99The late night air was cool and damp, in such a manner some would find odd for an early June night. Dark clouds, heavy with rain, covered the sky, leaving little room for even the slightest amount of pale moonlight to shine through.
The normally-crowded Parisian streets were deserted by this time, not a soul daring the risk to be caught out in the oncoming storm. Many families were nestled within their homes, safe and dry, gathered by the hearth, fathers telling stories, wives clearing the remnants of their late meals, children preparing to go to bed. Such was the case for the majority of those who could afford that luxury.
Meanwhile, the less fortunate had desperately taken shelter wherever they could find—an old abandoned home, an old rag, a wooden crate, whatever could be used to lessen the amount of water that they would inevitably be soaked in within the shadows of the alleys. Families huddled together to stay dry where they could, some parents doing what they could to shield their sons and daughters from such conditions, a few risking their freedom by stealing what goods they could find lying around. Loners secluded themselves wherever they could fit to keep dry, or at least as much as they possibly could. Much of this was the case throughout the seemingly-empty streets.
The system of cobblestone streets were still pooled with rain, the smell of dirt and dust and sickness being distinctly more present than how it would be on a normal summer day. The puddles in most areas were a pale brown color, the clear liquid of water mixing with the filth of the streets, the ill-appearing pool having an unknown depth. The regular collection of dust had been washed away to the sewers or the Seine in the earlier rain, for the most part, though in scattered places traces of it remained.
A typical rainy night…
Except it wasn't.
Upon further inspection, one would notice the placement of walls throughout the narrow and quiet streets, each of them built with wood, metal, of dozens of materials, carts, wagon wheels, lampposts, creating fortresses meant for protection and the chance of survival. One would notice the scattering of debris, countless of shattered objects littering the stones. One would notice the remnants of gunpowder painting those near it a sooty black shade. Cannon balls left shards of glass lying on the floor where the fragile surface shattered, the shapes of bullet holes making their appearance in even the smallest of places, leaving nowhere safe for its intended target. One would notice the covering of bodies, lying askew upon the cold ground and the ruined structure, some clad in blue and red military uniforms, the others wearing what one would see them wear on a day-to-day basis.
One would notice the red cobblestones, the blood of the deceased and the wounded, that left pools of the scarlet liquid in the depressions of stone and between the cracks of rock. Some could notice the trails of blood from those scattering, trying to escape their inevitable fate before being met with their demise. The smears of blood of the wall could imply that at one point or another some had struggled in desperation to save their companions before taking flight, only to find that death found them shortly afterwards. The smears of blood on the floors and stones suggested that one dying or one that already had become a corpse had been dragged away from the scene, most likely by thieves who hoped to benefit from the deceased, those who would probably never be found. One particular location, an old café in shambles, had blood smears and drips just outside its second story window, which many found odd, as none had seen one shot down in such a position, none that would care to admit seeing someone lose their life in such a way.
Whoever had their life ended there, their corpse was nowhere to be found.
As the one dawn of death passed and gave way to the dark night, the fallen had been near to forgotten. Only the beginning of cleaning up the massacre had occurred shortly after fighting had ceased. It was in the darkness where the desperate ones would prowl about in search of anything useful off of the unfortunate souls who had perished in their final battle, and as soon as the rain began to pour that night, they fled the scene, taking shelter wherever they could find it.
Few of these prowlers had their attention drawn to a young woman, her clothes tattered and worn, tending to an unconscious man deep within the alleys, figuring she was most likely searching the pockets of a heavily drunk man who had passed out in the thin passageways, that she was hoping to find a hefty amount of francs to help her get through the day, maybe even a week, if she was lucky. This attention, however, only lasted for so long before they moved on in search of their next target.
None of them had looked closer to see what the woman had actually been doing. Their ignorance did not allow them to see the wet, bloody rags in her hands as she struggled to find some part of the once-white fabric to be free of the scarlet liquid to remove some of the gunpowder and dried blood from the man's face. The rain provided little help.
She delicately took care of his wounds, not wanting to cause any more pain than he was already in. He would need a doctor soon, she noted. She had dealt with the cuts and stabbing of knives and the bruising and broken ribs as a result of her abuse and living on the streets, but the bullet wounds in his shoulder, chest, and thigh were things she had no experience for, and her trying to tend to them herself was a risk she was unwilling to take.
