Freya, firstborn— the sixth Mikaelson you've met— sparkles like champagne in the presence of her siblings. Finn blanches when he sees her.

"Freya…?" He asks, staggering. They crash into each other like an exploding star. Klaus is more suspicious. Finn, you've gathered, is the only one who remembers Freya. Their mother told them she died of plague.

You wonder what other lies they've been fed.

You've never met the woman, but the enormity of your disgust you feel towards her frightens you.

(Finn said their mother is the one who raised him from the dead. You assume you'll meet her before long. You seem to be a magnet for all Mikaelsons). You also suspect you won't win her over as easily as her children.

You guess you'll have to wait and see.

Frankly, you're not looking forward to it.

You sit at the sidelines while the Mikaelsons reunite with their lost sibling. Klaus remains suspicious, but even he can't deny the similarities. (She has the same hair, the same eyes— same upturned nose). You wonder if Elijah feels betrayed no longer being one of the older siblings, now just solidly in the middle.

You hope to God Freya is more responsible than the three younger ones.

"What are you doing hiding over here?" Rebekah asks. She sits down on the dusty grass without waiting for a response.

"Just tired," you say around a yawn, "Does this mean I can sleep now?"

Her lips twitch.

"I should hope so. Otherwise I'm not sure what the point of all this was."

You turn your head to look at her through your peripheral.

"You mean besides discovering a long-lost sibling?" You ask dryly.

"I hardly know her."

"You hardly know me."

She turns to you like she's about to offer a retort. Her expression softens.

"I know enough."

She cocks her head a little to the side, inviting you to rest your head on her shoulder. You do.

The first rays of sunlight start to crest over the trees, illuminating the sky in shades of pink. Clouds linger on the horizon.

"So what now?"

"Now," Rebekah says, "We go home, you sleep for a week straight, and we continue on as we have been. Marcel invited us to stay a few days in the city for you to recover. You don't have to if you'd rather go home today."

Warmth flashes through you and you suddenly want very much to kiss her. You don't, but only because you see Bonnie casting fugitive glances at you through the corner of her eye.

You press a soft indentation of your mouth to her shoulder instead.

Rebekah shifts to accommodate you.

"Thank you," you murmur, "I'm fine to stay in the city for a bit if it means I get to sleep. Just don't let me get kidnapped by stray vampires."

She snorts.

"They wouldn't get far."

A light breeze picks up and blows a lock of Rebekah's hair into your face.

"Are you sure you're not going to stay here?" You ask after a moment. Her brow furrows.

"Why would I?"

"I thought— Marcel. Kol said you were in love with him."

You assumed that the Mikaelsons have had endless romantic trysts: heartbreaks and bittersweet endings. But the way Kol said it…

You think Marcel was different.

(Maybe not in the way the Mikaelsons insist you're different— something you don't quite believe— but different in another way).

"Once, yes— very much."

"What changed?"

Rebekah pauses.

"It's a long story. I'll tell you one day."

You wonder what she would say if you were alone.

"Have you ever fallen in love?" she asks instead.

Sometimes it feels like it. Even if you had, you don't know if you would admit it. Not with all the Mikaelsons listening like this.

(You don't want to exacerbate their jealousy).

"No," you answer, and snuggle your head deeper into the crook of her neck, "I don't think so." Your eyes close unwillingly.

"Part of me thinks you're lucky," Rebekah muses and takes your hand, turning it over in her palm, "I couldn't count how many suitors I've taken. None of them were permanent."

"Why not?"

She huffs a bitter laugh.

"Nik doesn't like when our attention diverts from him."

She says it meaningfully. A thought occurs to you: something you lock down before you can fully realize it. You don't have the mental energy to follow that revelation down its rabbit hole.

"I see," you say instead of any of your other questions because you can see the way Klaus is looking at you through his peripheral, the grave look on Elijah's face.

You're so lost in your thoughts that you don't see Freya come up to you. You blink in the abrupt shade. You have to crane your neck to look up at her.

"Would you like to go on a walk with me?" She asks, back straight with iron confidence, "I'd like the chance to talk to you."

You eye her. You can tell she doesn't mean it as a question. You could still say no, if you wanted to. The Mikaelsons allow you that option. But a greater part of you wants to hear what she has to say. You get up, brushing dirt off of your pants.

"As long as we don't encounter any of your friends, I'm good."

She smiles. You don't know how to interpret it.

