Hey Koba ! So glad to read form you. I hope you're well. Sorry Tobi, I had forgotten to post it. This is now done !

This piece has been so much fun to write. I'm glad you enjoyed it. Here is the conclusion. I hope you can handle a 'little' smut :p

The bullet whizzed past her head. Duncan started, horrified that his reflexes had pulled the trigger in his stead – had she been a little slower, her blood would be pooling at his feet right now – Her hand grabbed his wrist in a keyhole to retrieve the gun. Her touch was too gentle to trigger the alarm, her brown gaze too open for him to struggle back. The gun fell to the ground with his blessing; acceptance. Duncan was tired, his survival instinct crumbling down beneath her fingers. She didn't pick the weapon, her warm hand still enclosing his forearm. A sharp tug sent him off balance and he tumbled forward. Shadow reached for his neck with a snake move. There. Death at her hand, was it so bad ?

Her lips suddenly crashed on his own, desperate, hungry. Not in a million years did he try to resist; it felt so right that he wondered how he had lived without the feeling of her tongue swiping at his lips. She released his arm to circle his frame – trusting – one of her hand sliding across his shoulder to pull him further down. Duncan grunted slightly; she'd done a merry work of bruising him all over. But then, so had he. And despite her cracked ribs, she didn't protest when he pulled her up against the trunk that had so nicely bumped his head a moment before. His whole frame pushed against her, warmth against warmth, his sheer size dwarfing hers. At once, she lifted a leg to circle his back in an attempt to pull him closer.

Duncan moaned into the kiss, nowhere ready to surrender. Fire trailed in his veins; longing and need bottled up for too many years to keep count. And he tasted her like a parched man, need echoing in the confines of his chest. Something so different than lust… She was, right now, the air he barely breathed and he wondered what would be left when… she killed him ? His tongue begged for entrance; she greeted him with enthusiasm, opening her mouth to invite him in. She tasted heavenly, feminine and sweet, something whores and one-night stands could never really compare to. Would she give him a good time before… ?

For he knew who she was. Shadow. As skilled as the Black Kaiser to dispatch, very subtle, never brutal, mostly unseen. They said people died in her arms almost willingly, begging her to release them from this brutal life. Duncan understood why now; he was ready so surrender. Ready to die.

Her body was a piece of paradise. Fit, yet soft, moulding around him as her hands left trails of fire upon the bare skin of his chest. Duncan ached to undress her, to remove the thin waistcoat of Kevlar that kept him from her essence. His hands fumbled to unzip it while his mouth devored hers, tongues swirling. She whimpered with satisfaction when the garment fell from her open arms, nails and fingertips returning to his sweaty form. One of his hands circled her waist to pull her flush, the other exploring under the form fitting t-shirt she wore. A moan responded to his wandering – as if his touch alone could undo her - while his hand roamed her soft skin. She was so warm, so inviting that he felt his trousers getting tighter by the second.

— "Please…", she rasped.

And her low-pitched purr was like music to his ears. He knew, in that instant, that she wasn't toying with him. He'd paid too many women to moan for him. Breaking the kiss, she watched his face intently, reverently, and Duncan couldn't quite believe what he saw in her eyes. Awe… and tears. His heavy breath made the fiery strands dance about her face, and for just a second, he could swear he was seeing the same woman with a crackling fire behind her, a medieval shift tumbled about her waist. The vision was gone the moment she broke eye contact and Duncan shuddered. What sorcery was this ?

A sharp intake of breath later, his pants and briefs were pooling around his legs. He was at her mercy… Entirely exposed. Her own leather trousers, discarded, left her naked save for her t-shirt. Duncan yanked the offending piece of cotton off her frame as he kissed his way from neck to jaw. Her bra fell into the leaves barely a second later. Her bare flesh called to him like a siren calling the sailor at sea, neither of them knowing if they would emerge unscathed from their depths. Still, resisting would be useless. Duncan hoisted her up against the tree, her legs circling his waist instantly, her soft body yielding to his in a silent plea.

