Einar's Diary – Episode 4-2 (Paid-Members)

Words Count: 4105

A/N: Do you guys get high on cold meds? I’ve been fucking floating these past two days and it feels so weird. Never felt this before. I mean, I’ve heard stories, but it’s weird…

New Orleans have quite the complex society of Covens, many of which practice Ancestral Magic. It’s their most powerful Sword; their impenetrable Shield and simultaneously their unbreakable Chains. It’s why no matter how difficult Life gets for them; how… Stacked the odds are against them, they refuse to leave the City. Even after the recent Witch Hunt just two years ago, caused by none other than my oh-so noble brother, they cling to New Orleans.

If Magic’s a clutch, then Ancestral Magic’s an addiction.

I hadn’t thought it possible, but from what I’ve observed, the Covens here care about the opinions of a bunch of mummified carcasses than they do Reality. I don’t blame them, for there are Wisdom to learn from one’s elders, but one must also acknowledge the changing Time.

It’s why Witches on the Other Side rarely interact with their Lineages, for most still believe it’s unnatural for the Dead to mingle with the Living, which explains why they abhor Vampires so much… Not the Ancestors of New Orleans… No, they’re Kings and Queens in all but name, thanks to the Spell borrowed from Qetsiyah and modified by the First Generation that settled here.

The Covens listen to their counsels more than they do reason, thus in order to buy them out, I will have to talk with the Ancestors first.

There are many Covens, the biggest and undoubtedly most powerful happens to be the French Quarter Coven, whose Ancestral Plane- a fancy term for graveyard- is at the heart of the Quarter. Instead of throwing on [Muffle], and [Concealment] to stay hidden, which would be the equivalent of teaching fish how to swim, I throw on my hood, confidently waltzing into the Quarter and towards where it most reeks of Death.

Everywhere I look, I see someone giving me a scared glance and when I return it, they’d turn away, fearful of meeting my eyes, ‘It seems my hypothesis is correct…’

Either that, or my Stone Mask sticks out too much, but I doubt it. Witches mingle with us Monstrosities- Vampires and Werewolves on a daily basis, they won’t get spooked because of a simple Magical Artifact. Then again, they can just be normal humans, but I have reasons to believe the opposite. For one: The pang in my chest, one that’s completely different from the hunger for blood Vampirism usually makes me feel,

And two: The [Memetic Effect] of the Stone Mask which is designed to make me extremely forgettable to your average human.

If they’re finding my appearance weird, then there are only two possibilities: A) My Artifact’s not doing its job, or B) They’re Supernatural… They have heartbeats, so they can’t be Vamps, while Werewolves, the few I have seen so far at least, all have increased heartrate.

Plus, their scent is pretty telling…

The level of hygiene varies amongst those ‘furries’, but the scent of the soils they all seem to emanate cannot be mistaken. I continue on my way, undeterred by the commotion I have inadvertently caused, until a man steps forth to block my path.

“Vampire… You have some nerves to strut into our territory.”

His glare bores into my torso.

“What business do you have? And what’s with the Mask?”

I tilt, amused by his bravado. “Nunya…”

“Nunya?” The Warlock repeats in clear confusion and I, taking pity on the poor sod, decide to elaborate, “Nunya-fucking-business. My offer is to your Ancestors’ ears, and theirs alone. You aren’t qualified to make the decision here.” His nose scrunches up in anger, and an onslaught of pain suddenly hits me.

Thankfully, I’ve had 9 Centuries to build up a decent pain-tolerance. Compared to the torture I endured in that time, a mere [Aneurysm] Spell is nothing.

I pretend to clutch my head, purposefully playing up the part. The Warlock’s smile ever-so slightly widens- it’s a sadistic and twisted and vengeful thing. I groan one last time, then lift my head up, revealing a smile that he can’t see. “Wha- What?!” My fingers wrap around his neck in a vice-grip, and I slam him against the wall. “Oh, little Warlock, I’ve been around for a long, long time. You think this is enough to put me out of commission, really?”

His hands clumsily claw at my forearm in a desperate bid to pry it off, breaking the Spell. As you may have guessed, it’s rather difficult to control Magic when you’re getting choked out. Some Witches and Warlocks can ignore it, just as some men and women can operate while in pain, but those are few and far in-between…

Very few and far, in fact.

