❝how long till you go to be gone you are any way the wind blows❞
a wind in the door | axis powers hetalia | 4600 words | france ; england ; america ; russia| pg |
in which nations are comforted by normal citizens.
de-anoning from the kink meme.
A Wind in the Door
[ F R A N C E ]
Circa 1794 ; during the Reign of Terror
If anyone else could see the shadow of a man stumble and fall to the ground, none of them mentioned it. Alix and her sisters had been ordered into the house earlier that day, when the mob arrived, carting the guillotine. Since then, they’d been huddled together in the center of their small home, fearing the worst when Papa didn’t return from the inspection of their grain stores.
As Alix watched, the man’s silhouette rose, walked a few paces, and then fell again. This time, he did not rise. Alarmed, Alix tugged on her sister’s sleeve. “Giselle,” she whispered, for she was still to afraid to raise her voice, “did you see that?”
“See what, Alix?” Giselle asked distractedly. Since Papa had left, she’d been in charge of Alix and their two younger sisters. Now, her pale young face was lined in worry lines, and her cheeks were ashen with fatigue and strain.
She didn’t want to alarm Giselle any more than was necessary, so Alix forced a smile and said, “Nothing. It must have been my imagination. I’m going to go milk the cows, ok?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“They have to be milked, Giselle-what else are we to do?”
“I’m not sure…” Giselle began to say, but then their youngest sister Eloise began to sob, and Giselle was busied with her. She hardly saw as Alix grabbed a loaf of bred, a jug of water, and the milking bucket and run outside.
Alix ran up the hill and found the man, lying on his back in the middle of the road. Her brow furrowed as she tried to decipher what he was. He didn’t look like sans-culottes, but his clothing was too tattered to mark him as bourgeoisie. His blonde hair hung dankly over his face, but he wore it long, like a nobleman’s. On his lapel was a tricolor pin, so clearly he supported the Revolution. But what was he?
“Monsieur?-I mean, Citoyen?” Alix whispered hesitantly, kneeling down beside him and tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Citoyen?”
Wearily, the man blinked open his eyes. “Toinette?” he asked sleepily. Alix knew no one by that name, so she shook her head.
“Monsi-Citoyen, you must rise. The people are checking the grain stores, now, but they’ll be done soon.” And when they do, they’ll be thirsty for blood.
“Can’t,” the man murmured, resting his head against his hands. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but I’m just so tired.” He shut his eyes again.
“You shouldn’t call me that!” Alix whispered fearfully. “Citoyen, please!”
The man blinked his eyes open again and chuckled, ruefully. “Well, alright. But only because I can’t stand to see such a pretty girl cry.”
He extended his hand, but Alix, ever the practical one, gripped him on both sides under his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. This turned out to be easier said than done, because once the man was on his feet, he effectively dwarfed Alix’s slight frame. One of his ankles was twisted, so he leaned half of his weight against her as they made their way to the barn.
The man fell heavily against a bed of straw and closed his eyes once more. Alix leaned toward him, felt the shallow whisper of his breath. Her blue eyes-such a match to his-lit with concern, and she poured some of the water into the bucket and used a soft cloth to wipe the grime-and blood-from his face and hands.
He had called her pretty, but he, he was positively beautiful. Lips the color and shape of ocean shells; a proud, sculpted nose; heavily-lashed eyes that blinked open every so often, revealing the color of summer storms.
After a few minutes, he awoke entirely, and wordlessly accepted the bread Alix handed him. As he ate, she sat back on her ankles and cocked her head to one side.
“Citoyen, if I may ask you something?” He nodded regally in ascent-he must have been a noble-and so she continued, “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” he asked loosely, sipping on some of the water left in the jug.
“Your kind-the Convention has made it clear that they are no longer welcome noblemen in France. If you are still alive, you should have escaped to Austria, years ago.”
The man sat back with an extravagant sigh. “I’d rather eat tar than wait this out with that old prude.” Alix looked to him questioningly, and so he just laughed-a rich, warm, and ironic laugh. “Look, Mademoiselle-don’t give me that look; it’s my language and I’ll speak it as I please-I think you take me for a noble, but I assure you, I am not. My family has never held a title in France.”
“…what is it, if I may ask? Your family name?”
“Bonnefoy,” he replied loosely, and then continued, “And as for ‘my kind’-I arrived here with them. I’m part of the mob, you see.”
Alix’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t quite stifle a gasp. “Then you were there when they took Papa!”
Citoyen Bonnefoy gave her a shrewd look. “About five foot ten, with blue eyes like yours and the same nose, but brown hair, not blonde?”
Alix nodded dumbly.
“Don’t fret; he’s safe.” As Alix breathed a sigh of relief, Citoyen Bonnefoy coughed. “Dammit,” he murmured under his breath.
“Why did you come, if you were in such a state?”
“Oh, this?” he asked laughingly, indicating himself with one elegant gesture of his hand. “I’ve been sick for ages, ma chère. But I always seem to forget, that when my people die, it takes it’s toll…”
His eyes grew misty, and he shook his head as though to clear it. “Well, anyhow-as soon as the bloodletting is over, I shall be quite well again.”
“Blood…death makes you sick?” Alix asked in confusion.
“Something like that.” He chuckled again, but, seeing her expression, his eyes softened and he patted her on the head. “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle. I feel it will be over, soon.”
He rose to his feet, brushed off his britches, and headed for the barn door. Alix caught his hand, however, and pulled him back. “You’re not well yet,” she insisted. “At least spend the night here. Please stay…until Papa comes back.”
“In a barn?” he asked quizzically. But he sighed in resignation. “I suppose I’ve seen worse.”
Alix kept vigil over him that night, returning to the house at intervals to convince Giselle she was alright-just staying with the spooked cows, she told her sister. She knelt by Citoyen Bonnefoy’s humble bed, but it was not long before she fell asleep beside him. He awoke momentarily and smiled, wrapped one arm around her, and pulled her close. In that chaste embrace, they both slept until morning.
