I - La Vie en rose

The City of Light, true to her name, is brilliant even at night.

She'd constantly be bathed in radiance, be it from the gleaming starlight or the abundant glow of humble street lamps. And Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the jewel of Paris, would always be the most radiant of them all.

Can a person be more radiant than Paris herself?

Before, if someone were to ask him that absurd question, Capitaine de frégate Mathieu Bonheur would, in no uncertain terms, flatly tell them no.

But now, with her around, he might have started to harbor doubts about that.

He had been following her going about her way as she pleased, watching her smiling and humming a song as she sauntered down that ever-magnificent street under the flowering chestnut trees. Her steps were light and unrestrained by anything and so very human.

He had always been fond of Paris, appreciating every chance he had to visit the city. But right now, he could afford to ignore everything around him.

Her presence was the reason. It took some convincing before she agreed to come along, but now she was with him.

And now, the only thing he could think of was wanting her to surprise him more with the side of hers previously unknown to him.

For instance, he never knew she had such a charming singing voice until now.

"'Parlez-moi d'amour,' isn't it?"

The sides of her face became pleasantly rosy as Dunkerque realized that her companion had been listening closely, and she immediately went quiet. Amidst the sound of motorists speeding through the place, she could still hear that short, fleeting laugh of his. And though she knew his intent was not to ridicule her, for some reason she could not fathom, she became a little ill at ease.

"May I ask why are you stopping?" asked Mathieu, and that pink hue Dunkerque had on her cheeks became even more visible for him to see, as did her disquiet.

"Ah, sorry... I'm doing it without realizing it. But Capitaine, do you, by chance, actually like it…?"

"I like that song, no matter who's singing it. You are probably not the next Lucienne Boyer, but why should that be a problem?"

"Ah…"

Dunkerque had always been obvious when she was being doubtful, even when she did not say it outright—and Mathieu could tell right now she was putting his words in doubt. What other choices did he have but to try and convince her otherwise?

"Well then, sing it again if you don't believe me; see if I'm going to stop such a lovely voice."

The summer wind blew past them as he spoke, and though obscured by her wind-blown hair, Mathieu could see Dunkerque smiling at him, even when the color on her cheeks refused to go away still. On the contrary, it seemed to grow to a deeper shade of red.

"Oh, Capitaine, if you flatter me like that…then I have no choice, haven't I?" she answered as she rearranged her tangled hair. "But you will have to walk closer to me."

Mathieu responded with another laugh, as short and fleeting as before, but his heart was aflutter. So elated was he that he simply ignored the part of him that was admonishing him on the inappropriateness of it all.

"Very well then, madame. When a lady asks, she shall receive. Shall we go and continue this little excursion?" Mathieu gestured towards Place de l'Étoile at the end of the road. Without answering, Dunkerque slowly turned her gaze from the man towards the towering Arc de Triomphe. That imposing pure-white limestone monument, which she had only seen through photos before, looked very enticing.

Thinking of this, Dunkerque turned back to Mathieu, smiling.

"Spoken like a true Frenchman, Capitaine. I suppose we shall? The night is not going to stay young forever, is it?"

Mathieu barely noticed what Dunkerque had just said as he found himself too fixated on her beatific smile, feeling his breath taken away.

She looked very enticing that way.

Seeing her smile faltering from the lack of response, Mathieu quickly realized his mistake.

"Ah, sorry. I was just thinking…of something. Well then, shall we?"

Dunkerque nodded and waited for Mathieu to catch up with her before they resumed walking, her smile returning.


At one particular part of the street, Dunkerque was seemingly torn between remaining there and keeping going.

At least, that was how Mathieu saw it. As her eyes fell upon a row of pastry shops, the aroma of baked goods wafting out of them, her steps began to slow down. But she did not stop completely, only shaking her head instead before resuming her pace.

Yet, even then, she still could not resist the urge to steal intermittent, longing glances at the shop displays as she walked, only stopping as soon as she heard a familiar laugh.

"…Is there anything you would like?" Mathieu offered; his amused gaze made Dunkerque lower her own.

Was I that obvious, she wondered; she honestly thought he wouldn't notice.

"No…that…would not be appropriate…"

She only heard his footsteps going further away as a response. Looking up, Dunkerque managed to catch a glimpse of Mathieu, who clearly had decided to ignore her protestation, entering one of the shops.

