The Seine Will Wait - One Shot (Full Novel)

 

The biting wind moaned across the bleak barren expanse of the battlefield, carrying with it the stench of gunpowder and the cries of the distant moaning wounded. In the trenches on the Western Front, in this smoky gray sky heavy with sorrow, two soldiers huddled together, their breaths mingling in the frosty air.

Eliot was from a small town in England, his once-golden hair now matted with dirt and grime. Beside him sat Laurent, a Frenchman whose sharp features and dark eyes seem to pierce through despair. They had met amidst chaos during battle, the threads of their lives drawing each other together in a circumstance that neither could predict or foresee. Amidst unbelievable horror, they were what kept each other together.

Laurent lit a cigarette, his shaking hands just steady enough to strike the match. "Eliot," he whispered, his voice with a French inflection that soothed Eliot even in the midst of war. "Do you think, when this is over, we'll see the Seine together?"

Eliot managed a faint smile, his blue eyes softening despite the deep lines of exhaustion etched into his face. "I’d like that," he said. "And you’ll have to show me where to get the best croissants."

Laurent chuckled softly, the sound a rare melody in the oppressive silence of the trench. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing against Eliot’s. "Promise me, when we’re free of this madness, we’ll dance by the river. No uniforms, no guns. Just us."

Eliot's throat grew thick. He knew better than to make promises in a war that swallowed lives without remorse, but he could not deny Laurent this fragile dream. "I promise," he whispered, holding Laurent's hand.

The days were brutal, each one a harrowing repetition of fear and loss. Yet, in the stolen moments between bombardments, Eliot and Laurent found their own world. They shared whispered conversations, exchanging memories of lives left behind. Laurent spoke of Paris, of evenings spent painting by lamplight. Eliot talked about his mother's garden, the way the roses bloomed in the summer.

One night, as they lay side by side in the cramped trench, Eliot reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, battered notebook. "I’ve been writing," he said, his voice hesitant. "Just… thoughts. Things I’d want to remember."

Laurent propped himself up on an elbow, his expression curious. "May I?"

Eliot handed it to him, and Laurent's fingers traced the frayed edges of the pages. He began to read aloud, his voice low and intimate:

"In the darkest nights, I find a light not from the stars, but from him. He is the warmth in the cold, the calm amidst the chaos. If I am to fall, let it be with his name on my lips."

Laurent's voice cracked. His wet eyes met Eliot. "You wrote this?"

 "It's the truth", Eliot's eyes blush. "You make this hell. bearable."

 Laurent leans his face, forehead to forehead, over against the other man. "And you, mon amour, makes me believe in something beside that war."

In their gentle kiss, they defied all cruelty of the world; clinging together, they drew the strength from love as tender as it was fierce.

It was a war to continue its brutality each day without giving space for a respite, and their trench has been a graveyard of broken dreams, the faces passing of their comrades one after the other. But through this, Eliot and Laurent remained unbroken.

On a cold December morning, the attack came in. The shriek of the artillery filled all the air, and ground shook where they stood:
Eliot and Laurent battling side by side, their rifles blazing as they defended their outpost. And the attack simply would not cease.

A grenade exploded nearby, and Eliot found himself thrown to the ground. His ears were ringing; his vision blurred. However, he heaved himself up onto his knees, looking around. Laurent was right beside him, bleeding from the side.

"Laurent!" Eliot cried and crawled to his friend. Laurent's face had pale skin, but still smiled weakly at Eliot. "I am not leaving you," he choked out, struggling for speech.

They spotted an opening to take shelter in a shell crater; their breathing came in ragged gasps. Laurent grasped Eliot's hand, his fingers interlocked with the other's. "Eliot," he said softly, "if this is the end, promise me you'll remember the Seine."

Eliot's eyes welled up with tears. "I'll remember everything. Your laugh, your smile… the way you call me mon amour."

Laurent’s lips curved into a faint smile. "And I’ll remember you, Eliot. My light in the dark."

The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder. They knew the enemy was closing in, but neither let go of the other’s hand. Laurent leaned forward, his lips brushing against Eliot’s in a kiss filled with love and desperation.

"Je t’aime," Laurent whispered.

"I love you," Eliot replied, his voice breaking.

The soldiers emerge over the edge of the crater, aimed rifles. The time for Eliot and Laurent would freeze in this moment because they have locked eyes, each with pulsating hearts, beating at the same tempo. And then, it was deafeningly shot.

They fell together, hands still clasped. The world receded around them, the pain ebbing away as they slipped into darkness. In their final moments, they found peace in each other's embrace, their love a beacon even as life left them.

And when the battle was silent again, the sun broke through the clouds, and its rays shone golden upon the dead. In the crater, in the midst of the wreckage, two soldiers lay side by side, their hands clasped together. And though their breaths were stilled, their love remained, a testament to the strength of the human heart against the cruel onslaught of war.

Yet this was not the full measure of their story. Beyond the finality of their tragic end, echoes of Eliot and Laurent’s love began to ripple through the lives of those they touched. In a tattered photograph found among Laurent’s belongings, comrades later discovered an image of Paris—the Seine glistening under the setting sun. Scribbled on the back in Eliot’s handwriting was a simple message: "One day, we’ll dance here."

It became a symbol for those who survived the war, a reminder of the humanity they fought to protect. Letters were exchanged between soldiers who had known Eliot and Laurent. Stories of their bond spread quietly but powerfully. In the shadow of a war that sought to divide and destroy, their love became a quiet rebellion—a refusal to let the world dictate the boundaries of their hearts.

Laurent's family, upon receiving the personal effects of Laurent, found Eliot's notebook in it. The pages had poems and confessions of love that made them tear up. Though the words meant nothing to them, the emotion was universal. His sister, Colette, resolved to make sure their love story was not forgotten and so set out to track down Eliot's family in England, crossing much of the devastated Europe post-war.

Eliot's mother welcomed Colette with wary eyes. She had lost her son and barely had the strength to open the door. But when Colette shared the notebook and explained who Laurent was, the two women sat together for hours, sharing stories of their sons. They found comfort in the knowledge that Eliot and Laurent had not been alone in their final moments.

With time, the notebook was published, and its words touched thousands of lives. It became a quiet testament to the resilience of love against hatred. The title for the book came from one of Eliot's entries:
"The Seine Will Wait."

Years passed, and along the Seine, a small plaque was placed near the place where Laurent dreamed of dancing with Eliot. On it was engraved:
"In memory of Eliot and Laurent, who found light in the darkest of times. May we all remember to love as they did."

Veterans and civilians alike would visit the site, laying flowers and reflecting on the enduring power of love. Couples danced there in defiance of the sorrows of the past, their movements a living tribute.

On the battlefield itself, there was a simple stone where Eliot and Laurent had fallen. Carved on it were their names and one line from Eliot's notebook:
"In the end, love is all that remains."

Decades would pass before nature reclaimed the trenches, but the names Eliot and Laurent lived. Time, eroding all the war scars, continued to spread their story; wind whispers carried it to ears as well as hearts of lovers who believed in love across borders.

Their story became a song for children, a lesson in schools, a play in theaters. It reminded the world that, even in its darkest hour, humanity could find light—not from the stars, but from each other.

And so, after all, Eliot and Laurent danced by the Seine, not in body but in spirit, eternally entwined in the hearts of all those who dared to hope, to dream, to love.