Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue – 10 years ago

“I swear on everything I am, Elijah, he’s your son.”

Hayley’s face showed not an ounce of deceit. Elijah was an exceptionally intelligent man and had been alive for a very long time; he was consistent in knowing exactly when someone was lying. There were dead giveaways: they gave excessive details, they avoided eye contact, they used lots of hand gestures, among other things. Hayley was stood completely still, her long, mahogany hair curled, as beautiful as ever, at her chest, unmoving. Deep and velvety, her eyes locked on his, entirely unwavering. Hayley was deadly serious. The small, nervous boy avoiding his gaze by her was his son.

But how? Vampires were infertile. He knew that, well. For a time, in the beginning, he had mourned this loss. He grieved the children he would never get to have, the cuddles he would never enjoy, the little “dada”s he would never hear. It had hurt, deeply. He had longed for an opportunity to give a child the loving, gentle childhood he had not been afforded. This was but a pipe dream, though. Elijah knew that. It was a simple fact he had long come to terms with. Vampires could not have children. He could not have children.

His brother, Niklaus, was the exception and even that was a relatively recent development. Due to Nikalus’s recently freed werewolf side, he was now capable of having children. He had given their family a darling little girl, Hope, the absolute light and joy of their lives. She was a gorgeous seven-year-old with fiery ginger hair and radiant pacific blue eyes. She was, mercifully, the image of her mother. Shy and painfully sweet, she hid behind her mother, clutching her with one hand and the young boy beside her with the other, protective and fond. Elijah had missed her dearly while in the Chambre de Chasse with his siblings, minus Niklaus. He was thrilled to see her again. She had given him a small smile. Perhaps she recognised him, however subconsciously. Elijah hoped so.

“Elijah?” Hayley’s concerned and slightly shaky voice brought him back to the matter at hand. Ah yes, the mystery child.

“Forgive me, Hayley. I-” He pauses and straightens his tie “It is rare I am left speechless, but I admit I am now. I do not understand. I am physically incapable of having children. Have you spoken to Freya? There must be another explanation for this.”

“Look at him, Elijah.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Look at him.”

Begrudgingly, Elijah allowed his gaze to fall on the child. He had burnt umber hair, like a shadowed forest, that fell in front of his face and even darker eyes. The boy looked unsure and nervous, relying on the safety and familiarity of his mother and sister. He wore baggy, dark, comfortable-looking clothing that hung off his tiny frame. His skin was pale and unmarred, soft and reflective of his young age. He couldn’t be any younger than four or five, if Hayley’s claims were true, yet his uncertainty and meekness gave him a much younger quality, like a toddler. Oddly, the boy stirred a sort of protectiveness instead of Elijah. He didn’t understand it. This couldn’t be his son. He was infertile. He had reconciled that within himself centuries ago. The mysterious child’s gaze remained locked on the floor until his mother gently and reassuringly nudged him, and their gazes met.

“Hello, little one. What’s your name?” Slowly, he knelt in front of the child. Elijah’s voice was soft and, despite his best attempts at hiding it, utterly terrified. This was ridiculous. Elijah was a monster monsters were afraid of. Anyone who knew his name recoiled at the sound. In spite of this, nothing had stricken more fear in Elijah, not since his father did as a child, than the notion that this small boy might possibly reject him.

“... Lycus. Are you my daddy?” His gentle voice was high, a symbol of his immense nerves.

“I believe I am, yes. Your mother tells me I am.” Elijah was still not entirely convinced, but the small boy did not need to know that.

“Do you want to be my daddy?” Lycus sounded nervous, like he was holding his breathe in anticipation of bad news. He was surprisingly eloquent for his small years. There was something intriguing and yet utterly terrifying about him to Elijah.

Something slotted into place within Elijah, and suddenly that was all he had ever needed. Seemingly out of his control and entirely out of character for Elijah, he knelt down and tenderly brought Lycus into his hold. The boy went suddenly rigid, sceptical, before very quickly relaxing. Tiny and trusting, his soft and unconvinced hands wrapped around Elijah and clutched at his dark, designer suit. In an instant, the world melted away. Nothing and no one else mattered. The boy nuzzled his head into the crook of Elijah’s neck and seemed to accept him. A breath Elijah didn’t know he was holding was released. It would be okay. He had a son, and they would be okay.

Of course, in their family, peace never lasts long.

“Oh, Elijah you do have feelings!” Wholly destroying the lovely moment, Kol marched in and yelled into the room, throwing all tact and grace to the wind. Lycus seemed to flinch at the sudden noisy intrusion and a new, primal voice within Elijah fumed at Kol’s absolute audacity to frighten his baby. Nothing would hurt his baby. He would kill and be killed before any harm came to the sweet, soft boy in his hold.

