#vnfallen

She supposed there was some kind of irony in Davina spending her last moments in her family’s tomb but all Sophie could think about was the Deveraux plot, Monique and Jane-Anne’s names permanately etched into the cold gray concrete all because of one girl. Luck be with her, she’d have found the girl alone but there Marcel was, still clinging to the side of the tiny witch like everything he’d built would tumble down if he didn’t have his not-so-secret weapon at his disposal at all times. A clay kindgom for a clay king, she thought with a bitter pang of resentmesnt.

“Its over.” The words are soft but the space is tiny enough that her voice resonates well enough anyway. Still, she doesn’t even realize she’s spoken until the words are out of her mouth and as a beat passes and she views the scene before her with extreme scrutiny it becomes clear that they were not needed; they’re defeated and they know it. She can see it in the glossiness of Davina’s gaze, in Marcel’s slunched shoulders; can feel it in the silence that comes from the Mikaelsons. Even the noble Elijah had sensed it. Deep down she feels the tiniest bit of guilt for interrupting what is clearly a private moment. “I can help you but you have to let me. You’re dying, Davina. You can feel it can’t you? If you go like this you won’t come back and neither will any of the other Harvest kids. Help me end this…Help me finish what was started.” 

La Cosa Nostra || {Self-Para}

He was too late.

Quentin stared down at the crumpled body at his feet, unmoved. In the stillness of the graveyard, the faint drip.... drip-drip, of Isaac’s blood was just about audible as it trickled from his throat to the slab of concrete on which his body lay. He couldn’t help but wonder whether his jugular had been slit as he stood, teenage legs made of jello - or whether he’d been tied up like an animal and laid out before the slaughter. Which would hurt more? Did it make a difference?... He wondered also, how long it had taken the boy to die. How deep was the wound? He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Would it take mere seconds? Seconds’ worth of wriggling around, mouth gaping in silent horror? Or would it take entire minutes?

... Was death a  r e l i e f  when it finally came, or was it just a new brand of torture?

He couldn’t ask, because the boy was dead. And he didn’t have a a tear to shed as he stared down at the body. Rainfall was wasted on stone and pavement. Litres and litres of it, each month, every year... If the mob had taught him anything, it was that La Familia, La Cosa Nostra - was never safe once you were out. Once you were out, they’d come for you like bloodhounds, they’d shoot you down like a dog in a ditch. But Isaac hadn’t listened; Isaac had made the fatal mistake of thinking they’d forgotten. Quentin had always known better. 

Hell of a lot of good it’d done him... Isaac was still dead. He hadn’t been able to prevent that, just as he hadn’t been able to prevent the death of his own humanity, before he’d shifted.

But that was then. This was now. So he turned on his heel and walked out of the graveyard. Returned to the car-park where he’d beaten up a man within an inch of his life (when had that become his modus operandi? How well had it served him, when even now he could feel the latent tremor in his fists, the sweat clinging to his brow as he swallowed back the bile?...) and drove to work. Because that was another thing he’d learned in the Mob; people died, lives came to an end and the planet just kept on spinning. Blind, deaf and dumb. Isaac wasn’t the special exception; none of the Harvest kids were, after-all. They were all just... Dead. It wasn’t until the next morning, just after 5:00am when he got home, that it all came to a stop. 

The door slammed shut and silence enveloped him. He had to change. Tucked beneath his uniform and out of sight - his shirt was still spattered with the witch’s blood. But he was tired, and his fingers were still trembling. He fought with the buttons; with the first, the second... Frustration was building, along with the exhaustion laced around his muscles. Tears were smarting in his eyes, but he was holding them back, forcing them at bay. He had no reason to cry - he didn’t  d e s e r v e  to cry. He’d failed Isaac, hadn’t managed to save the kid’s life. No, he’d barely even tried. He should have gotten him out of that witch’s house, should’ve refused ‘no’ for an answer, fought harder, acted faster, should’ve-... One trembling finger caught in the button-hole of his shirt and he tore at it viciously, cursing in anger. The fabric ripped, all the way down.  He didn’t deserve to cry.... But that didn’t stop the tears from falling.

And for the second time that night, he wondered; was death a relief when it finally came, or just a new brand of torture?... 

@wolfwandering

It was with a heavy heart that Egrid left Sophie to her grim task; well, a heavy heart and some relief. They didn’t want to watch the light fade from Isaac’s eyes, nor the young girls who’d need to go through the same trial. His pace wasn’t exactly swift, almost weighed down by what was going to happen. But Sophie had said it would work, it had to work, he needed to keep that hope. Hope was what had sustained him the last few years and now it was finally coming close; the coven would come back, he could have a place amongst them and all would finally be well.

