White Blood | Klaus Mikaelson

Chapter Fourteen

1872 — Lourmarin, France

   Seven hours and two trains away from Annecy was the scenic village of Lourmarin. It's nestled in the middle of vineyards, olive groves, and almond trees. With the bright sun, its golden stones glowed against a swathe of green, marshy land watered by the Aigues Brun brook. In contrast to many other villages in Vaucluse, Lourmarin isn't a rugged village perché. It's only just slightly hilly, with narrow cobbled streets spiralling lazily up to the belfry at the top of the village. As scenic as it was, the only reason Eleanor Fraser had chosen the place was because she thought it could inspire Klaus, for his paintings.

   Their stay was at the guest house for the D'Agourn family. The guest house was set around a shady interior courtyard, with seats and flowers and even a small orange tabby named Pippin. It was what made Eleanor grin whenever she came out of her room, to see little Pippin basking in the sun by the foot of her door. She would lean down, pick him up, and scratch him behind the ears as she carefully stepped down. 

   The young vampire was greeted by someone softly calling her name. She looked up as soon as she stepped down from the last step, and smiled at the owner of the voice. Thomas Cummings had accompanied them, much to the dismay of Elijah and Klaus. She had invited him, which added more to their dismay to be accompanied by a man they didn't know that much. 

   "You look lovely," Thomas told her with a grin. "I do enjoy to see you with your hair down."

   Eleanor smiled at him. "It was too much hassle to pull it up," she said. She put the cat down and took a seat in front of him. "It's early in the morning, Thomas, why are you out here?"

   Thomas looked up at the sky, at the small bits of blue that could be seen between the branches filled with green. He let out a soft breath between his lips and smiled. "I enjoy mornings most," he said. "Some may think that it is the night that's most quiet, and it is, but it is the morning that is the most welcoming. The sun comes up from the horizon, the birds begin to sing, and the soil begins to warm up. Flowers emerge from their cocoons, the fresh scent of coffee surrounds us, and the crisp morning fog lightly lifts away to renew the day."

   "That is something a writer would say," Eleanor mused, shaking her head. "That was very poetic, Mr. Cummings."

   "Thomas," he corrected. "Call me Thomas, Eleanor. I have told you that many times."

   She let out a chuckle. "Thomas," she said, tasting his name on her tongue. It was sweet, gentle, like a fluffy pastry, not at all how Klaus' name tasted. 

   Thomas let out a soft chuckle and nodded. "Was that hard?"

   "It was very difficult," she jested, shaking her head. "Isn't there some thrill when I call you Mr. Cummings?"

   "Yes," he joked, giving her a gentle smile. He leaned a bit closer to her and softly said, "You give me the chills."

   Eleanor let her lips widen into a smile, which she hid by bringing her hands up. She looked away and took a deep breath, once again hiding the smile. "You were writing," she said, glancing back at him. There were papers in front of him, ink and a quill pen as well.

   "I was," Thomas nodded. "You interrupted me."

   "I did no such thing," Eleanor grinned. She reached her hand to him. "Let me read."

   Thomas shook his head. "No."

   She pouted. "Why not?"

   "Let me read it to you," he said. He cleared his throat and looked down at the papers in front of him, and with a soft and tender voice began to read: "She loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates it to sublime contemplation..."