A.N.: I'm hoping to write each of my TVD/TO stories in a different way. Giulia Salvatore's story is very anti-Klaus; in Sophia's story, I try to shelf my dislike and write Hayley and Klaus as more relatable; this story is from the perspective of a Harvest witch, one of my own creation, and after the first few chapters where she is a ghost, she has little interaction with the Originals, so the story is The Originals, my version, from the perspective of someone outside of the Original family.

I hope you enjoy!

The working-title for this story was 12 Months a Ghost.

Eternity in an Hour

01

Risky Move

"To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour"

Auguries of Innocence, William Blake

Her granny would always talk about the wheel of fortune. Ceaselessly grinding, rising and falling, fortunes altering with each groaning turn. Those at the bottom clawed their way back up with bloodied fingernails and a grit and determined mien that earned respect; sometimes those at the top seeped slowly down into despair, at other times the wheel spun, flinging them off.

The wheel had started creaking again. After months of idleness, the wheel was staring to groan with exertion as it picked up momentum, kicking up dust and churning things into motion, triggering a cascade of reactions and creating the first thread in a rich tapestry of the soon-to-be or never-will-be.

The coven had found a miracle. A staggering snag in the fabric of the supernatural world, a loophole that set fact and precedent off-kilter. A young-woman in her early-twenties, a werewolf with a crescent stamped on her shoulder, and pregnant. She had been wandering around the city for months, watching, learning, waiting, hope dwindling as the coven scrambled to evade Marcel's modern-day witch-hunt. And then the werewolf had sauntered into Rousseau's and hope was rekindled. After months, the witches had a plan – Sophie Devereaux had a plan. And after messing up so epically, she had to risk everything to make it right. To her coven, to her dead sister. She owed it to the niece she had been trying to protect.

She watched the wheel turning, distanced from the violence and the hand of fate, Nature bringing everything into balance. She watched everything, everyone intrinsic to the conflict that had been ongoing since the first foundations of the city had been laid, the European émigrés and African slaves and ancient vampires encroaching on the land of the Native wolves who had lived in and around the bayou beyond memory. A swamp colony had turned into the nation's playground, surviving horrific natural disaster after manmade atrocities, hurricanes, flooding, fires – they picked up the pieces and had to make do with what was left. The New Orleanians had a long memory. Especially the supernatural ones.

To the living, the park looked quiet. Tranquil, especially in the dark. The cicadas were singing, she imagined the air was warm, comforting, strains of jazz from nearby bars drifted on the air, and a lone girl sat on a bench with a Big Gulp and some tiny glass bottles that clinked together as she took them out of the pocket of her sleeveless cardigan. She had been watching this girl since she had sauntered into Rousseau's asking for a glass of red wine and a bowl of Sophie's gumbo, poring over maps of the city, fiddling with a USB-stick and frowning to herself, starting every time the door opened. She didn't know why the girl was jumpy, but after Jane-Anne had sent her out to the bayou, she had every reason to be.

Pregnant, by an Original. By the biggest, nastiest evil there was in the supernatural world. The Originals were the monsters parents wove cautionary bedtime-stories about – behave, or an Original would come to steal you away in the middle of the night, to be their slave and perform spells at their beck and call, to feed them.

She had never seen one before, they were the stuff of legend, of a chapter in New Orleans' history that had eclipsed by the end of the Great War. Their reign had ended; Marcel had swept up the ashes of the burned city and rebuilt what would become his kingdom, ruling from the Vieux Carré, from one of the oldest buildings in the city that he turned into a nightclub every couple weeks and let his 'night-walkers' feast on innocent clubbers. Every local knew to avoid the Abattoir. She had watched a night-walker hand out a leaflet to the nightclub to Hayley as she drifted around the Quarter, talking herself up to aborting her baby.

