So my trip to New Orleans really brought out my TO feels, and I wrote this fic on that inspiration! Enjoy :)
Niklaus is a lost cause.
Elijah repeats this to himself over and over, day after day. He can never quite convince himself.
He killed Gia. He cursed Hayley.
…He's done worse.
It would be easy. So easy to shrug off his atrocities and return to his side. Forgive him, as he's done so many times before.
How poorly Niklaus has repaid the favor.
He does return to the compound on occasion, although only when Freya assures him Niklaus is absent. She's become quite close with Elijah through these months, their newest, oldest sister. She cares deeply for all her siblings—and her baby niece whom she now helps raise.
Freya, though she works hard, is no mother to Hope. Thanks to her own father, Hope doesn't have a mother. Her mother is trapped as a beast in the bayou.
No one can explain to Hope where she has gone. Still less than a year old, without Hayley's constant soothing presence, she struggles.
When Elijah enters the compound, he finds Freya situating Hope on their large dining room table, which she's covered in a large cloth and an array of paints.
"She likes fingerpainting," Freya informs Elijah. "Perhaps the one good thing she's inherited from her father."
Elijah nods agreement as he removes his suit jacket. Hope blinks up at him, already shoving her hands into the dish of blue paint.
She's just taken her first steps, Elijah recalls, but she still prefers to sit or crawl. His stomach twists at the thought that her mother has missed such a monumental milestone. He hasn't decided whether or not to tell Hayley about it this next full moon.
Hope smashes her hands on the paper a few times, creating a tasteful array of small handprints, but she quickly tires of that, instead decorating her body with streaks of paint. She waves her hands around, reaching up for Elijah with purple fingers.
The gesture knocks the wind out of Elijah. He's thrown back in time a thousand years, to the sun-filled forests of his childhood. The rays of light filtering through the windows become sunbeams broken by leaves and branches. And the face before him is not his niece's, but her father's.
Long before the nightmare of immortality, before the curse, before his illegitimacy was a burden he had to bear—even then, Niklaus loved to paint. It was his greatest joy, which meant it gave Elijah joy in equal measure.
He could remember the glorious afternoons of following his brother through the trees as he hunted for berries or flowers to give him the perfect hue. He can still see Niklaus's expression of pure awe when he created a new blend of colors, his excitement and eagerness to put it to use.
Sometimes, in the absence of a canvas, he would paint Elijah's face.
Elijah becomes lost in the memory, of feeling Niklaus's little fingers spread paint across his cheeks, like a caress. His bright eyes serious as he contemplated the pattern. Biting his lips in deep concentration. His sweet smile when he was satisfied with his work.
The sun would catch in his hair, turning it to gold. Elijah would be warmed inside by the bliss of seeing him safe and happy and carefree—something that was neither a constant nor a guarantee.
He is no longer that gentle boy. Centuries have passed since he has touched Elijah with such tender innocence.
Once, it was a given. Once, he would smooth his paint-covered thumb over Elijah's cheekbone, one hand holding his hair out of the way. He would tilt his head. Study his handiwork.
There. You're beautiful.
He led Elijah to the stream, where Elijah could see the color on his face.
It is beautiful. Thank you, brother.
Niklaus beamed at him, and for a moment Elijah imagined that he could stay that way forever. Happy. Free. Without fear.
But the fantasy ended. It would always end.
They had to wash their hands and faces in the stream, removing all traces of paint—to conceal evidence of such frivolities from Father.
Niklaus bore a scar down his left cheek, pearl white and string thin, where Mikael once drew his blood with a branch. A branch that would've been a paintbrush.
It shone like a beacon as Niklaus looked up at Elijah, face dripping wet, with an expression of complete faith and trust. Elijah brushed Niklaus's wet hair back from his face and tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about the day his brother had received that wound.
The scar flashed red in Elijah's mind, blood spilling down his cheek. The sound of Niklaus's whimpers, almost-sobs, echoed in his ears.
The splash of cold water broke through his morbid thoughts, Niklaus's laughter bringing Elijah back to his moment of happiness.
Elijah lifted his brother from the stream into his arms. Niklaus wrapped his arms around Elijah's neck, resting his head on Elijah's shoulder.
In that moment, Elijah was seized with a sudden desire to wrap his arms securely around Niklaus, turn around, and run in the opposite direction of home. Get away, escape with him, like Niklaus had wanted to—begged him to. Make the next years of his life infinitely happier and easier than the first eight.
But he didn't. He never did. Instead he cradled his brother, holding him close as they headed for home. Reveling in the warmth between their bodies. Clinging to that sense memory, of aiding in his artistic pursuits, of adding to his happiness. Before—
Hope babbles something unintelligible, snapping Elijah out of his stupor. She's closer to him than she was moments ago, and he quickly comes to the realization that she has smeared paint all over his shirtsleeves.
She flashes her near toothless grin at him, clearly proud of her art.
Elijah smiles back at her absentmindedly, and becomes lost in her eyes—her father's eyes.
It would be so easy.
No. He must be resolute. For Hayley. For Rebekah, for Gia. For the way Hope's future has been permanently altered.
He cannot forgive Niklaus his sins. Not this time. Nor can he return to the times before there was any sin to speak of—for even in the simplicity of their childhood, dark secrets lurked, ready to rear their heads and devour innocence like monsters of the deep.
Freya rushes back into the room, scooping up Hope and removing her paint-covered fingers from her mouth. "Thank goodness for non-toxic paint in the twenty-first century," she remarks. "I'm sorry she ruined your clothes."
Elijah smiles gently at his older sister. "It's only a shirt," he assures her.
The shirt is the least of his worries.
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