Despite this, she feared for his safety after-the-fact, if he survived this. Bringing him to a doctor would give a chance to the authorities to seize those who dared to oppose the monarchy. As much as his wounds should not go untreated, was professional help the best option? Could she risk the chance of removing the bullets herself or seek out one who knew better? Then again, would the man before her last long either way?
A small, painful groan caused her to take a step back from him, as the man stiffly moved before emitting a sharp hiss of pain. His still-soiled yet pale face contorted as she watched him come to the realization of the situation he was in. His steel blue eyes looked up at her in anguish, suggesting that he was making her aware of his suffering, though that much was not necessary. It was easy enough through the blood-stained shirt and the amount of the scarlet liquid that had slowed to a trickle from his wounds.
She moved towards him to wipe the dried blood from his brow, ignoring the wince from him as the cloth came into contact with his skin. His breath shook as he made a small effort to move away from her, but the attempt proved to be too much for him, between his pain and how weak the blood loss had caused him to be. She could sense the small amount of tension from him, but eventually that disappeared and he relaxed, the strain being enough for him to do so reluctantly.
"There is no reason to fret, monsieur," she told him gently. "I only mean to help."
He tried to form a reply, but even that appeared to be too difficult for him, his breath shaking as he opened his mouth to try to speak. No words came.
She returned once more to wiping off the dirt and gunpowder and whatever else was clinging on to his skin, trying to avoid his anguished winces and cries. He did not remove his sight from her once, and she didn't argue with the choice, for they had only just met, as far as she can recall. He did not have any reason to trust her in any manner, other than that instead of letting him die, she tried helping him, and still was.
The man lifted an arm as if he was trying to push her away, but did not have the energy to do so. She knew he was near death, but what could she possibly do? She herself was not of much strength. Emotionally, she had strength, but physically, she didn't. She knew that lifting him up and carrying him was not an option. Also, if she brought him to a doctor, who was to pay for his care? She barely had a sous to her name, and she was unaware of his financial situation. For all she knew, the man could have stolen the vermillion coat from someone dead in the street.
"That was quite a battle there, wasn't it, monsieur?" Her attempt at making a conversation was weak within her mind, but it was better than nothing. It was something she would rather hear than the awkward silence between them. However, she knew he would not reply, and she hadn't forgotten that his strength was slowly slipping away.
He struggled to reply once more, but he became crestfallen at the sound of her question. She watched him quickly deteriorate by the end of his effort, and time was moving against them just as fast.
"You need a doctor. Have you the knowledge of one?" she asked, and she received a curt nod in reply, few of the things he could manage. "Where?" A slight movement of his uninjured shoulder, suggesting he had no clue of where they were and could not direct her there from their current standpoint.
"Can you stand?" He gave her a dumbfounded look before shaking his head. He gestured with his head towards his leg, before trying to suppress an anguished grunt. He leaned his head back against the wall, his attempt to prevent his cries from being vocalized.
She feared for him more now, for certain that she could not find another with more knowledge than her in the medical field to help him. She knew that by asking some random stranger on the street at this time of night was useless, between the recent events and what one might expect afterwards as a reward.
Time is running out, she reminded herself. Perhaps if she left him here to die, she would be able to forget all of this in time. Maybe she would be better off. However, she did not have the heart to do that, especially after doing what she had done and trying her best to aid him. She couldn't leave him alone like this, a man who was practically a stranger to her. If he was to die, then she would at least sit by and wait for it to come to him. That was all she could do.
She saw the grim expression on his face, signifying that he was probably aware of his inevitable fate. She could not tell, though, if he accepted it.
She stood up straight to her full height, taking in a deep breath, accessing any other possible options, but after pondering them for only a few moments, she reached the conclusion that they were of no use to her. She sat down beside him in defeat, edging towards his less-injured side. For a moment, he appeared ready to protest her being at his side, only to then allow her to come closer, perhaps reluctantly, or maybe because he had come to the realization that he was not likely to survive the night.
She nestled close to him, minding his bullet wounds and the other possible injuries that she could not see. He hissed when she leaned her on his uninjured shoulder, before she noticed a deep gash there that had been hidden his coat. He was in pain more than she had originally thought.
