The Death of Virtue

Characters: Coupeau, Mercier, Chauvelin

Rating: M

Warnings: Extreme and graphic violence, character death

A.N: Mercier and Coupeau are two characters from the musical that are named, but never really given anything else but, so I created personalities for them and called them my own. So I made these guys close, childhood friends of Chauvelin's. So naturally, when the committee falls at Thermador and Chauvelin is executed, it can't bode well for Mercier and Coupeau. And this is what I imagined would happen to them, specifically Coupeau. As mentioned, this thing is extremely violent, and if you don't like the idea of graphic and rather horrific deaths, don't read this.

He had lost it all. Everything that he had ever cared for, everything he had to live for was, at that very moment, scattered about as the blood of those brave and noble men soaked into the ground. He didn't move, made not a sound. Even if he could, he wouldn't have stirred from his hiding place. He had been specifically told not to, and if there was one thing that Coupeau was good at, it was following orders. The fact that the men that had given him those orders to lie still, make not a sound, and not come out until one of them had come to fetch him were dead made no difference at all. He'd hate to disappoint.

Even if they were dead.

Especially because they were dead.

But still…he couldn't stay there forever. He'd surely be caught and killed. Not that it mattered, but after seeing what they had done to his friends, the prospect was not all that appealing.

It had been late the evening before when the soldiers that used to serve him stormed into Citizen Chauvelin's office and arrested him for treason against the Republic. The agent put up a rather good fight, in Coupeau's opinion, but in the end, Chauvelin had managed to only thrust the little soldier's hand into Mercier's and ordered him to obey the every command of the larger man. And then he was taken away. Or so he assumed, he didn't actually see Chauvelin hauled away to the prison. Mercier had pulled him away rather quickly, and the two of them had managed to find a place to hide until things got a bit calmer.

Against his better judgment, Mercier had dragged the smaller man to the prison late that night, and as they were so apt at doing, the two men managed to sneak inside and with a bit of searching, they managed to find the cell in which Chauvelin was being kept; right next to the cell of that elusive Pimpernel that Chauvelin had managed to capture the day just before.

"I don't understand it…" Chauvelin had said to the men quietly, gently nursing the large, deep wounds that the guard had inflicted upon him. "I had done it all. My loyalties had never wavered. I even managed to successfully capture France's greatest enemy. And tomorrow, I go to the Guillotine with Robespierre and the Pimpernel. What has happened to our country, boys?"

Of course, there would be no escape for Chauvelin. He was too heavily guarded, and the few of the League that had managed to evade capture had no way into France. That day was one of glory for the traitorous bastards that had killed France. The day started with the execution of the Incorruptible, the Archangel of the Revolution and the Terrorist and the Scarlet Pimpernel and the League were scheduled to meet La Guillotine that afternoon.

So with a heavy heart and grim determination, Mercier pulled Coupeau along to witness the execution of the man that they loved more than their own lives with the intent of taking the body out of this city gone insane. He had been as dignified and proud as anyone could be, and with head held high, Armand Chauvelin had mounted the scaffold and the city seemed to fall silent and within only a few moments, there was the grating of metal and the sickening thud as the blade fell.

Coupeau didn't cry until that very moment as he pulled himself from his hiding place and crawled along the ground to the body of his leader that lay there on the grass just outside of Paris. Sobs wracking his body, Coupeau slowly reached out with a trembling hand and as gently and as carefully as he could, pulled the dismembered head toward him and tenderly placed it by the body of the man that was his friend and confident for as long as he could remember.

"I'm so sorry, Chauvelin…" Whimpering slightly and feverishly stroking the deceased agent's face and hair, he choked for breath and lay down next to the body, hardly noticing as blood quickly soaked through the man's uniform. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you, and I'm sorry that I was too weak to do anything to help Mercier…Chauvelin…I'm sorry…"

He could do nothing as he lay their but helplessly clutch the agent's head to his chest as he finally dissolved into agonized cries of pain for the loss of his friends and the death of his own soul because of it. That morning had unleashed Hell in Coupeau's world, and there was nothing the small man could do to combat it. He was a dead man, and he knew it. What's more, he didn't care.