The other Witches immediately surround us, but before they do, my hand emanates a red glow. “He- Heretic!” I tilt my head at the term, clicking my tongue as I test the Title. “Heretic… Heretic… I like that.” I really like that, actually. It has more personality than Vampire. “I assume that’s the term used to refer to Siphoners that become Vampires?”

The other Witches and Warlocks hurriedly back away, as if afraid I’ll suck them dry, and not in a sexual, nor murderous way.

“But you got one little detail wrong–”

If the Mikaelsons are the Originals, then I should be the Original Heretic. It has a nice ring to it, does it not? I won’t be able to use the Title though, at least not without making my identity obvious.

Heaven’s Quintessence practically preens behind us, yet still stays vigilant in case the Covens try something, and a few do. Two start chanting, and are subsequently lifted off the ground by my Stand, their throats clutched and constricted. “What’s happening?!” One asks- yells more like- in horror. “Just a little Spell I invented–”

I subtly display a smirk, hidden from their view, yet made perceptible still through the eye holes sculpted into the Stone Mask which happen to unveil my eyes.

“What is it that you want, Heretic?!”

An elderly Witch hisses.

Heaven’s Quintessence lowers the two Witches, and I also release the Warlock just as he starts blacking out. “Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain!” My Stand whirls to make a face at the meme, but I ignore him.

“Who in the Hell is Dormammu?”

Even the Witch looks genuinely confused.

“No one of consequence…” I think?

“Did I just test Murphy?”

Heaven’ Quintessence sends me a look that seems to scream, ‘WHAT DO YOU THINK?!’

“Who’s Murphy?!”

I shake my head, and reply.

"None of your concern. Here's the thing: I'm here to parley on behalf of our… Mutual friend- one Marcellus Gerard. You all remember him, right?" I lower my hand, palm down, keeping it at eye-level. "Around this height, with brown skin and eyes, used to follow Klaus Mikaelson like a loyal puppy? Oh, and I heard there were rumors about him being in a relationship with the Mikaelson's only sister."

“You speak for the Hybrid’s progeny?”

The Witches and Warlocks visibly relax at that.

"Well, let me be clear: I speak for myself, and myself alone. I just happen to think Marcellus makes for a fine Leader for the Vamps, but that won’t happen until I have managed to convince your consecrated Ancestors… Don't worry, I'm here with peaceful intentions, but if things get out of hand... You might not like the outcome." I say, my tone becoming slightly more assertive and… Haughty, one may say.

“You dare threaten us in our own territory?!”

“That wasn’t a threat, Witch. I was merely stating facts.”

I reply calmly. “Even if you can put me down somehow, it won’t be without casualties.”

I’m not insane enough to think I’m invincible, because I’m not, but if I wanted to reduce their number, it’s not a matter of ‘if’, but ‘how many’. Less Witches and Warlocks equal less Power. “Ancestral Magic requires frequent upkeep via Rituals, I hear? Rituals that take as many as… What, over a hundred Witches and Warlocks at a time, or your Ancestors’ ability will diminish, I hear?”

Fists clench, they practically radiate anger, but none denies it; they cannot.

Number is Power, and this is no less true for Witches and Warlocks. I dare argue it’s even truer, for while there are the exceptions to the rule: Witches and Warlocks whose sheer Might rivals that of an entire Coven or multiple exist, but they are scarce- 1 out of 1,000,000,000… Ayana herself dared not claim to be one such Witches; not even Esther who is now known to Magicals worldwide as the Original Witch can be considered one.

I’m talking about people who can affect the Weather itself; who may as well be Divine. Perhaps that’s where the Myths and Legends about Gods originated. “I am curious, what do you think will happen if the French Quarter lost half of their number? Who will take over your corner of New Orleans, I wonder? The other Covens, perhaps?” I pace around the Witches and Warlocks, move at speed that leaves them whirling.

“Or maybe it’ll be the Werewolves who move first to replace you… Their Crime Families have been restless lately.” I turn around, arms spread non-threateningly. Carrots and sticks- the tried-and-true method. After weighing the pros and cons, a Witch finally relents. “Enough! Disperse, I’ll bring him to the Ancestors…”

“But–”

One protests, but is hushed into silence by the elderly woman.

