[Trilijah] Within Arm’s Reach

Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners

Fandom: The Originals

Rating: K

Pairing: Trilijah – Elijah Mikaelson x Tristan de Martel (short of)

Genres: fanfiction, slash (short of)

Characters:  Elijah Mikaelson, Tristan de Martel

Warning: none

Summary: A ‘deleted’ scene in The Originals 3×10 – A Ghost Along the Mississippi


“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


“How does it feel?”


Elijah’s hand pulling the rusty metal door halted as he heard a voice from inside.

There was but only one source for that voice within the bowel of the shipping container, and it just spoke to him, asked him a question to be precise, while it had remained utterly silent since every other soul but Elijah left the auto shop: Klaus to run after an in-transition Camille, Hayley to retrieve her late husband’s body, and Marcel to join his fellow Strix who had just overthrown and abandoned their leader to rot in a metal cage. Resigned to its doomed fate, Elijah thought it had.

He was halfway from sealing the container when the voice was raised.

“How does it feel,” the voice repeated, “to know that the breathing nuisance in your epic romance with the hybrid has, to use the vernacular, bit the dust, which I suspect he did often in a literal sense?”

“You waited them to all go to start blabbing, huhm? It’s been mere minutes since your confinement and your mind has already shown signs of deterioration? I’m a little disappointed.”

Elijah swung the door fully open, causing a ‘clang’. There he found his damnable first sired sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretching out on the floor. For an immortal prisoner condemned to an eternity inside a flooded box, his posture and facial expression were far too relaxed.

There were hints of queer amusement in his tone and an odd glint in his blue eyes so bright that it made questioning his sanity a horrible offense.

“I am being gnawed by the curiosity of how you are feeling at the moment as the redundant hyphenated part in Hayley’s surname is now officially deleted.”

“Murderous, you can imagine,” Elijah replied. “Were it not for this impenetrable barrier, you would find yourself short of a small organ fitting snuggly in my fist. For now I have to content myself with a life sentence rather than capital punishment.”

As if hearing not a fraction of Elijah’s malice, Tristan seamlessly picked up his previous speech, “I believe you’re quite mad at me, understandably so, as I have stolen your chance to gorge that heart out yourself. Feeling its last valiant struggle through the skin of your palm would have been divine. Or… all this time you shied from the deed in fear of incurring that mongrel’s wrath and waited patiently for someone else to do it?”

“Are you quite done?” said Elijah with a small smile. His left hand was fiddling with the daylight ring on his right. “I consider myself overly generous to allow you your last words on this earth, but you seem to prefer wasting your chance instead. Well, you cannot begrudge me for my lack of interest in your gibberish once you’re drowning in the deepest, darkest depth of I-don’t-give-a-damn.”

Tristan laughed a wry laugh, which, Elijah admitted, was unexpected from him. “Oh certainly you do give a damn, Elijah. And you won’t drop me. Swear on my life and Rory’s, you won’t.”

“What makes you think that I will not have this fine shipping container sunk in the Mariana Trench for good? I heard down there it is quite a fabulous sight, if you could see, that is.”

“Every reason,” he replied. “Before I share with you one such reason, allow me to ask: How is Rebekah now? Is she enjoying her slumber? A knife in her heart wouldn’t cause her much discomfort, would it?”

A loud, short noise echoed in the mostly empty auto shop. On the ground laid a hefty chunk of metal from the door.

“How?” Elijah growled in a deep baritone, his eyes changing color. “She was supposed to be—”

“On the run,” Tristan cut him. “That was also the Strix’s report. Yet I always knew the only way to hinder the stake’s curse was to jam a mystical silver knife in its place, which meant either going on a rampage or sleeping, and the former was unheard of.”

“And you know how to break the curse as well, I guess.”

“Tragically I’m one of the only two in possession of the knowledge.”

“Your psycho of a sister or Aya?”

Unbeknownst to himself, Tristan was mimicking his sire’s earlier gestures with his daylight ring. He twisted the ring off his ring finger, smoothly slid it back in and then repeated as he spoke, “Neither, Elijah. The other was the witch who crafted the stakes. Dark-hearted and bright-minded she was, a true femme fatale. I saw to it that from then she was only spoken of in past tense…”

“…thus making you the sole ingredient in my sister’s release. I taught you too well, didn’t I, Tristan?”

“I suggest you keep me within your arm’s reach in case you need me as ‘Prince Charming’ to dearest Rebekah’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’.”

“It appears you’re adamant,” Elijah said, “uncompromisable. Perhaps your resolution would soften in front of the sight of Aurora’s tremendous suffering.”

“Your threats are becoming rather uncreative, Elijah. If Rory were captured, she’d make sure Niklaus learn of Rebekah’s fate first thing. I wager the Original hybrid wouldn’t handle it too gracefully.”

Tristan stood up, approached the entrance in leisure strides and stopped just where the barrier was erected as though he could see it with his eyes. “You were wrong, Elijah. This is not going to be my end. My end lies in my own hand,” he said, placing his right hand upon his heart.

Elijah advanced forward until he and Tristan were separated only by a few short, uncrossable inches. “I suppose I should heed my advice and keep you within my arm’s reach so as not to jeopardize Rebekah’s release. But I can’t guarantee it will be an improvement from the bottom of the sea.”

“I will certainly not complain.”

His smirk was eclipsed by the shadow of the door’s being closed.

“So,” Marcel said, pouring two tumblers of whiskey, one for himself and the other for his late-night expected guest, “what did you do to Tristan?”

“I persuaded some rather dedicated longshoremen…”


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