Chapter Text
Chapter 1
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Paris, France, in the early days of the fifth Republic, was something of an enigma. According to the newspapers, this was a new day for the nation, and the nation was stronger than ever. And indeed, the City of Lights hadn’t seemed quite so bright, nor so lively, since that brilliant time over 50 years past, when the world gathered in Paris to celebrate her beauty, her progress, and her indomitable spirit. So glittering was she now that barely a night passed where the stars could be clearly seen beyond her glow, so full of life was she now that the echoes of the past seemed to quiet in observance of a louder, more promising future.
Yet underneath the music that poured from nightclubs and theaters and apartments was still the steady, languid turning of the Seine. Late at night, with the laughter gone to bed, the last running metro cars rumbled beneath the city and rattled the walls and the ribcages inside the walls with their sleeplessness. And the echoes that were so silent in the day found their voices deep in the alleyways and empty parks of the predawn hours, singly softly only to those still wandering, asking how the streets could be so dark with so many lights.
It was one of these whispering nights, rocketing through the emptiness below even emptier streets in a metro thundering towards the emptiest place of all, home, that I met the Devil.
I had been late at the library and, lamenting the lost time, had begun working on assembling my next lead on the metro, my books and papers spread about me on the seat. No one else was aboard, just myself and my thoughts in the anemic light flickering above. So absorbed was I in my work that I didn’t notice the man who entered the car until he was already seated behind me.
I would not have noticed him except for his mumbling, and even at this I did not turn around to look at him. Anyone who rides the metro knows that to look at a stranger only encourages strangeness. I kept my eyes down on my papers, though I could feel his breath close behind me, crying messily and without rhythm. My attempts to ignore him, however, did little to discourage him.
“Oh,” he sobbed, and I felt his hands grab the back of my seat. Despite myself, I closed my eyes, so better to not hear him.
“Oh, God,” he moaned louder, and even my skin seemed to pull away from him as he leaned closer behind me, something brushing the back of my neck, the tip of my ear.
“Listen,” he cried, and it was a plea issued from the very bottom of a grave.
The metro swung around a turn, sending my books sliding as the lights above shuddered, dimmed, and threatened to burn out entirely. I heard my papers scatter but could not move to gather them, could only hunch blindly forward as the wine-soaked voice behind me gasped, “Death!”
Another turn sent my books thudding to the floor. The rails below screeched but did little to cover the stranger’s voice so close beside my ear, as I heard him again cry, “Death!”
And suddenly all noise, all movement, ceased. The metro had arrived at its next station. For a moment the air hung completely still as the vibrations of the train petered out into idleness. And then he whispered:
“Death… is a miserable business.”
He whispered it so sadly that his very words dripped with sorrow. To my horror, I felt something wet splash against my neck and swim down underneath my shirt collar. Tears? Perhaps. I could not make myself turn to face him. I stayed curled into myself, waiting, praying.
I heard him stand, then, and lean closer. So dearly did he want to be heard, so urgent was his message. And so frightened was I that when his voice abruptly rang in my other ear, I almost began to sob myself.
“Death!” he shouted, and at my responding yelp, he lowered his voice once more to a murmur, “Is a miserable business.”
And trembling, I listened to his footsteps fade as he shuffled from the metro, heading out into the sparkling night somewhere above.
Only when the train began to move again was I able to jerk upright, to rush to the window in order to try and catch a glimpse of the stranger. But it was too late; we had already entered the next tunnel. Whether my tormentor was flesh and blood or a ghost conjured by my own fears, there was no way to tell. I was already journeying into the emptiness again, this time most assuredly alone.
And alone was, at that moment, something I did not want to be.
“You shouldn’t,” I told myself as I gathered my fallen books, “You don’t need a drink. You promised Papa you wouldn’t drink.” But…