Paris, October 1793 : The French Revolution
Gabriel’s parents insisted upon him going to every single execution, especially since the death of the king and queen, to be there to witness the start of the future as each life was ended. They worked so hard, and were so disappointed they couldn’t be there with the two of them to watch each one, but contented themselves with Gabriel’s second-hand accounts. The crowds were vast and violent at times, screaming obscenities at those sentenced as they were forced to drag themselves up to the wooden platform slowly being stained a dark mahogany as the day wore on. Sometimes that became too much, and he would sneak far enough away that the cheers became far discernible echoes in the streets. But he nearly always came, with his little sister perched on his shoulders, Celestine’s fingers tangled in his hair with a grip that would tighten every time the blade came down.
He supposed, with as often as he came to these events, it only made sense that one would start to notice things. How the executioner would seem to wait about five seconds each time after a neck was placed under the blade to bring it down, and how the cut would go smoother if the victim was looking down. How a few of the guards would flinch and surreptitiously glance away at each execution, their red caps slipping lower over their eyes each time. How he would always see the same people in the crowd; some near the front of the platform with their fists raised, others secluded at the back, happy to watch the carnage from afar.
There was the little boy who wanted to be up close and time the fall of the blade with the toy guillotine he always carried under his arm, but was always held back by his parents. There was the group of four old ladies, who would bicker and work on their knitting while watching the procession. There was the young working woman, fresh from the textile mill, who would eat her meager lunch of a few bites of bread, and then leave the same way she came.
Then there was the man in the worn mauve coat, with his shoulders hunched so much the collar hid the lobes of his ears. Always in the perfect spot where he was placed perfectly in front of the platform, dead center. The crowd never seemed to jostle him when they jeered, or even acknowledge he was there. When the executions ended for the day and everyone would leave, he stayed and watched until the last of the bodies were carted away, standing stock still with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Sometimes, after he would finally leave, Gabriel would go to stand in his place to see what all the fuss was about, placing one hand over his sister’s nose and one over his own to try to block the scent of blood and flesh. The basket was there, empty now but still red and swarming with flies, and he realized that you were close enough to see their faces here. At the perfect angle to look into their eyes and watch them in their final moments.
Celestine started to whine, so he picked her up and hurried home, careful not to think about that.
The next session of executions were mostly workers of the lower class, accused of rebellion or hoarding food by their paranoid and blood-thirsty neighbors. The crowd wasn’t as lively, but the man was there, even when others weren’t. Gabriel steered his sister to the edge of the square, away from the platform. It was harder to watch these executions, especially when sometimes the person up on the stand was someone you knew. Worse when their deaths were watched with something like excitement and morbid fascination.
It was about halfway through the procession when his sister tugged at his hair and pointed back behind the platform, and something lodged in his throat. Next in the line of victims was Michel, his hands bound behind his back and his normally long curls chopped short. The unbridled joy that Gabriel had come to expect from him since they were kids was devoid from his face as he was led up the steps and pushed to his knees.
“Gabe?” Celestine murmured into his hair, “Is that…”
“Shh, étoile. D-Don’t look.”
His mind raced to think of who could have accused Michel of rebelling against the Committee, and what could have been the cause. To Gabriel, it always seemed that everyone liked Michel, and every room he entered seemed to brighten at his presence. He knew that people were scared, and suspicion was rampant due to Robespierre and the Committee's diatribes, but he’d known this young man nearly all his life. He could not be guilty of anything treasonous, let alone worthy of the guillotine.
He pulled Celestine down from his shoulders and tucked her nose into his collar, letting her wrap her thin arms around his neck while he tried to keep his breathing in check. In the center of the square, Michel was staring down into the basket at the base of the guillotine, his hair matted to his forehead with the blade poised above his neck. The crowd cheered for the blood of the sympathizers and Gabriel swallowed heavily, trying to fight down the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat. Those five seconds it took the executioner to bring down the blade seemed to last forever, but in the last second, Michel looked up and ahead, his eyes wide and face pale. In that last second, he looked truly horrified.
