The Originals: My Immortal
WARNINGS: I do not own the original content to "The Vampire Diaries", "The Originals", or "Legacies", or any of the characters from the television series.
Displays of Violence, Gore, Torture, Horror, and Witchcraft.
Chapter One: Hungry Like the Hybrid
The warehouse stood like a rotting carcass on the outskirts of Los Angeles, its rusted frame sagging under the weight of time and decay. Moonlight filtered through shattered skylights, casting fractured beams across the dust-choked air. Inside, the party pulsed with reckless abandonāmusic blaring, bodies swaying, laughter echoing off concrete walls that had once heard screams.
Klaus Mikaelson watched from the shadows, his smile slow and wolfish.
They were young. Loud. Mortal. So blissfully unaware of the predator in their midst.
He stepped forward, boots crunching on broken glass. One of the partiers turned, a red solo cup in hand, grinning.
āHye man, you lost or--?ā
Klaus blurred forward, and the boyās words were replaced by a wet, choking gurgle as Klausās hand plunged into his chest. He twisted, savouring the resistance of bone and sinew, then ripped the heart free with a flourish. Blood sprayed across the floor like spilled wine.
The scream that followed was music.
Panic erupted. They scattered like startled deer, but Klaus was already movingālaughing.
He caught a woman by the hair as she ran, yanking her back with a vicious snap. Her scream was cut short as his fangs sank into her throat. He drank deeply, eyes fluttering shut in pleasure, then let her crumple to the floor like a discarded doll.
Another tried to climb the scaffolding. Klaus let him get halfway up before appearing beside him, whispering, āAlmost made it,ā before hurling him down. The body hit the ground with a sickening crunch.
He was grinning now; blood smeared across his lips.
Every cry, every plea, every futile attempt to escape only fed the fire inside him. He relished the terror in their eyes, the way their hope withered the moment they realised what he was. Not just a vampire. Not just a monster.
A werewolf/vampire hybrid.
The original werewolf/vampire hybrid.
By the time the music died, the warehouse was a slaughterhouse. Bodies lay twisted and broken, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the echo of fading heartbeats.
Klaus stood in the centre, chest heaving eyes alight with savage satisfaction. He licked the blood from his fingers, savouring the taste.
āLos Angeles,ā he murmured, voice low and amused. āStill full of surprises.ā
A thousand years ago, beneath a sky heavy with mourning clouds, a boy no older than ten stood trembling beside a freshly dug grave. His dark brown hair clung to his tear-streaked face, and his deep-set eyesātoo ancient for his ageāreflected a sorrow that time itself would fail to erase. The earth was still damp, the scent of pine and loam mingling with the raw ache of loss.
He did not speak. He simply wept, the silence around him as sacred as the grave before him.
Now, in the present day, the woods of Mystic Falls stood unchangedātimeless, untouched by the centuries that had passed. A young man, his features matured but unmistakably the same, knelt at the base of an old tree. His hair, still dark as the soil beneath him, fell over eyes that had seen lifetimes.
In his hands, he held a bouquet of black roses, their petals velvety and solemn. He placed them gently at the roots, where the earth had once been disturbed. A single tear traced the curve of his cheek, falling without resistance.
The same place. The same soul. A thousand years apart.
And yet, the grief had not waned. It clung to him as fiercely now as it had when he was a child, as if time had only deepened the wound.
He rose slowly, his voice low and resolute.
āThe time has come, Mother,ā he whispered. āEverything has fallen into place. And nowā¦ after all these yearsā¦ now, I can finally make my move.ā
After paying his respects at his motherās grave, the man made one finale stop in Mystic Falls.
He stepped out of the sleek black car with effortless grace, the door closing behind him like a whisper. His outfitāa gender defiant masterpiece of high fashionāturned heads even before he reached the entrance of The Mystic Grill. The ensemble, fresh off a Paris runway, shimmered subtly under the fading afternoon light. He paused outside the familiar establishment, taking in the town that had once been his home.
Mystic Falls had changedābuildings modernised, faces unfamiliarābut the bones of the place remained. He could still feel the pulse of its magic beneath the surface, the same rhythm that had called to him centuries ago.
But nostalgia was a luxury he couldnāt afford. Not today. Today, he had a meeting with a legend.
Inside the Grill, he claimed a table near the window, his posture relaxed but alert. The infamous Tribrid had reached out to him personally, and that alone was enough to pique his interests. Heād heard whispers, tracked rumours, studied the bloodlinesābut nothing could prepare him for the moment she walked through the door.
