The dream had been plaguing him for the past month. Every night it was the same dream, the same dream that revealed nothing but seemed to become entangled within his every thought. Even through the day he found himself thinking about the dream, of the figure on the forest floor, just past Wickery Bridge, its skin pale in the moonlight and body shrouded by thick black covers. His mind would allow him to see no more. In every dream he would take one step, one step too close to the figure and then he would wake - heart pounding and breathing erratic - to a darkened room.
That night had been no different.
Only this time, he had refused to fall back into a restless sleep, filled with the noise of rushing water, the rustle of leaves the mysterious figure who lay on the forest floor. He had stalked around the room, collecting anything that he thought was necessary.
Tonight, the mystery would end. He would prove to himself that the dream was only a dream: a disruption caused by the residual hauntings that his abusive father had left upon his mind. It had to be that. Never before had anything caused him such turmoil. He had to prove to himself that it wasn't real.
As he left the manor, the wind howled around him as if laughing at the fact that he had given in. He had allowed his mind to win. Tree branches beat at the glass and the leaves scurried away from him before his feet ended their journey with a crunch. Shadows lurked in the forest, playing tricks on his supernatural eyes in the same way the dream had toyed with his mind.
He paid them no heed.
He had seen the exact location of the figure over a hundred times. His feet followed an unbeaten track that he had never walked before. He doubted anyone had. Long grass grasped at the fabric of his jeans and startled animals fled as he neared them. Determination thundered through him. Today, he would put an end to the restlessness of his mind and he would be at peace again.
In his millennia on this earth, nothing had frustrated him as much as this had. He had a need to know things, to make sure that it wasn't a threat to his reign. The fact that his dream wouldn't allow him to get closer was making him growl in frustration. Was the figure a threat? A sign from someone more powerful? He couldn't ignore the persistence of his dream. Ignoring things had made him vulnerable to his father's abuse. Centuries ago he had sworn he would never be so weak again. He wouldn't allow it.
His footsteps echoed over the sound of the bridge, each one a dull thud that rang through his ears, a sign that he would at last be putting his mind to rest. Water rushed beneath the old wood, cascading over rocks and through deeper pools before finally disappearing into the darkening forest. Normally, at this point of the dream, he would allow himself to contemplate what he was doing and whether he was willing to risk everything to find something that could be stronger than him, and that could potentially - if given the correct knowledge - end his existence on this earth. He didn't do that this time. Upon leaving his manor it had been decided that he would follow this through. No matter what the consequences were.
As the darkness continued to descend, he had never been so grateful for the keen eyesight his supernatural abilities offered him. No creature would be able creep upon him or take him by surprise.
Further a head, he saw a break in the trees. Moonlight filtered through the thinner canopy of leaves, barely touching the short grass. He felt a pull in his body, so he allowed himself to follow it. Part of his mind warned that it could be the work of a witch, but he pushed the cautious side away. Doubts would do him no good. If this was a threat, then it would be able to sense things like that. It would be able to see that his mind was weak.
He strode towards the clearing with more purpose, the pulling his his chest becoming stronger with every step he took. Before his eyes could make anything out, he noticed the sound of a heartbeat. It wasn't slow enough to be vampire and it didn't match the pace of a humans. It was fast, but not quick enough to match the sound of a werewolf. It was faster than that. Fluttering at such a rate it was hard to distinguish one beat from the next.
He didn't pause to think any more. He had to know. Normally, at this point his dream would end abruptly and he could go no further. He didn't even think of that. He walked forward, noting the details of the figure as he went.
It had short dark hair, ruffled with the wind and resting in small black curls at the nape of its neck. It was laid on its side, allowing him to view the side of its face. Of his face. Like his dream, the male's face was pale and alabaster - contrasting sharply with the dark colour of his hair. His eyes were shut, hiding their colour from him. He imagined that they would be as startling as the rest of him. His shoulders were broad and muscular but it wasn't that that had caught Klaus immediate attention.
The black coverage, which he had thought to be blankets, were feathers. Deep black feathers. Now he was closer, he could see that each was finely crafted and delicate. Not a single one was out of place. They rested along his back and covered the majority of his body. Together they created thick, luscious wings that came from open slits in the male's back. Blood oozed from the open wounds, creating tiny streams that gleamed in the moonlight.
An Angel, Klaus thought, as he neared the male.
His thoughts had been plagued an Angel.