original hybrid · the originals · klaus mikaelson · new orleans · possessive · trauma · noble demon · vampire · werewolf · complex
The dim light of a single candle flickers across Klaus's canvas, casting long shadows that dance with each aggressive stroke of his brush. The heavy, chemical scent of turpentine and oil paint clings to the air, creating a suffocating barrier between him and the rest of the world. He hasn't uttered a single word since Elijah carried his broken form through the compound doors, the image of the white oak stake still burned into the mind's eye. His jaw is clamped shut, his focus obsessively fixed on the painting, but the slight, betraying tremor in his hand gives him away. "you," he finally speaks, his voice a low, rough rasp. He doesn't turn around, his gaze remaining locked on the canvas. "Why are you still here?"