The idea for this came into my head one morning while I was in the process of waking up. Strange.

Needless to say... if you haven't watched the series up to the first trip to the Manor (which is pretty much all of it) this might contain something akin to spoilers.

And, I'm really sorry if I've stolen anyone's lines! If I did, I didn't mean to (but at least it means your writing's good, right??), it came from reading so much amazing stuff!! If there are any problems just say so and I'll do my best to fix the offending sections...

Disclaimer: I own no rights whatsoever to Noir.

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The journey is easy enough. For Mireille, it is little more than reliving a memory, following the directions once sent her by Graipaul. For Kirika the experience is entirely different, putting along the desert landscape in a jeep, probably missing the quaint little Soldats village altogether. She doesn't know whether the village still exists as such, but on the whole she isn't sure that the villagers would greet her with such acute reverence as once they did. After all, she really is no longer Noir – at least not in the way she had been so regarded.

The drive is punctuated by comments mostly about the appearance of humble dwellings here and there along the way. It seems as though the place forgotten by time is gradually beginning to be remembered. Their conversation dies, however, along with the signs of civilization – they are drawing closer to their destination. Even in its broken state, the Manor still seems to exude a sense of untouchability.

Mireille stalls the jeep at the top of the small hill from which a winding path leads the way down towards the building. From here they can continue on foot. Kirika joins her partner on a rocky outcrop overlooking the long rows of grapevines, and reflects. She has been here before, twice – they both have. A chilly wind begins to whip at her hair, bringing with it a fleeting impulse to turn and run away. Somehow, the stench of death is still on the air. But Mireille remains patiently beside her, and she recalls with some fervour the resolve that her partner instilled in her the last time they stood together on this spot.

Finally, she takes Mireille's hand, and together they begin to travel down the path towards the Manor. By her request, they head towards the building first, steering clear of the lake and the outer grounds.

The desolation feels more pronounced as they reach the once immaculate vineyard. These delicate plants, once lovingly tended to, have not survived the test of time and neglect. All that remain are scraps of dead leaves, a few withered, shrivelled grapes that fall to the ground and scatter when the winds touch them. Even the bodies of Altena's former comrades are no longer here, Kirika notices, except ...

Her grip around her partner's hand tightens. Something glints next to Mireille's left foot.

'That's...'

The words aren't needed. Kirika knows the symbol well, though it has been a while since either of them have seen it: the gold and the silver, the maidens of Noir... Atop the pile of rusted junk, bullets and scrap metal, the badge gleams, defiantly proud, although it has been eroded almost beyond recognition. Mireille pushes aside the remnants of the gun, as though pushing aside an unpleasant memory.

They reach the large archway where at one time Altena stood, welcoming Kirika with open arms. The stone steps, the tall pillars are now cracked and weathered. The house of death is a wreck. Yet here, shoots of ivy creep up the walls, and a few cheerfully twittering birds sit in nests high out of reach – life has sprouted forth from the death of Death itself. The irony is not lost on the silent pair.

It is Mireille's turn to squeeze her partner's hand. Although, unlike Kirika, she has few memories of the Manor, and although she senses an inherent unholiness in the place, standing here surveying the wreck brings her a horrid feeling of familiarity.

Inside, the darkness is not so unbearable. In places, chunks of the ceiling have simply fallen away, allowing the sun and the moon to illuminate many of the dark corners that Kirika remembers. Nevertheless, she keeps a tight hold of Mireille and presses herself close to her body, determined to ward off the demons that must invariably haunt such a place. Neither of them speak for fear of awakening these very demons. It doesn't matter, however – the gentle caresses the blonde offers give Kirika more comfort than words can.

The dilapidated tapestries, paintings, candles adorning the wall give quite the opposite effect to that for which they were originally installed. Underfoot the carpet has lost its rich colour, eaten away perhaps by the weather or by insects and small animals. Here and there on the ground there are blotches of what might have been blood, but the stone floor is so pitted and weather-beaten that it is hard to tell.

