Au Revoir, Mon Beau Fils

A scene from a story I'm writing; the whole chapter is powerfully heart-wrenching, even by my standards. It's inspired me to draw a lot of pictures based off of it.

These are Cosette Kenway (née Delacroix) and her and Connor's third child, Gaël Kenway. (I still can't believe I did this to my beautiful boy.)

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Au revoir, mon beau fils; Goodbye, my beautiful son.

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Cosette spent the night up on deck with Gaël wrapped in a warm blanket and cradled in her arms, and so was wakened early by the jubilant shouts that announced that they had sighted land. Cosette blearily lifted her head from Gaël’s, and gazed out across the water before them; the familiar skyline of Boston met her gaze, and she wept with relief, pressing a kiss to her son’s forehead.

“We’re almost home, my darling boy,” she whispered. “We’re almost home…”

It was then that she trailed off, realizing that Gaël had not responded. Cosette grew very, very still for a moment. Then she pulled back from her son a few inches, dread overtaking her in a crushing wave as she hesitantly looked down into his little face.

Gaël had always been a beautiful child, with pale skin and his father’s bone structure, dark eyebrows, long eyelashes, and a button nose that Cosette had always loved to tweak if only to see his look of consternation or amusement afterwards. He had always been animated and lively, constantly smiling or grinning or, if he was angry, scowling or frowning. He was so expressive that the serene, placid look on his too-pale features was far too surreal. Cosette swallowed, sickness rising in her throat even though she had nothing in her stomach to throw up. Something else choked her, too, and she dared not open her mouth. Instead, she lifted her hand to his cheek, feeling how cold he was, and then brushed her fingers beneath the blanket he was wrapped in to fumble for his carotid artery, searching for the steady beating of his heart. It was in vain.

Gaël was dead.

Cosette allowed her hand to fall to his small chest, where she had often rubbed his stomach if he was feeling unwell through the years, patted his back as he laughed, pressed her palm to his sternum as he slept after an assassination just to reassure herself that his heart still pumped, still kept him alive. And now that life was gone. Cosette opened her mouth and drew in a shaky breath of the cold winter air, her vision blurring and her nose burning, and swallowed painfully. Then she bowed her head, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and then leaned her cheek against his cooling skin, closing her eyes and pretending, just for a little while longer, that he was still breathing. When the ship finally made port three hours later, Cosette got to her feet and moved dazedly to the gangplank as it was lowered to the docks below. The captain gazed sympathetically at her as she handed him their payment; as she moved to step off the boat, he put a hand on her arm.

“I will say a prayer for your boy, missus,” he murmured to her. “Are you sure you do not wish to leave him here?”

Cosette did not know what her expression must have looked like when she finally turned to regard the captain, but she guessed it must not have been pretty, if his wince was anything to go by.

“I am sure,” she rasped. “Thank you for your kindness, Captain. That will be all.”

“Missus, are you certain you do not want any help?” he pressed. “Do you have someone waiting for you in the town? I can send one of my boys with you until you find them.”

Cosette shook her head slowly, dazedly.

“No,” she murmured lethargically. “There is no one to help me. And I will not ask anyone else to do so.”

She stepped away from him, then, onto the gangplank and then onto the snow-dusted dock.

“God on high,” she choked out as she took one crunching step, and then another. “Hear my prayer. Take him, now, to Thy care… Where You are, let him be. Take him now, take him there… Bring him home… Bring him home…”

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The year was 1795. During the return journey from Calais after ridding France of Templar influence, they both caught the measles in the ship's cramped quarters, with its poor hygiene, lack of medicine, and near-nonexistant nutrition. Gaël's illness was complicated by pneumonia, and he died within sight of Boston.

...I still can't believe I did that. *goes to cry in a corner*

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Time: 3.5 hours.
Media: Adobe Photoshop CS3.

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Assassin's Creed (c) Ubisoft.
Cosette Delacroix and Gaël Kenway (c) me 2012-present.
"Bring Him Home" from Les Miz (c) Claude-Michel Schönberg.