The room shifted around her, as if the air itself recognised her presence. Conversations faltered. Eyes turned. And his own gaze locked onto her instantly. She was the embodiment of the impossible, born of vampire, werewolf, and witch. The child of Niklaus Mikaelson and Hayley Marshall. A living paradox.
She looked like Klaus, or at least how he remembered him. It had been a thousand years, after all. The sharp cheekbones, the piercing eyesātraits that carried the weight of a dynasty. But as she approached, her smile warm and her manners impeccable, he saw Hayley too. The grace, the strength. The quiet fire.
āThank you for coming,ā she said, her voice steady, her presence commanding yet kind.
He smiled, intrigued. āHow could I resist?ā
The man tilted his head, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. āAre you wanting something to drink? Alcoholic or bloody. I donāt mind either.ā
Hope arched a brow, lips twitching. āIām underage. And I have a headmaster with eyes everywhere in this town.ā
He scoffed, swirling the champagne flute in his hand. āYou are equal parts witch, wolf, and vampire, and yet youāre worried about being caught by anyone. Thatāsā¦ unexpected.ā
āPlease donāt take this the wrong way,ā she said, folding her arms, ābut youāre rather unexpected yourself. I thought youād beā¦ā
āOlder?ā he offered with a smirk. āYou expected an old man with a white beard, draped in Arthurian robes? You wouldnāt be the first. People meet me and expect Merlin. Fortunately, I have an excellent skincare regimen and an anti-aging routine I donāt intend to share with any living soul.ā
Hope chuckled softly. āMy aunt Freyaās lived a long time too, but she slept through most of the centuries.ā
āI imagine you didnāt go through all the troubleādebunking myths, separating lore from fairytaleājust to ask my age and whether itās plausible.ā
āOf course not,ā she said, her tone shifting. āI need your help. I want to reunite with my family.ā
Before he could respond, the waiter approached. Landon Kirby. He smiled at Hope with a warmth that didnāt go unnoticed. She returned it, and the man across from her observed the flicker of affection between them with mild amusement. Landon handed him a glass of champagne, which he accepted with a nod before the young man turned to serve another table.
āI have no interest in reuniting families,ā he said, taking a sip. āHowever, I do have a particular fascination with the lesser known magics of the world. Especially the witch known as the Hollowā¦ and the magic that once belonged to her. Or, as you say, now resides within your father, aunt, and uncles.ā
Hopeās expression darkened. āThe Hollow wanted me. To possess me. She destroyed my family.ā Her voice cracked, tears threatening. āI havenāt seen my father since I was fiveāat least not in person. I canāt be with Aunt Rebekah or my uncles. Itās been eleven years. No oneās found a better solution. But thenā¦ I heard about you.ā
He set the glass down, his gaze sharpening. āI donāt respond well to emotion. Havenāt suffered it in centuries. And I donāt enjoy witnessing it in others either.ā He leaned back, studying her. āYouāre a powerful witchāperhaps the most powerful to have ever lived. But without knowledge, that power is like a child on training wheels. You stood no chance against the Hollowā¦and yet, here you are.ā
His tone softened, unexpectedly sincere. āI have no doubt your future will be the stuff of legend. But no future is great without those to share it with. Iāll help you reunite with your loved ones. Not out of the kindness of my cold, blackened heart, but because I want what resides within them. The Hollow.ā
Hope recoiled, horror flashing across her face. āAll that powerā¦to yourself? Itāll consume you. Destroy you. Youād have to be insaneāā
āI know what Iām doing,ā he interrupted cooly. āI know what I can handleāand what I cannot. If you want my help, those are my terms. Freyaās solution was clever. But mine is better. You get your family. I get the Hollow.ā
Hopeās voice trembled with fury. āSay you survive it. What then? What do you plan to do with that kind of power? How do I know you wonāt become just another threat my family has to face?ā
āYou donāt,ā He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. āTake your time to consider my terms. Take all the time you need. Itās not like either of us are short on it. Iām not here to convince you. Itās your family that will need the convincing. Your father isnāt exactly known for his trustāespecially toward my kind. But when you see my way as the only wayāand you willāyouāll force their hands.ā
Hope rose to meet him, her voice low and fierce. āI need my family back. Iāll do whatever it takes. But if youāre playing meā¦ youāll see just how much I am my fatherās daughter.ā
He smiled, dark and knowing. āI look forward to seeing you again, Miss Mikaelson.ā
Hope sat cross-legged on her bed in the Salvatore Boarding School. Her laptop balanced on a pillow. The dorm room, once the bedroom of the infamous āripperā Stefan Salvatore, still carried a lingering energyārestless, haunted, and steeped in history. The sunset filtered through the window, casting shadows across the floorboards as she adjusted the screen to get a clearer view of her uncle.
