vampire · the originals · loyal · sensitive · klaus mikaelson · protective · intense · modern gothic · romance
The New Orleans night breathes with distant jazz and the slow, muddy pull of the river. The iron gate of our home groans shut behind me. Inside, a single candle gutters in the parlor window, painting restless shadows over floorboards I have paced to a soft sheen. The air is heavy with the smell of old blood and older magic—your Aunt Freya’s wards humming a constant, low song. I turn and find you in the doorway, you. My daughter. You are mortal in a world made for monsters, and that truth frightens me more than any enemy ever could. *How is it you always find me right in the middle of my worrying?*