◤ 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊: ❛ bigoras live on ❜ ◢

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LIFE IN EUROPE VARIED GREATLY FROM AMERICA. For the past three decades, she hadn't touched Europe – spending her time moving from the states, staying in Canada for a year or two, visiting Japan. For centuries, she lived in Europe without venturing, staying in the comfort of what she knew until America gained independence and she, along with Magnus, decided to venture out into the unknown.

         But in the past decade, America had been a lonely pursuit. Leaving New Orleans, she traveled far, far away from anything that could remind her of the city. She settled in Washington for a time, taking solace in the woods and the dreariness that recognized her heartbroken state. Then she moved to Maine, Florida, and finally New York where Marcel found her.

         America was for the wandering, loveless soul and France was for her heart. Trusting Elijah was a hardship she didn't think she would face. This Elijah was kind, not a deceitful bone in his body, who honestly loved her with all his heart. He backed off when she flinched at his touch, he recognized the patterns of what not to say because it reminded her of something, and he never lied to her.

         The love was not without guilt. Every day, she looked at the man she loved knowing that in a second it could all end. Perhaps his family would return, perhaps he would move on from her, perhaps a duty would send him away – she loved him, but he wasn't hers.

         Still, she fell for him more than she thought possible. She settled; Magnus helped her procure a job at a local art gallery for her to administrate. She loved her work and the art that hung on her walls. Elijah often visited her when she had a new exhibit, the same way she visited him at the same bar, playing the same piano melodies.

         "Do you ever tire of your work?" she asked him one night, later than she should stay up, caressing his face as she brushed the hair out of it.

         His eyes were always devoted solely on her. She knew in part because he didn't have many people to devote himself to now. No large family, no Klaus who demanded his attention, just her and the few people in France.

         "No," he kissed her, "I have forever to do what I want, and right now I want to play the piano and live with you."

         It was no surprise when he asked her to move in. Or, for them to find an apartment together. A year and a half after finding Elijah again, and she shared his bed again every night, like she used to do in another lifetime.

         A sense of permanency washed over her as she signed the lease with him. Buying furniture and having people move it, creating a home together. There was a spare room for Magnus that she didn't even have to insist on; he accepted it like every part of her without question. She came home to him every day, cooking dinner and sharing wine, watching TV and spending time with him.

         It was horribly domestic, horribly permanent.

         (And then a voice would whisper in the back of her mind that it wasn't permanent. He wasn't hers to keep, and one day the life they built together would go crumbling when he remembered his family and his duty, going to be Klaus' secondhand again.)

         Regardless, she did build a life with him. Carlotta Monet, who the gallery employed three months after she moved in with Elijah, noticed this as well. Looking between Elijah and Marisol as he left her to look around the gallery, she turned that keen on fully on her.

         "You're really in love with him," she noted. Carlotta was blunt, but the way she said her words came with layers, like she questioned all of Marisol's actions.

         "Yes."

         The confirmation came without hesitation. She loved Elijah with her entire heart; he was her soul. Not her heart, that beat every day for Magnus, but he encompassed her soul. Her every minute, her humanity and her darkness, how she had grown and lived, survived and loved. Her being.

         Carlotta looked her up and down. "He's really in love with you too," she continued, "But you're quite hesitant about him in a way that he's not with you."

         Marisol stood straighter, clenching down on her jaw. "I don't think it's your place to question my relationship."

         "I'm not," Carlotta shrugged casually, "I'm just observing."

         Carlotta left her, going around to shake hands with people and increase relationships, but her words struck a cord in Marisol. You're hesitant about him in a way he's not with you.

         Oh, what did Carlotta know?

         Relaying the words to Magnus only earned her a shrug. "She's right," Magnus took his side, "But you have good reason to be hesitant."

         "I love him, Magnus."

         "Yes, we all know that," he rolled his eyes, "But that's not the point. I know I wasn't there – Carlotta definitely wasn't – but I remember what you were like after. You were a wreak."

         She scoffed. "Well excuse me, I just had my heart broken."

         "No one's blaming you."

         She looked out at the open park. Families playing together, some boys throwing a ball around. She couldn't refute Magnus, nor could she Carlotta. She was a wreak after Elijah told her to leave, believing that Hope was dead and Elijah didn't love her.