Of all the impossible choices, this was one she was glad she didn't have to make. As the werewolf with a crescent stamped on her shoulder sighed and gazed into the cup laced with aconite and jimsonweed, she watched on. She had a very expressive face; Granny would say she had no guile. Everything she thought was there to read in her large eyes and pouting lips, the way her cheeks drew in, hollowed, as she thought, biting the inside of her cheek, her lower-lip, sighing.

"Come on, Hayley. One little upset stomach and all this stupid drama is ancient history…"

The werewolf-girl stared into the cup; she saw her recoil, repelled by the scent her heightened werewolf senses picked up sharply, the two poisons combined to cancel out a life that had begun by accident – by the combination of alcohol and poor decisions. Not the baby's fault, but Hayley Marshall's choice.

The hardest thing about being dead was watching, with no way of influencing how things played out. She watched, and she regretted people's mistakes, and wondered how people who presumed to call themselves 'adults' and leaders of their community could make so many poor decisions.

Without its consent, without any reason beyond being the offspring of the Original called Klaus, people wanted to use an unborn baby, threatened its safety, to get what they wanted.

The problem wasn't the baby. The problem was the people who wanted to hurt it. Sophie had nothing to lose, so why would she not stoop to threaten an unborn baby in her plan to resurrect her teenaged niece? To leverage the Original family to destroy Marcel.

The thing was – Sophie and the others had turned their coven into the bad guys. The evil ones willing to leverage an infant, pure and innocent, to complete a blood-ritual for power. An outsider would see only zealous witches set on slaughtering their innocents for more magic. The Harvest should have meant more to that. But she wasn't naïve – a true believer would never have considered the Harvest purely for a stronger power-base against vampires.

Hayley lowered the cup, chewing her lower lip. She sighed, stood, and glanced over her shoulder, frowning, as she heard a rustle. Even dead, her stomach knotted in anxiousness, as a vampire appeared behind her. Hayley's nose lifted delicately into the air, her eyes narrowing, and she turned, recoiling as a vampire's eyes blackened, veins flickering, fangs sharpening.

"You're comin' with me, wolf," he snarled aggressively.

"I have had it up to here with vampires telling me what to do!" Hayley hissed, throwing the cup of poisons in his face. He yelled, his skin sizzling, and Hayley whirled around to escape. Two more night-walkers had appeared, blocking her way.

Her jaw dropped, as something absurd happened.

Hayley started to transform. She had heard of hybrids, whispers of a slaughtered dozen of them had reached the Vieux Carré coven, trouble within vampire-territory in Virginia – linked to the Originals. But Hayley was a werewolf, pure and simple; she had no special abilities, no distinction except for that birthmark she kept covered on her shoulder.

But there it was – eyes darkening to a strange, glowing amber-black, fangs dripping, her filed and buffed but unpainted fingernails sharpening to blackish claws. And the shock on her attackers' faces as she ripped one's throat out… She was too shocked not to turn away, rooted to the spot, watching as the moody girl turned into a monster, taking a good chunk out of one vampire's throat, and turning to the other, mauling him beyond recognition, tearing his heart from the ribcage she had prised open like a tin of soup.

The first vampire, clutching his bleeding but healing throat, panted, "Hybrid."

"Pregnant," Hayley barked, dropping the bloody heart on the sidewalk beside the unrecognisable body. She hovered alongside, appalled, but it was less surreal than watching The Walking Dead. This shit was legit. "And really pissed off." She grabbed the guy's head, and with a grunt, tore it right off his neck. Gore splattered everywhere – it was way messier than on TV! His body landed with a heavy and decisive thump on the ground, his head rolling into a flowerbed, already forgotten, as Hayley's fangs receded, her eyes softening to their normal pretty hazel, but full of anger.

She set off, throwing the little bottles of poison into the next trashcan she passed, long purposeful strides, eyes skittish at the bloodshed, the scene of a murder to unknowing passers-by, wiping her face on the hem of her dark dress and frowning as she rediscovered the Abattoir pamphlet she had crumpled in her cardigan pocket earlier. The Abattoir, Marcel's lair, 'Where the party never ends…' was the slogan for the nightclub; the locals added a little extra, in distaste: '…and the blood never stops flowing'.

