#kcfrostedexchange

***

1001 A.D

Henrik tugged on his sleeve, his youthfulness still exuberant, and pointed at the girls who were weaving under the tree.

Niklaus could understand the admiration, as he knew that boys' fingers were too rough from heavy labour to weave as quickly and gracefully as the girls, who had spent time bending their long fingers and practicing. Niklaus could understand the admiration, although his interest lay dormant ; he spared them a glance, but did not recognise any of the girls, and so he did not care for them.

He saw her quickly enough : laughing at something her friend said, their arms tangled together as they observed the flowers a little boy was presenting them. He had never seen her friend before, but she had many and changed favourites often - it was easy for her to do so, he realised, in friendship or in love.

But that was Tatia’s way, and he had gotten used to it.

He caught her eye, then, and she freed her arm from her friend’s (she was blonde, he noticed, with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. They were sparkling with knowledge, or something of the sort, and as their eyes crossed he thought that maybe something had changed. The feeling didn’t last long, though, for Tatia’s touch brought him back).

When she led him to the woods, he forgot that Henrik had been standing right next to him.

When she allowed him to push her against a tree, he forgot all that he ever knew (except for a shade of blue and the shape of an eye, but that he would never tell).

The sun had fallen and the stars had risen when he entered his family’s hut; inside, he found Esther and Rebekah, drinking tea with Tatia’s latest friend. He was surprised, to say the least, and even more so as he realised that Henrik was sitting on the girl’s knees.

That was the day he tasted her name for the first time.

Clarice - which meant brightness, his mother had said, in a language she had learnt before coming to this land.

He sought her out, after that, searching for reasons to do so and never quite managing one that Clarice believed.

The first time, he thanked her for leading Henrik down the right path to the family hut ; this she believed, for it was true.

Still, he was haunted by her eyes.

The second time, he asked if she’d ever been down to the lake - of course she had, this was the place where they washed the tunics and shirts and garments. She had bathed in it, too, but hadn’t considered it for the day.

It was too hot outside, she said, and cool inside. She pretended to think about joining him, but he could tell he had convinced her when he offered to carry anything she wanted to take with her.

There, stripped down to a tunic the color of her eyes, she watched her foot break the water and admired the ripples ; he never once thought about Tatia again.

He kissed her cheek, that day, wished he’d kissed her lips.

The third time he came to her, brimming with determination and his hand gripping tightly on the stems of flowers he had hand-picked, she had tears in her eyes.

Tatia, a practiced pout on her lips, watched him with careful eyes, her tongue whispering lies sprinkled with truth (the best kind of lies, he’d discovered, for they were much more believable).

Clarice never spoke to him again ; although he kept going out of his way to see her, which she pretended not to appreciate.

She died in his eldest brother's arms, neck bloody and reaching for Nicklaus - a confession on her lips, too, that he heard too late.

He never quite managed to forgive Finn. He never forgave himself either.

***

Of course, he didn’t know back then.

Whether it be the vampire side of things, the truth of his parentage, what it entailed.

The depth of his attachment to her.

The years went by, inexorably, as they do when you’re immortal. He found himself some paramours (none with hair just as bright or eyes the right shade of blue - those he avoided), played with humans like he used to play with toys as a boy, and spilled enough blood to flood entire cities.

He heard her voice, once, when haunted by the Hunters’ curse, drove himself crazier to hear it again, even if the voice drove him to plunge a stake through his heart.

The witches they encountered over the years told stories of soulmates, bound together by strings of fate, as a result of a spell cast long ago. When chained and bloodied, already half-dead but hanging to life as much as they could, they would look at him and spit at him, with as much fire as they could, that it served him right.

He supposed she had a grip on him, so long after their death, because it had been the first time he had felt something akin to love. He felt something akin to hate, too, because she reminded him of what it felt like to be human. He loathed that feeling.

To have met her and lost her.

He would smirk, then, and slit their throat. Tried not to believe whatever web of lies they spun. The witches, well - they hated him.

What they said was to be taken with a grain of salt.

He found that the truth had been much harder to deny when he met her again.

***

1492

The smile he wore that night had been easy to wear. It always was easier, when surrounded with so many fine women practically inviting him into their bed. They tried to be coy, hiding their appreciative smiles behind graceful hands, but their eyes always betrayed them.

It had been especially easy that night, for he had sent an invitation to a certain Katerina Petrova who, he had been pleased to confirm, had the same features as the woman whose blood had given him immortality.

Elijah, at the other end of the ballroom, raised an eyebrow at him. This glee, brother, he seemed to say. It’s unusual.

He heard her voice behind him, bubbly and full of a fake innocence like Tatia’s had been. Or perhaps, this one was genuine ?

How could he know, if the soul came with the face ?

He prepared his most charming smile, let his face fall into that of a man he had never been, or hadn’t been in too long a time. He even grabbed two glasses of wine, more than ready to continue wooing the woman.

Before slitting her throat underneath the full moon, obviously.

He saw his brother straighten, mouth slightly agape, shock barely concealed. No brother, Klaus thought, I was not deceiving you.

The Petrova woman asked a question to whoever she had brought with her (“Isn’t it splendid?”), a voice answered (“Far more than I expected”) - no, not just a voice.

Had the curse not ended?

He froze.

He barely acknowledged Elijah rushing to him, gripping his shoulder far more tightly than he would usually dare, offering the glasses of wine to their newly arrived guests.

“Ladies”, began Elijah. They bowed as Klaus turned to face them.