Kol Mikaelson appeared on the video call, standing in a sleek San Francisco kitchen, stirring something aromatic on the stove. Behind him, the warm hum of domestic lifeāclinking dishes, soft jazz, and the occasional laugh from Davina Claireāmade the scene feel worlds away from Hopeās quiet room.
āI canāt believe itās your third wedding anniversary already,ā Hope said, grinning. āNot that I could attend the wedding, which is a real shame. I wouldāve looked amazing in a bridesmaidās dress.ā
Kol chuckled. āI wouldāve loved to have my favourite niece there. Or even Rebekah. Your father and Elijahā¦ not so much.ā
Hope laughed, shaking her head. āWell, this witchāwarlock? I donāt think he has a preferenceāhe might genuinely be able to help with the Hollow problem.ā
Kol raised an eyebrow. āI donāt believe his claim to be the worldās oddest.ā
āOldest,ā Hope corrected with a smirk.
āRight. That I really donāt believe. Your Aunt Freya is the oldest witch I know. What does she make of this guyās claims?ā
āShe says the so-called immortal witch is just a story. A legend spun through the witch community.ā
Kol scoffed. āNot the first time Iāve heard witches claim to be grander than they are. Very few live up to that title. Only two come to mindāmy sister, and my wife.ā
Hope leaned back against the headboard. āLetās not forget Bonnie Bennet. She destroyed hell single-handedly. The school goes into a frenzy every time she visits.ā
Kol nodded. āYeah, well, the whole town goes into a different kind of frenzy when any of us show up in Mystic Falls.ā
āIād call that a state of pure dread,ā Hope said dryly. āCan we please get back to the matter in hand?ā
Kol sighed, turning off the stove. āLook, if this witch wants to commit magical suicide by playing chess with the Hollow and use me and my siblings as pawns, then hellāIām in. for you, of course. But good luck convincing Aunt Bex or your father to trust some strange witch. Least of all Uncle Elijah, whoās currently in France with no memory of who any of us areā¦ or who he is.ā
Hopeās eyes lit up. āSo, youāre in?ā She smiled. āGreat! Just leave the rest to me. Weāll have one big, happy family reunion in no time.ā
Kol leaned against the counter, his expression softening. āI know you have little to no memories of us all being together but trust meāthose reunions are never happy. They usually end with one of us, typically me, getting a dagger in the back. Courtesy of your father.ā
Hope laughed, but the weight of his words lingered. Family was complicated. Dangerous. But it was hersāand she wasnāt giving up.
Rosseauās was alive with the hum of supernatural energy. In the heart of the French Quarter, the bar had become neutral groundāwitches, werewolves, and vampires mingled without tension, a far cry from the blood-soaked feuds of the past. Josh Rosza moved behind the counter with vampiric speed, serving drinks with a grin and a wink, his charm as effortless as his reflexes.
At a corner table, Hayley Marshall and Freya Mikaelson sat nursing beers, their expressions tight with concern. The flickering candlelight between them cast long shadows across the wood, mirroring the unease that hung in the air.
Hayley leaned forward, her voice low but sharp. āSo, my daughterās been holding secret meetings with mysterious witches claiming to be older than half the vampires in this cityā¦ and youāre only telling me this now?ā
Freya exhaled, swirling her bottle. āI told her, repeatedly, that she was chasing a myth. I was convinced there was no truth to itāthat sheād figure that out on her own. But once again, sheās surprised us. She found him. A man who claims to be the mythical immortal witch.ā
Hayleyās eyes narrowed. āClearly, heās up to something. And judging by the never-ending list of enemies Hopeās inherited just by being her fatherās daughter, itās likely this guyās going to be a threat. I say we head to Mystic Falls, hunt him down, and rip his head off.ā
Freya nodded slowly. āI agree. But first, we need to rule out the possibility that he is who he claims to beāor that he can do what he claims.ā
Hayley tilted her head. āIs there any chance heāsā¦ legit?ā
Freya hesitated. āThe Hollow turned out to be real. Painfully so. And Iāve lived for over a thousand yearsāgranted, with some rather long naps between centuries. Whoās to say some clever witch hasnāt found a way to live just as long? Perhaps even the same way Dahlia and I did.ā
Hayley took a long sip of her beer. āWould take a powerful witch. One with deep knowledge of their craft.ā
āEven so,ā Freya said, her voice darkening, āafter all these years, the Hollow still resides within our siblings. Whatās left is a poisonous magicāone no witch could endure. Not even an immortal one.ā
Hayley smirked. āWho knows, maybe weāll get lucky. This guy might commit magical suicide and rid us of the Hollow and himself in one go.ā She paused, her tone shifting. āYou should probably let Klaus know. He doesnāt answer anyoneās calls anymore, but Iām sure you have moreā¦ persuasive methods.ā
Freyaās lips curled into a sly smile. āIāll send him a note.ā
After meeting with Hope Mikaelson, the immortal witchāknown by many names, most lost to timeāretreated to a remote cabin buried deep in the woods, several miles beyond Mystic Falls. The forest here was older than the town itself, its trees gnarled and towering, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Fog clung to the ground in thick, curling tendrils, and the air carried a damp chill that whispered of forgotten things.
