His own mother wanted to kill him. Esther wanted to kill them all, all her children.

Klaus had a hard time digesting the betrayal of the woman who had given birth to him. Of course, he had killed her first a thousand years ago, but he was under the anger, the rage and the impulsiveness of his transformation into a vampire and his origin as a werewolf. Klaus was not really responsible. Esther, she had spent 1000 years planning the death of her own children.

What had shocked Klaus the most, even if he would never admit it out loud, was that she wanted to kill you.

You were the youngest of the Mikaelsons, behind poor Henrik. Vampirism seemed to have accentuated in you only the positive traits of your personality. Even Nicklaus never managed to get angry with you. In 1000 years, you are the only one in your family who has not been locked up in a coffin by your step-brother.

Klaus was in his studio, a canvas laid on his easel in front of him. He was carefully mixing the oil paint before spreading it on the stretched fabric. He was trying to control, to impregnate his work with all his negative emotions to get rid of them.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping at this hour, little sister?" Klaus asked you, his eyes still fixed on his painting. He had heard your bare feet clicking against the parquet floor when you had entered the room to approach him.