None of this was supposed to happen.
Or at least, it wasn't supposed to happen like this.
The adrenaline had faded and the rush of excitement he'd felt merely an hour ago had dissipated entirely, replaced by feelings of guilt and dread and shame.
He stood there numbly, just watching as the flames engulfed curtains and blew out the glass windows of an estate he'd never seen before. His eyes pressed closed as a nearby tree caught fire–and it wasn't until the flames had overtaken it that he saw the little swing hanging from one of the lower branches. The swing was soon gone. He found himself wondering about the child who'd played there–laughing as he swung higher and higher, laughing as he leapt off the swing, momentarily flying through the air as his mother's heart nearly broke out of her chest. There was a rut in the grass beneath the swing, the likely result of countless summer afternoons on the swing and just behind it, another smaller rut where the child's mother had likely stood, pushing him and praying that just once, he wouldn't leap onto the patch of grass beyond them.
A pillar that had once been holding up the house's facade came crashing down, bright orange embers shooting up from the rubble and tearing his eyes away from the branch where the swing had been– that's when she caught his eye.
On any other day, he'd never have given her a second glance–he'd have made all sorts of assumptions about her and what her life was like, he'd have told himself she was snobbish and entitled, rude and deserving of whatever wrath the Revolution would bring down on her. But now, in that particular moment, as he watched her standing in the distance, clutching her young son against her legs as she watched her home burn to the ground, the disgust he felt had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him.
His heart ached for her and tears filled his eyes as he saw the way her son's fingers clung to her nightdress.
It occurs to him then that if her husband isn't already dead, he will be soon–and then, those loyal to Robespierre and his committee would be coming for her. The blanket draped over her head and wrapped around her wouldn't conceal her for much longer–and once the chaos died down, there'd be no where for her to hide. No one would take the risk of harboring her or her child and she'd be left to the mercy of the Revolution. These men didn't spare the Queen and they wouldn't spare her–and as his eyes fell to the small boy, gripping tightly at his mother's skirt, he couldn't remember why any of this had seemed liked a good idea or why he'd been itching to get more involved in affair that barely concerned him.
He was no monarchist, of course, but he lived a simple life with his son out the way of the horrors taking place in Paris. He followed them, of course, in the newspapers. For years now, he'd silently cheered them on as they stormed the Bastille and raided Versailles–and he scoffed at the over dramatization of the reports that the streets of Paris were now slick with noble blood.
His heart dropped as he noticed one of the others point to her and he remembered the man from the meeting earlier in the night–vulgar and cravenous, the sort who would look for an easy target. He thought of the crude comments he'd made and the venom he'd spewed and the fervor in his eyes–a standout amongst the others.
Swallowing hard, he looks between them–and then a second pillar crashes down, and the man who'd been focused on her, turns his attention to house. He laughs and calls something out to his friend–cheering and mocking–as he points to the collapsed pillar.
He's doesn't remember making the decision, but before he realizes what was happening, he was running toward her–determined to get there first–and hooking his arm
around her waist. He placed one hand around her mouth–if she screamed, it'd only draw attention–and with the other, he pulled her son on his hip. She fought against him–squirming and biting, kicking and elbowing–but he held on tightly as he made a run for it, finally rounding the corner to where his wagon waited.
It occurred to him that he should try to explain himself, but he wasn't entirely sure what to say and he doubted that she'd ever believe that he was trying to help her–especially not when he was wearing the red, white and blue rosette, notoriously worn by revolutionaries.
When he set her down, she tried to run, and he'd struggled to keep her still long enough to unlatch the back door of the wagon–and the child was no better, kicking and screaming and calling out for her. Finally, he opened the lock and offered an exasperated sigh as he shoved her in–and then, when the door was secured, he stood there, dumbly as he wondered what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Inside the wagon, she pounded her fists against the door and cried. Though he assumed she was speaking actual words, they all blended together and came out as a sort of hurried wail. He was frustrated–but not enough to let her go, and no matter what he said or how many times he tried to explain, she wasn't listening to him–she wouldn't.
She was absolutely delirious–and understandably so.
Over and over again, she cried and begged for kindness. But every time he tried to explain that that was his intent and she didn't have to be afraid, she'd interrupt him with some sort of plea. She told him she didn't care what he did with her, but begged for him to spare her son; she promised jewels and money they both knew had already been stolen or destroyed, and when he attempted to calm her, she only grew more hysterical.
He sighed nervously at the realization that a calm conversation wouldn't be happening, and unless he wanted to be arrested for harboring the enemy, he needed to get out of Paris as quickly as possible. He didn't have time for her to calm down and listen to reason.
Hopping onto the front of the wagon, he sighed as her fist pounded at the door–and he couldn't help but feel relieved as his horse's hooves clacked loudly against the cobblestone, drowning out her cries.