Entering her was akin to finding home again. Not this poor substitute of a refuge. No. THE home, the one place were solace existed and peace flooded one's soul. Duncan gasped in her neck, his body tingling with joy at her touch, bruises forgotten. She took him easily, so tight yet so welcoming at the same time, voicing her pleasure in a startling gasp. He didn't get time to ask if he had hurt her; she was already calling him further in, meeting his desperate thrusts with her own, her hips dancing around his frame with sensuality. Duncan pushed into her, hands travelling to support her, another at her nape as he grunted his pleasure. She claimed his lips once more, encouraging him to keep his pace. Then she abandoned his mouth to muffle her cries against his shoulder, dancing against his coiled body.

For sure, Duncan knew how to please a woman. But no one had ever reacted to him so strongly. And while his own pleasure soared, he couldn't remember a time he had felt so good, so accepted, so cherished, so strong. For her hands were everywhere, begging him, loving him. This wasn't a good fuck, no. She was making love with more passion than the fires of hell. Kissing him, tasting him, caressing, coaxing until he could take no more and reached a mind-blowing state of bliss. And all thoughts of doom fled his mind, past and future set aside in favor of the searing present, her body smoldering against him.

Duncan didn't last long the first time, really. Nor the second either as he just carried her off to his bed to take her anew, a mere slave from an ancient need to bond. Her body was so pliable in his hands, responding like the wind, setting his own desire ablaze. The third time was taken at a slower pace as she took control, and he swore he had never seen anything so remotely inspiring than her body twitching and shuddering in pleasure within the safe circle of his arms. Then he started to feel a little sated. Barely a little, as if he had to make up for a lifetime of loneliness. The fourth time would have to wait for a much-needed conversation.

While his mind started functioning again, she idly traced the contours of his face with awe. An expression he had never seen, even less directed at him. From up close, she was even lovelier.

— "You are very handsome", she eventually said. "But you would be even more with a beard. Or without. Moustache isn't for you, handsome"

And the look in her eyes was so distant that he wondered if she, too, remember this woman that resembled her so much.

— "Who are you ?", he asked.

— "Shadow", she whispered against his chest.

Duncan nodded gruffly.

— "I know. Who were you, in those ancients days ?"

The young woman regarded him quizzically, cheeks still rosy from their earlier exertions, hair unbound like a halo of fire. So beautiful… Her eyes softened as she took in his features, and if remembering long lost times.

— "I have no idea. But the only memory I have is your name. Tristan…"

Duncan took a sharp intake of breath. So this is how she knew his name. Perhaps it was time to revert to his past self after all. But she wasn't finished.

— "And I loved you."

Deep amber eyes interrogated warm chocolate, seemingly asking if it could be the case again. And if their lovemaking was an indication, it might very well be. They knew nothing of each other… yet. Could this ancient love be rekindled ?

— "Is this why you didn't kill me ?"

The young woman shifted with a wince, bruised ribs protesting, and lay her head down upon his belly as she dragged the sheets upon her chest.

— "Partly."

— "And the other part ?"

She sighed.

— "I want this life to end."

There were no explanations needed to understand her meaning. She, too, was sick of killing. Whatever her past and the reasons that he brought her in this business, she had passed her point of no return.

— "So do I", he affirmed. "What is your name ?"

— "My real one ?"

Duncan nodded, wondering is she would be amenable to reveal it.

— "Frances. Can I call you Tristan ?"

— "Not now. Once this is all over, I will be Tristan again"

And he didn't tell her how badly he wanted her to be his again, nor what he planned for the future for he wasn't quite sure he would survive to see another day.

— "I was sent to kill you"

— "I gathered that. Didn't make such a good job, right ?"

He was taunting her, and she knew it.

— "Well I found you. And I had plenty of clean shots for the three past days, but I couldn't. I am drawn to you, as if I you were my other half"

Duncan pursed his lips, her declaration sinking in a he thought of those unwanted feeling that had flooded him while he defended himself against her. His other half, eh ?

