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It has been a long, long time after the mythological god of war himself, the mighty Mars, had taken his head between his hands and sighed at the amount of war that overwhelmed even him.
It is calm now. Isn’t it nice to hear the birdsongs without distant screams and cries of begging? Isn’t it nice to be able to close your eyes and listen to the world without the fear of witnessing an atrocity?
So the world is beautiful, so the world is free. It has been a long, long time since Mars learnt to be silent and not thirst for war. It has been a long, long time since the liberation was fought for, and no one ever dared to defame it ever again.
Maximilien Robespierre opens his eyes. It was a nightmare. Disturbing, yes, but it was just a nightmare. He lost no one. So he stretches in the bed, turns to the other side and feels the soft bed under his body. He smiles to himself, what a beautiful thing it is to be alive! It is surely honorable to die for liberté, égalité, and fraternité… but isn’t it something so blessed to live to see the aftermath?
Robespierre closes his eyes. He will let himself rest a little longer. Maybe a few more hours of sleep, wouldn’t it be good? He doesn’t have to wake up too early anymore. Things have been settled, no need to worry about things anymore. “It’s like having a child, I believe,” he thinks. “You worry about her wellbeing until she grows up enough to stand on her two feet. You sometimes still find yourself overthinking, but it is perfectly fine. She is well on her own.” He closed his eyes with a smile. “Our daughter, the republic, has grown.”
He wakes up after a while, the clock tells him that he only managed to fall asleep for 15 more minutes. He laughs, “No rest for the old man.”
He reaches for his bedside, fumbles through and locates his glasses. He wears them on, the world is a lot more fresh now.
He gets on his feet, stretching and hearing a few joints crack. It is perfectly normal at this age, isn’t it? He all but jumps on his feet, saluting the beautiful world from the window. “I fought for this,” he says, “I would do it all over again.”
He checks the clothes in the closet. His favorite ruffled shirt, he wears it. He puts his waistcoat on. He takes a relatively thinner jacket as it is warm -Thermidor. “What a beautiful season,” he thinks as he wears his breeches. He holds on to the side of his table as he wears his shoes, “Just great.”
It is time to wear his wig. He runs his hand over his hair, it tickles his palm. He learnt to find beauty and fun in little things of life. One learns a lot as years progress through. He looks at the mirror, ready to put the wig on.
Just before that, he notices something odd. Something new, but something old. His fingers reach for it, he gets closer to the mirror to see it better.
Gray hair.
He has seen many people express their displeasure at little things like that. “I don’t want white hair!” many often scream, “I am not old!”. Robespierre, however, smiles. He cannot believe it at first, “Me? Old enough to have gray hair? Survived long enough for this? I made it out alive?”. His questions to the mirror echo in answers, “I made it. I lived to see my republic grow. I did it!”. He runs his fingers through his wrinkles now. The smile lines around his mouth, the wrinkles around his eyes that many a laugh has gifted him, the lines on his forehead and under his eyes.
“It was worth it, it was worth everything. I am old, I made it!”
He almost forgets his cane as he storms through the door. He laughs and grabs it, takes a few steps almost tripping himself on it, and regains his balance. He has a small house with a garden. Next to his house is a beloved friend’s house. His hands shake from excitement as he tries the open the garden gate. He struggles and even gives it a kick as if it would work. “I have toppled a king, but can’t even fight against this gate!”
When he finally manages to open it, he runs to the door of the house. He knocks it just once before it is opened.
Saint-Just stands there, his messy hair flattened on one side with a red cheek -he must have been pressing that side on the pillow while asleep. He blinks a few times and squints his eyes, adjusting to the bright sunlight.
“I need to show you something very, very important!” says Robespierre, excitedly going in. It’s their habit, they never ask for permission before coming in. It’s as if they own both houses, making themselves always welcome. Saint-Just shuts the door behind and smiles, “Good morning to you too, Maxime.”
Robespierre knows the arrangement of the furniture very well. He laughs, “Good morning!”, and goes to the nearest mirror.
Saint-Just looks at Robespierre’s face, “I see that you woke up only five minutes ago, at best?”
“And you, two or three.”
They laugh and Robespierre continues looking at the mirror, trying to find the gray hair again. He does, and holds it with his fingers:
“Here!” he says to the approaching Saint-Just. “Look at this!”
Saint-Just squints to see it better, “Oh? Getting old?”
Robespierre notices how happy Saint-Just sounded. It makes him very glad how his friend, too, sees getting old as something blessed.
“I can’t believe we made it.”
Saint-Just nods and gestures to the couch. Robespierre throws himself down and gets comfortable. “I’ll just take a nap here,” he says.
“Like a cat?”, and it’s more of a statement than a question.
Robespierre feels the maybe-not-so-soft couch under his body. It is worth it. He has his eyes closed, but he knows that Saint-Just is there. He has always been there. He would never go away.
Long years ago in Thermidor when Robespierre tried to end it, Saint-Just had been there to care for his wounds. He had been there to open the gates to the revolting public that came to free him. He was there, the lead, as the last battle against Thermidorians was won. He was there as the wounded were cared for. No one was lost, no one was hurt. They all healed, side by side in a makeshift infirmary. They all healed whilst chatting about anything and everything, and even playing card games when the hand wounds of Saint-Just were healed.
“How long has it been?” asks Robespierre as he is slowly falling asleep.
Saint-Just doesn’t even ask “Since when?”. Robespierre knows that he understands.
“25 years,” he says.
Robespierre smiles. He hears Saint-Just softly walking around the room and finally sitting on the other couch. As he falls asleep, he has only one thought in his mind, “We all made it.”