Bring Me To Life | The Originals (1)

You Might've Won the Battle, But Not the Entire War

"We may stumble and fall but shall rise again; it should be enough if we did not run away from the battle." – Mahatma Gandhi

Marcel had thought the days of taking orders from the Originals were long gone, had disappeared alongside them when they fled the city back in 1919. But he was begrudgingly wandering down an abandoned street in the French Quarter under direct, slightly aggressive orders given by Elijah Mikaelson. While the rest of the vampire community had been instructed to search for Klaus and Rebekah, to scour every inch of New Orleans for the missing Originals, Marcel had been given one special directive: check on Imogen Claire.

It was kind of bittersweet to learn that the former Governor's mansion had been burned to the ground. So many times over the years had he imagined being the one to light the match, to sit back and watch his childhood go up in smoke but he never thought it would become a reality. That mansion stood as a symbol for everything horrible in his life, all of the brutalisation of being a slave and all of the memories of being classed as a victim. No, he wasn't upset to see the plantation burn to rubble but he was a little disappointed he wasn't the one who got to light the first spark.

The fact that Imogen had been caught in the blaze was the only part of the situation that really mattered to him. There was no reason for her to ever be near that house, but he only thought that for selfish reasons. Some part of his subconscious didn't want her to have the same association that he had, he didn't want her to make connections where there shouldn't be any.

He could remember the ache in his heart when Elijah told him that she had been trapped inside the burning building and the subtle glint of desperation hidden in the Original's ancient eyes when he sternly ordered that he make his way to Imogen's apartment. That was all it took for him to rush out of the Abattoir and now he found himself walking down the familiar street with a dull pain in his chest.

The scent of fresh blood wafted through the night air, something familiar about the aroma catching his attention and making his mouth water in anticipation as he froze in the middle of the street. There was only one incident he could remember tasting blood that smelt as sweet as what he was experiencing and the thought alone sent him running towards Imogen's apartment at the maximum speed he was capable.

Time seemed to come to a stop as he froze in horror at the scene in front of Imogen's apartment building and he barely noticed the shards of glass scattered all over the ground as his gaze locked on the source of the blood. A brunette woman was lying with her face turned away from him, her body arranged in an almost unnatural position and he gasped in shock, causing the sweet scent of blood to saturate him. The familiar perfume sent a jolt through him as he was broken out of his daze and he rushed over to kneel beside the woman with a renewed sense of urgency.

There were few times in Marcel's life that he had experienced true fear and he could name them on one hand. The first incident he could remember clearly was back in 1821 when was still human and Kol Mikaelson forced him to watch compelled people act out Hamlet, even making them kill each other for real. In 1919 when Mikael arrived in New Orleans, he was brutally beaten and crucified to a post in a play as a message to Klaus. He could remember the feel of the flames licking at his skin as the opera house burned to the ground around him and he could remember being absolutely positive that he was going to die that night, alone and frightened.

"Please, don't be her. Please, don't be her." he pleaded under his breath in a desperate tone as he gingerly turned the woman's head towards him and he almost growled when he recognised the beautiful witch unconscious in his arms. "Damn it, Imogen."

Nimble fingers instinctively went to the pulse point of her throat as his gaze swept over her unnaturally pale complexion and his frown deepen when he felt the sticky substance on her skin, causing him to lift his hand from her neck. When he glanced down in confusion, he could see the dark red blood coating his fingers and he swore internally as he looked around for the source of the blood until his gaze landed on the deep stab wound on her throat.