He knows. She has every right to hate him for what he's done, but he suspects she hates him more for being honest. Hates herself for seeing, in truth, what he's always told her. What she's always known. A piece of what she's been capable of herself.
Her anger is expected. It doesn't make it any easier to bear, and when she turns from him, frenetic and searching for some relief or preoccupation, Klaus tears his gaze away, pulling in a soft and impatient and abiding breath, head turning to the side.
He sits up, arm resting on his bent knee. She asks, and so he answers. He doubts it will help. "I sacrificed her on an altar of blood to lift a curse my mother had subjected me to for centuries." He doesn't elaborate where he might've in the past or under different circumstances. He doesn't qualify nor ask for sympathy; he doesn't appeal. Klaus licks his lips and moves, sudden and with graceful fluidity to stand and face her. The truth, curdled in his gut. This is it. The horror and shame he should feel is muted by the countless others in which he's done the same, the centuries of blood he's spilled. And yet when he speaks, the score of those words are undeniable.
He is not certain if those wounds are for Elena or for Wynonna. For him or for this. "I terrorized and I threatened and I killed her friends and family until she complied."
no subject
Her anger is expected. It doesn't make it any easier to bear, and when she turns from him, frenetic and searching for some relief or preoccupation, Klaus tears his gaze away, pulling in a soft and impatient and abiding breath, head turning to the side.
He sits up, arm resting on his bent knee. She asks, and so he answers. He doubts it will help. "I sacrificed her on an altar of blood to lift a curse my mother had subjected me to for centuries." He doesn't elaborate where he might've in the past or under different circumstances. He doesn't qualify nor ask for sympathy; he doesn't appeal. Klaus licks his lips and moves, sudden and with graceful fluidity to stand and face her. The truth, curdled in his gut. This is it. The horror and shame he should feel is muted by the countless others in which he's done the same, the centuries of blood he's spilled. And yet when he speaks, the score of those words are undeniable.
He is not certain if those wounds are for Elena or for Wynonna. For him or for this. "I terrorized and I threatened and I killed her friends and family until she complied."