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Chapter Text

"Maxime," she'd said laughing and pulling the book from his hand. "Come outside! You can't hide away and read forever!"

"Yes, I most certainly can Gabrielle," he'd said hotly, snatching it back and reopening it to page 394. "And besides it's cold outside. I'd rather read in front of the fire where it's nice and warm!" She'd stuck out her lower lip in a mock pout. Maximilien tried to ignore her but finally couldn't help himself. He laughed and stuck out his tongue.

"Besides, you spend too much time reading such boring things. Who cares about," Gabrielle paused to think. "Rousseau. Yes! Who cares about him anyway?"

"Personally I find his ideas quite interesting." Once again Gabrielle reached for  Maximilien's  book. This time he noticed her hand and carefully moved the book out of her reach.

" S'il   te   plaît , Maxime. Jacques even has a new sled. You can't tell me you don't want to try it out. I know all the other boys back at your fancy school would. And I'm sure your grandparents won't mind. They like me." She fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly.

"Fine," Maximilien said, trying and failing to sound annoyed at his oldest friend. "I'll go put on something warm. Just don't let anyone see you this time." He grinned and adopted the self-important tone  Gabrielle's  father often used around those he deemed inferior. "It's not proper for a girl to go sledding, especially at ten years old." Gabrielle laughed again.

"For as serious as you usually are, you can be pretty funny Maxime! Jacques and I will meet you at the hill in ten minutes!" He'd nodded eagerly and watched as Gabrielle walked through the door to rejoin her brother who was waiting outside. Maximilien smiled to himself, looking fondly at the fading forms belonging to two of his best friends. Gabrielle and Jacques could be patient for another minute or two. Carefully he opened his book again and resumed reading.

Maximilien Robespierre awoke for the third time in several hours to the searing pain coming from his shattered jaw. He took a deep shuddering breath to calm his nerves and leaned his head against the cold stone wall behind him. From inside the cell, you couldn't even tell that it was Thermidor. He shivered, although not from the cold.

The memory of Gabrielle and their shared childhood had been rather unexpected. He hadn't seen her other than in passing since the unfortunate execution of her brother. When was that, he asked himself running one hand through his blood-clotted hair and brushing a chestnut lock from his eyes. A year ago? He sighed, the simple act sending a shooting pain through his shattered jaw. It was almost impossible to tell. The stress of leading the Révolution had turned days into what felt like years.

The day had been hot, so it had to have been at least late spring. His cravat had been soaked with sweat and the heat added to the tension had made the whole affair worse than it needed to be. And of course, Gabrielle had overreacted. She'd acted as though they were executing her brother on a mere whim. And bright though she was, she had thought something as senseless as a childhood spent together would keep him from executing a dangerous counter-revolutionary, loyal only to the monarchy.

"Let him go! Please let him go Maxime," Gabrielle had sobbed into his shoulder. Still, Maximilien had stayed  firm, wrapping his arms awkwardly around his friend's shaking body and praying that no one would see them in the unfortunate position.

" Je   suis   désolé . I really am sorry but we cannot do that." He took a deep breath. He'd known this would happen. Gabrielle would try to save Jacques. She'd always been a strong-willed girl and Jacques had always been her favorite sibling. And of course, she wouldn't understand why it had to be done. In her mind his closeness to her and Jacques as children should have overruled his loyalty to the revolution." He is a  monarchist  and a dangerous man. He was raving about how the people were safer under the  king's  rule! We cannot allow-"

"You can allow whatever you want  Maxime  and you know it! They trust you! All of them do. You have them wrapped around your little finger! They'll do whatever you want them to! Let Jacques go! You know he meant nothing by what he said! He's always been rash, even when we were children playing in the streets of Arras. Please." Tears forming in her eyes, she took his hands in hers. "Do it for me  Maxime ." 

Maximilien answered with a slight shake of his head and had dropped her hands.

"Gabrielle, listen. If Jacques were part of our cause, if he were dedicating his life to France the way we are then-" She cut him off with a ruthless glare, her flashing eyes piercing him like icy blue spears.

"If he were a part of your cause," Gabrielle had said mockingly. "If he were a part of your precious  Jacobin  club or your Paris Commune, then you would let him live!" Her voice rose higher and higher with every syllable until she was shouting. "He's one of your closest childhood friends! Is that not as important as your politics? How could you not let him live? And if not for him, why not for me?"

"He supported the monarchy! That makes him an enemy of the revolution," Maximilien shouted back with equal force. He fleetingly thought of the  DuPlays , the family he rented his room from, who were eating supper in the room below. They had always praised his quiet habits, but now could probably hear the shouting match above them. For once he abandoned all thought of reputation and fonts his rant. "I'm doing what's best for the country. We're not just killing him for no reason! It's for the revolution! Why can't you see that? Everything's for the revolution! It's the only way we'll be free of tyranny!" He'd paused and taken a much-needed breath. "If it were best for the revolution," he said, more quietly now. "If it were best for the people and the revolution I would sacrifice myself. You know I-"

"Ah yes," she'd yelled triumphantly cutting him off. "There! You've gone and said it yourself! Everything's for the revolution! You don't care about anything else! I hate you and I hate your stupid revolution," Gabrielle screamed. She lunged forward. Startled by her sudden movement, Maximilien couldn't process what was happening until he felt her hand hard and red hot against his cheek. He staggered backward, one hand pressed against the stinging side of his face. "I hate you, Maximilien Robespierre! I hate you and your  Jacobins  and the whole Commune! I hope you all rot in hell! And to think that we used to be friends. At one point," she'd breathed, her eyes still filled with contempt, tears and now a twinge of regret. "At one point I wished we'd been more than friends. Although you were always too preoccupied with your law office and later the revolution to court anyone properly." It had taken Maximilien a moment to realize what she'd meant. Suddenly it clicked, and he opened his mouth, desperate to say something to save the situation.

