Kol had been impatiently waiting for Davina for twenty minutes. His impatience did not help to alleviate his thoughts, which cyclically followed through his conversation with his girlfriend: His magic is separating from his body… He had a silver hexagon-shaped star in his hand—an old magical treasure he had once valued more than his little band of witches, who had had the power to channel it. She would simply have to stuff a load of her power into the object, and Kol could have a supply of magic—as if he was a real warlock—for an hour or so. That had been enough for him, then. He went through droves of witches for that little hexagon star: all of them giving him their last drop of magic, just so he could feel something. He promised them kingdoms, money, fame, love—all of their greatest desires. He never returned the favor.

By the time Kol came back to the Crypt with Davina last year, the hexagon star and his little witch followers were all simply dusty artifacts from another time. He wondered bleakly if Davina would soon come to join these meaningless trinkets—somewhere stashed away for the next two centuries, until in a moment of nostalgia, he found her once again.

No. He wouldn't allow that to happen. She wasn't sick. Yet.

He heard the crypt door open and there she was, Davina Claire. He forgot sometimes just how utterly achingly beautiful she was. And every time he did, he regretted it, as he felt as if all the air was knocked from his lungs. Every time he saw her, as cliché as it fucking sounded, it was as if it was the first time: that sad little girl in the churchyard, two years ago, solemnly looking at a lump of disfigured roses, before she raised her hand and gave life… He had wanted to make a point to her, when he was brought back, to tell her about it—to tell her all of it: from beginning to end. Every secret, every lie, every act of violence, every broken particle of his life… He wanted to give her everything he was. Because this little girl—a girl no higher than 5'2, an infant in comparison to his perennial lifetime—had breathed life into his soul. A cold, dusty 1,000-year-old existence of nihilism and emptiness…and she shattered it, with the mere touch of her hand.

God, he was turning into a bloody sap over this nonsense for Davina. He never used to fall prey to these weak inclinations of emotions and feelings… He wasn't Elijah, who fell in love with every other broken little girl he met. And he certainly wasn't Nik, looking for a family or a home or a land to rule over, even though he had always had the luxury.

For centuries, it hadn't been about anything. And people will argue with you—as people always do (they're people, what else do you expect?) —that feeling nothing is "extraordinarily terrible." A real knife in the guts. But that's why most people are fucking squalid. Because 'nothing' is nothing. There's no guilt, there's no grey areas of morality and religion and redemption, there's no anger or fear, there's just nothing. And you don't care. It's like that little dark part of yourself—yes, the soft, velvety Satanic voice inside your head that's always willing to make you feel like shit for thinking such a thing—is finally the one calling the shots to all the decisions in your life.

It's glorious.

It's freedom.

It's emancipation.

It's like jumping off a building and not caring what happens when you hit the ground. Because what's the worst that could happen? You're bloody immortal, the whole world is just waiting for you to fuck it; take the hips of that earthly maiden and just jack the shit out of her.

Until you hit the fucking asphalt.

And then feeling 'nothing' comes and burns you—you taste the flames of Hell, you smell the stinking pestilence of damnation, and all you ever hear are the screams of the damned crying out for salvation, for God—for a savior. Whatever you imagine of Hell, you're wrong—it's worse than you could possibly even grasp within the teeny, tiny perspective we are given as humans.

Choosing to feel nothing was the worst decision Kol ever made.

He remembered laying there, as the flames of the white-oak steak coursed across his body, thinking not of what awaited him, but of that lovely ironic speech of the Bard:

That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away

From the great compt: but love that comes too late,

Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,

To the great sender turns a sour offence,

Crying, 'That's good that's gone.'

Why hadn't he chosen to do something? Why hadn't he ever chosen to feel? A remorseful pardon. He had lived ten centuries—and now, he was going to die from Jeremy Gilbert, a sniveling little imp? Love that comes too late. There had never been anything, he had never hoped for anything—that was the whole grandiose purpose of NOTHING. To the great sender turns a sour offense. How could it mean death and decadence and hell, when all it had ever been was nothing?!

Because Hell—Kol realized, as he felt the last sliver of himself leave his ancient body that night—was nothing.

He rushed to Davina, then. "You alright, love?" He felt her forehead for a fever, flipped her arms over to view her forearms, and listened to her heart for any irregular rhythm.