The areas around her eyes are wrinkled and seem to sag, each line carved in her face seems to echo a decade of experiences. “You wish to speak to the Ancestors, right?” I bob my head affirmatively, “Then follow me.” She gestures, moving deeper in the Quarter. There is a 50/50 chance this is a trap, but how can one get the tiger cub without entering the lair? “Lead the way, then…”

We trudge through the filthy streets, littered with trash and human excrements, until the Consecrated Land- a name the Witches used for the graveyard where their Ancestors are put to rest.

The Witch stops at the dilapidated gate, tilting her head as if telling me to enter. “The Ancestors are waiting for you inside, Heretic.”

I bob my head, eyes scanning the eerie clearing in search of sign. If they attempt to trap me, I can always siphon out the Mana, or have Heaven’s Quintessence punch a hole in whichever Barrier they erect, but Magic’s not concrete. It is water. If I get careless, I will get drowned and the joke will be on me. Original Heretic or not, history is written by the winner.

In the event of my defeat, the Ancestors might seize the opportunity to showcase their Magic to the world, and frankly, it wouldn't be entirely unjustified…

Eventually, someone stronger will then come to challenge them, and so the cycle repeats endlessly.

After all, nothing remains eternal- Empires crumble, even the Universe itself will eventually fade to nothingness, and from what I've heard, even the Mikaelsons have faced defeat many a times. As the Chinese proverb goes, ‘30 years East, 30 years West’. That is why many have sought out Immortality, for as long as there is life, there’s hope… Hope to turn things around. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

I call teasingly, and something shoots towards me, telekinetically thrown. “Now, that’s uncalled for…”

“Original Heretic–”

A voice whispers, female.

“There were rumors, but–”

The next is distinctively male.

“We thought you a mere Myth.” In perfect unison, countless ghostly apparitions surround me, their ethereal forms dancing and gliding through the air.

The person I once was would have trembled with fear in a situation like this, but as an Original Heretic, I am now merely… Cautious, though no more than your average Vampire is against an average Witch or Warlock. “You know of me?”

A Witch nods. “Unfortunately, only through words of mouth… As the story goes, Mikael adopted a child of a Witch near his house- one of the first known Siphoner, and granted him Immortality, which did not take. It took centuries for a second Heretic to be born out of fear they’d suffer the same fate.”

Did I get mythicized? That’s… Kinda cool, actually.

“What is it you desire of us?”

A Warlock questions.

And I reply, “I want the same thing the Mikaelsons did: Your… Allegiance.”

“I hope you’re not expecting us to give you it for free.”

“’Course not!”

Nothing’s ever free, after all. “I offer you what the Mikaelsons did: Protection and Order.”

“Do we look like we lack Protection?”

Dozens more Apparitions appear, their stances threatening.

“Maybe not, but it’s always better to have friends in high places.”

“Are you?”

I hum at his response.

“In high places, I mean?”

“I will be.”

I reply confidently.

If the Mikaelsons could do it, I can too. “So all you have is an empty promise, and nothing of substances…”

“Call it an investment. I’m an Original who can use Magic, I’d say it is more than fair.” The Warlock speaks no more, so I turn to the rest. “What about you guys? C’mon, don’t be shy.”

“What’s to stop us from turning you to the Mikaelsons? I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to hear their long-lost adopted brother’s alive.” I smile, having prepared for this question already. “How did things turn out the last time they promised to protect you again? That’s right, Elijah turned you all into scapegoats, didn’t he? He betrayed you at a moment’s notice in spite of everything you’ve done for them.

Could’ve let the Werewolves take the fall…”

“And you’ll be different how?”

“Firstly,” I declare, raising a pointed finger, “I have a grievance to address with the Originals. And secondly, I hold an intense disdain for those bastards who probably engage in self-licking. Marcel shares this sentiment, which is why I entrust him to serve as my Regent.”

“All I’m hearing is we’ll have to wage War on your behalf.”

“War’s already at your door…” I counter, eyebrow raised. “Now that the Mikaelsons have fled, it will not take much longer until complete anarchy seizes New Orleans. Even the humans are sensing the tension. All the Factions are merely waiting to build up their Power… The question is: Who will the Covens ally themselves with? The Werewolves who’re just as likely to bite your throats out; Humans with their superstitions, both of whom cannot replenish their number easily, or us Vampires.”