L'Oiseau bleu, the shop's sign read; delectable-looking macarons were lining its display, and Dunkerque could feel her heart racing, even more so when Mathieu came out of it, carrying a paper bag with him.

"Here, for you. You want these, don't you?"

"CaCapitaine…I…Is it alright?"

"…Take it. Do you think I'd buy this for you if it's not alright?"

Dunkerque stared at the bag for a while before anticipation got the better of her, and she reached forward to receive the offering. She could already imagine the content from the hint of an aroma emanating from it.

She was proven correct when she peeked inside the bag to find freshly-baked macarons that had her eyes widening.

"…I…merci, Capitaine…It's…I appreciate it."

"Heh. Je vous en prie. Why don't we take a seat for a while? I'm quite tired of walking, to be honest."


Despite her apparent misgivings earlier, Mathieu found out that Dunkerque did not even hesitate to begin eating her gift as soon as they were seated. Her way of eating was slow and measured, yet her expression was one of pure delight.

"Capitaine, won't you take one? I cannot eat all of them," Dunkerque offered as she slid closer.

"Well, I don't really like sweets, but I guess just one is okay," Mathieu answered. He really didn't, though he took one anyway out of courtesy. And besides, he got to see her face lighting up as he did, even though the macaron was indeed way too sweet for his liking, nearly gagging as he took a bite.

"Ah, that's surprising, but I guess everyone has their own taste," Dunkerque said with just a slight hint of disbelief as she bit into her third macaron, sighing in satisfaction before setting the bag aside. Once again, preoccupied with another thought, Mathieu hardly paid attention to what she'd just said.

'So happy you are, eating those macarons…somehow, I wish you're happy because you're with me, not because of them.'

Mathieu frowned but then allowed himself a small, self-deprecating laugh over his foolishness. Never could he imagine a bag of inanimate, baked goods would make him feel jealous; that was the first time such a thought ever crossed his mind, and again, it was all because of her.

Even though Mathieu didn't realize it, Dunkerque noticed everything. Naturally, she was curious; and somehow, though she managed to hide it well, she was amused too.

"Something funny, Capitaine?"

Mathieu's answer to the question began with a yelp, followed by a nervous chuckle, before getting to the actual reply.

"Nothing... It's nothing; I mean, I just remembered something…anyway, I don't think you will find it funny, though."

"Is that so? Okay then," Dunkerque decided to leave it at that and turned her attention to people passing by, though only briefly. "In any case, I'm glad. You looked…happy."

"I could say the same about you. You sure smiled a lot today."

"... It's all thanks to you, Capitaine," Dunkerque looked at Mathieu closely. Her gaze, soft like delicate silk, ensured that he was too powerless to look away.

"…Me?"

"Yes, the kindness you showed me…and…" Here, Dunkerque paused.

"Go on," Mathieu urged her, barely managing to contain the anticipation building up within him.

"…And the chance to see this side of you. The not distant you. I…I don't know why. I'm just happy because of that. Strange, isn't it…?"

"…Me, distant?" Mathieu confirmed. He knew he was usually reserved, but that was because he was expected to be, as someone of rank. If that was the impression he had been giving her all these times, he didn't realize it.

"Ah, do forgive me. It's... It's just because you are an officer, isn't it, Capitaine?" Dunkerque looked away once again, but Mathieu won't let her do that for long.

"That may be true," he said, gaining her attention. "But the most important thing is, I'm not your superior right now—and for the rest of this night."

"Ah…understood, Cap—" Dunkerque, who looked oddly relieved, paused as Mathieu held a hand up to cut her off. He was grinning.

"How about you try calling me by name."

Though with a bit of hesitation, Dunkerque complied.

"Then, would Monsieur Bonheur be alright…?"

Mathieu frowned before bursting out a laugh.

"Uh, I think Capitaine is fine. Yeah, I think I like that better."

Hearing the distinct laugh she had grown so fond of in such a short span, Dunkerque giggled along.

"As you wish, Capitaine."


She hummed the same song again as they walked.

"You really like the song, as I do, I presume?" Mathieu inquired.

"I do, Capitaine. Love…is such a wonderful thing to sing about, no?"

"Well…you are asking a lifelong bachelor, so I cannot really tell you what I think about it," Mathieu answered, and Dunkerque looked momentarily surprised.