Kirika's feet carry her through to the few rooms she knows, or once knew. In a small alcove down one of the corridors, a ruined weapons rack lies against the wall, still bearing bloodied fragments of swords and spears. It looks very much the way she remembers it: nothing has been touched, no living soul has since set foot in the room. Further up the way, a table sits in the middle of a darkened room, surrounded by shelves and shelves of books – Altena's library. A single, dusty, quite bland-looking title remains on the table, but neither Kirika nor Mireille trouble themselves to open it – between them, they know well enough what it contains.

The cold, high-ceilinged bath chamber looks somehow more inviting by daylight, friendlier and less sinister. A layer of dust has since settled over the floor, prompting Mireille to wince slightly at the dirt gathering on her shoes. Kirika, however, is already leading her onwards.

Chloe's room.

For some reason they cannot explain, Chloe's room has a more profound sense of stillness, the absence of life more noticeable. Personal effects lie scattered here and there – for certainly Chloe did not leave that fateful morning expecting never to return again. Her cloak and black clothing, however, have been retrieved from the lakeside and laid on the end of the bed, carefully folded. Kirika closes her eyes, reflects. It was Altena, no doubt. It seemed such an absurd gesture. Absurd, but she can understand the sentiment now.

She wanders over to the window. From there she can see the garden amongst the ruins where Altena spoke to her once about many things: Noir, Soldats, Water and Light, the Inner Trees, the Corsican girl ... the Corsican girl whose warm body she now holds close to her own. She, of all those things, was the one that mattered to Kirika. Closing her eyes again, she can't help but wonder whether Altena could have foreseen this, the way it has all ended.

Somehow, in peaceful rest, the Manor seems so much lonelier than when it was a house of sinners and darkness. It would be so easy to lose oneself in such a place. Kirika and Mireille manage to find their way through the endless corridors, the sweeping staircases, down the flight of stairs behind the granite formation that still holds the swords of Noir, until they reach the ceremonial hall.

The doors are shut and bolted, and will not open to half-hearted attempts. The insolent clang of the lock echoes loudly in the silence, reverberating through the walls and through their bodies. It is unbecoming to an assassin to feel fear, and yet the sound causes the hairs on the back of Kirika's neck to stand on end. Some ghosts are better left undisturbed – ghosts whose legacies have been and long since died, the sacrificial lamb whose blood was never spilt. But even their blood might still stain the floor of the hall – Kirika's blood and Mireille's blood – both of them had been shot, after all.

The dead hush that falls is eerier even than the noise. Mireille and Kirika exchange a glance.

Let's go.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is late afternoon by the time they arrive at the outer grounds. The sky is a pale shade of gold, and the air is gently cool. It is perhaps even the same time of day as when they last took leave of this same place.

Still holding each other tightly, Kirika and Mireille step quietly over the grass. To Kirika's surprise, much of this part of the grounds has fared better than the Manor itself. The sunlight glitters off the surface of the water, and the grass is soft under their feet. It looks so exactly the way she remembers it.

Kirika's throat constricts as they approach the broken battleground. She knows what lies ahead, and she cannot bring herself to look up until she feels Mireille draw back. She takes these last few steps alone.

It has been a long time since Kirika has faced this grief, so long that she no longer knows whether or not she has been able to truly conquer it and move on. At her feet lies the slab of stone which had been Chloe's bier. Chloe's body is no longer here. Perhaps it has been subject to the elements, perhaps the Soldats did come for their fallen champion. She can only guess.

A shadow of grief rises in Kirika's heart. As she bows her head, succumbing to the tears, a pair of arms embraces her from behind. Mireille plants a soft kiss on her cheek and holds her tight. She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she realizes for the first time that the fork that Chloe so dearly treasured no longer sits where she left it. From this, somehow, the weight of her grief is more bearable. She knows Chloe is resting now, and she, Kirika, has a new life with Mireille.

She smiles lovingly, eyes still wet, at her loyal partner. Mireille smiles back, but Kirika can see that something in her eyes reflects the sadness in her own. Though she had no love for Chloe, Mireille has love for Kirika, and in this way she feels her pain. They pause another moment, a reverent silence in Chloe's memory, before Kirika gently breaks free from the embrace and turns. Outside, in the enduring peace, it feels less frightening to break the silence.

'Come,' she says simply. 'There is still something...'

Moments later they stand by the lake's edge, Kirika musing at the reflection of their faces in the rippling water. The journey has tired them both, but she knows – feels, more than knows – that one thing more remains. A memory waiting to be created.