Gabriel sucked in a breath and closed his eyes as the blade was brought down with a heavy shing that echoed throughout the entire square. It seemed ages before he looked up again, and by then, his chest ached in a way he’d never felt and his friend’s body was gone. Not that he could have seen it anyways. He had to blink heavily to keep the tears at bay, and they blurred his vision enough that all he could discern were fuzzy blobs of color.
Celestine squirmed in his arms and he pulled her away from his shoulder, letting her press her dirty fingers to his cheeks to wipe at the tears that had escaped. He attempted a wobbly smile and freed up a hand to wipe clumsily at his eyes with his sleeve before someone saw.
“Gabe? Are you alright?” Celestine’s face was pinched with worry, her eyes wide and glossy. He nodded and hiked her further up onto his hip.
“Yes, yes étoile. I am.” He glanced around the square, at the crowd that continued as though nothing had happened. He looked at the platform, at the blade of the guillotine, glistening with blood and forced himself to take a steadying breath. He opened his mouth to reassure his sister, but the words got caught.
As always, the man in the mauve coat stood at his place before the execution platform. This time, however, his head was swiveled around, a gaunt face looking right at him from over a bony shoulder.
Gabriel’s skin crawled and the air around him seemed to grow quiet. The bile he was keeping down threatened to rise again. He kept the man’s gaze for a second longer before it became too much, and he held Celestine closer to his chest.
“Let’s go, Celeste,” he said, “I’ve had enough for today.”
“But won’t mère and père be angry? If we leave?”
“We don’t have to go home, just anywhere but here,” he insisted. His sister nodded and tucked herself into his jacket as he carried her out of the square and away from that man and the guillotine dripping with his friend’s blood.
#
That night, he found himself in a seedy tavern holding onto a tall, dirty glass like a lifeline, far enough away from his home that no one here would recognize him. It was dim, the light from the fireplace and lanterns casting tall and warped shadows across the walls. The wine was a cheap red, but did its job; he wasn’t drinking for taste. The tavern wasn’t full, but still had a good few patrons lining the walls and crowded at the tables. Gabriel had tucked himself in the corner of the bar, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention.
When they had returned home earlier that day, his mother had asked him how the procession was, once again reminding him of its importance, and how she wishes she could be there to see all of it if it weren’t for her job. He fought to show her a convincing smile.
“It was merveilleux, mother. Such displays of...freedom always are.”
“I expected nothing less!” She smiled and patted his hair. “I believe there is another next week, so be sure to make time, and tell me all about it.”
After dinner he told his parents he was meeting a few friends for drinks and escaped into the night before they could question it. He found the tavern by chance, hidden on a narrow side street away from prying eyes.
He gulped down another mouthful of wine and tried not to cough at the taste. He didn’t want to stay out too late, but he didn’t exactly want to return home either and put on an act for his parents. They wouldn’t be sympathetic for Michel’s murder, he just knew it. Even if they had known him for just as long as Gabriel. They had fallen for the Jacobins’ ideologies long ago. Before he could think any further on the matter, the stool beside him screeched as someone pulled it away from the bar. Gabriel glanced up only to choke on his drink.
Up close, the coat looked more burgundy than mauve, and was worn and fraying at the seams. Around the collar and the long sleeves, there was thin, lacy filigree trim done in black, and it looked to be made of something more plush than wool. When he dared to look up, he was met with a pair of eyes so dark, they looked black, peering at him from a thin, pale face that didn’t at all look young, but didn’t look entirely old either. He just looked...tired.
As the man settled on the rickety stool, he swept back a few wispy strands of hair from his forehead and rested his elbows on the bar. The bartender ignored him, or didn’t realize he was there, but he didn’t seem to mind. The man was content to eye Gabriel and warm himself by the lanterns sitting on the bar. He could feel the waves of heat coming off him even as he leaned away.
“Didn’t take you as someone who sequestered themselves away in a dingy bar, garçon.”
Gabriel curled in on himself. The man’s voice was quiet, and low and rough with disuse, as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone in years. Despite this, it seemed to echo around the room, ringing in his ears and causing his skin to crawl, although no one else seemed to take notice. The man watched him expectantly, patiently waiting for an answer.
“I-I’m not,” he said. The man raised a thin brow at his near-empty glass. “It has been a rough day.” He hunched over and stared into his glass, trying to deter the man from making further conversation.
