◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓𝖊: ❛ a promise to keep ❜ ◢

✧

IN HER DREAMS, SHE THOUGHT OF HIM. Wrapping his arms around her, holding her tightly, his lips brushing against her shoulder, stubble gracing the skin, kissing lightly and whispering into it, voice rough from sleep it sent tingles down her spine and made her feel warm. Everything felt warm. His body pressed against hers, where everything felt peaceful, and she could fall, fall, fall without fear of being dropped.

         And then she woke up.

         Those dreams made her wake with violence. Gasping for air, lunging out of bed, out of the heat until she was cold and uncomfortable and unsafe. Her eyes wide, holding herself and screaming, because that wasn't real and she couldn't have that. In her dreams, he was there and she loved him. In reality, he was gone and she remained, and she suffered.

         And sometimes, when she closed her eyes during the day, allowing herself to lull into a waking dream, she could hear him. His voice, low and steady, powerful but so soft when turned to her, whispering her name, gasping him, moaning it. Then she could feel him. His hand in hers, his blood on her tongue, piecing her back together. It consumed her, but he always did.

         But it had been years, though it hadn't made it any easier. It had been years since she'd seen him, years since she'd heard him, only hearing about him from a secondary source. Now, though, she looked at him, now though she saw him. She heard him. Not his voice, but his music, and he was there.

         Not a dream, not a memory, or a whisper in the back of her head, but physical. Present, in the flesh, his fingers gracing over the piano. She didn't know he even played, but here he was; magnificent, years of practice, a master at the instrument. But he had always been brilliant with everything.

         She sipped on the wine, watching him, careful not to make a sound or attract any attention to herself. Still, she was deciding, and she could hear the voice of reason in her head telling her to leave. That she shouldn't be there, that she should leave, and then her heart tugged. Her heart forced her to stay, held her captive, and she could do nothing but sit, sip her wine, and watch.

         And so, she did.

         He was mesmerizing, captivating with his music and his looks, and the little smile on his face as he played. Then the smile whenever he was compliment. She wasn't the only consumed by him, watching the other patrons of the bar enthralled with his performance, or perhaps his looks. Envy coiled inside her, but she scolded herself because he wasn't hers. Not anymore. Though, had he ever been hers in the first place?

         No. Probably not.

         He always belonged to his family, not her. Not some little girl who grew up, didn't age, and waltzed back into his life. It was always about his family, not her.

         She sipped again, placing her glass down, and clapping with the rest of the patrons when he finished his set. Her eyes never left him, seeing him wave in appreciation, standing up and lifting his glass. His eyes fluttered around the crowd, and then they found hers. Her breath stilled when he stayed on her, lifting up his glass and taking a sip. For a moment, she allowed herself to be seen, to feel seen. To remember him, and them together, before her throat became clogged when she thought about the ending.

         She shouldn't be here. This was a mistake, she hadn't thought this through. To really think she could see him, to near him again? To take advantage of his state?

         She had to leave.

         Pushing down the money for the drink, she tugged herself out of her seat, and walked away, not looking back.

✧

         FRANCE HAD ALWAYS been beautiful, though never her favorite. Everyone thought of Paris as the beacon of love, but she always found Florence more lovely, and more romantic. Still, it was beautiful, and even she had to admit why people fell in love with the notion of France.

         Footsteps sounded behind her, and she could hear the creaking under the floorboards but she didn't pay them any mind. She already knew she wasn't alone in her home, and the presence settled in to sit down opposite of her.

         "You were gone last night," she shrugged at his comment, looking at him with a bit of a smirk, as casual and nonchalant as she could manage.

         "So were you."

         "But you were out longer," he countered, "You went to see him, didn't you?"

         She didn't say anything, only looked at him, hoping that shame wasn't appearing on her face. Because she was ashamed. He didn't remember her, he didn't know her, but she knew everything, and she longed to connect with him. But it wasn't right; she would be taking advantage of everything he didn't remember.

         "You did."

         "I didn't say that."

         "You didn't say anything," he reached out across the table, taking her hand, "It's alright, you know?"

         "Magnus, I really don't think it is," she let out a little chuckle, watching the blond man shrug then squeeze her hand. "I shouldn't have come, I don't even know why I did."

