Epilogue

The day after they left, I sold the ruby and put the money I got for it in a bank for safekeeping. Like I said, gonna save up proper now. Then I headed down south.

I actually did try and go legit for a while. Spent a couple months working on a road gang. But it didn't take me long to realize – fuck this. Fuck breaking your back for barely enough to feed yourself. Career as a bandit might be risky, but at least it gives a decent payday. So I left, and spent a week cruising the seedy parts of nearby towns till I overheard some men talking shop. I came over and offered them my services. Once they heard I was a veteran of the Weald, well, they knew I was dead hard, and so they brought me right on in. Been working with 'em ever since.

I never saw Rodin or Dubourg again, and I probably never will. Hope they made it, though. I haven't seen the Hellion, neither, which I guess is for the best.

I'll be straight with you. It bothers me, sometimes. Hellion's curse took hold proper – this shit keeps me up at night. Not every night, but not few either: many's the time I've tossed and turned in bed, all eaten up by what happened in the Weald. All too often, I'm kept up by two simple words: "what if". Those two fucking words'll do your head in.

What if I'd let Rodin attack the Hellion instead of talking him down?

What if Dismas' boys hadn't hit the cannon that night?

What if Guy or Bressac or Blondie had survived in the swamp?

What if I hadn't opened my mouth and suggested we go after Blondie, the night after we hit the carriage?

What if Florent had turned around just a little bit faster when I warned him?

What if Jean hadn't charged the Hellion too early?

What if we hadn't run into the woods?

What if Blondie hadn't taken the speed stone from the carriage?

What if we'd missed both shots when we hit the carriage?

What if Guy hadn't lost those cannonballs in the swamp?

What if Rodin's man in town hadn't fucked up so badly in the first place?

Round and round they whirl, the questions, the mistakes, the faces of dead men, and the Hellion's leering, sneering grin rising like smoke above it all. I hate that woman, and it eats me alive that I'll never get even with her. She'll always have beaten and humiliated me, always have killed Florent, and I gotta live with that. The strong crush the weak; that's just the way of the world. And she was stronger than I was.

But when I start to think that way, what I comfort myself with is this. I got out of there. I got out of the Weald. The Hellion never did, and maybe she never will. She stayed, in that poisoned hell without hope or light. It'll break her in the end – I know it will. You can be as strong as you like out there – there's always an evil out there even stronger. And it'll crush you.

But me? Work as a bandit's much easier down here. Carriages aren't so heavily armoured, and it's rare we get in a proper scrap. Just walk on in and take money from people who hand it over with no fuss. The boys they gamble, and they drink, and they piss away their money – and I'll own up I do that too sometimes – but for the most part, I save up. Couple more years of this, I'll have enough to retire. Go down south, buy a winery, then start a family. I'll get my happy ending yet – unlike her. And so, the way I figure it is, I'm the real winner in the end.

Anyway.

When I was a kid, my mom used to read me stories. She couldn't read any more'n I can, but she had 'em all memorized. The Tortoise and the Hare, for instance – that's a good one. Or The Boy who Cried Wolf. And the stories, they always had a moral – a little message you was supposed to take away from hearing it. Now I'll grant a lot of them morals was bullshit. Some were good, sure. Tortoise and the Hare, say: man who wins is the one who can endure. But other stuff that was about doing right by your fellow man and shit – that's a fool's game. World's too hard a place for kindness.

But I'm getting sidetracked. My point is this: a story ain't proper 'less it's got a moral.

I've had a lot of time to think about the moral of my story. What have I done, to get this far? I've killed men, and robbed 'em. I've made promises, and broke 'em, and kept 'em. I knew when to fight and when to run and when to give up. I know how to plan for the future, and when to cut my losses and get out of a losing battle before it's too late.

So, the way I figure it, the moral of my story is this: it's men like me, men who are ruthless and cunning and know which way the wind blows – we're the ones who come out on top. It's men like me who always win in the end.

Every time.

THE END