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❝ you see, that family drama you so joyfully deride does have its merits.❞
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AND THERE IS THE TRUTH OF IT; the fear. It is the fear of being outrun when the bullets are flying. It is the fear of being eaten by a shark before you can reach the shallows. It is the fear of being the constant stranger: never being recognized, reconciled, or rewarded. It makes good cops dirty, thieves wealthy, and sinners worthy. We all worship the Great Tit, hoping for an extra few seconds of suckle before the pipes run dry, before we get to feel full and happy. We might as well have blood and skin under our fingernails because we have all left our marks on the ones we held back in order to hold our own.
Klaus stood on the balcony that overlooked the city. The morning sun glared down at him as if trying to ease his anger. But it only grew. He stepped back into the shadows of the guest bedroom before softly closing the doors behind him. He kept his gaze lowered in an attempt to avoid his dead friend who lay with nothing but a white sheet covering their decaying corpse. It was a valiant attempt to hide what he already knew was there; the fear. Thankfully before it could get too overwhelming for him, a soft knock sounded at the door. He didn't need to turn to know who it was. His tense shoulders immediately relaxed and he felt more comfortable in the presence of his wife. Even if he was grieving.
"Did you bring it?" Klaus questioned gruffly.
"Jackson wrote down everything that your father told him about the ancient werewolves," Enola informed. She pulled the leather bound journal out into the open. She had thought it had been lost considering she hadn't seen the thing for a year. But in the end, she found it in a box of old things. She handed over to her husband with no complaints.
"Thank you," Klaus murmured softly.
Enola gave Klaus a gentle nod. She turned to leave before her eyes flickered over to the bed. He had been holed up in here with a rotting corpse all night. And she wasn't judging him for that. But something had to be done about the body. It couldn't just stay there forever as Elijah kindly pointed out. Cami would want to be properly put to rest. Klaus, however, didn't seem interested in granting this wish. He simply flicked through the leather bound journal in hopes of finding the answer to all of his problems.
"Nik," Enola began hesitantly. "We need to do something about the body—about Cami." Klaus quietly continued to flip through the journal. "I know that she wanted an Irish wake. I can make arrangements."
Klaus snapped the journal closed in one fluent motion before turning to face Enola with a ferocious glare. She wasn't at all surprised by his less than enthusiastic reaction. It was the reason everyone was so scared to speak up. Being on the receiving end of his fury was a horrifying thing. But she was his wife. If anyone could talk some sense into him, it would be her.
