Disclaimer: This is a mix of historical fact and the events of the anime Le Chevalier D'Eon. The characters of Le Chevalier D'Eon do not belong to me.

This will probably be my one and only fic for this category, just because I have a morbid fascination since childhood with the French Revolution (no thanks to Dicken's Tale of 2 Cities) and am bugged by the ending of a certain anime. I will be mixing threads of the historical D'Eon de Beaumont and Maximilien Robespierre and 2 characters from the anime. Spoiler alerts- this is post anime.

Psalm of Revolution

July 1794, Paris

Fate has a poetic sense of justice. Rest assured the one who sets off the first spark will be engulfed by the fires he has started.

Bloody hurts… I fought to keep myself awake. One night left. His words came back to me now as an accusing whisper in the darkness. I had started the fire that now hungered for my blood. The Psalms could not help me now. Lorenza and Cagliostro had fled Paris after that incident with the Queen's fake necklace. I had learnt a bit since I cast my lot in with them, but not enough to qualify as a poet. I should not have missed. My aim was fairly good in my youth. Yet I had managed to only shatter my own jaw instead of ending my sorry life as Maximilien Robespierre. The prison's cold, dank and I wonder how Louis XVI and his wife felt the night before their deaths. My trial was a farce, as theirs were. I have no allies left in the council. Never mind, it would soon be over.

There's a scrape of a key in the door. "Barber. To cut Monsieur Robespierre's hair for the guillotine," the guard announced. Burly arms dragged me up and into a chair so the barber could start his work. All prisoners must have their hair cut short before their execution so that their hair would not get in the way…

More than 10 years ago, in an inn room in St Petersburg…

"Robin, hair will grow back, but ears will not. So stop squirming!" Durand exclaimed. He had shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves to the elbows for this.

"Not if you are going to swing that anywhere near my throat!"

"Sorry, Robin. The scissors is with D'Eon and he's busy doing some needlework on Lia's dress, so we have to make do with this." Another lock of copper red hair floated to the floor. "You were the one who wanted a haircut …"

"I do need a haircut, but not from you!" the royal page yelped as the blade flashed dangerously close to an ear. "Trust my barbering skills please…" the older man said as he held the page firmly back into the chair.

D'Eon poked his head into the room to see Durand with his dagger drawn and a rather bedraggled-looking Robin perched on the only chair in the room. Stray locks of red hair littered the wooden floor. "What the - Oh, put that away, Durand, before someone gets hurt. Robin, go get a decent haircut from a proper barber tomorrow." D'Eon sucked on his poor needle-pricked finger with annoyance. "And I will find a proper dressmaker to mend that damned dress." He tossed the sewing basket and offending dress into their travel chest in disgust before sprawling across the bed.

"Well, Lia was not particularly good at embroidery…" Durand shrugged. The limp form on the bed started snoring. "Wait, that's my bed," Durand tried his best to rouse the sleeping chevalier, earning a chuckle from the page. D'Eon was a heavy sleeper, if he had set his mind to it. "Now, what is happening here?" Master Teillagory's voice boomed when he stepped in and caught sight of Robin's new haircut and Durand dragging D'Eon off the bed by the leg.

"Is Monsieur satisfied with my work?" the damned barber could not resist mocking me with his mirror. The face that stared out at me was almost unrecognizable. The lower part was obscured by the bloodied bandage. My lower jaw was a wreck. My enemies must rejoice that I was unable to speak at my own trial. My newly trimmed hair was cut worse than Durand had managed with his dagger in St Petersburg. I seemed almost bald in some parts. The eyes were lifeless. Thankfully, the barber took the mirror away and hurried off to the next prisoner.

Versailles…

The queen needed her wig. The errand was easy, even a nine-year-old could do it. No one told him how heavy a fully powdered and dressed wig was. Robin struggled with the awkward headdress in his hands. Which was the queen's dressing room? His Majesty had moved them recently around to accommodate his new paramour… He managed to nudge open a gilded door he thought was the right one.

