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◤ 𝖊𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊 : ❛ chance of fate ❜ ◢
✧
THOUGH SHE WAS NO ARTIST HERSELF, ART ITSELF WAS UTTERLY ENTHRALLING. The brushstrokes rough, overlayered, angry in despair, the meaning pulling her in and forcing her to focus on old bitter feelings from years ago. Art always did evoke such emotions in her, unwilling as they laughed at her pain but comforted her that she wasn't the only one suffering.
She had an unchanging face, features still the same while years passed before her, but her eyes - how they tired, how they grew old and withered away with her soul. They were the windows to it, after all, and a soul can only take so much. After all it wilts and dies, leaving behind a skeleton.
There were footsteps all around her, but she was intimately aware of a pair that were walking up behind her. She didn't spare the person a glance, didn't tense as they got closer, only continued to ignore them until they cleared their throat.
"Marisol," and oh, what a familiar voice that was. Smooth as always, deep and commanding, just as a king should have, but she was sure he wasn't presiding over anyone anymore.
"Hello, Marcel," she greeted him in return, turning to give him a sly smile. He stepped beside her at the warm welcome, as warm as she could welcome him, and looked at the painting that captivated her. "You look well."
"Thank you," he nodded, "So do you."
Her eyes flickered up and down his body, but nothing was different. He still had the same facial features, the same tense upright stance, wide and dominating, his fashion hadn't changed either. Physically, he hadn't changed, but she knew that physicality didn't always tell the truth. He wasn't just a vampire anymore, wasn't the king of New Orleans, but he was still her friend - even if that friendship had seen continuous strain.
"I heard you gave up your city," she commented, "And all for love. I didn't know you were capable of that."
He chuckled. "With Rebekah, I don't need New Orleans. Besides, she can't stay there anyway."
She frowned. They hadn't spoken in a while, not since he informed her that the Mikaelsons had rose from the dead again after five years, with every new piece of information coming from contacts she kept near the fallen city. But this...no one had said anything about this.
"Did Klaus exile her again?"
"No," he shook his head, "It's...complicated."
"Isn't it always?" Marisol rolled her eyes, "Come on, Marcel, tell me. I can keep a secret."
His eyes flickered downwards in guilt and for a moment she froze, not meaning to imply that at all. She remembered the months he never contacted her, never picked up her calls, until Hope Mikaelson - the dead child - rose from the dead and he could finally tell her everything he swore to keep a secret.
It had been the worst type of betrayal; with everyone she cared about in a city gathering together to decide that she wasn't trustworthy, that they couldn't possibly tell her that the child she swore to protect, to trade her life for, was actually alive. That Elijah had lied to her, sent her away, and she had lived in heartbreak - not only because the man she loved didn't love her back, but because a child was dead - only to find out that the child had been saved.
Hope had been saved.
He sucked in a breath, though it was unnecessary. "The witches were using a dark type of magic, it possessed Hope, and the only way to save her was for all of them to take a part of it. They can't be near each other or Hope."
"So Rebekah can't be in New Orleans," Marisol concluded, adding that piece of information he already shared into the mix.
"Yes," he confirmed, "We're living in New York now."
She nodded, humming in affirmation when he mentioned where they lived. "Beautiful city, but too loud for my taste."
He shrugged, "It's where Rebekah wanted to be."
There was a pause where he hesitated, debating internally, before deciding to say it: "Elijah's in France."
"Why do I care where he is?" she laughed, because why would she want to go find the man that broke her heart? The man who didn't trust her, didn't care for her in the way he claimed, the way she thought? That was foolish, and it would just lead to embarrassment.
"Because he doesn't remember you," Marcel stared at her, eyes bearing into hers, as if staring straight into her soul.
For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. "What?" it was all she could utter, all she could think, because her brain stopped as he spoke, unable to process anything. "What do you mean, he doesn't remember me?"
His eyes flickered down in guilt before going back to hers. "He - before he left, he asked me to compel him to forget. He has no memories of anything related to his family, which means he remembers nothing. Not even you."
"And this is supposed to convince me to go see him? To what, make sure he's safe?" she spat out, taking a step away from him.
But Marcel didn't allow her to, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. "I'm telling you this because I know you love him."
"Loved him, Marcel, I loved him," she corrected, "Meaning past tense, meaning I don't anymore."
"We both know that's a lie, Mars. Love for an immortal doesn't just fade away after a few years; it loves on. Forever. And he - as much as I don't like him, he loves you too. I know that," Marcel told her sternly.
She shook her head. "No, he doesn't. He can't. You don't betray the one you love."
He opened his mouth, but didn't have any words to combat that. Releasing her gently, he rolled his shoulders to relax them, looking away from her and back at the painting. "I'm not forcing you to go to him, but think of it as an opportunity. If you still love him, you can have no. No Klaus, no Hayley, no familial obligations."
Her throat began to close at them, becoming tight as she tried not to sob. There was too much - it had been years, she shouldn't be so affected by him still, by the notion that they could be together.
Marcel didn't comment on the tears brimming in her eyes, or how quiet she had become, only pressed a kiss to her forehead and walked away, leaving her alone. Slowly, she turned back to the painting, full of despair and anger, bitterness and resentment, and found new beauty in the colors. They were bright, with the final layer being light, as if there was a chance at a new beginning.
Perhaps he was right. This was a chance, and maybe Elijah was right as well; that all they needed was another lifetime.