“Yes,” he hummed. “I saw. Very unfortunate, that.”
Gabriel shivered, thinking back to Michel’s murder and the man’s cold gaze from across the square. He remembered? Had he been following him? His hands began to shake and the glass trembled in his grip.
“Such a young life, to be taken so suddenly, and so brutally. He was falsely accused, you know; you could see it on his face--”
“Silencieux!” he hissed, nervously glancing around the tavern. “People could hear you!”
The man looked unimpressed. “And do what? Kill me?” He scoffed and shook his head. Gabriel looked at him incredulously.
“Do you wish to die? Are you so obsessed with death?” he spat.
“Is that so crazy, in this age?” The man seemed bored, and Gabriel felt anger build up in his chest. How dare he? How dare this mad man mock him, especially after watching one of his best friends die?
“I see you. Every time, I see you. Up there, right up front. Close enough I bet you could feel the spray of blood on your face,” he hissed, “so don’t speak to me of death, you demented imbécile.”
The man barely looked fazed. “Do not speak of death? When it is all around us?” He let out a wheezy laugh. “But that is all people do! Paris is obsessed with death, and yet you wish to speak of something more...agreeable. You, who brings that little girl to an execution. You must think yourself a saint.”
He hissed the last word and Gabriel reared back. “No, I do not wish to speak at all. Please leave me alone, citoyen. And leave my sister out of this.”
“Ah, your sister, is it?”
“Enough!” Gabriel commanded.
The man sighed and kept quiet for a moment, but did not leave. The tavern kept up a steady susurrus around them, other patrons completely ignoring the two of them and his previous outburst. Eventually, while picking at a loose string on his sleeve, the man spoke again, his voice barely a whisper.
“You have lost yourself, l’émissaire.”
“Pardon?” he asked, wary.
“You once held such purpose, but look at you now.” The man’s black eyes narrowed and his thin lips curled into a sneer. Something in his voice sounded amused, and sharp with satisfaction. “You are just a child.”
“Shut up,” Gabriel muttered. “Leave me vieil homme.”
He barked a laugh that rang through the room like a shot off a gun. “Older than you know, boy,” he said, “but before I leave you, would you indulge an old man one more thing?”
Gabriel’s curiosity got the best of him and he glanced over. The man stood up from the chair and it was here that Gabriel realized how much taller he was, casting a cold, dark shadow over him. He held out a spindly, callused hand.
“Come pray with me.”
Gabriel shot up to push the man back down again, shushing him as quietly and insistently as he could. “Be quiet, you fool! You speak of things that will bring us under the guillotine!”
“Please calm yourself. Is it such a crazy request?”
“You know what the sans-culottes think of --”
“I do not care what they think,” he snapped, then softened just a bit. A small but cutting smile bent his lips in a way that had Gabriel shrinking back. “Just a simple prayer to honor the passing of your friend. No harm.”
“No harm? From the man who followed me here? I know you saw me today at the execution. How else would you know I was here? Why should I follow you anywhere?”
“It’s just a prayer. I would never dare bring harm to someone in the house of God. Besides, you would not want to keep your petite étoile waiting, would you?” The man then started to walk away, briefly pausing at the door to beckon him before disappearing out into the night.
Gabriel sat confused for a moment, the spirits clouding his thoughts, before he fully comprehended the man’s words. His body went rigid and he clutched at his glass so tight that he thought it may shatter. Étoile? He wouldn’t… He couldn’t…
No. Celestine was safe at home, tucked in bed. She wouldn’t be out so late, lost in the streets, their parents weren’t that oblivious. He was just trying to scare Gabriel, use paranoia the same as the Committee.
Suddenly, it felt as though his head was struck. The room shook as he was overcome with images of his little sister wandering the streets alone, her feet bare and the bottom of her nightgown dirty with the grime of the city. She looked dazed, her hair a tangled mess from rolling around in her sleep. He felt all the wine he drank threaten to rise and he grabbed at the edge of the bar, desperate for something to ground him.
The vision shifted again and, to his horror, showed the man in the mauve coat slinking out from the shadows of a nearby alley. Celestine kept walking, unaware of the gaunt figure looming behind her.