"I told you, they're not my friends. You have little to worry about with me at your side. No offense intended to your other witch."

That doesn't seem to reassure Klaus. Or Bonnie, for that matter.

"Does this mean one of you can take me to the airport?" Bonnie requests dryly, "Some of us have lives."

The others shift restlessly as you leave. You toss a nervous look at the Mikaelsons over your shoulder before walking along the perimeter of the woods with Freya. You round the bend before she finally speaks.

"I wanted to say thank you," she says, "You've suffered a lot for my freedom."

"… You could call it that."

Or you could call it psychological torture. Whichever works.

"Please know I never would have reached out if I knew. I had few options at the time."

You get an echo of sincerity. Like unsweetened cocoa. You wonder idly if this string connecting the two of you will fade with time or if you will always be in tune with Freya's inner workings.

"Why were you trapped in there?"

Freya pauses for a brief moment, gust of wind blowing cool morning air through her hair.

"I sleep for a century and wake for a single year. This cycle has repeated itself for millennia. I knew I wouldn't be found there."

You can taste the power coming off of her. You wonder what on heaven or earth could compel her to hide.

"Why me?" You ask. You asked her before, in your dream. You never got an answer.

She hums, non-committal.

"Honestly, I'm not sure why the spirits allowed me to contact you initially. We had no connection other than my siblings."

"And that wasn't enough?"

"I hardly know them," Freya responds honestly, "I'd like to. I think with your help I can begin to know them."

"I don't know how much help I would be."

Freya's lips tilt upwards. "Don't be too modest. The other reason I could sense you was because of this."

She hands you your necklace, gold amulet glowing with the rising sun. You fiddle with it. It feels different somehow.

"What happened to it? Back in there?"

"I drained the magic in it," Freya explains and you feel somewhat insulted. (It was your gift, after all). "It belonged to me once upon a time. I'm the one who gave it to Kol."

You deflate.

"Oh," you say awkwardly, "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Freya just laughs.

"How could you?" She asks, amused, "I'm sure my brother didn't bother to explain where he found it."

"You've met Kol before?"

Freya nods and tucks her hands behind her back.

"Centuries ago, yes. He didn't know I was his sister. I couldn't resist seeing them at least once."

"Why didn't you find them before now?"

She hesitates.

"That's a story for another time," she says finally, expression shuddered. There's a look in her eyes that you recognize. One she shares with her siblings. The look of someone who's been running for so long they've forgotten how to stand still. You're struck with an uncomfortable wave of empathy.

You hesitate.

"Are you okay?"

She turns to you, blinking.

"I feel as though I should be the one asking that," she says, hint of amusement in her voice.

You shrug.

"Force of habit."

"I'm surprised my siblings haven't broken you of that, from what I've heard."

"What have you heard?"

This time Freya's the one who hesitates.

"A lot of things," she eventually answers, "But hearing and knowing are different things."

You can understand that.

Bonnie is gone by the time you get back. You're mildly offended she left without saying goodbye, but you're wary enough of the witch to not be that upset over it. (Wary of her power as a witch, or wary of the constant reminder she poses). Elijah packs you up in a car, others staying behind with Freya. Or at least, that's what you think they're doing. You're more concerned with how comfortable the back seat is.

The rising sun starts to warm you. It's not too cold here, but you shiver anyway. You pull your sweater over your fists and cradle your head in your arms.

You could fall asleep right here.

A hand brushes against your neck, tucking your hair behind your ears.

"— What are you doing?" You murmur. You don't bother to open your eyes.

"I hear seatbelts are fairly important for humans," Elijah says, amused, "I don't think any of my siblings would be happy if you died on the way back."

"I, also, would not be happy if I died on the way back."

"That as well."

"I'm glad you found your sister, Elijah."

"I couldn't possibly take credit for that," he says, "You're the one who found her."

"Still. Sorry you're not the oldest anymore."

Elijah lets out a low hum of amusement.

"I will have to live with this burden."

You choke on a laugh and start to shiver. Laughing aggravates your nausea again. Something rustles and then you feel soft fabric drape over you. You crack open your eyes. Elijah's suit jacket blankets you. Your hands fist in it, bringing the warmth up to your nose.

"Hey, Elijah?"

"Yes?"

"I'm glad I met you."

He doesn't say anything, but you feel the warm press of lips against your palm. You hear Elijah shut your door and get in the driver's seat.

