Poison Apple
Summary: He is a Mikaelson. Original vampire. Consummate survivor. Death is not his better. / Collection of four vignettes featuring Klamille, Kolvina, Haylijah, Finn, Freya. Post-3x18.
Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to The Originals.
Title/lyrics: Lyrics cited below belong to Charlene Kaye from her album "Animal Love." Do yourselves a favor and go listen to it, seriously. She's beyond amazing.
A/N: The first in this mini-series is based on the 3x19 promo, and the ones that follow will be in reverse chronological order. Just because.
Hallelujah, I'm gonna go and bring the poison apple to ya
Once you know, it's down you go
I. Anchor
"Klaus!"
It is the desperation that secures his attention. It echoes through the empty corridor like a lost prayer and obediently he hastens toward the source, her hold on him as strong as ever. Though it was made perfectly clear it is no longer reciprocated.
But none of that matters when he takes in her appearance.
The unsteadiness of her gait.
The haunted gaze of her fine eyes.
And the telltale wound marring her otherwise flawless skin.
Terror claws at his heart, absolute and without mercy.
"Was it—?"
"Lucien. Yes."
He forces a measure of calm in his voice. "When?"
"I'm not sure. An hour ago, maybe. As soon as he left, I came straight here."
He quickly does the math. Barely half a day lapsed before his brother succumbed to the lethal potency of this same synthesized venom. And that he was an Original vampire, inherently more resilient, cannot be discounted. She is not. Her time, in all likelihood, is even more precious.
Suddenly her arms are circling his neck, startling him. He barely registered her approach.
"Klaus, I'm sorry."
The absurdity of the statement is enough to breach his wall of panic. "For dying?"
"For lying to you."
He searches her face, hunting for clues. "I don't—"
"I love you."
Utterly still; a mute statue in her hold. In that moment, it is impossible to tell whether he is supporting her weakened form or the other way around.
Her eyes stare back into his, wide and sincere.
"I love you," she says again, as though he could possibly miss it the first time.
It is barely above a whisper.
Without warning her legs buckle, and her arms grapple for purchase as she collapses against him. As though the confession was the only anchor tethering her to earth.
And offering it gave her the strength to let go. To leave him.
His pulse spikes.
Hers… does not.
"Camille—"
"I just needed you to know."
Her ragged breaths ghost across his face. So very, very weak.
Yet every single one is a stake to the heart.
She may accept her fate, but he never would.
Nor anything that comes with it.
"I can tell you 'I love you' tomorrow." He scoops her up easily; moves without any clear destination in mind. "You're not dying today."
The words are rough, wretched, tasting of bile. Like a king wearing an ill-fitting crown, he feels a fraud. He has no right, playing the hero. Offering hope. With them, it is always the other way around.
But it is no empty vow.
He is a Mikaelson. Original vampire. Consummate survivor. Death is not his better. Always and forever, She will meet Her match—
His arms tighten.
Don't leave me.
—and he will keep his.