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·° 。: ✰ : ·° 。
HE BOLTED UPRIGHT, desperately gasping for air as though it could save him from the nightmares that haunt the deepest chambers of his mind. Klaus ran a hand through his dark blond curls, rubbing his eyes afterwards. He sighed tiredly, palming his forehead. There was no doubt that he was a troubled manㅡa fact everyone in the supernatural community knew. The hybrid was ruthless, killing anyone who dared to defy his beliefs. Blood coated his fingers to the point where he could've bathed himself in the crimson liquid, symbolizing the extent of his crimes. He wrecked homes without remorse, the only expression on his face was that of boredom and an underlying hint of evil.
And yet here he was, looking so terribly small from his curled position, hugging his knees with his head bent over. He shut his eyes in an attempt to rid his mind of the image of her mangled corpse; but no matter how tightly he closed his eyelids, no matter how hard he tried to think of somethingㅡanything that could distract him, everything failed.
The muscles on his bare back contracted, the smooth surface pale from a sliver of moonlight streaming from the nearest window. With a heavy heart, Klaus exhaled a shaky breath, chest caving like his lungs would collapse any minute. The blond man loosened his clenched fists, fingers trembling as color returned to them. He stood up. White sheets fell from his limbs, exposing his legs, which were clad in grey sweatpants.
The hybrid paced back and forth by the bed, feet making soft padding sounds on the floor. It was just a dream, he reminded himself, running his fingers through his locks.
It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.
She's alive and well.
There's nothing to worry about, calm down.
Klaus gave a frustrated huff before sitting on the bed, twiddling with the drawstring of his pants. He became annoyed at a tapping sound resonating within the chambers. The hybrid stopped tapping his foot after noticing that he was the one making the noise.
Standing once again, the Mikaelson sped to his art studio. If there was anything that could calm him, it was surely painting, a hobby he had picked up before paintbrushes were even invented. Landscapes of lavender fields, hot summer beaches, hidden meadows, moonlit balconies, and many more displays littered the room, some hanging on the walls, and others leaning sideways on the ground.
He immediately moved towards the wooden drawer which contained tubes of paint. Klaus gathered a variety of hues, oblivious to what he grabbed. With quivering fingers, he began squeezing paint onto a palette. Splatters of tangerine, navy, and lemon yellow tinted the wooden board, and he didn't stop until it was completely filled. But, then it happened. The world seemed to freeze when a deep shade of scarlet flowed from the tube, and he couldn't look away.
