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 abandon—music 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.
“Hye man, you lost or--?”
Klaus blurred forward, and the boy’s words were replaced by a wet, choking gurgle as Klaus’s 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 moving—laughing.
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, “Almost made it,” 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.
“Los Angeles,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “Still full of surprises.”
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 eyes—too ancient for his age—reflected 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 unchanged—timeless, 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.
“The time has come, Mother,” he whispered. “Everything has fallen into place. And now… after all these years… now, I can finally make my move.”
After paying his respects at his mother’s 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 outfit—a gender defiant masterpiece of high fashion—turned 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 changed—buildings modernised, faces unfamiliar—but 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 couldn’t 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. He’d heard whispers, tracked rumours, studied the bloodlines—but 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 eyes—traits 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.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice steady, her presence commanding yet kind.
He smiled, intrigued. “How could I resist?”
The man tilted his head, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Are you wanting something to drink? Alcoholic or bloody. I don’t mind either.”
Hope arched a brow, lips twitching. “I’m underage. And I have a headmaster with eyes everywhere in this town.”
He scoffed, swirling the champagne flute in his hand. “You are equal parts witch, wolf, and vampire, and yet you’re worried about being caught by anyone. That’s… unexpected.”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, folding her arms, “but you’re rather unexpected yourself. I thought you’d be…”
“Older?” he offered with a smirk. “You expected an old man with a white beard, draped in Arthurian robes? You wouldn’t be the first. People meet me and expect Merlin. Fortunately, I have an excellent skincare regimen and an anti-aging routine I don’t intend to share with any living soul.”
Hope chuckled softly. “My aunt Freya’s lived a long time too, but she slept through most of the centuries.”
“I imagine you didn’t go through all the trouble—debunking myths, separating lore from fairytale—just to ask my age and whether it’s plausible.”
“Of course not,” she said, her tone shifting. “I need your help. I want to reunite with my family.”
Before he could respond, the waiter approached. Landon Kirby. He smiled at Hope with a warmth that didn’t 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.
“I have no interest in reuniting families,” he said, taking a sip. “However, I do have a particular fascination with the lesser known magics of the world. Especially the witch known as the Hollow… and the magic that once belonged to her. Or, as you say, now resides within your father, aunt, and uncles.”
Hope’s expression darkened. “The Hollow wanted me. To possess me. She destroyed my family.” Her voice cracked, tears threatening. “I haven’t seen my father since I was five—at least not in person. I can’t be with Aunt Rebekah or my uncles. It’s been eleven years. No one’s found a better solution. But then… I heard about you.”
He set the glass down, his gaze sharpening. “I don’t respond well to emotion. Haven’t suffered it in centuries. And I don’t enjoy witnessing it in others either.” He leaned back, studying her. “You’re a powerful witch—perhaps 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 Hollow…and yet, here you are.”
His tone softened, unexpectedly sincere. “I have no doubt your future will be the stuff of legend. But no future is great without those to share it with. I’ll 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.”
Hope recoiled, horror flashing across her face. “All that power…to yourself? It’ll consume you. Destroy you. You’d have to be insane—”
“I know what I’m doing,” he interrupted cooly. “I know what I can handle—and what I cannot. If you want my help, those are my terms. Freya’s solution was clever. But mine is better. You get your family. I get the Hollow.”
Hope’s voice trembled with fury. “Say you survive it. What then? What do you plan to do with that kind of power? How do I know you won’t become just another threat my family has to face?”
“You don’t,” He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. “Take your time to consider my terms. Take all the time you need. It’s not like either of us are short on it. I’m not here to convince you. It’s your family that will need the convincing. Your father isn’t exactly known for his trust—especially toward my kind. But when you see my way as the only way—and you will—you’ll force their hands.”
Hope rose to meet him, her voice low and fierce. “I need my family back. I’ll do whatever it takes. But if you’re playing me… you’ll see just how much I am my father’s daughter.”
He smiled, dark and knowing. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss Mikaelson.”
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 “ripper” Stefan Salvatore, still carried a lingering energy—restless, 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 life—clinking dishes, soft jazz, and the occasional laugh from Davina Claire—made the scene feel worlds away from Hope’s quiet room.
“I can’t believe it’s your third wedding anniversary already,” Hope said, grinning. “Not that I could attend the wedding, which is a real shame. I would’ve looked amazing in a bridesmaid’s dress.”
