Who: Niklaus Mikaelson What: Rage, grief, anger, fear. Where: Caroline Forbes Room When: Shortly after hearing of Caroline's death Rating: High for feels, threats and barely restrained grief Status: Complete, narrative.
He had every intention of killing the girl, shooting the messenger as it were. He would in fact do as he'd promised, tear out her heart and feed it to her wolf father. Turn him, drag Katherine Pierce out of his brothers bed and keep her a permanent blood bank. Hybrid armies, laying this city to waste. Lucifer wanted his perfect world, well Klaus intended to blight it.
There was little point to it without her light.
Dead. The world had stopped, and he couldn't explain why. Rebekah had tried to placate him, the werebitch had tried to get aggressive at him. All Klaus could do was fling his computer hard across the room before speeding from the house, the Original Hybrid there were few who could catch him. Not even a blur, practically invisible to the naked eye he sped the distance toward the complex ignoring the gathering rescue workers, newscasters, Solo and that witch that was so fond of threatening him doing something with their various magics.
He ignored the flames. He ignored the smoke and the falling debris. He even ignored the blood. The screams of those calling for help that wouldn't come from him.
He knew the way to her room by instinct, dark and broken as the place now was. And when he got there...
The door was half off its hinges, the place a blasted mess, her belongings scattered. And her body....
Her...
She was so young, she still looked ...
He was going to kill the girl. He was going to tear the world apart. He was Niklaus Mikaelson. He was the Original Hybrid and he would cast off the weakness he had allowed into his heart. It would all burn. It would all suffer and burn because she was no longer here.
He was about to turn away when he noticed it. Such a simple little sliver of wood. She was so dammed fragile and so human. The frame from which the wood had split, lay broken and messy against the side of her upper arm, and as he brushed his hand across her cheek it fell open. His painting. The hummingbird he had drawn for her. The simple gift she had loved. If ever proof was needed that the infamous Klaus possessed a heart, this could have been said to be it. He slumped, weak. So dammed weak, against her broken shell of a body and actually shed tears for the woman he had loved and who he had hoped one day would love him.
For a moment there was no girl to kill. No world to tear down.
Volatile, yes, broken and dangerous and at a loss. Klaus didn't know what was next, what came next. He couldn't see beyond this room and finally screamed to the young girl to get out. She did so promptly and with a sharp intake of breath, hands forming into claws, Klaus tore apart the room. The life he had so loved, the things she had done, the plans she had made. There was no point to it now. Textbooks, artworks, clothing. It was torn apart for pain and for fear of his own weaknesses and for grief Klaus did not quite understand yet.
He could have cursed, raged, screamed bloody murder against the world but this rage was silent. And to those few who could truly be said to know this man. That silence was infinitely more dangerous.