Hayley frowned, took stock of her surroundings – poring over those maps she had to have learned the layout of the Quarter well enough by now, she'd practically lived in Rousseau's, after all; Sophie had set up Jane-Anne's spell slipping necessary, undetectable ingredients into Hayley's favourite gumbo. It looked like she was steeling her nerves, drawing on all her natural grit and determination, and set off, stalking toward the Abattoir.

She trailed beside, curious, unseen, wishing she had pockets in her blood-spattered ivory dress to dawdle idly beside the angry werewolf.

There it was – the Abattoir. It was a great name and few tourists ever looked up the French translation – slaughterhouse: it just had a great old-NOLA feel, an unconventional setting for a nightclub but totally in keeping with French Quarter traditions of jazz, debauchery and indulgence, gorgeous and eerie and a little smoky and full of character. Like a great bourbon.

Alive, she had never been inside; a couple of her older friends had, it was Poppy's best meal of the week, and before the Harvest one of her friends in the Tremé had been associated with one of the newish night-walkers. She was disappointed tonight; it was barely eight p.m. and Marcel's underlings were still setting up for the party. She could imagine the place had once been very beautiful and timeless, three storeys in the old Spanish style with open galleries and a great courtyard. She had wandered through the halls and explored the place for months, eavesdropping on Marcel's conversations, learning his ticks, what motivated him, imagining what the huge property had been like in previous centuries. It had always belonged to the Originals; it was their insignia stamped everywhere, before it had ever been Marcel's calling-card.

Hayley stomped through the front-gate, where horse-drawn carriages had once entered and circled the courtyard. Vampires didn't have the same supernatural instincts that had been honed over the last millennium; werewolves could 'sniff out' vampires like Granny could a freshly-baked cake. It was a honed, exact art and a life-saver to werewolves, who preferred to skulk out of sight if an enemy was too big to take down without the rest of their pack. She approached the nearest vampire.

"Where's Marcel?"

"Who wants to know?"

"The werewolf he just sent his lackeys to murder," Hayley said fiercely.

"Someone asked for me?"

Hayley's sharp eyes glanced up, and Marcel Gerard, King of the Quarter, descended a rickety staircase into the courtyard, a smile beaming bright from ear to ear, the epitome of laidback cool. Effortless, sociable, charismatic, he was a cool glass of lemonade on a breathless Louisiana summer's day, and she didn't mind admitting he was something special to look at. She liked him; he treated people fairly. The vampires of the city were his family. New Orleans was his home. He protected both, nurtured both, took pride in both. And until the Harvest, he had been very much about live-and-let-live with regards to the other supernatural communities who claimed New Orleans as their home, their sanctuary. Unless someone encroached on his territory, or broke his rules. Vampire, witch, human or werewolf alike, it didn't matter; break Marcel's rules and there was no help to be had.

"Met three of your friends in Bienville Park," Hayley snarled angrily. "Thought you might wanna send some of your minions to go pick up the pieces."

Marcel gave her a measuring look. "You killed three of my guys?"

"You sent three of your guys to murder a pregnant girl." Marcel's eyes widened slightly, falling to her stomach. She wondered if he was listening; she couldn't hear a heartbeat, but then, she was a dead witch, as a living one she'd had her gifts but supernatural hearing wasn't one of them. She knew Elijah had heard a baby's heartbeat fluttering in Hayley's womb; from that moment on he'd been entranced.

"Let's take this someplace private," Marcel said, in his smooth, rich voice. Hayley gave him a look, and fell in step with him as he strolled out of the Abattoir. She stayed and listened to some of the gossip exploding in the courtyard among the night-walkers, checked on some of them seeking out the remnants of their friends in Bienville Park, and sat cross-legged on a table between two strangers chatting adult-romance novels, watching Hayley and Marcel. Café du Monde was a staple of New Orleans, the scent of fresh pastry and confectioners' sugar mingling with the chatter and hum of the city. Twenty-four hours a day, open every day except Christmas and hurricanes, Café du Monde was a huge tourist draw – especially when Kim Kardashian flew down especially for the beignets on her show. Ugh. But Marcel knew the traditions, gave a visitor to his city the full experience.

