"So, she's here…"

Capitaine de vaisseau Mathieu Bonheur slowly laid a hand on the bare steel door, yet something seemed to have stopped him from entering right away. Even when he had his gloves on, the surface was eerily cold to touch.

His legs were heavy, but that was nothing compared to the enormous, painful weight within his heart.

Not too far behind stood Jean Bart, agitated at the hesitance. She entertained the idea of pushing the man inside but held back—they were in a medical facility after all, though she was confident the guards escorting them would not object.

"Aren't you going to enter? Or are you going to be a coward and just stand there until we drag you away? Don't think you got all day, Commandant," she barked, finally having had enough of the indecisiveness.

Mathieu removed his hand from the door—the cold lingering on his palm—and turned around to face the irate battleship. "Ah, forgive me; this is…difficult to take in, so to speak. And you probably shouldn't call me that, Jean; I'm no longer with the Navy."

Jean Bart sneered at the apology. "Ain't that sad; if you realize that, don't speak my name so casually, then," she spat. "Get in, or not at all; makes no difference to me."

"Very well, Jean Bart," Mathieu answered rather coolly, appearing unbothered by the woman's hostility. "But can I ask you something first?"

"Make it quick."

"Is she…conscious?"

"Lapsing in and out of it; I'd rather she's not today if you're planning to tell her about your…fate."

"Ah. Yes, I thought so too. Can I ask one more question?"

Jean Bart rolled her eyes. Another one? This conversation is getting irritating, she thought; but eventually, despite her reservations, she gave the hopeful man a nod, hoping he would not ask something too stupid.

"She wouldn't be punished, would she?"

"I've already told you she has been pardoned, haven't I?"

"Oh, you are right. It's good that all of you... received official pardons; it's all thanks to Riche—"

Mathieu didn't get to finish as Jean Bart seized him by the collar; alarmed, the guards behind them reached for their weapons but did nothing else and soon stood down when ordered to by their commanding officer.

"Don't. Speak. Of. That. Name," the battleship hissed with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Mathieu, who was too surprised to react otherwise, only nodded weakly, and Jean Bart immediately released her grip from his collar before wordlessly motioning with her head towards the door, telling him to get in.

Thinking it would be best to leave Jean Bart alone for now and that he came here to see the person behind the door anyway, Mathieu pushed it open, steeling himself as he did.

The room, he noticed as he made his way in, was unnervingly quiet—save for the soft droning noise emanating from a few machines—and bleakly desolate. He found the person he had been looking for almost immediately. She was lying on the bed, her body covered in bandages save for her face, which nevertheless displayed several scars. All around her, there were medical apparatus and other equipment whose purpose he did not know or dare imagine.

The woman, the battlecruiser Dunkerque, was in a death-like slumber, her body having been broken by what she had to endure in that accursed conflict. Her silver hair had lost much of its luster, and she was way paler than Mathieu remembered.

He recalled that the captain of the guards escorting him did say before their arrival—in a genial manner that was really meant to be mockingly friendly—that he would not like what he would see.

He really didn't, despite already preparing for the worst; yet it wasn't that sight that pained him the most.

She, who already revealed so much to him—her loves, her pains—and who would always encourage him to open up and rely on others, now must suffer alone, in silence.

That hurt him more than anything else.

But then he rationalized that in her sleep, Dunkerque, too, could finally afford to ignore the cruel world around her. In a way, this was her well-deserved moment of respite, and he felt an odd sense of relief through it.

Much to his surprise, there was a chair for one, even though he heard the room was usually off-limits to visitors. Whether someone set it up for him or it was simply a convenient coincidence, he did not care and moved it closer to the bedside.

"Ça faisait longtemps, Dunkerque," he said as he took a seat. "If only I could bring you sweets…but…well, I think we can agree you can't eat them anyway right now."

Mathieu paused; for a moment, he was convinced Dunkerque stirred slightly before turning motionless again. He drew a breath to gather himself and continued in an increasingly hushed and strained voice.

"…I don't know...if this was cruel mercy, giving me the last chance to see you, only to find you looking like this. I guess I deserved it. But…I just wanted to say it regardless… I'm sorry; I ruined everything. You were right. I should have stayed in the Navy instead of following them. Now…after this, I will never see you again; in just a few hours, I…will have to leave France, never to return. So, I just want you to know, even if you probably cannot hear me...I am truly sorry."

Dead silence was his only answer, but Mathieu was not surprised nor did he mind; he rose from the seat despite feeling his knees trembling and, after a brief hesitation, put a hand on Dunkerque's cheek, stroking it gently.

"But if you...can...you see…what I really want you to know is…well, I never had the chance or the heart to tell you this, but…I know you will remember Paris. People always do. You loved the marronniers of Champs-Élysées; you loved them. And the macarons from l'Oiseau Bleu, you loved them too, more so than anything else...and unexpectedly, you loved the opera theaters of Montmartre as well. You were happy, then...and at that time, I came to realize just how human you were, and that you weren't simply emulating an emotion...and then, to my surprise, along with that realization, there was something else...Sorry. I can't say it. It hurts to say it now when it's already too late. But I can say that...our brief time in Paris was…the happiest I've ever been in my life, and I want to thank you for the memory. Even when I must carry this…guilt for the rest of my life…that memory, too, shall last. So merci, Dunkerque, and adieu; I hope…you can regain that happiness...without me. And well...if you want to forget about me... I'm alright with that."

There, I said it, Mathieu told himself; not that it did much to ease his regret, but it's as good a closure as any.

Figuring he should leave before Jean Bart and the guards drag him away and that he could not bear to stay there any longer anyway, Mathieu withdrew his hand and was about to head towards the door when something stopped him in his tracks.

Casting one last look at Dunkerque, he caught the sight of her clinging onto the sleeve of his coat, the act lasting only for the briefest of moments before the hold loosened, and her hand fell back into the sheets.

Only then did he allow himself to shed a tear.