Happy Holidays, inabathrobe!
Title: The Language of Flowers, or the Night the Guillotine Fell
Recipient: inabathrobe
Author: thesilentpoet
Rating: PG
Summary: "That was one of yours?" (Aziraphale & Crowley)
A/N: Definitions of the flowers (specifically, Lunarias and Monkshood) from a nineteenth century book, while published one hundred years after the framework of the story, I'm hoping the flowers meanings wouldn't have changed. Definition for poppies comes from a modern British superstition, worn in memory of the fallen soldiers. Quite obviously, I don't own Aziraphale, Crowley, Robespierre, or other historical figures. Robespierre quite obviously belongs to history, and the angel and demon to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Nor do I own the guillotine, she also belongs to history, although I do admit to having a certain fascination with it during the tenth grade.
I.
Night the guillotine fell, summer: Thermidor, An II -
Summer, July, the twenty-seventh, 1794, in the rest of the
world.
Aziraphale wore purple, a hideous shade - a cross between eggplant and plum.
His breeches were beige, his shirt was pale. But his jacket was purple:
"Violet," he corrected when Crowley commented.
"It's hideous," the demon answered, and sipped at his wine.
Crowley's jacket was red: a vibrant red the color of strawberries, or poppies.
(Poppies were the peace flowers.)
"One must support their local revolutionaries," he quipped.
His breeches were black, and his shirt dark.
Aziraphale sucked in his breath, but wisely, said nothing.
II.
Night the guillotine fell, in Paris:
was it just twenty-four hours before? -
Robespierre's brother jumped from a window to escape,
and Robespierre was shot in the jaw.
Bone shattered, fractured: they bandaged it, but still it ached
beneath the gauze, the bandage shoddily tied.
"Any survivors on your side?"
Aziraphale nodded. "A few."
"Same," Crowley said.
"Your side must be pleased."
"Pleased?" Crowley raised an eyebrow, slid glasses half down his nose. But was he amused,
or puzzled or neither?
He poured another glass of wine, and sipped, staring over the glass.
"Well, this Reign of Terror - it's yours, isn't it?"
"Ah." Crowley paused, swished the wine in his glass. "We'll take credit. 1285, last count, dead by his hand. It'll be commendations all around. Whether it was ours, or not."
"We'll take credit for Robespierre death." Aziraphale noted. "Gabriel and Michael both, they've contacted me with instructions."
"I met him," Crowley observed, still sipping at his wine. "Not certain if I understand, if we should lay claim, my side or yours."
"I'd thought you'd be pleased."
"I suppose I am." Crowley frowned into his glass. "You're not drinking your wine."
His gaze was quiet, and intense. Focused on Aziraphale, not judging, and not indifferent.
Was that kindness in them? Compassion, or curiosity?
Aziraphale bit his lip, and stared at the table cloth. "Merda was one of ours."
Crowley blinked, but his face returned to blank immediately.
"Don't look too friendly on charges of tyranny and destruction, do they?"
"No." Aziraphale paused. "Yours do."
"Of course."
"What do we tell them?"
"Perhaps not the truth, not entirely." Crowley knocked back the last of wine. "Although, they know, almost certainly. Le Bas was a disaster."
"Agreed." Aziraphale plucked at the tablecloth, brushing lint, and invisible crumbs. "I should have asked. How are your plants?"
"My plants?"
"Yes, your Lunarias and Monkshood?"
Crowley smirked, amusement written in his words. "Warning me of hope and terror, angel?"
"Really, dear."
Crowley's grin faded, just slightly, and he looked away. "Fine, they're just fine."
III.
Night the guillotine fell, a hot day in Paris.
Had it only started just that week before? Had Crowley not warned him, and Aziraphale too?
Had Saint-Just not condemned him, and attacked? Had the guillotine's pace (the machine, not the metaphor: the thing of wood and metal) not grown faster, as the men (and women)'s blood spilled?
The economy moved to ruin, and the government to desolation?
Crowley had spoken with him, pulling him aside, and Robespierre had brushed him off.
Was he not a ruler, and a leader, and -
he advocated for a new religion, the prescence of god;
he sent his friends to the Lady first, and turned away to their screams.
Had he not finally followed the men before him, placed himself dictator, reigned supreme, and dug his own grave?
"The committee was for him, in the beginning," Crowley had explained. "The Jacobins had triumphed."
"It wasn't meant -" And Aziraphale frowned. "Revolutions will always be frowned upon, given the circumstances from the last."
IV.
Night the guillotine fell -
Just barely twenty-four hours after Robespierre's jaw was shot. The bandages were
soiled with dry blood, the knot winding undone. "Any last words?" sneered someone; Robespierre's
compatriots already dead, by his hand or not;
it was uncertain, and unimportant in the scheme.
The guillotine shone silver, and the blade glinted in light. Rope taut, the executioner lay his head down:
face up.
If he said anything, or swore, or whispered, it was lost between the slice and the scream and the cheer.
His bandages came undone.
"Was it worth it?" Aziraphale wanted to know.
"Wasn't it?" Crowley blinked.
Men preceded him that day, and followed after, and among the crowd, an angel and a demon watched them all.
Crowley narrowed his eyes, looked around. The shadowy figure in the long robe, separate from the crowd, unmoving. "He's here," he whispered aside to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale nodded, and closed his eyes. "How are your poppies?"