“Lovely to see you too, Kol. Quenched yourself, have you?” He gestured to the wine dark blood stain around Kol’s mouth and down his front.

“Chambre de Chasse blood has nothing on real blood. This is like ecstasy.”

“Yes, well, there are children present. Go clean yourself. We must leave soon.” Elijah’s voice was, as usual, firm and sure.

Then, another small, suddenly sad voice piped up.

“You’re leaving again? Why?” Lycus seemed thoroughly heartbroken.

“Not for long. You have an uncle, Hope’s father, that must be retrieved. That’s what we do, in this family. We protect and care for each other. I will return, my boy. I give you my word.”

Not grasping the weight of Elijah’s word, the dark-haired boy looked unconvinced and returned to his mother’s side. Hayley effortlessly picked him up before carrying him up to his room, telling him his “Grandma Mary” would be here soon, to care for him. He shot his father one more look before disappearing behind the door. Elijah dropped his gaze and fell onto the couch, already feeling an overwhelming agony of missing his son. Gods, how do people do this?

“Can’t we just have, like, a day of rest and a bit of cheeky debauchery, leave Nik for a little longer? It’s nothing he’s not done.” Kol sat to Elijah’s side, grinning. He lent back, relaxed.

Elijah rolled his eyes and decided not to dignify that question with an answer. He stood and gathered his siblings and Hayley. Once Mary arrived, Elijah went upstairs to his son’s room.

“Lycus?” Elijah’s voice was gentle and hesitant. He peered into the room. The decor was mostly dark and muted, consisting of mainly browns and greens. It had a sort of nature-esque vibe. The room had a warmth and cosiness to it, good for a child who got easily overwhelmed. Lycus’s bed was in the corner and seemed much like a den, or nest. There were copious teddies, pillows, blankets and other soft objects intended to soothe. Lycus himself was sat on the floor, rocking softly, building some Duplo. Quickly and cat-like, they boy whipped his head up and stared at his father.

“I’m going now. I will be back soon, with your family. Then, we will all be together. In the meantime, Mary will care for you. You will be safe.” Elijah’s words were straight to the point and intentionally exact, ensuring no room for confusion in the child.

“What if a bad man gets you?” Lycus’s voice remained unsure. The boy was not a confident child. This worried Elijah. What if he was different? What if something was, for lack of a better words, wrong with him?

“No one will get me, child, I assure you. Nothing in this world will prevent me from returning to you.” Elijah did his very best to be reassuring to his son. He was quite good at this, he thought. Hopefully.

Lycus seemed to accept this and went back to his Duplo, giving his father a small smile.

Elijah then went to say his goodbyes to Hope, who was much more receptive and talkative, before returning downstairs. He walked into the dining room to his gathered family and nodded to them, signalling his readiness. Rebekah approached him and smiled at him.

“How’re you finding fatherhood, brother?” Her voice was cheery and bright, as it tended to be when talking to Elijah. She and Kol had spent most of the day getting to know Hope, Lycus having been reluctant to talk to a lot of new people all at once.

“He’s incredible. He’s terrifying. I could never stomach bringing him harm.” Elijah’s words referenced the cruelty they all endured at the hands of their father. The siblings nodded gently before all climbing into the truck.

They would create a family together. Theirs would be different. Theirs would be loving. Theirs would be safe.

Chapter Text

10 years later

Lycus knew these woods, well. He knew the soft call of the trees in the wind, the animals that made it home, and the ancient energy radiating from the earth like the calming embrace of a mother or dear friend. Time and time again, he had wandered the same path through the bayou. He had always felt a deep connection to nature, more so than he did to people. Nature didn’t want anything from him. Nature didn’t overlook him in favour of his supposedly more powerful sister. Nature didn’t insist he make conversation at family dinner, when all he really wanted to do was return to his beloved books and bed.

It’s not that he didn’t love his family. He did, deeply. He couldn’t imagine a life without his family. He had been raised to believe that family is the only permanent thing in this world, the only true power. Reliably, his father always provided him with the stability and safety he desperately needed when it all got a bit too much. His mother always understood when he subtly slinked away when everyone was gathered. His aunts and uncles provided him with love, counsel and support. His sister, despite being really rather irritating at times, loved him, as he loved her. The Mikaelsons had their faults, but ultimately, they loved each other.

As he moved between the trees and the warm September breeze kissed his pale skin, he thought of the words he had been told constantly throughout his childhood. Every time he had ever picked up a grimoire, walked in while Freya was tutoring Hope, tried to do magic in any capacity it was the same, constant chorus.

“You’re just not as powerful as Hope. You’re not a first born. That’s just fact; it’s not your fault.”

