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Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

New Orleans, 1835.

The morning sun stretched warmly across the cypress-dotted plains on the edge of New Orleans, painting the wet grass in glowing light. Mist clung low to the ground like a reluctant lover, slowly retreating from the warmth of day. The bayou murmured in the distance, frogs croaked rhythmically, and the air tasted of wet earth and pine.

Henrik rode, now fifteen and a picture of vigor and strength. His golden locks whipped behind him as he clung to the saddle confidently while riding at high speed. His mount, Obsidian, a black stallion with the spirit of the marshes pulsing through its veins, galloped with untamed joy. The hooves tore into the soft, damp soil, and Henrik, arms spread wide, embraced the world with a reckless grin carved across his face.

"THIS," he shouted to the wind, "is MINE!"

The breeze roared past his ears, tearing through his hair, stinging his eyes. He laughed into the wild, feeling alive and unrestrained. Here, he was free from the shadows of his past, from the sneering eyes of Klaus. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back on the saddle as Obsidian carried him through an open clearing dotted with palmetto and reeds. This was his freedom, the moment when he could enjoy himself.

Eventually, the forest thickened, and Obsidian slowed to a trot. Henrik tugged the reins, and the stallion obediently snorted and eased to a halt. Up ahead, through the canopy, a herd of deer grazed in a golden break of sunlight, delicate and unaware.

Henrik slid down from the saddle, his movements silent and fluid. He pulled his fine, engraved Hawken rifle from the leather sheath at the saddle's side, the barrel glinting in the dappled light. He moved like a ghost, boots silent over the forest ground, and crouched near a fallen log, setting the rifle down. The scent of woodsmoke, damp bark, and animal musk filled his nostrils. He quickly prepared the rifle for shooting, and his finger steadied over the trigger, and his breathing slowed.

The deer, young and sleek, grazed near a stream, unaware of the predator in their midst. Henrik aimed, his breath steady, his heartbeat calm.

*CRACK.*

The shot echoed through the trees like thunder. The deer flailed, stumbled, then fell. A clean shot through the ribs—the heart likely burst. Henrik remained still a moment longer, feeling the blood settle in his veins. Then, he stood, slinging the rifle over his back, and stepped forward.

He knelt beside the fallen beast, pressing a hand to its chest. "What a good shot, it blasted him," he whispered. "It is a fine hunt, I will enjoy fresh deer meat for today. Hopefully Mom likes it."

He was excited about having hunted a nice deer. He worked efficiently, securing the deer's legs with a length of rope and hoisting the body across Obsidian's flanks. Blood dripped softly onto the horse's black hide, but the stallion did not protest.

Henrik leaned forward slightly, brushing a hand through the horse's mane and whispering, "We showed them today, didn't we, boy?"

Obsidian whinnied softly, as if in agreement.

He chuckled and made his way to the stream, kneeling down to clean his hands and face. He cherished these moments out in the wild, but he knew that staying to hunt more would serve no purpose. He was already content, having made a successful kill. He mounted Obsidian once again, taking a long swig from his waterskin before giving a sharp whistle. The stallion reared slightly, then galloped back toward the plantation trails, heading for the edge of the Mikaelson estate. The trees parted before them, and the Spanish moss wept in silent witness to their passage.

He rode past the sugarcane fields, where enslaved workers labored in silence, their eyes darting up in curiosity at the boy drenched in sweat and blood. A young man now. And when he passed beneath the iron archway of the Mikaelson estate, he straightened his spine and kept his chin high. Let Klaus watch from some brooding window. He wanted him to know that even after making his life hard, he still enjoyed it.

As he entered the open courtyard, the mansion looming behind like a fancy cage, Rebekah emerged from the wide double doors in a flurry of skirts. Her face, eternally youthful yet lined with worry that lit up at the sight of her son.

Rebekah gasped, then joyfully called out with affection, "Henrik!"

Henrik dismounted with a smile as he looked at his beloved mother. She rushed to him, not caring for the blood on his clothes. Her arms wrapped around him, slender yet strong, and she pressed her lips firmly against his. Henrik responded, their mouths moving in unison, slow and indulgent. Their tongues entwined, exploring each other with a hunger that was anything but maternal. She pulled away only to rest her forehead against his, blue eyes gazing deep into his stormy ones.

