young god I marquis du gramont

prologue

exile - taylor swift

you were my crown
now I'm in exile, seein' you out

-

'it's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything" - chuck palahniuk

/

francesca

'John? You alive?'

A gun came into John's perception. A Browning L91A semi automatic. He lowered his own Glock at the sight of the familiar weapon.

'Yeah'

Francesca knew John was never a talker but some times she found his lack of response off putting. He always seen to be hiding something that would come bite him in the ass later on. His black suit was crumpled and stained with blood, most not his own. He retrieved a revolver on the floor, checked the magazine and pocketed it. She touched her own gun, reassuring weigh in her hands. John rummaged through the corpses, checking their weapons. He tossed her a clip, she caught it with a flick of her wrist. It didn't have many bullets left. She put it in the lining of her black turtleneck. The knife in her boot rest firmly on her ankle as they trudged down the stairs. The building itself was elaborate, complex and modern; she almost felt bad destroying it. But the mission was clear; burnt to the ground and no survivors.

Many thoughts hung at the back of her head as they descended to the ground floor. John was in front of her, black jacket swishing in the wind coming from broken windows. He was limping too; a bullet must have hit his thigh. Francesca sighed, she hated seeing John in pain. But that came with the job and, as much as she hated to say, she enjoyed the feeling of superiority. To kill or to be killed. Head down, do the job. She ran up to him and looped an arm around his torso, supporting his weight. He threw his arm around her shoulder.

John was like a father to her. He was there the day her family were massacred and he took her in. John trained her in combat and taught her the ways of the underground world. His first lesson: shoot first, ask questions later. She struggled to support both of them but persisted. Her waist had been grazed as well, blood seeping out of a 9mm hold in her side. She winced at the pain but with one hand supporting John and the other holding her trusty revolver, the only thing she could do was grit her teeth through the pain.

The sound of crunching glass echoed around the room like a bullet. Both turned, weapons drawn at the ready. Francesca's mind whirled through the possibilities of attack. A sudden burst of sound and heat enveloped her senses, ringing in her ears. Instinctively, she fired blind shots into the darkness. John pushed her aside, open firing. Expansive windows of glass around them. Francesca heard a cry and in her peripheral vision, she saw someone fall. Her heart skipped a beat. John. She ran, as fast as her tired body would carry her. John sat a top one of the assassins, a Russian man, holding only a shrapnel of glass. Francesca watched in gruesome interest as he slit the man's throat, crimson spraying across the wall. John got up in shaky, robotic movements. In the distance, a wail of ambulance alarms.

'Is that it?'

He had been shot again. A bleeding hole in his shoulder slowly drenching the black suit. She wrapped an arm around his torso again. He stiffened at the touch. She knew that John was prone to night terrors. He would cry out at night in terror and she imagined that he was seeing the faces of all those he had murdered under the Table's name. It was years and years of paranoia and stress, always having one eye open while sleeping. Above all, Francesca knew that he missed Helen.

She had only met Helen a couple of times but she was the type of person that Francesca would trust to keep John safe. She was beautiful and sweet but most of all, she understood. That John wasn't a bad person and that nothing he had done, none of the killings were by choice. Helen understood that John wanted peace and that he was ready to lay down his life for her. They had a serene love, one that was almost impossible to find. And yet John, a man who thought that he was God's curse, found the happiness he deserved. That was all Francesca wanted for him. Peace.

That night, they buried so many bodies that Francesca lost count. John stood by her side as the house slowly caught on fire and together, they watched it crumble. Plaster by plaster. Brick by brick. John's eyes looked hopeful, more hopeful that she had ever seen. He was about to have the life that he had always wanted. In the dark, he found her hand and squeeze it. She looked down, surprised but said nothing. She was the only thing in this world that John regretted leaving behind. He had asked her many times to change her mind, to lead a normal life. But she couldn't go until she got vengeance. For her family's killers. The Table and their assassins. They all had to die.

'You sure you won't come with me?'

They said very little words but they had grown fond of each other's company. They understood each other without having to explain. She was more John's daughter than she ever was her father's.

'No, I have unsettled business'

John nodded but said nothing. The house had burnt down completely and the sun was just rising through the treetops. It was time to go. Bodies had been buried, fears had been felt and lives were ready to go on. Francesca wondered how the town was so tranquil after last night. It seemed an era ago.

John straightened his jacket and tie. He passed her a set of keys and his gun. Francesca looked at him, brown eyes slowly brimming with tears. Keys to his inheritance; all his weapons, his gold and his past life. They were hers now.

They hugged rarely but Francesca didn't want to let go. If she let go now, she would never see him again. He would disappear forever.

'Take care of yourself, kid. I'm proud of you'

She smiled and turned away. Tears spilled from her eyes.

'You too, old man'

'Don't forget to come visit us. Helen would love to see you again'

'I promise I will'

John glanced at her and flashed a small smile. He wasn't one for sentiment. He turned on his heels and started to walk. He had agreed to meet Helen a few kilometres from here where he would start his life anew. Francesca watched him leave.

'John?'

He turned.

'Promise me you'll never come back into this shit hole again'

It was the first time she had ever seen John smile in a long long time. The trees waved in the wind.

'I promise'