See, Lycus resented this claim. He felt there was a lot he could do that Hope couldn’t. Countless evenings, he had spent hours in the family library, poring over a book, studying ancient magic Hope could never even begin to understand. He knew the ins and outs of magic much older than any of them; he knew magic from his father’s day, a thousand years ago. He understood scarily powerful rituals, spells and potions that Hope couldn’t even pronounce. He was yet to find an area of magic he hadn’t been able to grasp with a book, a bit of focus and an obscene amount of caffeine.

He’d learnt not to voice this, though. It was useless: no one listened to him.

An unexpected chill yanked Lycus from his thoughts, sending an uncomfortable shiver dragging down his spine. That was odd. It was warm outside; summer was still only just making it’s way out. The teenager put down his book and scanned the area. Something was off. Peculiarly, there was a bite to the air and there seemed to be a strange shade to the space that wasn’t there before. The usual ambience of the bayou wasn’t there: there were no birds calling to one another, no gentle song of the breeze in the trees and no soothing scent of the surrounding flora. There was something wrong, he was sure of it.

Lycus had always prided himself on his intuition. He has never, not once, been inaccurate in any of his predictions. He was skilled in a lot of prophetic mediums, such as wax, pendulums and simple visions, but tarot cards were his favourite. It was the one thing the family conceded he did better than Hope and it filled him with so much joy when his impeccable skill and talent was recognised. Needing reassurance in his current uncertainty, he pulled out the deck he always kept with him. Centring himself and his energy, the young witch took a deep breath and pulled a card: The Tower.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

It was a common misconception among the uneducated that the “worst” card you can get in tarot is Death. In reality, none are necessarily bad, they all serve a meaning and a purpose. However, the card most tarot readers dread to pull in any reading is The Tower. It symbolises destruction, suffering, strife and general impending doom, whereas Death mainly symbolises change. Lycus was a man of faith, spirituality and energies. He knew this. He also knew that The Tower was followed by The Star, meaning that, no matter how difficult it is in the moment, suffering always precedes peace and revival. Still sucks in the moment, though.

There was a large part of Lycus that wanted to leave. He wanted to run to the safety of his home, his bed, where he could wallow in fear about what The Tower could bring. He could obsessively pull reading after reading, begging for an explanation from the Gods or the universe, about what was to come.

Ultimately, he couldn’t. He knew that it would eat him, if he left. The boy had a tendency for curiosity; he couldn’t help himself. He needed to know. Plus, whatever is coming would come. He’s been here before. He knows resistance is futile. It was better to simply face it head on, address it while he is prepared. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to prove he was capable of things other than having a breakdown and avoiding social interactions.

Lycus sat on the soft, hunter green grass. Grounding himself, he placed his hands on the earth and clutched at the dirt, focusing his thoughts on sensing whatever the fuck is going on so he can go home, have a cup of tea and watch the new season of Doctor Who.

Worryingly quickly, a surge of oppressive, old magic overwhelmed him. The shock of it caused his focus to waver, but he tried his very hardest to remain on the task at hand. Once he had regained his control, he focused deeper on this magic. It was deep, black and old. It smelled of death and decay. It was cold, chilling, unnerving. It seemed murky, as if purposely obscured, and, unsettlingly, malevolent. It seemed angry, vengeful. Like it had been waiting. For him?

He had dealt with adversaries before, of course he had. His family had absolutely no shortage of those who wished them harm. Now, his father had done everything is his considerable power to shield his young son from these threats, but despite that he had still encountered people who would threaten him. He has stood opposite creatures who wished him, a child, dead more times than, he was quite confident in saying, most his age. There are few fifteen-year-olds, Lycus was sure, who have had to defend their lives quite as many times as he had. Be that as it may, there was something distinctly different about this time. Worse. Lycus was truly shaken.

Before the fear had the chance to consume him, Lycus stood and trudged back home, hoping to seek reassurance in his family. The teenage witch liked to pretend he was all independent and strong, but at times he truly wanted nothing more than the comfort of his family’s words.

When Lycus had finally returned home, the residue of the malevolent energy continues to plague his mind, leaving him fearful and unnerved. Cheerful and chatty, his family were sat together in the dining room, waiting for the family’s cooks to serve them dinner.

“Lycus! Finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you? I’d almost forgotten what you even looked like!” His Uncle Klaus boisterously yelled to him. It was a running joke in the family, despite the teenager’s dislike of it, that he rarely showed his face among them. He was a solitary boy.

Overwhelmed and anxious, Lycus sat himself down next to his dad and began to fiddle with his jewellery. He let out a soft grumble and didn’t answer Klaus. He wasn’t in the mood.

“You doing okay, kiddo?” Rebekah asked caringly from across the table. She had always been closer with Hope than she was with Lycus, but she still loved him.

“There’s something wrong in the bayou.” He looked down at his wrist, where he stimmed with his bracelets. There was a distinct nervousness about him. It had visibly deeply unsettled him.