"Don't you understand," he asked, frantically trying to grab her wrist and make her stay or see reason, or anything really. "I'm not doing this for me. It's for the good of the people! It's for the good of France!" It had been too late. Gabrielle had already stormed out the door. He'd heard her apologizing to the  Duplays  for the noise and thanking them for allowing her to visit. After watching her fading form from the window he'd cursed and aggressively pulled the quill from his ink-pot, signing his name on the death  warrant and repeating over and over again that he was in the right.

The next day he hadn't attended the daily executions at La Place De La Révolution.

Could there have been some truth in what Gabrielle had said, he asked himself, his green eyes half-closed. Was the revolution really the only thing he had cared about? Was executing one of his best friends from childhood really for the benefit of France? After all, not only Jacques had died because of the revolution. Danton and Desmoulins who had also been among his closest friends, and fellow revolutionaries for a time, had died as well.

But something justified it, a stronger voice in his mind said. They wanted to end the revolution prematurely before it had even reached its full potential. They were for it at first, yes, but they turned against you and the revolution.

He thought of Camille, the boy he had helped with his stuttering when they were in school who grew into the young man who had believed in him and the revolution so much, and finally the father who had made him the godfather of his only child. He thought of Danton, who had been his friend, a father to three children, and an extraordinary revolutionary until his disapproval of the Terror.

Maximilien laughed bitterly at the thought of his dead friends, only to grimace in pain and choke on the blood that was pouring in from his shattered jaw, the metallic taste filling his mouth. The blood of Danton chokes you, his enemies called to him once. Now it was his own blood that he choked on.

A tear slid down his cheek and into the filthy bandage that held his jaw in place. It had been years since he'd allowed himself to cry. He had needed to maintain his reputation and powerful revolutionary leaders did not cry. Now it didn't matter. He was no longer "L'incorruptible", the most feared and respected man in all of France. He no longer held power. Instead, they view him as a tyrant; an enemy of the state. An enemy of the very government he helped create.

A sob left Maximilien's lips. It all was too much. Once again, the pain became unbearable and he fell back into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

"How ironic." The larger than life form of his old friend Georges  Danton  sat across from him, grinning nastily. "How hilariously funny." Maximilien stared.

"You... you're supposed to be dead! We executed you!" His hands shook. "We  guillotined  you!"  Danton  laughed harshly.  Maximilien had rarely been on the receiving end of  Danton's  condescending laugh.

"I know. You executed me. Me, a man who was once your friend. And now that's what they will do to you. Yes. You, their once-great 'Incorruptible.' A thin red cut drew itself across  Danton's  wide throat. He smiled grimly, the scars from his nearly fatal childhood warping his face, just as they had done during life. Slowly, with Maximilien staring in mute horror, the cut deepened. Maximilien swallowed hard and tried to look away but sat frozen in terror.  Danton's  head fell from his shoulders and rolled onto the floor, blood soaking his clothes and pooling beneath the head near his feet. Maximilien screamed.

"This will happen to you,"  Danton's  deep voice said, echoing in his ears. "This is what will happen to you." Maximilien covered his ears, but it was a fruitless attempt. "You're going to die like this. Just the way I did. How ironic."

Maximilien woke up in a cold sweat, his light brown hair plastered to his forehead. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and rested his head gingerly in his hands. What a god awful dream, he thought to himself, trying to push the haunting image of his former friend's decapitated head from his mind.

The stubborn man never knew when to back down or shut up, not even when faced with his own death. Maximilien remembered the story Danton had told him from his childhood about the time he'd been trampled and nearly killed by his family's pigs. All because he wanted to prove to his sister that he wasn't a coward. Out of all the names he'd been called during his life, a coward was the only thing Danton refused to stand for.

"Georges," Maximilien had groaned in annoyance for the fourth time in the last hour. "You can't physically fight one of the other members of the Convention because they insulted you." The bigger man  scowled  and continued to roughly push his way through the crowd exiting the building. "And you've got to stop swearing during the meetings."

"They're accusing me of being a coward! I've put my  damn  life on the line for the  fucking  revolution countless times! And this is what I get!" He shouldered one last person out of the way, sending him sprawling, and stormed over to the carriage that he had taken that morning.

"Don't take it to heart Georges. They say it even to the best of us. What did you even say this time to get them so worked up?"

"I said it's time to stop the  fucking  Terror. People are afraid and it's just getting worse! You and I both-"

"No." Maximilien had cut him off sharply, his voice losing the warm tone of a friend and descending into cold detachment. "Terror is doing exactly what it needs to do. It's for the good of the people. You need to get that thick head where it needs to be and remember that you're doing this for France, not yourself. And remember that no one has forgotten about those bribes you took, regardless of how long ago you took them." A tense silence fell between them for a few seconds. Maximilien sighed and continued in a tired voice. "Go home Georges. Before you get into any more trouble today, my friend."

Danton, he told himself in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, was no longer a revolutionary when he'd been executed. Everyone who really truly cared about the revolution knew the Terror was necessary. Danton had not agreed. It was obvious that if he would not aid them with what needed to be done, then he had turned against them and needed to be eliminated.

And it wasn't as if it had hurt to kill a friend, much less two in a single day. He remembered that he had eaten nothing the day they condemned Danton and Desmoulins nor the day they had been executed, ignoring the fact that he skipped most meals he could get away with anyway. But despite their friendship, Danton and Desmoulins had still needed to die. If they had executed people based on raw emotions rather than the needs of the people the revolution wouldn't have lasted so long. If only they'd all been a bit more careful.

After all, the people were the reason for everything. People like his sisters and brother who had lived their whole lives off of chance opportunities and his own hard work to provide for them. People like the young boy who had begged him for spare change every morning back in Arras. People like them made up the entirety of the third estate, which in turn made up the majority of France itself. They were the reason things needed to change.

There were other people of course. The members of the second estate, the clergy. The men with positions of power that they claimed were 'for the glory of God.' Yet each of them had their own dark secrets. There were the priests who embezzled their church's money instead of helping those in need. There were the ones with the bastard sons and daughters that they hid from the scathing public eye. All of them leading lives of deception only to turn around and claim to be better than the rest.

