Angels


Girald stood leaning against a wall. He knew that it was undignified to sleep in such a way, and he would have worried. But he also knew that his beauty made up for the dignity he lacked, and it would appear lovely. He gave a gentle sigh, barely perceptible, and settled back. His golden hair was tousled roughly, but against the white wall, it still looked angelic. Indeed, now, anything that happened would only enhance whatever beauty he possessed.

His face was a strange thing, now. His sleep was not peaceful, nor troubled. He bore an expression of serene satisfaction, rather, and it pleased him. His arms were down along his sides, and each perfect, slender finger was half-curled. His eyes were closed, and dark lashes showed clearly on pale skin. His head was tilted, and it put a strain on his neck. It would have been taunt to touch, but accented in that. He knew no one would have ever dared to touch him now, anyway. The sleeve of his shirt slid off one shoulder, exposing more pale, soft skin, almost the colour of marble. The white linen draped over his body, hanging in folds down his chest. He wore a vest of red cloth, dark red, to match the French flag, and to match blood.

There was red ink smeared on the shirt, and a little in his hair, gilding his curls. There was even a touch of it along one cheekbone, throwing it into sharp relief. He wasn't sure how it had gotten there, but in a way, it did make him seem even more imposing than usual. It, like the vest, was blood-red, and he very much liked the effect of it. His feet were bootless, and the bones in his ankles stood out, individually, each looking easily breakable.

He rather wished Jehan could see him now. He was certain the poet would be impressed. Perhaps he'd write something about this. Jehan was gone now, of course. He had gone out. Girald was alone. But only for the moment.

He opened his eyes, looking out the window. The panes were crazed glass, and he never noticed before. Perhaps, though, perhaps they were cracked. Perhaps they had smashed within themselves. Perhaps anything. Had he really looked about himself and tried to see the world before?

He felt peculiar warmth at his bare feet, and shifted his gaze downwards. Oh. Of course. Andre was dead. He smiled fondly at the still form, and considered bending to lay a hand upon its shoulder, then changed his mind. That blood was strange to see. He'd never imagined Andre would ever die with blood on his body. And yet... he had. He'd likely been very happy about it. The last thing Girald remembered about him had been that they held their hands together, and he looked in the other man's eyes for the first time. They were sad eyes. They were lonely, and bitter, and sad. Then there was gunfire, and Andre fell at his feet. Death became the man. His cheeks beneath black stubble were white, as Girald's shirt. White as the snow Girald once dreamed about. White as Cosette's dress.

He was proud of Andre now.

He thought back to when they'd first built the altar, towering, made of tables, and chairs; made of paving stones that Bahorel had torn up, laughing while he did so, flushed and excited. Girald had taken off his boots, deciding that he could move about easier if he could gain traction on the dirt under the cobblestones.

He remembered perfectly when each of his chosen seven had been sacrificed. He remembered Bahorel's death, the first, not at all like he'd imagined it, but still rough enough to fit the fiery man, and smooth enough to be a proper sacrifice. Though he wasn't sure, he thought that Bahorel had lain a long while in his blood before he died, and all the while, had spoken softly to himself.

He remembered Feuilly's more elegant dying, a gunshot in the throat, and watching Damien slowly tumble down, body twisting over each obstacle it encountered, and hearing, very faintly and brokenly, "Allons enfin de la Patria..." Damien had had such a lovely voice.

Combeferre had taken three bayonet stabs in the chest, and sank to the ground, looking at the sky momentarily, then falling limp. His death was not heroically treated, as others had been, and Girald had seen a National Guardsman step on Phillipe as he entered the cafe. He'd felt a surge of anger at this disrespect to Combeferre's ending, and he shot the Guardsman.

Courfeyrac had been like Bahorel, laughing all the time that they fought. His pale brown hair was whipped about constantly by the wind, and he wouldn't stop making jests to anyone who would listen to him. He made the entire thing to be like a game, and once gave Girald a smile of complete childish innocence. He was spattered with grapeshot, and looked once down at the holes, mouth open. "That's undignified. I'd thought to be... shot once at close range... and kill the other fellow..." He laughed helplessly, and collapsed.

