Hello! Here is a new chapter! Sorry for the late update! I had a crazy week, and this chapter felt much more difficult to write than the previous one. Enjoy!
Thank you Bellnconnue, Galan05, Mium, Ic2096, A_Revolving_Door, Jupsten, bepoed _Doflamingo_, AlexZero12, Elios_Kari, Porthos10, , Daoistcfjbct, Yako_3972, Ponny_Samy_2279, and kanKarp for your support!
-----------------------------------------
Five days had passed since Angélique's funeral.
Five days.
François would not have been able to tell them apart. He had barely noticed them passing. One after another, they had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.
He had resumed his duties as a major in the New Aquitaine Regiment and had scarcely set foot on his own estate. He worked from morning until night, until his eyes burned, until he could no longer focus on his reports, calculate supply needs, or plan patrols.
More than once, he had stayed awake almost the entire night, bent over his desk at Fort Bourbon, catching up on overdue work—but above all, trying to forget his grief.
To a certain extent, it worked.
But not always.
Sometimes all it took was a moment of silence. Or, on the contrary, a single sound.
Then everything came rushing back like a powerful wave, crashing over the dike he had built around his heart and mind.
Angélique's first cry.
Her innocent smile.
Her cold skin.
Her motionless chest.
Onatah's tears falling onto the back of his hand.
Her tiny body lying in its little coffin.
Each time, it felt as though he died with her all over again.
His quill froze above a document covered with numbers, and his hand began to tremble. His eyes stung, and he hastily set the quill back into its inkpot.
"K... ngh..."
A strangled sob forced its way from his chest.
Tears rolled down his pale cheeks. He hurriedly wiped them away with his sleeve.
"Damn it..."
A few hours.
That was all she had lived.
It was so unfair that he wanted to curse God's name and set the whole world on fire.
He had held his daughter in his arms only once. Barely a minute.
He had been afraid of accidentally hurting her, so he had quickly handed her back to her mother. François had never had the chance to create a single memory with her.
Fresh tears streamed down his face at the thought.
The joy he had felt when Angélique was born had been immeasurable. The grief that followed was equally immense.
He imagined what might have happened if tragedy had spared his family.
Day by day, Angélique would have grown. She would have taken her first steps among the simple furnishings of the manor. She would have spoken her first words—probably "Mama" or "Papa."
Then she would almost certainly have begun running everywhere, playing with Pierre and Louis, perhaps even bossing her older brothers around.
François would have sung lullabies to her while she was still a baby and told her incredible stories to help her fall asleep. He would have played with her whenever he had the chance and tickled her until her cheeks hurt from laughing so much.
Without a doubt, he would have spoiled her. He would have treated her like a little princess, much as Akwiratheka had treated Onatah. François would have brought her beautiful dresses from France, while her brothers would have made her a little bow and taught her how to ride a horse.
One day, he would have watched her become a woman. With tears in his eyes, he would have walked her down the aisle and seen her begin a family of her own. Then he would have welcomed her children into the world, compared them to their mother and grandmother, and never stopped showering them with gifts.
But none of it would ever happen.
He blinked suddenly.
No.
It would remain nothing more than a dream.
François lifted his bloodshot eyes, red from both exhaustion and grief, to the stack of completed files, then to the much smaller pile still awaiting his attention.
There was not much left.
He bit his lip and picked up his quill again, gripping it tightly.
His stomach tightened, though he should have been pleased.
Soon, the major would have nothing left to hide behind. He would once again have all the time in the world to think...
...and to relive those terrible days over and over again.
The two worst days of his life.
Far more painful than the day he had awakened in this century, or even the day he had finally accepted that he would never return to his own time.
He coughed, cleared his throat, and forced his tears back.
He rubbed a weary hand across his face.
When he lowered it, it was as though he had never broken down at all. No one must ever see him like this.
Knock. Knock.
François looked toward the closed office door and drew a deep breath.
"Come in."
The door opened slowly, as though it weighed a ton.
Sergeant Prévert, one of the men from his company, stepped inside with noticeable hesitation—a detail the major did not miss.
"Sir..."
He offered a regulation salute and took two steps into the silent office, which was only barely warmed by the fire that had been burning for hours in the small fireplace.
"Chief Akwiratheka is here, sir. He requests an audience with you."
François closed his eyes once more, struggling to keep his emotions under control.
His fists tightened against the edge of his desk.
