#frevtober

Frevtober prompt for October 25th and 30th. (I know it is November, but who cares.)

Maximilien Robespierre had a secret. Even if you wouldn't say that about him. He lived by what he believed in, he was incorruptible, invincible. Some thought he wasn't even human, if he wasn't subject to human desires, if he didn't hide anything from anyone. But they would be wrong.

“Why can’t I stay longer? At least once,” Saint-Just whispered against his shoulder. Robespierre felt a few tears soaking his shirt. “It’s going to be midnight… and we have a deal,” Maxime replied, though he didn’t like the way he was pushing his beloved away. “You can’t be here… I’m truly sorry,” he insisted.

“Sometimes a deal can be broken, especially when it doesn’t make any sense. Why do I have to go, Maxime? What are you doing here whenever I leave? Is there something wrong between us?” Saint-Just took his head in his hands and looked him in the eye urgently. Maxime kissed him to dispel any doubts, but didn’t answer. Then he opened the door and gave him a gentle push. “Good night, Antoine,” he said gently. Maxime closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief. He glanced nervously at the clock. It showed three minutes to midnight. He quickly locked the door and covered the window – just in case. Then he opened the chest in the corner of the room and carefully pulled out… a human skull. He stroked it gently and placed it on the edge of the table. He waited just a moment. Midnight struck and the empty eye sockets lit up the darkness. "I'm here, Camille," Maxime told the skull. "I almost couldn't make it today. It breaks my heart to send him away." “It is midnight. And we have a deal, Maxime,” Camille parroted what Robespierre had said to Saint-Just a moment earlier. “If we are not alone here at midnight..., if you are not here, you will kill me again. This time for good,” said the skull. “And then you will die.”

this one's a crossover; in gratitude for @bricktober and frevtober this year, and all the wonderful art and writing i was able to enjoy, and all the prompts to help me get back to writing as i am recovering from months of burning myself out

this one's late, but ghosts can be sorely needed more than one night of a year.

Picture of the scene, printed in number 213 of Révolutions de Paris

The next day, the 10th, around noon, the condemned were brought to the place of their execution. Since 1766, at the day of Lally’s execution, and 1777, at the day of Desrues’ execution, one had not seen such an immense crowd of spectators. The ports, the quays, the squares and the streets were filled with numerous people, the windows were overflowing with citizens of both sexes. Along their route, they heard thousands of voices shouting: long live the republic, down with the traitors. None of them showed any uneasiness, with the exception of Brissot and Fauchet (they were in two separate tumbrils), on whose faces one noticed a dull and pensive look. Several of the others, notably Mainvielle and Duprat, chorused with the spectators several times along the road. Around one o'clock, the condemned arrived at the Place de la Revolution. When getting off the tumbril, Boyer-Fonfrède and Ducos embraced each other, this was repeated by the other condemned, who were already at the foot of the scaffold. Sillery was executed first, he greeted the spectators to the right and left with a serious air. Those who succeeded him in the fatal operation spoke in broken sentences that no one could grasp. Lehardy, who shouted vive la république, was generally heard, thanks to the vigorous lungs which nature had provided him with. The others, while waiting for their turn, sang the refrain, plutôt la mort que l’esclavage, c’est la devise des Français. Viger was executed last. After the execution, which lasted thirty-eight minutes, people threw their hats in the air, and the cries of vive la république, repeated a thousand times, were heard for more than ten minutes. Bulletin du Tribunal Criminel, number 64, page 255-256.

At one o’clock, the condemned arrived at the place of their death. The execution lasted 45 minutes. Sillery and Fauchet each had a confessor, they were the first to be executed. Most of them embraced as they got off the tumbril. Mercure universel, number 968 (1 November 1793), page 12.

Simpronius, who was not a juror in the great affair, came over the day before yesterday to give us an exact account of the execution of the twenty-one criminals of which he was a witness, two steps away from the fatal machine. Sillery was the first and Brissot the seventh. Everyone showed the nuance of their character, and the leaders Brissot, Vergniaud, Gensonné showed fear only by their extreme pallor. The young Fonfrède, Ducos, Mainvielle, Duprat and Duchastel wanted to brighten these last moments through patriotic songs, and this detour of human pride, to give charge to nature, was belied by the lividity on their faces. But let us throw a veil on all that. The majesty of the sovereign was maintained and the place of execution resounded with no cries other than ”Vive la République.” Rosalie Jullien in a letter to her son, November 4 1793, cited in Les affaires d'État sont mes affaires de coeur: Lettres de Rosalie Julien, une femme dans la Révolution, 1775-1810 (2016), page 268.

The next day all of them were executed on the Place de la Révolution, among cries of ”Vive la République.” One man only escaped the blows of justice by by killing himself, his corpse was carried to the execution site and buried in the same grave as his twenty companions. Never, despite the bad weather, did an execution attract more spectators and appear so necessary for the maintenance of the republic. Despite what some of the condemned said on the road and on the scaffold, who shouted: long live the republic! but you will not have it, one was very convinced that their death contributed not just a little to consolidating it. At the foot of the guillotine, several also, while embracing each other, sang this well-known refrain: Plutôt la mort que l’esclavage; C’est la devise des français. Révolutions de Paris, number 213, page 148.

Frevtober prompt for October 24th.

