ᶠᵃᵐᶤˡʸ ᵃᵇᵒᵛᵉ ᵃˡˡ

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝗲. 𝗧𝗼𝗿𝗻 𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗻, 𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗼𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 — 𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗼𝘁𝗵. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝗸 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗱. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗹𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻. 𝗔𝗹𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁.

I have been called many things in my long life, and Mad King is not the worst of them. But a king requires a kingdom, and a kingdom requires walls, and so I have been building walls. Three cities now. Each with a hub of my own design, each with a chain of command that answers, ultimately, to me. The governments of this world are fragile, agreeable things when you know where to press. Give them a paycheck, and they'll turn a blind eye even to genocide. I loathe the lot.

Three cities now: New Orleans, New York City, London. Each manor, estate, penthouse built in the image of the city it resides in. New Orleans was built in the likeness of the French Quarter, New York City — a penthouse, and London — a townhouse. Each location contains in it some central, source of truth for the abnormal. Vampires might find comfort in community, or seek guidance if newly turned. Each location worked diligently with hospitals and blood banks to provide a fresh blood supply, and, in exchange, we provided money and blood of our own (to the 'right' people, much to my dismay). Werewolves find safe havens to transition each full moon, or support in surviving the pain. Witches are yet to be given a place to exist... though I doubt they'd deign long enough to cooperate with other species anyway.

My family have all but abandoned me. A shame. There will always be a place for them in this empire, should they find their way back to sense.

In their stead, I met a wily bloke named Soren. The sort of vampire who's roamed the Earth for many centuries. He'd heard of me, in passing. There's a part of me that doesn't trust him, but he has a particular talent for making me reconsider — which, I've found, is a rarer quality than it has any right to be.

Stefan didn't know how it had happened, only that it had.

Damon was bitten by a werewolf, and now the only solution left in the entire world was the one person Stefan hated most... well, second only to Katherine.

Klaus.

Of course it had to be Klaus. The cure and the curse wrapped into one smug asshole. Stefan had searched for another way. He had gone through every grimoire with Bonnie, every contact, every desperate rumor that might lead him anywhere except here. He had put it off as long as he could, because walking into Klaus’ path willingly felt like it would be a huge mistake.

But Damon was getting worse.

The fever had redused him to nothing more than a sweaty lumpy mess in his bed. The bite was spreading, dark veins appearing everywhere beneath his skin, stealing more and more of him with every passing hour. Damon, who could always find a joke even when he was bleeding. Damon, who could make death sound like an inconvenience if it meant annoying Stefan one last time. Damon, who was lying there now, weaker than Stefan could stand to look at.

There were no other options left.

Only Klaus. Only this.

Stefan swallowed his pride and forced himself to meet Klaus’ eyes even as every instinct in him screamed not to give this man anything.

“Please, Klaus.” The words came out as a tired breath, every ounce of pride and self respect left. “I’ll do anything.”

Instead, he angled his head like one might do when seriously contemplating something, but the look in his eyes suggested a far more sinister stream of thought entirely. There was an opportunity here, Niklaus thought, for another soldier in his fight against Mikael. And the idea of taking Stefan did cross his mind, before ultimately deciding he needed someone who wasn't afraid to be devilish. Niklaus needed another villain, and Stefan, Ripper or not, would not suffice — not while he was still reaching for something resembling a conscience.

Damon, on the other hand....

❛❛ Anything? ❜❜ He grinned, like the word held behind it infinite meaning. ❛❛ You show your hand too quickly, Stefan. How unfortunate that you've learned nothing. ❜❜ Niklaus was referencing the time they spent together in the 1920s — though Stefan would have no such memories of it, not while they remained buried under layers of compulsion he had no intentions of lifting. He just wanted to see how the Salvatore would react.

║▌│ㅤ☽◯☾ ‬     * ｡ ⋆      🕯 ˎˊ˗ 𝕿𝐇𝐄  𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓  𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐑𝐄  𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐎𝐁𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐋𝐘  𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓  𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖  𝐖𝐇𝐎  𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐒  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆  𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇,  and  Faye  was  no  neophyte.  He  must  have  her  confused  for  someone  else ⸻ with  a  full  coven  like  hers,  that  of  which  she  was  COVEN  LEADER,  her  power  was . . .  what  did  they  call  it ?  Unlimited.  She  could  sense  what  he  thought  of  her,  how  he  underestimated  her,  and  it  was  proven  more  over  from  the  spiel  that  exits  his  lips  that  seemed  to  be  attached  to  his  over - inflated  ego. 

❛❛ Who  said  I  was  even  going  to  help  you ?  Seems  like  if  you  have  the  power  to  throw  your  weight  around  and  underestimate  me  all  in  one  fail  swoop,  you’re  also  powerful  enough  to  eat  your  words  when  the  spell  I  land  makes  you  fall  on  your  ungrateful  behind. ❜❜

She  was  growing  bored  already.  Pivoting  toward  him,  everything  that  she  had  summed  up  about  him  on  the  drive  over  was  more  than  enough  small  talk.   ❛❛ You  aren’t  the  first  to  mention  my  attitude;  you  won’t  be  the  last.  But  I  do  have  the  wherewithal  to  back  it  up.  And  weren’t  you . . .  oh,  I  remember.   Needing  something ? ❜❜  Her  eyes  glow  the  haunting  incandescent  gold  of  FLAME. 

Aurelius sat in his drawing room, sitting in his favorite chair for entertaining visitors. The renovation and redecoration now easily a decade old still felt incredibly new to him after living with the rehabilitation of the old townhouse for so long. While Aurelius had still kept the room traditional, he hadn't spared cost on the improvements that came with the modern era, even if Sébastien still claimed it looked "like something out of the Haunted Mansion".

His body ached even as he sat at ease. It was an old, worn ache, one he had long come to learn to ignore but was a sign he knew heralded further impairment. He had been in one of his waning phases for a few weeks now and the ever present miasma had finally leached much of his energy. Exhaustion he could endure, but it was the faintness that came with these times that irked his pride and sense of self-sufficiency. He read quietly as he waited, sipping his tea occasionally, for Odile to bring his guest to the room.

When the time finally came the petite pale creature came following a a very familiar face. Klaus. His benefactor and associate. A man of immense vision and extreme volatility. Aurelius smiled and snapped his book shut.

"Klaus, always so good to have you. I appreciate you accommodating me. You'll excuse me if I don't rise to greet you, it's one of those times." He apologized politely, always politely. Klaus and he might be friendly and he might genuinely be glad to see him, but dealing with Klaus was bit like handling an electric eel — He preferred to keep his gloves on.

"What can we get you? Tea, whiskey, blood? I have a few specimens currently on hand if you'd like to inspect them."

The house looked as though it'd been renovated, somewhat recently but not quite. The townhouse retained its regal, Pre-War architecture while building upon some modern elements. The mahoganies and oaks were left untouched, with the modern finishes in the details of the home as opposed to its composition. Niklaus liked it, he decided when he'd first met Aurelius, some years ago. Man's descent into the minimalist modernization of their homes appalled Niklaus. Aurelius had the decency of taste few possessed these days.

He could sense the exasperation in Aurelius's body before he even entered the room, though it announced itself more plainly as he entered. The study had a quiet to it Niklaus could never replicate at his own manors. Perhaps it was the kind of serenity that only comes as a result of mortality, especially from a man as ruined as Aurelius, left with a child to take care of. These were the places Aurelius existed in as himself, when no one else was looking.