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No one would know if it was fate or pure coincidence, and yet Elijah and Carmen ended up at the same hotel.
Carmen was relaxing from all the chaos that had come around in the small town of Mystic falls.
She heard a knock.
Swinging her door open,only to reveal her mortal enemy? Not a good idea of a lustrous evening.
"Mind if we speak?" He asked quietly, as thought he was scared of rejection. No hellos? No good evenings? No warnings of murder? Carmen had an urge to slam the door in his face. "Sure"
She said with a small smile.
The two were together in an elevator, waiting to sit at a table for more convenient talking situation.
The deadly silence nearly cracked her up.
They came around the table, not many people in sight. Elijah got the chair and let her sit. OH what gentlemenary.... She mused in her mind.
"So what is it that you wanted to talk about?" Carmen asked, flipping her hair from one side to another.
"Us" he said. "Us?" she questioned. "Us." he proved. Carmen only chuckled in return. Clasped her hands and put her chin on it.
"You told me something, something about your memory being gone, how did that happen?" he asked, his eyes soft and diligent. Carmen could scoff; his eyes were so deceiving.
"I do not remember," she ended it there. "How do you know the Salvatores?" another question. "Is it 21 questions that we are playing? Because I do not do this for entertainment," the woman sternly explained.
"Okay, let's make it fair then. I ask a question, you answer, and in return, you can ask me anything. Deal?"
"What's your thing with Elena?" she fired. "My brother is searching for her; a doppelganger, as you may know, is a vital element to the supernaturals," he answered, but did not give her time to process the answer as he asked. "Why are you defending her?" "She's my best friend's niece and more or less innocent. I do not like spilling the blood of innocents," she calmly stated, although her eyes told a completely different story.
"What am I to you, Mr. Mikaelson?" she asked, her eyes longing for an answer, looking right through his.
"You?" he asked surprised. Everything. He wanted to say. He wished for her to reach out to him. Was he truly the only one feeling this? Was he the only one turning mad with just a glance of her face or a sniff of her perfume? He longed for her to reach out, to bridge the chasm between them. Was he the solitary pilgrim on this journey of emotion? Or had fate deemed him a solitary wraith, forever haunted by the specter of unshared passion?
