If you're reading and wondering why they're going in the daytime, I am truly sorry. As they are Original vampires, I thought that they wouldn't need daylight rings. This will be fixed in upcoming chapters, as I really don't feel like editing these chapters to change it up
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The first sensation was the roughness of woven straw against his cheek. It wasn't the silk pillow he'd fallen asleep on back in his New York penthouse, nor the cool, smooth cotton sheets he preferred on his days off. It was coarse, itchy, and smelled faintly of mildew and dried earth. Leon's mind, a chaotic mess of lingering sleep and jarring disorientation, struggled to categorize the sensation.
His eyes fluttered open, or rather, Luãn's eyes did. The light filtering through the gaps in the thatched roof was dim, hazy. He saw rough-hewn timber beams, walls made of packed mud and straw, and the flickering embers of a dying fire in a central hearth. This wasn't right. This wasn't his apartment.
'Where the hell am I?' The thought was immediate, sharp, laced with panic. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs felt… different. Lighter, smaller, weaker than he remembered. Looking down, he saw thin, dark-skinned arms covered in old scars and fresh scabs. These weren't his arms. His hands, resting on the straw mat, were small, calloused, and undeniably not his.
Panic spiked, hot and sickening. He scrambled back against the wall, heart hammering against his ribs like a drum. The air was cold, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and something gamey, like animal hides. Sounds filtered in from outside – distant bleating of sheep, the murmur of voices speaking a language he somehow understood, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer.
He closed his eyes tight, trying to make sense of the impossible. One moment he was watching The Originalsrerun, feeling the rumble of traffic far below his skyscraper apartment, the next… this. The last thing he remembered was a deafening roar, a sickening crunch of metal, and then… nothing. Nothing until now.
A wave of nausea washed over him, so strong he had to bend double, bracing himself on his knees. 'Was I in an accident? Is this some kind of coma dream? What the actual hell?'
As he knelt there, fighting the urge to vomit, something shifted inside his head. It wasn't a physical feeling, but like floodgates opening in his mind. Memories that weren't his own began to pour in, overwhelming his senses.
A small hand, dark against a lighter one, being held tight as they ran through the forest, chasing a butterfly.
The smell of Esther's herb garden, the gentle touch of her hand smoothing his hair.
Mikael's gruff voice teaching him to track a deer, the weight of a small bow in his hands.
Playing by the river with Finn, trying to skip stones.
Laughing with Elijah as they practiced with wooden swords, the older boy always winning with practiced ease.
Building traps in the woods with Klaus, a shared look of mischievous glee.
Listening to Kol spin wild tales by the fire, always embellishing, always making him laugh.
Sharing secrets with Rebekah under the stars, promising to always protect her.
The deep, aching sadness when Henrik was born frail, the quiet hope they all held.
The sting of words from other children in the village, the way some mothers pulled their children away.
The fierce, protective glare Mikael would sometimes give those villagers, followed by a stern word.
Esther's quiet comfort, telling him he was loved, that he was theirs.
Luãn Mikaelson. Adopted son. Found by Mikael on a hunting trip years ago, a small, orphaned boy alone in the woods, brought back to the village, given a name, and accepted – mostly – into their family. He was fifteen years old. His brothers were Finn, Elijah, Niklaus, Kol, and Henrik. His sister was Rebekah. His parents were Mikael and Esther.
His breath hitched. Mikael. Esther. Elijah. Klaus. Rebekah. Henrik. Werewolves. The curse. The SUN and the MOON curse. The ceremony. Immortality. Vampires.
This wasn't a dream. This wasn't a coma. He was in The Originals. He was in the past. And he was Luãn Mikaelson, the forgotten adoptive son the show never mentioned, suddenly made real.
'Oh my God. I'm in The Originals. I'm in a TV show. No, not a show anymore. This is real. This is my life now.' The realization hit with the force of a physical blow. He remembered the plot, the characters, the end of the series, the sacrifices made. He knew the pain, the loss, the betrayals that awaited this family, his family. He knew what Mikael would become, what Klaus would become, the thousand years of running and fighting.
And he knew about the ceremony. The blood, the spell, the moment they would all become Original Vampires. The memories confirmed it – the village elders spoke of it, Esther sometimes hinted at their family's destiny, of a ritual to make them strong, to protect them from the wolves and sickness that plagued their land.
Luãn was fifteen. The ceremony was three years away. Eighteen was the age for the ritual. Three years. Three years until he, too, would be given immortal life, eternal strength, and an insatiable thirst.
His fanboy brain, normally reserved for theorizing plot points and shipping characters, kicked into overdrive, overlaid with a primal survival instinct. He knew the threats: Mikael, the Brotherhood of the Five, Dahlia, Aurora de Martel, Lucien Castle, Triad, the Hollow, the Salvatore brothers eventually, Augustine, the Travelers, Silas, the Sirens... the list was endless. And that was just the canonthreats. Who knew what else existed in this world beyond the camera's view?
He had knowledge. Future knowledge. That was his advantage. But knowledge wasn't enough. He'd seen how easily even the Originals were brought low, how often they were outmaneuvered, trapped, or overcome by sheer force. Elijah, the epitome of honor and combat prowess, was still beaten. Klaus, the hybrid king, was always running or facing down someone stronger or smarter. Rebekah, fierce and determined, constantly thwarted in her desire for a normal life. Kol and Finn, killed multiple times.
No. Knowledge alone wasn't enough. He needed power. Absolute power. The kind that commanded respect, instilled fear, and ensured survival.
'I am Luãn Mikaelson now. Adopted son of Mikael and Esther. Brother to the Originals. And I know what's coming.' He pushed himself fully to his feet, the small hut feeling suddenly suffocating. 'Survival isn't guaranteed. Protection isn't guaranteed. Not even for them. Not even for Niklaus.'
A cold, hard resolve settled in his chest, pushing back the fear and confusion. This wasn't just about surviving. This was about thriving. This was about ensuring that when the dust settled after a thousand years, he would be the one left standing, the one calling the shots.
He wasn't just going to be an Original. He was going to be the Original.
'My goal,' he thought, the words echoing in the quiet space of his mind, 'is to be the strongest one. The strongest Mikaelson. The strongest vampire. The strongest being in this entire damn world.' The fear and confusion receded, replaced by a singular, burning determination. This was his new reality, and he would not just survive it; he would conquer it.