*A/N: So my first chapter was a trial run to see how readily readers would embrace my first ever fanfiction; apparently I'm on the right track and people actually do want to read what I've put forth. Therefore, I'll keep on writing; hopefully I won't disappoint anybody, and I apologize beforehand if I do.
As for updating, it's going to be pretty erratic from here on out, but I'll try to update as often as possible. I know how frustrating it can be to find a story you like, only to read what's there and wait a month for the author to update. I wouldn't want to do that to anybody, but I do have to juggle school and sports and a social life. And so, with that…
I give you Chapter II.
And a disclaimer: I don't own TVD.
Had I known that drinking Christophe's blood would have forced me to live how I did, I probably would have run for the hills to die in peace. But I didn't know anything, so I just did whatever I felt compelled to do.
The blood smelled good. My body screamed for it. So I drank and became a vampire.
It took only a couple seconds for Christophe's death to sink in. That feeling of wholeness disappeared, replaced with stark horror at what I did. I had killed a man. Not just a man; I had slaughtered my husband.
Before dawn, Véronique found me sitting by Christophe's body, clutching his hand, staring blankly at him. I can still remember her scream to this day – the shrillness, the pure agony, the terror.
She took one look at me, the dried blood on my face, the blood on my dress, and recoiled.
"Marielle?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear it clearly; it cracked with fear. "I thought you were dead." There was a pregnant pause. "Did…did you do this?"
I turned my face up at her. I didn't even have to answer; she looked into my eyes, and she knew.
"No – you could not have," she began stammering, backing away from me. "No!"
I stood unsteadily, not understanding why I could hear her heart beating so loudly and quickly. "Véronique, please – "
"No!" She raised her hand at me, as if to stop me. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Don't come near me, you monster!"
I stopped short.
Monster.
I was a monster.
"How could you?" she sobbed, sagging against the doorway. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, rocking back and forth. "Christophe…"
It was at that moment I realized how much of a right my friend, my childhood friend, my bosom sister had to hate me. She had loved Christophe while I hadn't, and she was forced to watch me be his wife. She was forced to see me carrying his child, while she could only hope and dream of doing the same. And now here I was – standing beside his dead, drained body. I had killed him.
I was a monster.
"Véronique…" I hesitantly took a step towards her, my insides churning. The guilt…never before had I felt such guilt.
And never had I felt such pain when my dearest friend fled from the room.
She was fleeing from me.
She wasn't the only one. Everyone deserted me – and I didn't blame them.
When Véronique left and the sun had risen, I tried to go after her, to explain, to do anything. But after stepping one foot outside the door, I recoiled in pain; the sunlight seared through my skin, leaving it red and throbbing. I watched, entranced, as it miraculously healed before my very eyes.
I couldn't go out in the sunlight. I was trapped.
"Véronique!"
Her retreating figure didn't stop. I stumbled back into the house, taking care to stay away from the windows. Panic was rising within me and I couldn't subdue it. Tears ran down my cheeks, blinding my eyes, and I slid to the ground, clutching at the wall.
It was so overwhelming that it nearly incapacitated me: the fear, the pain, the guilt, the confusion. It was difficult to breathe; the emotional pain felt more like physical pain to my chest more than anything, and I hated it.
The villagers of Massalia (my town) came sometime in the afternoon, led by my angry father. I could smell their fear – and their hatred. Véronique was among them, a staunchly determined expression on her face. With a heavy heart, I listened as they threatened to kill me if I didn't leave town soon. I was told in no uncertain terms that it was because of Véronique's plea for mercy that I wasn't killed on the spot. That cushioned the blow only slightly.
As soon as evening hit and the sunlight could no longer burn me, I left with nothing more than the clothes on my back. I promised myself it wouldn't be forever; once I learned how to control myself, to not let blood control me, I would come back and make up for all the wrongs I did. I would come back, I told myself, to raise my son and see him grow up, and to fix everything that was broken.
It was harder than I expected. As I couldn't walk around in the sunlight, it was incredibly difficult to travel through the country. I resorted to wandering at night and finding a house to stay in during the day.
I remember when I first realized that I could compel others to do what I wanted; it was my first day (technically, night) after leaving my town, and the sun was coming up. I had to find shelter.
The first home I happened on was a small farm owned by an elderly couple. As anyone else would be, they were suspicious of a young girl knocking on their door at such an ungodly hour, but I knew I would be unable to enter their house without an invitation.
"I am sorry, young woman, but we have no room for you," the old man grunted as he made to close the door.
I looked into his eyes, desperate for him to understand my predicament. "Please – sir," I begged. "Let me in. I shall die if you do not."
It was strange; one moment he was frowning heavily at me with the intent to shut me out. The next, his expression glazed over and he smiled welcomingly at me. "Please enter my home," he said pleasantly, stepping back to let me in.
"Alain!" his wife exclaimed. "What are you doing?"
