I don't own Moulinsart or Tintin. O_o Big surprise, right?

Goodbye

A hero.

That's what they'd called him.

He sat on the smooth leather seat of the train, his elbow resting on the window frame, his fingertips at his chin. A newspaper rested on his lap, unread. "La Guerre est Finie!" said the bold-printed headlines, bursting with enthusiasm that he couldn't make himself feel. He wasn't unhappy. That wasn't it. But he didn't have the same wild excitement the rest of the world seemed to have.

He sat there, his eyes gazing vacantly out the window, only partially taking in the surroundings that were whipping by far too quickly.

They'd saluted him as he'd gone by, standing in the back the convertible, waving, pretending to smile. It had been like a hurricane—showers of confetti, thunderous cheers, lightning-like fireworks. They'd chanted his name, over and over again. But now that was all gone. The crowds, the parties. Only a few more meetings, and then it would all be over. No more parades; no more guns. No more crowds; no more bombings. No more politics. No more endless, meaningless pain. Life would return to normal.

Of course, normal was a hard word to define.

As he stared out the window, it all rolled past— the wheat fields, the stone bridges, the church steeples poking out from undulating hills. Everything looked the same, he thought. Nothing had really changed in the past six years, not here, anyway. The years seemed to roll past, too. The memories. There were so many memories. Good ones... yes, there were a lot of those. But there were bad ones, too. Far too many, enough to even outdo the good ones. They were in everything, reminding him of what he'd seen. What he'd done.

The train began to slowly screech to a stop, thick clouds of smoke drifting black into the pristine country air. He watched as the station approached, and then he stepped out, leaning on his walking stick as he limped out from the car, onto the uneven wooden planks of the train platform.

He stood there for a long time, gazing at his surroundings, breathing it in. It was a long time before he could even take another step. Dropping his suitcase at the train station, he began his walk through the village. He got kind nods, a couple salutes, the occasional "Bonne journée, Général." He smiled politely to each of them, completely aware that they didn't recognise him, not a bit. It made sense. They, on the other hand, were still the exact same. The same rough, kind village folk he'd left behind. There were no new faces, no new buildings. He was the only one who had changed.

The day was warmer than he thought it'd be, but he welcomed it. He slung his green military jacket over the crook of his arm as he strode out of the village, his walking stick digging lightly into the muddy road. Eventually he took the cap off his head, folded it, and placed it on top of the jacket. The wind blew through his hair now, ran through the reddish-brown quiff on his brow, and a smile crooked the corner of his lips. Now he really felt 16 again. Like he really was going home.

It was all the same. Achingly so. It was home. The lush grass. The stream. The towering oaks—though those were perhaps a bit taller than when he'd left. All around him he could hear bird, singing through the trees, calling out their soft, whistling tunes. The air was like crystal.

Ah, the merry month of May! Spring, the sweet spring. The words sprung unbidden to his mind. He could even hear the voice of the man who'd spoken them. The chorus of birds... the woodland flowers... the fragrant perfumes... the sweet smelling earth... Breathe deeply!

He paused to catch his breath, resting a weary hand against the trunk of one of the trees. His leg was beginning to ache, and it was a long moment before could start again.

He had been in Berlin when they'd told him he had to take be at Mons by the next evening. This side trip had been easy to arrange—he was important enough to get this little favour. He'd been granted ten minutes, to look around and whatnot. But ten years wouldn't have been long enough.

He kept on walking, and it was a matter of minutes before he saw them. The blackened battlements peeking out from the crest of the oaks.

He'd read about it, of course. It had been in the news everywhere. Stray Bomb Explodes on Famed Hall. It had happened while he was unconscious, flitting between life and death- a stray shell had all but exploded on him- but in the end, the news had reached him. So as he approached the blackened ruin, he wasn't surprised, or really even that saddened. It was only a strange, twisting disappointment inside of him. Perhaps part of him had dreamed that it had all been a lie. But now he knew. It was final. He could even see the crater, where the bomb had landed, in the centre of the left wing.

The Captain's bedroom had been in the left wing, he remembered.

It had happened a long time ago, perhaps two or three years. He couldn't exactly remember; most everything that had happened during the war was a blur. But he could tell it wasn't recent. Winter snows had drifted through those arches, spring rains had beaten upon those hollow casements. In the drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and weeds grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters.

He picked up a daisy from a heap of rubble, lightly twisting it back and forth between fingertips. It was strange, he thought, that life would be growing inside this ruin. It was like a promise of hope. Inside a shell that spoke only of the horrors mankind can wreak on each other, was a glade bursting with life and memory.

But despite the promise, there was still death... so much death. The Hall was a ghost of what it had been. A crumbling, blackened ghost. And yet, in his mind, he could still see it. The towers. The hedges. The beautifully sculpted front lawn. He could remember it, all the way back to the first time he'd walked down the drive. When there had been the Captain.

His heart seemed to twist, and his breath caught jaggedly in his throat. He found himself blinking rapidly, trying to fight the sting of overwhelming emotion in his eyes.

From behind, came the slow, hesitant footsteps of a lieutenant he'd left on the train, and he knew his time was up. Swallowing back the tears, he straightened and turned to face the man.

"Excuse me, sir… we're supposed to already be back on the train, sir."

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Oui; of course," he said, trying to keep his voice stiff and formal.

"Right this way, Général Tintin."

He couldn't resist a final, backward glance at the crumbling Hall behind him as he began to limp back towards the trees, his hand gripping his walking stick. He had thought it would hurt to say goodbye, but instead, he found he was at peace. Perhaps a part of him felt like he wasn't really saying goodbye. The Captain was still there. He was alive, in the same way that the Hall was. He would never really be gone. Pieces of him, memories, would linger on, like the scent of spring in late winter. Stirring him. Calling him back.

And one day, he would come back. He'd be back, and the Captain would be here, at the Hall; he would see him again. Standing there. Like a boat, lost at sea, drifting, until the waves carried it back to where it was taken from. He'd be home.

Someday, they'd be home.

A faint smile brushed his lips as he turned towards the trees, his back to the Hall. And he bid it goodbye. For the last time.