"Is it true? A wonderful person like you is a bachelor, Capitaine?"

"…You are the one flattering now."

His face was red. Mathieu was sure of it. For the first time in years. Then again, so was Dunkerque's. At least, he thought, he didn't get to suffer alone.

"I…meant it…" she mumbled, her voice almost drowned by the crowd.

"Okay, let's not talk about my love life or lack thereof…Come on; our destination is already close by," not wanting to escalate their mutual juvenile embarrassment further, Mathieu motioned for her to start walking again.

But she stood still, tugging the hem of her skirt tightly.

"Dunkerque…?"

"Capitaine, will you think less of me if I say I'm afraid this night will soon be over, and along with it, my…my happiness…? Forgive me; I should've known about my place, but—"

That was something he wasn't prepared to answer at all. Mathieu floundered for words for a while as multitudes of people passed them by, not paying them any heed.

"…I won't," he finally admitted. "And frankly…I think you will be alright."

"Capitaine…?"

"You know what makes Paris so special? It's the way she can make you see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Just look at all these people passing you by, going about their business without a care. And you know what else…? Wherever you go, the memory of Paris will stay with you for the rest of your life. And I'm glad you get to be happy, even if it's just for a night. Because…that memory, you will carry it always."

When Dunkerque rewarded him with a smile as dazzling as the stars, his heart nearly missed a beat. Yet, the smile told him she took his words by heart.

Whether or not their relationship would irreversibly change after that night, he didn't know.

All that he did know was that their time in Paris was the happiest he had ever been in his life.

And just like her, he will always have the memory with him, no matter what.

II - La Belle au bois dormant

"So, she's here…"

"Yes, monsieur, she's there," said the captain of the guards. His manner of speaking was genial, but he knew it was meant to be mockingly friendly.

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 the touch.

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

Not too far behind, Jean Bart had started to feel 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 Jean Bart. "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; it 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 captain.

"Don't. Speak. Of. That. Name," the battleship hissed with a dangerous glint in her eyes. Mathieu, who was too unnerved to react otherwise, could only manage a weak nod. Almost right away, Jean Bart released her hold from his collar before motioning with her head towards the door, silently 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, 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 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 ease his regret any, but it was 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.

III - Douleur Exquise

Her memories of Paris were clear, untarnished, unfaded. She could recall by heart every twist and turn, all the roads they had traveled, all the things they had seen, all the moments they shared.

Dunkerque had vowed not to shed any tears so as not to taint those memories. It had been challenging to do so ever since she set foot in the city for the first time in years.

She remembered Paris, just like he said she always would.

But the city before her was not the city she remembered.

Paris might be spared the fate that befell the likes of Calais and Brest, but still, many buildings she once passed by had been cruelly reduced to stark ruins. Some were still left standing but lifeless.

In a way, she could feel some kind of kinship with Paris. They were survivors, yet they had been left wounded and bereft by the conflict.

But buildings will be rebuilt, and Paris will heal. That she was sure. Paris will be whole again.

Yet she was unsure if she would ever be whole again.


A certain girl had never ceased wondering about many things—why she was still alive, despite her sins. Why did her supposed enemies save and nurse her back to health, then allow her freedom? Everything was beyond her understanding. If death could atone for everything she had done in the name of her country, she would accept that fate.

But that person, Richelieu, would have none of it.

And now she could stand on her feet again, to go wherever she wanted—but being given such mercy only served to make her feel lost.

She had thought of returning to Germany. But will there be a place for her there? Will anyone welcome her? She was told she could stay, but it will be just the same—when people eventually realize who she is.

"Noémie? Is something wrong?"

A gentle tap on her arm had her wheeling to face her caller.

"Huh? Ah, nothing, madame Dunkerque. Just thinking about things."

"I see," Dunkerque said emphatically. "I've been calling out for you for some time now, so I thought—"

"It's nothing, madame. I'm just not accustomed to the name yet. I'm sorry."

She wasn't always "Noémie." Years before, she was known only as a mere number—Z23 of the Ironbloods.

Not that she disliked her new name. To have a name is to be human—she surmised that was why she was suggested one. To be human. She wasn't readily dismissive of the notion, but there were times when she would struggle to accept it.