Just a quickly as he was thrown into this daze, he was tossed out and left to catch his breath. Fear seized in his chest at the thought of his little sister being taken by someone so deranged. With a surge of determination and a bit of a clouded mind, he began striding to the door, and with a shaky hand, reached out to yank it open. The cool night air was a balm on his face, as the heat from the stuffy tavern was getting to be stifling. The street was empty, save for a few people loitering around the tavern entrance, and the man was nowhere in sight. Yet without a second thought, he turned and began moving south towards the river. His legs were strangely stiff as he walked down the street and he hadn’t a clue where he was going, his only thoughts with Celestine. Though the night air had cleared his head somewhat, it still felt hazy. He attributed it to his choking worry and the wine, which he could still taste in the back of his throat.
As though in a trance, he kept searching for about ten minutes, winding through dirty side streets lined with shadows and trash, until he finally came to a stop in front of a narrow, worn-down looking structure. It was wedged between two indiscernible buildings, tall and wooden and stained an umber that looked black in the dark. It was an imposing place that he had never seen before, but he was overcome with the sudden and obvious realization that his sister was here. She had to be. As Gabriel edged closer he noticed that there was a faint light shining through one of the windows, though warped and opalescent. Stained glass. It glittered invitingly and before he knew he was taking a step, he was gripping the rusted handle of the door and wrenching it open.
A wave of vertigo hit him the moment he stepped inside. It was warm here, too warm, and it smelled of long-rotting wood and something sharp he couldn’t quite place. The room was long, lined with stained glass windows and pillars that reached up to the high, shadowed ceiling that looked much taller than it probably was. Save for a row of rickety benches, it was a sad, empty space. What may have once been a lovely small church, now just another example of this revolutionary regime.
At the front of the room, hunched before a drooping altar, was the man in the mauve coat. He had lit a few candles, letting the light cast tall and grim looking shadows up the walls, but other than that, a few opaque bottles a vagrant must have left behind and a spindly cross, the table was bare. Gabriel’s body tensed when he noticed a small waifish figure hunched off to the side of the man, taking up a disconcertingly small amount of room. The man craned his head back when Gabriel first stepped inside, and from this angle he could only see the corner of what he assumed was a wide grin.
“Glad to see you chose to join me,” he said. Another wave of vertigo hit Gabriel and he had to clutch the door frame to keep from stumbling. He heard the man chuckle, and through the haze Gabriel knew something about him wasn’t right. “S'il vous plaît, come here.”
He wobbled up to the altar and heard Celestine’s pitiful whimpers echo around the room. He knelt beside the man, sweating beneath his jacket. It felt even hotter here, much warmer than it should on a brisk October night. They knelt in silence for a while, Gabriel shaking with anxiety while he waited for the man to make a move. He didn’t want to do anything that would spur the man into any action against his sister. He was content with listening to the creaking of the church as wind whistled through the rafters, before the man finally spoke.
“You said that I was obsessed with death.” In here, even more so than the tavern, his voice seemed to fill the whole room, even though it sounded nothing more than a raspy whisper. It echoed in his ears and he could swear that more than one person was talking. “I would not say obsessed,” he continued, “but it has almost always been a part of my life. Of me. But it was not like this before.”
Gabriel cast a worried glance at Celestine, but decided to play along. “Death is a part of everyone’s life,” he said.
“But not like this,” the man insisted, as though he was spitting out a curse. “Death is a beautiful thing, and they have tainted it. He turns his all-seeing eye away as it’s turned into a spectacle, lets them spill enough blood to splash onto children.” He grabbed at Celestine’s arm and lightly shook her, as if to emphasize his point, ignoring her cries. “Before, God’s people died with purpose and sacrificed themselves for belief. Now, it’s just...cheap.”
“Cheap? Citoyen, please,” Gabriel reached for his sister, and shook himself to try to clear his head. “You call these deaths cheap?”
The man ignored him and stared at the cross despondently. “Hmm. I miss the Crusades. That was a war with purpose.”
“Who are you?” he asked anxiously, trying in vain to keep his voice steady, “What do you want with--”
“You know, I knew a Gabriel once.”