Her hair was just as golden as it had been then ; when she raised her head, he found the blue he had missed so much. She was exactly as she had been, in his birthplace, as she had been when he first laid his eyes on her.

Arms tangled with the brunette, hanging tightly to her friend, a glint of knowledge in her eye. What she knew, this time, he was not sure. Perhaps her eyes had always had that spark, and he hadn’t noticed ; perhaps what she knew was him, the intricacies of his soul, even before they met.

She regarded him with veiled curiosity, a hint of suspicion, and definite circonspection.

He would never admit how much she was right to guard herself, how much it wounded him that she did.

She knew nothing of him - he still remembered Clarice’s favourite flowers, the way she closed her eyes and hummed with contentment when tasting honey. Wondered if she would do the same.

How could he know, if the soul came with the face ?

“Cecily of Forbes”, she said - her name, he guessed. Elijah had surely begun introductions.

He still remembered what Esther had said of the name Clarice, and later in his life had tried to learn the meaning of any name he encountered, learnt Latin and Greek, as many of the old languages as he could.

Cecily - blind of self-beauty.

If Cecily was anything like Clarice, then once again her parents had chosen the perfect name.

She looked at him expectantly; only then did he realise that Elijah had taken Katerina with him, more than aware that Klaus’ mind was bound to travel back in time.

“Well, my Lord”, she said after another second of silence, “if you won’t ask me to dance then you’ll have to excuse me”.

He extended his arm wordlessly, shocked now by the thick Scottish accent he had never managed to get used to; she grabbed it with a tight-lipped smile.

She followed his lead effortlessly, having been taught how to dance, probably since she was a babe.

“Do you not know how to speak, then?”

He chuckled, taken aback by her lack of filter; it was so rare to find these days. Women had been taught, in a rather foolish way (if you asked his opinion), to keep quiet if they had hopes of keeping a man’s company.

Such a shame; such delight that she did not abide by this school of thoughts.

“Believe me, love, most would give a limb to quiet me.”

“Do I disgust you so much that you’ve lost your words, then ?”

She stared at him, one eyebrow raised delicately, daring him to answer.

“Quite the contrary -” he paused to allow her to twirl under his arm, still half-captivated, half-amazed, “it is your beauty that renders me tongue tied.”

“I was under the impression that you found brunettes more to your taste - or at least, that is what you led Katerina to believe.”

He opened his mouth, but the waltz ended before he could retort, and she broke away from him.

“I do thank you for your invitation, Lord Mikaelson, but I must warn you. I distrust you most profoundly, and I am wary of your plans for Katerina. I will do whatever I deem necessary to keep her away from you.”

He watched her turn her back on him, surprised at his own lack of anger.

She would be a complication, yes, but it did not matter. Right there and then, as she had stared him down with fire in her eyes, never once trembling nor showing any signs of fear, he had come to terms with what the witches had said, all throughout the years.

Whether it be Clarice or Cecily, whether she would adorn another name in the future, the soul that inhabited this body of sunshine hair and ocean eyes was tied to his. He was tied to her, no matter the cost and implications.

And this time, he would have her. And he would not let Tatia, or Katerina, or whichever name she would adorn next, come between them again.

So he went into the crowd, following her like a moth to a flame, up until they broke out into the garden and she turned to him, her face molded into that of annoyance.

“I cannot find my friend, and I am sure it is your doing.”

Staying at a reasonable distance from her, he raised an eyebrow.

“I was with you the whole time.”

“Your brother, then.”

“Most probably. He is rather fond of doe-eyed brunettes, and has proved himself to be quite the charmer when he so decides.”

A smile escaped her - he knew it had been involuntary because she quickly turned it into a pout.

It spoke to his endearment that he did not find unbecoming.

“Will you let me try to prove you wrong? Let me walk you into the gardens in the morrow. Earn your trust, if not your friendship.”

“Will you be aiming to earn my friendship, rather than my trust, the whole walk ?”

He dared to step closer, smirked when she shifted to face him fully.

“I will be aiming to tell you all about the flowers. I will be your friend before you even notice.”

A laugh escaped her, although quickly swallowed down.

“How presumptuous.”

“I thrive to be positive.”

And although they were interrupted by his brother and the doppelganger, he swore he saw a smile on his love’s lips, that she did not bother to hide.

Later, he'll learn that her favourite color and flower is the same as Clarice's, that her soul was cut from the same cloth, the one that had made him as well.

He'll realise, when reminiscing, that he had learned of his capability to love someone who didn't share his blood.

He didn't love her right, but he did.

This time, she dies by Rose's hands, who thinks she's exacting vengeance on Katerina. He vows her life will continue and end in terror.

***

It's easier to go on without her this time : he knows she'll come back.

He doesn't know when or where, so the hardest thing isn't to wait ; the hardest is to not lose his patience when he doesn't find her.

He lays next to nameless faces, resists the urge to utter her name whenever he glimpses blond hair.

In the back of his mind, there's a French saying on loop : Jamais deux sans trois. It helps him wait.

He finds her again in Mystic Falls, because everything always goes back to this cursed place.

He finds her again, with a boyfriend whose head he wants to rip off, a nasty bite on her neck he hates himself for, and an undead heart.

Her name is Caroline, and she's a vampire.

He makes threats and promises, grasps onto straws to bring her back to him, however long it takes.

He lets her go after having her, finally, in the woods that saw him discover Clarice.

Third time's the charm.