He frowned, uncertain. "Letting the poor girl in, of course."
Despite his invitation in, I stood at the entrance, mystified. Slowly making the connection, it dawned on to me: all I had to do was look in his eyes, tell him to do something, and he would do it.
Stepping into the threshold, I decided to test my theory on his wife: "Ma'am, you are to welcome me into your home and give me a place to stay."
The same, blank expression appeared on her face for a moment. Then she smiled, much as her husband had, and she said, "My dear, do you need a place to stay for the rest of the day? You look absolutely exhausted."
I felt guilty about it, as I felt guilty about every little thing I did, but then I remembered that I needed a shelter to hide in. Without knowing it, I turned a little bit of the switch and began to harden myself against feeling ashamed, against feeling anything.
I developed a rhythm during the next few years. Travel during the night, find a place to stay during the day. I established a semblance of control over my urges to drink human blood; I would be lying if I said that I wasn't repulsed by drinking blood from people, but I had to drink to survive. I was so careful, though, not to kill anybody, unlike the man who fed from me.
Despite my orders to stay away from my town, occasionally I would sneak back in to see how my family, Véronique, and my son were doing. But I admit it: I was afraid to make myself known. I was scared to reveal myself to my town; I was terrified of how they'd react. I wasn't stupid enough to believe that they'd welcome me back arms open wide; after all, I had killed the son of the richest man in town. But deep down inside, I held on to the foolish hope that they would. I so desperately wanted to be a part of my son's life.
He was beautiful. He had my black hair, my nose, my mouth. From what I saw, Véronique had adopted him because my own parents didn't want him. Her husband didn't care.
I don't remember when I first realized that I wasn't aging; maybe it was the eighth year, or the ninth. But I did notice it, and it frightened me. As the only one of my 'kind' that I knew, I didn't know if it was normal. I didn't know what was going to happen to me. But the stark conclusion hit me that if I wasn't aging, I was going to live forever.
And forever was a very long time.
I hated what I was. I hated that I had to drain life out of others in order to live. I hated not being able to enjoy the sunlight. I hated manipulating people. I hated almost every little thing about myself, because it meant that I couldn't live among normal people.
I also hated how I could make myself feel nothing; I could just turn off the guilt, the anger, the pain, the joy, the happiness. It was so easy to do it, but it also made it a whole lot easier for me to kill, for me to compel, for me to do whatever it was that would make 'human me' upset. It was a constant struggle not to turn off my emotions, but it kept me accountable. I like to say that I did the best I could have done with my circumstances, and I hold to that.
10 years after I left Massalia, I came back with the intent of visiting Véronique. At the borders of the town, I heard snatches of conversation that confirmed my worst fear: she was sick and dying.
I snuck into town at night, speeding past people to avoid them. I didn't want a confrontation just yet. At Véronique's door, I paused a whole minute before knocking. Doubts raced through my mind: was I right in coming back to see her, one last time before she died? Or was I being selfish, wanting to see her when she probably didn't want to see me?
But in the end, I knocked before I could second-guess myself any more than I already was. I was already here. I might as well do what I came to do.
My son opened the door.
He was ten now, with long black hair that curled at the tips. He had Christophe's bright hazel eyes and my faint splattering of freckles across his nose. I almost choked at just taking in his appearance. How was I supposed to feel? I was glad he looked healthy and strong, but it hurt, it physically hurt, to know that I was not the one who raised him.
He held a candle and squinted into the darkness to see who it was. "Can I help you, Ma'am?"
I felt my eyes begin to fill with tears. "Is Véronique in there?"
My son moved back, letting me see into the small house. Véronique's withered form was tucked into a bed shoved against the corner of the room. "Mama, this lady is asking for you."
Mama.
Véronique raised her head slightly and saw me. Whatever color was in her face disappeared; she looked shocked, frightened, and guilty, all at once. "Marielle."
I hesitated. "Could I come in?"
She stared at me for a long moment. How I wished I could have known what she was thinking; of all the abilities I gained, that would have been most useful.
Then:
"Of course. Please come in."
I took an uncertain step in, past my son; he stared up at me with open-mouthed fascination that would have been funny in a different situation. Véronique shifted against her blankets.
Her house smelled like death.
I knelt by her bed, smiling sadly. "It's been ten years."
"You haven't aged a day," she whispered, raising a trembling hand. I took it; her hand was cold and weak.
"No, I haven't," I replied softly. "I wish I could say the same for you."
She gave a choking laugh, only a shadow of the full-bellied laugh she used to give. "I'm dying of consumption."
"If I could take your place, you know I would."
"Why?" She frowned heavily. "I had you exiled from this town. Why would you do that?"
"Because I will never die."
Her eyes widened. Then she turned to my son and asked him, "Christophe, sweetheart, please go back to bed. I'll call for you if I need anything."
