Chapter Text
“Max-”
“Silent,” the older man barely made out, holding his jaw. Blood was pouring down his hand.
“Don’t tell me that-” started Saint-Just, but his voice died out after noticing the dying spark in Robespierre’s eyes. Robespierre, the great revolutionary, was in the end weak.
Robespierre opened his lips carefully, ready to say something. “No, don’t tire yourself,” Saint-Just hushed him.
“They’ll… execute me.”
“No, we will find a way, I promise. We always found a way to do it, we always found a way to rise. Like those old legends. Like those old tales, Max. We always rose from our ashes-”
“No ashes,” Robespierre coughed, “Only blood.”
“Still, we can… we can rise from the blood. Wasn’t it how we overthrew Louis? Rising fresh from the-”
Robespierre weakly shook his head. Saint-Just closed his eyes for a moment and understood that it was not the time, never the time. They would never have the time.
“Did you… Did you try to do it?” Saint-Just asked, already knowing the answer. Robespierre, the glorious heart, had tried to find a way out of the guillotine.
Robespierre just nodded, shutting his eyes while doing so. It was odd how he never let the pain reflect outside. Just his heavy breathing, Saint-Just noticed. Heavy, painful breathing. Breathing from his mouth, blood was making a whistling noise as it poured more and more down his hand that covered the wound.
“Let me see the wound, please…”
Robespierre looked into the eyes of Saint-Just, slowly releasing his hand. Saint-Just ripped a part of his sleeve off and started cleaning the wound. The Angel of Death was looking at death itself in the eyes of Robespierre, the Angel of Death was ready to do anything to fight death itself to steal just a few moments for Robespierre, sparing him. He was begging inside, he was shaking his head deep inside his heart and trying to wake himself up.
Yes, he would wake up if he tried hard enough. It must have been a dream, always a dream, never the reality. They were safe in reality, right? It would be the end of a speech. “Good job,” Robespierre would say to him again. They would hail the glory of the Republic. They would-
“Slow,” Robespierre softly let him know. “Gentle.”
“Did I hurt you?”
Robespierre didn’t answer. Saint-Just only apologized. He continued, his fingers shaking as he tried to avoid the wound. Once the blood was cleaned, he looked Robespierre in the eye:
“Why?”
Robespierre never replied. What kind of a question was that, anyway? “I’m sorry, I just… never thought of a Republic without you. I thought that you would… I don’t know… maybe be granted a hundred or thousand years of lifespan and… just be there. I never thought about the end.”
“Be honest. Everything ends.”
“But I never think about the end, Max. I never do. How could I? You, this glorious, how could I think about the end when the present was far too beautiful than the past and the future?”
Robespierre had a weak smile, “Thank you.”
“No, no… Thank you.”
“You’ve always been a great citizen. The best revolutionary. I knew that I could always trust you. I trust you, still.”
Saint-Just looked at his hands. Dry blood, still damp piece of cloth. Red. He closed his eyes. If he tried enough, he could wake up. He could see Robespierre making a speech, raising his hand, hailing the Republic, shouting: “Liberté!”
“I need to ask for one last thing from you…”
“Egalité!”
“…I need you to take this gun…”
“Fraternité!”
“…and end it for good.”
The hopes shattered. Saint-Just tried to hide his pain and looked at Robespierre, who had a matter-of-fact expression on his face.
“I can’t do that…”
“Please. This is my last wish.”
“Don’t ask for that.”
“Listen-”
“Ask for anything, anything and everything but not this. Please. Please-”
“One last wish, citizen. For liberté, egalité, fraternité.”
Saint-Just closed his eyes and brought the fabric to his dampening eyes. It left a faint blood mark on his cheek. Robespierre didn’t comment on it. It was not the time for footnotes, it was the time for an epilogue. He handed Saint-Just the gun. Saint-Just’s pale hands held it.
They looked into each other’s eyes.
“Go ahead. One last revolution.”
Saint-Just’s palm embraced the gun. He felt his heart shatter. He felt his world shatter. His finger went for the trigger. He brushed it. He turned it toward Robespierre’s head.
Robespierre smiled. The smile made the wound leak a few drops of blood. He had a calm expression, almost heavenly. The Angel of Death was about to grant him his end.
Saint-Just counted to ten. To twenty. To thirty.
And he dropped the gun.
“I’m sorry,” he silently sobbed. He closed his eyes, his hands finding the fabric and cleaning the blood off Robespierre’s jaw without even having to look.
And he heard a faint whisper, a gentle pat on his shoulder, “It’s alright, it’s alright.”
So Saint-Just whispered to himself as he faced his execution, “It’s alright, it’s alright.”