A/N: HELLO EVERYONE. So, this is AU, obviously, we're pretending that at the end of S2, Davina brought back Kol—instead of Esther. So, she's still Regent and everything in S3 has yet to happen. Also, I included this in the TVD-verse due to Kol's heavy involvement in it. Davina, of course, will be absolutely relevant—but she's not so much important, as Kol's personal backstory is.

THANKS SO MUCH AND ENJOY

-Fel

"It's always the same dream." Kol began to tell the young witch before him. "I'm standing on top of this hill…and beneath me is this incredibly vast landscape. I'm tellin' ya, love, it's like the whole world is out there—there's rivers, forests, a lake or two, and in the distance—if you just squint a wee bit to the west—you can see a teeny city out there in the horizon. But then, I turn around and there's—

A she-wolf on top of a mound—her fangs dripping with bright, crimson blood. There were twelve bodies lying around her in a circle. All of them were dead with their necks slit in the same exact manner and their hearts were all seemingly missing, only indicated from the massive hole within their chests. And while that's strange enough as it is, their arms are outstretched to one another as if they were attempting to measure with the fathom of their arm-span.

"And what's the wolf doing?" The girl was looking intently down into her teacup, waiting for the leaves to take shape.

"Well, nothing so far as I can tell. She's looks pretty menacing, mind you, with all her blood and teeth, but she disappears—the bodies with her. There's like a time jump, or some sort of topsy-turvy twist, because then—

It's snowing like God decided to dump his supply of base from the bloody heavens. The blizzard is blinding, but yet, I know I have nothing to fear… So, despite not being able to see a damn thing, I start to walk down this hill. I trip, fall, and face plant—like some washed wanker—and then, I can't get up. No, I don't want to get up. I lay there, knowing the whole time, I'm going to drown in this snow, but it doesn't bother me…

"What happened to the bodies?" The witch had seemingly come to a unanimous decision about what she had seen in the cup.

"What do you mean 'what happened to the bodies?' Why is that at all relevant, love?" Kol looked on that beautiful woman with an incredulous expression. "Weren't you listening? They're gone—

Disappeared. Just like my body within the heavy waves of snow. And then…then… I see her.

"Her?"

Kol gave a heavy sigh, before running a hand through his hair. "Yes, her—

She's like all you pretty little witches: stunning, sharp, with wickedly bright eyes… But I don't get to look at her for too long, because as soon as she's pulled me out of the bloody snow. She's on her knees, bent over the body of a man, and her face… Her face is torn apart—literally, contorting in every direction while she's bloody screaming her heart out. There are tears streaming down her face, blood spouting out of her nose, and her body is physically convulsing as if she can't digest this single, monumental notion that the man before her is dead… "Cian! CIANNN! NOOO!"

"Do you know her?"

"I did…centuries ago."

"What happened to her?" A smile that was crooked as the Shannon River that ran through the heart of the Irish countryside. A wild laugh. A flash of luminous green eyes. A whisper of dimly-strung together words: 'remember who you are…' Blood, entrails, etc., etc. "She died." He answered tersely, a firm crease forming on his brow. "Why does that matter—I thought the thing about you tasseographers was that you could know all this by looking at your little tea leaves."

Celestine, the lovely young witch before him, looked up from the brim of her tea cup with a glare that could have lit a puppy on fire. "What did I tell you at the beginning? I get premonitions, visions, accurate intuitions, but the more information the better." She sat back and submitted a heavy sigh for the rest of her conversation—as if that sigh answered everything Kol could ever want to know. It didn't, but he kept his tongue from saying something smart.

"The dream's simple, to a degree." She began, leaning forward on the table, placing her elbows on the table and tucking her hands around the back of her neck. "The fact that it's repetitive could mean someone is trying to contact you through an allegorical dream vision, but then again, it could be part of your dormant warlock subconscious warning you of something."

Kol frowned deeply at that. A warning? "And just what would my sleepy warlock soul have to tell me, darling?"

"The wolf, the bodies, the screaming woman—" she stopped talking to light a cigarette with her finger, pressing the so-called 'cancer stick' to her bright red lips—"these are classic signposts in intense forewarning visions. We call them magnifiers. They can contort themselves to fit the mind of the person they're intended for."

"Love, why don't you just skip to the part where you tell me what it means?"

Celestine looked unreasonably annoyed to have had her dialogue cut short, but instead of saying anything else, she grabbed the small ivory-colored up and flipped it on its side so Kol could see. "What does that look like to you?"

In over 1,000 years, Kol had born witness to terrible, unthinkable things. He had partaken in these said 'unthinkable' acts, but never in a 1,000 years, was he prepared for the grainy little image at the bottom of the cup. A moon—with a great beast wrapped around it, as if it intended to swallow it. His blood ran ice cold. "Sickness." He said softly.

"Worse than that, love, fatal sickness. Someone wants to swallow your world up, and leave you with nothing."

