White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

Chapter Twenty-four

1952 — Suffolk, England

   At the age of nine, she had witnessed a girl of fifteen die from the infamous Scarlet fever. The girl was walking towards the tables where they always had their meals, and she stared right at Eleanor, and she collapsed. It could have been the fever, or it could have been how hard she hit her head against the concrete floor. The nuns didn't throw her a funeral for two reasons: she was poor and there wasn't any space for her at the small plot of land they used as a cemetery. Instead, they burnt her body and placed the ashes in a cheap wooden urn. It held to memory of her: no name, no date, no beloved message to remember her by. All that Eleanor could remember of her was the stare right before she collapsed. All that Eleanor could remember of Thomas was the faint smile right before she pushed a stake through his chest.

   To appease both her trembling heart and wherever Thomas' spirit, she did just as she promised. On the ridge of Somerlayton Hall, a mausoleum was built. The exterior was inspired by Italian Romanesque buildings, the walls made of granite and Portland stone, the roof covered in Australian copper. The interior walls were predominantly Portuguese red marble, a gift from the Dowager Empress of Russia, Maria Feodorovna. His tomb, made of granite, held his body and one of his favourite books that he had written. It was Gianni's idea to bury him with his book. Something to comfort him, he had said.

   "Come inside, Eleanor," a soft voice said from behind her. "It's cold."

   "I don't feel it," she responded without looking away from the tomb. 

   "Your lips are blue," the person said with a sigh. Something warm was laid over her shoulders, a coat. "Which is why I brought you this?"

   Eleanor grabbed the piece of fabric closest to her hand and turned to look at the person besides her. "Gianni, do you think he's at peace?"

   "No," he sighed. "Why would Thomas be in peace when he was killed by a werewolf?"

  "I killed him."

   "You gave him mercy," he corrected her. He straightened his shoulders and let out another sigh, eyes moving to the tomb in front of him. He laid his hand on top of the smooth granite, leaving it there. "All he wanted was happiness, and we gave him that. Of course, it wasn't his time yet, but some of us leave early. So, I will change my answer; I think he's at peace."

   Eleanor let out a small chuckle and laid her hand on his cheek, almost as a form of comfort for her. She had seen this boy grow into a young lad, into a man with bright red ringlets and the softest blue eyes. There was a slight stubble on his cheeks, which made him look older than twenty. She smiled at him. "How come you got so old, Gianni?"

   He grinned and laid his hand on top of hers. "Because I had a writer as a father and saint as a mother," he said. "Now, come on, Mother, let's go inside."

   One of the many things she regretted was killing his family in 1872, when he was a small boy of eight. She always wondered what would have happened of him if she never killed his family, if she never took him to England, if he never was killed by a friend—if he had stayed human. There were many outcomes that had appeared in her mind, and all of them held a different life. One of them was in which she never killed the D'Agourn family; they were all alive, all married and with children, their family named passed on from son to son. Another life was in which she did kill the family, but it was Gianni that was never killed; he lived long and prosper, being a son, a brother, a father, and a grandfather to her. They were all lives that could have happened, had happened in another universe.

   Somerlayton Hall in the winter was just as beautiful as every other season. Cold and inviting, with snow covering the edges of the building and resting on the naked branches of the trees. There was a sense of calmness around the cold estate, the only sound being the wind and the gentle snowflakes falling on top of each other. It was a strange and distinct sound, like a child taking it's first breath. The estate was at its most beautiful during the spring, but that was months away, and Eleanor hoped to stay long enough to see the flowers grow once again.