Kol chuckled. “I would’ve loved to have my favourite niece there. Or even Rebekah. Your father and Elijah… not so much.”
Hope laughed, shaking her head. “Well, this witch—warlock? I don’t think he has a preference—he might genuinely be able to help with the Hollow problem.”
Kol raised an eyebrow. “I don’t believe his claim to be the world’s oddest.”
“Oldest,” Hope corrected with a smirk.
“Right. That I really don’t believe. Your Aunt Freya is the oldest witch I know. What does she make of this guy’s claims?”
“She says the so-called immortal witch is just a story. A legend spun through the witch community.”
Kol scoffed. “Not the first time I’ve heard witches claim to be grander than they are. Very few live up to that title. Only two come to mind—my sister, and my wife.”
Hope leaned back against the headboard. “Let’s not forget Bonnie Bennet. She destroyed hell single-handedly. The school goes into a frenzy every time she visits.”
Kol nodded. “Yeah, well, the whole town goes into a different kind of frenzy when any of us show up in Mystic Falls.”
“I’d call that a state of pure dread,” Hope said dryly. “Can we please get back to the matter in hand?”
Kol sighed, turning off the stove. “Look, if this witch wants to commit magical suicide by playing chess with the Hollow and use me and my siblings as pawns, then hell—I’m in. for you, of course. But good luck convincing Aunt Bex or your father to trust some strange witch. Least of all Uncle Elijah, who’s currently in France with no memory of who any of us are… or who he is.”
Hope’s eyes lit up. “So, you’re in?” She smiled. “Great! Just leave the rest to me. We’ll have one big, happy family reunion in no time.”
Kol leaned against the counter, his expression softening. “I know you have little to no memories of us all being together but trust me—those reunions are never happy. They usually end with one of us, typically me, getting a dagger in the back. Courtesy of your father.”
Hope laughed, but the weight of his words lingered. Family was complicated. Dangerous. But it was hers—and she wasn’t giving up.
Rosseau’s was alive with the hum of supernatural energy. In the heart of the French Quarter, the bar had become neutral ground—witches, 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. “So, my daughter’s been holding secret meetings with mysterious witches claiming to be older than half the vampires in this city… and you’re only telling me this now?”
Freya exhaled, swirling her bottle. “I told her, repeatedly, that she was chasing a myth. I was convinced there was no truth to it—that she’d figure that out on her own. But once again, she’s surprised us. She found him. A man who claims to be the mythical immortal witch.”
Hayley’s eyes narrowed. “Clearly, he’s up to something. And judging by the never-ending list of enemies Hope’s inherited just by being her father’s daughter, it’s likely this guy’s going to be a threat. I say we head to Mystic Falls, hunt him down, and rip his head off.”
Freya nodded slowly. “I agree. But first, we need to rule out the possibility that he is who he claims to be—or that he can do what he claims.”
Hayley tilted her head. “Is there any chance he’s… legit?”
Freya hesitated. “The Hollow turned out to be real. Painfully so. And I’ve lived for over a thousand years—granted, with some rather long naps between centuries. Who’s to say some clever witch hasn’t found a way to live just as long? Perhaps even the same way Dahlia and I did.”
Hayley took a long sip of her beer. “Would take a powerful witch. One with deep knowledge of their craft.”
“Even so,” Freya said, her voice darkening, “after all these years, the Hollow still resides within our siblings. What’s left is a poisonous magic—one no witch could endure. Not even an immortal one.”
Hayley smirked. “Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky. This guy might commit magical suicide and rid us of the Hollow and himself in one go.” She paused, her tone shifting. “You should probably let Klaus know. He doesn’t answer anyone’s calls anymore, but I’m sure you have more… persuasive methods.”
Freya’s lips curled into a sly smile. “I’ll send him a note.”
After meeting with Hope Mikaelson, the immortal witch—known by many names, most lost to time—retreated 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 windows—small, warped panes of glass—reflected 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.
“Are you sure this is wise?” the butler asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to disturb the silence. “This will require a great deal of magic. Astral projection alone has proven rather draining for you, but…”
The immortal witch stepped forward, his boots echoing against the creaking floorboards. He approached a pentagram etched into the warped wooden planks—drawn in blood, its edges cracked and flaking. Candles sat eat each point, their wax melted into grotesque shapes, as though weeping.