But when she awoke to the cocks’ morning song, he was already gone. He’d left a lily in her hands, in his place. And when Alix returned to the house, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she heard a familiar masculine voice talking to Giselle. She broke into a run. “Papa!”
- - -
[ E N G L A N D ]
September 4, 1666 ; during the Great Fire of London
The fire had begun a few days ago, and had burned steadily and fearsomely since then. All of Pudding Lane was now destroyed, including Tom’s father’s bakery. They’d been even more alarmed when the Cathedral had begun to burn; at the last word, it was reduced to smoke and ash. Tom’s father had joined the efforts to help evacuate the people; he had told Tom and his mother to take the younger children and get out of the city.
Tom had never really been one to obey, and he was even less likely to abandon those in need. However, before he could run down to the burning residential districts, his mother grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away.
“Let me go, Ma!” he cried, fighting against her formidable grasp. Tom’s little sister Elizabeth was strapped to their mother’s back, and his younger brother Richard was clinging to her leg as she rushed through the panicked streets. “I have to see-”
“Why?” his mother demanded of him, her voice hoarse. She was out of breath and thick ash was blocking everyone’s breathing. “Why do you have to see people dying? For once in your life, Thomas, do as you’re told and come on.”
“But, Ma-!” His voice was full of outrage and concern, and he finally manages to wrench his arm away. “I can help!”
“You’re only eleven, Thomas! What could you do?” His mother’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “Please, just come on!” Seeing the look in his mother’s deep brown eyes, Tom hung his head and followed her. She sighed in relief and led the way out of the city. They had gone only a few feet when they had to stop and pull kerchiefs up over their noses and mouths to block out the smoke.
They had just reached the outskirts of the city when Tom spotted him. A man, lying aimlessly in the middle of the road, seemingly blind to the sight of the refugees streaming past him with carts and horses loaded with salvaged belongings.
“Ma, look!” But his mother wasn’t paying attention, trying to balance Elizabeth and Richard in her arms. “Ma!” When she didn’t respond again, Tom slipped slowly away and went to the man, his head cocking to one side quizzically.
“What’re you doing? You’re gonna be crushed!”
The man was dressed like a wealthy merchant, in a drab brown suit highlighted by accents of deep emerald green. His corn-colored hair was mussed over his forehead, and his bright green eyes opened and shut spasmodically as he lay there. His cheeks and hands were streaked with soot.
“Excuse me, Mister? Mister!” The man didn’t respond again, only let out a deep, guttural cough from the pit of his stomach. Thomas leaned forward and grabbed him by the collar of his suit, practically dragging him to his feet. He was a small man, only a bit taller than Tom was.
The man coughed again and fell against Tom, almost staggering him. “My heart is on fire,” he moaned.
Thomas hadn’t breathed in much of the ash, but he imagined it would feel very much like his insides were on fire, if he had. Thinking that was what was wrong with the strange man, he smiled softly. “It’s alright-they’re trying to put out the fires, even now! My Da’s helping!”
“It’s burning,” the man continued, as thought he hadn’t even heard Tom, “even the Globe, even the Cathedral…” His voice trailed off.
“Hey, it’ll be alright,” Tom said, trying his best to sound reassuring, as his father had, that morning. “Come on, we’ll get out into the hills, with everyone else.” He tried to keep walking, taking the man with him, but the stranger’s feet were planted.
“Are you bloody mad? I’m not leaving.” His voice was a mixture of arrogance and incredulity. Tom rolled his eyes.
“If you’ll stay, you’ll die,” he said flatly. “Come on, there’s my Ma. I bet you can stay with us, until the fires die down. We’re going to stay on her cousin Aggy’s farm.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” the man demanded. “My city’s in danger-I’m not going to abandon it!”
“Don’t be stupid!” Tom returned, growing frustrated. Why was it so hard to help people? “You’re not a firefighter, or anything. How d’you expect to help? You’re just gonna get yourself killed!”
Not taking no for an answer, Tom grabbed the man’s elbow and began dragging him towards the city gates, in a gesture comically similar to the way his mother had grabbed him earlier.
“Let-me-go-you-little-brat-!” The man roared between coughs. His lungs really must have been in bad shape. His cheeks grew red and hot and he fought Tom with every step.
Dragging him along, Tom eventually found his mother and siblings. “Ma, can this guy stay with us, for a bit? He’s not in good shape.”
“Thomas! Were have you been?” His mother’s first concern was for his safety, but, glancing the stranger, her eyes soften. “Oh, he doesn’t look very well, does he? Load him onto the cart, Thomas-we’ll see what we can do for ‘im.”
Worn out from resisting Tom, the stranger fell asleep as soon as he was lying down amongst Tom’s family’s clothes and food. Tom pulled the cart along and his mother followed behind with Richard and Elizabeth in her arms.
They stopped once they were outside the city, along with another group of refugees. Safe enough in the foothills, they sat down to make camp. Tom’s mother passed out bread and milk-the last stores from the now ruined bakery.
Tom took a loaf of bread and an apple and went to sit beside the man, who’d woken up. He still just stared back at the city with a dead look in his eyes, though.
“Here you go, Mister,” Thomas said, passing him a slice of bread.
“Arthur,” the man replied absently. “My name is Arthur.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Thomas said, his ears turning red, “but I had to get you away from that.” He waved a hand sadly at the city, high with flames and black with smoke.
“Yes,” Arthur murmured quietly. He slowly at the bread, without even glancing at it. “So many people I love are still in that city.” His voice was hollow.
“My dad’s there, too,” Tom said glumly. “He stayed behind to help put out the fires. I wanted to help, but Ma wouldn’t let me stay.”
Arthur turned to Tom with an unfathomable expression in his green eyes. He coughed roughly, and then patted Tom affectionately on the head. “You did all you could. You did well.”
For some reason, the stranger’s praise caused the pride to well in Tom’s chest. “Thank you, Mister.”
The two of them lapsed into silence after that, a young boy and a young man sitting on the hillside, watching quietly as their city burned.
