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The Simca Aronde hummed along the mountain road, its modest engine a steady counterpoint to the soft rustle of the summer wind.

Rollant de Montvieux VI gripped the wheel lightly, his dark curls brushing against the collar of his jacket.

Beside him, his new bride, Cassandre, perched eagerly in the passenger seat, the crisp photo-copied deed and map spread across her lap.

She traced her finger over the thermal-inked lines, her face alight with curiosity.

The copy hadn’t done the original justice, but the original was so old it almost crumbled in her hands.

“I still can’t believe your parents had this deed tucked away in the attic,” she said, her voice filled with wonder. “And that your family owned an estate in the Alps—in the middle of nowhere?”

“My father has always said it wasn’t worth thinking about,” Rollant said with the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile.

His gaze stayed on the road ahead. “When our land in Charonne was annexed into Paris, they moved the family graves here and sold the rest. The estate was forgotten.” He shrugged. “To him, it was just history.”

“And the gold bars?” Cassandre teased, tilting her head with a playful smirk. “He just handed us one like it was loose change.”

“Well,” Rollant said with a laugh. “Apparently, one of my great-grandfathers hid his fortune during the Revolution. He probably never imagined how long it would last. But the family was set financially when they sold the land. Father says there’s more gold stashed away somewhere, but he never cared much for treasure hunts. Thus, he’s never cared to look.”

Cassandre’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. “Never cared to look?” She scoffed. “I’d be searching every day!”

Rollant chuckled, “I’m sure it’s somewhere in that attic of theirs. Good luck.”

Cassandre shook her head, clutching the deed. “A noble lineage. Hidden fortunes. A mysterious estate in the Alps. A story about an immortal knight. Your history! Your ancestors! How are you not more excited about this?”

Rollant chuckled, his eyes fixed on the winding road ahead with fingers tight on the steering wheel. “They lived, they died. Same as us. That’s all there is to it.” His tone was light, but Cassandre caught the faint shadow of dismissal behind his words.

Cassandre leaned back, crossing her arms with exaggerated frustration. “You’re impossible,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I married the least romantic man in France.”

Rollant reached over and squeezed her hand, his smile tugging at his lips. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Cassandre huffed but couldn’t keep from grinning. “Fair enough.”

As the road signs pointed toward Saint-Pierre-d'Entremont, Cassandre straightened in her seat, her excitement bubbling. “That’s it! We’re getting close!”

Rollant turned the car onto a narrow dirt path, and the couple parked at the foothills of the communal forest after grabbing a bite to eat in the small mountain town.

With backpacks slung over their shoulders, they followed the map into the trees off the beaten path.

Cassandre carried the map like it was the Holy Grail, her eyes darting from the paper to the path ahead.

They crossed an ancient stone bridge that groaned beneath their steps and dribbled crumbled stone pieces into the creek below.

The air smelled of pine and earth, heavy with the whispers of history.

“Do you think it’s still here?” Cassandre asked, glancing around at the overgrown forest.

“If the map is right, it should be,” Rollant replied. His tone was calm, but a faint quiet anticipation stirred in his chest.

They walked for what felt like hours before the trees thinned, revealing a stone wall clearly reconstructed. Ivy vines climbed its surface, clinging to the past like fingers unwilling to let go.

“This is it,” Cassandre whispered, her voice reverent amid a hitching breath.

They followed the wall until they came to an archway, its keystone etched with faint markings: a mountain with three stars above it.

Beyond it, the overgrown cobblestone path stretched to a pavilion with a memorial stone beneath its roof.

Beyond it, the shadow of the mountains tucked a graveyard away, covered in wildflowers.

Cassandre folded the deed and map and secured it in its metal case as they stepped through the archway, the weight of history settling over them like a tangible presence. She approached the memorial.

“Memorial Erected in 1879,” she read. “You are standing on the original estate of Chevalier Rollant de Montvieux, a gift from King Philip II Augustus (1180-1223). It was cared for by the village of Valmont two kilometers to the east (now abandoned) until well after the land was made public in 1827.”

