Klaus's POV:
Dawn light spilled across the canvas, illuminating the half-finished landscape with golden hues that matched the pigments on my brush.
I worked in silence, each stroke deliberate, building the mountain range with patient precision. Art, like power, required vision and time.
One month. One month of witches claiming impossibility. One month of nature itself apparently conspiring against my ambitions.
One month of Stefan Salvatore's curious calm in the face of what should be his greatest fear.
I added depth to the mountain's shadow, the brush moving with the certainty that comes from a thousand years of control. My hearing caught the subtle shift in air pressure that preceded a knock on the studio door – vampire senses making privacy an illusion.
"Enter," I called without turning.
Daniel, one of my newer hybrids, appeared in the doorway. His posture carried the proper deference, eyes appropriately lowered.
"The Thorne witch's cousin has refused to help," he reported. "Said the same thing as the others – that breaking the curse completely would violate too many natural laws."
I set my brush down, wiping my hands on a cloth. "And did you explain the consequences of her refusal?"
Daniel swallowed visibly. "Yes, my lord. She said she'd rather die than help create an abomination against nature."
"How tiresome," I remarked, my voice deliberately light. "These witches and their tedious morality. Did you grant her wish?"
"No, sir. I thought you might want to speak with her yourself."
I considered this briefly, then shook my head. "No. Kill her. Make it quick – we need to maintain cordial relations with the remaining Thorne line."
Daniel nodded and departed, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my art. I returned to the canvas, adding a wolf to the mountain peak – regal, solitary, surveying all beneath it.
My fingers moved with muscle memory developed across centuries, while my mind circled a more complex puzzle.
Stefan Salvatore should be desperate by now. The witches' refusal to help break my curse completely meant Elena would remain bound to her human life, valuable only for her blood.
She would age and die, or be killed by the increasing witch attacks targeting her. Either way, Stefan would lose her.
Yet beneath his performance of concern, I sensed something missing – the genuine fear that should accompany such a prospect.
I had known Stefan in many incarnations: the guilt-ridden martyr, the glorious Ripper, the devoted lover. This version felt... different. Controlled in a way that suggested neither humanity's burden nor the absence of humanity itself.
Curious.
Later, I moved through my mansion's gallery, inspecting my collection with proprietary satisfaction. Art acquired across centuries hung alongside more recent acquisitions – some purchased, some claimed from owners who no longer required them.
My fingers trailed along an ornate frame, then stopped at a photograph I'd recently unearthed from storage.
Chicago, 1922. Gloria's bar captured in sepia tones – myself in period attire, Rebekah radiant in flapper dress, and between us, Stefan Salvatore, the Ripper of Monterey, smiling with blood-drunk eyes.
I traced his face in the photograph, memory stirring. Even then, Stefan had been... unusual. Philosophical in his bloodlust in a way Rippers were not.
They typically devolved into mindless beasts, but Stefan had maintained a curious intellectual distance even while dismembering his victims.
The memory crystallized, sharp and clear despite the decades...
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Flashback:
Chicago, 1922
Blood perfumed the air of Gloria's bar, subtle enough that only supernatural senses could detect it beneath the competing aromas of gin, perfume, and cigarette smoke.
The jazz band played frenetically, the trumpet player's cheeks puffed with effort as dancers crowded the floor.
I spotted them first – seven men entering with too much purpose, eyes scanning the crowd with focus. Hunters. How delightful.
"Stefan," I murmured, nodding toward the new arrivals. "It appears we have admirers."
Stefan followed my gaze, a slow smile spreading across his features. "Are these friends of yours? One of the Brotherhood, you told me were a pain in the behind for you, centuries ago?"
"Hardly," I replied, amused. "These are amateurs. Local vampire hunters who fancy themselves protectors of Chicago."
"Shall we educate them on the food chain?" Stefan's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
What followed was less a fight than an artistic performance. I moved with the brutality that had kept me alive for centuries, snapping necks and removing hearts with ease.
But Stefan – Stefan approached killing as a craftsman might approach his masterpiece.
He moved with balletic precision, ensuring each victim saw the deaths of the others before meeting their own end. When the last hunter remained, Stefan compelled the man to walk outside calmly, following him into the alley behind Gloria's.
I joined them, curious about Stefan's intentions. The hunter stood motionless, eyes vacant under compulsion.
"You should run," Stefan told the man, releasing him from the mental hold.
Terror bloomed across the hunter's face as awareness returned. He bolted down the alley, feet pounding against cobblestones.
"Giving him hope?" I asked, amused.