You don't know anything else for two days.

You wake slowly, if you really even wake up at all, the first time. The room is dark and whatever bed you're tucked into is warm and soft. You're not sure why you woke up, at first.

"—Elijah?" You mumble.

"Shh," a voice says, definitely not Elijah, "Go back to bed, sweetheart."

Klaus presses a kiss to your temple, close enough you can smell the sharp notes of his shampoo. You try to clench your hands, but your muscles are too weak. You want to wake up more— ask him where you are, what happened with Freya. But the bed is comfortable and you are warm and tired. You think you could sleep for eternity. The heat of Klaus's body lulls you into complacency.

You drift back off, cresting dark waves.

The second time you wake up, it's light outside and you're starving. You blink in the bright sun and can't quite remember where you are. Then the past few days flood back in. You're not sure how long you've been asleep. You swipe your tongue over plaque-covered teeth and wrinkle your nose.

Bathroom first, then food. Then probably whatever drama the Mikaelsons have cooked up in your absence.

You rise, blinking, from your pile of feather stuffed duvets and realize there's someone else in the room.

Okay, nevermind: Mikaelson drama comes first.

"Uh—" You say, stilted, "Should I be screaming or anything?"

Marcel laughs easily from his armchair. He sprawls in it like he owns it. (Which you suppose he does).

"Not necessary," he says with clear amusement, "I thought it was time we had a chat."

You just woke up and you still feel like you could sleep for another week. There's a brief moment of panic where you wonder if you're ever going to feel awake or if you're going to be reenacting Sleeping Beauty for the rest of your life. You rub the encrusted sleep from your eyes.

Your stomach takes this opportunity to growl. Marcel's eyes grow increasingly amused.

"Or I could get breakfast for us."

You nod hastily.

"That might be a good idea. I'm going to go, uh, take a shower if you don't mind."

Marcel sweeps a hand towards the on-suite bathroom.

"Be my guest."

You flush as you scramble out of bed, deeply aware of how much of a mess you look. Marcel is one of the most beautiful people you've ever seen. You can't escape from the drawing heat of his eyes. They track you as you dart inside the bathroom.

(You don't consider yourself vain— but what do you have that he doesn't? He at least has more than dark under-eye circles and dull skin from lack of sleep).

You shake your head, clearing it of useless thoughts.

The bathroom is extravagant: emerald green wallpaper and gold trim. It looks original. You wash your hair for the first time in who-knows-how-long. You recognize some of the product brands. You're not sure if all vampires have the same taste in shower gel or if this is yet another of the Mikaelsons' hideaways.

(Why this city? What makes it different from the hundreds— the thousands they've been to?)

Your fingers untangle a week's worth of knotted hair. Part of you wonders if you're actually just suffering from hair loss. Hopefully not. Hot water beats at your back, washing away asylum and airplane grime.

Now that you're no longer on the precipice of passing out, your brain starts to turn. Of course Freya is their sister. Why wouldn't she be? You should start doing a DNA test on everyone you meet.

At this point, it might be worth it.

You've gained two Mikaelsons in the span of a few days. You wonder if Freya will be a regular visitor or if she'll run off. (Despite the hesitation in her gaze, you know she loves her family. It's the only reason you're not more worried).

But deeper concern about what she's not telling you lingers on the edge of your mind.

That seems like a problem for later-you.

Current-you's problem is the vampire hiding out in your bedroom. You really hope he's not going to kill you. It seems odd to let you shower before your untimely demise, though, so you have hope.

There isn't a change of clothes in the bathroom for you so you get dressed in the over-sized robe hanging from the hook. It feels like you're swaddled in a blanket. The only thing that could make it better is another three days of sleep and a cup of tea. (You're just grateful you won't have to drink espresso anymore. Ugh). You wash your face and rub honey-scented lotion into your cracked skin. You start to feel somewhat human again.

Marcel is still waiting in your room when you return.

"You really want to have this conversation, huh."

"You could say that," he responds easily, "And don't worry, the Mikaelsons can't hear us. I had my witch do a spell."

"I know you meant that to be reassuring, but it comes off as very threatening."

He laughs.

"You're funny, I like that. I'm sure Klaus does too."

You shift.

"Sometimes," you say, non-committal.

"You can stop looking like I'm going to attack you. I'm not that level of upset over Rebekah."

