Chapter 7: When Blood Calls Blood
The journey to New Orleans was long, one of those trips weighed down by silence more than speech. Tension filled the atmosphere inside the black Impala like a dense, annoying fog, while three brothers bearing the same name sat, torn by unspeakable pain.
When they arrived, New Orleans greeted them with a pulse of ancient magic, and a heavy scent of jasmine and decay. The French Quarter pulsed with life, hiding behind its charm centuries of violence and secrets.
Alexander said as he stepped on the cracked sidewalk: "Let's split up. We'll cover more ground, and the sooner we find the witch, the better."
Damon raised an eyebrow sarcastically: "Great. Let's all go and get killed one by one."
Stefan shrugged: "He's right. Time is not on our side."
---
Rebecca and Stefan
Stefan wandered through quieter alleys away from the French Quarter, where jazz music faded and the air grew more somber. It didn't take long before he found her.
She emerged from the shadows like a ghost from his past—beautiful, dangerous, and unmistakably elegant.
He said softly: "Rebecca..."
She smiled, folding her arms: "Hello, tortured one."
He smiled lightly in return: "I prefer being called Stefan these days."
She circled him like a lioness inspecting her prey: "And what brings a Salvatore boy to the city of sins?"
He answered: "We're looking for a witch… descended from Celeste Duval."
Her expression changed slightly, but she feigned calm: "And why?"
He said in a low voice: "For someone… for someone considered family."
She tilted her head: "Family? Then it must be someone important."
He answered confidently: "He is."
She stepped closer and whispered: "You still wear guilt like you were born with it, Stefan. Be careful… in this city, blood debts don't go unpaid."
---
Elijah and Damon
Damon entered a dimly lit lounge near Royal Street, showing no surprise when a familiar face appeared, sipping bourbon as if time stood still.
Damon said, raising his glass: "Elijah Mikaelson… still perfecting the frown?"
Elijah replied calmly: "Damon Salvatore… still arrogant?"
Damon smiled: "And you love it."
Elijah nodded slightly: "What brings the folk of Mystic Falls to my doorstep?"
Damon's smile faded: "We're looking for a witch. Her blood can break a curse that struck someone close to us."
Elijah raised his eyebrows with interest: "Someone close? That's rare in your case."
Damon said quietly: "He is… our brother. Lost for a long time. Buried in oblivion. Alexander."
Elijah frowned: "Alexander Salvatore? I've never heard of him."
"Few have. But he's real. And cursed. We're trying to bring him back to himself."
Elijah studied him for a long moment: "Then tread carefully. The witch you seek is not only powerful… she's protected."
---
Alexander and Klaus
Alexander walked through the cobblestone alleys near the French Market, silently drawn toward an old echo of ancient magic. The air felt heavier there, charged with an unseen danger. Then the silence was cut by a voice sharp as a sword:
"You reek of Salvatore blood."
Alexander slowly turned.
Klaus Mikaelson stood under a weak lamp, his eyes glowing like gold in the dark.
He said with a mocking smile: "You must be the hybrid brother… what a touching sight."
Alexander replied sharply: "I came for the witch. Descended from Celeste Duval."
Klaus laughed contemptuously: "Then you'll have to try harder. I don't like strangers asking for favors."
"I'm not asking."
Klaus tilted his head: "Carrying Damon's arrogance… and maybe Stefan's guilt too? Let's see how much of their pain lives inside you."
Before Alexander could speak, Klaus charged at him like a thunderbolt, his fist smashing into Alexander's chest and throwing him against a stone wall. Dust and rubble scattered everywhere.
But Alexander rose moments later—bleeding, roaring, laughing.
"I've been waiting to break something…" he muttered, voice coming from the depths of hell.
The battle erupted.
Thunderous punches cracked walls. Alexander's fists tore through stone, his roar echoed through the French Quarter like an angry ruler.
Klaus kicked his ribs, then drove a stake into his shoulder. But Alexander didn't flinch—he grabbed Klaus's wrist and broke it.
He shouted: "Do you think I'm like them? I'm worse! I am everything Giuseppe tried to bury… everything they left behind!"
Klaus pulled another stake and stabbed him in the side—but Alexander ripped it out, roared, and rammed Klaus with his head so hard he flew dozens of meters, crashing onto an iron fence.
The city shook.
Windows flew open. Lights went out. Every supernatural creature in New Orleans felt the quake. A witch two blocks away blew out her candle. A wolf howled and fled. Vampires froze in place.
It wasn't a fight… it was a war.
Klaus and Alexander fought like wild beasts—each strike filled with centuries of hatred, blood, and pain. Walls stained with blood, glass shattered, fires ignited in alleys. Neither backed down.
Klaus was stronger… older. But no matter how many times he threw Alexander down—breaking bones, tearing flesh—he got up again.
He rose bleeding, shoulder dislocated, eyes burning with fury and fire.
He said through clenched teeth: "I'm not done yet… and I never will be."
Klaus threw him against an iron gate, and Alexander fell coughing blood—then Klaus pounced again, slamming him into market stalls.
The echo resounded through New Orleans.
And from everywhere, they came. Rebecca and Elijah. Stefan and Damon. Even Marcel Gerard stopped on a rooftop to watch.
They found them in a ruined courtyard—walls destroyed, flames dancing, the two fighting madly.
Rebecca whispered: "Hell…"
Damon stood next to Stefan, eyes wide: "He's… completely insane."
Stefan replied hoarsely: "More like angry."
No one dared move. Even the air turned hostile.
Klaus pinned Alexander against a crumbling wall, gripping his throat tightly. His other hand rose, nails extended, ready to pierce his chest and rip out his heart.
He said angrily: "Goodbye, bastard."
Damon and Stefan rushed forward, panic filling their faces:
"Nooo!"
But they weren't in time.
At that moment—something inside Alexander broke.
His eyes ignited black—deeper than the night. The air exploded with unnatural cold. Veins beneath his skin pulsed with darkness, and a second voice screamed from his depths.
Ash.
The spirit merged with Alexander and erupted—not as a whisper but a roar.
Klaus's hand froze inches from his heart, while Alexander's entire body was bathed in a violent glow of blood and magic.
Klaus was blasted backward by a shockwave of Ash's power and Alexander's rage. Walls shattered, and Klaus disappeared beneath the rubble.
Alexander rose slowly, his body glowing with a dark aura, breaths heavy, eyes burning like a double eclipse.
Ash's voice rang deep inside him, ancient:
"You won't kill me. I am the rage. I am the vengeance. I am what your hands made."
Everyone stared at him—the Mikaelsons and the Salvatores alike.
Klaus reappeared—bleeding, smiling, but slowly.
He said hoarsely: "You're something else… not just a Salvatore. You're cursed."
Alexander didn't answer.
He stood amid the ruin, breathing steady, heart beating like war drums… and the monster inside him finally awakened.
And New Orleans… will remember this night for centuries to come.