Chapter Twenty

December 25th

Every murderer has a tragic flaw.

Yours was that you were kind to me.

"Alright, lad?" the Captain asked. He looked over at Tintin worriedly, from where he was in the driver's seat.

Tintin didn't respond. Closing his eyes, he sunk as far back as he could into the leather seat, as if he could somehow hide from the Captain-from the world-if he just curled into himself enough.

"Alright," Haddock said, to himself, more than anything.

And I'm sorry because of it.

So, so sorry.

Tintin's eyes were fixed on the window, but were glazed. It was as though he was blind; he couldn't see the scenery outside, blanketed in the pale light of early morning, rolling by as the car drove down the snow-covered road. The effort it took to ignore what was lying, stiff and cold in the back seat, was laborious. He tried to force his mind away, but the knowledge kept on returning, quietly, painfully.

He knew he would never know if he had done the right thing. There was so many things that he could have done, paths that he could have taken, and he didn't. He had done what he always did: followed his reporter instincts, obeyed the law to the best of his ability, and made sure to choose the choice that was the most right—or, in this situation, the least wrong. And he would have to live his entire life telling himself that he had been correct in doing so. In all his years of journalism and adventuring, he'd done the right thing and never looked back. He wouldn't start now. He couldn't.

The sun was just beginning to rise. Pale pink, against the dark of the sky. Bringing life to the world.

But she was dead.

Time passed. Seconds rolled onward, long and slow, but he hardly felt them. His head dipped and fell forward a little into his hand, his grey eyes staring vacantly out at the direction of the outside.

He wanted her to be breathing.

Pale morning light dripped, raw and cold, down the black trees. It trickled through the half-frozen creeks, over the blankets of snow. The car rumbled and jolted over the bumpy dirt road, beneath the heavy grey sky, dark with only a faint hint of soft red, like a brush had done one quick stroke over the interminable grey, watercolour over the thick darkness.

He wanted her to be with him.

The buildings of the village came into the distance, their black outlines slowly becoming clearer and clearer beneath the receding darkness. The Captain pulled onto the main road, and they entered the village. They rolled over the uneven cobblestone road, past the houses swathed in snow. It was still dark. There was no light from the houses, only feeble light from the sky.

After a moment, the Captain pulled into the lot outside the police station, and opened his door. Tintin did the same.

I didn't even tell her goodbye. "I need to talk to your husband," I said. I was angry. I didn't even say goodbye.

Outside, the air smelled crisp and sharp. The cold snapped at his nose, biting his fingertips. He couldn't tell whether or not it was snowing, or the wind was simply blowing snow from the top of the buildings.

What have I done? he thought dully. What did I do? Now she's dead.

"I'll be right back, lad," the Captain murmured, breaking into his thoughts.

Tintin didn't reply. He didn't even nod. Even when the Captain's hand rested on his shoulder and he could see the older man's face, kind, concerned, he didn't say anything. After a moment, Haddock patted his shoulder and removed his hand, trudging through the snow and towards the doors of the police station.

They wanted to be free, Tintin thought, watching as his breath formed a cloud and slowly disappeared into the bitter December air. If I had stopped them in time, they would have lived on, tortured by what happened.

But knowing this did little to comfort him.

Forgetting about the Captain, about the police, he began to walk. With no destination in mind, he drifted, wandering towards the road, away from the village.

"Tintin!" Haddock's voice rang through the winter air, but Tintin didn't stop. He didn't know where he was going and he didn't care.

The cold wind ran through his hair as the bleak, frozen landscape opened up before him. He looked around, taking in the world surrounding— the rolling hills, the church steeples poking out from the black skeletons of trees, the muddy roads leading through the old village. Everywhere was snow, dressing the entire world in a thick blanket of grey.

He slowed down when his lungs began to burn with the cold wind and frantic pace of his walk. He was farther out of the village now, on a winding path almost completely covered with snow. Staring upwards, he watched as the last of the stars began to blink out of the night sky. The snow that blanketed the land was the same colour as the sky, and you could barely tell where the two met.