"Yes, Mama." He clambered up onto the bed next to her and kissed her cheek. "Good night."
"Good night, Christophe," she replied tenderly, smiling slightly as she watched him.
I waited a whole five seconds before voicing my thoughts. "You named him Christophe?"
"I had no choice in the matter," she confessed. "His grandfather insisted on it."
Unsure of what to say next, I stayed silent. Véronique broke it first.
"Marielle, what happened to you?"
It was then I realized I never told anybody what had happened to me; I had never told anybody about the apothecary, Kol, or what he did to me after I gave birth to Christophe. It was a burden I had carried alone.
"Do you want to know?" I asked softly, looking into her eyes to see if she would tell the truth or not.
In response, she gripped my hand tighter. "Of course I want to know. You used to confide in me for everything."
So I told her everything, starting from my marriage to Christophe. I told her about Kol, about me accidentally swallowing a drop of his blood, of him drinking all of mine, of me dying. I told her how when I went home to Christophe, he had tried to kill me. Véronique's face whitened even further when she heard, but she didn't say anything.
I told her of all the changes had happened to me, how I couldn't walk in sunlight, how I could run faster than the eye could see, how I could heal almost instantaneously, how all my senses were heightened. But I left out how I could compel people; that wasn't something I was proud of.
She listened quietly throughout the whole thing, not interrupting me even once. It felt good to tell just one person about what I had been through the last ten years; I felt as if I was relieving some of my burden.
At the end, she clasped my hand and brought it to her lips. "I am so, so sorry," she whispered brokenly, "that all this has happened to you."
"I am sorry also," I admitted.
What she said next I would have never expected: "Can you turn me into what you are?"
I sat in a shocked silence before asking, "What do you mean?"
"Marielle," she said, fervor in her eyes, "you said if you could help me live, you would."
"I did not say it like that –"
"Listen, please. I do not want to die." She unsuccessfully tried to sit up in her bed; I helped prop her up against the wall. "You could turn me into what you are, and I could live forever, like you."
"Véronique, this isn't to be taken lightly."
"I know," she said dismissively. "But what other solution could there be? There is no cure for my sickness. I will die within the month. But you could help me live."
It sounded so tempting. To have a companion while I lived out my forever. To have Véronique, of all people, as a lifelong friend. I was sorely drawn to the idea.
But then the stark reality hit me. Would I really condemn another to a lifestyle like mine? I was constantly on the move. Every day I struggled against the almost uncontrollable urge to drain the life out of another person. And on my bad days…well, I feel guilty afterwards. If I was dying of consumption, I would not trade it for this cursed lifestyle.
I couldn't be selfish. Not with her.
It almost broke my heart to tell her. "I am so sorry, Véronique," I said softly. "But I would not wish my life on anyone."
"But –"
"You don't understand what I suffer every day," I said fiercely, but quietly. "It's not a life anyone should want."
"You get to live forever," she whispered.
It hit me. I would live forever, while everyone I knew would grow old and wither and die. And I would be left alone, to continue, to endure for all time. It wasn't right; in fact, it was downright wrong. But it was the reality, and I would literally have to live with it.
And then I realized something else. I had to move on; I had to let go. I had filled these past ten years trying to find a way to assimilate back into my old life, the life I had when I was still human. But I wasn't human anymore. If I was to live forever, I had to let go of what wouldn't. Because the blunt truth was that everyone I knew and loved would die, and it would only bring me more pain.
I had to move on.
"I am forced to live forever," I said in response to Véronique. "I am forced to live forever while everything around me dies. It's not something I would want you to have to carry." I hated what I was going to do next: I compelled her. "You are not to wish to be like me."
She looked at me for a moment before settling back down in her pillows. "I suppose you are right." I could already see the fight going out of her, the sleep taking over her eyes. "Like you always are."
I squeezed her hand.
"Will you say good-bye to Christophe?" she whispered.
Countering, I replied, "I do not think that would be a good idea."
Her eyes filled with tears. "Could you ever forgive me?"
"Of course." I knew exactly what she was referring to, the fact that it was she who raised my son and not me. Reluctantly I stood and pushed away from her bed. It was time for me to go. "I shall leave you now."
"Will I see you again?" The question was spoken softly, almost hesitantly.
"No." I had to be honest. "You will not."
A tear trickled down the side of her face. "I will make sure Christophe is taken care of. I swear it."
"Thank you." I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Good-bye, Véronique."
"Good-bye," she murmured, eyes fluttering. When I turned to look back at her from the door, she was already sound asleep, her once-beautiful face wasted from stress and illness. But there was a peace about her, as if she had accepted her fate. And for that I was glad.
After I left her humble home, I sped away, not caring which direction I ran in. I ran until I felt like stopping, about an hour before dawn. And when night came again, I kept on running until I was far enough away that the pain was dulled.
When I reached the Sicily, I swore to myself that I would never return to France.