He was not ready.
Perhaps after a few more days. But he could not refuse him.
"Very well... I... I'll receive him. Tell him I'll be there in a moment."
He had scarcely finished speaking when an enormous shadow filled the doorway.
A man built like a bear stepped into the office without waiting for permission, his broad shoulders wrapped in a thick brown fur cloak. Snow clung to the long fur.
Standing beside Akwiratheka, Sergeant Prévert looked almost like a child.
"No need."
The chief had to duck his head to avoid striking the doorframe.
Who would have guessed, looking at him, that this Iroquois chief was nearly sixty years old?
His weathered face looked as though it had been carved from stone. He paid no attention whatsoever to the sergeant, who instinctively stepped back, while fixing François with a gaze as hard as steel.
The major could not meet it. He lowered his eyes immediately.
"That will be all. Leave us, Sergeant," he said quietly.
Sergeant Prévert hesitated but obeyed after a quick salute. It was not the first time he had seen this man, and he knew the bond that united the two.
"Yes, sir."
The door closed behind him, and a heavy silence settled over the room.
The fire crackling in the hearth became the only sound. A log split with a sharp crack, sending glowing sparks dancing upward like fireflies.
Akwiratheka slowly removed his cloak, shook the snow from it onto the rough wooden floor, and laid it across an ordinary chair. He remained standing.
François, who had risen to his feet, also stood motionless.
The silence stretched on.
At last, Akwiratheka stepped forward and simply rested one large, heavy hand on his son-in-law's shoulder.
"We heard."
His voice was deep.
"My heart bleeds with yours."
François immediately felt his eyes sting.
"Thank you..."
He had struggled to utter even that simple word.
Slowly, with great effort, he raised his head to meet the gaze of the dark-skinned giant before him.
But he found a hardness in those eyes that he had not expected. Not now.
His own eyes widened slightly.
Akwiratheka, without removing his hand, pressed a little harder on François's shoulder.
"Now..."
His gaze sharpened.
"Tell me what you're doing here."
"Huh?"
François stared at the Iroquois chief, genuinely confused. Or perhaps he was only pretending to be.
"I... I'm working."
The pressure increased.
"That's not what I asked."
A pause.
Then, more slowly,
"What are you doing here... when you should be at my daughter's side?"
"I-I..."
He immediately lowered his eyes.
"I thought... she needed some time."
"Really?"
Akwiratheka's voice remained calm.
"Or was it you who needed time?"
The major remained silent.
"Your wife," the chief said, enunciating every word, "is grieving the loss of her baby alone."
Another pause.
"And while she mourns... you're hiding."
François flinched. He wished the earth would open beneath him so he could disappear forever.
"I... I've had a lot of work... and I thought... I thought it was for the best."
Akwiratheka ground his teeth.
"She is grieving alone," he repeated.
"She barely eats. She hardly sleeps. You gave her time and silence when what she needed... was you, boy."
The chief's harsh but truthful words struck François like stones.
He had no answer. He knew exactly what he had done. And why. And what he had intended to keep doing for at least a few more days.
He had run away.
He had hidden inside the fort, burying himself in his duties as a major so he wouldn't have to be a grieving father.
"Do you know what she believes?"
François slowly shook his head.
"She believes you're angry with her."
The world seemed to stop.
François's eyes flew open.
"What?!"
His voice exploded.
"Of course not! Why would I ever blame her?!"
Akwiratheka's expression remained stern.
Looking down at the young man, he wondered how someone so intelligent could sometimes be so unbelievably foolish.
"Because she gave birth to a child too weak to survive. She believes she failed... and that she disappointed you."
François's face twisted in disbelief.
"W-What kind of nonsense is that?!"
His voice cracked through the room.
"Never! I've never thought anything like that!"
"I know."
The old chief never raised his voice.
Yet those two quiet words struck François harder than thunder.
"But you never said so, boy. You left your home. You left your wife to bear her grief alone. And doubt found its way into her wounded heart."
François opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
How could she possibly think such a thing? That he would blame her for Angélique's death? It was absurd!
"When there's no one to talk to," Akwiratheka continued firmly, "no one to answer your questions... it's easy to invent your own answers."
He paused.
"In times like these... people imagine the worst."
Another brief silence.
"That's how she understood your absence."
François was horrified.
That was never what he had wanted. Not at all.