"Kol, I'm fine." Davina said with an annoyed tone.

Kol ignored her—she didn't understand. He pressed his palm against her cheek as he feelt for clamminess.

"Kol Mikaelson." She snapped. Upon her request, he stopped what he was doing. "You need to explain to me what the hell is happening." She crossed her arms and stepped away from him. He knew what she was doing: no touchy-feely, lovey-dovey stuff until she had what she wanted. His Davina Claire was no brainless maiden: She knew what she meant to him, and she knew exactly how to use that to her advantage.

He sighed and leaned against a table covered with spell books and grimoires of powerful witches. He thought of her—the Irish Queen from eons ago… The wolf. The bodies. The snow. It was so familiar, yet all so bloody confusing. What did it mean? Could it be happening again? He ran a worried hand through his hair and looked over at her, studying Davina with a careful look. At the first sign of sickness, he would catch the slightest strain of her face, he wouldn't let her get sucked into this. Not like her.

But to tell her of everything? But love that comes too late… And without another thought—

"Long before you, Davina Claire, there was an ancient Celtic Coven of witches known as the Sídhe—they weren't a very friendly bunch, mind you, but they did love their land. It probably had something to do with the fact that, just as you little New Orleans witches—their magic was connected to the Earth.

"For thousands of years the Sídhe reigned over Northern Ireland—they were considered half-god, in most cases, since their power was practically the stuff of the divine. They were immortal. Immortal witches that needed no blood curse to sustain themselves." Kol smirked. Esther would have rolled in her grave at the thought of deathless immortality.

"They didn't need to die to be immortal?" Davina raised an interested, but careful brow.

"No, Davina Claire, they didn't need to drink blood to be immortal—they just were."

Davina's eyes widened. "That's impossible."

"Now, darling, haven't you ever heard the expression: 'impossible simply says "I'm possible?'" He wanly joked. He knew she wouldn't find it funny, but nonetheless, it was entertaining to see that angry little expression of hers.

She didn't, in fact, find it funny. "Kol, be serious—what happened?"

"Well, there must have been something in the water because the next thing, you know, all these immortal witches are dropping over in a kind of state: moaning on and screaming into the night in agony, their veins splitting through their skin, and their magic…" He stopped, realizing what he was saying, and how her eyes met his in that sad sort of way. It's like when you find a baby bird, abandoned by its mother, and you just know…the chances of it surviving without the constancy, the hourly feeding, the warmth and security of its mother's breast—it's all just so matter of fact, but so inevitable.

She looked away from him, but it had been too slow. He had seen the doubt, the hesitation—the unquestioning understanding of what was to come. "Finish the story." Davina said softly.

"It's not important—you know what happens, and—"

"Just finish—" She tried to interrupt.

"—Davina, just—"

"Kol Mikaelson,finish the fucking story." Davina gave him one of her nastiest looks, the one that said 'don't fuck with me, Kol Mikaelson, or I will make you regret your past seven lifetimes.' She grabbed a stool and sat in front of him, swinging her legs around it in some marvelously nimble manner. With an eyebrow arched and her eyes bright with a sort of divine impatience, she spoke: "We're wasting time."

We're wasting time. That was funny. She was so young, so human, and so utterly real that 'time' still was an entity by which she measured her life. When you lived a thousand years, time wasn't real, anymore. You started to see it repeat itself so many times, in so many different places, that you notice the patterns long enough to realize that there aren't any patterns. It's all just a fucking mess. And so, here he was, seeing it all over again:

"Their magic—it separated from their bodies. Just like your friend, Charlie."

Kol awoke to the sound of a wolf. Yes, he was certain it had been a bloody dog—he had lived alongside their kind for too long in his youth, to not recognize that scraping, screeching howl of a rotten cur. He looked into the darkened woods beyond his dying campfire as if he hoped to catch sight of the beast.

"Where are you, beastie?" Kol whispered into the darkness.