Saint-Just sat on the curb of the fountain in the Place de la Révolution – or, excuse me, the Place de la Concorde – and swung his legs. He watched the crowds of tourists around. It was never quiet here, not even at night. And the lights everywhere. A ghost like him wouldn’t even be visible through them if he enjoyed terrifying passersby. Fortunately, that desire had long since left him. Bored, he lay down on the cold stone and watched the falling drops of water. He waited.

Maxime was late today, but that didn't matter. They had all night ahead of them. He rolled over, but he didn't fall into the water. Ghosts don't do that. They're not subject to gravity. He was hanging above the water, and in the shimmer of the falling drops, someone attentive might catch a glimpse of his incorporeal body. But no one attentive was here today. What was the point of being a ghost, anyway?

"Are you tired of seeing me?" a soft, gentle voice spoke to him over the murmur of the water. But the silent reproach didn't stop him from beaming with a mad, almost childlike joy.

"Never," he replied, and flew out of the fountain.

Maxime stood there, just as he always had. Just as he had a year ago, just as he had a hundred or two hundred years ago. Modest and beautiful. Fortunately, the wounds he had suffered before his death had not in the least affected the beauty of his soul. Saint-Just circled him and then stood beside him.

"Happy anniversary, Maxime," he kissed him on the cheek, if a kiss was even possible in their situation.

“Happy anniversary to you too, dear Antoine. Forgive me for being late. I went to see my old home and got a little dreamy.” He looked back at the rue Saint-Honoré. What if…

“She wasn’t there, was she?” Antoine knew that, but he asked anyway. “Éléonore.” Maxime just shook his head and Antoine hugged him.

“Her anniversary is two days before ours,” he reminded him.

“She would have waited,” Maxime replied. “But not everyone returns. I know that. Neither Augustin nor Couthon ever showed up.”

“We’re alone, Maxime. Let’s face it,” Saint-Just shrugged. “Let’s get out of here. Even though I’m a ghost, this place scares me.”

“Yes, me too,” Maxime looked around, glancing at the place where the guillotine stood. “Have you thought about where you want to go this time?”

“What about the cemetery? A suitable place for ghosts. Besides, we can be alone there. No one will be there at this hour,” Saint-Just tried, even though he knew it wouldn’t work.

“We can’t do that, Antoine. Not while they are thinking of us. Tonight…” Maxime looked at him almost apologetically, as if his heart was breaking that he couldn’t oblige.

"I know it can't be done. I know you, Maxime. And you're right, as always. People still need us. So let's go, we still have a long way to go until morning. At least we'll be together. Shall we head west from here and follow the sunset?"

[for frevtober prompt of today: supernatural entities. with a bit of earlier prompts of ghosts; and gothic on the side.]

[this one's for surviving after a revolution dies. for truth and lies and hope and necessity]

[this one's for saint-just and robespierre, just a little. and marat]

Frevtober prompt for October 23rd.

The black tablecloth covering the table was littered with fallen red rose petals. The whole house had been shrouded in mourning for a week, and no one dared to change it. A glass of wine and an unfinished dinner completed the scene. The man, leaning against the table, dressed only in his shirt, pushed his plate away. Today was the day, he knew. He no longer thought about food.

The man looked around, as if hoping that it wasn't true and that HE was somewhere here. He was surely sitting in his armchair, as usual, reading. Or in the next room writing poems that he would recite to him in the evening. But he didn't see anyone. And he remembered all too well his cough, the blood-soaked pillows, the sunken cheeks and watery eyes. The heartfelt condolences and the handshakes. His beloved had been so young when he had gone. Leaving him behind.

The man groaned in pain. He reached under his shirt and felt a small vial hanging from a string around his neck. He stroked it gently and removed the small cap. Inside was red paint. No, it wasn't paint. It was his blood.

“Are you ready then?” a cold voice called from behind him. The man shivered. He didn’t look back. He knew who—or rather what—the voice belonged to.

"I'm not sure," he muttered. He felt strong hands clasp his shoulders. He felt a chill on his face as "the thing" looked over his shoulder.

"It's him. All that's left of him. The only way you can be together again. But if you don't want to," it said, and the vial became covered in frost.

“No… please. Don’t take him from me,” the man sobbed. He clutched the vial tightly in his hand and breathed on it to warm the red blood inside.

"Are you afraid?" it asked mockingly. "Everything could stay as it is. You here and he there. Forever. Or…"

"I'll do it," the man said firmly.

"It's going to hurt. So much that you'll want to go back. It might not be worth it."

“It doesn’t matter. Even if it’s just for one day.” The man had already made up his mind. He reached for the knife and rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. He placed the blade on his wrist.

A few drops of fresh blood fell to the bottom of the vial to breathe life into the other. Forever united. Forever...

The world spun, the room disappeared, and a terrible pain flooded his mind. He wanted to scream, but nothing could be heard. He opened his eyes. His face looked up at him, alive and beautiful. He felt his hand in his and squeezed it. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. His face was swollen and he could taste blood and bone in his mouth.

“Maxime. Are you awake?” his friend whispered. “I’m glad. I thought you had already left me.” Antoine smiled at him, even though a lone tear appeared on his cheek.

The world suddenly moved, and the deafening cheers of the crowd rang out around him. Maxime was confused, but then he realized that the hands holding his were tied. He saw the others and remembered. He understood how cruel fate had played with him when he realized that they were riding in a cart and that the guillotine was standing in the square they were approaching.

"I wanted a day and I only got a few minutes. But I don't regret anything," he thought, looking into the face of his beloved.

"Nothing can separate you now. Not even death," he heard a cold laugh in his head.

Yes… their blood will soon mix again and then they will leave together.