LITTLE WITCH ▹ THE ORIGINALS

thirty; letters to loved ones

-•-•-

Old habits die hard, they say. Sawyer placed one foot in front of the other, an empty look in his eyes. He approached an almost desolate sub-street, one that he had accidentally stumbled upon as he aimlessly walked throughout the Quarter.

In all honesty, he had no idea what he was waiting for. He had one mission in mind - Remi's letter. It wasn't a difficult task in the slightest - so why was he so damn nervous? He desperately wished for the sweet cascade of serotonin to grace his bloodstream.

Perhaps his nerves came from the unknown that lurked within the cream-colored envelope. What did Remi want him to know? What was so important that it couldn't be said over the phone? And, more importantly, why wasn't he just picking up his phone and dialing her number? Why was he practically paralyzed?

Deep down, Sawyer knew that he was being overemotional. 'Just suck it up. Just rip open the envelope and read it!' he screamed to himself. 

And with a shallow breath, he did just that. 

-•-•-

Marcel was sitting in Rousseau's, his arms placed on his legs as he stared at the letter hanging loosely in his hands. The bar was crowded for a Saturday evening, though the vampire didn't pay the crowd any attention. His deep brown eyes occasionally met those of Camille, whose attention was mostly focused on taking the orders of the thirsty tourists. 

Though partly distracted by her job, Camille was fully caught up in recent events. Before Remi met the Mikaelsons, the bartender was quite close with the girl. In fact, the original group consisted solely of a quiet Remi, an overprotective Marcel, and a motherly Camille, with the occasional daywalker popping to say hello, as well. Camille was a shoulder to lean on from the sidelines. 

Marcel inhaled, and a lingering smell of spilled bourbon filled his nostrils. As he bit his bottom lip, the vampire tore open the sealed letter, and began reading.

Dear Marcel,
I know you're probably pissed at me for doing this, and in all honestly, I'm sort of pissed at myself too - but for a different reason. It sounds awfully lame, but I guess I've just been trying to find out who I really am. 

All my life, I've wondered who my dad was and why he left. Now that I'm almost seventeen, it seems like I don't have any more excuses for putting it off. I've always been such a wuss when it comes to taking a leap of faith, but I guess this is my leap. For a first jump, this is a pretty huge drop. In all honestly, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking when I agreed to this, but theres no turning back now. In a few hours, the sun will be up and I will be in a car with the man who abandoned me before I even knew what the word 'abandoned' meant. I guess it's time for me to find out what the other side of my genetic makeup is like. Maybe then I'll know why I'm so impulsive.

Anyways. I love you, Marcel. Don't worry about me - I'll be okay. I always am.

Love always,
Remi.

Though it was right in front of him, the words seemed intangible. His eyes were fixated on them, and suddenly a single drop of water hit the page. His hand traveled to his cheekbones, which had turned damp. Only now had Marcel realized something . . . he realized that Remi leaving, was a mistake.

-•-•-

In the now eerily quiet abattoir, Freya had wandered back into the study. The woman sat on a dark chestnut leather chair, holding the slightly wrinkled letter in her lap. Her thin index finger traced the occasional crease that littered the nearly pristine envelope. One line connected from the top left and formed an acute triangle across the corner. Another arbitrary line started at a random plane and ended soon after, as if a young hand had gripped it's arm and accidentally pulled the paper into the crossfire.