- - -
[ A M E R I C A ]
October 29, 1929 ; Black Thursday
If nothing else had told Evelyn that it was going to be a horrible day, people falling from the sky might’ve clued her in. The upper windows of the corporate buildings were opening, and men were literally slipping right out of them, clenching their eyes shut as they fell to their deaths. Evelyn stopped in the middle of the street and craned her neck to see high above her; had she looked around she would have realized that others were following suit.
“What’s going on?” she asked, but the people around her were too awed to answer. Evelyn bit her lip and clenched her teeth as one man fell, then two. The doors of the building burst open, and dozens of men wearing drab business suits and frantic expressions streamed out.
The police and ambulances arrived soon after, and Evelyn was pushed to onside as broken men and broken bodies were carried away. It was only her steely determination that kept her on the street, watching the scene. And it was only because of that that she saw the last man fall.
He seemed too young to be working in the stock market. The sun was already setting, but Evelyn could see the gold glint of his hair and the glare of spectacles on his face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he wore no jacket. He took a deep breath, murmured something under his breath, and then began to fall. He seemed to glide down gently through the air, like an eagle. But when he hit the ground, his body crumpled and he did not stir.
Evelyn glanced around nervously, to see if anyone was going to help. But the ambulances were gone, the police busy with their inquiry. Most of the bystanders had dispersed, as well. And there was no one to help the fallen young man.
Anxious, Evelyn checked her watch. It was already past seven; if she dallied, she’d be late for her shift in the restaurant. But for some reason, even with her apron clenched in one hand, Evelyn was able to forget about all of that as she approached the man.
Or maybe “man” wasn’t the right word. For he was nothing more than a boy, in Evelyn’s eyes. She was only twenty-three, but he was at least five or six years younger. There were no worry marks on his face, no weariness in his expression.
“So why did you jump?” Evelyn whispered as she placed two fingers against his neck, trying to find a pulse.
“I wanted to see if I could fly.” Blue eyes blinked open slowly, and the boy’s mouth opened into a lazy smile.
Evelyn balked backwards and gasped. “Y-you’re alive!” she cried, one hand instinctively clapping to her mouth.
The boy’s grin widened, and he shrugged-an awkward gesture, since he was lying on the floor. “I don’t think I’d do anything if I wasn’t sure I could survive it.”
“You were sure you could jump out of a thirteen-story window and survive?” Evelyn asked incredulously.
The boy smiled again, then coughed. He shuddered as he said, “Though I didn’t expect it to hurt this bad.”
“Can you get up?” Evelyn asked, offering him a hand. The boy shook his head.
“No, but I’ll be fine in a minute…I just need to…catch my…breath…” The words seemed to be forcing their way out of his mouth, and his breathing grew shallow. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His glasses, Evelyn noticed, had escaped the fall relatively unscathed-there was only a single hairline crack running down the center of the left frame.
“You can’t just lie here,” Evelyn insisted. “You should see a doctor, or something.”
“And who’ll pay that doctor?” the boy asked with a rueful smile. “No one…does anything…unless it’s for money.”
“That’s not true!” Evelyn insisted.
“It isn’t…Miss?” the boy grimaced. He glanced at the apron in her hands. “So you’re going to work…or coming from it…cause you just enjoy…waiting on people?”
Her cheeks turned red. “I don’t enjoy it, per say. But it’s what I have to do.”
“Because you need money.” The boy said, with a nod of his head.
“No, that’s not it!” Evelyn cried out in exasperation. She clapped one hand to her forehead and sighed. “Money, it’s a nice thing, I won’t lie. And I won’t pretend I didn’t wish I had more of it. But people, they can be nice, without expecting any payoff.”
“Really,” the boy said, with a tone that sounded much too wise to be coming from an adolescent. “Give me one example.”
“How about this?” Evelyn asked. She tucked her apron into her purse and hoisted the boy to his feet. He was taller than her, but she was wearing pumps, so she managed to drag him away from the glass of the shattered windows. They were only a few blocks from her apartment, but even so, it was hard to carry him-especially after he passed out.
By the time he came too, Evelyn had laid him down on her worn, threadbare couch, and tucked a blanket around him. He blinked open his eyes, saw his glasses on the coffee table, and turned her quizzically.
She sat in an armchair across from him, a curious expression on her face. “I just don’t understand it,” she murmured. “There’s not a scratch on you, and yet you just…fainted.”
The boy shook his head as though to clear it. “It’s alright-don’t worry about it.”
“Do you want to call someone, let them know where you are? Your parents, or something?”
“I would, but I haven’t got any.” He grinned cheekily as her face darkened with regret. “It’s ok, though-my brothers did a pretty good job of raising me.”
“…‘did?’ Where are they now?”
“Oh, we parted ways one hundred and-I mean, about two or three years ago.”
“I see.” Evelyn’s gaze was too piercing; the boy looked away.
“Y’know,” he said, shrugging off the blanket and rising to his feet, “I should be going. My boss’ll be worried about me.”
“Are you sure?” Evelyn asked. “You could stay the night-I mean, I can stay with you, I already missed work…”
Her voice trailed off, and the boy grinned. He knelt down beside her and kissed her softly on the forehead. “It’s alright, Evelyn. But try to make it to work tomorrow, ok? I have a feeling you’ll be wanting to hang onto that job.”
He left out the door without turning back, leaving Evelyn to wonder how he had known her name, when she had never told it to him.
- - -
[ R U S S I A ]
Circa 1603 ; during the Time of Troubles
The bodies were piled high in the big grave outside the village, too many too count. The young men began to cover the blank, wasted faces and forms of their loved ones over with dirt, their faces set into hard lines and their eyes cold. Their task took less time than one might have expected, given that two thirds of the able-bodied men, those usually in charge of these burials, were themselves lying in the grave.
Eventually, the faces were covered behind layers of dirt, and the boys set down their shovels. Some’s shoulders shook with repressed sobs, and others looked ready to faint from hunger. Eventually, they turned to one another and nodded, finally starting for home.
Misha entered his small home with a heavy sigh. Last year, when he came home from days working out in the fields, his four little sisters ran to meet him in the doorway. Anya would cling to his leg, and Zoya would dance around him in a small circle. Tasha would hold up her doll and gaze up at him adoringly, while Lena would ask a million different questions about his day. Eventually, their small tangle would make its way into the main room, where Misha’s mother would great him with a smile and a kiss. But no more.