"Hope makes the blood sweeter," Stefan replied, then disappeared in a blur.
The hunter's scream was cut short. By the time I reached them, Stefan had the man pinned against a wall, teeth buried in his throat.
Stefan finished his meal, letting the body crumple to the ground. He turned to me, blood darkening his lips, eyes alight with power and something else – a strange clarity.
"We should leave," I said, hearing police whistles in the distance. "Rebekah will meet us later."
We fled into the night- not out of fear, but out of a need to stretch, after a meal, vampire speed carrying us beyond the city limits within minutes.
I laughed with the exhilaration of the hunt, the pleasant burn of adrenaline, but Stefan remained uncharacteristically silent as we entered the forest preserve outside Chicago.
The full moon illuminated the clearing where we stopped, casting silver light across Stefan's blood-stained features. He seemed transfixed by the moonlight, staring upward with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.
"The moon is beautiful tonight," Stefan remarked, as he settled on a fallen log. "It gets one thinking."
"Does it now?" I leaned against a nearby tree, indulging his mood. Blood-drunk Stefan often proved entertaining.
"I've been contemplating... about identity," he continued, eyes returning to the moon. "What makes someone who they are? Take you, for instance. What makes you Klaus?"
I raised an eyebrow. "An unusual question."
"Indulge me. Is it because you're an Original?" Stefan pressed. "No, that can't be it – Rebekah is also an Original. Is it because of who your father or mother is? No, your siblings share the same mother, and I share the same father as Damon."
I considered his question with genuine interest. "Perhaps it's my hybrid nature that defines me."
Stefan smiled, triumphant. "If being a hybrid is what makes you who you are, then when you create more hybrids after breaking your curse in the future – does that mean those hybrids are also Klaus?"
"Of course not," I scoffed. "I am myself."
"Aha!" Stefan's finger pointed at me. "And there it is. You are Klaus. But if it's about the completeness of who you are – all your attributes together that make you Klaus – then when time changes you, when experiences change you, are you no longer Klaus Mikaelson?"
I felt my patience thinning. "Where exactly are you going with this, Stefan?"
Stefan fell silent, his expression growing distant as he studied the stars. The forest around us seemed to hold its breath – even the insects momentarily quieted.
"Everyone has an... essence," he said finally. "A nature. An inherent nature when it comes to personality, of who they are. An inherent set of what one values that forms one's personality, that makes him... him."
His voice took on a hypnotic quality, words flowing with unusual clarity for someone who'd just fed.
"There are people though who resist it. Go against their nature – not out of their own desire, but out of... ignorance. They don't truly introspect, contemplate who they are, and because of that, they don't know what they need. So all of them, because of it... fail. Fall. Die trying. Pointlessly."
His words stirred something in me – recognition of a truth I'd witnessed across my centuries of existence. How many vampires had I seen destroy themselves fighting against their predatory nature? How many werewolves driven mad by denying their beast?
"Is that the case with you, then?" I asked, genuinely curious. "Are you following those inherent values?"
Stefan chuckled, the sound hollow in the night air. "No. My switch is off, remember? Without my humanity, following that nature is... not easy. Because I can't truly see myself. My self with the switch on is so deep in self-loathing that he drowns in it. Both sides of myself, so long as they can't accept what they are... they will never know who they are."
"Is that your mysterious dream, then?" I found myself asking. "To be... whole?"
Stefan laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "No, that's only the foundation. See, I believe in...A form of predestination. Everyone's path is based on who they are. Their inherent nature, added upon by their attributes, and the natures and attributes of those surrounding them, creates a certain, distinct path, incapable of being deviated from."
He leaned forward, eyes reflecting moonlight. "And somewhere out there – or perhaps maybe here, maybe it's you, or maybe it's me – there is a man with a nature whose distinct path leads to... supremacy. A dominion over the whole world, regardless of class or species of birth. That man would have a power close to that of a god."
"You speak of fate," I observed. "Do you not believe in free will?"
"On the contrary," Stefan replied immediately. "I believe in free will. This path is based on who the person is – their inherent nature. Making all choices from it be out of one's own will."
I fell silent, processing his words. They resonated with beliefs I'd held since my earliest days – that some were born to rule and others to serve. That power belonged to those with the strength to claim it.
"If I am a wolf that dominates the mountains," I said finally, "then you, Stefan, are a hawk, whose piercing eyes see from above. Whose eyes swallow everything, until he reaches with his claws and possesses what he wants."