"First time eating one of these, you have to blow the powdered-sugar off and make a wish," Marcel instructed Hayley, setting two café au laits – one decaf – on the table with a tray of still-sizzling beignets. There were perks to being King of New Orleans; he'd jumped to the head of the line.

"How do you know I haven't had one before?"

"The look on your face, like you have no idea where to start."

"Are you talking about the beignets or the conversation I thought we were gonna have in private?"

"Ah, more privacy in a crowd," Marcel shrugged nonchalantly. "So, you claim you killed three vampires in Bienville Park. I did have one of my guys send some men into the park. But they were tracking down a wolf. And I've seen my fair share of werewolves; it's not the full-moon, honey, and if it was, I sure as hell wouldn't be sitting back relaxing, buying you beignets. So why don't you tell me who you are, before my guys report in to me from the Park. I know you're from out of town; rules are, you don't kill vampires in my city. That goes for my guys as well."

"You don't kill vampires – but you execute witches on street-corners and run the werewolves out of town," Hayley countered, her eyes sharp on Marcel as he leisurely ate a beignet. If she hadn't known he was a vampire before, she would have suspected he was something supernatural just by the way he could eat a beignet without getting a speck of powdered-sugar on his polo-shirt.

"Well, you know who I am," Marcel said. "You've heard I'm king around here or you wouldn't have asked for me, wouldn't have known I sent guys after a werewolf in Bienville Park. So you know I have rules. It's a new one; witches in the Vieux Carré coven can't use magic. Punishable by death."

"Aren't you curious why Jane-Anne Devereaux used magic a couple weeks ago?" Hayley asked. "You've gotta be curious why Klaus came back to town after so long. He left like a century ago, right?"

"What do you know about that?" Marcel asked quietly.

"I know you shouldn't have sent your brain-dead lackies after me," Hayley said tartly. "I know why Klaus came back and is making trouble. And I know you have Elijah stashed somewhere; I also know why Jane-Anne Devereaux did magic."

"Alright; I'll bite. Why?"

"Me."

"You."

"I'm pregnant."

"I know."

"You know Klaus is a hybrid, right? Lifted some ancient curse? There's a really boring story about how he could sire hybrids like him, using a doppelgänger's blood or whatever," Hayley said, sighing and rolling her eyes. Her bravado and attitude made her chafe; Marcel didn't seem impressed either, but he was curious, and he couldn't hide it. She knew he hadn't been sleeping well worrying about why Klaus was suddenly back – and what it meant for him, his family, everything he had built.

"I heard," Marcel said quietly. "He disappeared a couple decades ago, I never heard anything until we got word he'd lifted the Sun and Moon Curse."

"Load of bullshit that was," Hayley sniffed angrily. "You know, I wouldn't even care, one way or the other, he's a jackass, only, there's a loophole. Now that he's a full hybrid, he can father children."

Marcel's eyes narrowed.

"What're you saying?"

"I'm saying Klaus got me pregnant after a bottle of scotch and some banter over crappy artwork," Hayley said bluntly, her voice dripping with self-disgust and irony. "The scotch was gorgeous; I regret every drop. But the fact is, I'm pregnant and I came to New Orleans trying to find out about my birth-parents. And a witch performed a spell that linked me to her sister. So she could blackmail Klaus into destroying you."

Marcel stared at her, sipping his café au lait, mulling things over before he responded.

"And why would you tell me this?"