Five of the bodies in that grave belonged to Misha’s family. His mother had gone first, her aging body unable to live without the food she had willingly given up to feed her children. Anya, always sickly, went next. Lena took ill and lingered for weeks, but she eventually died on the same day as Tasha. Zoya was the last to go, but even she couldn’t live for more than a few weeks once the bread was gone. And that left only Misha.
He threw himself down on the bed of straw and coarse blankets that had served as bedding for his family for years. Instead of falling asleep, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed, hunger and grief wracking his body. His gray eyes were clenched shut, but he could still see them, holding out their hands and begging for food. But he, the man of the house, had been unable to provide it for them, and yet by some strange twist of fate, he was still there. Last week, the first new grain of the season had sprouted, and what was left of the village had rejoiced. But it was too late. Empty and wasted, Misha fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Misha got up and made his way to the grain stores. Until the new crop came in-and they couldn’t be sure that it would-what little they had had to be guarded with the greatest scrutiny. Today was Misha’s shift, so he stood in front of the small hut, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back on the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t collapse.
Times were desperate, but not nearly as bad as they had been only a little while ago, so Misha wasn’t quite expecting it when a small, dark shape darted past him into the hut. Still, despite his hunger, his instincts were still good, so he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the scuff of his tunic.
“The punishment for stealing grain is death!” He said, trying to sound authoritative though his voice squeaked. His captive, a young boy not eight or nine years old, squirmed in Misha’s grasp.
“Let go of me, or you’ll be sorry!” he said, his voice striking a high note with the last word. Pale, matted hair fell over his improbably violet eyes, and a pudgy, rose-bud mouth was hidden beneath his bulbous nose. “I mean it!”
“You can’t steal our grain!” Misha said, his voice spiking. How many times had he thought of stealing grain, to feed to his mother and sisters? How many times had he resisted that urge, knowing that one ounce of stolen grain could have spelled someone’s death? And now this child would dare commit the act without a second thought?
“But-I’m-hungry!” The boy cried out, kicking out at Misha. The elder boy dodged, still holding him by his shirt.
“No one cares! Everyone’s hungry! But if you steal that grain, people will die. And I won’t let you do that!” As though to underscore the point, Misha’s stomach let out an immense growl.
The boy stopped squirming for a moment, his brow furrowing as though he was thinking something over. “You are…hungry, too?” he asked, his voice small. Misha nodded blandly. The boy sighed and threw his hands to the sky.
“Everyone is hungry,” he moaned, “and I don’t know how to help, anymore.” Large tears began pouring out of his icy purple eyes, and Misha suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Petya and Klava’s father said the worst is over-in a few weeks, it’ll be spring, and it looks like the grain will grow in right, this time.”
The boy wiped his eyes and glanced up at Misha. “Really?” He looked hopeful for a moment, then dubious. “You can’t be sure.”
“No, I can’t,” Misha agreed good-naturedly. “But if I don’t believe that, what have I got left to live for?”
The boy sighed and pulled at his cheeks in a nervous gesture. Misha let him go, and he immediately fell to his knees. He wore a well-used scarf around his neck, and he proceeded to use it to wipe the remaining tears off of his face.
“You’re not from this village, are you?” Misha asked. “I’d know you, if you were. Where’d you come from?”
The boy sniffled. “Moscow,” he mumbled. “But I’m not going back! My sisters are out here, somewhere, and they’re hungry. I have to take them some food.”
“Your…sisters?”
“Yes. What, you thought I would steal for myself?”
The was exactly what Misha had thought. He face turned pink with embarrassment. But something in the back of his mind told him that he couldn’t turn the boy away empty-handed. He went to the grain stores and measured out a cup-Misha’s family’s share for the week. He tied it into a worn burlap sack and returned to the boy, handing it over.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” Misha said, “for your sisters.”
“But, if I take this, someone will be hungry, like you said.”
“No, they won’t. There’s no one left to eat that, anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Misha smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. “Of course I’m sure. Now get out of here before I yell ‘thief!’”
The boy grinned, and then raced off. Misha sat back down in the doorway, ignored the growling of his stomach, and smiled.
original fill → ♥
-- The Reign of Terror was the most radical part of the French Revolution. Since the urban working poor, or sans-culotte, were demanding cheep bread, the revolutionary government went into the provinces and executed farmers accused of hoarding grain.
-- “Toinette” was a pet-name for Marie Antoinette, the former Queen of France who would have been, at this time, a prisoner in the Temple after her husband’s execution.
-- Inter-class differences and injustices were a main concern of revolutionaries. So they did away with all titles and formal language, and insisted that every person be referred to as “Citoyen” or “citizen.”
-- The Great Fire of London was a major conflagration that swept through the central parts of the English city of London, from Sunday, 2 September to Wednesday, 5 September 1666. The fire gutted the medieval City of Londoninside the old Roman City Wall. It threatened, but did not reach, the aristocratic district of Westminster, Charles II's Palace of Whitehall, and most of the suburban slums. It consumed 13,200 houses, 87 parish churches, St. Paul's Cathedral, and most of the buildings of the City authorities. It is estimated that it destroyed the homes of 70,000 of the City's ca. 80,000 inhabitants. The death toll from the fire is unknown and is traditionally thought to have been small, as only six verified deaths were recorded. This reasoning has recently been challenged on the grounds that the deaths of poor and middle-class people were not recorded anywhere, and that the heat of the fire may have cremated many victims, leaving no recognizable remains.
-- “Black Thursday” heralded the Stock Market Crash of 1929, which is commonly thought of as one of the causes of the Great Depression. The crash was actually an effect of the depression and not its source. Many stockbrokers did, in fact, leap from the windows of the building as the numbers came in, many to their deaths.
-- Russian famine of 1601-1603 was Russia's worst famine, killing perhaps a third of Russians during the Time of Troubles.
in which nations are comforted by normal citizens.
de-anoning from the kink meme.