“Something wrong? How so, baby?” Hayley, being the alpha of the werewolf pack, the Crescents, who resided in the bayou, was concerned by this knowledge. She trusted her son, completely.

“Bad energy. Pulled The Tower.” His voice remained soft, like a frightened child. Elijah placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

Freya sighed. Being a first born herself and holding that power, she had always, however subconsciously, held a biased towards Hope’s magic. In spite of the numerous times Lycus had proved his ability to predict events and sense energies, Freya never truly believed in him. She always held the belief that he was simply trying to keep up with his sister.

“Darling, you know magic’s not your strong point. You shouldn’t be trying to sense energy. You’ll pick up inaccuracies and, as it evidently has, it’ll upset you. You should leave it to me and Hope. You have you own talents, focus on them.” Her voice was patronisingly sweet.

“Oh, for fucks sake shut up! I’m not weak! I’ve been doing this for years.” The boy yelled, his anger flaring immediately.

Over the years, Elijah’s initial fear there was something different about Lycus had only grown. The boy had immense trouble dealing with his emotions. He couldn’t cope with social events or other stressful situations. He refused to eat a lot of food, he never looked at people when they spoke to him, he hit himself when he grew upset among many other unusual behaviours. Eijah was an analytical man, particularly in people, and had over his son’s life been keeping a close eye on the problems he had and how he coped with them. Part of Elijah wanted to ignore it, hope he would simply grow out of it, but it was gradually becoming unavoidable. Elijah decided something had to be done about it. He put it aside in his mind for the time being and dealt with the situation at hand.

“We know you’re not weak, little one. You’re a Mikaelson witch, of course you’re not weak. Your Aunt Freya is simply worried for your safety and wellbeing.” He tried to be gentle but not condescending towards Lycus.

“I don’t even know why I fucking talk. You all wonder why you never see me.” Irritated, the teenager huffed and stood before storming off to his room. The intense malevolent energy from the bayou had already overwhelmed him and now only felt worse. Exhausted, he burrowed himself in his bed.

He didn’t understand. Why weren’t they listening to him?

Lycus was scared, really, genuinely scared. He had spent endless days ambling around the bayou and not once had he ever picked up on anything remotely negative. This had really, truly, thrown him. There was a deep, dark pit in his stomach. Something was coming. Something bad. He was a thousand percent certain. Sat on the bed, he pulled tarot card after tarot card, swung pendulum after pendulum and received only ambiguous hostility. He felt his heart hammering in his chest and his palms grow slick. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t breathe.

He stood in an attempt to gather himself and heard noise from downstairs. Appearing entirely unaffected, his family continued chatting happily, recalling their days to one another. He longed to be like them. Unaffected. Undeterred.

Normal.

While that was a fantastic notion, it was fictional. No matter how desperately hard he tried, the slender boy with dark, long hair would always be different.

“Lycus? Are you in there?” A soft, concerned voice plucked him from his thoughts, uncle Niklaus.

“Uncle Nik?” Despite his best efforts at hiding it, his voice was shaky and hesitant.

The door slowly pushed open, and Klaus walked in, sitting down on Lycus’s bed.

“What’s going on, cub?” His voice was gentle. The boy may be his nephew, not his son, but he loved him just as deeply as he loved his daughter.

“I’m scared. No one’s listening to me.” Meek, Lycus hugged his knees on the large, cushioned bed.

The hybrid sighed and placed a soft, loving hand on the younger’s shoulder. He knew of his tendency to panic and become overwhelmed. He also knew it was rare the boy asked for help or voiced any concerns he had. This must be serious.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll have Vincent take some witches, go out there and have a look. Would that make you feel better, little one?”

This seemed to soothe the dormant werewolf, and he nodded. They would find something. They would see he was right. He just knew it.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Gently, the older man brought Lycus to his chest, trying to soothe him.

“It’s all gonna be okay, pet. Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”

“It’s bad, Nik. I can feel it. It’s really bad.”

“Okay, love.” Klaus did his best to console his young nephew. He held him as the young boy shook and shivered in his hold.

Truthfully, Niklaus believed Lycus. He had, admittedly, always had an exceedingly keen eye for these sorts of things. The magic his daughter held was powerful, but untamed. It was wild and unpredictable. His nephew, on the other hand, had closely and meticulously cultivated his witchcraft, tirelessly perusing the family’s extensive collection of ancient grimoires and knowledgeable tomes. He knew how he had refined his prophetic ability and hypersensitive energy. He knew how he had done this time after time, how he had been unfailingly accurate every time. So, he did believe Lycus. He didn’t want to say anything and further agitate the young boy, but he did believe him.

Yes, he would be consulting Vincent. Definitely. After all, he did feel it had been rather quiet recently. He had been growing bored.