Quand il me prend dans ses bras

Il me parle tout bas

Je vois la vie en rose...

Elizabeth knew the song, knew the words by heart even if she only ever heard it in a dream. It seemed fitting that it would be the last thing she ever heard.

She was cold, but it didn't bother her. She was lost, but she wasn't alone. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, but she didn't care. She was dying, but for the first time in as long as she could remember, she was content.

She played her part well. Atlas now held the key to his own destruction in his hand. The Ace in the Hole. Rapture's salvation. Booker would have appreciated the irony.

Booker. She never could have done it without him. The only friend she ever had. Even if in the end, he had only been there in her mind, she was grateful.

Sally knelt down beside Elizabeth, offering comfort and seeking reassurance at the same time. Sally took her savior's hand in her own and brought it to her cheek. Elizabeth smiled, her first real smile since she watched Booker, her father, protector and friend fade away beneath the river.

Il me dit des mots d'amour

Des mots de tous les jours

Et ça me fait quelque chose.

They stayed there for a moment, the two lost girls. Elizabeth's body grew limp, blood flowing freely from her head, her hand falling from Sally's face. Her smile faded, the light in her eyes flickered out, and Elizabeth DeWitt saw no more.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes?" Elizabeth replied instinctively, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light.

"Comment vous appelez-vous?" the artist asked.

Elizabeth blinked. She started blankly at the sketch, her own reflection in canvas. It didn't make any sense. Was this a trick? Some kind of cosmic joke?

"What is your name?" the artist tried again.

"Elizabeth," she answered, flustered.

"Pour vous Elizabeth," he replied, handing her the portrait. She reached for it numbly, her eyes widening as she spotted a familiar bit of metal adorning the stub of her long absent little finger.

"Quatre francs, s'il vous plait," the artist said, extending his hand.

That was…different. The man wanted money. She didn't know if she had any. She searched in vain around the small table she was seated at, but spotted neither coin, bill, nor anything that might contain either. That's a first.

"I'm sorry, I don't have any money," Elizabeth said apologetically.

"Imbécile! Pourquoi êtes-vous de perdre mon temps stupide fille?" the artist shouted as he snatched the sketch away. "Américains. Idiots, tous d'entre eux," he muttered as he skulked away.

"Well, that was rude," Elizabeth said to no one in particular.

And different. Things had changed since the last time Elizabeth was here. Of course, technically she had never been to Paris, but still, this couldn't be real. A dream, a delusion, perhaps some bizarre construct her remaining synapses had constructed as her brain started to shut down?

It certainly seemed real. Paris wasn't quite the rosy shaded dreamscape she painted in her mind during her time on Monument Island. The city was beautiful, with the Eiffel Tower shimmering over the Seine. But the streets were crowded and dirty. The faint stench of cigarette smoke hung in the air, Édith Piaf's dulcet tones were conspicuously absent, and the only birds Elizabeth could see were pigeons. And pigeon poop.

Paris, it seemed, was just a city. But it was real.

"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice English voice asked, snapping Elizabeth out of her reverie.

"You know it isn't," its female counterpart scoffed.

"I was trying to be polite. It is the social convention after all," Robert insisted.

"And when have we been in the habit of following convention?" Rosalind quipped.

"You may have a point."

The twins took a seat at Elizabeth's table. As usual, each acted as though the other was the only one listening. It used to drive Booker crazy.

Booker. The thought pained her, like an old wound reopened. She didn't really believe in heaven, not that either of them deserved to go there, but a part of her wished that somehow they'd be reunited in oblivion. Guilt and sorrow gave way to irrational anger, which she directed at the only available target.

"Why?" Elizabeth seethed, glaring at the twins. "Why am I still here?"

"Stubborn, isn't she?" the male Lutece remarked.

"She does have some self-destructive tendencies," the sister observed.

"Rather like her father."

"Always playing the martyr."

"Always showing up where she doesn't belong."

"I don't belong anywhere!" Elizabeth shouted hoarsely. Everyone in the vicinity was staring at the crazy American in the café, but she was long past the point of caring.

"I died!" she hissed. "I'm supposed to be dead!"

"Dies, died, will die," Rosalind shrugged.