The cabin stood crooked and weather-worn, its timber walls blackened by age and moss. Ivy crept up the sides like veins, and the windowsāsmall, warped panes of glassāreflected nothing but shadow. The front door groaned open with a sound like a dying breath, revealing a dim interior lit only by the flicker of candlelight and the dull gleam of iron fixtures. The scent of mildew and dried herbs hung heavy in the air.
Inside, an elderly man in a tuxedo awaited him, standing stiffly near the hearth where the fire had long since gone cold.
āAre you sure this is wise?ā the butler asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the silence. āThis will require a great deal of magic. Astral projection alone has proven rather draining for you, butā¦ā
The immortal witch stepped forward, his boots echoing against the creaking floorboards. He approached a pentagram etched into the warped wooden planksādrawn in blood, its edges cracked and flaking. Candles sat eat each point, their wax melted into grotesque shapes, as though weeping.
āI have no doubt it will drain me,ā he said, his voice low and reverent. āNot only of power, but of energy. I will be fine, if youāve prepared refreshments for afterwardā¦ā
The butter nodded solemnly.
With a flick of his hand, the witch ignited the candles. The flames sputtered unnaturally, casting long, twitching shadows across the walls. The cabin seemed to breathe with him, the very air pulsing in time with the ancient magic.
āVery well,ā he said. āDo not disturb me until the spell is complete. Thenāand only thenāwill I require your assistance.ā
He knelt at the centre of the pentagram, the blood beneath him sticky and cold. His eyes closed, and he began to chant in a language long dead, its syllables jagged and harsh, echoing through the cabin like the cries of the damned. The butler vanished into the adjoining room, leaving the witch alone with the darkness.
Suddenly, his spirit tore free from his body, flung across the veil of reality until it arrived in a bustling bar somewhere in France. The contrast was jarringāwarm light, laughter, music. But his focus was singular.
Elijah Mikaelson sat at the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys with haunting precision. The melody was melancholic, familiar. His suit was immaculate, his posture regalābut his eyes were distant, lost.
The witch approached, his present subtle but chilling.
āIāve always enjoyed dinner with a show,ā he murmured, leaning close. āIf youāre the showā¦ which one of these unsuspecting fools will be your dinner?ā
Elijah froze, his hands halting mid-not. He turned sharply, eyes wide with alarm.
āThat youāre a vampire with a rather inconvenient case of amnesia?ā the witch interrupted. āMemories can be buried, Elijah. But bloodlust? Thatās harder to hide. Donāt you ever wonder why you woke up one day with no past and a sudden urge to rip out throats?ā
Recognition flickered in Elijahās gaze. āI knew youā¦ didnāt I? Back then, when Iāā
āWhen you knew anything at all?ā the witch said softly. āYes. In fact, youāre the only Mikaelson who knows me as I am now. Which is why I must disturb this perfect little life youāve builtāfar from the rot of your family.ā
He placed a hand on Elijahās shoulder, a gesture both tender and terrifying. Then, with a final chantāthis one darker, deeperāhe began the spell to restore Elijahās memories.
Whether Elijah wanted them back or not.
Klaus stepped into his hotel suite, the city lights of Los Angeles casting fractured shadows across the polished floor. The room was quietātoo quiet. He paused, senses sharpening. Someone was here.
In a blur of motion, he crossed the room and slammed the intruder against the wall, one hand gripping their throat. But the moment his eyes met hers, the breath caught in his chest.
āCaroline,ā he whispered, stunned.
She used his hesitation to twist free, reversing their positions with practiced force. Klaus grunted as his back hit the wall, the impact cracking the plaster. Her face was inches from his, eyes blazing with furyāand something else.
āTo what do I owe this visit?ā he asked, lips curling into a smile that was equal parts amused and aching.
