TRISTAN
I could feel the brass pocket watch Aurora had given me long ago ticking away against my loose grip. I hate knowing that each time I return home, she'll be broiled down into a sleepy slur of a girl missing out on her life. Some nights, I feel responsible and others I feel like a mediator. There's always going to be an Aurora with a heart of gold buried beneath an Aurora with a mind of glass shards. I don't know when I might see her again, but when this is all over, I'll join her in India and hope that heart of gold greets me.
A harsh bump in the road distracts me from deep thought as the driver suddenly begins making a detour through the bayou's unmarked trail.
"Turn around. Try to stay on course, no detour will get us there fast enough," I order tiredly.
The chauffeur does not return a nod or an agreed word. He does not acknowledge me at all.
"I said turn around," with more aggression, I command.
The car stops abruptly in the cerulean darkness, the highbeams of the SUV shutting off and leaving us both in the dark. I can hear crickets and nothing more until the driver with less hurry than before removes himself from the vehicle and opens my door.
I step out, thinking Aya may have had other plans than to meet at the Strix's rental. I am out of luck for such comfortable reasoning.
Seven cloaked figures stand among a grove of cypresses and uncertain death is on the air with a bitter taste.
One of the figures speaks in a clumsy and acidic tone, though I do not know which one or what language it is.
"...I don't believe I know what this is about. But I assure you, you've picked an hour that isn't convenient for either of us," I appeal. "You are the Knot, no? My name is Tristan De Martel; I'm a friend of your fugitive's."
There's no time for introduction. Two of the cloaks bring me to my knee's with a powerful grip and hold me.
Two of the last five trade off a metal box that gleams in the moonlight.
"I can bring her to you!" I promise aloud. "If you agree to let me get back in the car, I can—"
"It's too late, and you know this," the english-speaking of the the group tells me. "Celeste had plans for you long before that girl returned to this place. Show obedience, and we can promise you life further."
"It's not me you want! It's Jezebel! You need her to be able to achieve the whole of your kind—!"
The box opens in the middle of my speech, and out shoots a dark object I have only enough time to feel swim down my throat and choke me into unconsciousness.
VINCENT
"You know, only a guilty party would be as silent as you are now. Show yourselves," I bellow.
The graveyard stays as silent as its dead. Candles are lit, the night is young, and there are little feet running around in the distance waiting for a boogeyman to scare them away.
"I'm not gonna ask again," I scold.
Van reveals himself, ritualistic knife and rabbit in hand.
"You're kind of a joke now, you know. A guy who hasn't done magic for years and is in talks with the enemy? What good will you do us?" Van taunts me.
I exhale heavily, "Well, here's the thing about Jez. You only stopped her for a while. That girl learns quick and pretty soon she's going to find a loophole to come back. Where did you think you were going with that, huh?"
"I encouraged it, I don't take responsibility for it. The ancestors have wanted her gone for decades. At least somebody had the guts to finish the job," he continues.
Grabbing his armed hand, I pin it back against the door of a nearby crypt and use my free arm to pin his chest.
"Who thieved the vinyl, Van? Jez came in peace, that's the first thing she tried to tell us. So, if the witches acted against a neutral force, then the ancestors—"
He interrupts, "Typical, even you'd blame it on the coven. I don't mean to bulldoze the lecture you have prepared for us, but we are not gonna take the credit."
I dropped him to his numb feet, intaking the information I've come into.
I frown, "Then who?"
Van admits, "Marcel. It was Marcel Gerard."
AYA
He's late. How convenient, given he said his news was an emergency. I feel as though I've been waiting with the witches he needed for hours. Vincent Griffith has been roped into making a new vessel for the Pythoness as week speak, though, he's inclined to get her on it and watch after it himself. He can do as he pleases, so long as he doesn't get in our way when the time comes to protect our sires by giving that girl up.
I sigh, staring out the window of Marcel Gerard's home base in his absence. Perhaps, Tristan has whisked him away in the swing of a mayday. What if Marcel is the emergency? Dammit. I should have gone to that cemetery last night.
"She fought valiantly, but alas, she isn't entirely suited to outlast a second dose of morphine. We've put her on the drive to Baton Rouge airport as it suits you. She expects a call before she gets on the plane, though, I wouldn't expect a fully intelligent or long conversation. Where are you?" I aggressively assert in Tristan's voicemail.