The farther he got from Paris, the better he felt. His shoulders relaxed and the knot in his stomach loosened, and if he ever got the notion that he wanted to be a part of something bigger than himself, he'd remember this night and think twice.
When he'd seen the advertisement for a meeting of Citizens, he'd anticipated a room of men discussing the logical next steps for implementing a republican government. He thought they'd talk about elections and a constitution, the rights of citizens and how the wealth of the nobility might be divvied up to best serve the masses. He pictured smoke-filled rooms and spirited debates, he pictured thoughtful proposals; he thought they might discuss the bread shortage and how farms like his might benefit under this new regime, and he thought he might have a place in the Revolution.
But almost as soon as he arrived, he began to realize his thoughts were idealized. The men involved in the meeting were drunk by the time he got there, and it was obvious that discourse was not the intent, and before he knew what was happening, he was swept up in something he hadn't intended. They'd called it an initiation and they promised a good time; so against his better judgement, he'd followed them holding a lit torch into the night.
He'd been lost in the crowd and he'd barely realized that they'd reached a destination–and jaw dropped when he looked ahead of the crowd, and watched as two men bashed in the door. From there, everything happened so quickly…
They arrived back in Orleans by sunrise–and when he jumped down from the wagon and rounded to the back, he said a silent prayer that she wouldn't still be wailing, and they might talk about this like the two grown adults that they were.
Holding his breath he reaches for the latch, slowly opening the door–and he finds himself hoping that she'll he asleep–and as he pulls the door open, he sighs in disappointment at the realization he's not that lucky.
"Stay back!" She demands, her eyes wide and wild as she holds her sleeping son tightly, cradling him in her arms as if her hold could protect him from anything. "Don't come near me!"
Holding up his hands in front of himself, he takes a step back. "I just–"
"Don't come any closer!"
He blinks as he draws in a breath. "Considering I just took a step away from you I don't think–"
"Stay back!"
His jaw tenses at a second interruption. "If you'd just let–"
"What do you want?'
"–me explain," he says, his voice elevating over hers. "I'm trying to–"
She sucks in a breath, wincing as the tears welling in her eyes fall down her cheeks and she holds her son a little closer–and if she didn't look so damn terrified, he'd slam the door shut and take her back to Paris and be done with this. The meeting had been a mistake and following the crowd had been an even bigger one–and he had a sinking feeling that saving her from the mob was going to prove to be the biggest mistake of all.
"Look," he says, doing his best to keep his voice even and calm. "I understand that you're scared."
"You understand?" She asks, her widening as she looks at him indignantly. "You understand that I'm scared? You understand what it's like to have a bunch of crazed drunks break into your home and force out your family? You understand what it's like to watch them light your home on fire? To destroy your memories?"
He sighs and his eyes sink close as guilt stabs at his core. "I'm sorry–"
"You're sorry!?" She demands, scoffing as anger pings in her tone. "You're sorry for what exactly?"
"For what they–"
"They?" She asks. "What about what you did? You were with them. I saw you in the crowd."
"I didn't mean for it to get so–"
"Out of hand?" She asks, supplying the exact words he was thinking–and making them sound so ridiculous. "What did you do to stop it? You just stood there like an idiot, watching as they pillaged my home and arrested my husband. You did nothing to stop them from doing God only know what to my son's father." She shrugs as she lets out a shaky breath, swallowing hard as her jaw trembles. "You just stood there and watched it happen."
He bristles.
She's right–and he hates that she's right.
He didn't think about her child.
In fact, it wasn't until she'd mentioned the boy that he'd considered him and what he'd lost–and the rage he'd feel if their situations were reversed, and it was him holding onto his own son, grappling with how to tell him that his entire life had been turned upside down and that everything he'd ever known was gone.
"Truly," he says, his voice soft and sincere. "I'm sorry about what happened last night."
"Forgive me if I don't believe you," she snaps, tilting her chin up indignantly as their eyes meet. "Just tell me what you want from me."
"Nothing."
She scoffs and looks away, shaking her head. "Sure."
"I'm serious. I want nothing from you."
"So, you just kidnapped me and my son for the hell of it?"
He blinks and shifts awkwardly on his feet. "Uh, not… not exactly."
"S-so you do want so-something," she says, the fear returning to her eyes as her voice falters.
"No… I…" He sighs. "I just–"
"Do whatever you want with me," she cuts in, her voice small as her eyes press closed, forcing tears out from the sides of her eyes–and another, sharper pang of guilt stabs at his core. "Just, please, don't hurt my son."
"I don't want to hurt either of you," he says in flat yet sincere voice. "I know you have no reason to trust me, but you can trust that."
"Why?" She asks, her voice barely audible as she stares at him. "Give me one reason to trust you."
