Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
She appeared somewhat angelic, her hazelnut curls spread across the ivory satin, forming a coiled halo above her head.
Laying there, she almost seemed at peace, as if there was no weight on her shoulders.
Coarse fingers twitching, yearning to lovingly stroke her cheek, Klaus resisted, one hand holding the coffin lid open as he gazed down at Astrid.
It seemed no matter how many times he had seen her laying in the coffin, each time he opened it he couldn't help but feel daunted and lost.
He often had to remind himself that she wasn't dead, that she wasn't completely gone; just in capitated.
He had made a promise to himself to keep her coffin separate from his siblings', the last thing he needed was Kol foolishly getting hold off Astrid and wakening her before he was ready, turning her against him once more.
However, he was aware there was little chance of Kol finding Astrid, what with his group of witches casting a cloaking spell on the coffin, and the fact that he hadn't seen his little brother since he had daggered Astrid.
Kol hadn't been foolish enough to return after he had left their English manner that day, Klaus liked to think his baby brother was afraid to return.
Though it was more likely Kol was staying as far away from Klaus as possible, cursing and loathing him silently.
But Klaus didn't care as he sunk down to sit beside the coffin, his fingers running across her cheekbone.
As soon as his fingers met with her cheek, he flinched, the coldness taking him by surprise.
She had always hated being cold, even as a human.
Not only that, he knew she'd hate the place he was keeping her, a dirty, old cave, but that was the only place his siblings wouldn't look.
Sighing, Niklaus frowned. "I'm doing this for you, my love." He reasoned with himself, eyes darting to the dagger that was buried painfully in her chest.
He wanted to rip it out, to throw it across the room and take her in his arms. To wait for her creamy glow to return to her alabaster skin and for her to open those expressive, wide eyes of hers.
But he couldn't.
Not yet.
His mind and head screamed at him to remove the dagger from her chest, as it had for the past three-hundred-and-twenty-eight years, but truth was; he was afraid.
The mighty and notorious Klaus Mikaelson was petrified of his 5'5 wife.
"I don't deserve you." Klaus mumbled, swallowing as she laid silently.