Footsteps with an assertive tap to them come up behind me where I am faced with Marcel himself.
"Tristan's chauffeur called. He never made it back from Kingmaker the other night," Marcel states.
"If that were right, I would have gotten a call long before you. And since you suffer from an indifference to the current Regent of the nine covens as well as a one-sided eye-witness account to the pythoness's demise, who's to say it's not you who's behind his disappearance?" I interrogate.
Marcel takes a seat on the nearby couch.
"It's only been eighteen hours, he's not a missing person yet. Try Lucien Castle again, and you'll have better luck with an answer instead of just pointing fingers. This isn't a dignified witch hunt. Speaking of, I need to talk to you about this," he replies.
Tossing a vivid folder onto the glass table before me, he gestures at it.
"I had a look at the file Tristan told me to give the Mikaelsons if they didn't surrender Jezebel Zhukov. I'm not an avid Spanish speaker, but I do recognize names. Is this a letter to Mikael Mikaelson?" I frown.
"On the contrary. A letter from Mikael addressed to Jezebel Zhukov herself. As it seems, she's good at more than just attracting evil. She can befriend it just as easily. One look at that, and they'll send her straight into our hands," I answer.
Marcellus theorizes, "Let me guess, to spite the witch realm and turn her into the weapon?"
"Don't be daft. She's not the weapon, but she's valuable in this game of ruler and killer. Or was," I sigh.
He shifts to stand again.
"...You don't know what Tristan wants from her, do you?" he realizes.
If I did, I'd be a lot more concerned than this right now. I can't explain what I don't know to the people who believe I'm their leader's eyes and ears, so how can I answer him?
Stubbornly I choose to reply, "It's not your job to worry what's to happen next. So long as we survive, you survive. Do not question how. Just be grateful."
It doesn't keep him at bay, but I am done talking.
I cut him off from the last word, "Make yourself useful. Get out there and help find Tristan. Ariane!"
Out from the dark of the halls comes my hired witch, Ariane, and her sisters.
"Your mom know you're helping us out, Ariane?" Marcellus recognizes the local.
"Since when does Marcel Gerard care about my kind? Let alone my well-being. You heard Aya. It's time to remove yourself," Ariane calmly replies.
He hasn't the time to worry for her as much as for himself. Tristan is the only one who wants him here; he best find the man vouching for his trustworthiness before Marcel is left to our trials of judgment.
As he pitifully looks over the teenager and her friends, he leaves the room and lets us continue our work.
"Now, what news is it you have for me?" I huff.
"We've been monitoring Freya Mikaelson's activity like you asked. As of now, she's attempting a spell to find the Pythoness," one of Ariane's girls swear.
I ponder, "I imagine she's been found if you're coming to me this early in the process."
"Not exactly. Jezebel found the weapon you require," Ariane exposes.
ELIJAH
There's no telling what he's waiting for. Across the street, he sits like a show pony waiting for a prize at a small Bourbon café. Is he waiting for one of us to walk away from our haven or is he simply planning on calling a meeting in plain sight?
A group of dark-haired women in dark clothing ascends from the alleyway, walking in a clean line as they make eye contact with him and he with them. Perhaps, a trade's already happened. If Alexis the Seer foresaw a weapon, there was still no telling who had it or what it was. "It" is liable to be a "who" just as well. Witches are terribly bland with information.
Freya grunts in frustration in the room behind me.
"Any luck?" I ask.
"There's no trace of her whatsoever. I've tried seance, locator spells, descent hexes...none of it applies. It's like Jezebel doesn't exist," Freya huffs.
I look at the materials she has to work with as I pace over to her. A shard of the vinyl we found in the graveyard and an old portrait of our dead most likely on loan from Niklaus.
Jezebel didn't want to be found. She said it once or twice before and now she was going to prove it.
"I don't know if it's because I'm a different form of magic or if someone got to her first...the strongest way is to have some form of live representation. She's too tidy to even leave a hair on the floor, apparently," Freya laments.
As something directly created or born from the girl herself. Maybe it is I who's been too tidy to come forward.
I raise my hand as a gesture for her patience while I retrieve her a plausible instrument to help the search along.
Up in the garret of the house, I anxiously look over my shoulder for a witness while I lift Rebekah's chest of forgotten vestments off of a safe I never spoke the combination of.