And of course the worst of all, people like the late Roi and Reine and their court, whose lavish spendings and poor decisions had ruined the country.

Maximilien closed his eyes and sat in silence for a moment. Something Danton had said in the dream nagged at his mind. How ironic. Danton's voice filled his mind again. Maximilien had to admit that in this aspect, Danton was right.

His life had always been full of cruel irony. Those he cared about had been executed for the good of France, and he now awaited the same fate for a supposed same reason. For the past several months he'd seen conspiracies to overthrow him everywhere. While some were true, most were not and the people who were fed up with him had eventually done the thing he had feared. He'd saved France from the corruption that was the monarchy by creating the new French Republic in which everyone could be free. Now those who had once cheered his actions called him a tyrant, a man concerned only with his power-grabbing self-interests, and imprisoned him. And, he told himself with a painful sneer, the most glaring of them all. The time I read a speech as a schoolboy in honor of the king, the very man I helped overthrow.

"Maximilien please see me after class. I need to speak to you about something."  Maximilien's  heart had nearly stopped. It was rarely a good sign for someone to stay after class.

"Yes, Monsieur Dubois" he'd breathed. The rest of the lesson had gone slowly as if purposely causing him more anxiety than needed. It wasn't as if I've done something wrong, he reasoned with himself. And my marks aren't low enough to cause any concern. In fact, they're better than most of my peer's marks. His gaze had to have wandered because a sharp, "Eyes up front de Robespierre," had resounded from the front of the room. Many of the other young men snickered. It was a small but rare pleasure to laugh at someone who never misbehaved. He'd sat up straighter then, heat and a light blush creeping up his pale cheeks, across his ears, and down his neck. "Pardon Monsieur," he'd muttered, shepherding his thoughts back to the lecture. When the lecture had finally ended, Maximilien had slowly made his way to the front of the room.

"You... you wanted to see me monsieur," he'd said anxiously, the note of panic evident in his voice.  His fingers fidgeted  with  the  gleaming  buttons on his coat.

"Yes, I did. As I'm sure you know, their royal  majesties  the  Roi  and  Reine  will be visiting us here in a couple of days." Silently he had nodded, wondering what this had to do with him. "We have been asked to have a student read a speech, of my composition, in Latin for them on that day. The headmaster and I have both agreed that you will be the one to read the speech and represent all of the students here." It had left Maximilien stunned.  He blinked several times and found his voice with a shake of his head.

"I'm sorry Monsieur, but I thought I just heard you say that I was to read the speech before the King and Queen."  Monsieur  Dubois had laughed good-naturedly  and put a hand on Maximilien's thin shoulder.

"That is exactly what I said, dear boy. You are one of the best orators that we have here. It would be unthinkable to have any of our other fine young men perform such an honorable task." Maximilien grinned, his feelings for the monarchy temporarily absent and replaced with pride.

He had practiced daily for his speech, he remembered fondly. It has been the highest honor at the time. How he wished he could go back to that day. Back in the days before all of France watched anything he did. No matter, he told himself bitterly. It will all be over soon. Oh God, he thought, realization sweeping over him. It will all be over soon.

Maximilien's heart raced. His breathing became shallow and ragged, the stale air barely reaching his lungs. Terrified, his green eyes darted around the dimly lit cell. This can't be happening, he thought wildly. This can't be the end. Tears filled his eyes. Non, he screamed internally. No, no, no! This can't be happening! Shhhhh, a quieter voice in his mind said. Think of something else. Think of anything else but this.

Maximilien's hand had shaken as he held the piece of parchment with his speech written on it. There was no room for error. The speech's execution had to be perfect. He had paced in the corner of the crowded courtyard muttering the speech over and over for over an hour. The carriage had arrived in a fanfare of trumpets from the school band. Maximilien had watched awestruck, as a well-dressed man in light blue livery opened the ornate door to the carriage.

"We welcome you with honor your majesties," the headmaster said with a deep bow in the direction of the carriage. Maximilien had tried to push his way farther to the front, but to no avail. Oh no, he'd thought in despair. It's almost my cue and... A hand had closed around his wrist and pulled him through the throng of students. "I have the utmost honor to present to you, one of our aspiring lawyers and greatest orators, Maximilien de Robespierre." On his cue, Maximilien had found himself at the front of the crowd, the hand no longer tight around his wrist.  Monsieur  Dubois had gently pushed the young man forward and positioned him in front of the open door.

The king didn't even get out. He's just sitting there amongst his finery and paying me no mind, Maximilien had thought angrily. He's sitting there with all of his riches, not having a care in the world, while I struggled to even afford my  f*cking  schooling! He had pushed the anger aside, mentally chided himself for swearing and reminded himself of what he had been chosen to do.

"Honorable majesties," Maximilien had said with a deep bow, his voice carrying no trace of his resentment. "Thank you for gracing us here at College Louis la Grande with your noble presence." And with that, he had looked up into the round face of the man he would later help condemn to death.

Chapter Text

Finally, Maximilien's pulse and breathing slowed back to normal. Reminiscing had helped. He took a deep breath and carefully leaned his forehead against his knees. He needed to just come to terms with his impending death. It was inevitable. He shuddered again, remembering his horrific dream. Had he really been so cruel as to execute one of his friends? And to justify it by claiming that it was for the good of France? Maybe he deserved to die. He'd failed not only his friends but his mother as well.

"Maxime," his mother had said to him years ago, laying pale and ghostlike in her bed. One of her thin hands was clasped tightly in young Maximilien's. He let go momentarily and unceremoniously crawled into the bed beside her, nestling himself in a fetal position and grabbing her hand again. She stroked his hair slowly, as if the simple act was the most difficult thing in the world. "Do you promise to do everything in your power to protect Charlotte, Henriette, and  Augustin ? They're all younger than you and will need your support as a brother more than ever." The young boy had nodded as solemnly as a six-year-old could, his wide eyes trained on the sweat soaked form of his mother. Until an hour or so earlier he had believed that he was to gain a new sibling, not lose one and his mother as well.