It wasn't even noon before Coupeau had nothing left in him at all. And no matter how hard he tried to, no more tears would fall for his passed compatriots. With the greatest of efforts, he forced himself to let go of Chauvelin and lethargically pushed himself to his feet.

Mercier had pulled Coupeau away as soon as they had heard the blade fall, and with speed fueled by honor, the bigger pulled the smaller through the streets of Paris to recover the body of Chauvelin. The two men followed the cart bearing the bodies to the gates of the city where it had to stop to get the authorization to pass through, and as soon as the cart came to a halt, Mercier and Coupeau began rummaging for Chauvelin, and within moments, the bigger man had the former agent slung over his shoulder, the head tucked in the crook of his arm and the smaller, quivering man hiding behind him and clutching at Mercier's uniform. They stayed concealed among the coffins of the other fallen until the cart had passed through the gates, and, sure that the coast was clear, the hopped off the cart and took off running away from the cart and away from bloody Paris.

Their flight did not go unnoticed for long, and within minutes of their escape, a small garrison of soldiers was after them. Of course, the runaway soldiers did not notice that they were being followed, only that their leader was dead, and without him, they were but lost children with no direction. They finally stopped in an open field, a few trees and bushes scattered about if the need to hide came up, but neither man really thought that they could move after Mercier had laid Chauvelin's body on the ground.

It was the first time that Coupeau had ever seen Mercier cry. It wasn't hard, and he wouldn't have even noticed had he not been so intently looking to the man for guidance, and there it was. For just a moment, Coupeau had the vision of watching the world fall from the goliath's eyes, and then as if it was never even there, those blue eyes turned to ice.

"Coupeau, hide. Now, go. And don't you dare move or make a sound until I come to get you, do you understand?"

Coupeau dared not hesitate. The man was deadly when he spoke that way, and the little man ran and quickly concealed himself within some underbrush. Those would be the last words that Mercier would ever say to him. No sooner had Coupeau hid did the tall, gallant soldier's knees buckle as he was struck between the ribs with a bullet and in moments soldiers surrounded him.

The man didn't even have a chance to fight back, and while he was recovering from the shot, he was unceremoniously dragged to the nearest tree, his hands tied tightly around the truck, giving his now bare chest no chance of protection.

True to his orders, Coupeau didn't move, didn't make a sound, even as close by he watched his friend be mercilessly beaten. Not once did the honorable Mercier scream, cry or show any signs of pain, and gasped for only a moment when one soldier put his dagger to the hilt inside the defenseless man and quickly drew it across his body as the man watched helplessly as his innards were rather forcefully removed from his body.

The soldiers didn't stay long after that. After briefly searching for the other man with no luck, they left jeering at the quickly dying man fixed to that tree, and long after their cheers had died down, Coupeau had remained hidden and quite as his friend had commanded, some part of him hoping that the pale man covered in blood would somehow regenerate and come get him. He wasn't supposed to leave until then…

But here he was now, slender arm hooked around the still man's neck, his head resting on the man's bloody chest as he gasped for breath, tried to weep for this man that he loved so well. "Forgive me for leaving, Mercier," the little man choked, trembling uncontrollably, "but there is something that I need to do…"

With the greatest reluctance, he pushed himself away from him and with as much care as he was able, untied the man and laid him next to the agent, the two bodies terribly defiled in their own right. Kneeling beside the two and managing to weep again, Coupeau laid trembling hands upon the chests of the men he grew up with. "I will never forget you."

With only one glance back at the bloody field, Coupeau turned for Paris.

The door had flung open with a resounding slam and no sooner had Percy and his three League members looked toward the source of the noise did Elton find a small, haggard and trembling man in his arms. "Take me back to England with you, Elton."

"Coupeau, what are you-"

"Please don't ask me anything, love!" the man cried, burring his head into the Englishman's chest. "You're scheduled for execution in an hour, and I need to get you guys out of here."