"I see that you got lucky today, my love," she whispered, breath trembling with pride and arousal. "A nice kill. You've become a fine man."

Henrik smirked, cocky and youthful. "No, Mom. It isn't luck...I'm good at it."

"Someone woke up cocky today, huh?" Rebekah's lips brushed his cheek, her breath hot on his skin. "But yes, you are. At least you are better than him already."

"Ugh. I don't want to compare with him." Henrik said, a little upset.

Rebekah smiled but kissed his lips, calming him down, and Henrik enjoyed it.

They lingered there, embracing, her hand on his chest, the scent of blood mingling with perfume and sweat. Her dress was light, and as the wind pulled at the fabric, it clung to her figure like sin itself. He stared openly, his eyes tracing the curves of her body, a boy teetering on the edge of dangerous manhood.

Henrik's hands, strong and confident, slid down to her waist, pulling her closer. She let out a soft moan, her fingers digging into his back. Their bodies pressed together, the heat between them growing with every passing second. He pushed into her, his desire evident, and she responded with a low, throaty laugh.

"My brave hunter," she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. "You've made me so proud."

His hands moved lower, cupping her ass, squeezing gently. She let out a gasp, her eyes fluttering closed. He leaned in, his tongue tracing the line of her jaw, down to her neck, where he nipped gently at her skin. She moaned softly, her body melting into his.

"Henrik," Rebekah whispered, her voice husky with desire. "My love."

He looked into her eyes, his own dark with passion. "I want you, Mom."

She smiled, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And you shall have me, my darling. Every inch of me is yours."

Their lips met again, their tongues dancing, their bodies pressed tightly together. The world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them, lost in their desire.

"Ahem."

A soft cough interrupted the moment. They pulled away, their breaths ragged, their eyes still locked on each other. Elijah stood with his usual composure, dressed immaculately, a leather-bound book in one hand and a faint, knowing smirk on his lips.

"I see congratulations are in order," he said with a faint bow of the head. "A clean kill from the look of it."

Henrik straightened, his arm still wrapped around Rebekah's waist. "Lung shot. Dropped him with one bullet."

"Impressive," Elijah replied, eyes flickering to the blood-soaked saddle. "You've inherited more than just your mother's blood and fine looks, nephew. You've inherited our Mikaelson precision."

Rebekah chuckled softly and turned to Elijah. "He's more than just a pretty face. He is a strong boy. My strong boy, brother."

Elijah smiled wryly, feeling the possessiveness in his sister's voice. He sighed as he came to terms with that long ago and their love beyond morals between the pair of mother and son. 

Henrik moved to the horse's side and began untying the deer, his hands quick and practiced. "Help me move him near the fire pit. I'm cooking him."

"You intend to roast it yourself?" Elijah asked, amused.

"I intend to make sure every piece is used," Henrik replied. "The meat, the hide, the bones. Nothing goes to waste when it's earned."

Elijah watched him with a quiet reverence as the boy—no, the man—lifted the carcass off the saddle and hoisted it over his shoulders. Henrik grunted, not from strain, but from the stubborn pride of youth.

As he walked toward the pitfire on the far end of the estate—just past the ornamental hedges where the grass met soft dirt—he was stopped by a slow clap.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Klaus.

He emerged from behind a pillar near the courtyard, wine goblet in hand, his silhouette like that of some lion prowling at the edge of civility.

"Well done," Klaus said, his voice slow, careful. "You've grown strong, boy. Quite the specimen."

Henrik didn't stop walking. The deer carcass remained slung over his shoulder, blood dripping down his back. His jaw tensed, and the scorn in his heart rose like bile. He didn't say a word.

Klaus stepped forward, a half-smile faltering. "You hear me, son? That was meant as praise."

Henrik snorted. He reached the fire pit, dropped the deer to the ground with a thud, and unfastened the saddle's tools with jerky movements. No words. No glance. As though Klaus were nothing but dust.

Klaus's smile twisted.

"You ignore me now? After all these years?"

Henrik picked up a skinning knife and set it carefully by the pit. Still, no reply.