"Oui  Maman ," he'd said, tears filling his green eyes. "I promise." She had smiled faintly down at her son, then motioned for him to leave the room.

"I love you, Maximilien," she'd breathed on his way out. "I love you and I always will."

"I love you too  Maman ."

She died later that day, Maximilien thought sadly. She died, father left us to drink his sorrows away, and together they left us to live with any family member who would take us. And I've done a terrible job honoring my promise. The horrific image of his brother leaping headfirst out of a second-floor window flashed through his mind. Not wanting to dwell on it, he thought back to his childhood and the days he'd spent with Jacques, Gabrielle, and his siblings. His troubles then seemed so trivial now, like the time his sisters accidentally caused the death of one of his pigeons.

"Please Maxime," Charlotte had begged, standing in the doorway, blocking him. "Let me borrow one of your pigeons! I'll be good to it I swear!" Maximilien had frowned, angrily crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again, trying to gently push past his sister.

"Non! Absolutely not! I don't trust you with them! They need extensive care!"

"What does that mean," she'd asked puzzled. Maximilien had sighed exasperatedly and recrossed his arms impatiently. Charlotte often didn't know what 'big' words meant and he'd always have to explain them to her.

"It means they need a lot of care and you won't be getting them. They aren't little dolls to be played with!" Charlotte had nodded earnestly, her shoulder length brown curls bouncing up and down.

"I know that Max! I'll feed it every day! Just like you do. Heniette can remind me." Maximilien seriously doubted that the seven year old girl would be any help. "And I'll only hold it the way that you've shown me. Please, Maxime?"

"Fine," he'd said shortly, glaring at his sister. "Anything to shut you up. Have our aunts not taught you any manners? But if anything happens to it, anything at all, I'll never let you borrow my birds or anything else again. Do you understand?" Charlotte had turned and started down the hall to where Henriette was standing. Maximilien had grabbed her thin wrist and she'd turned back to face him. "Charlotte! Do you understand?" She had nodded once, then took off running down the stairs yelling for her sister.

Days later, when his aunts had brought his sisters to visit again him and their grandparents, the girls were surprisingly quiet. Charlotte and Henriette had shuffled over to where he had been reading, tears in their eyes. Immediately Maximilien was suspicious. They'd done something to the bird.

"Maximilien," Charlotte had whispered, always the spokesperson of the two. "We... we're sorry. We left the bird outside because we wanted it to feel free. Then it started storming and we were called inside. Neither of us thought about the pigeon." His hands clenched around the cover of the book and his look had turned stony.

"I told you," he said reproachfully. "I told you that you'd be bored of it after a few days! I never should have lent it to you."

I was angry with them for days, Maximilien thought, wanting nothing more than to laugh. I refused to talk to them when they came to visit and complained about them to Camille, Gabrielle, and Jacques every chance I had. Augustin had thought it was amusing and relentlessly teased the girls about it.

He shifted his head, trying to be as gentle as possible but to no avail. A sharp pain shot through his jaw and across his whole face.. This is an awful constant, he thought wearily. Of all the idiotic things I've done, this has to be one of the worst, if not the worst. I can't wait to be rid of it. Oh wait, he thought bitterly. I can. If it's gone, I'm dead. He sighed heavily, then winced in pain.

Gone were the days when he was called "the Incorruptible." Gone was the time long before when he and Camille Desmoulins had laughed at a classmate's terrible test score. Gone was the time when the worst thing he had ever done was when he'd swear behind the house with Jacques and Gabrielle, his first friends. Gone was the time he and Camille had spent their school days together, reading together outside in the sun and wondering what their lives as adults would be like. Ah, Camille. A friend who, like many of his others, had died for the so-called good of the French people.

"De R-Robespierre," Camille had whispered from the seat beside his own, his ever-present stutter still noticeable. Maximilien looked up from his notes and frowned slightly at the interruption. If the two were caught whispering during a lecture they'd be done for. Monsieur Dubois was in an absolutely dreadful mood that day. "M-maxime,"Camille whispered a little louder. "What did you g-get on the exam?"

"I got everything correct," Maximilien whispered sharply. "Now would you be so kind as to shut up? If we get caught, there'll be hell to pay." Camille had sighed and turned away from his friend and faced the front once again, a strand of curly brown hair falling into his face. Maximilien had redirected his attention back to the lesson.

"Maximilien," Camille had said again some moments later, slightly louder this time. "I h-have something f-funny to t-tell you." Maximilien had scowled. It was unusual for Camille, who was normally an incredibly attentive student, to be trying to tell him something in class.

"What," he muttered sharply under his breath, trying to shut his friend up. Camille grinned victoriously. He always loved winning, especially against Maximilien, even if it was over something as trivial as this.

"Did you h-hear what score Alexandre got on t-the exam?" Maximilien had shaken his head slightly. What is Camille getting at, he asked himself as he glanced at the board. "Take a g-guess. Take a w-wild guess Maxime." Alexandre  Charpentier  was an exceptional student, even rivaling Maximilien himself at times. No doubt he had gotten every question correct. Camille simply wanted to tease him again.

"Let me guess," he muttered, careful not to let Monsieur Dubois, who was scanning the room, notice him speaking. "He also got everything correct." Camille's mischievous grin had widened.

"Non! Not even close," he'd whispered gleefully. "He d-d-didn't even get ANY of them right!" Maximilien had stared at Camille. There was no way, he thought to himself. None.

"Class is dismissed for the day," Monsieur Dubois had said, snapping the boys back to attention. "Do not forget to turn in your essays on the way out." Maximilien had turned his attention to his bag for a few seconds, fishing out the essay in question.

"C-can you believe it Maxime," Camille had asked gleefully as they left the classroom. "He failed it!" Maximilien had laughed and smiled along with his friend.

"It is rather hard to believe isn't it," he'd said, wrapping an arm around Camille's thin shoulders. "At first I thought you were just trying to mock me again." Camille had turned to him, attempting to keep a hurt expression on his face.

"H-how rude of you! You h-hold me to such low standards! Me, mock you? I'd never," he'd said unable to keep himself from laughing. Maximilien frowned slightly. "Oh, Max! W-what would I do without you?"