"Oh, Lia. I'll miss you when you're in Russia… Why must you go?" a young girl's voice said. Wrong room. Even worse, one of the ladies was in a state of undress. A pair of riding breeches and a man's shirt was tossed over a chair. A pair of boots sat at its foot. A sword leaned demurely against it. A blond lady stood before the mirror, her red-haired attendant fiddling with the strings of her corset. Their backs were towards him. The panicked page tried to make his getaway.

"Anna, it will only be for a while… besides, it is for the good of…" a pair of eyes flickered up to the mirror. Their eyes met. "Who goes there?" The challenge was delivered with all the authority of a French general. Lia de Beaumont spun around to face the intruder. Queen Marie's wig slipped off its cushion and onto the carpet in a poof of powder and scattered pearls.

"Sorry, I- I…got the wrong room…" Robin stammered and tried to hold back his tears. The Queen's wig was ruined. Lady Anna squeaked in alarm and ran to the door. "Lia, I'm sorry… I thought the door was locked…"

"Anna, is the Queen's new dressing room across the hall?" Lia asked. Anna nodded. "Good, we still have time. What's your name?" her tone was gentle when she addressed the page. "R-robin…"

"Well, Robin, we have work to do…" Lia bent down, quite unconcerned that she was only clad in an unlaced corset and silk pantaloons, and scooped up the damaged wig. She held out a comforting hand to the page. "Your dress… you need to be at the King's reception…" Anna reminded Lia. Lia strode over to the rack of court dresses and grabbed one.

"Right. Anna, you fix up this wig and Robin will help me get into that dress." Robin winced as a mass of silk and satin he assumed was the dress landed on his arms.

St Petersburg, several months later…

Ignoring the barrage of colourful curses, Robin yanked at the laces the best he could without choking D'Eon who was fairly new to the idea of wearing a corset. "Just a bit more, bear with it please, Sir…"

"How in Heaven's name did my sister bear such indignity?" D'Eon gasped and grabbed onto the bed stead to keep from losing his balance. "Same as you, with a bit of cursing," Robin murmured under his breath. "Whassat?" D'Eon gasped. "Oh, nothing," the page said and gave another tug on the laces. D'Eon need not know about the time Robin helped dress Lia de Beaumont for a tea party.

Paris, winter 1788

"Monsieur Robespierre, you have a caller. Some boy with a letter… Says he has orders to pass it to you directly," my loyal servant announced as he banged on my door. I roused myself from my sleep. "Show him up…" I pulled on my breeches and splashed my face with cold water. It could be an important message from a fellow revolutionary. The time was almost upon us.

The boy that entered was blue with cold. He was inadequately clad for such weather, without an overcoat and only a thin vest. "Pass me the letter and warm yourself by the fire…" The boy removed his hat. He was no urchin from the streets. The way he held himself was different. He reminded me of someone I once knew well. "Letter from Mademoiselle de Beaumont, Monsieur Robespierre…" his words were tinged with an English accent.

The seal of the letter he held out had the de Beaumont crest stamped on it. The boy appeared to be not much older than Robin was when he served Chevalier de Beaumont. His hair was clean and brushed to a shiny brown. Intelligent eyes scanned his surroundings even as he inched towards the warmth of the fire. I broke the seal and read. It was in D'Eon's hand.

Robin, it may be beyond our power to stop you now. Yet I must beseech you, for the sakes of our departed friends, Durand, Anna and all. Do not embark on what you have planned for France. I fear the price of the change you desire may be too dear. Fate has a poetic sense of justice. Rest assured the one who sets off the first spark will be engulfed by the fires he has started. Your friend, de Beaumont

I let the letter and envelope drop into the fire. Warmed, the lad had drifted over to my window. "Does Monsieur have any reply I am to carry to Mademoiselle? Or would Monsieur prefer to speak with her?" the boy cast his eyes out the window. I saw it. A lone carriage waited in the snowy street, with a skeletal-looking coachman at the reins. The curtains were drawn. Only a pale hand rested against the edge of the window. Sir D'Eon.

"The letter was not for me. The one he seeks is dead."