Crowley watched unblinking. "Just dandy," he answered, and almost breathed in.
Recipient: inabathrobe
Author: thesilentpoet
Rating: PG
Summary: "That was one of yours?" (Aziraphale & Crowley)
A/N: Definitions of the flowers (specifically, Lunarias and Monkshood) from a nineteenth century book, while published one hundred years after the framework of the story, I'm hoping the flowers meanings wouldn't have changed. Definition for poppies comes from a modern British superstition, worn in memory of the fallen soldiers. Quite obviously, I don't own Aziraphale, Crowley, Robespierre, or other historical figures. Robespierre quite obviously belongs to history, and the angel and demon to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Nor do I own the guillotine, she also belongs to history, although I do admit to having a certain fascination with it during the tenth grade.
I.
Night the guillotine fell, summer: Thermidor, An II -
Summer, July, the twenty-seventh, 1794, in the rest of the
world.
Aziraphale wore purple, a hideous shade - a cross between eggplant and plum.
His breeches were beige, his shirt was pale. But his jacket was purple:
"Violet," he corrected when Crowley commented.
"It's hideous," the demon answered, and sipped at his wine.
Crowley's jacket was red: a vibrant red the color of strawberries, or poppies.
(Poppies were the peace flowers.)
"One must support their local revolutionaries," he quipped.
His breeches were black, and his shirt dark.
Aziraphale sucked in his breath, but wisely, said nothing.
II.
Night the guillotine fell, in Paris:
was it just twenty-four hours before? -
Robespierre's brother jumped from a window to escape,
and Robespierre was shot in the jaw.
Bone shattered, fractured: they bandaged it, but still it ached
beneath the gauze, the bandage shoddily tied.
"Any survivors on your side?"
Aziraphale nodded. "A few."
"Same," Crowley said.
"Your side must be pleased."
"Pleased?" Crowley raised an eyebrow, slid glasses half down his nose. But was he amused,
or puzzled or neither?
He poured another glass of wine, and sipped, staring over the glass.
"Well, this Reign of Terror - it's yours, isn't it?"
"Ah." Crowley paused, swished the wine in his glass. "We'll take credit. 1285, last count, dead by his hand. It'll be commendations all around. Whether it was ours, or not."
"We'll take credit for Robespierre death." Aziraphale noted. "Gabriel and Michael both, they've contacted me with instructions."
"I met him," Crowley observed, still sipping at his wine. "Not certain if I understand, if we should lay claim, my side or yours."
"I'd thought you'd be pleased."
"I suppose I am." Crowley frowned into his glass. "You're not drinking your wine."
His gaze was quiet, and intense. Focused on Aziraphale, not judging, and not indifferent.
Was that kindness in them? Compassion, or curiosity?
Aziraphale bit his lip, and stared at the table cloth. "Merda was one of ours."
Crowley blinked, but his face returned to blank immediately.
"Don't look too friendly on charges of tyranny and destruction, do they?"
"No." Aziraphale paused. "Yours do."
"Of course."
"What do we tell them?"
"Perhaps not the truth, not entirely." Crowley knocked back the last of wine. "Although, they know, almost certainly. Le Bas was a disaster."
"Agreed." Aziraphale plucked at the tablecloth, brushing lint, and invisible crumbs. "I should have asked. How are your plants?"
"My plants?"
"Yes, your Lunarias and Monkshood?"
Crowley smirked, amusement written in his words. "Warning me of hope and terror, angel?"
"Really, dear."
Crowley's grin faded, just slightly, and he looked away. "Fine, they're just fine."
III.
Night the guillotine fell, a hot day in Paris.
Had it only started just that week before? Had Crowley not warned him, and Aziraphale too?
Had Saint-Just not condemned him, and attacked? Had the guillotine's pace (the machine, not the metaphor: the thing of wood and metal) not grown faster, as the men (and women)'s blood spilled?
The economy moved to ruin, and the government to desolation?
Crowley had spoken with him, pulling him aside, and Robespierre had brushed him off.
Was he not a ruler, and a leader, and -
he advocated for a new religion, the prescence of god;
he sent his friends to the Lady first, and turned away to their screams.
Had he not finally followed the men before him, placed himself dictator, reigned supreme, and dug his own grave?
"The committee was for him, in the beginning," Crowley had explained. "The Jacobins had triumphed."
"It wasn't meant -" And Aziraphale frowned. "Revolutions will always be frowned upon, given the circumstances from the last."
IV.
Night the guillotine fell -
Just barely twenty-four hours after Robespierre's jaw was shot. The bandages were
soiled with dry blood, the knot winding undone. "Any last words?" sneered someone; Robespierre's
compatriots already dead, by his hand or not;
it was uncertain, and unimportant in the scheme.
The guillotine shone silver, and the blade glinted in light. Rope taut, the executioner lay his head down:
face up.
If he said anything, or swore, or whispered, it was lost between the slice and the scream and the cheer.
His bandages came undone.
"Was it worth it?" Aziraphale wanted to know.
"Wasn't it?" Crowley blinked.
Men preceded him that day, and followed after, and among the crowd, an angel and a demon watched them all.
Crowley narrowed his eyes, looked around. The shadowy figure in the long robe, separate from the crowd, unmoving. "He's here," he whispered aside to Aziraphale.
Aziraphale nodded, and closed his eyes. "How are your poppies?"
Crowley watched unblinking. "Just dandy," he answered, and almost breathed in.