*It goes without saying that The Originals – the story and all related characters – belong to the writers, cast and crew of the show. I claim no ownership or association to the TV series titled The Originals. This was written by a fan solely for the enjoyment of other fans.*

Chapter 1
The Originals

"You know, it's funny how often a
person's sharp tongue can end up
cutting their own throat."

– Klaus Mikaelson
The Originals; S02E05

I was a stranger in a strange land.

Trapped in a waking dream. Adrift. A soul at sea, washing onto alien shores; left to manage as well as I could before being drawn back out by the inexorable tide . . . only now starting to understand what was even happening to me.

I was alive.

How was a mystery but that would have to be enough.

Alive and standing on dewy grass, long hair tossed by the wind blowing in from across the river. Behind me the music, the chaos of Mardis Gras.

New Orleans.

I'd never been here before but there was no mistaking it; the city a wonderful blend of modern architecture and old-style Southern influence. So different from the quiet green suburbs and the glass, chrome and glossy dark wood of where I grew up.

I idly peeled the foil of a Twix bar, shaking one of two chocolaty sticks loose.

For my Senior class trip, New Orleans had been on the list of choices but the vote had been nearly unanimous for LA and the chance to meet a celebrity. I honestly had not expected anything else, which was a shame because there was history here and a tangible magic; nothing like what I carried with me now but a whisper of something more.

The possibility of things unseen.

I am a stranger in a strange land –

A burst of drunken laughter erupted.

I didn't respond to the noise beyond a slight, startled hitch in my breathing. I slid the end of the chocolate-coated cookie in my mouth and bit off a piece. Kept my eyes fixed forward, gazing across the frothing black waters of the Mississippi to the blaze of taillights heading east across the iconic Connection bridge.

Three voice. All male.

Another laugh and the scrape of shoes on concrete.

Some of the tension left my shoulders at the sound of it. They'd been drinking, yes, but the mood was easy. Unthreatening. Just guys passing by; too close to the river maybe but that wasn't my problem.

Odd how quickly I was able to adapt my way of thinking. By myself in the night, in a strange city, with nowhere to retreat to . . . I was far less afraid than I felt I should have been.

When did that happen?

I tracked the guys' progress along the river walk, not once looking over, until their voices faded. When they were gone I released a quiet sigh and swallowed the chocolate melting in my mouth.

Even though I was expecting it, it still surprised me – the ferocity of that clutch in my stomach. Sweat beaded my forehead and I hard to force the morsel to stay down. This was not the first thing I'd eaten since the Christmas party but . . .

Days after being launched out of my life into whatever the hell this was, I'd been starving, sitting on bare rock while it snowed and I sincerely hoped those were muscles I sucked down. The sheer effort of splitting shells off the sharp side of a boulder while my hands burned in the cold . . .

. . . whatever fuel my body absorbed was just to replace what I used getting those shells open.

I shivered, a thrill of disgust racing up my spine at the memory. Briny, sandy, raw mollusk.

Greedily, I stuffed the last of the chocolate in my mouth and chewed. Savoring the sweetness, the crunch. My mother's voice whispering in my ear: a candy bar is empty calories. True. But my god did my body ever appreciate those calories.

The second Twix stick I wrapped in its own foil and slid into my satchel, shoving the Black Cube aside so that I could tuck the candy securely at the bottom; saving it for later.

XxXxXx

I abandoned the river for the unfettered energy of the French Quarter during a festival.

Tempted by the scents of hot Jambalaya and citrus, lemon and herbs, the steam of crawfish bakes and shrimp fresh from the harbor slathered in sauces and marinades.

The colorful shine of beaded necklaces tossed from wrought iron balconies while the crowds heaved and surged all around. Music, bodies swaying, passion and heat as if to call down the heavens themselves this place was so absolutely alive.

Lightning forked between high black clouds.

I hadn't expected to love it here but I did.

My school's senior class were idiots. That wasn't news but like any of them were really going to be "discovered" while in Hollywood. New Orleans would have made for better memories.

I stopped by a storefront, the inside dark, closed, and caught sight of my reflection in the dusty glass.

There were bruises on my arms and knees, from scrambling over sharp rock and tough mountain grass. The pins and elastics I pulled from my hair long gone and so was the polished, painted face of my parents' darling.

I looked cold. Tired.

But not half as bad as I expected.

