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Wishing each sigh might be the last

Summary:

The first time she sees him, Caroline thinks he's an angel.

[Set in 1800s New Orleans. As Caroline lies dying, she prays for God to send help or end her torment and save her soul. She thinks an angel has come for her. But he's no angel at all.]

Notes:

This was written for the Klaroline Spookathon 2021.

It was originally part of a plan I had for a much longer fic inspired by Interview With the Vampire, hence why the New Orleans early 1800s setting (I know IWtV is set in the late 1700s, but I'm trying to match The Originals a little bit). But then I realized I was kidding myself thinking I'd ever actually write that whole fic. 🤣 So I made a drabble out of it instead and I hope you guys enjoy it! :)

TW for some violence and Klaus turning a dying a Caroline.

It hasn't been beta'ed and I am not a native English speaker, so please forgive any mistakes!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

 

The first time she sees him, Caroline thinks he's an angel.

Pain wrecks her mortal body, splintering her soul. It's excruciating. Already her mind has been shattered by despair and the dizzying loss of blood. She can barely move, can't even make a sound, her throat lacerated by the violence of her screams. She screamed when she was attacked, screamed while she was dragged into the alleyway, as she fought with every ounce of strength in her body until there was nothing left, mauled out of her by the man's fists and the sharp end of his knife.

Nobody came for her then. Nobody ever does, not in these parts of town. Women out roaming the streets before the sun's out are never up to any good, they say. They get what they deserve. Why would anybody come for her now?

Caroline saves her breaths and prays, one hand draped across the ruin of her stomach as though that could stop the bleeding, the other holding on to the medal around her neck.

When he appears at the end of the alleyway, his form haloed against the faint honeyed light from the main street, she thinks God has heard her prayers.

His voice sounds like a song, his eyes twinkle like stars in the night, and when he touches the bruised and bloodied mess of her face, his fingers are gentle and warm. Caroline sobs - first because an angel has come to her, then because the mere effort cuts through her like a blade. She tightens the hold over her stomach, focusing whatever energy she has left into the white-knuckled grip of her fingers, digging into her own side.

"Come now, love, don't cry," he coos, pulling a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That's awfully unbecoming."

"I'm... Dying," she struggles to speak, her voice weak and distant, scratching its way of her throat like sandpaper. There's no decency in death, she wants to say. No way to hold on to decorum and virtue as she tries to keep her own blood from oozing out of her body. The thoughts race through her mind, but any form of coherence gets lost and broken on the way to her lips.

"Yes," he agrees with eerie ease. "That you are." He puts a finger under her chin, lifting her face, turning it to one side and then the other, peering at her with studious attention. "What a shame. There is a special place in hell for those who dare abuse such lovely a creature."

Caroline cries harder. Her wits are failing her, her senses scattered. His beautiful, angelic face comes in and out of focus, at times brimming with kindness, others clouding with cool indifference. She doesn't know what's real anymore, what's mere fabrication of a feverish, dying mind. His words thrum across her being, as is befitting of an angel, but none of what he says makes any sense. She can feel herself slipping away, darkness closing in around her, ready to claim her. Freezing coldness cascades down her body, wrapping around her lungs like a fist. She's shivering and hurting and lost.

And dying. Caroline is dying.

Please, God... Please.

"Please..." she wheezes out. What she's pleading for, she does not know - please save me, please have mercy, please just end this already. "Please..."

"Poor beautiful thing," he utters, the pity in his tone grating her even in her sodden state. Caroline mashes her eyes shut, cursing herself for being so careless to find herself in this appalling state, cursing the heavens for sending so cruel an angel to her.

"Ca-Caroline," she forces out, as though striving to maintain a last shred of dignity amidst all the foulness. "My name is Caroline."

"Caroline," he repeats, colored with amusement, curling the syllables of her name on his tongue as though tasting them. "Very well, Caroline. I like your attitude. There's power in names, you know."

“Are you here… to kill… me?”

He peers closely at her face, searching, eyes as sharp as a blade. Caroline has no idea what to show him, what not to show him, so she merely holds his gaze with as much steadfastness as she can muster, on the edge of losing herself to the shadows. Then, as though satisfied with whatever he finds there, he says, "I could put you out of your misery, if that's what you want. But what if I said I could heal you instead?"

Caroline chokes on a wet breath that tastes of copper. "Wha-what?"

"If you believe your existence is so irrelevant it should end in a filthy alley like this, or if sweet release from the woes of a mortal world is what you seek, I could let you die. Truth be told, I have thought about it myself, once or twice. But I'll let you in on a little secret..." He tips his face closer to hers, rosy lips drawing into a conspiratorial smile. "There's a whole world out there waiting for you. Great cities and music - genuine beauty, unlike anything you've ever seen. It can be yours. You can live to have a thousand birthdays. All you have to do is ask."

"I don't... I don't know... What do you mean..."

"Oh, sweetheart..." His eyes drop from hers, to her hand. He pries her rigid fingers open, releasing her grip on the blood-stained medal. "Saint Jude," he says. "The patron saint of the impossible. Well, look at that. It appears your prayers might've been answered, after all."

"I don't want to die," she whimpers. She's so, so cold, but there's an animalistic instinct flaring up inside of her, hammering away at her skull, commanding her heart to beat on will alone. All she can think, all that will come to her lips, is survival.

"Good," he states, and then slides a hand behind her neck, pulling her towards him as though she were a precious doll, cradling her against his body.

Caroline goes without struggle, too limp and weak to resist, but she realizes she doesn't even want to. His embrace is delicate and warm, engulfing her in a moment of relief. Even the fabric of his garments feels soft against her battered and bruised skin. He brushes the mess of her hair away from her face, one finger tracing the line of her jaw, then her nose and her brow. She doesn't think she's ever been held with this much tenderness. If this is to be her end, she thinks, it's a good one.

When he looks down at her, his eyes flash in bright gold. It reminds her of the sun.

"Are you an angel?"

He laughs. "Oh, love... You've no idea."

His smile turns dangerous, wolfish, filled with mischief. Caroline's heart hesitates, her body going rigid. Dark veins pop all around his eyes, and when his lips part, she sees his teeth have turned to sharp fangs. All her relief gets instantly snuffed out, replaced by fear, but he muffles down her feeble attempt at a scream when he shoves a bloody wrist into her mouth.
"Drink up, sweetheart," he commands. "Drink up and it'll all be over soon."

He's no angel, she realizes too late. But he's come to take her soul all the same.

Notes:

Short dark one! 🤣 If you read this and enjoyed it, would love to hear your thoughts! :) Thanks so much!

Also, the title is a line from a poem by Charlotte Brontë, 'On the Death of Anne Brontë'.

🎃 Happy Halloween, y'all! 🎃