Really, their story is all about genealogy: Klaus hates her because she's her mother's daughter, because he didn't turn her himself, because she couldn't be his daughter instead; and she hates him because she's her mother's daughter and hatred for him is a thing that is etched in her bones, a thing as essential as hunger.
Of course you could say that backwards. You could say love, instead of hatred. It wouldn't change much
( ... )
She wouldn't leave him. He taught her everything she knows: the manipulation and the taste for fine clothing and finer meals, the hunting in dark forests and cloying cities, the jumping through centuries as though they didn't exist. He taught her to be a phoenix, and to always rise stronger; he taught her never to deny herself anything
( ... )
The nineteenth century wasn't bad, in its grim American way, though it had nothing on the Renaissance. For such a long time Rebekah couldn't bring herself to like America, didn't get the sweeping landscapes and the felt hats, complained that it was dry, passionless. The twentieth, though - she dives into it with unlimited relish. Sometimes Klaus watches her and sometimes he's right there by her flank, drinking his fill with her, because as much as he tries to hide it Rebekah knows he likes her just as much as she does: the clothes are fabulous, the people are treacherous and start talking, spilling their secrets and there is the grit, the bite, the gold
( ... )
(It's like a tacit rule: once in a century, he allows her to go out of her way and try, really try, to get back what she's lost. She couldn't say exactly what that is, humanity or something more superficial, sartorial almost - a cotton cloak that'd be coarse against her skin, to draw out the sweat and blood. And this rule, like all the rules, has another one hidden underneath it: that she shouldn't succeed, ever. That she can come back with her head high or with her tail between her legs - but she has to come back.
Small price to pay, Klaus had said once, about something else, but now Rebekah thinks it's not. )
*
So, that's it? Your heart hurts and aches and you're disoriented, all that for a man, a man who isn't a man who isn't your brother, that's what real love is? It's not a gift, it's not a victory? It's weak and it breathes out like lungs just torn out of a chest? It heaves? It's out of luck? It's raw and pink-red, bloodless, it longs and yearns? Rebekah would like to say she doesn't want it after such a disappointing
( ... )
Katerina Petrova, Katerina Petrova... if you say her name often enough it transforms, goes temptress from innocent and then back to Katherine Pierce. In a way Rebekah admires her, such a capacity for reinvention, such persistent survival. Such force, clinging and clawing her way out of death; it can only mean a childhood fear of darkness, the same question Rebekah used to ask herself before she realized she was truly immortal: what does Hell look like for monsters
( ... )
After the hunt: he's hyper and wide-eyed, clutching at her hip, his fingers tracing ancient sigils on her hipbone. They learned God together. They were fascinated, amazed at the human mind. They took to church because it was fashionable, and she wore small rosaries and he tall hats. Another game of make-believe. They loved it
( ... )
You only guess how it must feel, but I experience it, and to the limit.
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the undone and the divine l Klaus/Rebekah l R
Really, their story is all about genealogy: Klaus hates her because she's her mother's daughter, because he didn't turn her himself, because she couldn't be his daughter instead; and she hates him because she's her mother's daughter and hatred for him is a thing that is etched in her bones, a thing as essential as hunger.
Of course you could say that backwards. You could say love, instead of hatred. It wouldn't change much ( ... )
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Did you just fill three of my prompts.
OHHHHHHH MYYYYYY GOOODDDD.
What a day!!! xD
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Small price to pay, Klaus had said once, about something else, but now Rebekah thinks it's not. )
*
So, that's it? Your heart hurts and aches and you're disoriented, all that for a man, a man who isn't a man who isn't your brother, that's what real love is? It's not a gift, it's not a victory? It's weak and it breathes out like lungs just torn out of a chest? It heaves? It's out of luck? It's raw and pink-red, bloodless, it longs and yearns? Rebekah would like to say she doesn't want it after such a disappointing ( ... )
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