Her Majesty // Mikaelson

5 Terminated

Video attached to side/top is Black Out Days by Phantogram

I hold the dress up to my pajamas, grimacing and throwing it aside, grabbing another and holding it up to my chest, feeling the Royal blue material and lace touch. The floor length mirror showed me how it looked.

The open doorway to my new room in the apartment in New Orleans suddenly becomes not so empty. I hold up the blue dress again, the corset top stopping at the waist where the mesh poofed up and then blew out as it went down. "What do you think? Is blue my color?" I ask my brother in the doorway.

"Depends, what is the occasion?" Francis asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Come now, brother. Be a good lad and tell me if this color works for me." I disregard his question altogether.

"Come now, sister. You know I can't be compelled." He replies equally as sarcastic and witty. I give him a look and finally he rolls his eyes. "Every color is your color, it can either compliment your eyes or contrast with your hair beautifully."

"Or match with the spilled blood of my enemies." I mutter, looking back into the mirror. "It'd look better with a masquerade mask." I add in thought.

"Would you spar with me sister? Like we use to?" Francis asks. I flicker my gaze over to him, seeing the way his hair was pulled back and his old fashioned clothes. He holds up two gleaming swords. I crack a smile.

"The eighteenth century called and wants their clothes back." I reply simply, disinterest flicking across my features. He scoffs.

"Says the girl holding a ball dress." My little brother taps the swords together then shrugs. "Non matter. Sebastian makes a better match." He turns to leave. I gape.

"Bastian couldn't aim at you if he had eight arms and eyes." I retort. Francis turns around with a smirk. "Just give me a damn sword." I demand, throwing my dress onto the bed.

In any typical city the sight of two siblings skillfully and artfully swordfighting in the street would be cause of calls to mental institutions. However, New Orleans likes shows. And at the very sight of my done up bright red hair, fancy makeup and old fashioned dress, the tourists came running. Even the locals, in fact. And as my brother came out with his own fashion, we unsheath our swords.

I was aware of my small shoes, and made sure to make a movement to lift my dress whenever I'd take a deep step forward or backwards. I spin the sword skillfully in my palm. "Come now, you've drawn a crowd." I curtsy to Francis, who held one hand behind his back like I did. Both our right hands ready at the hilt.

"They've come to watch you fail." He answers. I smirk, circling him slowly.

"On the contrary, they've come to laugh at you, dear brother." Without letting him anticipate my movement, I swing forward, and he deflects my blow just in the nick of time. The crowd applauds and hoots, and many of them record us. Thinking it was an act.

Something to amuse the tourists. So much that the street was cleared and we spin the hilts of our swords in our hands. Making taunting moves until finally he breaks rank, swinging low at my side and throwing his body into it. I meet his blow, using my own force to toss his blade tip into the air. "Slow." I scold.

"I'm just getting started." He replies, landing a series of blows, attempting to knock my sword out of my hand but my grip was strong. Like my fist had been melted to the hilt. I catch him in an arch above our heads, then swipe right suddenly, throwing him off balance. Francis catches himself on his palms before hitting the pavement, leaping back to his ready feet. The crowd around us cheers.