“You claim the Werewolves are liable to bite our throats out, but are Vampires not the same? Those mutts only lose themselves to their bloodthirsty nature once a month, while you Vampires drink every day; every week, and will kill for the smallest perceived slight.”

“Perhaps…”

No point denying what’s true.

“But you have yet to consider two things: 1) The Werewolves don’t make reliable allies. They cannot control their Transformation; so their Power’s limited–”

Compared to the Enhancements granted by Vampirism, Werewolves are pretty pathetic. “2) You all have a leverage against the Vampires. Any of you cares to guess what it is?”

“Daylight rings…”

One mutters, and I snap my fingers. “Bingo.”

The Apparitions suddenly vanish, but I don’t panic. I’ve given them enough to think about, all that’s left is to wait, thus I do just that: Wait; rest my back against the gravestone, crossing my arms while they discuss things at their own pace.

After about ten minutes, they return- carrying with them all smiles. “Heretic… We’ve decided to support young Marcellus, but there’re a few issues we’re gonna have to iron out.”

“Shoot.”

“Firstly, we’ll not help you with your vendetta against the Mikaelsons. That is between you and them. We cannot risk that.”

Disappointing… But understandable. “Secondly, we’ll help, but we expect Marcel and his goons to do the same.”

“Which’s fair.” I nod.

“Thirdly, while we do agree to adhere to his laws within, it is of great importance that you and Marcellus respect our independence and territorial boundaries. We will do the same for you.”

The Consecrated echo in unison, their faces giddy. “As long as you don’t betray us, I couldn’t care less what you do with your lives. You’ll have to figure out the specifics with Marcel, I’m merely here as a representative. Shall we shake on it?” The Consecrated Spirits look at me like I’m an idiot. “We’re Spirits…”

“Ah!”

I scratch the back of my head, a tad bit embarrassed. “…”

“…”

“Excuse me.”

I blitz away, exiting the gate just in time to hear a Witch mumbles.

“That’s the Original Heretic?”

A second one joins in the discussion.

“He didn’t look reliable at all…”

— Einar’s Diary —


“– Margaret, things are working out rather well over here.” I start, only to grumble in irritation as my thoughts blank. Crumpling the piece of paper, I throw it in the trash bin and begin the cycle again. “– Margaret, if you’re reading this, I’m~”

“Am I writing my fucking Will or what?” Heaven’s Quintessence guffaws behind me, palm slapped over his mouth as if he can hide anything from me to begin with. “Margaret, how is Alaya~”

Why is the letter addressing Margaret if the first person I’m asking about is Alaya?

“By Odin’s– Why’s this so bloody difficult?!”

I’m not like this, usually, I swear! Have never had issue with conversations before, at least prior to meeting her. Hel, I was smoother when I was hitting on Tatia! “Maybe it's because I did not have feelings for Tatia back then?”

It was never about love between us in the beginning, not even close. I found her when both of us were vulnerable, trying to heal each other… Kind of like with Margaret… “Dammit. Why are feelings so difficult?” Every time it gets involved, things get messy without a doubt.

“Fuck this.” I breath out an angry sigh. “Let’s just wing it.”

By the time I am putting in the finishing touches, the first blinding ray has made itself known, piercing through the blinds as I rub my eyes wearily. “I have to visit the Post Office…”

Thankfully, the Mikaelsons seemed to be in quite the hurry, thus they never had the time to liquefy all of their assets, subsequently leaving Marcellus with a huge amount, enough for us to live for a Century or two even if we’re smart about it. I put a stack of 100 in the envelope, a smile on my lips as I pack everything up and make my way to the exit. I have… Appropriated an abandoned house somewhere off the West region of New Orleans.

Apparently, this place used to be bustling until… Well, the Mikaelsons happened, or rather Mikael who, in his murderous path, went to burn half the Region down, even destroying the, from what I’ve heard, pretty Opera House situated here. The remains still stand, a symbol of my siblings’ usurped Kingship. With people facing up and down the street, it’s unfortunate but I can’t just blitz towards Post Office.

Fast as I am, it’s simply impossible to do so without revealing myself to the public, hence I settle for walking. As I trudge down the street, the Sky suddenly darkens, flashing ominously. “Is Thor getting pissed-drunk again?”

