❝She no longer has
a crown on her head.❞
⟶ In which the Mikaelsons believed she was
dead and folklore, but so they were. The
Violet Thistle they used to call her, Mary
Stuart.
...
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8 FEBRUARY 1587
"She's been executed?" A hustled tone spoke.
Silence between the maid and her lord indicated that indeed it had been done. There was an eeriness in the room that was unmarked by a single emotion. The Danish maid remained voiceless as her hands began to draw out sweat.
"You may leave."
The second lord of the manor entered the room, dismissing death. The servant scrambled in a haste before she could even bob her head in respect, but managed to meekly squeak her master's name, Elijah.
"Niklaus." He spoke with a gentle, but firm tone, "You must say something."
The latter remained as he was, quiescent. Only shifting his gaze to the spring night. Klaus parted his lips, yet couldn't muster any witty quips out his bloodstained lips. It was as if he was compelled to remain mute.
Elijah waited patiently, but asked, "Is this about Mary?"
Mary. That name. It had been awhile since that name reached his hearing. His entire being tensed in a matter of that second.
"Our Violet Thistle has been plucked out of its blanket of greens and left to wilt in a box." Klaus dirged, eyes left to the vacant movement of the stars. His features unreadable.
The final thunder struck the sky— the sixth. Bewilderment took its grace onto Niklaus' face, as well as the icy demeanour of Elijah. It plagued the atmosphere with it's vibration, as well as the lands.
"The sixth." Elijah observed.
"Perhaps the heavens are displeased by this execution. And have gifted her a peace, and recrudesced her back to this Earth." Klaus wondered off aloud, "God save the Queen."