Turning it a few times with frustrated and trembling hands, it swings open and gently hits my leg in protest of my rush.
I detest to admit to my siblings that I have a trunk of "souvenirs" myself; in fact, I'm dropped most of them out in the Atlantic while voyaging from continent to continent. But this one was the one I could never part with. It was the toy chest that kept me in mind of what I do for this family.
My hand wraps around the sweet smell of yellowed paper and unintelligible stories crossed between Jezebel's world and that of the finest medicine men of the South. She claimed she was perfecting her speech through such advanced pieces, but the inside told a different story.
I flipped through the pages, watching her writing become more and more smudged and brief than the pages before. Drawings, plans, graphs, diagrams... It all becomes less detailed by the end of the mammals' anatomy chapter. I don't think even she realized what she was trying to find or recollect.
I set it next to my sister's hand, praying for her to skip the inevitable part of opening it up.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Something she left behind," I answer vaguely, "Do you think—"
The candles on the table turn blue the second Freya puts it at the center of her work.
"That's a good sign. Give me your hand," Freya requests.
Keeping a standing position, I lend her my hand as she places her other over the book and begins a chant.
"Liro frans sec de tum, unus por dahv shen liro frans sec de tum..." repeats Freya.
The book flips open and lets the evaporating aged ink splash upward against her wrist and coil itself around her limb like a serpent.
When it stops circling, Freya breaks her concentration and turns her arm over.
"...Quick. Your handkerchief," Freya demands.
I stir it from my pocket, whipping it to keep the fabric from wrinkling the original design she intends to copy. Taking it gently, she presses it to the quickly evaporating red fluid and capturing its rust-smelling phantasm.
When she surrenders it to me, I am surprised my eyes do not address a message but a picture.
"It's a knight," I mutter.
"...That doesn't make sense. Are you sure that's her book?" Freya mutters. "Is she telling us where she is? A grave marker maybe?"
She wasn't a precious loss, I always thought, just another body to burn in a dumpster or leave in a ditch. All grudges aside, I knew it had nothing to do with Jezebel at all. It may not have made sense to Freya, but it certainly did to me. I watched our brother carve that knight.
"Even if I weren't aware of it, I think this may be the clearest answer we've gotten from the dead thus far," I state. "I know what the deadly weapon is."
VINCENT
I see him rushing into the LaVeau graveyard and without hesitation, I give him the full effect of my excitement. Pushing him into the crypt, I don't care who watches or how he'll fight back.
"What the hell is wrong with you, man!" I bark. "I know she gave you a scare, but you didn't have to go and kill her!"
"From the sound of it, I only shut her down for a little while. Don't start acting like I committed the crime of all crimes," Marcel retorts, shoving me back.
"But you could have. See, the majority of people around here might be throwin' a party, but that can change when I get them to see Jezebel has all the answers. The Knot is a lot stronger than the Strix, Marcel, and this sireline war has a little more to do with them than you realize. We're talking about a group of witches who are evil enough to be left out of history," I lecture.
"Then why are we protecting their most wanted!" Marcel barks.
To avoid unwanted ears, I take him between a couple of smashed up graves that haven't seen attention in years.
"Jezebel's only wanted because she knows how to stop them. But she's not going to tell anyone that because the second the Mikaelsons make it their problem, they toss all other reasoning out the window and shoot for complete destruction. Don't you think that will make Tristan's agenda a lot more complicated and hastened than before?" I prove.
Marcel's navy hood rustles on his back as he moves away from me irritably.
He sighs, "Well, that's why I'm here. Tristan De Martel's been missing since last night; no one can tell what happened between the time he left Kingmaker and this morning. Do any of your disciples have an idea what might have happened?"
"They won't even tell me, so I'll have to do a locator spell. In the mean time, you might wanna keep a few things to yourself. You're not on a mutual team, you never were," I huff. "Come on."
Marcel gradually strolls after my unavailable strut.
"Didn't think it'd be that easy to get you to do anything for me," Marcel scoffs.
It isn't for Marcel, it's for me. Tristan was the only thing standing in the way of the Strix getting their hands on my community and now they're walking in here and recruiting young kids for their own gain. I'm not gonna have it.
Marcel readily has a tie for me to use as a tether when we enter the Claire mausoleum.