“I have no doubt it will drain me,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “Not only of power, but of energy. I will be fine, if you’ve prepared refreshments for afterward…”
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.
“Very well,” he said. “Do not disturb me until the spell is complete. Then—and only then—will I require your assistance.”
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 jarring—warm 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 regal—but his eyes were distant, lost.
The witch approached, his present subtle but chilling.
“I’ve always enjoyed dinner with a show,” he murmured, leaning close. “If you’re the show… which one of these unsuspecting fools will be your dinner?”
Elijah froze, his hands halting mid-not. He turned sharply, eyes wide with alarm.
“That you’re a vampire with a rather inconvenient case of amnesia?” the witch interrupted. “Memories can be buried, Elijah. But bloodlust? That’s harder to hide. Don’t you ever wonder why you woke up one day with no past and a sudden urge to rip out throats?”
Recognition flickered in Elijah’s gaze. “I knew you… didn’t I? Back then, when I—”
“When you knew anything at all?” the witch said softly. “Yes. In fact, you’re the only Mikaelson who knows me as I am now. Which is why I must disturb this perfect little life you’ve built—far from the rot of your family.”
He placed a hand on Elijah’s shoulder, a gesture both tender and terrifying. Then, with a final chant—this one darker, deeper—he began the spell to restore Elijah’s 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 quiet—too 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.
“Caroline,” 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 fury—and something else.
“To what do I owe this visit?” he asked, lips curling into a smile that was equal parts amused and aching.
“I’m getting tired of cleaning up your messes,” Caroline snapped, though her grip on him lingered for a moment longer than necessary.
“Have you been spying on me?” Klaus teased, voice low and smooth. He took a quiet pleasure in the fact that she still cared—still watched him, even after all these years.
“More like doing damage control for the school,” she said, stepping back. “The parents were already furious that I allowed Klaus Mikaelson’s daughter to attend. They’re terrified you’ll show up to a parent-teacher conference and kill them all.”
He chuckled, eyes never leaving hers. “Is that the only reason you’re here?”
Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the tension between them shifted—less combative, more charged. Caroline allowed herself a smile, soft and fleeting, before rolling her eyes and sighing.
“Hope’s a great student. Even Alaric likes her, which is shocking considering his hatred for your family. Especially you.” She hesitated. “She’s thriving, Klaus. Despite having an absentee father.”
Klaus’s smile faltered. He turned away, jaw tight.
“So, stop with the killing sprees,” Caroline continued, her voice gentler now. “Or hire your own clean-up crew. I won’t let your latest meltdown ruin the progress of one of my students. And while I’m at it—give your daughter a damn call.”
He laughed again, but it was quieter this time. Less mocking, more wistful. “I can’t be near her.”
“Because of the Hollow,” Caroline said, her tone softening. “Yeah, we all know that excuse. But you’re over a thousand years old, Klaus. Telephones exist. Mobiles. The internet.” She smirked. “You’ve heard of those, right?”
“It’s easier this way,” he murmured.
“Easier for who?” she asked, stepping closer. “You, of all people, know what it’s like not to have a good father in your life. Despite my dad’s issues with my vampire status… I still miss him every day. You’re still here. Fix things with your daughter.”
Her voice cracked slightly, and Klaus looked at her—really looked at her. The fire in her eyes, the strength in her stance, the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. He’d missed her. More than he’d ever admit.
“I’ll give her a call,” he said quietly.
They shared a smile, the kind that carried years of history. Pain. Affection. Unspoken things.
“You know,” Klaus added, “I could compel someone to clean up after me.”
Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Don’t. If you’re about to say you’ve been a messy eater just to draw me out—”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. “Someone thinks highly of themselves.”
“Well,” she said, tossing her hair, “you were always sort of obsessed with me. Rightfully so.”
“It’s good to see you,” Klaus said, voice low, almost reverent.
Caroline hesitated, then smirked. “I suppose it’s not entirely unpleasant to see you too.”
A moment passed between them—charged, 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 didn’t pull away.
Then she blinked, clearing her throat. “Oh. What do you know about a so-called immortal witch?”
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 him—one 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 witch’s 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 face—nose 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 broken—he was whole again. Rejuvenated. His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction, his smile slow and predatory.
“You’ll do nicely,” 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 remained—the quiet, rhythmic breathing of a predator preparing for his next feast.
