Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners
Fandom: The Originals
Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel
Genres: fanfiction, slash
Characters: Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel
Summary: Took place after Tristan tortured Lucien in The Originals 3×03 – I See You in Hell or New Orleans
“Supposed that I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”
Only when he was one step within the safe vicinity of his chamber did Tristan allow himself to release a lengthy breath he had been desperately holding. As if picking a cue, his heart started trampling his ribs like a mad stallion screaming for release. Although he secured the door with a heavy iron lock, he knew it to be futile: there was nothing that could hinder them, those monsters in civil skin, if they truly wanted to demolish a citadel, let alone a well-worn barrier.
Tristan was quite certain he had just infuriated one of those monsters and upset another. Some nerve he had to have betted his life on unbacked threats and faked calmness. Not awfully bad for the very first theatrical act he had pulled. One of them, the murderous younger brother, could have snapped his neck as easily as squatting a fly, and had nearly done so had his elder sibling not intervened. His throat was much sore from the assault and he did not doubt its remnants would be visible for days to come. He should put his mind into inventing some believable reasons if his lord father questioned them − what would suffice for purplish finger-shaped bruises on his throat? He had been stretching his luck, he was painfully aware, and next time might not be so unfortunate. Still, given another chance, Tristan would do exactly as he had done mere hours ago. He wanted to protect his family, he had told them such, and there was every ounce of truth in his words. Lucien had led them into his home − that he was unable to change − so what Tristan could do was trying everything in his ability to keep his lord father and Aurora away from those bloodthirsty fangs.
… Even if that meant Tristan should put himself in them.
… And he had. Again and again.
He sank into the feather-stuffed mattress, not bothering to change out of his soiled clothes or wash his face. Lucien’s blood had turned dark, gotten cold and coagulated on his skin in ugly, shapeless blotches. The thought of that wretched servant clawing at the filth of the dungeon in immense agony somehow brought a sense of tranquil to his frantic heartbeats. He had been furious back then, each strike flying with all his body’s strength and his heart’s toxic ire. God knew how long he had waited for the opportunity to make Lucien pay for his many a crime. For daring to harbor vile desires for Aurora he deserved death, yet that was not the sole reason for Tristan’s long-brewed yearn to turn Lucien’s life into hell. His most grievous sin laid in leading a troupe of monsters through his family home’s gate, jeopardizing the lives of hundreds with little regard. To make matter worse, his sin went silent, unknown even by those who had been robbed of their chance of life in the mute of nights, and thus it scurried beneath public awareness like despicable vermin. And Tristan, despite being a lord’s son and conscious of what Lucien had committed, seethed in the frustration of his own impotence to give the servant his just dessert. Not until now…
The moon was high and Tristan felt he should have gone to sleep − preservation of his strength and stamina to accompany his lord father on his hunting expedition tomorrow was imperative. It would be a long, trying day and the least he wanted was to fall from his horse, making a joke for all the court to see if he didn’t make a cripple out of himself first. One to value mighty display, his lord father had no tolerance for any sight of weakness, especially if it came from his only son. Tristan had learnt it the hardest way at the tender age of seven.
Despite all of it, his eyes, red-rimmed and starting to hurt with fatigue, stared at the ceiling as though there was a magnificent mural worthy of admiration there instead of the monochromatically dull color of ancient stone. He appeared to be waiting from an outsider’s perspective and he might indeed be. He had had the door barred but left the window wide open − expecting something, or someone, to enter his chamber through it, no matter how ridiculous that notion might sound; his place, after all, resided at the peak of this wing, impossible to reach without the use of stairs or ladders. It would take a pair of wings or a lizard’s feet to climb the vertical and weather-worn, moss-covered surface outside to penetrate his room.
And then, as he had silently expected, from the only opening a shadow crept in. His footsteps lighter than the rustle of the foliage when a breeze passed through, the tall figure hastened to the center of the chamber, where the flickering light from the fireplace cast some shades on his visage, accentuating his chiseled features, which were made sharper and thus more intimidating than usual by his underlying menace.
The atmosphere had shifted at the moment of intrusion, heavier and condensed. Tristan’s barely soothed heartbeats picked up its pace once more. The tips of his fingers and toes felt chilling.
“You seem vexed,” Tristan commented without sitting up to have a proper look at the intruder’s countenance.
“Should I not be?” asked the intruder in monotonously even voice. Footsteps were heard and not soon after, Tristan felt the heat wave from another presence encroaching his personal zone. The old bed groaned with an additional weight − it always did whenever having to occupy one more person beside its master. A pair of toned arms were firmly placed on either side of Tristan’s head, supported a torso that was hovering above Tristan’s − barely touching.
Perfectly trapped. No way to escape.
Tristan lay very still.
“After your filthy lies hours earlier? Huhm?”
Breath ghosted warmly over his cool cheeks, and he shivered inside.
“I wasn’t lying,” he corrected. Not rebuked, just corrected. His voice had a slight quiver due to his racing heartbeat.
“Another lie. I could hear your telltale little organ even in the courtyard. Screaming as it is right now. ‘Lie!’“
One hand pressed against Tristan’s chest, the pressure further provoking his heart. It started to hurt.
“Pray tell, what did I lie about?”
“The maiden that survived Kol’s assault − it was a blatant lie! I see to it there’s never any survivor.”
Tristan breathed a laugh. “Always the diligent brother, aren’t you? Never miss a single one.” His tone was edged with sarcasm. “Supposedly I had been lying to deter your brother from interfering, would you rather I’d told him the truth instead? About how I came to acquire the knowledge of your lot’s beastly nature, the lord Elijah?”
The last word had a considerably weaker articulation than the rest because of the sudden constriction in his throat, the reason of which being the sight presented to his eyes: gray veins gathering around the sockets housing a pair of eyes as dark as thick blood. Gone was the mask of man: this was the core of his lie coming back to bite him.
“Perhaps I did miss one,” he growled, his fangs gleaming. “What shall I do to make amends for my fault?”
His hair stood on end at the hint of stubbles rubbing against the skin of his neck. There a major vein resided, pumping blood from his heart to his head. He once witnessed an unfortunate soldier get knifed in the neck and blood had gushed out like a broken dam. So much blood in so little vessel − what a miracle that was the human body. Since then he had held an obsession with that particular image and more or less, driven by it to venture down the abattoir to watch where his family’s lavish feasts originated from. Now he felt much like cattle himself, lying still to be preyed upon by a predator. His eyebrows knitted with the pricking sensation on his pulse.
To be continued