Bastille Day Ch. 1

The fervor rises as a third prisoner is ceremoniously hoisted over the square. Drawn to this spectacle, Monica reacts as one of the throng, hooting and jeering as the ragged, emancipated men hang above them. The huge Master of Ceremonies bellows over the din, "Perhaps our Lord and king will save this child murderer from the sharp end of the guillotine". He pauses, gauging the response of the gathered thousands... "Perhaps Not" he laughs.

She is one with them, her voice and blood rising with theirs, a sheen upon her skin as bodies press about her. Conscious, as she is shouldered and tussled about, that some hands move over her with intent. Outwardly ignoring the fleeting grasps at her skirts. But privately, growing more and more aware of her body's reaction to the excitement, as it instinctively moves back or presses forward against open hands and errant fingers. She continues to make her way closer to the platform.

A reed caught in the swell of fast rising water, she pushes herself onward. Wanting, needing to be closer. To see the anguish in these men's eyes; to watch as their look shifts to a brief, yet brilliant flash of hope as the moment looms ever closer; to witness the final, dry, distant look as all faith is crushed. Replaced by an overwhelming realization of doom.

Finally slipping softly between two large men, smiling up at one as she achieves her destination at the edge of the podium. Her timing is perfect. All eyes turn and voices erupt as the fourth and final candidate rises up behind the stage... his body lurching and tossing about as the crude pulleys propel him forward.

"or will our gracious lord have mercy upon this soul-less one? One known to the church as a proponent and master of the black arts?" The crowd stills as thousands of minds take in the meaning of these few words... then erupts again as the speaker chortles "would you?"

She laughs and rejoins her voice to the crescendo as she looks up at the new one...

Her voice falters... she looks away, wincing as if struck a blow. Breathing deep, she stares into the wooden floorboards before her. Then, recomposed, her eyes move slowly upward and back to his.

These are not the eyes of the damned. Nor are they the eyes of one with false hopes. They are bright and pure, life flowing from them: true and unbridled life. Her head spins slightly, the ground tilting upward toward her. Her cheeks flush, hotly. A hollowness consuming her as she reaches out, steadying herself. Her world shaken at the thought that this man is slated for death. Her body slumps forward against the platform. Head resting on folded arms. She looks wholly into his grey-green eyes as they gaze back at her...through her...

Hope springs within her... she stands up. Strength flows through her. Her young body taut. Her back arcs like a bow. She lifts her hands. Cups them about her mouth and, with all of her lungs, all of her heart, cries out ...

"Free him. Oh God, free him!"