When Elijah saw her, he thought that he was imagining things. He didn't question it, however. When he first lost her, he spent decades having visions of her, and every now and then, he thought that he would catch a glimpse of her head from behind. He could recognize her anywhere. She was beautiful, honestly beautiful. Her hair blew a little in the wind as it always used to.
Elijah could remember exactly how it looked. Every day, there were assorted plaits and braids weaved into it.
Now, when he blinked, she didn't disappear. She was still there, beautiful as ever. Even through her newer modern attire and the black sunglasses that sat on the bridge of her nose, he knew it was her, walking through the streets of the French Quarter.
A thousand questions brewed inside his head, nothing in the current situation made even the slightest bit of sense.
Why was she in New Orleans? What faction was she a part of? Most importantly, how was she here?
Before he could stop himself, Elijah was racing down the stairs and outside. He told himself that he wasn't going to meet her, that he was just going to get a closer look, but he found himself unable to stop walking in her direction.
As he drew nearer, somebody rushed past her, accidentally causing the coffee in her hand to drop. Elijah didn't even give her time to react, as he swiftly caught the paper cup in one hand, and put the lid back on with the other.
"Thanks," she said quietly as he handed back her coffee. Her voice was laced with a British accent that Elijah didn't expect.
As soon as she spoke to him, Elijah found himself speechless, something that had only happened once or twice in his lifetime. She removed her sunglasses, and the very sight of her eyes left him paralyzed. The green twinkle in them hadn't faded, not in a thousand years. She didn't say much for a little while, and he began to wonder if she knew who he was.
"Sorry, you just look so familiar, I couldn't help but stare," she said, her voice smooth. His heart broke at her words. She couldn't have forgotten him, even if it had been a millennium.
But it hadn't. He had watched her die.
"We haven't met before, have we?" she continued.
"I don't believe so." He almost struggled to let out the words.
"We can't have. I've never been to New Orleans in my life. This is so bizarre. It's like a constant feeling of déjà vu."
"Well, perhaps we have met before, maybe try remembering a little deeper or something," he said the words with a strain in his voice, regretfully compelling her.
"I'm afraid to say that I don't think we've ever crossed paths before this very moment. Perhaps I'm going mad."
"Maybe you are." Or maybe I am, he thought to himself as a side note.
"I'm Violet, by the way. I don't know why I thought that was relevant, I just thought that I should introduce myself," she gushed, holding out her hand that wasn't occupied by the coffee. She was Violetta when he knew her in Italy.
"Elijah," he replied, taking her hand, but not shaking it. Instead, he brought her knuckles up to his mouth and kissed them gently.
Violet's cheeks flooded with pink, while Elijah's heart flooded with warmth. Seeing her happy, seeing her feel, seeing her alive was the only thing that he had ever wanted.
"Right, I should probably get going then," she mumbled.
"Of course," Elijah replied, keeping the sadness he felt out of his voice.
"So, I'll be seeing you around, yeah?"
"I hope so," he said with a weak smile, before he turned away from her and left. Straightening his tie a little bit, Elijah tried not to look like he'd just had simultaneously the best and worst moment of the last few centuries.