Stefan's expression shifted to surprise, then he burst into laughter – genuine, unrestrained mirth that echoed through the clearing.
"Did I say something amusing?" I asked, slightly confused by his reaction.
His laughter subsided slowly. "No, it's... quite accurate. But also ironic." He wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand. "Since part of what I want is... wings."
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The memory faded as I set the photograph down, returning to the present.
I moved to the window overlooking the gardens, where Stefan and Elena walked together along the gravel path- today having been one of the blood donation appointments.
Even from this distance, I could see the protective way Stefan positioned himself – slightly ahead of her when approaching blind corners, body angled to shield her from potential threats.
Elena's hand rested in his, her face tilted up toward him as she spoke. Stefan nodded, his expression appropriately concerned. To anyone else, he appeared the picture of a worried lover, fearful for his beloved's mortality.
But I saw what others missed. The tension that should have been present in his shoulders was absent.
His stride lacked the urgency of a man racing against time to save what he loved most. His performance was flawless, but performances were all I'd seen for a thousand years.
Elena's car appeared at the end of the drive, and she kissed Stefan goodbye before departing. He watched until she disappeared from view, and then – a subtle shift. His posture straightened almost imperceptibly, the worried furrow between his brows smoothing away.
For a moment, he stood absolutely still, face turned toward the sun with an expression of such perfect serenity that it seemed almost inhuman in its completeness.
Fascinating.
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"Beautiful day," I remarked, joining Stefan in the garden an hour later. "Though I hear storm clouds are gathering, metaphorically speaking."
Stefan turned, his expression shifting seamlessly back to concerned ally. "Another witch refused?"
"Indeed. The Thorne cousin proved... uncooperative." I studied his reaction carefully. "That makes seven who claim breaking the curse completely is impossible. That nature itself prevents it."
"We'll find someone," Stefan replied, his concern perfectly calibrated – neither too desperate nor too cavalier. "There are other covens we haven't approached yet."
"Perhaps," I agreed, watching him closely. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if we should consider alternatives. If Elena's blood must remain the key to my hybrids..."
I let the implication hang between us – that Elena would remain human, would age and die while Stefan remained eternal.
"There's always another way," Stefan said, his voice steady. "We just haven't found it yet."
"Your confidence is admirable," I remarked. "Especially given the increasing witch attacks targeting your beloved. Three attempts on her life in two weeks – quite concerning."
Stefan's jaw tightened appropriately. "Which is why I've increased security around her. Mara and Tyler are taking shifts when I can't be there."
"Wise precautions," I nodded. "Though one wonders how long such measures can protect her. Witches can be quite... creative in their approaches."
I watched for the flash of genuine fear that should accompany such a statement – the momentary crack in composure that even the most controlled vampire would show when their woman was threatened.
Nothing. His mask remained perfect.
"I should go," Stefan said, checking his watch. "I'm meeting a contact about a witch in Salem who might help."
"By all means," I gestured toward the driveway. "Keep me informed of any progress."
I watched him leave, noting the measured pace of his stride. No urgency. No desperate rush to save the woman he supposedly couldn't bear to lose.
Curiouser and curiouser.
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Evening found me back in my studio, completing the landscape I'd begun at dawn. The mountains took final shape under my brush, the wolf proud upon its peak. Above, I added the black hawk with green slitted eyes I'd envisioned, wings spread wide as it circled.
As I worked, the pieces... began aligning in my mind – Stefan's philosophical musings from the 1920s, his strange calm now, the perfect balance he maintained between concern and confidence.
My brush stilled as realization dawned.
"He's... done it," I murmered to myself.
He had achieved what he'd described that night under the full moon – integration between his warring selves. Neither the guilt-ridden martyr drowning in self-loathing nor the uninhibited Ripper without conscience. Something new.
Something whole.
He had embraced his nature, accepted what he was in totality. The Stefan Salvatore walking among us now wasn't performing humanity – he was experiencing it fully while simultaneously accessing the coldness of the Ripper.
I smiled, genuine admiration mixing with competitive interest. Stefan's words echoed through my memory: "Somewhere out there, there is a man with a nature whose distinct path leads to... supremacy."
I added a final stroke to my painting, the hawk's shadow falling across the mountain where the wolf stood.
Two predators who had embraced their true natures.
I raised my glass in silent toast to Stefan's achievement.
I wondered, does Stefan believe himself this man of destiny?
If he did- then let him believe himself the chosen one if he so wished. Let him walk his path with newfound wholeness and purpose.
In the end, there could be only one god.
And I had a thousand years' head start.