The first time he glimpses her, he is on fire. She is wrapped in black cloth, attire that contrasts the specks of gold in her hair. Dried tears cling to her cheeks. She is still, watching her brother, watching him, mouth parted from the remnant of a sob.
Blood, red, seeps from his body, pain is engulfing his senses and flame is licking his back, but for the first time, he feels important. For the first time, he has a name. Marcellus. Little warrior.
This is how Marcel acquires a name, a savior, and an angel all in one day.
Their blood is not his. No matter how long Marcel remains within this family, he is constantly aware of that fact. None of it is his, not their superhuman speed, nor their way of eliciting words and actions with a flash of their eyes, and especially not the way their very gaze communicates that they are superior, that they are powerful, that they dominate a dominant species.
He cannot belong to them without their blood in his veins. She cannot belong to him without their blood in his veins. Klaus has made that abundantly clear, and if there is one thing he craves in this world, it is her.
As if she had heard these bitter thoughts and intended to distract him, she enters, draped in a dress that flowed with her, on the arm of some New Orleans proprietor, and Marcel does not understand why Klaus will allow this smirking, pathetic man to touch the beloved sister, but not him. After all, he is as close to a Mikaelson as any outsider can ever hope to become.
Once, years ago, as he was attempting to fall asleep, she relinquished to him the story of a scared little girl tearfully whispering Always and Forever over her mother's grave. Yet it was another part that caught Marcel's attention.
We remain together.
They had all made promises to each other, scared promises. They had not made the same promises to him.
Choose.
There is no mercy in Klaus's eyes. Marcel's eyes drift to the corner where the crumpled body lied, half-girl, half-stone, and he flinches. He makes the decision that would take him centuries and a betrayal to rectify, and even then, it will never be complete absolution.
With a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, Marcel walks away.
It is decades later when she lurches up, eyes scanning the room before they rest accusingly on him.
It is decades later when her face twists, when she lets out a breath of anguish.
It is decades later when he understands that this, this one thing, she will not forgive, not for years of dedication, not even for love.
She will not forget.
When she is informed how many years have passed, Klaus and Marcel both expect her to turn into a fury, seeking vengeance by devastating the world around her, lashing at anything she could find and anyone she could grasp by the neck. Instead, Rebekah Mikaelson surprises the brother who has known her for a thousand years, and the lover who has known her for most of his life.
Fifty years. she muses, mulling it over.
She looks up. They wait. She smiles.
At least it was not more.
Klaus offers Rebekah a bright smile and a clap on the back for her good-natured response, unwilling to divert more time to his sister so long as she was not throwing a tantrum. Marcel, far less convinced that Rebekah's reaction is genuine, waits for Klaus to leave so he can read what is truly on her mind.
I am-
The sharpness of Rebekah's glance prevents Marcel from speaking further. He blinks, feels a soft breeze flow past him. When he opens his eyes again, she is gone, leaving the scent of apples behind.
New Orleans is turning into ash. The burning flames lick at Marcel's face, the roof is about to collapse. It is ironic that vampires can survive a bullet to the heart, something that took men thousands and thousands of years to create, yet fall fatally at something so primitive as fire. He heaves, chokes, and doubles over. Gasping, he looks up.
They are both there, forty feet away, the savior and the angel. He hears the gruff shouts of Mikael nearby. They finally see him. She is about to run to him, to save him from this disaster, when his savior tugs at her hand.
An apology drips from her lips, and is carried to him by the air that is suffocating him. Her eyes blaze fifty years.
A whirl, and they are both gone.
We remain together.
It is not his. They are not his. She is not his.