Polaroïd

Epilogue

Hey ! I know I've been pretty absent so there is the conclusion to this short story. I'm working a lot at editing my first french novel which should be out in autumn, so I don't get as much time as I want on fanfiction. But there is the last straw :)

Three years later...

Long fingers enclosed the little envelope, its roughness barely acknowledged as he tried to keep it in one piece. This letter ... this letter could mean so much. Either peace, or war. Tristan shoved the loose strands of his hair behind his ear; it was long enough to be ruffled by the everlasting breezes of the high plains.

Sighing, he willed his legs to start moving towards the shore, raising dust from the path. The blue waters of Lake Titicaca, so deep, always brought him solace. Nightmare still plagued his mind, regrets, doubts and death following his thoughts like a well-deserved revenge. For three long years, Tristan had learnt to live again. Built the wooden cabin that sheltered him, traded with the locals, found a simple routine. But despite the calm that seeped into his bones when he worked with his hands, he'd never been able to shed his guilt.

Hence the letter.

A mane of fiery hair shone on the bridge, the tips discoloured and dyed blond. Frances slowly wove a woollen belt, using medieval techniques that asked for her concentration. It prevented her thoughts from wandering too much. Wandering to the death she had dealt for fifteen years.

Their love was strong, sturdy, yet distant. They both struggled with the ghosts of the past. Entire days could pass without them speaking. Sometimes, smiles bloomed on her face, and he found her beautiful in the sunlight. But mostly, sadness burdened her shoulders. Still was beautiful, but so far away. Lost in her memories. Together, they rode the path to redemption. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, knowing that they were the only family left to each other.

There would be no children; they were both too broken to take care of another soul. As if their lives were suspended... They still might be found, any day from now. Might be chased, hunted like cattle, and executed. The future was as uncertain as the past had been. But she was here, just like she'd been fifteen hundred years ago on the battlefield. How sad, that their love had been so tainted. Sometimes he dreamt of the warrior he had been, Tristan, knight of the round table. And his spouse, the lovely Frances. Innocent and carefree Frances, who had given him a brood of children, and healed the sick in a harsh world.

Yet...

They'd been happy, passionate, and their bond had endured many hardships.

Today, they were but shells of the past. Their love, still here, still strong, felt like an undercurrent in an Ocean of anger. Just a cord, stretched by the waves, that kept them from drifting apart without never allowing them to cling to each other.

Companions of silence. Companions of life. Companions of death.

Frances spotted him and smiled. Sadness always mingled in her expression, but there still was the twinkle in her eyes when he came near. Tristan approached and sat behind her on the wooden bridge, his gaze lost into the ripples created by the breeze. She snuggled against his frame, eagerly sharing his warmth. Spring was coming, the sun already gracing the high plains of Peru, yet not enough to shed her heavy tunic. How different she was from the woman he'd known. Shadow; clad in leather and Kevlar. She was no less mesmerising.

Tristan kissed her hair, and she reclined against him. He was her anchor, as she was his. They stayed for a while, watching the spotless sky brighten as the sun travelled the spotless sky, the envelope still held between his fingers. Then, at last, Tristan spoke.

— "It is done," he said

And Frances nodded. Done. The letter addressed to this child, the only survivor of the family he had killed by mistake.

— "She'll find us, someday" Frances said.

Tristan didn't even answer, burying his head into her fiery mane instead. Yes. This girl would grow, and find them. Kill him maybe, or not. Assuage her revenge, or only ask him why he'd shot them. Perhaps she'd never come, but he doubted.

And when she would, all hell would break loose again.