LITTLE WITCH ▹ THE ORIGINALS

thirty-three; ...klaus?

-•-•-

As soon as Remi stormed into one of the various guest bedrooms, she sat on the bed, her head dangling from shoulders and falling into her clammy hands. What the hell just happened? Did her family just ask to train her into becoming to DeMarco-witch-bot? That couldn't have been it. She must have heard them wrong . . . right?

Her paternal family was supposed to have been something out of a fairytale. They were supposed to be different than the rest of the shitty world and all of it's shitty people. They were supposed to be kind, and smiley, and comforting, and normal - not witches and warlocks whose magic flowed through them like unstable volcanos. That wasn't supposed to be her life. 

Her seventeenth birthday wasn't supposed to be like this, either. But it was, and it is. 

Remi's head met the soft embrace of the feathered pillow, her eyes scanning over the boring eggshell-colored ceiling with a sigh. She had done this to herself; she deserved this. She had left the warm, protective hold of New Orleans and ventured off into the distant hope of finding a fantasy. 'Fairytales don't exist, Remi' she repeated over and over to herself, as her eyes drew heavy and darkness overcame them. 

-•-•-

"Hey, kiddo," the self-proclaimed King of New Orleans spoke softly as he kneeled down in front of an eight-year-old Remi, who had just moved in with her aunt after suffering a devastating loss. "I heard what happened to your mom. I'm sorry I wasn't there to do anything. I'm so sorry."

Remi's eyes flickered up to the man she saw as a friend. "It's okay, Marcel. It's not your fault," her childlike voice said, leaning deeper into the bench that sat in the center of the Quarter.

"How's your aunt treating you, huh?" 

"She's really nice. I can tell she misses my mom, like I do."

Marcel softly sighed, nodding his head. "I miss her, too, Rem. I miss her too."

"Marcel, have you ever lost anyone?" the girl innocently asked, her cheeks glistening in the summer heatwave.

"I have. At some point, everyone has," the man replied, his tone as vague as possible. Discussing loss with an eight-year-old didn't seem like the best idea . . . but Remi didn't feel the same way. She was curious, even in grief. Marcel liked that about the kid.

"Who was it?"

"A girl I loved," Marcel replied gently. "Her hair was so blonde, and gosh, her eyes were so blue I swear you could've fallen into them and started swimming. But that was a long time ago - long before you were even born."

Little Remi diverted her eyes, tracing the lines on the sizzling pavement. "I'm sorry that you lost her. I don't like not having my mom with me."

Marcel nodded yet again, putting a loose arm around the girl. "I know. But you're not alone, kiddo. You have your aunt - and I'll always be right around the corner. New Orleans is your home, and homes are where the heart is."

The two smiled at each other, leaning into each other's sides. 

-•-•-

"I think she's dreaming, grandma. We should just leave her alone and go back to bed, please. Just let her go back to New Orleans in the morning like she said she would," a pleading Daniel spoke, pulling at the hem of his grandmother - Vivian's - sleeve.

"It's too late, my dear. We gave her an option, but she turned it down. The magic is rightfully ours - it's DeMarco blood!" the old woman whisper-shouted. There was a blazing inferno in her eyes.