"Do you have a plan, you?" Tony asked, pushing himself off the wall and was instantly disappointed by the vigorous shaking of the young Frenchman's head.

"No matter, my boy, we'll improvise," Percy said firmly, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder.

"So what do we do?" Andrew asked softly, quietly closing the door. Percy merely grinned and motioned for them to come closer.

It was fifteen minutes later that the Pimpernel, the three League members and the quivering Coupeau were on a cart heading toward Calais. It was sixteen minutes later that soldiers got word of the late Agent Chauvelin's renegade right hand man escaping Paris. And somehow, Coupeau knew damn well that he was about to die, even though at that very moment, he was in the safe and comforting embrace of his lover. Shivering slightly, he quietly choked, "I love you, Elton."

"And I you." Pulling the man closer and gently petting his hair, the lord whispered, "Just think, we'll be in England together forever, just as we always wanted."

"Promise me you'll be happy, Elton."

"As long as you're with me."

Shifting uncomfortably, he gently pulled away and planted a soft kiss on the other man's lips. "I'll always be with you." Scooting away from Elton, Coupeau crawled over to Percy and as quietly as he could, whispered, "Sir Pimpernel, the army of France knows I'm alive, and they are out to kill me as they did my friends. I don't know if they know you're gone yet, but please, if they come for me, don't stop. They know who you are, and five pointless deaths is much more unnecessary than one."

Flabbergasted, Percy managed to gape, "You want me to leave you if you're in trouble? Gad, man, you are out of your head!"

"Please!" Coupeau cried, clutching the man's collar. "Go home to your wife! Don't let these men die, and don't make pretty Marguerite go through what I am going through right now! Please…"

Before Percy had a chance to respond, the soldiers searching for the small auburn haired friend of Chauvelin stopped the cart and began to search the cart all too close to the League for anyone's comfort. Sad, tearful green eyes met pleading blue ones for just a moment before Coupeau swiftly jumped the rail of the cart and took off running from the guard of the fallen Republic.

To his momentary delight, every soldier came rushing after him and the cart slowly began to drive away and as soon as he turned around and took off running again, Coupeau was viciously seized by the collar and thrown backwards, the wind being forcefully knocked from his body. The diminutive soldier weakly staggered to his feet and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of a horrified and screaming Elton being held back by a shocked and rather pale Percy. Trembling, he smiled slightly and put his hand up in the air as a final farewell to the man he loved and the League that would now get home before he felt the cold sting of lead in his back, and, gasping for breath and in mild shock, he fell to his knees.

Coupeau watched the cart grow more distant and at that moment knew that he had done the right thing. He wouldn't have survived the day, and were he to try to change his fate, he may have put his Elton and the Pimpernel at risk, and he couldn't do that, not when his two best friends had died so bravely and nobly that day.

His head was suddenly pulled backward and a knee was thrust into his back to keep him on his knees while he looked straight up into the malicious brown eyes of the man that was to be his executioner. The cold, sharp steel of a sword was carefully positioned at the soft juncture of his neck just above the collarbone, and the little man felt a sudden streak of defiance. Staring the man straight in the eyes, Coupeau growled, "Vive la Republique."

It took much longer than he ever imagined it could. He felt each inch of the blade slide into his body and under the sternum. For just a moment, he could feel a brief scratching in stomach before the blade thrust out of his abdomen, the tip burying in the ground in front of him. And then the soldiers left, leaving the young Coupeau there, held on his knees by the weapon that impaled him.

He felt like he was drowning.

God it was awful.

He couldn't breathe, and his vision very quickly began to tunnel. He had done the best he could, he always had. Just as Chauvelin and Mercier did, and there couldn't be any wrong in that. None at all. But, he supposed, it must all be futile if they all came to this. He didn't believe that any of them deserved such horrid deaths. Closing his eyes, he silently hoped for Elton's happiness long lives for the Blakeneys, and the quick recovery for France. Heaven knew that she needed it.

His eyes fluttered open for a brief moment, and he could have sworn he saw Chauvelin and Mercier standing there, bathed in light and good as new.

"I'm coming, boys."