A Wind in the Door
[ F R A N C E ]
Circa 1794 ; during the Reign of Terror
If anyone else could see the shadow of a man stumble and fall to the ground, none of them mentioned it. Alix and her sisters had been ordered into the house earlier that day, when the mob arrived, carting the guillotine. Since then, they’d been huddled together in the center of their small home, fearing the worst when Papa didn’t return from the inspection of their grain stores.
As Alix watched, the man’s silhouette rose, walked a few paces, and then fell again. This time, he did not rise. Alarmed, Alix tugged on her sister’s sleeve. “Giselle,” she whispered, for she was still to afraid to raise her voice, “did you see that?”
“See what, Alix?” Giselle asked distractedly. Since Papa had left, she’d been in charge of Alix and their two younger sisters. Now, her pale young face was lined in worry lines, and her cheeks were ashen with fatigue and strain.
She didn’t want to alarm Giselle any more than was necessary, so Alix forced a smile and said, “Nothing. It must have been my imagination. I’m going to go milk the cows, ok?”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“They have to be milked, Giselle-what else are we to do?”
“I’m not sure…” Giselle began to say, but then their youngest sister Eloise began to sob, and Giselle was busied with her. She hardly saw as Alix grabbed a loaf of bred, a jug of water, and the milking bucket and run outside.
Alix ran up the hill and found the man, lying on his back in the middle of the road. Her brow furrowed as she tried to decipher what he was. He didn’t look like sans-culottes, but his clothing was too tattered to mark him as bourgeoisie. His blonde hair hung dankly over his face, but he wore it long, like a nobleman’s. On his lapel was a tricolor pin, so clearly he supported the Revolution. But what was he?
“Monsieur?-I mean, Citoyen?” Alix whispered hesitantly, kneeling down beside him and tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Citoyen?”
Wearily, the man blinked open his eyes. “Toinette?” he asked sleepily. Alix knew no one by that name, so she shook her head.
“Monsi-Citoyen, you must rise. The people are checking the grain stores, now, but they’ll be done soon.” And when they do, they’ll be thirsty for blood.
“Can’t,” the man murmured, resting his head against his hands. “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, but I’m just so tired.” He shut his eyes again.
“You shouldn’t call me that!” Alix whispered fearfully. “Citoyen, please!”
The man blinked his eyes open again and chuckled, ruefully. “Well, alright. But only because I can’t stand to see such a pretty girl cry.”
He extended his hand, but Alix, ever the practical one, gripped him on both sides under his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet. This turned out to be easier said than done, because once the man was on his feet, he effectively dwarfed Alix’s slight frame. One of his ankles was twisted, so he leaned half of his weight against her as they made their way to the barn.
The man fell heavily against a bed of straw and closed his eyes once more. Alix leaned toward him, felt the shallow whisper of his breath. Her blue eyes-such a match to his-lit with concern, and she poured some of the water into the bucket and used a soft cloth to wipe the grime-and blood-from his face and hands.
He had called her pretty, but he, he was positively beautiful. Lips the color and shape of ocean shells; a proud, sculpted nose; heavily-lashed eyes that blinked open every so often, revealing the color of summer storms.
After a few minutes, he awoke entirely, and wordlessly accepted the bread Alix handed him. As he ate, she sat back on her ankles and cocked her head to one side.
“Citoyen, if I may ask you something?” He nodded regally in ascent-he must have been a noble-and so she continued, “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” he asked loosely, sipping on some of the water left in the jug.
“Your kind-the Convention has made it clear that they are no longer welcome noblemen in France. If you are still alive, you should have escaped to Austria, years ago.”
The man sat back with an extravagant sigh. “I’d rather eat tar than wait this out with that old prude.” Alix looked to him questioningly, and so he just laughed-a rich, warm, and ironic laugh. “Look, Mademoiselle-don’t give me that look; it’s my language and I’ll speak it as I please-I think you take me for a noble, but I assure you, I am not. My family has never held a title in France.”
“…what is it, if I may ask? Your family name?”
“Bonnefoy,” he replied loosely, and then continued, “And as for ‘my kind’-I arrived here with them. I’m part of the mob, you see.”
Alix’s eyes widened, and she couldn’t quite stifle a gasp. “Then you were there when they took Papa!”
Citoyen Bonnefoy gave her a shrewd look. “About five foot ten, with blue eyes like yours and the same nose, but brown hair, not blonde?”
Alix nodded dumbly.
“Don’t fret; he’s safe.” As Alix breathed a sigh of relief, Citoyen Bonnefoy coughed. “Dammit,” he murmured under his breath.
“Why did you come, if you were in such a state?”
“Oh, this?” he asked laughingly, indicating himself with one elegant gesture of his hand. “I’ve been sick for ages, ma chère. But I always seem to forget, that when my people die, it takes it’s toll…”
His eyes grew misty, and he shook his head as though to clear it. “Well, anyhow-as soon as the bloodletting is over, I shall be quite well again.”
“Blood…death makes you sick?” Alix asked in confusion.
“Something like that.” He chuckled again, but, seeing her expression, his eyes softened and he patted her on the head. “Don’t worry, Mademoiselle. I feel it will be over, soon.”
He rose to his feet, brushed off his britches, and headed for the barn door. Alix caught his hand, however, and pulled him back. “You’re not well yet,” she insisted. “At least spend the night here. Please stay…until Papa comes back.”
“In a barn?” he asked quizzically. But he sighed in resignation. “I suppose I’ve seen worse.”
Alix kept vigil over him that night, returning to the house at intervals to convince Giselle she was alright-just staying with the spooked cows, she told her sister. She knelt by Citoyen Bonnefoy’s humble bed, but it was not long before she fell asleep beside him. He awoke momentarily and smiled, wrapped one arm around her, and pulled her close. In that chaste embrace, they both slept until morning.
But when she awoke to the cocks’ morning song, he was already gone. He’d left a lily in her hands, in his place. And when Alix returned to the house, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she heard a familiar masculine voice talking to Giselle. She broke into a run. “Papa!”
