So much of his cruelty and viciousness wasn't necessary—he has done the same; he tells himself it was. In moments he cannot escape the truth, he tells himself if those consequences do matter to him, they are still done and in those moments there was no other choice for him. He cannot change the past, nor who he was. Not who he is. (He wouldn't want to, if it meant he could not protect his child.
He is a monster, but he long ago chose to be one. She doesn't. She hasn't. He knows this, because he must believe there is good in him that can survive the darkness. He sees the good in her, so that she might not suffer all that he has.
He understand the picture she paints: one in which she is a caretaker, a mother, thrust into a terrifying position she could not have predicted nor considered to want. He had sucked in a breath, startled though unflinching, when she reached for him. He feel the desperate strength in her small fingers, clutching at him now. The compassion in his eyes is joined with tears, remembering the completeness, the love, the weight of his daughter in his arms. How bereft, though not empty, they are now. Klaus places his hand over hers.
"I was never ready," he admits. He wasn't, terrified and unsure at first, at what the promise of an offspring could mean. Hopeful, that it could mean everything. "But I wanted her." More than anything he wants his daughter; his voice is soft and longing. "And I knew that she needed me; that I needed her." Just as this child needs Clementine. Just as Clementine needs him. "And that was all that mattered to me."
i'm not crying you're crying
He is a monster, but he long ago chose to be one. She doesn't. She hasn't. He knows this, because he must believe there is good in him that can survive the darkness. He sees the good in her, so that she might not suffer all that he has.
He understand the picture she paints: one in which she is a caretaker, a mother, thrust into a terrifying position she could not have predicted nor considered to want. He had sucked in a breath, startled though unflinching, when she reached for him. He feel the desperate strength in her small fingers, clutching at him now. The compassion in his eyes is joined with tears, remembering the completeness, the love, the weight of his daughter in his arms. How bereft, though not empty, they are now. Klaus places his hand over hers.
"I was never ready," he admits. He wasn't, terrified and unsure at first, at what the promise of an offspring could mean. Hopeful, that it could mean everything. "But I wanted her." More than anything he wants his daughter; his voice is soft and longing. "And I knew that she needed me; that I needed her." Just as this child needs Clementine. Just as Clementine needs him. "And that was all that mattered to me."