Reaching his worn-down car Egrid drove a street or two away from the cemetery, not wanting to make it too obvious that he was acting as a kind of guard, but the car was too stifling so moments after parking up he stepped out and settled on looking up at the stars; he wasn’t religious by any stretch but right now Egrid was all buy begging the universe itself to see this plan work. He deserved it. Those children deserved to come back. But a niggling thought at the back of his mind reminded him that people were so often denied what they deserved. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of someone approaching and turned to face them, hands clasped in front of him and his expression calm, if a little forlorn, he would not be shaken now.

V I E U X   N O Y É S   R E M E M B E R S

Isaac Lahey. Friend, orphan, witch, and wolf. Through his sacrifice, the New Orleans Coven shall live on forever. 

2001 - 2018

The darkness was immediate and all-enveloping. Elijah Mikaelson’s last moment among the living was startlingly unclear—one second he stood with his family, with Davina Claire in Lafayette Cemetery and then he was ripped from them, lost. Gone were the mouldering tombstones, the faltering wrought iron lights, the lustrous paragon diamond. His unrivalled senses were muted. He could no longer see, hear or feel anything. 

Faintly, the whisper of a question flittered through his mind. Was this paralysing anaesthesia a side affect of true death? No, he remembered, he was an Original. He could not be slain. Confusion and fear stained this assertion with uncertainty. In over a thousand years, he’d never experienced such desolate solitude. Slowly, then all at once, time withered. There was no unit with which to measure its passing. It could have been seconds, hours or weeks before a distant voice pierced his oblivion…

@bexmikaclson @the-noble-mikaelson @littlestxwitch @marcelxthexking

Will I grow weary of the sun, remembering what I have done with old mythologies?

How was it that he had been relegated to the role of voice of reason? In his thousand years, he couldn’t remember ever being looked to as the paragon of restraint or levelheadness. Honestly, not a once. And yet here he was. 

“Bekah, love, you’ve had scores of truly dreadful ideas over the years, but honestly you’ve outdone yourself this time. Really. I’m actually impressed.” The words were whispered because they stood just outside the gate to Lafayette Cemetery, and while witches didn’t have the same talent for eavesdropping as wolves or vampires, he had no intentions of announcing their presence. Perhaps this Paragon Diamond would work, perhaps his blood would be a powerful enough channel to carry this through, but what he didn’t understand was why it all had to happen in the same bloody place it had started. It was just poetic enough be exactly what a witch had planned. 

He was running over the cemetery. Left. Right. Another right. Past a tomb with a particularly creepy angel. Left. He had practically forgotten everything that happened at that whole weird sacrifice ritual. The girls that should have come back to life but didn’t. Sucked for them, but he just wanted to find his brother. When he had finally gotten the directions out of Sophie, he hadn’t waited around. He knew witches and their way of restraining vampires. He knew what he was going to find wasn’t going to be pretty.

Finally he reached the tomb Sophie had pointed out to him. The door was locked, but he didn’t care about that. Was it sacrilege, to destroy someone’s final resting place? Maybe... but they could put that on Sophie’s tab, who had disturbed their peace by turning the grave into a prison for the living. Well, more or less living, at least. He just kicked in the doors, giving himself a few seconds to get used to the dark inside of the tomb, before rushing to his brother who he saw hanging from a marble slab in the back.

He was definitely going to follow Sophie wherever she would run to make her pay for this.

“Stef??” He didn’t even know if he was still alive. He should be, according to Sophie, but he looked out of it. Damon forced the gag out of his brother’s mouth, his fingers hurting from the vervain it was laced with, but that didn’t matter right now.

“Stefan? Are you with me?”

It didn’t take Derek long to find her after the howl sounded through the wind. Stiles’ text providing the location confirmed his direction, that he was following the right path. Hayley never left his side, tracking his sister with him as if she were part of her own pack. When they arrived at the mansion he shuddered, the sight of its exterior enough to make his skin crawl. “You go in, I’ll case the outside...” Hayley’s words were low, audible only to his ears. He gave a single nod in response, glancing at her one last time before heading inside...

Walking through the rooms, his desperation growing by the minute. She was close, he could sense her...if only he could find her. The further he went, the more empty rooms he found until finally, he caught a different scent. One all too familiar to him. Rounding a corner he saw her, a brunette of a different kind. “Jennifer? What are you doing here?” Confusion furrowed his brow as he approached, had she lost someone too? “Have you seen Cora?”