He's at a loss, and all he can do is stare at her as every single thing he could say falls short–and the longer he's silent, the heavier the doubt clouded in her eyes becomes.
And then, he hears the front door door open and clodding footsteps nearing.
"Papa!" Roland calls out as he runs toward the wagon. "Papa, you're home!"
He feels his whole demeanor change at the sounds of his son's little voice calling out to him and he turns, crouching down as he opens his arms and laughing as Roland crashes into his chest. He scoops him up and holds him closer, cupping the back of his head with his hand and pressing as kiss to his cheek.
"Papa, I missed you."
"I was only gone for a day."
"But it was a day too long," Roland insists, pulling back to pout. "And it rained," he complains.
"You don't like when it rains?"
"I couldn't go outside and play," he says, sighing as he runs his finger over the pin where the fabric rosette had been. "And you weren't here to play puppets."
"Ahh," he murmurs, kissing him again. "Well, I'm home now and maybe later, we can."
"Why not now?"
Swallowing hard, he looks past his son to the wagon. "Because," he begins in a tentative voice, "We have company." Roland's eyes widen as he turns in his arms, blinking at the wagon. "You asked for a reason to trust me," he says as his eyes shift from Roland to the woman in the wagon. "This is my reason."
Her brow aches–she doesn't understand.
"I swear on him that I won't hurt you or your son."
"You can't keep us here."
He nods. "And where would you go?" He gives her a moment to reply, but she doesn't because she can't. "Exactly."
Her eyes press closed and he can see her struggling once again against her tears–and then before she can collect herself, the boy asleep in her lap begins to stir. His heart clenches as the boy's eyes open and he sits up, his body stiff and his eyes wide with fear–and he watches as she rubs her hand over his cheeks, telling him again and again that he doesn't need to be afraid, that she'll protect him and that they're both perfectly fine.
He holds his breath as he shifts Roland onto his hip as he takes a few tentative steps back toward the wagon–and slowly, he offers her his hand. She stares at it with hard eyes and he can tell that more than anything she wants to slap it away, but she doesn't–she doesn't because, as much as she hates it, she doesn't have another option. And then, slowly, she lets him help her and her son out of the wagon.
She smoothes her skirt as her son clutches to it, and he clears her throat, trying to remember her name. "Uh…" He sighs as her eyes roll. "I'm sorry. I don't remember your–"
"You never asked my name."
"Oh," he murmurs. "Right."
"And it's Lady."
"What?"
"Lady Regina," she says.
"As insincere as it may seem, Regina, I–"
"It's Lady Regina."
He blinks. "Oh, well–"
She scoffs as her chin tips up haughtily. "Are you working up the nerve to tell me that I am staying here."
"Uh, yes," he nods. "Paris isn't safe for–"
She laughs–a bitter, cutting laugh. "As if I'm not aware."
"Right…" He clears his throat. "I didn't really plan for this, so you'll have to forgive–"
"I have to forgive nothing."
His jaw tightens–and that had been so overwhelming just a few minutes before quickly fades. "What I am trying to say, M'lady, is that neither of us anticipated this."
"So, I suppose we'll just have to make the best of it, hm?"
He grits his teeth and forces a smile. "I suppose we will," he tells her as he privately curses himself for ever picking up a newspaper, for ever thinking he wanted to be more involved in this God-forsaken revolution and for not listening to the little voice at the back of his head that told him to break from the crowd and to just go home–but despite his annoyance, he can't quite bring himself to curse himself for saving her.
"Are you hungry?"
"I am," the boy says in a small voice as a little grin edges onto his lips. "Can we have biscuits?"
"We don't have any biscuits here," he says, smiling gently at the child. "We do have enough bouillie to go around."
"I've never had that."
"Nor I."
A coy little grin edges onto his lips as he looks back to Regina. "Oh, well, M'lady, you are in for a treat. I'll put a dollop of lard in it to thicken it up and give it a little taste." He chuckles as her haughty expression fades and her nose scrunches. "Not a fan of pig fat?"
"I… can't say that I've ever, um… tried that."
"I like bacon."
"Ah, well, I'm sorry to say we don't have any of that right now, either," he says, stooping down to the boy's level and watching as his grip on Regina's skirt begins to loosen. "But if you promise not to tell, I'll slip a little butter and sugar into yours."
"It's really good," Roland tells him as he slips off of his hip. "It's sweet and buttery and we only make it that way on special occasions."
Pressing a kiss to Roland's head, he whispers that he should take his new friend inside. He grins as Roland takes the other boys hand and tugs him toward the house as he rises to his feet and offers Regina an awkward grin.
"Look, I know this isn't quite what you're used to but–"
Rolling her eyes, she scoffs, not letting him finish before she turns away from him and stalks toward the house.
So much for pleasantries, he thinks to himself as he follows her into the house, wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.