The lovely, crushed-velvet dress I still wore hung like rags off my shoulders. I started to smooth my hands down the front, straightening the limp skirt, and stopped. One ruined dress was quite literally the least of my concerns –

– it was then that I saw him.

Behind me, over my shoulder, reflected in the window. The tall, lean body of a man standing by a lamppost, arms crossed over a tight chest.

N-no. It couldn't . . . that wasn't . . .

I spun around and of course immediately lost him. Between the backwards visual of his reflection and the act of turning, my tired eyes weren't sure where to focus. A float eased past. Tinsel and feathers and the garish faces of exaggerated masks leering down while music blasted over the roar of its own engine.

I had to be wrong but I still shoved through bodies, using my hands to wedge between people. Pulse pounding, vaguely worried that I'd be shoved into the street right in front of the parade; I scanned the crowd on the other side.

Too many faces. People everywhere. A dizzying array of color, of lights, the glitter of beads and drinks sloshing. The entire Quarter was one giant carnival ride and it spun! I had to close my eyes, fighting back the sting of nausea climbing into my throat.

The man appeared as if by magic; materializing from behind the staccato bursts of firecrackers released on the street, wisps of smoke curling in his hair.

There was no mistaking it. None. I knew that face.

Impossible. It couldn't be and yet even in that split-second of disbelief, of frozen denial where my mind churned – there was no part of me that could accept the rational; that I'd stumbled across the actor because no human could manifest the sheer magnetic presence of –

He hadn't noticed me. Blue eyes continued to pass over the crowd. Assessing. A little bored.

Niklaus Mikaelson.

Vampire. Hybrid.

All my life I'd been a realist.

I did love the stories, the innate escapism of fiction but never, not once, had I entertained the idea of what I would do if I met a beloved character. There were no secret fantasies, no imaginings because that's all it was. Escapism.

When I turned to the last page, when the credits rolled, it was just over.

This past week and the pitiless reality of my situation had me reevaluating my concept . . . well, everything.

Our eyes met.

Of course they did. I was looking right at him. In a crowd of thousands, amidst the chaos, I was standing still. A mistake. Shit. I backed into the crowd.

Passive interest sharpened; Klaus came off the lamppost with a fluid, powerful stride.

My heart skipped into a gallop and despite the spring cool air, the rain-teased wind, sweat slicked down the centre of my back following the line of my spine. What now? I risked a quick glance back and saw he was definitely coming after me.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

They say you're never supposed to run from a predator but I doubted that waving my arms and making loud noises would scare away a vampire. He wasn't a damn black bear who'd wandered too close to town.

My hand landed on the soft leather of my satchel, the bag bumping my hip as I maneuvered the gauntlet of the festival. The hard weight of the Cube within a hateful reminder of everything I'd lost, of what I couldn't afford to lose . . .

How long did I have left on that floating countdown? In my mind I could see those ethereal numbers. Two minutes? Five? Ten?! How long had I been wandering the streets of the French Quarter; I wasn't sure. Less than ten. Had to be. I left the river with twelve minutes.

I shoved and shouldered my way through the press of bodies. I couldn't breathe. The crush of people too tight, too closed, hot air sawed in my throat.

Two minutes. Was it two minutes? The Cube seemed to radiate cold straight through the soft lambskin leather of my bag –

– and there was my answer. A sliver of hope.

Evasion.

If I could just stay away, stay ahead of him long enough to eat up those minutes than I would escape. Spirited off to where even the mighty Klaus couldn't follow. There was a power greater than his and it was mine.

I risked another quick glance over my shoulder, ice threading through my veins at the sight of him there. Long, dark vampire following after me with a wolf's ground-eating lope. He was fast in a way that didn't rush, that didn't crowd; an apex predator secure in the kill.

He was also quite a bit closer than I'd thought.

The crowd started to thin; what had been music forced through speakers and the roar of engines replaced by lighter jazz crooning through open doorways. Wrought-iron balconies draped with greenery, the turn of distant traffic lights.

And in my mind a litany of: don't look . . . don't look . . . repeating.

It shouldn't have surprised me that I never saw it coming; a blur, not even that much, and I was propelled off the street. I felt the impact of shoulders, hips, against a solid rough wall and the air punched from my lungs.

I didn't scream.

Knew better than to call for help.

The man who held me pinned in a narrow alley, well out of sight of the street, arm braced diagonally across my chest, was not Klaus. I sucked in a trembling breath.