He had only wanted time to accept the unbearable reality. He had needed solitude because seeing Onatah suffer only deepened his own pain.
Watching her gently stroke the belly that was now empty felt like someone twisting a red-hot knife inside an open wound. It hurt that much.
Likewise, he could no longer bear the sight of the cradle. Very early on, he had carried it out of their bedroom, stored it in a corner of the manor, and covered it with a large white sheet.
All of it had been for his own protection.
But he had been selfish. He truly understood that now.
Grief, especially the grief of losing a child, was not something one could run from unless one was willing to lose even more.
In trying to escape his own pain, he had abandoned Onatah to hers and rubbed salt into her wounds.
His body reacted before his mind did.
Tears streamed freely down his face.
"So..."
The old chief finally broke the silence.
"What are you going to do?"
François drew a deep breath.
"I'm going home."
He hesitated for a moment.
"I'm going to talk to her. Tell her how I feel and that none of this was her fault. That I've never blamed her for anything. That no one is to blame."
For several seconds, Akwiratheka said nothing.
Then, at last, he removed his hand from François's shoulder.
The old chief and renowned warrior had pressed so firmly that François could still feel the weight of it long afterward.
"Good."
Such a small word. Yet it meant a great deal to the young officer.
The chief picked up his heavy fur cloak. But before putting it back on, he stopped in front of the fireplace.
His eyes lingered on the golden flames.
"You know," he said more gently, "this kind of tragedy happens far more often than young people believe."
"They always think misfortune happens to someone else. Until one day... it knocks on their own door."
He turned slightly toward his son-in-law.
"I've buried children."
François pressed his lips together. Neither Akwiratheka nor Onatah had ever told him that before.
"I've buried brothers. Friends. Warriors I thought were invincible. No man lives a long life without learning how to say goodbye."
He fell silent for several long moments.
"Death is part of life. It can come at any moment. You can run from it as much as you like... you'll never escape it. Say whatever you want, ultimately, the only thing any of us can do is cherish every moment we're given."
François clenched his fists.
"We... we didn't have time. She lived for such a short while."
"Hmm."
The chief nodded.
"That's true. But you knew her. Even if a memory lasts only a single minute, it's still a memory. That only makes it more precious, doesn't it? Your little girl is no longer here, but she still lives here."
He placed a hand over his own chest.
"She lived only a short time. That doesn't make her life, or the moments you shared, any less real."
He scratched his head thoughtfully.
"You know... some men live through eighty winters without leaving any trace behind. I'm not sure that can truly be called living."
The candlelight softened his weathered features.
"But your daughter... in only a few hours... she taught both of you many things. Most of all..."
He smiled faintly.
"...she taught you how deeply you were capable of loving."
The major felt his throat tighten.
He simply nodded.
"Treasure every little moment while it lasts," Akwiratheka concluded. "Treat every day, every minute, every second, as though it might be your last. That's the only way a person dies without regrets. Someone once told me that, in the end, that's what defines a life well lived."
He looked directly at François.
"And above all... don't let the fear of death keep you from living."
Akwiratheka allowed himself a small smile, quietly satisfied with his own words, before draping the heavy fur cloak back over his shoulders and walking toward the door.
"A life without regrets..."
François's whisper was carried away by a blast of icy wind as the Iroquois chief opened the door.
The room's warmth vanished instantly.
Without looking back, Akwiratheka stepped outside and crossed the courtyard blanketed in fresh snow, leaving behind deep, unmistakable footprints.
François watched the broad figure for a long time until it became nothing more than a shadow swallowed by the falling snow.
Only then did he quietly close the door.
-----------------------------------------
The end of the day came quickly.
François straightened his desk and left the small office, a knot tightening in his stomach.
Outside, snow had piled up across the parade ground and the rooftops, even more so against the walls exposed to the wind. Above his head, the white flag adorned with golden fleur-de-lis fluttered quietly.
The sky remained overcast, but the snowfall had finally stopped.
With a determination he did not truly feel, he made his way to the fort's stables near the main gate and retrieved his mare.
Despite the thick blanket of snow covering the road, Carmène carried him back to the manor without difficulty.
The landscape was breathtaking, almost dreamlike, but François could not appreciate it. His heart beat too fast as he rehearsed the words he would say.
All he could hear was the wind whispering through the bare branches, the snow crunching beneath Carmène's hooves, and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
When he arrived, no one came to greet him or tend to his horse. He led the mare into her stall himself and slowly began removing her tack.