         Magnus scoffed at her, "Of course you do. You couldn't resist. Though I don't know why."

         Her nostrils flared at the accusation, shoulders instantly tightening. He continued, barley glancing to notice the change in her stance. "He left you. No, actually, he made you leave! He lied to you, broke your heart more than once, and yet you're still willing to go back to him."

         "It's not like that! He doesn't remember," she insisted, heart beating wildly. Logically, she knew she shouldn't defend him. He had broken her heart, he had left her ruined, he had lied to her and made her leave, but...

         But nothing.

         At least, it should be nothing.

         He shouldn't mean anything to her. Just another fling that went south, and now she had to move on. It had been years, not many in the context of her lifetime, less than a decade, but still years. To a human, it would've been long enough, and they would've moved on and stopped thinking about their lost lover. But she wasn't human, she had lived other five hundred years, and though he should mean nothing because he occupied so little of her lifetime, he was everything.

         For just a moment, a fraction of her lifetime, he had been everything. Now he was nothing, but still there, in the back of her mind, and to some part of her he was still everything.

         "So you say," Magnus countered.

         She shook her head. "He doesn't," this time she had it quietly, "I did go to see him last night, and he saw me, but...but he didn't. See me, I mean. He just saw a stranger."

         Something in her tone made him soften, because suddenly all the arguments Magnus had, all the protests he was going to scream at her, was thrown out of the window. "Oh, Marisol..."

         "I really shouldn't have gone, and I really shouldn't care. You're right. He did make me feel, and I shouldn't care about him, but...for some reason, I do. I still love him, and I fucking hate myself for it," she let out a miserable laugh.

         He took her hand and squeezed it, too tight for a human, and perhaps she should wince more in pain, but her bones weren't as breakable as a mundane. No, she didn't have the strength of a vampire like him, but she was a wolf, and wolves were used to breaking bones – it happened every month. So, the squeezing didn't hurt, it felt comforting. He was comforting.

         Magnus had always been her comfort; he had always been her heart.

         "Don't say that – don't even think it," voice soft but also firm, too terribly firm and serious and dripping with rage that she could ever think that way, "You're my person, Marisol. You're all I got in this world, so don't fucking hate yourself or think you're pathetic. You're not."

         "I'm a fool," she disagreed with a weep, tugging herself away to wipe away forming tears.

         "No, you're not."

         "You clearly think I'm doing something wrong by going to see him," she laughed. It was a bitter, too bitter and she sniffled, turning away, unable to face him.

         Magnus sighed, taking his hand back but moving forward to correct himself. "I think you're going to get hurt again, and I don't want you to. He – all he does is bring pain to you. He did before, he got me killed, got you cursed, and then..."

         She shut her eyes. "You don't have to keep going. I know. I was there."

         "Marisol, I just don't want you getting hurt," he said with an edge of finality, having said his piece and hoping it resonated with her. It did. He always did. He was her person as much as she was his, and they were all they had. Always.

         It had been them, since the moment Ophelia walked out of their lives. From the moment his mother, her sister, decided to go back home and leave Magnus in her care; it had been them. People came and went. They left humans behind, got hurt by vampires, spent some years with witches, but they never stayed. But Magnus stayed with her, and she stayed with him.

         Always.

         "He doesn't even remember me."

         "And you're already hurt by that," he matched her whispered tone, "He didn't see you, you said that yourself."

         "Oh, Magnus..." she couldn't help the soft smile that etched onto her features, looking at her heart in the form of flesh, "No, he didn't, and he doesn't remember. And that hurts, you're right, but what if...what if this is my chance?"

         "Your chance to what?"

         "Have a life with him. I thought I could before, I thought I was building one with him, but I was wrong. Maybe he cared for me, maybe I was just useful, I don't know. But...Marcel told me about him, told me where to find him, told me to take the chance and find him. That has to mean something."

         "Yeah, that they wanna keep him controlled," Magnus scoffed, but his voice didn't carry the same defiance from before. This was more controlled, more subdued, more allowing her to make her own choices. He just had to play devil's advocate a little.

         "Or that he really did care for me," she wanted to believe that, because she loved him, "Marcel, he wouldn't use me like this."