Gabriel snapped to attention and suddenly everything seemed brighter, sharper. Everything in the chapel cleared, as though a dense fog had been lifted, and he was left reeling on the wooden floor. He scrambled away from the man, who knelt frighteningly still before the altar, his skeletal hand still clenched around Celestine’s arm. He sucked in an acrid breath through his nose, his heart hammering a discordant beat in his ribs.
In the dim, dirty candle light of the abandoned church, the man’s face looked so much different than what he remembered from the tavern. It was long and pale, almost sickly gaunt, with dark, hollow cheeks and large, sunken black eyes. His cheekbones were sharper and protruded farther from his face with a structure that looked inhuman if you stared at it for too long. His body, now stick thin and unnervingly disproportionate, had limbs that bent at odd angles to keep him kneeling comfortably. The mauve coat, even more burgundy here, hung off his broad, sharp shoulders like a bloody rag, torn and dried with age.
“I knew a Michel, too. He was much more trouble, though.” He finally looked over at Gabriel where he lay on the floor, and when he opened his mouth to speak, he saw a sharp row of jagged-looking yellow teeth. “I’m actually a bit glad they got rid of him.”
“Who are you?!” Gabriel shook as he rushed to regain his footing. As he scrambled to his feet, he looked for an opening to grab Celestine, who could see the man’s true figure as well. Fat tears cut down her flushed cheeks as she tried to wriggle out of his grip. Gabriel glanced around the dark room, trying to find any means of defense or possible escape. The man had stood up, so much taller than he should have been, and dragged his sister behind him as he quietly moved to block his straight path to the door. “What are you talking about?!”
“Oh, you know me, l’émissaire. I used to be one of you, before they cast me out. After that, you were afraid of me, until those idiots condemned the church,” he hissed. “I was a cautionary tale, an example parents used to scare their babies into not falling to sin. And if He won’t do anything about the sorry state of things, then perhaps a bit of fear is what everyone needs to stop this senseless slaughter.”
The man twisted around and brought Celestine to his chest, sharp bony fingers delicately brushing her throat as he lifted up her quivering chin. Her whole body shook with her cries, and Gabriel’s stomach contorted itself into painful knots at the sound of it.
“G-Gabe…” she whispered.
“Let her go! You wanted me, yes?” he pleaded, “Fine, but please let my sister go!”
“I think you need to be taught a lesson, boy,” the man said, his timbre shaking Gabriel’s very bones. “You object to these killings, yet you keep silent! Obedient! You bring this child to watch! Your friend was falsely condemned and you did nothing to oppose it! Out of what, fear? And they say that I have fallen--”
Suddenly, Gabriel lunged for him, making a grab for Celestine. The man cried out in surprise as he managed to get a hold on the shoulders of her nightgown, his clawed hands swiping through the air as she was yanked away. Gabriel dodged him and pushed his sister behind him, then grabbed one of the bottles sitting on the altar. He swung blindly and the man screeched as it clipped the side of his head. Emboldened, he darted away and poised himself and Celestine behind one of the benches and waited for the man to make another move.
“I don’t know what you want with us, diable, or what you are, but you know nothing of what you speak--”
“Imbécile enfantin!” he muttered venomously.
He lunged again and before he managed to grab a fistful of Gabriel’s jacket, Celestine was pushed back and ran to cower behind the altar. The man hauled him in with surprising strength and went to wrap a skeletal hand around his neck, but before his burning skin could brush it, Gabriel raised the bottle and smashed it against the man’s head. He yowled like a cat possessed and stumbled away, clutching at the bleeding wound. The skin had been shredded by shards of glass in his hollow cheeks, leaving the dark blood to drip messy lines down his neck and blend into the high collar of his coat.
“Leave us, now! Or I’ll do worse than that!” Gabriel threatened. The man was silent for a moment save for his ragged breathing, before a wrecked and screechy sound echoed out, high and reedy, from his throat.
“Do what? Kill me?” he laughed. It was a terrible sound and it sent shivers down Gabriel’s spine. “If they can’t, then you definitely can’t, putain de chien.”