His movements were slow but practiced, the movements of a man who had learned through years of experience. He carefully put every piece of equipment back in its proper place, gave her plenty of hay, brushed her coat thoroughly, and then headed toward the manor.
Night had already fallen. The shutters were closed.
François's heart began pounding even harder as he approached the front door.
He pushed it open and stepped inside cautiously, almost like an intruder.
The old wooden floor betrayed him immediately.
Montrouge Manor was silent.
Although it was pleasantly warm inside, a heavy atmosphere hung over the house, making it feel almost as cold as the world outside.
No children's laughter. No smell of soup simmering over the fire.
Listening carefully, he slowly removed his coat and hung it beside the entrance along with his tricorne. When he turned around, he noticed Jeanne standing there.
"My lord?"
She looked relieved to see him.
"My lady is in your room."
She seemed about to say more, but thought better of it. She was afraid of saying too much.
François simply nodded.
He walked toward the staircase. Each footstep made the wooden boards creak beneath him.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
When he reached the bedroom door, he stopped. His hand hovered over the latch.
In the end, he still hadn't found the right words.
I'm sorry?
The phrase felt painfully inadequate.
He took a deep breath. Then he entered.
The room was bathed in the soft yellow glow of candlelight.
Onatah sat beside the window, gazing at the snow-covered landscape.
It was the only window whose shutters remained open.
She didn't even turn around when she heard the door.
François quietly closed it behind him.
"Good evening..."
No answer.
He slowly approached but didn't dare go farther than the edge of their bed.
Close enough, however, to realize she looked like a ghost.
In only a few days, she seemed to have lost a great deal of weight. Or perhaps it was only the flickering candlelight accentuating the exhaustion carved into her face.
François noticed something between her fingers. A tiny wool cap. The one Jeanne had finished a few days before Angélique's birth so she wouldn't catch cold.
She simply turned it over in her hands.
Again.
And again.
François felt his chest tighten.
"Onatah..."
Still nothing.
He stepped closer and knelt beside her. She continued staring into the darkness as though he weren't even there.
He lowered his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
Her hands froze.
"I... I never should have left you alone."
The silence was crushing.
It lingered for what felt like forever. Then, barely above a whisper,
"Why?"
It felt as though someone had shot him.
His lips trembled.
"I was hurting..."
His voice shook.
"I still am. Everything reminds me of Angélique."
He closed his eyes.
"I thought working until I collapsed would help. I thought... if I kept my mind busy... the pain would eventually fade. Or at least... it would give me enough time so that coming back to the manor wouldn't hurt quite so much."
He slowly shook his head.
"But all I really did was run away."
Onatah slowly turned to look at him.
Her eyes were red, but not empty.
"Every time I looked at your face," she said with great difficulty, "I saw our daughter."
Her fingers tightened around the tiny cap.
"But... I wanted you here."
She lowered her head.
"I... I started thinking..."
Her voice almost disappeared.
"...that you didn't want to see me anymore."
"My love..." François whispered, emotion breaking through his voice. "I love you just as much as I did the very first day. Whenever I'm not by your side, it feels as though I'm on the other side of the world."
Onatah's shoulders trembled.
"...You're not angry with me?"
She hesitated.
"For Angélique's death... If I'd noticed sooner... maybe I could have..."
"Onatah..."
He gently interrupted her.
"You are not responsible for what happened. No one is."
He took both of her icy hands into his own.
"Listen to me. Never, not once, have I believed, or will I ever believe, that our daughter's death was your fault. The only thing I know is that you were incredibly brave. That day and throughout those nine months. You endured a suffering that neither I nor any other man could ever truly understand."
He tenderly kissed her hands before raising his eyes to her tear-streaked face.
"And when you needed me most... I hid behind my paperwork. No matter my reasons, I have no excuse."
Tears streamed freely down both of his cheeks.
"Please... forgive me."
Onatah looked at him for a long time.
Then, with a gesture that felt almost sacred, she rested her forehead against his.
"You're an idiot," she whispered in a broken voice.
"A very, very big idiot."
François broke down completely.
"I-I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I miss her so much..."
Onatah pulled him into her arms.
She cried with him.
"So do I..."
Neither of them tried to hold back their tears anymore.
At last, they mourned together.
Their grief was far from over. It would not be for a very long time.
But the chasm that had begun to grow between them had finally been bridged.