Chapter Text
The only kinetic sound within the church was the frenetic, gasping breaths of the immobilized Hybrid draped over the front pew. With bright eyes, he stared unseeing at the high ceiling and the white crosses that symbolized forgiveness he would never achieve. Behind him, pacing within the empty alleyway, was Marcel Gerard, and farther still, was a gaggle of witches, standing with their hands grasping at the torn pages of a Grimoire, chalk pieces and the soft leaves of a plant time hardly remembered.
"How long will it take?" the upgraded vampire knotted his arms across his chest, still restless in his movements. A witch's head rose from their affairs. She was blond, with fair, freckled skin, yet her dark eyes held none of the innocence her youth inferred she might have, scrunched in a glare with nothing but malice comforting her features.
"As long as required," she turned away, "You were the one who decided killing him was not an option. Repressing old magic isn't as simple as flipping a switch."
Marcel looked impatient, but kept his further opinions quiet. Magic had made him powerful enough to take down his sire, Niklaus Mikaelson, magic had made the blade embedded in said sire's chest, and magic was going to put a stop to the tyranny the Hybrid had caused in his long, long life. He owed a lot to the workings of witches, despite how irritating they were within his city.
The plan had been simply to destroy Klaus for his deeds, for his sins, after the trial had been held, but with Rebekah leading the cesspool of individuals who had been scorned by the most infamous Original, death had not been enough. Then, it'd been decided that Papa Tunde's dagger would be used, paralyzing and therefore eliminating the threat, but Marcel could not rest with the man simply hidden behind stones.
This new idea was far more for his sanity than for his desire for revenge. He may have been raised by them, but Marcel was no Mikaelson, he did not seek out and mercilessly torture those who wronged him, though he did at some point, exact revenge.
Or so he claimed.
The blond witch was in front of him, before he could notice, pale fingers outstretched, "Do you have what we asked for?"
Marcel had scrounged around the Abattoir after it's ransacking, and he nodded, digging into his pocket to hand over a carved, oak wolf stained by blood and a small golden coin. Representational magic. The wolf for obvious reasons, the coin because gold would not corrode, rust nor tarnish; an image of immortality.
The objects were laid down in the centre of the chalk, and as a circle was formed around them, pale, magic imbued palms touching, shoulders pressed together, the vampire went to grab his sire. The sound of fabric dragging against the rough floor mingled with the beginnings of a chant spilling from powerful tongues.
Once Niklaus had been settled on the floor, Marcel thrust into his chest, wrenching the bone-blade from within the Hybrid's ribcage, before reaching out and dropping it next to the other items. It's power could be beneficial, he'd been told. The action was met with no protest, though that could've been because of the Coven's devotion to their cause. They too needed to be rid of the scourge that was the Original Hybrid, in order to live peacefully and without interruption nor threat to their lives.
The spell seemed to take action quickly, for Niklaus' breathing had steadied for a moment, eyes fluttering open and closed as he tried to comprehend his surroundings, but he was swiftly ensnared again, lithe form writhing in protest, an aggrieved cry brief off his plump lips. Marcel could see the small smile of satisfaction on the face of the blond, and couldn't help but present one of his own. Any pain brought to the Mikaelson's was well deserved, and beget instant gratification. He would relish each second with eager gusto.
The Hybrid struggled, fingernails clawing at his own chest as if suddenly his skin was too small to contain him. His back arched upward, cerulean eyes rolled backward, choking with a ferocity known only to those who have been without air. He could not breathe, that was evident enough, scarlet blood trickling from flared nostrils. He groaned and hissed, soft, strangled noises, but could not yell nor berate anyone, perhaps could not even notice there was anyone to target through his rage and agony.
It was over far too fast. What started as quiet chanting broke into yells, a crescendo, wind picking up, small eddies curling around each individual in the room, throwing the papers of the Grimoire into the air and blowing fires from candles. There was crashing, a suffering snarl from Niklaus, before a sudden end left Marcel holding onto the spine of the pew, the witches shaking and the Hybrid mercifully unconscious.
The blond witch bent, scooping the two objects into her hands, before she glided over to the limp tyrant, nudging his body with her foot.