Charlie knew it was late. The moon was full—the werewolves—if there were any left out in the Bayou—would be hungry. And if his mom found out he was sneaking around the Ninth Ward in the middle of the night, she'd, as she would so poignantly say, whoop his ass.' But he couldn't miss seeing Chris—he had to see him, especially on tonight, of all nights.

Life up to that point hadn't been great. Katrina had taken everything from his family: their house, their car—even Binx, the family dog. When it was all said and done, his mom had to work three jobs, his older brother, Sean, had to drop out of college to come home and help in any way he could. Everything went to shit…that is, until he met Chris.

You must be Chris—one of Marcel's vampires, right? Charlie smiled to himself as he thought of that night—Jesus, that magical, wonderful, miraculous night he had met Christopher—exactly one year ago from the date. It had been something out of a movie, in his opinion. They talked long after Marcel Gerard's party had ended, taking the early morning hours to walk around the Garden District—stealing past the huge houses on Magazine St.—laughing not in drunken delight (although, they both had had a lot to drink), but in glorious freefall of mutual understanding. At dawn, it had ended with a dizzying, beautiful kiss.

Although, Chris would have made fun of him for being so 'damn sappy' over the whole ordeal. Oh, get over it, Christopher, I'm a warlock. It's my job to be overly attuned to my feelings. But it was so much more than that—it wasn't just 'sap.' Charlie had come to treasure that night above all things in his life: to him, it was his rock, his foundation, and much to his fortune, his newly instilled reality.

That's why—this night—their anniversary of not even 'dating,' but meeting was so important. And when he saw Chris standing there in the Lafayette Cemetery, caught in a glittering shaft of moonlight like some Greek god, he was pretty sure he lost all ability to breathe. "Chris…" He whispered from the entrance—knowing his boyfriend's vampiric hearing would pick up on his voice instantly.

Chris turned sharply to see Charlie standing there, a small smile pulling across his full lips. In a flash, he stood before the frizzy-haired warlock, cupping his face in his hands. "I missed you." He spoke in such a tender voice, Charlie felt as if he might melt right between his fingers.

"Prove it." Charlie found himself saying with such a bold tone. He felt a smile pull at his own lips—the one Chris would always make fun of his teeth's front gap, but Charlie couldn't help it. He was happy.

Chris didn't hesitate to answer his boyfriend's request as he smashed his beautifully-carved lips against his. And it would seem dumb to anyone who wasn't them, but Charlie feltas if his spirit moved when Chris kissed him, then, and all the other times before that. It was one of those rare things in life—like your favorite movie, your favorite pair of pants, or a warm cup of coffee on a cold morning—that would never, ever get old.

Yet, the two lovers weren't alone. Charlie could feel it suddenly in his bones—a coldness, a darkness. He pulled his lips from Chris'—he knew his boyfriend felt it, too—and he turned sharply, lighting his hands with a dangerous magical fire, as he did. Chris' eyes vamped out and he visibly took a step in front of Charlie, the protective, murderous instinct kicking in. But there was nothing—at least, not that the naked eye could see.

"Ipsum revelare!" Charlie screamed the spell into the still night air. The space around them crackled and lit with the spell's power, while the Ancestor's whispers shaking the very earth they stood on them. But the uncloaking spell seemed to do nothing to reveal the threat the boys both felt.

"What is it, Charles?" Chris' crisp Scottish accent cut the air cleanly.

"I-I… I don't know. I can't see—AHHHHHHH!" Charlie had dropped to his knees, writhing around the ground. His veins—usually softly aglow with the use of natural New Orleans' magic—were red like literal fire had begun to burn through his body.

"What…? Wait—Charles… No. No. Charlie! Darlin'!" Chris stumbled over words, unable to form anything coherent over his rising sense of panic. What was happening to him?! "HELP!" He screamed into the night while he brought his lover's writing body close to him. "SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!"

Davina Claire paced along the wooden floor outside of Charlie Martin's bedroom. Her green eyes were worried, tired, and restless. And with good reason. She was Regent of the Nine Covens—if something happened to that kid, it would be on her. So, yeah, it was scary. But it wasn't just about the accountability of the matter: Charlie was her friend. He had been since they were kids.

"Okay, tell me again, Chris—what happened?" Davina asked sharply, looking up at the desolate-faced lover of Charlie.

He heavily sighed and wiped away a tear that was beginning to glisten in his eye. "I told ya', princess, I was kissin' him…and he…just fell onto the bloody ground—screamin' his fuckin' head off like someone had cut his heart out."

Davina ignored the nickname 'princess'—a nickname she had been dubbed by all of Marcel's vampires due to her high-esteemed position as his adopted witch daughter. All of them except Josh, of course (who had reverted to calling her, instead, his "pocket BAMF"). Names and things aside, she doubted that was it. Warlocks, powerful ones like Charlie, didn't just fall onto their knees and start screaming.