'There is still something,' she says again. 'Chloe and I, before we ... the ceremony ...' But for all the time she has spent with Mireille, exploring their feelings, giving and receiving love, she struggles to find the courage to make this suggestion. Instead, she approaches her beloved partner, and begins to tease away her clothing.

'Kirika...' Mireille begins, but she is silenced by a kiss. Kirika is insistent.

Various articles of clothing lie strewn across the grass. The air is still cool around Kirika and Mireille, but the last rays from the retreating sun warm their naked bodies. Kirika glances over, and catches her breath at the sight of her partner's body, bathed in the golden glow. Mireille is beautiful in the sunlight. After all, just as Kirika, with her dark complexion, dark hair, dark eyes, is the child of the night, is not Mireille, as the almost perfect opposite, surely the child of the sun?

And yet somehow, they complement each other so well. Perhaps it isn't so surprising after all.

Kirika takes Mireille's hand once more, squeezes it as if to reassure herself that its owner is truly hers, then leads her down into the water to bathe. Some way away from her partner, she spatters the water over her face and body, but keeps her hair dry, not wanting to create a reason to stay in this forsaken place by night. A series of little splashes from behind tell her that Mireille is doing the same.

Drawn by history, Fate, the path of memories ... Kirika doesn't know, but she finds herself moving back towards Mireille. She pauses as the beautiful blonde looks gently down at her, smiles – it takes all of her remaining strength to return the gaze. Then quickly, as if following directions, she reaches up and kisses her partner.

The kiss is not at all like the one she shared with, or rather received from, Chloe, unexpected and somewhat aloof on her part. This kiss, with Mireille, is mutual, prolonged by a mutual love. Kirika's arms find their way around Mireille's waist, in sync with the hands now snaking over her body. Neither of them are willing to break the kiss, the eternal moment of contact. When they do, however, Kirika buries her face in her lover's shoulder. She fears these ghosts of her past, but when Mireille holds her this way, she knows then that they are only in the past. Everything she needs, here and now, is in this girl's embrace.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sprawled on the grass, shivering slightly as the darkness begins to settle, Kirika fingers the beads of water on her arm. Her eyes drift closed of their own accord; she inhales deeply the cleanness of the night air.

'Mireille ... my love?' Even without looking, she can anticipate the affectionate smile tipping her partner's lips. Those words never fail to elicit such a response. 'I'm sorry. How are we going to get dry?'

She looks over. Her love is indeed smiling tenderly at her.

'Don't you worry.'

Next moment, Mireille is upon her, showering kisses over her skin. It dries her perhaps only slightly, but that no longer matters, because the heat from their bodies once more pressed tightly together finishes the job. Kirika nips playfully at Mireille's earlobe – their little game. It is almost dark by the time they draw apart, breathless from their little romp against the soft grass. Pink in the cheeks, and grinning in a cheeky kind of way, Mireille holds Kirika's clothes out to her as they begin to dress.

They tread the return path finally under the stars, hands again entwined for the warmth and security it brings them both. As Kirika walks, she knows that she must turn back for a final glance at some stage, a final glance to conclude her looking back. The right moment, however, seems to elude her. Mireille, meanwhile, considers the distant pinpricks of light in the expansive sky above.

They find the jeep where they left it, near the hill and the rocky outcrops. It is time to leave. Kirika nuzzles unconsciously against the blonde's body, as if seeking comfort in her warmth. She feels a hand on her shoulder now, turning her so that they are face-to-face – the gesture has brought out a hitherto unspoken doubt in Mireille's mind.

'Kirika...'

'It's all right, Mireille.'

'Kirika, you...'

'It is the past. Nothing but the past. I promise you.' She reaches up to place a kiss on Mireille's lips. 'They are just memories,' a little more softly now as she rests her head against her partner's neck, engulfed in another embrace. 'The only future I want is with you. This past...doesn't worry me anymore.'

Before they leave the dregs of the broken legacy, Mireille follows Kirika's gaze back towards the Manor, now just a miserably dilapidated something in the distance. It is a gaze that holds nothing more than reminiscence.

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Dekimashita!

Blegh... now I can understand what people say about endings! Well, that's it for now. Ja ne!