— "Who sent you ?", he eventually asked.

— "Your boss. Damoclès, through Vivian"

Duncan swore in his mother tongue, calling a smile to Frances' lips.

— "What happened ?", she asked.

The lines of his face seemed to grow deeper, ten years of self-loathing and anguish sinking upon his shoulders. Unshed tears shone in his eyes, and the usually collected killer didn't feel ashamed to show her how vulnerable he could be. The heart was still there, buried under traumas and regrets. Slowly, as if the words weighted a ton in his mouth, he started recounting his story"

— "I screwed up. Or they screwed up, the intel was wrong. I shot at the driver, then inside… But when the door opened…"

Duncan shut his eyes, swallowing uneasily. The memory was so blunt, so bright in his memory. There was nothing he could do to relieve his conscience. The dread was still there whenever he thought of it. The arm that slid out of the open backdoor, the pregnant woman's body, strewn on the floor, holding her belly. The little boy's open eyes, gazing at the sky. And hers… the child's stare, burning, terrified, watching his face as he held her at gunpoint.

— "I killed an entire family, except for this girl. I cannot forget her eyes, I will never forget it."

Sensing his pain, Frances could only hug him within an inch of his life. His hands circled her tightly, his chest shaking unevenly as he swallowed the pain. The heartless killer, undone by the horrified gaze of a child he had orphaned.

Many hours passed, without any of them moving from the bed.

It was weird, how Trist… Duncan seemed to fit in her life so easily. As if he had always been there. As if she'd found him anew, and they were now a complete entity. She trusted him to watch her back, even as she lay, naked, her legs intertwined with the sheets. And she knew she'd battle death for him, her heart beating in synch with this man she barely knew. It was the same tingle that had stilled her hand whenever she wanted to pull the trigger. At last, they both fell asleep, exhausted by the emotional rollercoster and the exertion of their fight… and the substantial physical activity that came afterwards.

Duncan started awake when Frances stirred, surprised that he'd slept so soundly.

— "What now?", he said.

— "Dinner ?"

Her teasing reply called a smirk to his lips. Yes. Food would be in order, but not only. They needed to plan their escape.

— "How about Damoclès ?"

The hitman watched Frances as she became Shadow once more, the lines of her face tensing, the light in her eyes becoming more fierce.

— "I think you should die… figuratively"

Duncan tensed instantly, but refrained from chocking the like out of the woman that still laid upon his chest.

— "What did you have in mind ?", his smooth voice said, betraying nothing of the turmoil inside.

— "I'll send them a picture, we need to make this convincing. We'll use the money from the contract and disappear. I am not affiliated to any company, they'll never find me. As for you…"

— "I'll be dead"

Dead, all his money gone, and all his belongings left behind. Anything that had been Duncan Vizla left to rot, forgotten to the world. The sum of his whole career… Perhaps it was better this way, to leave Duncan behind and become Tristan again. To start something new, away from the mess of his life, away from killing.

And while pizza was delivered at Duncan's little cabin, Frances remained hidden in the bathroom; she couldn't afford to be seen. With her long fiery hair, she was way too recognizable. The planning was hard work; moving money to other accounts, considering a change of looks, getting out of town without Duncan being recognized, getting in touch with numerical professionals to create a picture realistic enough for his own death…

The day after, Shadow called Vivian, as if in pain. She made a good show of being wounded, her breath short, sharp winces uttered as she moved, limping, to show Duncan's body to the dreaded Damoclès. He lay, sprawled upon the floor of his own cabin, fake blood pooling around his head. The conversation was short enough; pretending to be hurt and yelling curses had the expected effect. Vivian didn't ask for details. Duncan Vizla was dead.

The money was transferred during the day, and by the next morning, Frances had cut and died her hair blond. Tristan shaved his whiskers, and cut his hair so short he was barely recognizable. There. They were ready. No one, in Twin Oaks, though twice about the car that left town with a tall man folded in the trunk. As for the body… nothing was left behind. The cabin burnt for a long time before any fireman showed up.

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.