Of Monsters and Men ₰ The Originals

Chapter Thirty Nine | Pounding Drums of War

This book is based and inspired by the Originals, with a tinge of the Vampire Diaries. I suggest that you watch the shows to understand some occurrences.

All rights go to The Originals television show on the CW, and Lisa Jane Smith (the author), except the characters and events that are purely of my imagination. PLEASE DO NOT COPY, OR ELSE YOU'LL BE REPORTED.

I JUST WANT TO SAY THAT IF ANYONE IS COPYING SECTIONS FROM THIS BOOK THAT ARE OF MY INVENTION, PLEASE TAKE ACTION.

(EDITED)

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The song of the chapter is: Thousand Eyes by Of Monsters and Men

I'll be the call, I will be quiet.

Stripped to the bone, I wait.

No, I'll be a stone, I'll be the hunter,

Tower that casts a shade.

I lie awake and watch it all diffuse,

Like thousand eyes.

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          CHAPTER THIRTY NINE ― POUNDING DRUMS OF WAR

      THE SOUND OF THE screams shouting "there would be no peace!" resonate in my mind all night, forcing me to toss and turn like there was no tomorrow. Marcel had definitely gotten his point across, because the treaty was already unofficially in tatters. Elijah was barely hanging the offer of peace by the thread.

     Nik was right. The treaty would never have worked.

     But we were so close. If not for Marcel . . .

     Marcel. He would have been planning this little rebellion since God knows when. How flippant and cheery he sounded when he called me yesterday about Davina. Davina, who was a blood-pumping witch whom the vampires would have attacked. He had gambled a lot, but in the end he emerged victorious. He had ensued chaos in his wake, and now all of the supernatural faction were in jitters, blaming the others for everything and anything, leading the treaty to be null and void.

      I roll onto my back, staring at my ceiling in the darkness. Antique ribbon-like swirls were painted in shades and hues of gold and silver, with all the shades in between.

     Ribbons.

     I get up so quickly that I get a whiplash on my neck. I groan in pain, massaging the inflamed area with one hand while the other reaches for the light button. I press it, and my bedroom is suddenly bright, the shadows being chased off.

     I overturn my wrist, hope in my eyes, willing the mark to be gone. But there on my skin it stays, leering at me with ugliness. I shift on my mattress, now sitting cross-legged. Tempted by the growing heat on my skin, I reach out two fingers and touch it . . .