- - -
[ E N G L A N D ]
September 4, 1666 ; during the Great Fire of London
The fire had begun a few days ago, and had burned steadily and fearsomely since then. All of Pudding Lane was now destroyed, including Tom’s father’s bakery. They’d been even more alarmed when the Cathedral had begun to burn; at the last word, it was reduced to smoke and ash. Tom’s father had joined the efforts to help evacuate the people; he had told Tom and his mother to take the younger children and get out of the city.
Tom had never really been one to obey, and he was even less likely to abandon those in need. However, before he could run down to the burning residential districts, his mother grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away.
“Let me go, Ma!” he cried, fighting against her formidable grasp. Tom’s little sister Elizabeth was strapped to their mother’s back, and his younger brother Richard was clinging to her leg as she rushed through the panicked streets. “I have to see-”
“Why?” his mother demanded of him, her voice hoarse. She was out of breath and thick ash was blocking everyone’s breathing. “Why do you have to see people dying? For once in your life, Thomas, do as you’re told and come on.”
“But, Ma-!” His voice was full of outrage and concern, and he finally manages to wrench his arm away. “I can help!”
“You’re only eleven, Thomas! What could you do?” His mother’s voice was sharp with anxiety. “Please, just come on!” Seeing the look in his mother’s deep brown eyes, Tom hung his head and followed her. She sighed in relief and led the way out of the city. They had gone only a few feet when they had to stop and pull kerchiefs up over their noses and mouths to block out the smoke.
They had just reached the outskirts of the city when Tom spotted him. A man, lying aimlessly in the middle of the road, seemingly blind to the sight of the refugees streaming past him with carts and horses loaded with salvaged belongings.
“Ma, look!” But his mother wasn’t paying attention, trying to balance Elizabeth and Richard in her arms. “Ma!” When she didn’t respond again, Tom slipped slowly away and went to the man, his head cocking to one side quizzically.
“What’re you doing? You’re gonna be crushed!”
The man was dressed like a wealthy merchant, in a drab brown suit highlighted by accents of deep emerald green. His corn-colored hair was mussed over his forehead, and his bright green eyes opened and shut spasmodically as he lay there. His cheeks and hands were streaked with soot.
“Excuse me, Mister? Mister!” The man didn’t respond again, only let out a deep, guttural cough from the pit of his stomach. Thomas leaned forward and grabbed him by the collar of his suit, practically dragging him to his feet. He was a small man, only a bit taller than Tom was.
The man coughed again and fell against Tom, almost staggering him. “My heart is on fire,” he moaned.
Thomas hadn’t breathed in much of the ash, but he imagined it would feel very much like his insides were on fire, if he had. Thinking that was what was wrong with the strange man, he smiled softly. “It’s alright-they’re trying to put out the fires, even now! My Da’s helping!”
“It’s burning,” the man continued, as thought he hadn’t even heard Tom, “even the Globe, even the Cathedral…” His voice trailed off.
“Hey, it’ll be alright,” Tom said, trying his best to sound reassuring, as his father had, that morning. “Come on, we’ll get out into the hills, with everyone else.” He tried to keep walking, taking the man with him, but the stranger’s feet were planted.
“Are you bloody mad? I’m not leaving.” His voice was a mixture of arrogance and incredulity. Tom rolled his eyes.
“If you’ll stay, you’ll die,” he said flatly. “Come on, there’s my Ma. I bet you can stay with us, until the fires die down. We’re going to stay on her cousin Aggy’s farm.”
“Didn’t you hear me?” the man demanded. “My city’s in danger-I’m not going to abandon it!”
“Don’t be stupid!” Tom returned, growing frustrated. Why was it so hard to help people? “You’re not a firefighter, or anything. How d’you expect to help? You’re just gonna get yourself killed!”
Not taking no for an answer, Tom grabbed the man’s elbow and began dragging him towards the city gates, in a gesture comically similar to the way his mother had grabbed him earlier.
“Let-me-go-you-little-brat-!” The man roared between coughs. His lungs really must have been in bad shape. His cheeks grew red and hot and he fought Tom with every step.
Dragging him along, Tom eventually found his mother and siblings. “Ma, can this guy stay with us, for a bit? He’s not in good shape.”
“Thomas! Were have you been?” His mother’s first concern was for his safety, but, glancing the stranger, her eyes soften. “Oh, he doesn’t look very well, does he? Load him onto the cart, Thomas-we’ll see what we can do for ‘im.”
Worn out from resisting Tom, the stranger fell asleep as soon as he was lying down amongst Tom’s family’s clothes and food. Tom pulled the cart along and his mother followed behind with Richard and Elizabeth in her arms.
They stopped once they were outside the city, along with another group of refugees. Safe enough in the foothills, they sat down to make camp. Tom’s mother passed out bread and milk-the last stores from the now ruined bakery.
Tom took a loaf of bread and an apple and went to sit beside the man, who’d woken up. He still just stared back at the city with a dead look in his eyes, though.
“Here you go, Mister,” Thomas said, passing him a slice of bread.
“Arthur,” the man replied absently. “My name is Arthur.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you,” Thomas said, his ears turning red, “but I had to get you away from that.” He waved a hand sadly at the city, high with flames and black with smoke.
“Yes,” Arthur murmured quietly. He slowly at the bread, without even glancing at it. “So many people I love are still in that city.” His voice was hollow.
“My dad’s there, too,” Tom said glumly. “He stayed behind to help put out the fires. I wanted to help, but Ma wouldn’t let me stay.”
Arthur turned to Tom with an unfathomable expression in his green eyes. He coughed roughly, and then patted Tom affectionately on the head. “You did all you could. You did well.”
For some reason, the stranger’s praise caused the pride to well in Tom’s chest. “Thank you, Mister.”
The two of them lapsed into silence after that, a young boy and a young man sitting on the hillside, watching quietly as their city burned.
- - -
[ A M E R I C A ]
October 29, 1929 ; Black Thursday
If nothing else had told Evelyn that it was going to be a horrible day, people falling from the sky might’ve clued her in. The upper windows of the corporate buildings were opening, and men were literally slipping right out of them, clenching their eyes shut as they fell to their deaths. Evelyn stopped in the middle of the street and craned her neck to see high above her; had she looked around she would have realized that others were following suit.
