A/N: Klaus' POV following the massacre/murder in "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." Extra buckets of gratitude for my beta-extraordinaire, CreepingMuse, who is always honest and doesn't let me stop until I've gotten it right.


Reflection of Postmodern Symmetry

The door bangs hollowly against the wall as I open it. Out of habit, I stand quite still and listen for potential danger. The house, the house I prepared for my family and filled with treasures I've gathered from all over the world, is dark and empty. It was intended to be our home, but it's a mausoleum.

I am alone.

Breaking my mother's curse was meant to be the solution. To become truly immortal. To create others like me, to raise my army. To never be alone again. But there is no loyalty, only lies and betrayal. The last of my hybrids made from the last of my doppelganger blood, and they were traitors, the whole bloody lot of them. Tyler Lockwood presumed to rise up and lead them against me.

Everyone always turns against me.

In the end, it's kill or be killed, but I took no pleasure in their slaughter. Werewolves, as a whole, aren't the most civilized companions. Appalling tempers. My hybrids were young and ill-mannered and crude. But they were mine. I freed them from their pain, the ungrateful savages. I gave them the gift of balance, creatures not bound to anyone or anything but me. Was a scrap of loyalty too much to ask?

They were supposed to be my family, the family I made of my own blood, and now it's drying all over my face and hands, ruining my clothes and congealing in my hair.

I should shower, but instead I fetch a fresh bottle of champagne. 1928 Krug, one of the finest vintages ever produced, which I stole from Buckingham Palace at the ball to commemorate the end of World War II. I need to cleanse my palate after the cheap, warmed bottle from the holiday party in town. I wander rooms full of my beautiful possessions, my shoes clicking loudly on the wooden floors, echoing in the too-quiet house. I don't bother with a glass, just drink from the bottle, the taste of blood lingering on my lips. The champagne reminds me of Caroline, artfully balancing crispness and effervescence and just the right amount of sweet.

Beauty is all about balance.

She called my snowflake lonely, rather than beautiful. I didn't bother with my postmodern explanation, just accepted her compliment. Perhaps because I wanted it to be a compliment even if I didn't believe she intended it that way. I'm well aware Caroline doesn't much care for me. She can be quite charming, especially when she's intent on distracting from the latest failed effort to thwart me, but pretense doesn't suit her. It's one of the reasons I can't get her out of my head.

I don't fancy analyzing my own recent work, so it's possible Caroline saw the truth. Perhaps my snowflake is lonely, its beautiful symmetry threatened by a riot of darkness. Art shows the world your soul and asks them to look and judge and point out the flaws. But we subject ourselves to such scrutiny and indignity because maybe we'll share a connection, if only for a moment. We all crave acceptance, the feeling of being known. I may be immortal, but I am certainly not immune to those desires. But there's a reason I don't trust people: they're untrustworthy, especially the ones you love.

And yet we continue to love. Again and again, we leave ourselves vulnerable knowing the consequences of love are inevitable tears and bloodshed. We can't help ourselves. So I understand why Rebekah fell in love with Stefan, why part of her loves him still, even though he's betrayed and rejected her. I fell for him too, a little. More than a little, despite everything he's done. I can smell him, that scent that is so particular to him. It's soothing and pleasant, Stefan's scent heavy in my nose, even when he's broken into my house and would've taken something that belongs to me if he had found it.

Stefan and I have an affinity, a rare quality and the only reason I haven't killed him for all the pain and trouble he's caused. I'd dagger him for a few decades if I could for riffling so thoughtlessly through my letters. Did I touch his precious list when we were in Chicago? These are my letters. I've killed people for them because there's something so honest contained within the fragile pages. Like my paintings, love letters bare one soul to another. They're pleading for connection, to not be alone. They weren't written to me, but these love letters are mine.

Just as the hybrids were mine, and Tyler Lockwood attempted to claim them as his own. For that, he will suffer.

Rather fortuitously, for all his egregious faults, Tyler loves his mother. Like my siblings banded together against the brutality of our father, I suspect Tyler and Carol had to unite because of the late Mayor Lockwood. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but a werewolf whose curse hasn't triggered means he was a pompous ass and a bully who, without doubt, terrorized his son and wife.

I rather liked Carol Lockwood. There's something both ridiculous and pathetic about a woman past her prime who doesn't realize it. She made her proverbial deals with assorted devils with politely duplicitous smiles. But she loved her son. She loved Tyler to her last, water-filled breath. Such devotion to family is undeniably a beautiful thing.

People will think she was intoxicated and slipped. Quite the embarrassing scandal, really. But Tyler will know it was me. Killing her will be much more painful than killing him would've been, and ultimately more satisfying to me. How well I know what it's like to live bearing the guilt of a mother's death, and I intend to see that he lives a long, long life.

Tyler is an only child. Now he's an orphan. Betrayed by a trusted comrade. An alpha ripped from his pack. A boy isolated from his friends. A lover estranged from the girl he desires. Tyler Lockwood will live in his own grand mausoleum completely and utterly alone.

There's a beautiful symmetry to that.


Author's Post Script: For all you history buffs, 1928 Krug was indeed served to King George VI at the first royal event held at Buckingham Palace after WWII. Apparently, it was the grapes that year that made such exquisite champagne. I chose it for several reasons, but firstly because Klaus has a thing for stealing from royalty (Caroline's bracelet was a princess', and the wine Rebekah brings to Damon and Sage's mind-reding party was stolen from a queen).