicholas.

 But his name was Klaus….

 The synchrony of it all comforted her; the knowing of what was next. In truth, Christine hated surprises. Nothing unplanned ever turned out the way she wanted.

 Control, it was the essence of what made her tick.

 All she needed to do was focus and not allow her thoughts wander for even the briefest of moments.

 “What do you want?” he whispered, his words dry against her neck, causing her skin to bevel as though she may be foolish enough to let herself shiver.

 What did she want?

 She didn’t know. What should be her appropriate response? There was a litany of reactions she’d memorized and categorized as appropriate of a woman enticed. But none of them were coming to mind at the moment.

 Klaus leaned in, with such contradiction to his normal pattern. Christine could feel legs, hips and torso distancing itself from her while his breath stayed as close to her as a second skin. It was as though he knew not to get too comfortable.  

 That was what she wanted, distance- just a second of distance. She needed to control her thoughts before they controlled her.

 “Do you want me, Pet?” he whispered.

 Whatever momentary lapse of confusion Christine may have had was broken with that simple epithet.

 She wanted to say no. She wanted to reach for the blade that stayed strapped to the back of her upper thigh and plunge it into that space where the base of his throat met his chest. She wanted to watch him gurgle in temporary pain as blood spewed down his body. But the effort would have been wasted for he’d soon recover and be just as smug as he was now.

 So instead Christine smiled, coy and ready for these games, “Not for a price you could pay,” she whispered back, her wet lips brushing the side of his mouth.

 This was the sport that he played, that he was an expert in. But little did he know that she was an expert as well and had been preparing to kill him, her entire life.  

 He was the fox for all intended purposes and she the rabbit.

 But little did Klaus know that although she may be the rabbit, Christine was not your average leporidae. For her teeth were sharper than a wolf’s and her eye more perceptive than any bird of prey. She could kill without conscious or thought and delighted in nothing more than complete disassociation from any sense of regret or feeling.

 “There is no price that is too high” he responded, quick as the smirk on his face flattened with sincerity.  

 “I’m not asking for gold.”

 Klaus stepped back, his mood noticeably changing from playful to cold, “You never were…” he muttered, the words bitter in his mouth as a lecherous gaze turned to a disdainful stare.

[bkgrlrandomthoughts]

To build a home...

His knees practically shook as he stepped onto the dock. Men were scrambling around him, unloading boxes of goods from the mainland. Their boots scuffled against the wooden docks, their thick Gaelic greetings punctuating the air. The noise of birds, human chatter and men grunting under the weight of the cargo all melded together into a mindless hum that beat in rhythm with Kol’s dead heart. Over five centuries old and his palms still sweat as though he were a nervous child. Looking out into the leaden cold village he knew that he was staring into his future, which was possibly just as bleak and tenebrous as that morning. Somewhere amongst the thatched tattered huts, she was waiting. Perhaps she was she was down at the shore, knee deep in ice cold water, searching for shellfish to sell at the market or cook that evening. Maybe she was still in her dilapidated home, bent over a stove heating food before she started her day or perhaps she was still warm in bed. With some other man’s arms wrapped around her, Lilly could be engulfed in happiness, blissfully ignorant to the fact that he was out there- that Kol was still wandering around this earth thinking of her, wondering after her, chasing her still with his every breath. The thought of it was enough to fill him with both hope and dread. Maybe she thought of him still. Perhaps in the back of her mind, in even the remotest of her random thoughts she still saw him.

 He could only hope.

 Even now, after he’d traded it all- his future, freedom, life, name and identity it was all still worth it. Kol would gladly be Degare Bersierwan and trade his soul if it meant that he could have one more moment with her; only one more second in a world where she existed, even if that moment could only be filled with complete and total contempt.

 Where she would go, he would follow. Where Lilly lodged he would stay. Her people would be his and her God he would follow. Kol was a man of few promises and even less resolve. Only for Lilly, he would bend- so far that his life and existence would not only snap under the pressure but practically cease to exist.

 As he walked into the village that cold windy morning, Kol walked back into his future as a man he only hoped Lilly could someday accept as a friend. He would never be her husband or lover in this life. For his brother’s sanity and his own stupidity he’d sacrificed that right. All he could hope for now was to watch from a close distance as someone that was almost her part of her life. And pray to the God that Lilly believed that his brother would not come.

 Soon he would know what Kol had done to acquire his new face and identity. Someday Klaus would know how little loyalty Kol had.

[australianharold]

honestly tho where are all the farmer!Harry or cowboy!Harry fics, to this day I am still obsessed with Wild & Unruly cause farmerHarry is everything to me. and also that one where Louis is on the run and stumbles upon this lil country town where he gets a job with Harry and lives with him and they fall in love GOD YES

[incyal]

You’ve Haunted Me All My Life- by  thebluefeather

https://8tracks.com/thebluefeather/you-ve-haunted-me-all-my-life

Beautiful playlists made by thebluefeather for INCYAL!!! 

Thank you so much!!!