         "Are you sure? Not to knock your choice of friends, but he didn't exactly tell you the truth either," Magnus said in a haughty tone, crossing his arms, full defense for her.

         She gave him a pointed look. "Magnus."

         "I know, I know. Sorry, I can't help it," he raised his hands in defeat, and she laughed, "Just...be careful. If he hurts you, I will ripe off his head. Or tear out his heart. Or his dick. Whichever you prefer."

         That got a full chuckle out of her, letting the laugh fall from her lips as she raised her hand to cover it. It made her feel lighter, as well. "Neither, Magnus, so hold your horses."

         He shrugged, careless and carefree, and she could see the remnants of the child he had been when he died. Seventeen, so young and full of hope, all of these dreams, a girl he was going to marry –

         And then he died. And she got cursed. And suddenly they were going to live for a very long time and hide for just as long, and all they had were each other. He wasn't that same child, but in some moments she could see it. Some things she could never forget. Never wanted to, either.

         "Just – be careful with him, alright?"

         She could admonish him for being so protective, but it would be hypocritical. When you had so little, you fought with your life to protect it. She would do anything for him, so she couldn't ridicule him.

         "I will," she vowed, because that's what she did. She promised to always take care of herself, she would fall for him again, and she would get hurt, but she could always promise to at least try to protect herself against him.

✧

         WITH HER EYES closed, swiftly swaying against the bar, fingers tapping the beat along the wood, she allowed herself to relax. The shoulders which had been tense the first time she came now dropped, and the tension she held long gone. Not long gone – it was still there, and it would always be there in the back of her mind, but she could shove it away for now.

         Her movements stilled when the music stopped, and her eyes opened again as her hands moved to clap. He was ethereal with the piano, and she allowed herself to be the only one who noticed it for a moment. Just a moment, though, because there were so many others around and they were just as mesmerized.

         The whiskey burned along her throat, but she had years of downing it to not let it show on her face. It was a good burn, too. A needed one. Again, he lifted a glass in thanks of his patrons, and again his eyes found hers right before he took a sip and stepped away from the piano. Unlike last time, she didn't move to leave.

         There was a chance. He promised her a chance, a long time ago, and this wasn't what he meant – sure – but it was what they got. And Marcel promised her one, too. Marcel told her to come see him, and Marcel was her friend, he wouldn't steer her wrong. Not this time. Not with this.

         She turned back to the bar, moving a piece of hair behind her ear and ordering another drink. She could smell him in the room, could hear him, even if her eyes couldn't find him. He smelled different, the shampoo had changed as did his cologne, nothing as fancy as before. And he sounded different when he moved, the lack of a suit traded for more normal clothes. He looked odd in them.

         Before, she loved seeing him out of the suit almost as much as she loved seeing him in it. But now it was just another reminder that everything was different, and he didn't remember. He had probably never even warn a suit since he forfeited his memory.

         "Hi," she sucked in a breath, and it too obvious of a move, he could hear it clear as day, but she couldn't stop herself. Turning towards him, she saw the same face, the same eyes, the same smile and teeth...no, the eyes were different. They didn't recognize her; they didn't remember. They were different, and he was different. "I didn't get a chance to introduce myself the other night."

         "It was late, I had work in the morning," she lied, so casual with her words that someone else would believe her, but she was sure her heart gave everything away, "You sound beautiful. How long have you been playing?"

         He shrugged. There was something in his eyes, a more somber note, and she could tell that he didn't remember. She didn't know the answer either. "A few years," she let him have his lie, he let her do the same before.

         "Still, breathtaking," she gave him a smile, "I'm Marisa."

         He didn't remember her, and it probably didn't matter if she used her real name, but what if there was a spark? What if there was a spark, and he remembered, and he didn't want to? What if he screamed at her, threw her away again, and she got hurt?

         This was her chance; her only chance to have him again, in the other lifetime he promised her. Marcel took away his memories because he didn't want them, so she wouldn't do anything to spark them back into place.

         So, she would use this name, and hoped it didn't feel like too large of a lie.

         He smiled at her, and it was the same smile, but it was different. One he had never given her before, or at least hadn't for too long of a time and she forgot. "Marisa," it felt wrong hearing him say it, because it was so close to the truth but too far away, "I'm Elijah."