He surveyed his surroundings, panting slightly and feeling winded. The world seemed to be one uniform grey, punctuated only by black skeleton trees and the silhouettes of windmills in the distance. At the end of the path, there was a stone church with its doors open, and he could see people bundled in winter clothes drifting in and out of it.

He was trudging along, wrapped up in memories, when, from somewhere, came the sound of singing. Soft, quiet singing, drifting on the snow-brushed wind.

His legs moved, without permission, in the direction of the sound.

Silent night… holy night…

It wasn't long before Tintin found his way to the old cathedral. It stood there, tall and serene, like it had for centuries, grey stone encircling the old wooden door and stained glass windows.

All is calm, all is bright.

The doors were wide open, right in front of him. The inside of the church was bathed in the soft light of flickering candles. People who had woken early for the early morning mass dotted the mostly empty pews, their heads bowed in prayer.

Round yon virgin, mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild.

Tintin made his way to an empty seat and sat down, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes trained on the crucifix before him as it stood, bleeding arms outstretched.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

Sleep in heavenly peace.

/

The music continued to drift softly from the old church as he made his way through the snow, back to the police station. The Captain was standing outside, waiting at the door, and nodded to Tintin as he approached.

"Nestor's coming around to pick up the car later. They're still taking out the… you know. Bodies." He shifted his weight to the other leg uncomfortably. "Ready to go?"

Tintin nodded mutely, tightening his scarf and beginning to walk in the direction of the main road. Snowy appeared from behind the police station, wet and muddy, trotting happily alongside.

"It's a cold world," the Captain said softly, as their boots crunched in the wet snow and the wind bit into their faces.

The corners of Tintin's lips turned up into a faint smile, though the rest of his face was downcast. "I know."

"You just have to… I don't know, keep on moving forward."

"Odette and Serge didn't." Tintin's voice was quiet.

"No. They didn't." The Captain shook his head, taking another step through the knee-deep snow "But things were different. I think, sometimes… you've just been moving forward… long enough."

"They'd been moving a long time." Tintin sighed thoughtfully, shoving his hands into his pockets and exhaling a cloud into the crisp air. "You're right. I know that. It's just… I don't know. I just wish it could have..."

When Tintin's voice trailed off, the Captain murmured, "Me too."

They trudged in silence for a while longer. Wisps of smoke drifted from the houses in the village: people just beginning to wake up, getting ready for the day and celebrations ahead of them. Forgetting about the storm. Moving forward.

Maybe there were two ways of moving forward. You could run: you could leave everything behind and forget about what happened, banishing it into some part of your mind where you never, ever went again. Or you could stay where you were, and you could hold onto everything you had, until your strength and the strength of what you held on to made the pain and the fear around you suddenly become nothing.

Maybe once, Odette had run; she had tried to forget.

But she had stopped forgetting.

She had held on. She had held on with everything she had.

Maybe she made the right decision. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, feeling the wind brush softly against his face. Even if I failed to.

For the first time, his heart felt as if it was expanding instead of constricting, as if a tourniquet around it had been removed and the blood was finally running free.

"I loved her, Captain," Tintin said suddenly. He didn't sound angry or regretful; he was simply stating the facts.

Haddock said, "I know."

They trudged together, through the waist-deep snow, out of the village, down the winding path, and on the road back home.

The End

"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours." ― Vera Nazarain

Author's Note: Wow.

Wow. All... done. Wow.

First of all, thank you all SO MUCH for reading and reviewing. This story would have been totally impossible without you. I hope you loved this story as much as I did. :) And if you were as emotionally invested in this story as I was, your brain will never be able to correctly process the song Silent Night ever again... man, I'm going to be a wreck when Christmas rolls around.

As always, a review would make my day. In fact, it would make this entire project worth it. So, if you haven't reviewed yet, now is the time.

Finally, when I'm finished with my next story (Resurrection, which I'm already working on and posting) I'm going to work on a cute little Hallmark Christmas Tintin story (A Very Tintin Christmas, perhaps?) So stay tuned for that. :)