"Oh, so that's it. Will it be okay if I just call you Z23 again for now until you're comfortable with that name?" Dunkerque offered.

"...Sorry, but please do. Sorry for worrying you," Z23 replied. Dunkerque really shouldn't worry about her, she bemoaned.

Behind her smile, Dunkerque was bereaving; she could tell. But she wasn't lamenting what her body had lost.

From the way her gaze wandered, she was lamenting what her heart had lost.

Z23 had never met Dunkerque before the war ended. She didn't know why Richelieu asked her to accompany her to Paris. But now she had begun to understand the reason, just like she had begun to understand Dunkerque.

"Do you mind getting me some macarons from that place?" Dunkerque said; Z23 followed her gaze to a certain shop—L'Oiseau bleu. Even with the rationing still ongoing in some fashion, it was already back in business, although far from well-stocked, judging from the many empty spaces on the storefront display.

"Very well, madame," Z23 nodded as she received some money from Dunkerque. Minutes later, she had emerged from the shop with a bag of macarons.

"Merci, Z23. Why don't you find a place to sit? You must be tired from wheeling me around this city," Dunkerque smiled and took the bag from Z23. The girl appeared to be reluctant to receive even a favor as small as that—if that even can be considered a favor—but in the end, she relented and pushed Dunkerque's wheelchair towards one of the few benches yet to be vandalized after getting her approval.

The seat offered Z23 a good view of Champs-Élysées, and she had a long look at her surrounding, studying it—if only because having a seat without anything to do or speak about felt oppressive. The pavement had fallen into some disrepair from neglect and material shortage in the occupation, and the street was mostly quiet—save for the rare sight of passing automobiles. She had never been there before, but she heard fanciful stories of its glitz and glamour, a place so vibrant as if it had a life of its own–but what she had heard didn't match the grim reality before her, and now those stories seemed like mere sailors' tall tales.

Gazing at the street quickly became wearisome, and Z23 glanced at Dunkerque. She held a macaron, her smile wistful.

"They're smaller now. But it's not surprising," she said before having a methodical bite out of it. She savored the taste for a while before offering the bag to Z23.

"And it seems they're not as sweet as I remember them to be, but not regrettably so. Have some, my dear."

For a time, Z23 only eyed the baked goods. After some hesitance, she took one and bit into it. She had only known one taste before, the taste of austere military rations, and the sweetness felt oddly alien—but not unwelcome. She heard Dunkerque's soft laughter and wondered if her reaction was too overt.

"It's good, isn't it?"

Z23 nodded—if before she took the macaron out of courtesy, the temptation to savor it in its entirety was too great now, and soon it was gone.

Dunkerque—who seemed a little too pleased about it—offered Z23 another, which she gladly took.

"It's good, madame," Z23 said.

"Oh yes, they are..." Dunkerque replied as she took the last macaron out of the bag, though she didn't eat it and looked at it intently instead. Z23, who was about to have hers, paused and frowned.

"Are you not going to eat, madame?"

"Ah, sorry...but you see, someone was kind to me before, too—he bought me macarons from that very shop when it was apparent to him I really wanted those."

"Oh, I see..." Z23 trailed off as Dunkerque continued to cradle the macaron.

"But that was only the beginning. His true kindness was...to see me as a person and allow me to see him as one."

As she paused, Dunkerque ate the macaron while Z23 mulled over the revelation. In the brief moment it took for Dunkerque to tell their history, she was happier than she had ever been that day. She indeed wondered what happened to this person but couldn't bring herself to ask just to sate her curiosity. So she decided she'll wait. Perhaps Dunkerque will tell her more. After all, she seemed to trust her enough, given that she had told such a personal story. She was proven correct soon enough.

"It was only a single night...but I was happy. To learn that I'm a real person; to know that my feelings were real and will always be; happy to be held and return the favor, and...to know it's the start of something more..."

Z23 blinked as she took all that in; if it weren't for Dunkerque's darkening countenance, she would admit her story up to that point was heartwarming. She wished it would just end on that happy note, but she acknowledged that letting out your pains was often better than not all, so she nodded and allowed Dunkerque to continue.

"But every good thing must come to an end, yes? We all make mistakes, some more grave than others. The war that was was one. I had my share, as did he. But even his mistakes...I knew they were for my sake, for my sisters. Perhaps he thought joining that puppet regime would afford him greater clout, so he could find a way to keep us all from harm. In the end..."