Elijah.

My god the show really hadn't done any of them justice; there was no mistaking the raw, dark power that coiled right beneath the surface of modern civility. A dragon straining at its chain, scarcely leashed. Those penetrating dark eyes calmer than his brother's savage excitement; no less deadly.

I am so screwed . . .

Klaus swept into the alley with all the flair of a prince arriving at court; the arrogant swagger of youth, coupled with an ageless savagery. Young gods, flitted through my mind and here, at least, the show nailed it.

No. I couldn't die. Not here.

I survived the subarctic cold on raw mollusk, watching glaciers bob in a heaving black sea while in a dress. In. A. Dress. For that reason alone I deserved to survive this.

"Let go of me," I managed to say with enviable calm.

"Oh good form, luv," Klaus responded with what looked like genuine approval. "Did you know too many start begging straight away and where's the fun in that? Right then. Where to begin . . ."

Where, indeed. Ice slithered up my spine, panic creeping back in at the cold, expectant grin that pulled at his mouth. I stared as if transfixed, anticipating the sharp slide of fangs and Klaus' dangerous little smile widened further, showing only flat human teeth.

A tease. A taunt.

He was baiting me.

"Or," he drew out with silky menace "should I ask, rather, if you found what you were looking for?"

Am I all that you expected? My reputation precedes me . . .

I clutched at Elijah's hand on my shoulder, his skin cool and dry under my fingers. Don't lie. Don't lie. I met the older brother's eyes, only inches from mine.

Please, let me down.

Dark eyes narrowed. I held my breath, hardly daring to hope but even if he refused, it made no difference. Frost stung my hip, power radiating straight through the supple leather of my satchel like the pulse of some far distant star.

"You have two options, luv. One, confess all, truthfully, turning in whomever else has a part in what you intended to do tonight. Or two," and here Klaus let the light out of his eyes. Brilliant gold while the veins around them swelled with blood, "well, I don't think you'll like two very much."

As far as threats go, that was fairly effective. My head spun, nausea clawing at my throat. Breathe. Breathe –

"I tell you and you'll let me go?"

Klaus' wicked smile tilted higher. "That's not how this ends."

Of course not. It was a fool's question – exactly the sort they'd expect me to make. I sucked in another trembling breath, willing the pitch in my head to settle down before my Twix bar came back up to mess Elijah's sharp suit.

That would go over well.

I intended to survive this encounter, not hasten my own murder.

"Promise you won't kill me."

"You don't want me to do that," Klaus crooned "because see, if I let you live you'll dearly wish that I hadn't . . ."

Oh, I believed him.

My pulse leapt like a jackhammer tripping behind my ribs and I let the silence stretch a beat longer than necessary.

"I'm alone."

A grip that could pulverize the bones in my shoulder tightened warningly, and with a burst of inspiration, I knew what to do –

"Look, you can torture me until I make stuff up but the truth won't change," I said. Insisting, "I came to New Orleans by myself. I'm alone."

Surprise ghosted over Elijah's face.

"Dangerous to confess that no one would think to miss you should you disappear."

Velvet-wrapped menace in that soft-spoken warning, but also a question. He was probing and it reinforced that I'd made the right call. Klaus said it himself; people were scared of them. Terrified of the Originals and the power they wielded with brutal efficiency.

Music drifted lazily in the night, the wind pushing currents of loose sand over sun-bleached asphalt. It tugged at the hem of my skirts, ominously chill, and I was reminded of bare rock and glaciers in a heaving black sea.

The salty, grainy taste of raw mollusk.

I'd known that I wouldn't survive the cold, the snow, the water. Sitting alone on those rocks, eyes streaming, I experienced a moment of dazzling clarity; and made the conscious decision then to fight it.

Klaus let slip exactly what I needed to do that; be interesting.

Something seething in me roared, a buffer against fear as I held Elijah's fathomless stare.

Klaus' penetrating blue eyes.

"Nobody will miss me," I said to Elijah. To Klaus, "Or else I'm lying to you."

Power crackled like a static charge and finally Elijah noticed. He glanced down between our bodies and I blurted, "Who, exactly, do you think I am, anyway?"

Klaus answered. "You fled."

"Because you were chasing me."

"You ran before I moved," he drawled. "As to who I think you are . . ." the absolute delight on his face promised bloody death by dawn "we'll know soon enough."

