Drink With Me
He watches the lookouts, an inner eyebrow raised at the antics of his friends; an inner lip curled at their lack of discipline. There they are, reciting a love poem at a time like this! There are things to be done, he thinks, observing the lookouts with his hawk-like eye. How could one even think of love and of lonesome souls at a time like this?
He sighs inwardly, though his exterior shows no sign of weakness. He should be with them, he thinks to himself. But it is not to be. They are friends, and they shall die as friends. He is their leader, and shall die as their leader.
He wonders if they know exactly how close to death they are. He certainly does, but he knows that all his life has been lived in preparation for this moment, the moment that he will fight for the people. His imminent death means little to him.
But, glancing for a moment at his friends, he wonders for a split second what his life would have been, had he exchanged the words and kisses with the ladies. If he'd fallen in love. He loves something now; he loves the people, he loves his country. He is in love. But he is in love At something; not With something. There is a difference.
What would his life been, had he been less aloof, less intimidating? He had never been aware, until now, of how apart he was from the rest of the Amis. If he could do it again- do his life over- would he?
He curses himself for letting his attention waver and turns his energy back to his task. He does not spare his friends even one last fleeting look before doing so. No, he decides. He has done right. Had he taken the other path, the Revolution would, at the very least, not be so solid; it would be much less successful. And at the most, the Revolution might not be happening at all.
It is a fair trade.
After all, when there is a goal at hand, who cares about one lonely soul?