Prologue: Still Standing
Elijah knelt before the grave with a grief in his heart that felt startlingly fresh. Nevermind that the headstone was almost a century old today. Ivy had been given the chance to grow over the sides and front, obscuring the name, and Elijah couldn't bring himself to touch it, but could see the inscription in his mind's eye, just as vivid as it had been a hundred years ago.
Meena Mikaelson
Mother, Sister, and Wife
"I thought I'd find you here," a smooth voice said, interrupting his reminiscing.
Elijah paused, steeling himself, before turning his head.
Marcel hadn't changed, as was the nature of vampires. He wore a long sleeved shirt and jeans, and the look in his eyes conveyed so many fluctuating feelings that Elijah felt both apprehensive and eager.
He stood, brushing imaginary dirt off his suit jacket.
"You're looking well, Marcellus," he said stiffly, aborting the impulse to move towards the younger man at the last second.
Marcel didn't answer for a moment, but he did make the first move, clapping a hand on Elijah's shoulder and smiling.
"I missed you too Pops."
"Why did you decide to come back? " Marcel asked, pouring two glasses of whiskey and passing one to Elijah.
"Maybe I simply wanted to see the state of things," Elijah said absently, staring off into space.
Marcel chuckled.
"If I didn't already know that Klaus was in town, that look would've clinched it. I always understood why you don't come back here. I felt like running away from the Quarter and never coming back more than once. But I stayed. I made this place mine."
"I'm quite proud of you for it," Elijah said honestly.
Marcel nodded.
"I appreciate it. But I'm not eight anymore Eli. As much as it pains me, when you guys left, the Quarter got a lot quieter. The werewolves are gone, the witches under control. The last thing I need is Klaus causing mayhem."
Elijah's laughter was dry.
"I have to wonder what your mother would say. She was quite fond of those witches."
Marcel grinned, sincere but morbid.
"She's welcome to come and let me have it any time. It's not like your day. The witches are weak, the wolves disorganized. Somebody was going to pick up the slack."
Elijah smirked, tipping back the last of his alcohol.
"You're a Mikaelson; I won't begrudge you for being the leader you were raised to be."
"You won't. But they call you the honorable one for a reason. Klaus? Well, you know your brother."
"I seem to recall he was your favorite Uncle once."
Marcel grinned.
"He still is. But then, competition isn't exactly steep in our clan. I believe in always and forever just like everyone else, but I refuse roll over while Klaus kills his way through his latest tantrum."
Elijah sighed.
"What would you ask of me?"
"Do you know why Klaus came? What he wants?"
Elijah's forehead wrinkled.
"He seems to think the witches here are conspiring against him. I can't imagine what for," he said, though both he and Marcel knew that was a lie. They couldn't be certain of specifics, but NIklaus made enemies everywhere he went. Whether they wanted revenge for some wrong or simply despised the Original family, Klaus would cut down anyone he perceived at fault.
"I'll get some ears to the ground then, but I might have an idea."
Elijah faced his son properly, looking him directly in the eyes.
"Klaus is temperamental, brash, and often cruel, but there is nothing those witches could bargain that could convince him to harm you."
Marcel took a drink.
"Not permanently anyways," he retorted.
"Yes well, I will do what I can to deal with him."
The very next night Elijah stood on the balcony directly outside his old bedroom in compound, breaking the lock on the glass door with only enough strength to accomplish his task. He wasn't surprised to see that the room had been redecorated, the evidence of his life here wiped away with a modern touch, but even then it was clear no one stayed here, not even Marcel, who could've claimed the Master bedroom without incident.
He moved silently around the compound, taking in the choices of furniture and artwork that were Marcel's way of placing his ownership, though the style was eerily reminiscent of a time long gone. He didn't miss the rows of flowers, notably the carnations that grew in pots and planters placed in many available surfaces.
"Pops," Marcel called, interrupting Elijah's musing.
The older man's eyebrow quirked upward in token annoyance at the term.
"Marcellus, it's come to my attention that your miraculous subjugation of the witches has led you to execute a woman by the name Jane-Anne Devereaux," he said, trailing off, his expression likely unimpressed.
"Don't give me that look, Eli," he said with a sneer.
"These witches, they're desperate, power-hungry. They'll do anything to take more power, they think they deserve it. People like Jane-Anne, they're not evil, but I will not allow my people to be hurt."
He said with conviction, adding,
"You taught me that."
Elijah sighed heavily.
"Help me to understand, Marcellus. These people, they cower from you. I hold no love for the werewolves, but likewise I hold no hatred for witches. What could bring you to hate them so much?"
Marcel looked him directly in the eyes.
The resolve there was something Elijah had only rarely seen directed at himself.
"You really wanna know? Take a look," he said, offering his hand.
Elijah took it without hesitation, and was immediately bombarded with images of a ritual, a teenage girl and a coven of witches brought low by fate, but perhaps destroyed by vengeance.
Gasping, Elijah grasped his son's arm with more strength, looking at him in surprise.
"Show me."