"Because some witch has linked her life to mine and my baby's and I'm not about to let some stranger who wants to start a war control my life," Hayley said fiercely. "Elijah told you about Klaus' blood so you'd give him Jane-Anne's body, right? And he did that because Sophie Devereaux had threatened to kill me and the baby if he didn't convince Klaus to help them take you down. I only came here to find out about my parents; I just found out I'm pregnant at the same time someone leveraged my baby over an Original. I don't care what's going on in this city, but I don't want any part of whatever you and Klaus have got going on."

Marcel watched her carefully, his expression guarded but solemn. He set his empty coffee-cup down, narrowing his eyes on her. "You sold him out to his enemy?"

"Who? Klaus? Uh, yeah, he told the witches to kill me and the baby," Hayley said tartly, and honestly, seething with anger. "All I care about's getting Elijah back, and making sure my baby doesn't have any part in this mess. They both deserves better."

"Elijah deserves better?" Marcel chuckled darkly.

Hayley's expression was calm and sombre, like she was disappointed in Marcel. "Elijah was kind to me. He heard the baby's heartbeat and that was it, he was all in, before he even learned my name. He did everything he could to protect me and the baby. So, yeah, he deserves better than to be stabbed in the heart by his own brother and handed over to you like some kind of collateral, insurance that Klaus will behave – because everyone knows he doesn't care; he keeps coffins on standby to put his siblings in. And Elijah can't die. So the only person who was kind to me and protected me from whatever you've stirred up here is lying in a box. Yeah, he deserves better."

Marcel stared at her. "You're serious about all this."

"Would I be here if I wasn't?" Hayley shot back, scowling. "Look, I just want to not be a prisoner in my own life. I'm knocked up and I have no idea what I'm doing, and Elijah cared."

"What's your name?"

"Hayley. Marshall."

"Well, Hayley Marshall, you know I have a rule about killing vampires. But my biggest rule is, no abusing kids. I apologise, for sending my guys after you. If I'd known I never would've put out the hit," Marcel said earnestly. "I guess you should come meet one of my friends."

That was how Hayley Marshall, the pregnant werewolf, had met Davina. Locked up in her candlelit attic like Rapunzel safe from the evils of the world, Marcel had introduced Hayley. They had told her about the Harvest, why Hayley had been targeted by the witches as leverage to bring Marcel down. Davina had struggled with the spell she didn't know, but had eventually unbound Hayley from Sophie Devereaux.

"What about Elijah?" Hayley asked quietly, her eyes dancing toward the coffin shining in the candlelight.

"Aw, you can have him back," Marcel shrugged.

"Really? Thought you were keeping him as collateral so Klaus behaved."

"The only person who could make Klaus behave is Elijah," Marcel sighed, shaking his head. "Won't make a difference in the scheme of things, Klaus's got it in his head to take what I built, won't matter to him he doesn't have the excuse of your safety to ruin my empire anymore. The seed's been sown. Klaus could never stand someone else playing with a toy he got it in his head he wanted; he'd take it and destroy it so no-one else could have it."

"Yeah," Hayley sighed. "That's what I'm worried about."

"Since you said Elijah did what he did to protect you and the kid, why don't you wait here 'til he wakes," Marcel said, glancing from Hayley to Davina. "You three might wanna talk things over."

Anger simmered under her skin as she watched the two girls breach awkwardness and start opening up to each other, powerless to do anything but memorise every nasty thing Davina said about the witches, her family, her friends. And Elijah woke. They talked about the Harvest for hours, until Hayley's stomach grumbled, and Elijah went to get the girls takeout – barbeque from The Joint. Ribs, brisket, mac n' cheese, slaw. Further proof Elijah was some kind of god: not a speck of barbecue sauce on his suit did fall. It was funny to watch him chew and suck every last bit of meat off the ribs, until they gleamed. A vampire didn't need to eat, but she knew a few who loved maintaining the sociability and tradition of sharing meals.

