✮° she was made of the stars and constellations,
beautiful and elegant,
until someone stole it away from her.
and she was determined to steal it back. ✮°
cover by the wonderful @mariiwritez
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PARIS, THE PRESENT.
Isolde Mikaelson had a knack for avoiding her problems. She could outrun them like no one else, change her alias or address at the drop of a hat; changing identities was as easy as changing shoes, with the help of a little compulsion. Compelling someone for a rental car, or even a free first class flight, was nothing. She barely had any ends to tie up, relationships an overwhelming hassle and friendships useless. She learned the hard way that no one could be trusted, not even the boy you helped raise.
Paris was the only place she had stayed for longer than a couple months. There was an air of calm there, with uneven cobblestone streets and the scent of freshly baked pastries wafting through the air in the morning. She loved waking up with the sun shining through the window of her small studio apartment. The peace she found in Paris was almost enough to escape the rancid smell of rotting flesh that seemed to permanently invade her nose, the moans of other vampires, all crying out for salvation they were never going to get. She was trapped in darkness for decades, her only company the worms that tried to find solace in her bones. Isolde couldn't forget the constant feeling of helplessness that consumed her, nor the way vervain ropes burned her arms after hours of torture. There were scars that wrapped around her arms, deep and ugly - some still an angry red, a sigil that her immortal body could not wash away. How cruel it was, for the symbol of her loathsome family to be carved into her back?
Marcellus was as slimy as a sniveling snake, and she couldn't believe Rebekah fell in love with him. Pulling aside the cream curtain printed with irises, and opening her bedroom window, Isolde scoffed, the sound echoing loudly into the empty apartment. She couldn't believe her family did a lot of things, like leave her to rot in the dark for eighty years.
Isolde tried her hardest to rid herself of any resemblance to her siblings. She dyed her blonde curls a dark brown, and forced herself to speak with an American accent. Sometimes it would slip, especially when she would pronounce certain words. And often, when the nightmares would resurface and horrors became tangible, she would consider calling her sister, her fear outweighing her spite. But then the pain of Rebekah's abandonment would shatter any of Isolde's contemplations of reconciliation.
No, she reminded herself, shaking her head to dispel the resurfacing memories of that god-forsaken prison. Like cobwebs you've cleared away on a warm spring day, the images of dark brick and the sound of taunting laughter falling harmlessly into the deep recesses of her mind. My siblings haven't done anything to earn my trust. None of them have apologized for leaving me.
One cursory glance outside of the window broadcasted dark, thunderous clouds and street vendors shouted at one another angrily in French. A cool, damp breeze ran up her arm and down her back, causing her to shiver and her arm hairs to bristle. It smells like rain.