There wasn't an answer, or any sound to be heard, for that matter. The trees didn't stir, the wind was calm, the owls had ceased to call to one another—in fact, it seemed as if the Earth, herself, was holding her breath. The moonlight was filtering in through the tall Caledonian Firs like cream being poured into dark, bitter coffee. But it wasn't a peaceful darkness. Kol had lived much too long to know that darkness wasn't at all peaceful. No, darkness, on the contrary, was when things came alive: it was when conspirators met to stab emperors 23 times, it was when young girls—dressed as boys—snuck into churches and stole wafers with tiny crosses on them, it was when plans were solidified by the cut of blood oaths, it was when poisonous and dark curses were most poignantly said… Oh, no, darkness was when life thrived, not when it slept.

He was sure it had been a wolf—his hearing was never wrong, but could it have been the werewolf? The kind that lived beside his family's thatched house, the kind that ate Henrik's entrails, the kind that his mother had taken a particular shine to all those years ago… Kol looked up at the full moon, a small inky smile spread across his lips as he thought of his older brother—the tall, sharp, and physically imposing Niklaus. If it had been the wolves, Nik would have tucked his bloody tail in between his legs and begged the bitch to give him some form of consolation. You will forever seek a pack, Niklaus, he remembered his words to his brother—the very last time he saw him, but you carry your pack with you—your lies, your dissension, your animosity for all things… That is your pack, brother. Kol doubted Nik had been pleased with his words. In fact, the hand-shaped scar he had on his chest, for days afterwards, was a good indicator of just how flattered Niklaus had been…

Kol was just about to fall asleep once again, as he dozed off to the steady sound of his own heartbeat. But then he heard it again—the angry screeching sound of the beast. "Well, love, I was going to let you live…but you don't leave me much choice." The centuries-old vampire rose to his feet and sped out onto the ledge of the mountain—listening for miles around him, trying to hear the sound of the wolf.

"Come get me, little wolf…your kind should know, by now, not to avoid destiny."

And then, there she was. A massive white wolf with fierce red eyes. She had been tracking him, just as he had been tracking her. How romantic.

"Thou art a radiant monster." The Latin rolled off his tongue with a crisp, beautiful twist of the lips.

The wolf snarled—she didn't much like that, he supposed. She watched him for a long time in an unmoving crouch, staring at him with the tenacity of a stone. Her red eyes were glowing as if they were rubies stuck in a luminescent shaft of light.

"You know, I should introduce you to my brother, Niklaus, you'd get along rightfully well. You've both got that sort of wolf thing." Kol smirked, but it appeared that's what the wolf had been waiting for, as she leaped forward. Her powerful leg muscles moving within her fur, pouncing with the grace of a thousand disordered dancers. She knocked him to soft forest floor—Kol fully expected to meet the face of a snarling, spitting wolf when he fell, but instead, he came face-to-face with a powerful, sharply-angular, dark-skinned woman…with actual red eyes. Her face was cloaked around a rich, dark fabric and from the smell, Kol assumed it was wool. She had thick, black hair that was seemingly braided down into the shadows of her hood. And even with her wild appearance, he could easily spot the threads of the court—even the barbaric, remote courts of Ireland—as beneath her black cloak, a bright red dress hung on her shoulders, extending beneath her and onto the forest floor.

"And what fine magic of the night, do I owe such pleasure as that of a visit from such a beastly maiden?"

"Tá tú ag dul in iúl." Straight, traiditonal Irish. So, she was powerful, a shapeshifter—and Kol had no idea what she had just said.

"Care to speak in the King's tongue, love? After all, Ireland is ruled by the Anglish." He growled in a snarky, unhesitant tone, but he didn't dare fight against her. He didn't know what kind of beast this woman was. If she was a werewolf, her bite, for all he knew, could have killed him—and she was even more deadly if she knew how to switch in and out of her human form.

The woman with the harsh red eyes didn't respond—why would she? Instead, she simply grabbed him by the arm and—with an incredible strength—lifted him off the ground, and shoved him into a tree. As soon as his head collided with the back of the bark, he saw black spots dance across his vision. Well, that was new. Anyone smart would have been afraid of the unnatural woman before him, but then again, they were boring, Kol was just entertained. "Ah, so the little wolf likes it rough, I see. Well, allow me to happily be at your service." And that's when he decided not to play by the wolf woman's rules.

Kol grabbed hold of the woman's shoulders and flipped her across his own, knocking her to the ground. In an instant, she rolled up over her own descent, leaping to her feet in perfect balance in less than a second. "Amadán!" And then she really went at him, pulling a long, beautiful sword from her cloak. Well, in hindsight, he really should have seen that one coming. He twisted out of the way, just as the speeding rapier came past his ear.