"Probably end up dead on the road because you were reading instead of watching where you're going."

"Probably. It's a good thing I keep you around then."

No Camille, Maximilien thought. It's not a good thing you kept me around. I've become a terrible person. Don't associate yourself with me anymore. A new, harsher voice entered his mind. We killed them, remember, Maximilien thought to himself. We executed Camille, we executed Danton, and if I remember correctly, we executed Charpentier at some point as well. They're all dead. All it seemed he could do anymore was kill people he had loved.

All of my friends are dead, Maximilien thought. All of them except for Saint-Just, and he's as good as dead. It's only a matter of time now. Saint-Just was so young. Too young to die and only in his twenties. But somehow he, with his extraordinary revolutionary fervor, had managed to send himself to an early grave. And he'd been so good at it. He'd been a perfect example of what the other revolutionaries should have been.

He thought of the first time he met Saint-Just with a painful smile. He'd been impulsive and eager to please in those days. Even before they'd met, Saint-Just had written him a letter saying, "I know you the way I know God, through your miracles." It had flattered Maximilien, but he'd been sure it was only that. Flattery that could get the young man anywhere. Shockingly enough when the two finally met in person Saint-Just had been just as sincere in everything he said. The young man seemed to worship the very ground I walked on for the first few weeks, Maximilien remembered fondly. And everything he did was always for the revolution or the good of the people. If only the rest of us could have been as perfect a revolutionary as he was.

The sound of footsteps outside in the corridor halted Maximilien's thoughts. Fighting through the pain, Maximilien snapped his head up. No, he thought hastily. No! It can't be time yet! It can't! There's so much left for the revolution! There are so many things I can do for France! His pulse sped up, and he felt his hands start to shake. The footsteps grew nearer and nearer, but to Maximilien's surprise, they didn't stop outside of his cell. He was still safe, his head still attached to his body. For now, he reminded himself. My head is attached for now.

Chapter Text

Other than the pain I'm in, the waiting is the worst part of this experience, Maximilien thought to himself. He'd been sitting alone in the dark for what seemed like days, with only his shattered jaw and broken memories as companions. Although, he told himself, that's better than being with others in the sun on my way to the guillotine.

Days ago he never would have imagined this. At the time he was on top of the world, leading the people of France to victory against their oppressors and assisting the Committee of Public Safety with their work. Now the people of France had him locked away, awaiting the same death so many of them once had.

They will be cheering, Maximilien predicted, holding his broken head in his hands. It'll be the same as when the king was executed. They'll cheer and smile and wave their tricolored flags in every direction. Some little child will ask what's going on and his parents will tell him that it's the end of a dictatorship. He'll have no idea what's really happening, but he'll smile and nod and run through the legs of the crowd with his little friends, trying to get a glimpse of what's going on. He'll play with the other children and cover his ears at the sound of a head falling into the basket, but still will cheer with the others because his parents are so why shouldn't he!

Saint-Just and I will be last. I'm sure of it. The 'evil' leaders being forced to see what exactly they'd caused. Agustin will obviously be near the front. They'll want to make me watch him die of course. It will be the same way they had to watch their brothers, sisters, parents, and children die, but for a less noble cause. As much as it pains me, I almost wish he had died, leaping out of that window.

The thought of Augustin made him shudder. It was almost impossible to think of his brother without remembering the horrific events from the previous night. Stupid Augustin, Maximilien thought. He'd never known when he'd said too much, drank too much wine, or had joked about something too serious. He always went to an extreme. Yesterday it just happened to be jumping out of a window.

"They have the building surrounded,  Citoyen  Robespierre," Saint-Just had said, entering the tension filled room. Maximilien looked up from where he sat, lost in frightening thoughts. "There is almost no chance of escape. They could begin breaking in at any moment." For the first time in many years, Maximilien had felt true fear. Trying to maintain his reputation in front of the few that still supported him, he took a deep breath and attempted to remain calm.

"Are you sure," he had asked, a note of panic evident in his voice despite his efforts to remain calm. Saint-Just had nodded. Of course, he was sure, Maximilien had thought. He's just looked out the window. Unsurprisingly my nerves are getting a hold of me. "Then we need to be ready just in case they make their way up to us." He'd picked his pistol up from the top of his desk and loaded it.

"They've broken in," one of the armed men had shouted as he threw the door open. "We can only hold them off for so long." Gunshots and loud screams had rung out from the lower floors inciting panic in the men above.

"We're going to die," one of the younger men had moaned from the corner. "They're going to kill us all!" Maximilien had wanted to say something reassuring; to tell them that everything would be fine, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. There was nothing he could do to save the situation.

The gunshots and sounds of fighting were right outside the door when Maximilien felt his knees give out. His heart raced more than it ever had. Faster, faster, faster. Every beat possibly his last.

"I don't know about the rest of you,"  Augustin  had said, looking around at the others. "But-" He had been cut off by a loud crash that had resounded from outside in the hallway. Several of the other men had also drawn their various weapons. Maximilien had swallowed hard and gritted his teeth, picking himself up off the ground. After several minutes of intense fighting outside the door, the armed soldiers had forced their way into the room. Chaos ensued.

" Citoyen  Robespierre," someone had called. "Run!" Maximilien had laughed bitterly. He was stuck in there just as much as the rest of them.

"Maxime,"  Augustin  had shouted across the room, barely audible. "I'm not letting them take me alive. I want you to know that-" The rest of what he had been saying was drowned out. It had seemed to satisfy him, however, and with one last sad smile to his brother and a cry of, "Vive la Révolution! Vive la Maximilien Robespierre," he dived headfirst out of the window.

Maximilien wasn't sure how long after Augustin had jumped he had done it, but he remembered through all the chaos putting the gun to his head and telling himself that they wouldn't have the satisfaction of getting to him alive. Nothing he had done during the revolution was anything but necessary. If they couldn't see it, then perhaps they didn't deserve it. For one dark moment, a millisecond really, he'd weighed his options.