āIām getting tired of cleaning up your messes,ā Caroline snapped, though her grip on him lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
āHave you been spying on me?ā Klaus teased, voice low and smooth. He took a quiet pleasure in the fact that she still caredāstill watched him, even after all these years.
āMore like doing damage control for the school,ā she said, stepping back. āThe parents were already furious that I allowed Klaus Mikaelsonās daughter to attend. Theyāre terrified youāll show up to a parent-teacher conference and kill them all.ā
He chuckled, eyes never leaving hers. āIs that the only reason youāre here?ā
Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the tension between them shiftedāless combative, more charged. Caroline allowed herself a smile, soft and fleeting, before rolling her eyes and sighing.
āHopeās a great student. Even Alaric likes her, which is shocking considering his hatred for your family. Especially you.ā She hesitated. āSheās thriving, Klaus. Despite having an absentee father.ā
Klausās smile faltered. He turned away, jaw tight.
āSo, stop with the killing sprees,ā Caroline continued, her voice gentler now. āOr hire your own clean-up crew. I wonāt let your latest meltdown ruin the progress of one of my students. And while Iām at itāgive your daughter a damn call.ā
He laughed again, but it was quieter this time. Less mocking, more wistful. āI canāt be near her.ā
āBecause of the Hollow,ā Caroline said, her tone softening. āYeah, we all know that excuse. But youāre over a thousand years old, Klaus. Telephones exist. Mobiles. The internet.ā She smirked. āYouāve heard of those, right?ā
āItās easier this way,ā he murmured.
āEasier for who?ā she asked, stepping closer. āYou, of all people, know what itās like not to have a good father in your life. Despite my dadās issues with my vampire statusā¦ I still miss him every day. Youāre still here. Fix things with your daughter.ā
Her voice cracked slightly, and Klaus looked at herāreally looked at her. The fire in her eyes, the strength in her stance, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. Heād missed her. More than heād ever admit.
āIāll give her a call,ā he said quietly.
They shared a smile, the kind that carried years of history. Pain. Affection. Unspoken things.
āYou know,ā Klaus added, āI could compel someone to clean up after me.ā
Caroline narrowed her eyes. āDonāt. If youāre about to say youāve been a messy eater just to draw me outāā
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. āSomeone thinks highly of themselves.ā
āWell,ā she said, tossing her hair, āyou were always sort of obsessed with me. Rightfully so.ā
āItās good to see you,ā Klaus said, voice low, almost reverent.
Caroline hesitated, then smirked. āI suppose itās not entirely unpleasant to see you too.ā
A moment passed between themācharged, lingering. The air felt heavier, like it remembered the nights they never had, the words they never said. Klaus reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, and for a heartbeat, she didnāt pull away.
Then she blinked, clearing her throat. āOh. What do you know about a so-called immortal witch?ā
The cabin groaned as if exhaling with the return of its master.
The Immortal Witch collapsed onto the blood-stained floorboards, his body convulsing from the strain of his astral journey. His limbs twitched, his breath shallow. Blood poured from his nose and eyes in thick, crimson streams, pooling beneath him like a sacrificial offering. The flickering candlelight cast jagged shadows across his form, making him look less like a man and more like something unearthed from a tomb.
His butler entered, expression unreadable, dragging three hostages behind himāone male, two female. Bound and gagged, they thrashed weakly against their restraints, their muffled cries swallowed by the oppressive silence. With a grunt, the butler threw them down beside the witchās trembling body.
The Immortal Witch stirred.
With agonising effort, he forced himself upright, bones cracking as he moved. He crawled toward one of the women, his fingers twitching with anticipation. Her eyes widened in terror, her body recoiling despite the bindings. He placed a hand on her chest, and the room seemed to darken.
A black surge of energy erupted from his palm, tendrils of shadow slithering into her skin. She screamed against the gag, her body arching violently as the witch began to feed. The blood that had streamed from his face retreated, drawn back into his veins as her vitality drained away. Her skin turned ashen, her eyes glassy. The same wounds bloomed across her faceānose and eyes bleeding, mirroring his own moments before.
The other two hostages watched in paralyzed horror, their muffled sobs rising as the witch stood. His posture was no longer brokenāhe was whole again. Rejuvenated. His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, his smile slow and predatory.
āYouāll do nicely,ā he murmured, voice like silk dragged across a blade.
The candle flames flared, casting monstrous shapes across the walls. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, but inside the cabin, only one sound remainedāthe quiet, rhythmic breathing of a predator preparing for his next feast.
