"Show me a hero and I'll write you a tragedy." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Victoria Morana Kingsley is average in nearly every aspect of her life. She isn't a great fighter. She isn't a brilliant genius. She doesn't have the greatest paying career. And...
A/N: I am soooooooooooo sorry it's taken me so long! Tbh, I don't even really like this chapter, like I do, but it's also a little slow. It was originally one big chapter, but because it's taking me so long to finish the end bit, I just broke it up into two. So here's a kinda part one to this? Sorry for the filler, but it's also full of important info, so there is that. Enjoy!
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So, turns out, not only is Niklaus as beautifully flawless as a god, but his family is equally as gorgeous as he is. Does absolute wonders for my self-esteem.
It's as if I have been cursed to continuously fidget and move for the rest of my life, for I find myself entirely unable to sit still under the heavy, pressing eyes of the vampires and hybrid ever so elegantly poised and stationed around the room. They, however, could not look any more different than I; the grace of royalty and air of authority clinging to them in a manner befitting of none other than the very first vampires to ever walk the earth, immortal, like the gods.
Four Original vampires, and the one normal vampire that was raised and guided under their care since he was a kid. Scarf vamp – who I soon learned after Niklaus' eloquent introduction is named Marcel – may not be an Original, but being raised by them has made him deadlier and more conniving than any other regular vampire. Not to be underestimated.
Not that I would underestimate or insult or threaten any of them, they all give me the heebie-jeebies. Also, I'm feeling realllyyyy judged right about now.
Elijah, the eldest of the family present, wears patience like a suit over his actual suit. Proper in language, posture and manners, the suave brunet (A/N: just found out that this is the male version for brunette, my life is a lie) stands the closest to me, not six feet from where I'm sat cross legged on one of their living rooms' couches. Calculation resides in his eyes, propriety and politeness first and foremost, but his gaze is far from blunt. A sheathed dagger currently not in use, but still as sharp as ever.
Rebekah, a blonde bombshell in the nicest boots and clothes I have ever seen – American attire is so different from Wakandan – appears rather bored from where she's perched on her loveseat, propping her elbow up on the armrest and resting the side of her temple against her index and middle fingers impatiently. She knows her worth, knows her position of power, but her guard is not as impregnable as her brothers'. There's something soft under there, her soul lighter than that of her siblings. One wouldn't know it under that unfriendly stare, though.
Meanwhile, Kol's dark brown eyes, that match with his tussled hair, almost unblinkingly pierce me to the spot, a deceptively playful, boyish smirk curling at his lips, the kind that only a predator wears when toying with its prey. He sets me on edge the most. Even Klaus doesn't seem as unhinged as he is. The family wildcard, then. Kol somehow doesn't strike me as someone who will spend time over pretences, and could be prone to spontaneously changing his mind at the last second.