Joly had died with Bossuet. Girald never saw them die, and didn't know any of what had passed with them, but he found them a little after Feuilly's death. Bossuet had his arms around Joly, and the blonde boy had a trail of blood between his lips, and a bullet hole in his chest. Bossuet was shot in the back.

"But he must have been protecting Joly... That silly boy. Blonde hair suited him. He was afraid of dying all the time... perhaps he should not have been among us."

Did Jehan say that? He must have. Girald didn't speak to anyone but Jehan during all that time. The poet was the only person he'd needed to speak to. They had lived it differently from the other men. It had been almost a dance, and every now and then they crossed each other's dance path, clasping hands, smiling briefly, letting words ebb gently past one another, and moving on.

Jehan was shot apart from everyone else.

He was captured, somehow; Girald never knew. Now that he allowed his memory to trace it, he realised that he'd thought he'd seen everything that went on during their great sacrifice. But that was thought. It reality, he'd missed much. Many words had been spoken that he'd not heard; many farewells said; many dreams had flickered, leapt up, died down. Many men that he'd thought he knew were different. Those he'd thought good but shallow, like Courfeyrac, had proven apart from his assumptions. He might have laughed at himself for his foolishness in not learning more about his disciples, but his throat was strangely sore.

Yet Jehan. The last time he'd seen Jehan, the poet had a large square of crimson silk tied in one buttonhole, and his hair was coming down. The silk was brighter than Jehan must've liked, since his quiet lover wore only pale, faded colours that didn't match. The crimson was so unusual to see that Girald was sure for a moment that he was looking instead at Feuilly. The fan-maker and Jehan had the same slight, delicate build, and Damien would be far likelier to wear vibrant twists of cloth. But it was Jehan. Jehan fulfilling what Girald had always imagined.

"Ready, aim --"

"Vive la futur! Vive la France!"

"Fire!"

Then gunshots. Then silence.

If he found the poet's body, he was certain beyond a doubt that the crimson silk would have been wrapped around it as much as it could, and there would only be one bullet hole. The others would have missed. And that single wound would be in the exact centre of Jehan's heart.

Things had gone as they were intended to.

And Girald...

He was not dead, but sleeping.

The Guardsmen would be coming to collect the corpses of the insurgents soon, and he needed to complete the sacrifice. Then it would be perfect. Everyone would see how one old man's foolish, insane dream had brought about the deaths of all these young men. It would be resolved. He'd have revenged on his father.

He pushed away from the wall, walking delicately to the kitchen area of le Musain. After a few moments searching, he left the room with a long-handled knife.

His steps were careful, and small, and slow, and he walked that way on purpose. Anyone watching must see how reserved he was.

Of course he had not died before now. When the two of them were shot at by the Guardsmen, perhaps Andre had stood in the way of the bullets. Perhaps they had just not hit, not daring to touch Girald's beauty. Perhaps, with red ink down his shirt, he had looked already as though he would die. Somehow, he had lived. He didn't need an explanation. He knew why.

He climbed to the top of the barricade, his altar, and stood for a while looking over everything. Then he closed his eyes, and brought the knife to his slim, pale neck. This was how lambs were slaughtered. This was the proper way to end the great sacrifice he'd prepared and carried out.

He drew the blade across his throat.

~~~

The beautiful young man on the barricade stood for eternity as the dark blood rushed from him, cascading down, waterfalling down. At last he fell. He fell as beautifully as he was, draping himself over a ready chair. The sun at this time was sinking, and a shadowed, golden light streaked over him, creeping under the ruffled curls of his hair and under his lashes, between his red-soaked fingers and in the folds on his shirt, pooling in his parted lips and shining on the knife that had dropped from his hand and fallen. Lifeless, he was even lovelier than he had been while he lived, the blood adding colour to his cheek that was not there before.

The angel had finished his task.


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