"If it is true that he is dead, the French faggot requests I ask of you the silver pocket watch his departed friend holds dear. Only then will we accept his friend is indeed dead," the boy spoke with a sharpness that was unexpected of one so young. I had to stifle a laugh at the lad's remark. French faggot was not a term I would have used to describe the D'Eon I knew. I have learnt that D'Eon had sought refuge across the Channel after suffering much persecution by the French court for his part in the loss of the Royal Songs. That he spent his days as a member of the English Queen's entourage dressed as a woman. Society rumours were rife that it was the sister who had lived instead of the brother. I knew better.

Maybe something had gone wrong and Lia's soul was not put to rest. Maybe D'Eon had never got over the betrayal and loss he suffered and his soul retreated from the sorrows of this world, leaving Lia's soul to drive his body through the motions of life. I could not help but question if I should have remained with him those years ago.

"What is your name, boy?" I asked in English. The boy started.

"Robin, Robin Durand, that's the name he gave me," he replied with a shrug. "I forgot the one my parents gave me, if they did name me." Life's little ironies would never cease. I was looking at a child who bore the Christian name I once did and served under a man that was once my friend. "Of course, I'm not complaining. Even if he chooses to walk about in skirts, he's a fair master who never whips or starves me. He teaches me to read and fence…" he almost puffed up with pride at this.

I scooped up the silver watch from the desk. I could not help feeling a twinge of loss as I let it drop into the boy's outstretched hand. "This is my reply to him. Tell him not to show his face here in France, for his house like those of all nobles, have been marked," I spoke lowly, hoping the boy could catch the threat in my words. I did not ask him if D'Eon was well.

The boy nodded, pocketed the watch and grabbed his hat, dropping a little bow before leaving. I watched him emerge below my window a few moments later and approach the carriage. He passed the watch to the passenger within before getting in himself. I thought I heard a choked gasp from within. The boy stuck his head out the window as the coachman cracked the whip.

"May God have mercy on your soul, Master Robespierre! You've hurt him deeply!" he shouted out in English as the carriage thundered away.

July 1794, Paris

The cart creaked with hellish slowness towards my fate. The pain of my injury had dulled into a constant throb. The bloodied guillotine loomed over the market square. I barely flinched as a rotten egg hit me on the head. The jeers of the crowd did not touch me. I was already a dead man. Sir D'Eon was right. I was to be consumed by the flames of revolution I had lit.

The dead were crammed into large wicker baskets at the foot of the guillotine. I thought I saw two familiar figures seated at its foot. Two women, one blond and one brunette. Both regal, self assured and fearless. Empress Elizaveta and Queen Marie. I blinked. The pain-induced mirage faded into stark reality. It was only two market women knitting as they counted the grim tally of heads that fell into the basket before them. One spotted me and nudged her partner. The hag cracked a lewd joke and her fellow crone crackled in reply.

There was a commotion. A fellow conspirator, a man I knew well, was being dragged up the scaffold. He had tried to escape through a window, but only succeeded in smashing both legs. I looked away and immediately regretted it. A young woman, her hair a chestnut mane done in the manner Lady Anna favoured came into view. Her lovely face was tear-streaked. She was sobbing and close to swooning in the arms of an elderly man who could have been her grandfather. The greybeard had the dignified air of a soldier on him and the rabble did not harass the pair apart from the odd jeer. He was trying to pull the woman away from the terrible sight.

My heart sank when his eyes landed on me and narrowed like a hawk's as recognition sank in. Teillagory, he could have been the old man. The pair was dressed as foreigners would, possibly gentry from England. The guillotine blade fell. The poor girl let loose a shriek and fainted into her protector's arms. "Anna! Anna!" the old man bleated her name in alarm. The rabble sensed a weakness and moved in. The guards were too busy preparing the guillotine to notice the pair's distress. I looked away. There was nothing I could do to help them. There was a brief scuffle.