"Are you that bad of a kisser, Harken? You kiss a boy and he starts throwing a fucking fit?" One of Chris' vamp friends joked who sat beside him.

"Aye, motherfucker, bug the fuck off it, will ya'?" Chris snapped back with a pained expression. Davina felt a pang of pity for the kid. He was new, but a typical recruit for Marcel's guys: family was vacationing from Edinburgh, he had a bit too much to drink, and suddenly, he winds up in the Compound with a bad headache and an even more serious toothache.

"Assholes, I need you to focus." Davina snapped deliberately. She knew it was harsh, but she needed information if she wanted to save her friend. "Did Charlie perform magic beforehand? You were kissing him, sure, but what was he doing?"

"Augh, darlin', I…" Chris shoved his face into his hands deep in merciless thought. "Yes, he… He seemed to think there was someone behind him. He did this sort of uncloaking spell, I think, and when he didn't find anything… I thought the coast was clear as day, Davina darlin', but I was wrong…"

Davina's face grew pale as she listened. A magical entity that could bring a powerful warlock to his knees without even revealing itself? That was enough to spook even the even-minded witches. She swallowed a nervous lump into her stomach. It tasted like vomit. She nodded and walked back into Charlie room—preparing for the worst.

His mother, René, had been up for most of the night performing remedying magic, mixing potions, pouring herb concoctions down his throat, but nothing seemed to be working. At least the convulsions had stopped—those had been the worst. His veins still glowed a dizzying, angry orangey color in the early morning light flooding into his room. Thankfully, it was dreary just like the state of her dear friend's health.

"It wouldn't scare me so, Davina, if it wasn't for this damn fever." René said softly to her, but her eyes never left her son's clammy face. His eyes were rolling around in his head wildly behind closed eyelids.

"It's that bad?" Davina asked her softly.

"My boy wouldn't be alive if he was human, love." René voice's was numb and broken, as if she knew some vitality deep within herself had been broken. There was an inevitable, terrible truth here within this room. It was written on the walls, on the bloody washrags on the floor, on the bent and raggedy face of Charlie's mother, on Charlie's own face…

Davina wouldn't let herself go there. There was still time.

"I'll find the answer, René, I promise you." The young witch swore solemnly to that exhausted woman. She didn't really know why—why would any of her beloved witches trust her? She had never done anything to earn that trust. And it seemed, René knew as Davina did, as she turned to look at her: Charlie would be another failure on her short reign as Regent.

"What do you mean, you little wench? It's a bloody dragon—You don't see any of their lot walkin' up and about now a day, do you?" Kol snapped at the witch, waving at her dismissedly. He felt his phone begin buzzing in his pocket.

He tried to hide the quiver in his hand as he grabbed the iPhone out of his jeans. He raised it to his ear, his face revealing none of the inner terror he felt coursing through him. "Good morning, my lovely, how are you?" He asked with just the right amount of concern and love. He really meant that fucking question—probably more than anyone else who had ever asked the simple question.

"Kol." She breathed into the phone. Her voice reverberated through the phone with a sharp, dangerous note of terror. Kol sat straight up in his chair, ignoring the smirking face of the witch across from him. "I uh… My friend, Charlie Martin—you know—the warlock with the funny hair… He's… He's sick."

Kol chucked with ring of distaste, but the sheer relief was clear in his voice. This was fine. Davina's little witchy friend being in jeopardy, he could handle, her being caught in some kind of trouble—that was something entirely different. "And why would your friend's health matter to me, darling? He's bloody human—get him some noodle broth and tea with honey, he'll be right as rain in a few days."

"I don't think it's the common cold, Kol." Her voice was laced with this deep, intermittent fear. A horror so tangible he could practically taste in on his own tongue. She wanted to say more, he could tell by the way she ended the sentence…but she was bloody terrified.

"Davina Claire, you can tell me anything. Now, what is it?" He was suddenly dead serious. Davina, of course, had a habit of being overly serious, and usually, on a good day, he could alleviate it with a smart remark or a kiss on the neck. This was not one of those times.

"Charlie's magic is separating from his body. He's dying, Kol, and I have no idea how to stop it."

Charlie's magic is separating from his body… Separation… An image of her flashed through his mind: boiling blood in her veins on Day 2, separation of body and magic on Day 7, death on Day 9… "No…" Kol whispered. He turned and looked to Celestine who sat in front of him. A smug little smile was planted on her face.

"Wait, Kol, what did you say?" Davina asked. She perhaps thought he had offered her some sort of absolution, some sort of saving grace for her friend But God, how wrong his little witch was.

"Davina, get the bloody fuck out of there, do you hear me? Get the fuck out of that sick house. Now." Sickness. Sickness. Sickness. Sickness. Sickness. Someone wants to swallow your world up, and leave you with nothing…