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She was nine-hundred years old- she'd faced death many times and her hands had been the demise of so many legacies.
Yet once again, she found herself consumed by the oh so familiar tidal wave of grief, for the second time in her lifetime, drowning and spluttering for air in between the rough waves.
It should have gotten easier, but it didn't, it never did. Three years had passed since Marcel's death at the hands of Mikael; the years had ticked by like minutes, but her heart never felt whole.
Her husband however, seemed to be dealing with Marcel's loss in the best way possible. It wasn't like the time they'd lost Ivar, when he'd retreated and disappear for days on end, using his emotions to fuel his passion for the arts.
Instead, he'd simply come to terms with his death, knowing he couldn't spend the rest of his immortal life mourning the loss of his son.
Not only that, Nik knew he needed to be there for Astrid; the hand that held hers as she trembled, the chest she cried into when she was overwhelmed and the reassuring presence that comforted her- he was willing to part ways with his own remorse if it meant he'd help his wife.
He'd already lost his son, the abused little boy who reminded him so much of himself, the last thing he wanted was to lose the love of his immortal life as well.
A world without Astrid would be dark and lifeless, cold and lonely; it would be a world he wouldn't want to live in. He wouldn't let the death of Marcel overwhelm her as it nearly had with Ivar.
She was his lifeline, his anchor, his heart and soul; his mate. Astrid Mikaelson was his everything, in every sense of the word.
With slow, careful footsteps, as if not wanting to startle to silent blonde, Nik slowly approached. She was quietly staring out the window, a glass of blood in her hand, her back towards him.
If she was aware of him approaching, she didn't show it, her sharp gaze never leaving the beautiful greenery of the manicured garden.
She was in a trance of some sort, but that wasn't unusual, if anything it was often. Astrid never said what she was thinking about, but the look in her eye could never fool him; she was thinking of Marcel.
With a tenderness he only possessed towards her, he gently placed a hand on the bottom of her back, standing closely behind her.
As soon as his warm hand made contact with her, pressing softly against the navy material of her dress, every nerve in her body immediately tensed.
Without speaking, she shifted, pushing herself out of his grasp as she turned to face him reluctantly.
She ignored the wounded look that coated his features, the hurt that swirled within his blue iris' as his gaze narrowed.