He shuddered. Perhaps if he hadn't done it he would have made them see reason. Maybe he could have made another speech. That had been the very thing to get them into this mess. He shifted awkwardly, absentmindedly putting one hand gingerly on his wounded jaw. Everything hurt. His back was sore from sitting on the hard stone ground for so long. His jaw was a terrible splitting pain that made it hard to stay conscious. His head pounded both from not wearing his glasses and his shattered jaw.

The first time Maximilien had fired a gun had been a little more than a year before, an affair with quiet instruction and light touches from Saint-Just. He'd felt obligated to teach me so I could keep myself safe. A man like me is never safe, especially from himself. All Antoine wanted was to protect me like a good friend, Maximilien thought to himself. And just like Camille, I betrayed him too.

"Maxime," Saint-Just panted, running up to him and his Augustin from behind with his footsteps echoing in the nearly empty hallway. "Maxime wait up!" Maximilien stopped, his face lighting up at the sound of his friend. Augustin laughed, nudging his brother who blushed and hit him playfully on the arm.

"Antoine! You're back early! How was your trip? You look, ah, well." Saint-Just, Maximilien noticed, was tired and mud-spattered but grinning wider than he'd ever seen.

"The army is in little position to fight. However, morale is high and numbers are low but rising! Soon they'll be ready to bring glory to the République!" Saint-Just fell in step with them and continued. "Although Maxime, I was thinking about you for most of the trip." Augustin stifled a laugh and leaned over to his brother's ear.

"I'll leave you and your beau to it then," he whispered with a mischievous grin as Maximilien glared at him. "At least nothing but rumors can come of it." He straightened and nodded to Saint-Just. "It was nice seeing you again Antoine. I'll leave you with my brother. I have elsewhere to be."

"Au revoir Augustin," Saint-Just said either ignoring or not having heard the jests. "Anyway, back to what I was saying Maxime. I was thinking of you, and how unsafe it is here in Paris. The people are restless and it's making them dangerous. You're too important to both me and the revolution to have anything happen to you." Maximilien shook his head and turned to his friend.

"Non. To you perhaps, but not the revolution. There are other men with other talents useful for the good of France. You flatter me too much Antoine." Saint-Just laughed softly, a peaceful smile directed at Maximilien resting on his lips.

"You don't give yourself enough credit Maxime. You're the most powerful man in France. You've practically led the revolution!" The two men walked in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's company, before Saint-Just spoke again. "Maximilien? Do you know how to properly shoot?" Maximilien stopped, slightly surprised. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it with a shake of his head. There had been no point denying it. Saint-Just had already known his answer. "Well it's time someone shows you then. Come on!"

Hours later, Maximilien had found himself leaving Saint-Just's home with a unknotted cravat, a rumpled waistcoat, a smile on his face and an ill fated, yet hauntingly beautiful, pistol in his hand.

As soon as he had pulled the trigger, Maximilien had known he'd made a mistake. Instead of killing him instantly, someone had shoved past in an attempt to escape and caused the gun to shift lower. The bullet had embedded itself in his jaw. He had screamed animalistically as it shattered the bone, the pain overwhelming him and moving the broken fragments into agonizing positions. Black spots danced in front of him for a few seconds before the screams and gunshots and the blood-soaked room faded to blackness.

Maximilien closed his eyes. Unfortunately, Augustin was still alive. He was still alive and because of his stubbornness and unwavering support, he too was going to meet his end at the guillotine. Internally Maximilien cursed his stupid younger brother with too much loyalty and not enough self-preservation. He cursed the nobility and their contempt for the civilians and he cursed their supporters, the ones who had them imprisoned here and now. As terrible as it sounded, even to himself, he wished Augustin had died when he'd jumped. At least if he were dead he wouldn't have to suffer through the insults of the traitorous Parisians, he thought his hand curling into a fist at the thought.

Yet even innocent Augustin in his surely half living state did not have the worst fate. Antoine had it worse. He, as far as Maximilien knew, was as healthy as any other twenty six year old man. He couldn't pray for the sweet release of unconsciousness to spare himself from his own thoughts.

Maximilien shuddered involuntarily. I need to stop, he told himself firmly. I need to stop thinking about it. But while his voice combined with a few other men could persuade the people of Paris, and all of France, to execute their king and kill their friends, it couldn't persuade him to ignore the inevitable. His impending death and the deaths of those he loved most.

Chapter Text

Maximilien opened his eyes, not realizing that they had been closed. He was tired. He was so damn tired. Maybe it'd be easier to sleep through his last hours. Perhaps they'd let him sleep on his way to the guillotine. There was no way he could walk or stand. Better to sleep through it all and wake up dead. Then he wouldn't have to endure the cheers of the people who once loved him.

He hoped Charlotte wouldn't be there. She'd already indured enough with Henriette's death. She didn't need to see the deaths of her last remaining family as well. Nothing good would come from it if she did attend. It wasn't as if there would last goodbyes. No. The twenty-two men would be fed to the bloodthirsty blade of Madame la Guillotine before the barbaric screaming crowd of vengeful Parisians.

I need it, Maximilien decided. I need to sleep. His head hurt too much. Not that I'll have to worry about that for much longer, he thought, softly laughing. He immediately regretted his decision. His jaw seared with pain and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood, but after hundreds of mouthfuls of blood Maximilien was finding it easier to bear. He leaned contently against the cold wall and let himself fall asleep, far from his fears of death.

"M-Maximilien," the stuttering voice of Camille  Desmoulins  said. Maximilien looked up in surprise to see him holding out one hand. " Bonjour . It's g-g-good to see you again." Maximilien stretched out one hand to take it then paused, remembering what he'd done. Against his better judgement he took the other man's hand in his after seeing Camille's reassuring smile.

"I-," he stopped, tears filling his eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't... I didn't mean for it to happen. Any of this! Not to you, or Georges, or... or anyone," Maximilien sobbed. Camille nodded sympathetically and embraced his shaking friend.