“What’s going on?” she asked, but the people around her were too awed to answer. Evelyn bit her lip and clenched her teeth as one man fell, then two. The doors of the building burst open, and dozens of men wearing drab business suits and frantic expressions streamed out.
The police and ambulances arrived soon after, and Evelyn was pushed to onside as broken men and broken bodies were carried away. It was only her steely determination that kept her on the street, watching the scene. And it was only because of that that she saw the last man fall.
He seemed too young to be working in the stock market. The sun was already setting, but Evelyn could see the gold glint of his hair and the glare of spectacles on his face. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and he wore no jacket. He took a deep breath, murmured something under his breath, and then began to fall. He seemed to glide down gently through the air, like an eagle. But when he hit the ground, his body crumpled and he did not stir.
Evelyn glanced around nervously, to see if anyone was going to help. But the ambulances were gone, the police busy with their inquiry. Most of the bystanders had dispersed, as well. And there was no one to help the fallen young man.
Anxious, Evelyn checked her watch. It was already past seven; if she dallied, she’d be late for her shift in the restaurant. But for some reason, even with her apron clenched in one hand, Evelyn was able to forget about all of that as she approached the man.
Or maybe “man” wasn’t the right word. For he was nothing more than a boy, in Evelyn’s eyes. She was only twenty-three, but he was at least five or six years younger. There were no worry marks on his face, no weariness in his expression.
“So why did you jump?” Evelyn whispered as she placed two fingers against his neck, trying to find a pulse.
“I wanted to see if I could fly.” Blue eyes blinked open slowly, and the boy’s mouth opened into a lazy smile.
Evelyn balked backwards and gasped. “Y-you’re alive!” she cried, one hand instinctively clapping to her mouth.
The boy’s grin widened, and he shrugged-an awkward gesture, since he was lying on the floor. “I don’t think I’d do anything if I wasn’t sure I could survive it.”
“You were sure you could jump out of a thirteen-story window and survive?” Evelyn asked incredulously.
The boy smiled again, then coughed. He shuddered as he said, “Though I didn’t expect it to hurt this bad.”
“Can you get up?” Evelyn asked, offering him a hand. The boy shook his head.
“No, but I’ll be fine in a minute…I just need to…catch my…breath…” The words seemed to be forcing their way out of his mouth, and his breathing grew shallow. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His glasses, Evelyn noticed, had escaped the fall relatively unscathed-there was only a single hairline crack running down the center of the left frame.
“You can’t just lie here,” Evelyn insisted. “You should see a doctor, or something.”
“And who’ll pay that doctor?” the boy asked with a rueful smile. “No one…does anything…unless it’s for money.”
“That’s not true!” Evelyn insisted.
“It isn’t…Miss?” the boy grimaced. He glanced at the apron in her hands. “So you’re going to work…or coming from it…cause you just enjoy…waiting on people?”
Her cheeks turned red. “I don’t enjoy it, per say. But it’s what I have to do.”
“Because you need money.” The boy said, with a nod of his head.
“No, that’s not it!” Evelyn cried out in exasperation. She clapped one hand to her forehead and sighed. “Money, it’s a nice thing, I won’t lie. And I won’t pretend I didn’t wish I had more of it. But people, they can be nice, without expecting any payoff.”
“Really,” the boy said, with a tone that sounded much too wise to be coming from an adolescent. “Give me one example.”
“How about this?” Evelyn asked. She tucked her apron into her purse and hoisted the boy to his feet. He was taller than her, but she was wearing pumps, so she managed to drag him away from the glass of the shattered windows. They were only a few blocks from her apartment, but even so, it was hard to carry him-especially after he passed out.
By the time he came too, Evelyn had laid him down on her worn, threadbare couch, and tucked a blanket around him. He blinked open his eyes, saw his glasses on the coffee table, and turned her quizzically.
She sat in an armchair across from him, a curious expression on her face. “I just don’t understand it,” she murmured. “There’s not a scratch on you, and yet you just…fainted.”
The boy shook his head as though to clear it. “It’s alright-don’t worry about it.”
“Do you want to call someone, let them know where you are? Your parents, or something?”
“I would, but I haven’t got any.” He grinned cheekily as her face darkened with regret. “It’s ok, though-my brothers did a pretty good job of raising me.”
“…‘did?’ Where are they now?”
“Oh, we parted ways one hundred and-I mean, about two or three years ago.”
“I see.” Evelyn’s gaze was too piercing; the boy looked away.
“Y’know,” he said, shrugging off the blanket and rising to his feet, “I should be going. My boss’ll be worried about me.”
“Are you sure?” Evelyn asked. “You could stay the night-I mean, I can stay with you, I already missed work…”
Her voice trailed off, and the boy grinned. He knelt down beside her and kissed her softly on the forehead. “It’s alright, Evelyn. But try to make it to work tomorrow, ok? I have a feeling you’ll be wanting to hang onto that job.”
He left out the door without turning back, leaving Evelyn to wonder how he had known her name, when she had never told it to him.
- - -
[ R U S S I A ]
Circa 1603 ; during the Time of Troubles
The bodies were piled high in the big grave outside the village, too many too count. The young men began to cover the blank, wasted faces and forms of their loved ones over with dirt, their faces set into hard lines and their eyes cold. Their task took less time than one might have expected, given that two thirds of the able-bodied men, those usually in charge of these burials, were themselves lying in the grave.
Eventually, the faces were covered behind layers of dirt, and the boys set down their shovels. Some’s shoulders shook with repressed sobs, and others looked ready to faint from hunger. Eventually, they turned to one another and nodded, finally starting for home.
Misha entered his small home with a heavy sigh. Last year, when he came home from days working out in the fields, his four little sisters ran to meet him in the doorway. Anya would cling to his leg, and Zoya would dance around him in a small circle. Tasha would hold up her doll and gaze up at him adoringly, while Lena would ask a million different questions about his day. Eventually, their small tangle would make its way into the main room, where Misha’s mother would great him with a smile and a kiss. But no more.
