A/N: Lyrics are from the song Je Realise by Sinik ft. James Blunt. This happens about a month before the events of Chapter 1.

-o-

I'll Carve You a Red River
But Every River Flows Back to the Sea

As the world spins around her she laughs, rolls her eyes
And I feel like I'm falling but it's no surprise

- Out of My League, Stephen Speaks

Marcel Gerard is a king who does not bother to care about love.

"I don't know, man, it just sounds like too much of drag," he kids an old friend once, between sips of bourbon-splashed Sazerac and stout bursts of baritone laughter.

The truth strays not too far from the joke. Each time he gazes at the florid implosion of lights that paint a subtle tint of tea rose over the French Quarter's nighttime sky, each time the electrifying beats of raw music smear a chesire grin across his face as he strides along the neighborhood's bustling streets, each time he breathes in the crisp, lime-tinged air that defines the eternal festivity which he calls his kingdom, he can't help but feel that life is way too good to waste by wallowing in pointless relationship drama.

So Marcel, he parties, he flirts and damn he fucks, but he does not fall in love.

And then Caroline Forbes came waltzing into New Orleans.

-o-

The king sees – hears – his queen for the first time one brisk Tuesday night in the last days of golden September. He finds himself at Niccolo's, a quaint little bar west of the neighborhood, for the want of a glass of good old Southern mash that only the bar owner's charming grandmother knows how to make. He would have taken his newly-returned mentor/savior/sire with him - the man enjoys Southern mash as much as Marcel does - but Klaus seemed uncharacteristically distracted, arguing on the phone with some Stefan guy.

Up the stage at the other end of the bar, a handsome young man with stunning eyes of olive green (a visiting student, he supposes) weaves subdued verses of poignant francais into the beads of liquid silver that trickle into the air as his American friend obliges the piano, fingers skimming over the clavier of coal and ivory like timid rain over Mont Saint-Michel. Marcel isn't familiar with the song, but he catches a handful of paroles that makes his lips curl into an amused smile.

J'ai compris que l'être humain ne fait rien d'autres que saigner
[I've realized that human beings do nothing but bleed]

Mais n'ayait crainte puisque la mort n'est que la suite de la vie
[But do not fear, because death is just a continuation of life]

She arrives like the first draft of fall, subtle and quiet, almost unseen but distinctly felt. In a lithe dress of lace and blended cotton, she's a pristine picture of the Rivendell king's daughter treading the marblestone steps of her father's kingdom as she makes her way up the platform in but four graceful strides. By the time the young man realizes that he has company, she's claimed a seat beside him, the spare microphone ensconced in her hand.

She looks at the young man and affords him a small smile as she takes the vocal baton unto her lips and sings the next line.

"Here, I swear – forever is just a minute to me."

The green-eyed Frenchman smiles back at her, a gesture of kind acceptance. His gaze does not leave her as she mouths the song's continuation, her soft mezzo-soprano melding sublimely with his rounded alto.

"And I'll take everything -"

"Je prendrais tout ce qui à prendre, les joies et les larmes."

"- in this life -"

"Dans cette vie."

"I'll join everyone -"

"Je rejoindrai tout le monde,"

"- and understand, 'cause all men die… 'cause all men die."

"Car tous les hommes meurent, car tous les hommes meurent."

And Marcel shakes his head, because despite the heart-breaking poignancy that the pair evoke, it's all just a beautiful illusion. From where he sits, the silence of the girl's unbeating heart is deafening, and the smile that lights up her innocent face does little to conceal the lurid lack of mortality that damns her to the darkness of eternal undeath.

The Frenchman and his beauty are met with resonant applause when the song ends. He offers her his hand as they descend from the stage; she accepts it with a timid beam and you could see the genuinely overjoyed expression that graces the man's features as they leave the bar, as if he's found the love of his life.

Marcel takes another swig of bourbon as he watches them walk away. There's something in the girl's blue eyes that makes him think she's one of those rare vampires who though turned could not, or choose not to, let go of their humanity. The story is almost always the same: they loved but were not loved as humans, and so they love hoping that they too will finally be loved now that they're vampires.

Frankly speaking, how stupid is that?

[The king finds out just how wrong he is the next morning when a French exchange student's mangled body is discovered in an alley near Rue St-Gerard.]

-o-

"Hey, hey, what's gotten the Hybrid's feathers all ruffled up?"

Klaus shakes his head, feigning an arrogant smirk as Marcel fixes a glass of scotch in front of him. It's been two days since Stefan called, forty eight hours since Caroline turned her humanity off, two thousand eight hundred eighty minutes since she was last seen.

Thrice he's caught himself one fucking millimeter away from getting into his car and driving fourteen glorious hours back to Virginia, and once he actually makes it to the Seventh Ward before rubbing his temples and turning back. Caroline is Caroline, but Klaus is in the middle of a war, his plate full with annoying siblings, even more annoying witches, still more annoying Marcel-bitch vampires and... though this isn't that annoying, his unborn child. He can't leave New Orleans, it's not the smart thing to do - and Niklaus Mikaelson is never stupid.