They would if I was staying.

Elijah was still searching the ground, my hands, clenched in the space between our bodies, his attention landing on the leather satchel down by my hip. Lingered there. Lingered . . .

Shit.

Intelligent eyes darkened with suspicion as Elijah considered me and I felt him weighing his decision; morbidly, I wondered if I would feel it when my spine broke, the bones in my neck splintering with a careless snap of his wrist.

I'd seen it done hundreds of times on the show. Thought nothing of it but this was real, this was really happening. My god. I could feel the scream roiling in my chest, locked there.

I couldn't die. Not here. Not like this –

– a heavy hand landed on Elijah's shoulder.

Klaus' expression never changed. Thirty seconds . . . less . . . oh, please, get me out of here! I think I might have been shaking but I couldn't feel my body. Couldn't look away. I held Elijah's stare with the desperation of the damned.

Elijah moved and Klaus' grip turned vice-like.

"Might I suggest you exercise restraint, brother. I enjoy a good blood-letting as much as anyone but if there are those who've chosen to move against our family than she is of more use to us while alive."

Not for ransom, no. So that I could be questioned, repeatedly, over the course of days. Weeks. Imprisoned. My head swam with the possibilities. They thought I was a scout – sent ahead to look around and report back. To who? I had no idea.

No clue which drama-of-the-week they were involved in but that explained everything. Their pursuit of me, their line of questioning, it all made sense now. Elijah shook off his brother's hand and leaned in closer, the subtle, heady scent of expensive cologne filled my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

"The trinket you carry," he said right into my ear "what is it?"

I squeezed my eyes shut, fervently praying that these wouldn't be my last words. "I-I dunno. It was given to me. I don't know what it does."

Half truths were always fun. They could hear my pulse but adrenaline had it racing, confusing the accuracy of listening for lies. I let my eyes fall open again, Klaus' face blurred by tears and tried to breathe.

Elijah released me.

That immovable hand on my shoulder removed, and so did the arm slanted securely across my chest. He snatched at my bag, lifting the knotted leather strap over my head before handing it to Klaus who accepted it with enthusiasm.

I pushed off the wall; head stinging where my hair caught on the rough red brick.

Klaus peeled back the top flap of my satchel, looking inside. The bag hung limply in his strong hands, it's pale, cream colored leather soft. I traded my winter coat and I didn't regret making that trade, even though I'd had to spend twelve hours shivering on an icy beach wearing only a dress for warmth afterward.

Because my Cube – that terrible Black Cube – was the most precious thing I owned and it was too big to stuff in a pocket. Too big to carry in my hands. I'd needed a way to carry it with me. And now the Original Hybrid had it and I couldn't stop him . . .

It didn't take him long to search.

I had half a candy bar, a can of grape soda I was saving, and the Cube. I didn't even have a pair of socks, so as far as belongings go it couldn't have been clearer what was giving off those charges of dark power.

It certainly wasn't the pop.

Klaus pulled out the Cube. My entire being seemed to sigh at the sight of it; blacker than the empty spaces between the stars. The color of void. Of nothing. Black so complete that to look into it you felt yourself falling forward – there was too little for your eyes to focus on, you brought perspective by observing the world around the box.

Gave it shape by the line it left against Klaus' navy sweater, the painted plaster of the building behind him. The pale, deathly pale in comparison, curl of his fingers. The palm it rested on.

"You're wrong, you know," I blurted, not even trying to hide the waver in my tone. "There's a third option."

Thirty seconds . . . thirty . . . how long ago? Ten seconds . . . I'd lost track but as tiny ethereal lights began to float to the surface I knew. Now.

A touch of bewildered amusement on Klaus' face, he let my satchel drop to the ground holding it now only by its strap. My Cube a curiosity, something that in a millennia of experience he'd never seen before.

I lunged! Outstretched hands aching to make contact with that Cube. The sides of it glistening with stars, so many stars, each a fiery little light. When those lights coalesced in the centre the Cube would leave, with or without me.

What happened next happened so fast I would never clearly remember it.

Hard arms closed around my body.

Ice tingled through my palms.

I hurtled forward, drawn in the wake of an implosion like a sun collapsing into itself – something new. A body. A presence. My head full of scents of leather and denim, pine resin, brandy, wolf musk. No.

Oh, my god no . . .

Klaus.

Klaus still held the Cube.