It was only when she watched other people enjoying their meals did she remember that she hadn't eaten in months, and was never hungry. She was…nothing. She felt nothing, not the heat of the shards of late-evening sunlight filtering through the shuttered windows or the breeze tickling through the stifling attic, the smell of the brisket and mac n' cheese and the sweat dotting Hayley's shoulders and Davina's lip.

She listened to Davina talk about the witches.

She had always been taught that witch business stayed within the covens; no matter the politics going on between the Nine, they kept werewolves and vampires out of it. It was the only insurance policy they had for the survival of their shared heritage; when it came down to warfare, the covens took on the tactics of the Cold War rather than brutal medieval Crusades and guerrilla violence. They were above using the vampires and cursed werewolves to wipe each other out. That was unforgiveable.

The other eight covens had turned their backs on the witches from the Vieux Carré, but she couldn't blame them, when Marcel had wiped out nearly her entire coven. People she had grown up around, seeing at parties and special occasions, people she had learned from, people she disliked or adored or hadn't said two words to or stifled the urge to yawn when they lectured at the Lycée. Not all of her coven had been slaughtered the night she was sacrificed, but after that night, Marcel and his minions had started to wage a war against them. Monique's mother was killed ensuring the coven had some way to complete the Harvest, reap some good from all of the awful her sister Sophie had brought down on them when she let slip to Marcel and Father O'Connell what was happening.

Davina was barely fifteen when they prepared for the Harvest. She had watched, for months, amazed by her spiteful cowardice, using their magic to punish their families, their friends. To allow Marcel to use her as a weapon against the Quarter witches, a lot of whom had never harmed a person in their lives, lived with their gifts with no outlet to use them – she had watched, appalled that because of Davina's spite, an unborn baby was being used as leverage over Original vampires to destroy the meticulous balance that kept the supernatural world from tearing itself apart. As brazen and risky as Hayley's actions had been, killing those vampires and marching in to the Abattoir full of night-walkers, she was glad at least that the link was broken. If being resurrected meant her coven threatened an unborn baby, she'd stay dead, and hope the witches who remained learned something from their loose lips, sharing secrets that could be used against them. The vampires had turned something pure and essential, the sacrifice, into something hideous, unnatural, evil. There was no evil in the world, only balance, and the combined actions of Father Kieran, Marcel, Sophie Devereaux and Davina had thrown that balance off, turned her world on its axis and warped perspective. The witches weren't the bad guys. But the way Davina told it, they were. It didn't matter that in not being willing to die for her friends, she had allowed dozens of others to be slaughtered – hell, she had helped Marcel track innocent witches down – while she fostered her self-righteous anger and the boulder on her shoulder.

At least Marcel was clever enough to have understood that having Davina destroy the link between Hayley and Sophie Devereaux ensured Davina's continued safety up in the attic of St Anne's Catholic Church, gave the Originals no excuse to gun for everything he had built.

"I'm afraid neutralising yourself as the witches' leverage will make no difference," Elijah sighed, as he and Hayley wandered down the street. Hayley looked more at peace walking beside him than she had in weeks. The resting bitch-face was strong with that one, as were the exaggerated eye-rolls, but it was all bluster and false bravado. Put her in a sticky situation, and she tucked tail and ran – straight to the biggest bully on the playground for protection. Wasn't that how Hayley had landed in this situation – pregnant by the Original hybrid, threatened by witches. Elijah sighed. "Niklaus accepted the witches' deal merely as an excuse to take what Marcel has created here."

"It's kind of a waste," Hayley said. "Vampires aside, I mean… Witches and vampires living out in the open like this, huge communities of them? Have you ever seen anything like it?"

"A few times," Elijah sighed, gazing around the glittering street. The French Quarter was beautiful any time of year, night or day, in sweltering heat or mist rolling in from the sea.

"And what usually happens?"

"Nature preserves the balance."

"What does that mean?"

"Nature keeps checks and balances," Elijah said softly. "Moments like this shall define the future. Lives shall be reaped, new alliances sown. The strongest and wiliest will survive; the excess will be culled. Balance." Hayley laughed softly to herself. "This amuses you?"