"Lives, lived, will live," Robert insisted.

"Blood was shed."

"The debt is paid."

"Look for yourself if you don't believe us."

Tears. She was no longer blind to them. She could see them shimmering in the distance, like little flashes of starlight shining brighter than the sun. Past, present, future. All the doors were open to her once again.

"He saved them," she whispered, smiling as visions of diplomas, engagement rings, and children taking their mothers hands filled her mind. "He saved them all."

"It would seem the cycle is broken," Robert said.

"I supposed we'll have to find something else to occupy our time," Rosalind lamented. The twins stood in unison and started walking away.

"Hopefully something a tad less morbid."

"Wait! What about me? Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?" Elizabeth asked.

"That's for you to decide," Rosalind said dismissively.

"Doesn't he have any say in it?" Robert asked.

"I'm sure they'll sort it out. At any rate, it's not our problem," his sister replied.

With that, the young goddess was left alone with her thoughts. Comstock was gone. Elizabeth would not look for him again. Sally and the other Little Sisters were safe, or at least they would be when 1960 rolled around. Booker and Anna were together and happy in New York City in 1893.

But not today. Today they weren't even in New York.

"Anna! Wait for me sweetheart," a familiar voice called out.

Elizabeth's blood ran cold, her throat grew parched as a little girl with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes ran past her. A man lagged just behind her, younger than Elizabeth remembered but the same in every way that mattered.

"Sorry about that miss," Booker explained as Anna came running back, giggling madly as she wrapped her arms around her father's leg. "She can be a bit of handful…" he trailed off, frozen as he looked upon the young woman's face.

She was maybe a year or two older than he imagined, or remembered, who the hell knows anymore. Her hair was longer, her clothing more sophisticated and modern. She still wore the bird necklace, still had that eager, hopeful look on her face, still had those eyes.

"Booker?" Elizabeth said hopefully. Please remember…

He reached out numbly, like a man regaining his sight. His fingers delicately brushed her cheek, smooth and slick with fresh tears.

"Are you real?" Booker whispered.

"I'm real enough," Elizabeth replied.

She collapsed into him, burying her face into his chest as he wrapped her up in his arms.

"I missed you so much," Elizabeth sobbed into his chest.

"I missed you too."

He held her tight, terrified of letting go, afraid that if he let her slip again she might fade away like a dream. He might have stayed there forever if it weren't for the insistent tugging on his right pant leg.

"Daddy? Who's this?" Anna asked.

"Is this who I think it is?" Elizabeth asked, smiling down at her younger self.

"Anna, this is Elizabeth. She's...an old friend," Booker explained. It wasn't the whole truth, it was enough for now.

"It's nice to meet you Anna," Elizabeth said politely, kneeling to shake the little girl's hand.

"What happened to your finger?" Anna asked, staring curiously at the thimble.

Elizabeth laughed. "That's a long story," she said.

Anna stared at the pair for a moment, a little irritated that she was being left out of the loop. Grownups had a habit of doing that. Most kids didn't care that much, but Anna wanted to know everything.

"Will you tell me sometime?" she asked

"Ok," Elizabeth replied.

"Promise?" the younger girl insisted.

"I promise."

Satisfied, Anna ran down toward a flock of pigeons that had gathered along the riverwalk, remembering her earlier promise to feed them.

"Clever girl," Elizabeth remarked, watching Anna portion out her bed to ensure each bird got his fair share. It seemed rather self-serving, but if Booker noticed he didn't seem to care.

"I tried to talk her out of feeding the damn things. Once she gets an idea though, it ain't easy to talk her out of it," Booker shrugged. Elizabeth agreed. DeWitts were a stubborn bunch.

"You took her to Paris," Elizabeth said softly. She didn't have to look through a door to see how happy it made her. Made both of them.

"I made a promise," Booker replied.

They stayed together for a while, watching the sun start to set over the river. It really was beautiful here. Paris. Family. It wasn't perfect, but it was more Elizabeth could have ever hoped for.

"Do you think...I could stay for a while?" she asked, offering Booker her hand. He took it without hesitation.

See the marketplace in old Algiers

Send me photographs and souvenirs

Just remember when a dream appears

You belong to me