The Palace Crumbles

Epilogue

A thunderstorm has rolled in, and the two of us are dashing through the dark streets, following what we desperately hope is the correct path towards where we're going to be staying. Some landmarks are vaguely familiar, but it's been years since I've visited this place. I should have come more often; I should have been checking up on the place to make sure it was open for me when I needed it. Now, I can only hope.

We've been traveling for hours, and I can tell that you're nearly ready to give up. You're panting, soaking wet, your face riddled with exhaustion. I want so badly to stop for the night and cover you with blankets, but we can't. Stopping is too risky now.

At the airport, we saw a disheartening news broadcast: they'd found the body we left in the alley. They'd found foreign DNA on it. It's going to be mine.

We decided that this flight would be the last time we were seen on public transport. We couldn't do this anymore. No financial trails on this account, either, so renting a car was out of the question. It wasn't worth the risk. We would have to walk the ten miles from the airport to the village, relying on maps that guided us through the road systems. Our map is so wet that it's nearly falling apart.

I look up; my heart momentarily stopping as I read the road signs in front of us. I can't read the language, but I know the name of our town, and I recognize that we're reaching the last few kilometers.

"We're close, Will. We're close. We'll get a ride in the town."

You just nod, shivering. I hate myself for putting you through this.

Before long, a bright light shines on our backs. We swivel, surprised to notice a car traveling on the desolate road. The brights are blinding, and they stay shining in our faces for much longer as the vehicle slows down.

We exchange a glance, nodding. We're both serial killers — if anyone wants to try anything, they wouldn't last long. I stick out my thumb and wave with my other hand.

The driver's side window rolls down, and a man about our age is staring at us with a wary gaze. He says something in another language, and I can only place my palms together in a begging gesture. I roll up my sleeve, showing him the address that we're trying to reach, and you pull out some money from your backpack. He thinks for a moment before finally unlocking the car doors. We scramble into the backseat before he can change his mind.

Inside, we both sag in relief. "Oh, my God," you whisper to yourself, burying your face in your hands. I want to collide with you, to show you how much I love you, but I'm too scared to. I can't have our only ride thinking that we're some kind of degenerate sinners.

The drive is much shorter than the walk would have been, at only about fifteen minutes. I recognize the neighborhood once we're in it, and I feel so much relief that I want to burst into tears.

You pay the man, and we both nod and make that same gesture profusely. He lets us go without trouble, and I retrieve the key from where I've hidden it so we can run inside.

When the front door is closed behind us, leaving us in a pitch black house that's finally quiet and safe from the rain, you fall to the floor and begin to cry.

"Oh, my love." I crouch, wrapping my arms around you to keep you warm. "It's alright. We made it. We made it. It's going to be okay."

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Months later
Motovun, Croatia
A very comfortable amount of money

The morning sun is beautiful, so I'm taking advantage of it. I sit on the porch, nursing a cup of coffee and skimming over a news article on my tablet. Our faces are on the front page of TattleCrime, and nearly every mainstream news site is warning the public to watch for us. Luckily for us, these stories don't reach as far as Croatia, and we're well enough disguised to fool the rest of the world around us.

I hear the front door of our small cottage creak open, and three large dogs patter down the porch steps to go do their business.  You follow after them, closing the door behind you and taking a spot beside me on the top stair. You roll your eyes as you read over my shoulder.

"God, do they have to keep using this picture of me?" You gesture to the screen, where your scowling face is plastered right next to mine. They've used our mugshots from long ago, now very outdated. "I look disgusting."

"Oh, you get a pass," I reply. "You had a brain disease."

"I look like such a baby, too. That was only, like, five years ago now, but I look twenty years younger."

"Sorry, love. I've aged you."

"Oh, I knew that already." You smirk at me. "But I've aged you, too." You reached up to run your fingers through my hair, which has gotten slightly longer. "You'll be a silver fox soon. You're, what, seventy-six?"

I nudge you, scoffing. "Kopūstgalvi. I'll be fifty this year."

"Alright, old man."

"You're forty-three!"

"Uh-huh. Much younger than fifty." You lean your head on my shoulder, moving closer. "But still plenty of life left."

"Yes. Plenty." I smile softly. Birds are singing around us. "We have so much time left to enjoy ourselves."

"It's been nice. I'm just so glad to relax." You sigh contentedly. "We made it, Hannibal."

"We made it. Just barely."

"We're alright. We almost got caught a few times, but we're alright. Remember, it's a miracle that we're alive at all."

"It was fate. I'm so glad that fate made the choice she did."

"It was about time. I think we were destined for this since day one." You kiss my cheek. "It all feels just right."

"It sure does." I cup your face, tilting your head towards mine, and together we melt.