"It's ok M-maxime. I understand why you d-did it. Although I don't really appreciate it and I don't think Georges does either." He smiled to show that he had no hard feelings. Maximilien half laughed, half hiccuped, feeling at ease in the presence of his old friend.

"How's little Horace? Have you found someone to look after my boy?"

"Oui. He's being well taken care of by Lucille's sisters. I've tried to check on him, but they won't even let me near the house." The two sat in silence for a moment or two before Maximilien spoke again "Did it... did it hurt," he asked. "Dying I mean." Camille nodded gravely. A feeling of terror tore through Maximilien's body and he instinctively put one hand to his throat, eyes wide. Camille laughed.

"I'm only j-j-joking Maxime," he choked out, doubling over with laughter. "You should h-have seen your face!" Maximilian scowled.

"That's not very nice of you," he said pointedly. "I was terrified."

"You? The Incorruptible? Sc-scared? I bet," Camille said smirking. "And speaking of n-nice, I might not have been nice with m-my little joke, but neither were you and Saint-Just for sending me to the g-guillotine!" Maximilian fiddled nervously with lace edge of his cravat. Of course, he would bring that up."But h-here we are I suppose." Maximilian sighed exasperatedly. Trust Camille to make you feel bad about something then disregard it as nothing.

"What is it actually like," he asked. "Does it hurt?" Camille shook his head, a look of deep thought evident on his face.

"No. I don't think so anyway. Quicker and easier than falling asleep in my opinion. Unless falling asleep is hard for you. Then it's easier than that." Maximilien let out his breath slowly. At least he wasn't going to die painfully, but then again that was the reason the guillotine was invented. To be a 'more humane' form of execution.

"I... I'm glad you and Georges didn't have to suffer. Can you ever forgive me for what I did?" Camille grinned slyly.

"I might be able to, but I'm not sure if I can say the same for the rest of France." Camille pulled Maximilien into a hug. "My god I've missed you. I'll see you soon, alright?" Tears streamed from Maximilien's eyes as he clung to his friend. After a short while, he nodded. "Be brave Maxime," Camille said as the dream faded away. "Be brave for me."

Maximilien woke to find his face wet with tears. He took a deep breath and carefully rubbed them from his face. There was no use crying anymore. Any moment they could come and take him to the guillotine. Then I'll be able to see Camille again! And Danton! And all the other people you killed, a nagging voice in his mind said.

No, Maximilien thought, scolding himself. You're wrong! I didn't kill them! We all did. It was put to a vote. While I did participate in it, I didn't do it alone.

Once again footsteps echoed out in the hallway. Maximilien tensed at the sound. They drew closer and closer until they stopped outside of the cell door. Please no, he begged internally praying that they'd pass him by, just as they had the previous day. For a fleeting moment, he sat with bated breath until he heard the jingling of keys in the door's lock. It was over. His life, the revolution, his reminiscing. Everything.

"C'est l'heure Citizen Robespierre," the guard said softly, opening the door. "We have some men with us to help walk you to your transportation." Maximilien nodded shakily. I need to be brave, he told himself. I can do it. Two armed men entered the room and pulled him roughly to his feet. Dark spots danced before his eyes and a wave of nausea washed over him. "The carts are waiting outside," the guard said to the other two. "Bring him there. The others are waiting."

"Come on, tyrant," one of the guards said, laughing. "Let's go." He shoved Maximilien forward, almost pushing him to the ground. Days ago they would have been executed for this behavior, Maximilien thought wistfully. Although anyone could have been executed for almost any reason then.

The guards half marched, half dragged Maximilien through the building and outside to where multiple open carts waited. The others, he noticed while squinting into the sun, were already loaded into their respective carts. Saint-Just was one of the only men standing on his own. The others, including a bloody-faced Augustin, were being supported by more guards. Maximilien swallowed hard. Agustin was worse than he had imagined. His handsome features were all twisted at odd angles, dark bruises and deep cuts were all over his body, and his dark hair was matted with blood. A large bird circled overhead, looming and waiting for the death that would soon come. Maximilien shuddered. There was the reason he was fond of small birds. Again he thought fleetingly of his sisters again and the little bird they'd killed so many years ago.

With a guard's help, Maximilien took his place in the bloodstained open cart with Augustin. The hot Thermidor sun beat down on his head, sweat trickling down his neck. He breathed deeply, enjoying the fresh air and what were soon to be the last breaths he'd ever take. His brother shifted slightly at his right.

"Maxime," he whispered, a note of fear evident in his voice. "Maxime, I'm scared." Maximilien swallowed and slipped his bound hand into his brother's. No longer was Augustin his fellow revolutionary, and supporter. Now all Maximilien could see was the dirty little boy who had been so frightened of thunderstorms and spiders back at their home in Arras. The boy he'd sworn to protect. The one he was indirectly killing.

"Me too," Maximilien whispered back, fighting through the pain it took to speak. That's the first time I've admitted it out loud, he realized as the cart started to roll. Never during any part of the revolution had he confessed his fears to someone else. Not to Camille, not to Danton, not even to Saint-Just, he thought incredulously. Then again, this is the most I've ever been scared.

Chapter Text

Hoards of people lined the streets, screaming and cheering, all wanting to get one last look at Maximilien and his compatriots. The mixture of the heat, the noise, and the pain left him in a dizzy haze. The closer they got to the guillotine, the harder Augustin gripped his hand until Maximilien couldn't feel it anymore.

"Vive la France! Kill the tyrant," someone in the crowd yelled, starting up a chorus of cheers. No, Maximilien thought. I'm not a tyrant. I was only trying to help you! And you the ones that voted! You voted for my policies! It wasn't all me!

If only I hadn't shot myself. If only we'd done things right! If only I hadn't been so careless! He wished he could say something. Anything to at least save Augustin and Saint-Just. They were the only ones left in the revolution that he truly cared about.

They want me to cry, Maximilien thought to himself. The people want to see me cry, or scream, or something. They want me to react, but I will not. I will not give them that satisfaction. I will do what I was forced to for all these years and hide my emotion to the end. With tears threatening to spill over, he stared straight ahead, as the people who once supported his ideas hurled insult after insult at him.