"Did it work?" Marcel asked, steadying himself, and the girl scoffed.
"We wont know until he wakes." She extended her closed fist to Marcel, delivering the coin and carving to the vampire, before rejoining her accomplices. "You'll need to hide those. If they are destroyed, the seal will be broken, and he will be a murdering, immortal psychopath again."
His gaze fell to his sire, a malignant glint in his eyes. The witch regarded him with distaste, "Just remember the conditions to this favour, Marcel Gerard." a brief pause, "And the consequences if you do not fulfill your side of this bargain."
And with that she took the closest companion by the wrist, and dragged her through the grand front doors of St. Anne's Church, the rest of the coven following suit.
When Camille opened her eyes, the world was far too bright. Noises assaulted her ears, sudden and bursting, as though she'd had her head submerged in water and was just now resurfacing. The bed under her was soft, and the sheets that her body was trapped within were even more so.
Was she alive? The air in her chest screamed yes, but the unforgiving hunger that burned at her throat begged to differ. Either way, she was slow, groggy, and she blinked a few times, trying to make out where in fact she was. When that failed to clear the fog, she thrust palms into the dark sockets of her eyes, kneading at them determinedly, before dropping them.
Elijah Mikaelson stood in front of her.
"Welcome back." There was always an air of ascendancy with the ageless man, a flat finality to his voice regardless of what he was saying, apathy etched into the soft wrinkles and sharp edges of his otherwise smooth complexion. There was a pause among the two, as if Camille's mind was struggling to catch up, where the air seemed to stagnate, and the Original trailed along the foot of the bed, hand on the ornate iron frame, dark eyes never quite returning to the blonde.
"Was I dead?" she asked, after the silence was too much, but that was obvious. Of course she had been dead, she remembered, briefly, the Other Side, "How long was I...?" she corrected, but could not bring herself to finish the statement.
"Two years," He replied, an icy texture to his syllables, and she waited, for him to fill in the blanks, explain, something, anything.
The quiet rose again. She slowly began to pull the silk away from her body, ridding herself of the excess warmth of the sheets, finding herself dressed in the clothes she presumed she'd been buried in. An elegant, long white dress that had been torn slightly, presumably from when she had been dug up. She was suddenly very thankful that she had chosen not to be cremated as her mother had.
"You're hungry, I don't doubt." He gestured loosely with his hand at the bedside table where a whiskey glass of blood sat waiting. She could smell it, and knew it was fresh, but instead of lunging like her fledgling vampire side desperately craved to, she turned her cool eyes unto Elijah, and spoke with irritation.
"Okay, no," She started, narrowing her gaze once the other met it, "I died, and now I'm alive, you're supposed to be telling me why, because it doesn't just happen. There has to be a reason you went through all the trouble to bring me back,"
The tiny smile from the Original was unexpected, but he couldn't help but admire Camille's quick evaluations and easy assessments. She was an intelligent woman. She knew her worth and where she stood within the hierarchy of New Orleans. It was not often that that was the case. But it was swift to fade. This was not the time for appreciation.
"This is about Niklaus," immediately her face twisted into concern, and it assured him that he had done the right thing, devoting months to her revival, "You see, I made an enemy of the now rather powerful Marcel Gerard, and we all paid the price."
He spoke of Kol, and of Rebekah. Though Hayley had managed to restore Freya and himself from their suffering, the same was not true for his younger brother and sister. The curse still needed breaking, and another batch of cure needed making. Their witch sister had been keen in noticing that the stability of their anchoring to Niklaus was questionable, a shaky and untrustworthy bond that signified he had either been woken up or disturbed in his sleep. There were moments where the Chambre de Chasse could not contain them, and they woke, only to be tormented by their ills.
It was then decided, of course, that Elijah needed to find their wayward half-brother in order to keep their younger sibling safe, but when tasked with the job of locating him, Freya's magic had failed and the Original vampire's compulsion had proved unyielding of results.
So they would enlist in allies, despite the fact they had no living ones to mention. Camille was number one on the list.
"I do believe he has found himself in a spot of trouble, at the hands of Marcellus," He never looked away from her, inky hazel eyes boring into her with the calmness of the ocean on a clear day, "I need your help to find him."