Rollant had moved to the graves and brushed away the dirt and moss from a few headstones to view the weathered engravings.

Cassandre came up behind him. Her gaze swept across the field of wildflowers. “Rollant, your whole family is here!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with awe. She knelt beside Rollant and traced the weathered names etched into a stone:

“Rollant de Montvieux and élise de Montvieux | Life is Love, and Love is Eternal | The Faithful Guardian and the Radiant Flame Together in Rest | Died 1842.”

Cassandre leaned her head against Rollant’s shoulder. “Faithful guardian . . . like an immortal knight,” she mused. “And a radiant flame. Oh, they must have been extraordinarily in love, just as your grandfather told us.”

Rollant ran his thumb over his ancestor’s engraved name, stirring a strange connection twisting in his chest. “It’s just a story,” he said more to himself than to her. “A fairytale passed down through the generations that ends the same for everyone, as I said.”

Cassandre turned his face to him with a soft grasp of his chin.

She placed a kiss on his lips. “You are such a cynic,” she said with a smile, but the adjacent headstone caught her eye.

She gestured to it. “But isn’t it interesting: see here on Amée de Montvieux, Beloved Spouse of Chevalier Rollant, the same Rollant de Montvieux who owned the estate in 1180, and there is no other Rollant except here, in 1842.

And then, he happens to have six generations of Rollant’s?

” Her eyebrows lifted in positive suspicion, letting him draw the conclusion.

“And,” she said, holding a finger in the air, “Amée’s grave is next to Rollant and élise’s.”

Rollant opened his mouth to speak, but Cassandre cut him off.

“And,” she said with a gleam in her eye, “there are no dates of birth for Rollant de Montvieux in 1842. What if the first Rollant really did live through it all—what if he really was immortal for a time, just as your grandfather said at Christmas?”

Rollant laughed, shaking his head. “No one lives six hundred years, Cassandre.”

Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “But what if he did? What if he survived wars and revolutions only to choose to die in love’s embrace at the end?”

Rollant stared at the gravestone, his fingers brushing over the words Life is Love, and Love is Eternal .

For a moment, the idea didn’t seem so far-fetched.

He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him as a child—the faithful knight, the fiery revolutionary, a love that endured beyond time.

“Well, I’ll give you one: it’s an interesting thought,” he admitted, his voice softer.

Cassandre patted his cheek. “I knew you had a romantic side.”

He stood and pulled her to her feet with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, though his lips curved into a smile. “But if it’s true, I’d say he made the right choice.”

His fingers curled into hers as he slipped his hand behind her back to pull her close.

“Then I rest my case,” she whispered before he kissed her with gentle lips.

“Good, I’m glad. Let’s get back to the path while there is daylight left,” he said, but they lingered for a moment longer.

The mountain air was cool against their skin. The graves stood silent, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The wind rustled through the wildflowers, carrying the faintest echo of laughter.

“It’s strange,” he said quietly as they walked back toward the archway. “It feels like they’re still here somehow.”

Cassandre smiled, threading her fingers through his brown waves. “Maybe love like that never really leaves. Maybe it’s in your blood.”

Rollant looked down at her, his heart swelling. “Maybe it is.”

“Well, whoever they were, one and the same, or not, you can tell their bonds were strong by their inscriptions, not just by your grandfather’s stories.”

Rollant pushed a stray piece of hair behind Cassandre’s ear before wrapping his arms around her. “Our bond will be extraordinary, too,” he whispered.

Cassandre kissed him before walking away with Rollant’s hand in hers, but Rollant looked back one last time.

The breeze whipped through the wildflowers as his gaze lingered on the stone etched with their names.

A sense of pride stirred in him—pride in their love, their resilience.

For the first time, a connection to the name he shared ignited in his heart.

It was strange, he thought, how love endured.

Long after the hearts that held it had stopped beating, it lingered—written in the land, whispered through time, and carried in the stories and generations who came after.

He would tell his future children the stories his grandfather had passed down, and he would bring them here when they were older.

They stepped back onto the path, leaving the past behind them but weaving its fingerprints into the promise of their legacy ahead.