Using the stored ashes and a map, I prepare to shed the catalytic blood that will locate our missing guy. A tension builds up in my throat and my arms as soon as I speak the spell, my mind trying to stay as blank as it can be.
Something happens before I can complete the first line of my chant. A pure white wind pushes me out of concentration and onto the floor next to the altar.
Marcel does not hesitate to help me up and question me immediately.
"What happened?" he frowns.
"I was pushed out of the spell," I pant.
"What does that mean?" Marcel guesses.
It means timing is precious and we failed at its care. I'm looking for a vampire who no longer lives.
KLAUS
The thick emerald binding hasn't lost color; it's been kept in a safe place all these years—away from bookshelves or coffee tables or human hands in general.
Jezebel had a specific fascination with mortal sciences and nature. She never talked about it or expressed interest in using it to govern her future, though, it was a good match for her cleverness and quick wit. Most souls spend their lives dedicated to a single profession, and still, I believe they would never master anything as thoroughly as she did.
She was savvy with medicine and finance, an excellent gambler, occasional artist, and hunter. It was refreshing and ironic how she could have been written into this place by an author of great tragedies or a glamorized dark age poet. She always said she'd much rather write her own sorrows down than read about others'. If she hadn't been so intimidated by crowds and attention, she would have been the most popular girl in New Orleans.
People do change...but some merely have two faces. I'm not entirely sold on the concept of opening this book and seeing the difference.
Elijah leans in the distant doorway, stiffly observing me turn the item over in my hands.
"...Did you open it?" he queries.
"If I do, I'll pay the price in some form or another," I foretell. "Judging by the look on your face, you were awaiting for me to say something about what's in here. What importance it must have to you that you should keep it in this house for this long."
He clears his throat quietly, shifting back onto two feet and coming to sit by me and my wine glass.
"...I knew things about her that I shouldn't have. Maybe it was my knowledge that made her act so impulsively in the end. My plans were to give it to you and hope you'd keep faith that what Jezebel did to you were explainable. But the longer time went on here and how slowly our bond had molded back together, I chose to let it sit in the dark," Elijah mutters apologetically, "If recovering from Aurora was as difficult as it was for a tale of similar telling, I'd feel guilty rehashing the issue. I could have stopped Jezebel from betraying you, but I did not. I thought it was fair to let you learn...as I had with Celeste. But really I just let it steep..."
Time doesn't heal like explanations do, and I was depraved of so many. Elijah and Rebekah both knew Jezebel was a witch long before I loved her; I had no warnings or honesty from my own family or from her.
"I never asked her why. I always hoped I misinterpreted," I said with a scoff.
As if it would matter. I was hard on Jezebel after the death of the Devereaux's. I threatened her life one too many times,
Was it all an act of vengeance? I did us a favor by killing Celeste. She was a lot easier to stop covered in a sheet than in human skin.
It was a period in which our castle walls were too narrow for more than the three of us. How could he forget it?
The book jingles. I shake it gently and stare down the gap between the binding and the leather binding. Something glimmers in the dim light coming from behind us. I pull at the yellow ribbon that sinks down into the pit of the book like a rope and pull out a ring. Made of sterling silver, the large M engraved in its band beneath cherubs and burning hearts still shines as brilliantly as when it could have been new.
I can't yank it entirely from its casing because there is an opposing red ribbon tied to it. I tug it harshly and hear a page fold inside.
Elijah observes as I turn the book open to the sound's source, a bright red pressed flower in the way of the major text written like an overlay to the dissection of man.
My heart skips a beat as I try move it aside and find three crisp words practically carved into the tender stack of pages. Family. Friend. Foe.
"It can't be," I swallow.
Elijah takes the book for context, his avid fast-reading skills helping us learn more in less time.
" 'I met the girl who should complete the three evils, but she does not yet know me. I have to find a way to break free of this place and warn her...before Niklaus is made fourth...' This isn't Jezebel, this is Kol!" Elijah cries.
Setting the book aside he stands quickly, and without warning, he leaves me in awe inside the gold and copper themed main den.
Going after him, I growl, "What is it? What are you doing!"
"Freya used that book in order to contact Jezebel. Maybe she didn't, and she contacted Kol instead. He knew of the weapon that could kill us once and for all!" Elijah panics.