Dunkerque paused again to clear the tears from her eyes and allowed her hand to linger on her face for a while. The last time she was finally able to look in the mirror again, the scars had—thankfully—largely faded. She was sure there were only faint traces now.

"In the end...everything was for nothing, wasn't it? Now he's somewhere out there, an exile, and I... I've been left with this pain—this heart-wrenching longing for something I could never have again."

Z23 sighed from the heavy feeling welling within her chest. She still didn't know what to say, but her hand seemingly moved on its own to hold Dunkerque's.

"I'm sorry, madame."

"It's alright. To feel pain, too, is human."

"Still...I wish I could at least do something..."

Dunkerque laughed wryly.

"...You, too, are kind, Z23. Don't you know that?"

"...Me? But..."

"Believe me. For example, you lent me your ears when I needed them. So merci, Z23."

"Ah? But really, I didn't do anything..."

"You've already done much for me, even when we've never met before, and you don't realize it, Z23," Dunkerque said, glimpsing at their hands, feeling her connection with the girl growing deeper even more.

"That... that's the first time someone ever said that to me," murmured Z23. She had tried to hold back her tears, but it was futile—Dunkerque's words were too sincere.

"It won't be the last," Dunkerque assured, "because now you have people who will see you as who you are."

Z23 shook her head and let go of Dunkerque—to her disappointment—only to lean on her shoulder after that. It felt strangely comforting for both of them.

"I've never been one to rely on hope, but now I couldn't help but to," Z23 whispered. "I...it feels...good. To have hope."

"Truly, you've been blessed," Dunkerque smiled pleasantly to see that Z23 didn't flinch nor move away when she lay her right hand on her forehead to gently stroke her hair. She couldn't really explain why she did, other than she was happy for the girl and that she felt she had gained something in place of what she'd lost.

"...Yes, you're right...but it doesn't feel right for me to be the only one with such hope. You, too...must not lose hope, madame. That maybe, one day...you could meet again, in better times. I... I'm sorry if I'm being presumptuous."

"No, you're not. And perhaps you're right, Z23. Maybe I should remain hopeful...and even if we never meet again... I'll have many things to live for while keeping my memories of him. He would've told me the same thing," Dunkerque said, giving Z23 another pat on her head to ease her consternation.

"...And I think I'll be alright with my new name, after all," Z23 soon declared as she savored the affection—it felt like being pampered by an older sister she had just met in a long while.

"The name really suits you, a pleasant and lovely girl," Dunkerque giggled, amused at the emergent blush on the girl's face. She certainly no longer rejected the name, but being praised like that apparently still caught her off-guard.

"Ah...um, well...say, I haven't thanked you for everything, have I, madame?...So...merci."

"Je vous en prie, Noémie."

IV - Retrouvailles

Never—not even in his wildest dreams—would he imagine he could return to Paris. Not after everything that happened. Not after he bid her farewell.

But there he was, standing on the platform of Gare Montparnasse. The train from Brest to Paris seemed to have taken forever, and when he stepped out, everything seemed different.

But former Capitaine de Vaisseau of the Marine Nationale, Mathieu Bonheur, could not deny he was back in Paris. It had been a year—or perhaps two. He didn't really count.

His escorts told him to start walking, and he did amid the curious gaze of onlookers. He won't begrudge them for that. After all, the sight of a shabby tramp being flanked by sharp-dressed men was not something they would see every day.

They probably didn't know who he was or what he had done. They probably wouldn't wonder either, and that was reassuring.

Just outside the station, a car was waiting. The sight of that one person emerging from it gave him pause.

"...Richelieu…?"

Was the flagship of France there to welcome him? He dismissed such a possibility the moment it came to his mind. Why would she deign to do so for a traitor? A former exile?

But then she smiled, saintly, kindly—he slowly lowered his head as it grew heavy.

"Welcome back, Comm—I mean, monsieur Bonheur."

Her voice was gentle, but Mathieu continued to stare at the concrete. He did not dare speak.

"Someone is waiting for you, so it's best we do not be tardy," Richelieu finally spoke after it became clear to her she won't get any word out of the man.

That man slowly raised his head like a child expecting to be scolded but was given clemency. He opened his mouth, only to close it down again within seconds.