Augustin was shaking, he noticed dejectedly. His poor brother who was only in this situation because of him. The cart hit a pothole, jolting Maximilien to one side and causing a sharp pain to run through his shattered jaw. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lower lip to try to keep from crying out in pain. It didn't really work and a soft whimper left his lips. Unfortunately, the guards behind him noticed and laughed.

"Not so brave when you aren't protected by your followers are you," the one holding him up said mockingly. Maximilien ignored the remark as best he could and continued staring blankly ahead. They were getting closer. The overpowering scents of blood and death were thick in the Paris streets, constricting his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. A few moments later the guillotine came into view, it's newly cleaned silver blade glinting evilly in the bright sunlight. Maximilien glanced over at his brother, whose tight grip on his hand had numbed his fingers. He was trembling.

"I'm sorry," Maximilien muttered, rubbing his thumb across the back of Augustin's hand, trying to move his mouth as little as possible. "I," he paused waiting for the pain to subside for a moment, "Only ever wanted to protect you and the girls." Augustin nodded, eyes fixated in terror on the growing crowd surrounding the guillotine. "It was my responsibility as the eldest. And I... I did a dreadful job of it."

The carts in front of them began slowing to a stop in front of the blood-stained wooden platform. Weeks before, he never would have imagined himself here covered in blood awaiting his death and the deaths of his friends. With another painful jolt, his cart stopped abruptly. The crowd roared with delight as Sanson, the executioner, motioned for the first victim to come forward. He was the young man who had panicked at la Hotel de Ville, Maximilien noticed at first glance. He was sobbing, struggling against the soldiers marching him up the stairs.

"Please," he screamed, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. "Please don't. I have a family!"

"So did I," an enraged female voice from the crowd yelled back at him. "Until you killed my husband and our son!" Maximilien winced. There'd be no mercy today, not that he expected any. He watched sadly as the struggling young man was strapped in place and his neck was secured in place. The blade fell. Maximilien heard a faint squelching noise followed directly by a thud. He paled noticeably as the body was thrown into a cart beside the platform and the next victim was motioned forward.

Two more men were ushered to their deaths, the blade of Madame la Guillotine now red with blood, before Augustin was beckoned forward. His hand was shaking in Maximilien's as the guards pried the two apart. Maximilien felt his mouth go dry. No! They couldn't take away Augustine. He tried to kick the guard when he approached him but the man holding him upright pulled him backward. I'm sorry Augustine he thought hastily, still struggling to escape.

"I love you Maxime," Augustin shouted over the cheers of the crowd. "I am proud to die upholding you." I wish you didn't have to die for me, Maximilien screamed internally, tears streaming down his face.

"I... I love you too," he choked out, unsure if his brother could hear him. Momentarily a grim smile flickered across Augustine's face, a faint reminder of the happy carefree child he had been years before the revolution. With a face of terrified determination, Augustin allowed himself to be half marched, half dragged up the steps and strapped down. Non, the voice in Maximilien's head cried out. The drums roll began and a hush fell over the crowd.

"Vive la revolution," Augustin shouted, the terrible scene from the Hotel de Ville replaying in Maximilien's mind. "Vive la Maximilien Robespierre!" Unable to tear his eyes away from his brother he watched in horror as the blade plunged, killing Augustin instantly. Sanson reached one hand into the basket and lifted Augustin's head above his own with a grim smile. The taste of vomit rose in Maximilien's throat, but somehow he kept it down.

"Kill Saint-Just next," the crowd chanted. They've gone insane with blood lust, Maximilien said to himself. They want nothing more than to see heads roll. They feel that they're being avenged. The sounds of the crowd fell to a hush as Saint-Just mounted the stairs, looking every inch a martyr. With a nod to Maximilien, he allowed himself to be strapped down. The drums rolled again and this time Maximilien forced himself to look away.

The rest of the deaths passed by in a blood-stained haze until finally, after what seemed like hours, Sanson motioned for Maximilien. He swallowed but permitted the guards to lead him to his death. It'll all be over soon, he thought trying to keep Camille's words in his mind. Then I can be with everyone again. One step at a time he was dragged up the stairs and onto the bloody platform. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, his hands shook, and his eyes were clenched shut.

"Get rid of the gauze," Maximilien heard from somewhere to his left. "It could cause problems for the blade."

"Non," he whispered, shaking his head. "No," he said louder, hoping they'd hear and take pity on him. "S'il vous plaît. Please leave it on." Despite his pleads, a rough hand held his head still while another ripped the bandage from his face and threw it to the people. All hope of maintaining composure was gone and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Please, he thought. Kill me. Get rid of the pain. Make it go away. I want to die.

He was almost unconscious when they strapped him down and secured his head in place. The blood of his friends was warm against his neck and made him squirm uncomfortably. He glanced out into the throng of people, all gathered to watch him die. Cries of, "Kill the dictator," and "Vive la France," rippled through the crowd. Someone put a handkerchief to his jaw to wipe away the blood that was pouring into his mouth.

"Merci, Monsieur," he whispered, eyes scanning the front rows of the crowd. No one he knew seemed to be there. No one that still cared for him. For a split second he wondered if such people still existed. The drum roll started. He took a deep breath and felt a sense of calm wash over him. Quicker and easier than falling asleep Camille had said. He closed his eyes. He could see them! Camille, Danton, Augustin, and Saint-Just were all waiting for him.

The roll stopped, the blade fell, and the crowd encircling the guillotine cheered victoriously. Sanson the executioner raised the bloody head that had once belonged to the hero of the New French Republic, high for the French people to see. There at the center of it all, still strapped to the guillotine, lay the body of Maximilien Robespierre, the once great "Incorruptible." L'incorruptible Corrompu, the "Incorruptible" corrupted.

Chapter Text

Years later, historians looked back at the once great revolution and the men that orchestrated it. Instead of seeing passionate men dedicated to their cause they saw inhumane creatures who lived for blood. While there were no true innocents, the blame must not be placed on one group. No one was blameless, but the true blame should go to those who made men into monsters.