Her growl ferociously resembled that of a dog, and Kol wasn't ashamed to admit he was very turned on. "Don't tempt me with such lecherous language, love." He smirked, just in time for her to lunge once more with her rapier, but Kol's own sword came out and matched hers. The cling of metal-upon-metal was enough to echo for meters around them within that dark, all-too quiet forest. The little wolf might have been mortal, but she was practically just as strong as any vampire. Except, she highly underestimated the strength of a 300 hundred-year-old Original.

Playing to her strength, Kol began to take a few dainty steps toward her. She gritted her teeth in sheer willpower, refusing to let go of her stance. Such fire, such a capacity for resistance. Why? "Now, darling, hasn't anyone ever taught you any manners? Because I ensure you, if you're coming to me for advice, you're in the wrong place." He was within kissing distance to her, her sword slid almost at an exact vertical line, but still pressed against his.

The red-eyed woman didn't answer, but her cloak came undone around her head to reveal the silver-drawn Irish runes sculpted around her lovely dark face. They were shimmering with her sweat, matting her hair around her face. She was pushing against the sword with all her might, her boots dug deep into the soft forest floor, and her teeth were sharpened in full-on canine fashion, all in the effort to stop the force of his blade. She wasn't going to leave him alone, but that's not what Kol minded, what he minded was her insolence in what he was. What was the point of being the 'unholiest of the unholies,' if you didn't get to show everyone what you were?

"Oh, love, I would have let you go, but you just had to be a pest." He dropped his sword and the little wolf fell forward, her sword falling straight into Kol's chest cavity. When he first became a vampire, Kol would have cried out in pain over the feeling of a sword splitting him through-and-through, but now, it felt as if it was simply a tickle.

He began to laugh as her eyes widened in horror at the sight. "Crétur…" She whispered in silent fear.

Kol grabbed the sword with both hands and tore it from his chest, throwing it a mile away. "Now, you're going to explain something to me, little wolf: how could you have possible gone up against an Original vampire?" He took a dangerous step towards that wolf woman, forcing her to back up into the tree he had just been up against a moment ago. He gently put his hands around her neck and allowed for his thumbs to feel the chords of muscle and tension moving beneath his touch. He looked deeply into her bright red eyes and realized they weren't red at all—no, they were fiery. There were oranges, reds, pinks, browns, ashy greys—and that gaze was staring directly into his own.

"Desecrator." She whispered with a solemn acceptance of her fate. At first, Kol didn't get what she said as it was hidden beneath the thick folds of her accented tongue, but then he realized, with a sudden, sharp revelation: she had spoken in English.

His resulting smile was sharp like the sharks that swam at the very bottom of the ocean—awaiting just the right moment until—"Oh, so, you do speak English, then?" Kol's lips were practically inches from hers.

The wolf's eyes filled with contempt—an answer all on its own. She wouldn't speak, but she knew what he wanted. She would do him no pleasure.

"Not the talkative type, then? Well, that serves me rightfully well: I won't have to cut your tongue out to keep you from screaming, when I rip your liver from your chest." Kol grinned darkly at the determined face of the wolf—all that resistance, and for what? For death. He struck his hand into her abdomen and grabbed an organ, the first one his fingers wrapped around. "Hm, does that feel like the liver to you, love?" He whispered sweetly into her ear, making sure to kiss her neck as he did. "Or maybe—" he ripped his hand from her chest, leaving a gaping wound in her stomach, before plunging back in—"this one?"

He would have done more, had it not been for the hell-raising, riotous sound behind him. Kol turned sharply to find five more wolves growling menacingly at him—all with multi-colored eyes to contrast with their fur. They were defending their alpha…what pure sentiment. "Oh, please, you bloody rats, she'll be dead in a moment, can we postpone the part where I kill all of you until then?" The wolves showed no signs of backing down. Every bitch had her hair standing on end, eyes flashing in the light of the moon, and there was definitely no room for argument.

"No? Well, lovelies, since you're all so impatient to die—" He sighed and dropped the red-eyed girl to a painful lump on the forest floor. "Let's get on with it." He opened his arms to the wolves and they lunged towards him.