You blanche. "I'm sorry," you say, too late, "I didn't know about—"

Marcel cuts you off.

"I know. I mean it, I'm not angry with you. Rebekah and I have our own history."

"… Just Rebekah?"

He raises an eyebrow. You flush hot in the silence. You get the overwhelming feeling you've overstepped.

"You mean did I manage to land myself in your shoes?" He asks dryly, "No. I thankfully avoided that fate. Klaus and Elijah raised me. Well, as much as two vampires can raise a human child."

Your face twists in disgust, you're too slow in hiding it. You remember Kol's words.

"And they still considered…?"

Marcel shrugs, an easy rolling of his shoulders. (Less easy, are his eyes).

"I don't know. I don't think so. The only reason I know about their… romantic habits because of Kol. Rebekah didn't want me to know. Protecting me, maybe. What one of them has, the others covet."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Marcel is silent for a moment, shapes moving behind his eyes.

"Because I'm giving you a 'get out of jail free' card." He hands you a slip of paper. "This number will always reach me. If you need to get out, or you decide you want to run, call me."

The paper weighs too light for what it signifies. You tuck it in the bathrobe pocket.

"Marcel—" This isn't the first time someone has shown concern for you in regards to the Mikaelsons. But this is the first time you think someone has truly understood the position you're in. "What did they do to you?"

He looks at you quietly.

"They loved me," he says, "Not in the way they love you. Klaus thought of me as his heir. I think Elijah did too, at one point."

"Wouldn't that make you more of a brother to Rebekah?"

He shrugs again, this time less easy.

"I think they've all been alive so long that there are few lines they won't cross," he muses, "I know all vampires must seem the same to you. You're human. But they're different— not just in strength— but in who they are. I am two-hundred and ten years old, and I haven't lost my humanity the way they have yet."

You've considered it before: the cost that living a thousand years must take.

"They still have some humanity."

Marcel raises an eyebrow.

"Klaus undaggered Kol when I was still human. I had been spending too much time with Elijah. Kol became jealous of me and compelled an acting troupe to perform Hamlet, deaths and all, in front of me. He slaughtered them. Not a single person survived."

You think of the flashes of violence the Mikaelsons displayed before they decided they wanted you.

You wonder how quickly they could turn on you.

"What should I do?" You ask, barely above a whisper. You can't make yourself look him in the eye.

"Make Klaus happy at all costs," he warns, "Klaus is the most vindictive, the most petty. He's the most likely to kill you out of jealousy. Do you have friends? Family?"

You hesitate. Kate.

"Friends," you eventually answer.

"He'll kill them and make you watch," Marcel says solemnly, "He's done it before."

"To the doppelgänger?"

Marcel blinks.

"He told you about that?"

"… He mentioned it," you say.

You don't like the way Marcel's gaze adjusts.

"… I see."

"Marcel—" you trail off. You've followed this train of thought before. Now you're not sure where it leads. "What's going to happen to me?"

He looks at you quietly.

"I can't say. What I can is this: everyone who's had the attention and affection of all the Mikaelsons is dead. Your best chance at survival is making them lose interest in you."

No.

You're struck by the wave of revulsion the idea brings.

"I— I can't do that. I won't."

Marcel puts his hands up.

"I never said you had to. Just wanted to give my honest opinion."

You come to the selfish, greedy realization that you would let the Mikaelsons set you on fire if it means you get to remain warm in their affections. (They'd rather kill you than let you go). Your heart shouldn't ache the way it does at the thought— like the most pleasant kind of bruise. Something inside you cracks under the weight of the terrified and lonely girl you've always been.

You're not going to leave.

(You know you should).

Marcel must see something in your eyes.

"I just wanted to give you the option," he says, rising from his chair like a king from a throne. He towers over you. "You don't have to use my number if you don't want to. Unlike Klaus, you see, I believe in free will."

You look at him for a long moment and see the boy he once was. You wonder if Marcel is right or if it is impossible to escape the Mikaelsons unscathed. For all his grandeur and stance, he shows wounds in his eyes.

(The logical side of your brain screams that Marcel was right to tell you to run).

"Thank you."

He lingers for a moment before nodding.

"Your breakfast is here," he says. Marcel leaves you to quietly eat waffles by yourself. They lodge in your throat.

You leave for Virginia the next morning, whisked away by your future.

Hope you guys enjoyed the Freya & Marcel time. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled baking soon!