"Shame on you! Is this how true citizens treat their guests?" a familiar voice called out in French. I turned and caught sight of the old man, clothes torn and face bleeding, standing away from the crowd, which had apparently turned quiet. A few soft groans hinted that violence had been done on some. "Merci, merci…" he thanked his hooded rescuer. The rescuer's back was towards me. Anna was still in a dead swoon when her grandfather lifted her into their rescuer's waiting carriage. The coachman was a youth with dark hair. He wore the revolutionary tricolour cockade n his hat but the disgust in his eyes when he glared at the guillotine was unmistakable. He had his pistol drawn and was urging his master to leave.

It was my turn. The guards took me by the arms and hustled me up the scaffold. I could not help staring at the carriage and its coachman. The hooded figure turned to face the deadly guillotine.

With lace-cuffed hands, he let the hood fall to his shoulders. That sandy blond hair I had helped dress long ago had gone grey at the temples. He wore it long over his shoulders like Lia had once done. The flowing cloak he wore was voluminous enough for me to wonder if he were wearing skirts underneath. Time had etched its cruel lines on his face. D'Eon or Lia, looked straight at me. I could not tell which. I watched those lips part soundlessly as if mouthing a prayer or maybe a curse…

They were forcing me down on the table to be strapped in for the blade. They were arguing whether my bandage would be in the way. As they force me down, I glimpsed de Beaumont climbing into the unmarked carriage. I could not see him anymore. Instead I saw the blade being raised and fastened in readiness. Wait… I have so much I need to tell him. The bandage kept me from speaking. I fancied I hear the sound of the hooves of the horses as D'Eon's carriage prepared to leave.

"The bandage must go," my executioner announced and yanked it off before locking my neck in place. The pain almost made me pass out. I could not…

"Robin, let's be off," de Beaumont said in a voice which could be D'Eon's or Lia's. The coachman cracked his whip. Wait! I screamed. I was still screaming when the blade ended my life. Thus died Maximilien Robespierre, who was once a royal page named Robin in service of Queen Marie…

D'Eon closed his eyes to keep the tears in. It felt like a part of his soul was being torn out with that dreadful scream. It was a mercy when the scream ceased. The silver watch in his hand felt warm to the touch. He had been clasping it since the moment they locked the condemned man in place. He swallowed and ended his quiet prayer. "Lord, let your infinite mercy shine upon him…" The circle was closed. The Revolution fires would burn out with time without Robespierre fanning them.

The carriage thundered onwards out into the countryside and towards the port in silence for many miles. "You are truly a most remarkable woman, to pray for a soul as black as his…" the old man finally said as his poor granddaughter still wept into his shoulder. He was an old knight of the English court.

"I only prayed for the soul of a friend who died a long time ago," D'Eon said cryptically. On impulse, he flicked open the watch which was once Durand's and later Robin's. It had stopped the moment the blade ended Maximilien Robespierre's life. The young woman lifted her head from her grandfather's shoulder. "Thank you for saving us… You are most talented with a sword." D'Eon gently offered her a handkerchief. He understood grief and loss all too well.

"I was blessed to have good teachers. May the angels watch over their sleep," D'Eon smiled sadly as he patted the sheathed sword at his side. A momentary flash of white, red and blue across the window announced that his young manservant had cast aside his despised tricolour, badge of the revolution, to the wind. The boy would drive the horses hard so that they would reach the port and the safety of English shores with the least delay.

"What is your name, kind ma,am?" the young woman asked. She looked awfully like Anna in the fading light.

"Lia, Lia de Beaumont."

Author's Notes:

The men who led the French Revolution and the resultant Reign of Terror did not meet happy ends. Of the three leaders, two were guillotined and one was stabbed in the bath by an assassin. Robespierre, one of the most radical leaders, was guillotined. I am going with the supposition that Robin of the anime took on Maximilien's mantle and continued his revolutionary work. The anecdote with the failed suicide attempt and the shattered jaw Robespierre suffered was taken from historical sources.

The market women knitting at the foot of the guillotine and counting the heads came from the Tale of Two Cities.

The historical D'Eon lived the later part of his life as a woman (for reasons unknown) and died in exile in England. While he was still in France, he riled many in the court, even winding up in prison on occasion. Due to his work in the secret police, he was not well-liked as he knew too many secrets.