I drawl, whispering a Chant to keep myself from getting wet just as a woman stumbles into me. A flash of auburn catches my eyes- auburn accompanied with an… Earthly scent and. “A Werewolf?” And the young woman’s outfit, it’s not from this time, literally. How do I know this? For one, the low v-cut of her black t-shirt, or the red jacket callously wrapped around the young woman’s shoulders, or perhaps it is the pair of jeans she’s wearing.

It takes everything in me to stop myself from blurting out questions such as: ‘Are you a time-traveler? Which year did you come from? Is the method you use still available? Is World War 3 happening in your era? Are you like me?’ But, I hold myself back, my eyes boring into her blue orbs that spark with a fire that kind of reminds me of Rebekah, only stronger- fiercer.

The young Werewolf looks at me from top-to-bottom, makes a weird face at the tuxedo and top-hat I’m wearing, and crinkles her nose.

“I- Can you tell me where I am, sir?”

“You’re in New Orleans…”

I shed my coat, and throw the garment over her shoulders when I see a couple of men and women starting to throw us, her specifically, odd glances. “And please, put on something less revealing when you go out next time.”

By modern day standards, hers is rather conservative, but the little Werewolf is drawing too much attention in the Covens’ crook of the wood, and it’ll not do her any good. “This place isn’t safe for you. Go to the Bayou, that’s where most of the Werewolves are. Remember to ask them for a change of clothes too.” I put the hat on her head, pat it once and try to vanish in the stream of people…

Just to find something is holding back.

I whirl around, finding her hand coiled around wrist, the other on the collar of my coat. “I’m Hope, Hope Marshall. Can I know your name?” My cheeks lift, the handlebar moustache on my lips twitching as I smile. Einar won’t do, it’s too unique- catchy, and if she were really from the future, she might know my real identity. It’s not something I wanna risk.

“Elis Wilhelm, at your service, Ms. Marshall… I’d suggest you vacate New Orleans as quickly as possible. A War’s coming, and trust me, you do not want to be caught in the crossfire.”

Lightly, I press a kiss on the back of her hand, then vanish into the crowd. At least now I know not all Werewolves in the City are completely reprehensible.

The Crime Families still have to go, though. They’re too much of a chaotic factor, and if Marcellus can’t consolidate his Power, I… Well, I can probably still continue with my plans, but there are just going to be a lot more hoops and moral loopholes I’ll have to cross. “Ruling is a chore…”

But not ruling leaves me open to attacks and persecutions.

The answer? Regency. True leadership isn’t about doing all the work yourself, it’s finding people who will do it in your place while you just kick back and enjoy life. Of course, in order to ensure my position won’t be usurped, I will have to check on my investments every now and then, but otherwise I’ll have both a stable source of income; manpower; political power, all while I remain hidden in the shadows… It is the best course of actions. Invisibility is a big advantage.

That’s why people never see the real ‘giants’ back in the 21st Century. Some employed the same strategy I’m doing now and tried to stay out of the limelight; while others openly flaunt their wealth to stay hidden in plain sight. They are the ones who shake the bottle, who frame the narrative, while we- I was one of the chess-pieces. Even the celebrities, people whom you would think were free, weren’t.

Take Coca-Cola and Pepsi for example, did you know both are owned by the same Companies? By using the multi-brand strategy, they created fake hypes that artificially drove up sales.

It’s practically an open-secret most of us just turned a blind eye to, because doing so helped grease the cogs and wheels of the massive, highly complex and intimately interconnected machine that is society. We’re all chess-pieces on someone’s board; even the players can get tossed on their asses if they’re not careful, as seen during the many Revolutions throughout recent Eras. I’m afraid for Marcellus, but that’s the price of Power.

He wants it; needs it- I can feel it in his eyes, radiating off of his frame. There are rumors Niklaus found him at a plantation, which would explain the drive.

The Little Warrior’s not loyal to me at all, in fact, he’s plotting to usurp me right now. If I were a worse person, I’d have mind-controlled him into complete and utter obedience, but that’s fucked up, even for me, which leaves me with two Routes: The Fear or Admiration Path. The first requires me to break down his Will and Confidence completely, to force him into compliant, but it will also make him incredibly volatile and likely destroy all the qualities that I want from a Regent.

The second’s harder, will take longer, but I’ve already laid the foundation for it.

“Second option, it is.”