Richelieu wondered if he had figured out who—for a moment, he looked as though he would try to run away.

In the end, he simply nodded weakly. He allowed himself to be led into the car.


Mathieu stared outside the window as the car cruised the streets of postwar Paris—not only out of curiosity but to avoid seeing Richelieu in the eye.

So far, she seemed content with leaving him alone, which he was thankful for—unwelcome thoughts were haunting him, and he needed to be left alone.

These were the streets they walked upon during happier times. For just a moment, that brief time was what they cherished the most. But now, only hurt remained.

Someone is waiting for him, she'd said. Who else would that be but her? He had no one else in this city to return to. But that would mean she is alright now. She could go on with her life. She should just go on without him.

His hand rested on the door handle as he contemplated jumping outside and allowing some other cars to run him over. But as he did, he found another hand on top of his own.

"...Please, don't," Richelieu pleaded. "She's waiting for you."

As she said those words, she withdrew her hand, and Mathieu drew his. He went back to staring yardlong outside the window after that.

Richelieu was looking the other way. She could hear sobbing from the opposite direction.


Parvis Notre Dame—it felt so foreign. Mathieu couldn't remember the last time he came there, if at all. As he and Richelieu disembarked from the car, she beckoned him to follow and headed towards the towering cathedral. Her pace was relaxed, as though she knew his legs felt heavy.

"Do you remember the parable of the prodigal son, monsieur?" asked Richelieu as they continued to stroll past the small crowd.

Mathieu sighed; he wasn't too keen on discussing religion—but he had been ignoring Richelieu for too long even though she had shown nothing but kindness. Continuing to do so would be tantamount to ungratefulness, and he hated to be an ingrate. Thus, he figured he could humor her.

"Yes, I do."

"To be forgiven… it's a wonderful thing, isn't it?"

Mathieu made a wry laugh.

"Maybe. I've no idea. I don't know if I deserve that or not."

Richelieu said nothing further as they made it to the cathedral's steps. The saints loomed over them, looking with their stone-like gaze. Mathieu kept his head down so as to not be unnerved by them.

"Madame Richelieu?" He heard someone speaking in a thick German accent; looking up, he saw a teenager he seemed to vaguely remember coming out of the open door.

"Ah, bonjour, Noémie. Has she finished with her prayers?" asked Richelieu. The girl nodded.

"Ye-yes. I believe she would in just a moment. Shall I get her?" she replied, glancing at Mathieu, briefly frowning, then her eyes widened as if she realized something.

"Oh, please do."

With another nod, the girl hurried into the cathedral. She returned moments later, pushing a wheelchair with a woman sitting on it.

His mind told him to stay put, but his heart said otherwise, and his legs began moving towards her. As he did, they grew feeble, and he soon fell to his knees before her.

He had no intention of looking up. He would stay like that.

But then he felt her hands cupping his cheeks. They were rough and covered in scars. They stayed there even when his tears fell on them drop by drop, unrestrained.

"Look at me," she said. It wasn't an order—it was a desperate plea. So he did.

When he did, he could see Dunkerque. He could see her face. The traces of scars on it. The pining, the pain in her eyes.

She continued to stroke his cheeks, not letting go—and at that moment, everything around them seemed to have disappeared.

Mathieu took hold of her hands; they were trembling before that—but now both knew neither was an illusion.

"I...I know I don't deserve it…but…will you forgive me…? For robbing you of the happiness that you could have…?"

"But even for just a moment, weren't we happy? Weren't we free, Mathieu? What is there to forgive?"

"But…"

"If there's someone you need to ask forgiveness from… it's yourself. So forgive yourself, Mathieu."

Hearing the words filled Mathieu with unfathomable comfort, and now he understood the meaning behind Richelieu's words earlier. He was still unsure if he could, but he would try for her sake—for their sake.

"Dunkerque," he called out, gaining her attention. "We'll regain that happiness."

"My body has been broken so…yet you're going to stay with me?"

Mathieu rose to his feet; just like how she had touched his face, he touched hers. Felt her tears like she did for him.

"I would. Then we could travel down the Champs-Élysées again. Then you would sing and be flustered when I complimented you. We could buy the macarons you so loved and eat them while talking about nothing in particular. We…we could…be together again."

Together again—to her, no other words could possibly be more beautiful than those right now.

Now, she's whole once more.