Angry and scared, Gabriel jumped forward with the shattered bottle in a tight grip and tackled the man to the floor. They tussled on the dirty hardwood and shot insults back and forth in rapid succession. He raised the bottle up and aimed the broken end for the man’s neck and steeled himself to bring it down. To defend Celestine and himself, and for Michel, whose memory was soiled by this man’s actions. But before he could drop his fist and end this, the doors shook from someone outside banging heavily against them. It echoed around the room and at the sound of several people’s voices, Gabriel jumped to his feet.
“Who’s in there?” they shouted, and banged again. “We heard reports of suspicious activity! Do not try to hide! We are here under the name of the Committee of Public Safety!”
Once again, Gabriel looked around for an escape, his heart pounding in his chest. If any sans-culottes found him in a church with a man bleeding on the floor--
“Sorry, l’émissaire,” the man garbled from his place on the floor, another reedy laugh bubbling up with the blood. “Look at it this way. You’ll be seeing your friend much sooner than you thought.”
“Gabe!” Celestine darted out and called him over, pointing at a shadowed doorway tucked behind one of the pillars in the corner. Gabriel rushed over and picked her up, resting her roughly on his hip as he made a break for it. The soldiers continued to bang at the doors, trying to break in, and at the last second he glanced behind him into the dark church. He expected the man to be lying in pool of his own blood, spitting curses as he watched them run away.
No. The man was gone, the dusty hardwood empty beyond rotting and broken benches. The only thing left was a wet, red stain on the floor.
“Gabe…” Celestine tugged at his hair and he shook himself. He heard the doors give way as he ran down the back hall, the soldiers bursting in with their rifles. It was dark, and without the candlelight he had a hard time keeping his footing, but eventually he found another door that emptied into a dirty alleyway behind the church. The ground was filthy and cluttered, but he urged himself to keep running until he was at least a good few streets away. Celestine still had her arms wrapped around her neck, and this close, he could hear her shuddery breathing and the pitiful hammering of her heart.
They found themselves near the bank of the Seine and Gabriel slowed his pace to a stop in a cloistered alcove off the main street. He pulled her off his hip and set her down gently before kneeling before her. He wiped at the tears still clinging to her cheeks, then leaned in to wrap her in a hug.
“Are you alright étoile?” he asked. Now that he was able to rest, he felt himself start to shake as the adrenaline ebbed away.
“Who…who was that?” she whimpered.
“I…” he paused, “I don’t really know. Je suis désolé, Celeste.”
“He looked like a monster.”
“Yes, yes he did,” Gabriel said, then corrected himself, “he was.”
She pulled back and looked him in the eye. “Are you alright?”
He couldn’t help the somewhat hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his throat. He nodded and wiped tiredly at his face, then stood up and held out his arms. She stepped into them and let him lift her up to his shoulders, once again knotting her fingers into his hair.
They walked down the street, skirting the shadows as they headed for home. Gabriel wondered if his parents were awake, hysterical as they searched for their children, or still asleep oblivious to the knowledge of what they just went through. He was too tired to care, and too paranoid to feel apprehension to what they might say. There were bigger threats out there. Inhuman threats with black eyes and sharp yellow teeth.
He thought back to what the man said, how his accusations had truly cut deep. He was obedient, was a coward who let these horrors keep happening. Michel had died for no reason other than paranoid gossip, and yet Gabriel could barely move when his friend was under the knife. What kind of a man was he?
Sooner than expected, they found themselves close to home. No lights were lit, and he honestly expected the disappointed twist of his heart. Celestine’s grip in his hair had grown lax, and he suspected she was on the verge of sleep. Not that he could blame her; he felt dead on his feet too. Though, when they reached the doorway, ready to duck inside, he felt her breath ruffle the hair on the top of his head.
“Will he come back?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. Gabriel felt his heart stutter.
“The diable,” she continued, “will he be back?”
He froze, hands clamped around her thin ankles and sucked in a shuddering breath. Will he? Was it possible to kill a demon? His skin prickled with goosebumps at the thought of seeing the man in the mauve coat again, at what he might do.
After a moment, Gabriel steeled himself and stood up straight, squaring his shoulders as though preparing for a fight. In the strongest voice he could muster, he answered, “No, étoile. But if he does, I will not let anything happen to you.”
“Promise?” she asked.
“Promise.”