Five of the bodies in that grave belonged to Misha’s family. His mother had gone first, her aging body unable to live without the food she had willingly given up to feed her children. Anya, always sickly, went next. Lena took ill and lingered for weeks, but she eventually died on the same day as Tasha. Zoya was the last to go, but even she couldn’t live for more than a few weeks once the bread was gone. And that left only Misha.
He threw himself down on the bed of straw and coarse blankets that had served as bedding for his family for years. Instead of falling asleep, he buried his head in his hands and sobbed, hunger and grief wracking his body. His gray eyes were clenched shut, but he could still see them, holding out their hands and begging for food. But he, the man of the house, had been unable to provide it for them, and yet by some strange twist of fate, he was still there. Last week, the first new grain of the season had sprouted, and what was left of the village had rejoiced. But it was too late. Empty and wasted, Misha fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, Misha got up and made his way to the grain stores. Until the new crop came in-and they couldn’t be sure that it would-what little they had had to be guarded with the greatest scrutiny. Today was Misha’s shift, so he stood in front of the small hut, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back on the balls of his feet so he wouldn’t collapse.
Times were desperate, but not nearly as bad as they had been only a little while ago, so Misha wasn’t quite expecting it when a small, dark shape darted past him into the hut. Still, despite his hunger, his instincts were still good, so he reached out and grabbed the intruder by the scuff of his tunic.
“The punishment for stealing grain is death!” He said, trying to sound authoritative though his voice squeaked. His captive, a young boy not eight or nine years old, squirmed in Misha’s grasp.
“Let go of me, or you’ll be sorry!” he said, his voice striking a high note with the last word. Pale, matted hair fell over his improbably violet eyes, and a pudgy, rose-bud mouth was hidden beneath his bulbous nose. “I mean it!”
“You can’t steal our grain!” Misha said, his voice spiking. How many times had he thought of stealing grain, to feed to his mother and sisters? How many times had he resisted that urge, knowing that one ounce of stolen grain could have spelled someone’s death? And now this child would dare commit the act without a second thought?
“But-I’m-hungry!” The boy cried out, kicking out at Misha. The elder boy dodged, still holding him by his shirt.
“No one cares! Everyone’s hungry! But if you steal that grain, people will die. And I won’t let you do that!” As though to underscore the point, Misha’s stomach let out an immense growl.
The boy stopped squirming for a moment, his brow furrowing as though he was thinking something over. “You are…hungry, too?” he asked, his voice small. Misha nodded blandly. The boy sighed and threw his hands to the sky.
“Everyone is hungry,” he moaned, “and I don’t know how to help, anymore.” Large tears began pouring out of his icy purple eyes, and Misha suddenly felt a surge of sympathy for him.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright. Petya and Klava’s father said the worst is over-in a few weeks, it’ll be spring, and it looks like the grain will grow in right, this time.”
The boy wiped his eyes and glanced up at Misha. “Really?” He looked hopeful for a moment, then dubious. “You can’t be sure.”
“No, I can’t,” Misha agreed good-naturedly. “But if I don’t believe that, what have I got left to live for?”
The boy sighed and pulled at his cheeks in a nervous gesture. Misha let him go, and he immediately fell to his knees. He wore a well-used scarf around his neck, and he proceeded to use it to wipe the remaining tears off of his face.
“You’re not from this village, are you?” Misha asked. “I’d know you, if you were. Where’d you come from?”
The boy sniffled. “Moscow,” he mumbled. “But I’m not going back! My sisters are out here, somewhere, and they’re hungry. I have to take them some food.”
“Your…sisters?”
“Yes. What, you thought I would steal for myself?”
The was exactly what Misha had thought. He face turned pink with embarrassment. But something in the back of his mind told him that he couldn’t turn the boy away empty-handed. He went to the grain stores and measured out a cup-Misha’s family’s share for the week. He tied it into a worn burlap sack and returned to the boy, handing it over.
“What’s this?”
“Food,” Misha said, “for your sisters.”
“But, if I take this, someone will be hungry, like you said.”
“No, they won’t. There’s no one left to eat that, anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Misha smiled and tousled the boy’s hair. “Of course I’m sure. Now get out of here before I yell ‘thief!’”
The boy grinned, and then raced off. Misha sat back down in the doorway, ignored the growling of his stomach, and smiled.
original fill → ♥
-- The Reign of Terror was the most radical part of the French Revolution. Since the urban working poor, or sans-culotte, were demanding cheep bread, the revolutionary government went into the provinces and executed farmers accused of hoarding grain.
-- “Toinette” was a pet-name for Marie Antoinette, the former Queen of France who would have been, at this time, a prisoner in the Temple after her husband’s execution.
-- Inter-class differences and injustices were a main concern of revolutionaries. So they did away with all titles and formal language, and insisted that every person be referred to as “Citoyen” or “citizen.”
-- The Great Fire of London was a major conflagration that swept through the central parts of the English city of London, from Sunday, 2 September to Wednesday, 5 September 1666. The fire gutted the medieval City of Londoninside the old Roman City Wall. It threatened, but did not reach, the aristocratic district of Westminster, Charles II's Palace of Whitehall, and most of the suburban slums. It consumed 13,200 houses, 87 parish churches, St. Paul's Cathedral, and most of the buildings of the City authorities. It is estimated that it destroyed the homes of 70,000 of the City's ca. 80,000 inhabitants. The death toll from the fire is unknown and is traditionally thought to have been small, as only six verified deaths were recorded. This reasoning has recently been challenged on the grounds that the deaths of poor and middle-class people were not recorded anywhere, and that the heat of the fire may have cremated many victims, leaving no recognizable remains.
-- “Black Thursday” heralded the Stock Market Crash of 1929, which is commonly thought of as one of the causes of the Great Depression. The crash was actually an effect of the depression and not its source. Many stockbrokers did, in fact, leap from the windows of the building as the numbers came in, many to their deaths.
-- Russian famine of 1601-1603 was Russia's worst famine, killing perhaps a third of Russians during the Time of Troubles.