[Never stupid. Just horny, unaware that hybrids can procreate with werewolves, and so dazed by the news of fatherhood that he totally forgot the definition of 'immortal'.]

And yet...

"I should ask you the same thing." he replies, taking a careless sip of the blessed golden liquid his protege brought, in the heroic effort to act like there's nothing wrong. "Your nightwalkers look snit and so do you. Trouble with the wolves?"

"Like they stand a chance. No, there's a new kid on the block who obviously doesn't know about the rules. Messy eater, didn't clean up, press got to the body before my daywalkers did."

Klaus snorts. "Your daywalkers are running sloppy. You'll want to tighten the reins."

"Well, your turn." Marcel says, grining. "Is it your siblings? That thing with Jane Anne? Whatever that is, since you never told me."

"And now I'll never know because some murder-happy bloke slit her throat."

"Oh come on, Klaus, don't dodge the question. Is it a girl?"

Marcel means it as a joke – yeah, throw some banal human line at one of the most powerful beings on earth, and the one who's always said that love is a vampire's greatest weakness at that. Which is why he's honestly rendered speechless when he sees the subtlest hint of a twitch in Klaus' eye.

The Hybrid shakes his head again, proceeding to empty his glass of scotch before rising from his seat. "You'll have to excuse me. I must make sure my lovely sister doesn't burn the house, she's throwing tantrums over being taken away from that bloody Donovan boy."

The protege fakes a laugh, but his brown eyes trail his sire as Klaus heads out of the bar.

"I'll be damned," Marcel says to no one in particular, raising another glass of scotch unto his lips. So, someone got to the bastard after all.

He can't be wrong. There is a girl, someplace, somewhere – and Niklaus Mikaelson is in love with her.

-o-

The king meets his queen for the first time two days into cobalt October. He's in a club downtown throwing a party for his birthday boy Diego, (73 years old, good for him) and is on his seventh shot of AK47 when he catches an unmistakable glimpse of wheat-blonde waves and pools of tourmaline blue.

He's still pissed about the mess she made a few days ago, but Marcel finds himself smirking inwardly as his eyes devour his mystery girl's enthralling appearance. Tonight, in a tight black shift dress that all but flaunts her ravishing form – milk-splashed legs, undulating hips, oh-so-pert breasts - for everyone to crave, you'd never have thought that she was the same girl at Niccolo's, that chaste elven princess who could bring even Legolas Thranduilon down to his knees with her sweet song.

She makes her way to the bar counter, and there's at least four different guys who've offered to buy her a drink before she can even set her purse down. The party goes on around Marcel, a wanton mess of alcohol-smashed bodies dancing to the beat of the many flashing lights and Rihanna's seductive drawls of "I've been everywhere, man, looking for you babe, looking for you babe, searching for you babe", and his relatively good mood makes him decide to let her have some fun before he rips out her heart by night-end.

[Anyone who breaks the rules dies, remember?]

He eases his head back onto the leather lounge, observing how she engages the men around her. It's almost like watching Magnus Carlsen plays chess; recklessly refined, close enough but unobtainable. If Marcel didn't know better, he'd miss that calculating look in her eyes before she gives some quaff-haired, full sleeve-inked hipster guy a telling glance from bashfully lowered lashes.

The guy reads into what she wants him to read and takes a step closer to whisper something in her ear. She smiles at him meaningfully before rising from her seat and heading for the exit, with her man hot on her heels.

Marcel stands up and excuses himself from the party. None of the boys say a word when he mutters something about taking care of a business with someone who needs a personal touch.

-o-

He leaves just seconds away after they did, but by the time he gets to the back alley, discount Adam Levine is nowhere to be found. (Diego will find him at the end of the alley tomorrow – well what's left of him, at least.)

Instead, he finds himself gazing at a pair of hungry, ice-blue eyes.

"You're Marcel."

It's not a question.

"And you are?"

"Caroline."

He smirks. He gets it now – and he's actually amused. His ire dissipates into intrigue as he realizes she knew exactly what she was doing the entire time.

He watches her lift a hand to tuck her hair back as her lips slowly curl into a mysterious smile. She lowers her eyes, and his gaze travels with hers to her ample bossom. She's completely relaxed – breaths slow and unhurried, the rise and fall of her chest inviting.

[Goddamn, she knows what she can do and she knows what she's doing and even he knows what she's doing – but he can't take his eyes off of her and he can't stop thinking about how sweet she would taste.]

He lets her come up to him. Lets her run her hand across his chest [feels so warm], lets her lips graze his ear [even warmer] before he smirks and turns his head to catch her lips with his [sweet, sweet Caroline].

"We're gonna have so much fun."

-o-

A/N:

1. If you read Chapter 1 five years ago when I posted it and you're still here and just read Chapter 2 now, I just want to say thank you for being here and sharing this moment with me.

Personally, it's a really emotional thing for me to be posting this, because even though it's short and unfinished and it's not even new writing from me – I really believe that this chapter is the best thing I've ever written. It's rare for me not to be critical of the things I write, but nothing I have written has made me happier so far. Part of me is sad that I haven't gotten around to actually finish it, but I know in my heart that there's time for everything, including finishing the stories I wrote nearly a decade ago. :)