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◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖞-𝖘𝖎𝖝: ❛ in her bones ❜ ◢
✧
MARISOL STARED AT MARCEL WITH AN UNFLINCHING GAZE. The coffee was cold between them, after at least an hour of sitting across from each other in his loft across the French Quarter, trading simple conversation before he stated his new intentions.
"It's happening now," he stared at her gravely, the weight in his words evident even if he didn't specify what he meant, "We're ready."
He held her gaze, unbreaking, and she wished now more than ever that she had the ability to read his mind. To understand his psyche instead of playing guessing games from the outside. On one hand, she knew that Marcel was incredibly capable. He had ruled New Orleans for nearly a century now, and while fair, he kept peace even by extreme measures. He was fully capable and he had the loyalty of many backing him.
But Klaus was old. Much older than Marcel, and older than Marisol. He was smart. The years had taught him wisdom in battle, he knew how to end wars before they were even close to beginning, every move planned out like a chessboard. He had fought many foes and lived to tell the tale while the losers had their graves dug out. Klaus was strong, could take on too many men at once, and he knew that.
While he had weaknesses, they were not ones Marcel would exploit – she knew he wouldn't harm Hayley, he vowed that to her himself – and Klaus had won against kingdoms before. In some ways, her heart ached, beginning to mourn the death of her friend.
She believed in him, as much as she could and as valiantly as she could muster, but she knew Klaus. Differently from Marcel, and not as long, but she saw him long ago, the manipulative spirit living inside him, making you feel safe and understood before the big bad wolf came out to play. He was a dangerous enemy to have, she knew that as well, and Marisol sadly didn't see an ending where Marcel was still standing.
"If you want it to," she broke eye contact, eyes flickering to her cold coffee and then to her hands. She tried not to show her doubt in him, tried not to tell him that she was already planning a funeral arrangement for him, wondering what he might want on his plaque. Someone would have to bury him, and it wouldn't be any of the Mikaelsons, nor would his friends survive, so it would be her. She would take care of him.
"I can't see any alternative. We can't wait forever, and if we don't act now, he'll strike first," Marcel shook his head, "Marisol, you have to understand. I'm doing this for New Orleans."
She laughed a little, standing up, breaking from their simple breakfast. "Don't lie to me like that. You want this. You want to rule, and-and to prove to Klaus that he's not above you. It's not just for New Orleans."