"It's Game of Thrones, supernatural-style," she tutted, smirking. "In the game of thrones, you win or you die."

"Oh, please do not mention the reference to Niklaus. His ego needs little stroking; give him no reason to compare himself to Jon Snow as the bastard with questionable origins and a glorious destiny…"

"You're a thousand-year-old vampire, and you watch Game of Thrones?" Hayley said disbelievingly.

"It reminds me of my youth," Elijah shrugged elegantly.

"Your life was really like that?"

"For the first five or six centuries, very much so," Elijah said quietly, and Hayley's eyes widened. "Imagine the Red Wedding – with fangs."

"Right," Hayley grimaced, her eyes widening. "Anyway, Jon Snow's not the only bastard – and your brother has the reputation of being more of a Ramsay." Elijah chuckled.

"Mm. A reputation he has more than earned, I'm ashamed to admit," he sighed. He eyed Hayley critically. "It was a dangerous thing you did, approaching Marcel."

"Look, I'm still wrapping my head around being pregnant by a thousand-year-old vampire who lifted some ancient curse to make him…not-sterile after a millennium," Hayley said, shaking her head. "Tonight I realised, no matter what, I'm not gonna let anyone hurt my baby. And I sure as hell won't let anyone use it – or me – to justify destroying lives."

"And so what now?"

"Well, there's no way in hell I'm going back to the plantation," Hayley said sternly. "It's a pretty house, Elijah, but…"

"Speak your mind, Hayley," Elijah coaxed gently, a smile flirting on his lips.

"I'm gonna have a baby. Your brother's apparently the one who impregnated me. Now that the link's broken the witches can't hurt me, Marcel knows who I am and that I'm pregnant, the only danger I see… I'm not living in a houseful of vampires, let alone my psychotic one-night-stand who told the witches to kill me and my baby, and stuck a dagger in your heart and handed you over to Marcel like you were a piece of junk," Hayley said, letting out a pent-up breath. "He's starting a war – and it has nothing to do with the baby, I'm smart enough to recognise he's doing everything for himself, for his ego or whatever. And my kid is not growing up the way I did; I don't care if I have to cut out its father to make sure it has a great life. So I have to figure out how I'm gonna live."

"And why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're the only one who's been all-in from the second you heard the baby's heartbeat, and that includes me. I want my kid to grow up knowing that…unconditional love and support," Hayley said quietly, gazing at Elijah. "You're…gonna be an uncle. I guess I just wanna know…will you help me? Even if it means not being King of the Quarter or whatever, if it only means babysitting when I pick up a late shift at work to cover the cost of diapers?"

Elijah's smile was slow and earnest. "Of course… Niklaus will not be happy."

"It's not about what he wants," Hayley said sharply, a little indignant. Her voice softened as she sighed, "It's about what's best for the baby."

"They should not be mutually exclusive," Elijah sighed, and they wandered on. "What he said in the cemetery… He did not mean it."

"He did," Hayley said, with a bite. "Whatever, I don't care; deadbeat dads aren't new."

"He is the child's father."

"And how many fathers has he slaughtered? He murdered my friend's mom – and she was one of the good ones," Hayley said quietly. "After everything he's done, he's gonna have to earn the right to have anything to do with this kid. I won't let him hurt it the way he hurts everyone else around him… According to Rebekah he raised Marcel since childhood – now he's gonna destroy everything he built? Just out of spite or jealousy?"

Elijah sighed, but strolled along beside Hayley.

"So you are determined to do this alone?"

"I'm not alone," Hayley said, glancing at him. "You're here. I couldn't give a damn about Klaus, and your sister's a bitch but she came all the way here because she was worried about you… She seems angry at me for being knocked up."