Davina was silent for a long moment after he spoke. Long enough of a moment, that Kol began to grow nervous: she was a thoughtful maid, his Davina, but she didn't need that long to gather her words. In a right and proper Kol Mikaelson fashion, he tried to blame it on her—she had wanted to know what was in store for her little warlock friend. It had been her fault. If it had been his way, he wasn't even going to tell her!

Except, that wasn't the case at all. He had opened his mouth, in the first place. He should have lied, he should have kept it hidden…at least then, she could have gone on living without the fear of death hanging over all of her friends. At least, the ones that still had a beating heart. "Davina, darlin', I need you to say something…"

She swallowed hard, without meeting his eyes. He realized, with a catch of his heart, that she had swallowed a lump in the back of her throat. He saw her hunch her shoulders in a way that seemed to assume the weight of world like she was Atlas. "How long do we have?"

"It was different for them all, but…" The image of her flashed through his head. Her cold, clammy skin as if it was alabaster marble built on top of a sheet of ice. Her teeth chattering, while a fire, the temperature of an industrial forge, raged through her veins, burning her magic from her body. "But for the most powerful of the witches, it was nine days… The magic didn't start separating until later into the illness. If Charlie's magic is separating now…" He trailed off, he knew she would get exactly what he was talking about.

"He'll be dead by tomorrow morning." She murmured—a choked, invalid sound. The weight was pressing harder onto her shoulders, now. She was being crushed, suffocated, twisted under this impossible weight he had just given to her. And he couldn't take it back, he couldn't protect her from this—it was a weight only the Regent of the Nine Covens could balance.

Davina's green eyes were downcast, but he could see the condensation gathering there. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, closing her eyes as a tear slipped out beneath her eyelid. It rolled over her cheek like some ancient glacier, creating valleys, steppes, plains—primordial structures all emblematic of the heavy, life-altering sadness she carried. Kol couldn't stand it. In a moment, he had her tucked in his arms, squeezing her tightly against him. "Oh, darling, I'm so sorry…" He whispered into her heart-shaped ear.

He expected her to mold against him, to lean into him, and begin to unravel… Isn't that what happened when you were faced with unexpected, but sincere comfort? You unraveled, unwove your stitching, and became nothing but finely-strung threads of a person. But Davina instantly pulled away from him, violently pushing him away with a swift wave of magic.

"No, this will not happen. He's my friend—there has to be a way." She gritted through her teeth. She turned unexpectedly, then, into a shaft of bright, unrelenting sunlight—and Kol could have sworn—he saw some kind of halo form over her forehead, as if she was some kind of avenging archangel of the wrathful Man Upstairs. Her green eyes were lit with a decisive anger, and Kol, knowing her better than anyone knew that look: nothing—absolutely, nothing—was going to stand in her way. She was the herald of life. She breathed life into existence, gave air into the lungs of the 3,000 year-old corpses, brought back extinct species, transformed wastelands into paradises of Edens—she was the Creator, a Da Vinci… She could not be simply pacified by a virus that she knew nothing of. The sad thing was, she knew nothing of it…because if she did, she would have known, there was no point to fighting.

Kol awoke in a groggy, delirious sort of state to a woman towering over him. At first, he thought she was ten-feet-tall, but once he came to his senses, he saw she was seated on a golden throne. If she's on a throne…then where am I? He thought drowsily, looking around him.

They were in a towering gothic structure, one that would make Lancaster Castle jealous. There was a domed cap and a heartbreakingly beautiful stained-glass scene of the Catholic God handing a star (yes, a star) to a group of women. It seemed as if light shined through the glass star in speckled, fragmented rays and onto the tiled floor where Kol lay. The walls had elaborately-painted cartoons that extended nearly the entire length of the room—all depicting powerful and divine women performing biblical-like tasks: There was a maiden raising a lame man from paralysis, an old woman feeding 5,000 hungry peasants gathered at her feet, a group of women splitting a massive river to reveal thousands of fish for a group of villagers to eat. But the one so particularly striking was hanging behind the throne: a tiny child—Kol assumed, a little girl—was reaching to a familiar man with beard and open-toed sandals, and receiving a warm, bright, and iridescent light. That painting seemed to be lit from within, perhaps by a network of candles and tapers, in his inebriated state Kol couldn't be entirely sure.