"Don't you dare scoff at me like I'm your enemy," Klaus said, voice rising.

Henrik finally looked up, his voice flat. "You are my enemy."

The air went still.

Klaus took a step closer, his jaw twitching. "Careful with your words, boy."

"You called me a mistake," Henrik spat, his tone venomous. "You treated me like a leper. A blight. Now I'm supposed to kneel because I dragged back dinner? Save your breath, father."

Klaus's fingers tightened around the goblet. Henrik stood, wiping his hands on a cloth, then reached toward the saddle to retrieve the last of his tools.

And in that moment—something inside Klaus snapped.

With one fluid motion, he vanished in vampiric speed, reappearing beside the stallion. And before anyone could stop him—

SHHHLICK.

Obsidian's head rolled cleanly from his neck, blood spraying in an arc. The horse's body collapsed in a thunderous crash, legs spasming in the dirt as a pool of red soaked into the soil.

Henrik froze.

"No..." he whispered.

His legs moved before thought could catch up. He ran, dropped to his knees beside the twitching corpse. His hands shook as he lifted the horse's head into his lap. Blood coated his fingers, his sleeves. He stared at the eyes, still wide with confusion and fear. A gift. A symbol of freedom. Gone.

"You bastard," Henrik hissed.

Rebekah screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. "NIKLAUS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!"

Elijah surged forward. "Have you lost your mind?! That was his bond!"

"I warned him," Klaus growled. "He mocks me, and you expect me to stand idle while he disgraces me? I am not—"

Henrik rose slowly. He pulled a saber from Obsidian's saddle—one Rebekah had gifted him for his twelfth birthday. His knuckles were white as he clutched the hilt. His breath was ragged. Blood smeared across his cheeks.

"You want respect, beast?" he hissed. "Then act like a man, not a fanged child lashing out like Mikael."

The insult struck like thunder. Klaus's eyes narrowed, lips twitching into a cruel grin. "You dare compare me to him?"

"You're worse than him," Henrik said, stepping forward. "Because at least Mikael knew what he was. You pretend to be a king while dancing like a rabid dog."

"ENOUGH!" Klaus roared, drawing his own blade from his belt.

Steel met steel in a violent clash. Henrik struck first, a slash aimed at Klaus's shoulder. The older vampire parried with ease but stumbled slightly at the force behind the blow.

"You call yourself my son, but you fight like a stranger," Klaus snarled.

"I am not your son. I'm my mother's child," Henrik spat, "and I'll never be yours."

Their blades danced, a blur of silver and fury, kicking up dust and ash as the fire beside them crackled. Sparks flew as metal kissed metal. Klaus was stronger, older—but Henrik was fueled by rage.

Elijah rushed to intervene, stepping between them and shouting, "ENOUGH!"

He caught both blades with supernatural speed, arms spread like a barrier of reason between two tempests.

Klaus bared his fangs, panting, blood trickling from a shallow cut on his cheek. Henrik stood across from him, seething, lips curled in fury, saber trembling in his hand.

Rebekah stood behind them both, eyes wide in horror.

Klaus dropped his sword. "I should kill you."

"You already did," Henrik muttered, looking back toward his fallen horse.

A long silence followed. Klaus turned on his heel and stormed off toward the estate, wine goblet shattered on the ground behind him.

From the balcony above, a silent figure had watched it all—Marcellus. His arms crossed, his expression unreadable. As Klaus passed below him, he descended the steps without a word and followed his adoptive father into the night.

Henrik watched them go. Then he turned his head and spat onto the earth. "Look at him. The prodigal slave chasing after his daddy."

Elijah looked at him sharply. "Henrik—"

"Don't," Henrik snapped. "Just... don't."

He bent down and hoisted the deer again, dragging it across the dirt toward the fire pit where tools lay waiting. Blood dripped in his wake. Not just the animal's, but the ghost of something else. Something once whole, now shattered beyond repair.

He knelt and took the skinning blade in hand. The fire crackled beside him. No one spoke. Henrik said nothing more as he made the first cut. His hands were steady, his eyes cold. He was no longer the boy who had ridden out that morning. He was a man, forged in the fires of betrayal and loss. And he would never be the same.

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