"You found it! Then you know what it is, why have we not gone after it!" I scold.
He begins turning books and chests and drawers inside out.
He reassures, "Because it is right here in this house. And it's been there in your hands...where's the knight, Niklaus?"
My mind wraps around the small knight I'd carved centuries ago, just sitting in the library and waiting to be seen. It still wreaks of the white oak tree that it came from and even continues to draw gnats looking for sap. How could I have been so absentminded?
I hurry in the opposite direction my hand jetting outward as soon as it passes the doorframe. It lands on the third shelf up where mother's grimoire sits in a spell lock in the empty spot where the knight is supposed to be.
My heart goes form a skip to a sprint, my neck and chest heaving like rip tides. Elijah's loose cell phone nearly jolts me out of my skin when it sings two simple and out of tune notes.
It's a message from an unknown number, blinking with urgency.
He was the last thing standing in the way. Prepare for the arrival. Our condolences.
unknown (read, 9:56 pm)
AYA
The unbearable news of Tristan is investigated and served to be correct. Ariane's immediate seance after Marcel's discovery is met with Tristan himself, who now lays confined to the Serratura itself. Nothing has been said of what we plan to do next, or where his body may be. No matter, he would demand that we keep on task.
"...Whatever it was, Elijah clearly wants it to remain hidden. So long as it is out there, all our lives are at risk. We will not rest until that weapon is under out control," I announce to the group, looking at Marcel over my shoulder, "...It's what Tristan would want. Thus I will not tolerate any protest of the further agenda!"
A polite voice chimes in, "Hello everyone. Wonderful to see you all under the circumstances, of course."
Elijah parades into the room of dying winter light, tossing his fine coat aside like laundry in his own house.
"My condolences on the unforeseen death in the family. I'm sure Tristan is eloquently missed," Elijah muses.
His eyes land on my irritable gaze.
"Aya," he chirps, "how cozy we appear to be leading Tristan's abandoned circus. But sadly, one does not ascend to the position of leader—it kind of has to be by my consent."
I aggressively roll his hands off of my leather sheathed shoulders. He takes them away voluntarily as he paces my corner. I look at Marcel from the corner of my eye for a reaction. Does he smile like a traitor or frown like an oppressed fool?
Elijah goes on, "You see, I am the founding father of you all. I get to choose the leader here, and unfortunately for every last one of you, I've already chosen a candidate. Today is the day I take back what is mine. Objections anyone?"
Silence is heard, given there isn't much time to answer.
"When all of you consent, it is my opportunity to return you to greatness!" Elijah preaches.
Marcel remarks suddenly, "Really? just gonna come in here and start making demands?"
He is shushed by Elijah almost immediately.
Marcel is belittled by Elijah, "Marcel, the grownups are speaking. Aya! Tell me how long it's been since you saw this."
Like a magician he unravels the coat he's tossed upon the window seat and reveals an eight-centuries-old scroll with handles I myself engraved to frame his charter.
"The Charter of the Strix...who would even think to write this? Oh, yes. Me. Now, as it says here...'it shall be my duty to uphold the tenants of the charter', da-ta-da-ta-da...oh, this is important. 'In the absence of a worthy leader, the charter will be invoked and dominion shall be restored to Elijah Mikaelson'."
Proudly and with feigned exhaustion, he tosses his work onto the small chair once more. Under no circumstance will I accept. Some of these vampires are not old enough to reject him alongside me. It's been long enough that no one remembers his neglect like I do except what would have been Tristan.
I scoff, "If you desire to stake this absurd claim that you are leader, then I demand the right to Ludum Regale."
"And what would that...'days of yore' term mean, exactly?" Marcel smiles with question.
Yet, he is only left to wonder.
"Let's not do this, shall we?" Elijah stubbornly rejects my request.
I chuckle, "Ah, ah! I know the rules. As it happens, I helped you write them. You cannot invoke one end of the charter and disregard the rest."
If our leadership is in doubt and politics prove divisive, a contest of strength and cunning shall determine the line of succession.
"I challenge you, Elijah. Whoever holds the charter at the stroke of midnight is the new lead! Do you accept?" I declare.
A simper appears on Elijah's face as if the ability to duel me drives a bit of excitement within him. I can't wait to see those pearly fangs on the floor when I walk away leader, once and for all.