"Seo é, mo bhean." A voice behind him spoke. "An Desecrator." He tried to move his head from the floor to see who it was, but it was so bloody heavy. He wasn't really awake, he realized. No, he was, for the first time in centuries: sedated. What a ridiculously human feeling.

The woman from the throne stepped down the stairs and came to look down at him. Kol vaguely caught sight of her naked toes as the rest of her body was dwarfed in a green cloak, but it was enough to catch a whiff of her marvelously, energizing smell. It seemed to be a mix of lavender and rosemary—an invigoratingly attack on his dilapidated, yet overpowered senses. "S'mels…" He tried to speak, but his tongue was caught in between his teeth—too thick to move in such a confined space as his mouth.

A sharp tug on his hair made his eyes sleepily meet those of the woman before him. He couldn't see her features, hair, or mouth—but her eyes… Green. Bright. Angry. Vengeful. And so deliciously, alive. He knew them. He had seen her somewhere before. "Face..." He muttered with his ridiculously-sized tongue.

Instead of answering, the woman ripped a strand of his hair from his head, eliciting a delayed-cry of pain from Kol. Still weak from the effects of the sedative, Kol slumped back onto the cold, stone-tiled floor. She whispered heavenward and then blew into her palm where the bits of Kol's hair lay. The hair began to weave together, stretching, tying into one band of hair, and then, it began to melt: molting into a syrupy dark liquid that turned from bronze to a dark-foreboding red. She had turned hair into blood. Forget water into wine—this was an entirely different transformation, altogether. She was changing the essence of solid to liquid. Esther, his mother, would have been bloody impressed by the transformative magic.

She raised the blood to her lips and sniffed the iron-scented liquid. Although he couldn't see her mouth, he knew she was frowning—pursing her lips in disappointment. "It's not him, Betha." She pulled her cloak from her face, then. The outline of her head, lining up perfectly with the silhouette of Jesus giving the star to the child behind her. Her face outlined by the golden light of the panel behind her, while the fragmented and colorful lights above from the stained-glass showered over her brown, luscious mane.

Oh, Holy Hell, Kol wanted to laugh, he absolutely had never seen this woman before… She was exquisite, but in a way least expected.

"Anglo...Sax-unn…" Kol gurgled in response to her expertly English tongue.

Whether she was an Anglican, or not, she didn't deem it necessary to answer him. She squatted to his slumped form and took a deep whiff of his scent. And then—nothing in Kol's life would ever prepare him for what she did next: she placed her hands on either side of his face. A chilling, awakening feeling rolled over him. It was as if she was tapping into his very mind and shaking it all loose, moving all the lackadaisical energy from his body and replacing his strength. And once her power had shaken him awake, it began to dig through his mind. He could feel her—those soft, but powerful fingers thrumming through his brain. Where was she going with it? All these tiny, insignificant pieces of himself…no one would certainly want them. Kol dully wondered if she was going to kill him, but didn't have the energy—or the desire to fight her.

"He's his brother." She murmured as her intense green eyes pick-pocketed every single piece of his life.

"É a mharú, mo bhean." A command, an unnegotiable demand that even made the green-eyed Queen hesitate for a split-second. It was then, Kol recognized the voice—the red-eyed woman, Betha. So, he hadn't killed her. Well, that's perfect.

As if responding to Betha's commanding tone, the Queen stopped shifting through Kol's mind and looked to Betha, somewhere behind Kol. "Agus beidh sé ag fulaingt as na peacaí ar a chuid bodhraigh?" Kol had thought English was her tongue, that is, until he heard her native Irish roll from her mouth. It was like hearing God speak the world into existence, as the sheer weight of her power hid within her voice. He could tell her heart, her soul, her very being was within that language.

"Fulaingfidh an Deasecrator." Betha answered—the concern in her voice was, there. Whatever she had said.

The Queen paused and then turned back to Kol—still a slumped, bound heap at her feet. She watched him for a long moment, his eyes meeting hers. There, for an insanely, close and unrelenting second, he saw something—a creature—agonizingly tormented within her eyes. But it was gone before he could even identify that violent, daunted, and wild spirit within. "My general demands your blood, vampire, give me one reason why I should allow for you to live?"