"My apologies." she whispered to him before leaning her back against the wall. "I didn't know."
He nodded a curt reply, an acceptance of her apology.
There were a few moments of silence before a sound interrupted the pouring rain. He shook slightly, his breathing becoming a struggle for him, and it hitched for a second before he was capable of catching air. He gasped for it for some time before it eased to shallow breaths, him finally able to gain control of it once more. His death was near.
"I'm here, monsieur." she reminded him, taking his hand into hers, careful not to disturb any of his injuries. She saw a hint of a smile on his face for a short minute, before it disappeared just as quickly as he let out a small cry of pain. She could only comfort him now.
"I won't leave you here." Not while you're still alive. She placed a light kiss upon his forehead that he cringed from, perhaps not able to understand what could be considered an intimate gesture, rather improper between strangers. "I will not leave you here alone."
Something, maybe a trick of the shattered moonlight, allowed her to see a mournful expression upon the man's face. He accepted his fate by now, which was obvious to her. He knew that he would not make it to see the dawn's early light. He would be lucky if he made it through the end of the storm. However, there was something else she was unable to pick up on that he managed to shield from her, and perhaps she never would, as much as she wished to.
After a small struggle, she felt the slight weight of his hand on her stomach. It was a sign of affection that normally she would yell at someone for, especially someone she barely knew, but just this once, she allowed it. Little movements and gestures were all he could communicate with now, that or his pain and being near death caused impaired judgment.
She couldn't ignore it, though, and she knew what he meant. Even in death he was able to make the observation.
"I'm surprised you noticed." she said quietly, placing a hand on top of his. She ran her free hand along her stomach, just brushing her fingertips where their two hands were together. "Maybe it is that obvious now."
He blinked slowly a few times, keeping them open becoming a struggle for him, before he nodded in reply.
"I suppose I should accept it, then." She took a deep breath, her eyes on where their hands were. "At least I won't be alone anymore."
She felt his hand move underneath hers, as if he was trying to grasp her hand for comfort, but who it was mean for…It could have gone either way.
"I am alone otherwise. You are the lucky one, monsieur. There's no more suffering once our mortal coil has been shuffled off." It was a harsh comment for her to make, the claim of him dying being a good thing. He could have a family to support, a wife at home, with children to raise. He could be their sole breadwinner, the only one capable of ensuring their survival without having to make the desperate struggle in search of food. Without him, they would no sooner end up like her. The moment she finished it, she felt regret for her words and a twinge of sympathy for his hypothetical family kick in.
"I…I didn't mean that." she claimed to him in the hope of redeeming herself and not making herself appear to be a hurtful person, but she looked up to see that his expression remained unchanged, his fading blue eyes not disguising his pain. She wondered if he even was bothered by her statement, or if he heard her at all.
His shaky exhale caused her to stiffen, his breath causing him difficulty once more. She turned to lean on her side, rubbing his shoulder carefully. She can't help but pity this stranger, one she cannot aid in his darkest hour, but based upon his calm behavior, perhaps he was content with his short life. Maybe he believed that it was his time, as young as he was, probably barely beyond his twentieth year. Maybe he knew he was meant to die, not live to see another day, that his death meant something he would never live to see.
Once his breathing was under control again, she returned to leaning her back against the stone wall. She leaned her head against his shoulder, hearing a small hiss as she did so, before she was reminded of one of his hidden injuries, resulting in her sitting upright.
"I'm sorry." she apologized for what could be considered the third time that night. "I'm sorry for hurting you, offending you, and not being able to help you…I wish I could have done more."
She could picture him saying the words, "That's not your fault," or "You did your best," but even if he could say those things did not necessarily mean she would believe him.
His breath continued to grow more and more shallow, and she could see that he could barely keep his eyes open, his pain, his weakness, all taking a toll on him. He remained still, with the exception of him trying to keep his head up. His muscles had relaxed, his hands limply placed on his lap. It wouldn't be long now before the angel of death claimed this forsaken soul.
She slid a hand underneath his chin, granting her access to look the dying man straight in the eye, whispering to him, "Rest, monsieur."
Without protest, he did.