"Oh, Rebekah doesn't hate you for your pregnancy," Elijah sighed. "She envies you. All Rebekah has ever wanted was a family of her own, a home where she felt safe, someone to love her unconditionally… Niklaus destroys every flickering moment of joy she discovers for herself…"

"And now he's gonna be a father," Hayley sighed, shaking her head. Elijah nodded, and Hayley glanced at her. "So…do you need to – feed or something?"

"I have satisfied my need for blood, thank you," he said quietly. "And the ribs were some of the best I have enjoyed in years." Hayley chuckled softly. "Well… You have stated your intent. When do you propose to move out of the plantation-house?"

"As soon as possible," Hayley said quietly. "I just…don't know how Klaus is gonna react."

"You let me worry about Niklaus," Elijah murmured. "He is my brother; he is my responsibility. And on my life, I well let nothing harm your child." Hayley turned, and startled Elijah with a hug. He stood there, blinking, wide-eyed and caught off-guard.

"Thank you," Hayley said fervently.

"For what?"

"For already loving my baby unconditionally," she said softly.

"Always and forever," Elijah promised, as she let him go. Hayley beamed shyly, and they wandered off, discussing apartments versus shotgun-houses with a tiny yard, obstetricians and po-boys and car-seats and étouffée and ancient Norwegian names that made Hayley bark with laughter, creasing up at the idea of calling her child Hvisterk or Angrboða.

Watching Elijah and Hayley was interesting. They weren't close, but they were like-minded when it came to her pregnancy, and he supported her. He supported her decision to live alone, setting the precedent for boundaries that anyone who wanted to be in her life had to respect. He gave her a loan she suspected he had no intention of letting her repay to put a deposit on a small shotgun-house. Marcel texted her an appointment with an obstetrician in the know that he trusted, and Hayley invited Elijah along for her first scan. Elijah watched the screen, his lips slightly parted in wonder, entranced, and she watched Elijah. Hayley's face was solemn as she gazed at the screen, sighing.

"There's really something in there, huh," she murmured, her eyes glued to the screen. She swallowed, and a look of determination and acceptance and happiness settled on her features, a confusing wash of emotions that came with realising she was pregnant – that she was going to be a mother. That she had created life with a psychotic vampire-werewolf hybrid known as the greatest evil of the last millennium. Indiscriminate murder, manipulation of the innocent, terrorising small towns and taking anything he wanted despite – sometimes in spite of – the repercussions for everyone else.

It didn't matter that Hayley was no longer the witches' leverage to bring Marcel down. The witches had set Klaus on a path to destroy Marcel; he just no longer needed them as an excuse. The witches fought for their coven, for their sacrificed daughters. Marcel fought for his kingdom, the community he had built with determination, charisma and political alliances. Klaus fought for himself.

The other players had the benefit of allies; Klaus had alienated any who would support him. In fighting to flatter his own ego and take what another man had built, forsaking any connection to or responsibility for his unborn child, he had lost the respect of the only people in his life who should have mattered to him.

The Originals had long memories, and ancient history. They were a family who despised each other. Their dynamics were complicated and ever-shifting, every conversation, every act, defining how alliances were shaped that day. There were never any apologies, no remorse for their actions, no contrition – and that was just with each other. The sister spent her time being bullied and belittled by Klaus, coddled and adored by Elijah; Elijah tried to be the supportive paternal figure but allowed Klaus to get away with doing whatever he wished in the hopes he could elicit a change in behaviour. And Klaus continued to exhibit the behaviour he had built his reputation on over a thousand years: manipulative, merciless and self-deluded. The Original family was a festering cluster-fuck of a thousand years' worth of rage, betrayal, heartbreak, jealousy, all roiling inside a powder-keg. No matter the size of the spark, or who lit the match, it didn't matter; the Originals would always rise from the ashes. They were as much bound to each other for eternity as they were to walk the earth until the end of time, trapped in bodies that could not die, could never alter.

Nothing but a very great something stood a chance of altering the very fabric of who they were, when they had been a thousand years in the making.

She wondered if Hayley's baby stood a chance.

A.N.: Hi, please let me know what you think.