𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 ⚜️ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

[ The Goodbye ]

CHAPTER 37
[ New Orleans, 2013 ]

Georgia woke to the smell of coffee and the faint clatter of dishes. For a brief, blissful moment, she forgot where she was. But reality came crashing back like a tidal wave—the grief, the loss, the weight of everything she had endured. Her body felt heavy as if even getting out of bed might break her.

"Morning," Marcel's voice called softly from the doorway. He stood there with a tray in his hands—toast, scrambled eggs, and a mug of coffee. There was a softness to his expression that tugged at her heart.

She sat up slowly, pushing the blanket off her legs. "You didn't have to do this," she murmured, her voice hoarse.

"Yeah, well," Marcel shrugged, stepping inside and placing the tray on the nightstand, "Today's going to be tough, and you need your strength."

Georgia nodded mutely, her throat tightening. She wanted to tell him about the dream—or vision—of her mother. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words. She didn't want to put that burden on him, not today. Besides, he had enough to worry about. They were laying Davina to rest, finally giving her peace.

The two of them ate in silence. Marcel didn't push her to talk, something she was thankful for. He watched her carefully, but she knew he wouldn't ask questions. He always seemed to know when to let her process things on her own.

When they finished, Marcel stood and disappeared into the other room. A few minutes later, he returned, carrying a worn cardboard box. He set it on the bed beside her, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I kept some of your things," he admitted. "Figured you might want them one day."

Georgia hesitated before lifting the lid. Inside were fragments of a life that felt like it belonged to someone else—soft sweaters, old notebooks, a pair of boots she had worn almost every day. And beneath it all, the black dress.

Her fingers hovered over the fabric before she finally picked it up. It felt heavier than she remembered. As she pulled the black dress over her shoulders, a strange numbness settled over her. The fabric felt heavy, suffocating, as if it carried the weight of every loss she had ever endured. It had been buried in Marcel's for years, untouched since the day she had worn it to her mother's funeral.

She stared at herself in the mirror, her fingers smoothing the fabric over her waist. The color suited the occasion, but she could already hear Davina's voice in her head—light, teasing, always knowing exactly how to pull her from the darkness. You look like you're heading to some gothic Victorian tragedy. Georgia almost smiled. Almost.

Her fingers tightened against the dress as her thoughts drifted back to the night before. To her mother. To the ghostly presence that had stood before her in the ancestral plane, speaking of fate and vengeance as though Georgia was nothing more than a tool to be wielded.

"Davina would have fought for you."

The words echoed in her skull, rattling inside her like a curse.

Davina had been light, warmth, kindness—even after everything she had been through. Yes, she was impulsive, fiery. She had never been one to back down from a fight, never one to let those who wronged her walk away unscathed. She had sought out revenge before, had wielded her magic like a blade when it mattered, had struck back against those who had tried to take her power, her agency.

But Davina had also known when to let go.

That was the part that set them apart—the part that Georgia struggled to understand. Davina had been wronged more times than Georgia could count, had suffered at the hands of the people who swore they would protect her, had been used, manipulated, discarded. And yet, she had never let that darkness consume her. She had never allowed vengeance to define her.