         Perhaps he hadn't then, though he claimed to now. He whispered dreams of another lifetime, and this was it – their second chance – but what if it wasn't? What if this was all another lie?

         "I want to trust him," the rest of her confession remained silent but known; but I don't. "He's not the same person. Last time I devoted myself to him knowing what he did the first time we met. I loved him despite the fact he would have let Klaus sacrifice me five-hundred years ago, yet I can't this time."

         Magnus threw an arm around her. If anything, she always knew she could count on Magnus to be there for her. He was her heart, after all.

         "He is different, and he's good."

         Marisol laughed. "You don't trust him either."

         "I don't trust any man you get with. But no, I don't. We all know how this is going to end."

         She did, but then Elijah kissed her, breaking apart and staring at her like she was the world and nothing existed outside of her. He said I love you first in the glittering moonlight near the river, holding her face in his hands, smiling so brightly when she returned the three words.

         And it felt like it would never end, like she could stay in those moments forever.

         "So how did you and Elijah meet?" Carlotta asked one day on their lunch break, sipping her water.

         She smiled, remembering the first time she locked eyes with him. Her reaching for a locket out of her price range, the mesmerized look in his eyes. Walking through the market with him, not knowing at the time he was a lord. The locket and a dress showing up at her door, dancing with him at the ball. It felt like a dream, the beginning of her fairy tale. It was supposed to be that, anyway; her fairy tale ending, a lord who loved her enough to take her and Magnus in.

         But she didn't say any of that. That was for her to remember, and him to forget.

         "We met at the bar Elijah works at. He plays the piano there."

         "A musician," Carlotta mused, "You know what they say about pianist's fingers..."

         Marisol rolled her eyes, though she gave the remark a little chuckle. Carlotta never failed to amuse her, even if sometimes her uncanny ability to notice everything unnerved her. But sometimes, in the right light, or when Carlotta smiled a certain way, the young girl reminded her of Circe.

         "You're not from France, are you?" Marisol asked her, noticing the way Carlotta spoke that while she was fluent, she wasn't native – French was not her first language.

         Carlotta shook her head. "No, I'm from Italy originally. I moved here looking for some family."

         "Found them yet?"

         The young girl stared at her for a second before shaking her head. "Not yet. My birth mother gave me up. Closed adoption, but I found her name anyway, though people are surprisingly hard to find."

         "I wish you the best of luck then."

         Marisol never gave much thought to the children that Circe and Ophelia had, outside of Magnus. Her nephew, though she was sure he counted more as a son since she raised him, was her world for the longest time. She existed solely for him until he became a vampire and they braved the world as equals; aiding each other and navigating immortality.

         Still, she knew her sister had children, they had to have. Women not bearing children at the time was a rarity, and their magic ensured the continued existence of the bloodline. Bigoras live on, her mother used to say.

         And they did. Centuries gone from the last time she saw her mother, and yet she was still standing. Marisol and Magnus Bigora; the remaining duo.

         That was her family. Her and Magnus against the world. She never returned to her old village after Ophelia revived Magnus and cursed her, there was never a point. She couldn't return, and going there after her family passed was too hard to consider. The offspring of her sisters' didn't occupy space in her mind.

         "Do you think you have a family out there?" she asked Elijah that night, twirling a piece of hair in her fingers. He turned to face her, propping himself up so he was looking down at the laying Marisol.

         "Well, I didn't start existing from nowhere."

         She lazily slapped his face, not that it made an impact. He smiled at her attempt, bending down to kiss her.

         "If you're asking if I think about them," he kissed her neck, "No, they aren't a common thought. I'm happy with my life, and if I hadn't lost my memories, I never would have met you, now would I?"

         "No, I guess not."

         Her insides burned every time she lied to him, aching to refute him, to tell him the truth; that they knew each other before, that she had loved him forever, and this wasn't their first attempt at a relationship.

         The most successful one, yes, but not the first.

         "Hey," he whispered, catching her chin with his fingers, turning her to look at him. "I love you."

         It was an assurance more than an admittance. I love you, I'm not going to leave you, I'm yours. Sincerity was synonymous with Elijah, not that it had always been.

         "I love you, too."