Hey, people! I'm so sorry this chapter has taken so long to produce. College work has been crazy, but that's no excuse to neglect fandom! By the way, it occurs to me that the more I read about the Revolution, the more I find that interpretations are so varied it's unbelievable. So I am taking many, many liberties with the characters. Forgive me, O Gods of History! Ah well. I have to remind myself that this is fan fiction, not a thesis. :)


France

I found Marat setting up his box on the street again, presumably in order to give a repeat of yesterday's performance. I wondered if he had been doing this every day: travelling all over Paris in order to read Rousseau to the populace. Certainly he was acquiring a popular following – although not, I might hasten to add, amongst his revolutionary colleagues.

"France," he said, greeting me with his customary sly grin of acknowledgement.

"Hah," I breathed, softly. "I do not feel like France at the minute. Humour me, my friend, and let me be Citizen Bonnefoy for now. Or rather, Francis to you." I was fond of Marat, even if his somewhat bolt-and-braces approach to politics alarmed some.

He raised his eyebrows at that. "Did that hare-brained bourgeois frighten you before?" he said, incredulously. "No point in walking away, France. Argue back! These days, things are more likely to end in a brawl than reconciliation; no use in being even-tempered and ineffectual. Ideals and actions should be interchangeable." This said, he slouched comfortably on the box.

"It took me by surprise," I said, leaning against the wall, next to him. "I suppose years of listening to the prattle of kings have attuned me to the idea that politics are simply battles between divine right and heretical wrong." I laughed. "I am utterly reconciled to my beliefs, but the minute they are challenged, they chime out of harmony." It was a problem. Did it indicate fragility of opinion?

"So fight back!" insisted Marat. "After you left, it took only a few choice comments to get the crowd to chase him away – sadly, no harm done, but it certainly gave him a shock. Regardless. If you can persuade yourself, you ought to justify yourself too. Be unwavering. Reason is reason."

"Reason is reason is reason – Jean-Paul, that phrase means nothing." Rationality – that panacea of the liberal intellectual movement...

He laughed, loudly. "True! But it's a far sight better than what those monarchist fools spout – to say nothing of the moderates."

I sighed. "I could have countered him easily. 'I am your country'. But, at the time, I did not feel deserving of the title." I stretched, slowly – today's weather had an edge to it, but the relative lack of breeze gave a feeling of peace which made me languid. Then, glancing at Marat: "Why didn't you tell him, then? That I was the country, I mean. He didn't even recognise me! Am I nothing to people unless I don a regal outfit and clothe myself with matching, equally false imperial airs?" Not that the airs were not amusing to act, in their own way.

Marat shrugged, surprised. "It was irrelevant," he said, in answer to my first question. "Citizen," he said, placing emphasis on the word, "you can either preside over us as the country, or you can join us as a man. People don't take too kindly to being presided over these days, so I'd suggest joining us as an equal."

"The country is who I am," I countered. Leaving the question of exactly who I was, for now. I had never known that, had only recently wondered, and was utterly at a loss as to a distinct definition.

"Who you are is one of us," said Marat. "The country ought to side with the patriots. So stop even thinking about serving the privileged minority; you have to shed the last traces of grandeur and –" here, he glanced behind, broke off and cursed, with great volume and creativity.

"Er," I interjected, mildly. "You were saying?"

"Me," he was muttering, disbelievingly. "They're after me. For doing what? Speaking louder and with more purpose than the rest? I'll be amused to see what they try to charge me with." Laughing, he made as if to run.

"Who?" I asked, stopping him.

"The gendarmerie, of course," he replied, lightly. "Wish me luck." Swiftly, he bolted away.

Hastily, I darted after him. Glancing behind me, I could indeed locate a group of gendarmes in pursuit. Marat doubled back down a tucked-away alley that was partially shaded from view – rather ominously, to my thoughts. I followed nevertheless, hoping our pursuers had not spotted this detour.

"I am flattered by this attention, Citizens Guardsman," he fumed, addressing an invisible crowd of policemen, "but if you really wish to curb rebellion, you may as well arrest three quarters of Paris, if not more!"

"Jean-Paul, it's a dead end," I said, in a low voice. "They'll find you and shut you away again!" For indeed, Marat had served his time in prison before.

He shook his head and crouched on the floor, hands patting its surface like a blind man. He then stopped moving, having found what he sought. "You want to help? Lift this with me," he said.

Cursing the indifference to grime of professional revolutionaries, I knelt beside him. He was gesturing towards – I squinted sceptically in the darkness – a sewer grate.

"Please assure me you are joking," I groaned.

"I assure you, I'm joking," he said, through gritted teeth, in between tugging at the cover.

"I think you might be lying," I said, grimly.

"Will you give me a hand already?"

Together, we managed to pull the cover away, revealing a putrid-smelling entrance.

"You are insane," I said. A statement of fact.

"You are not obliged to follow," he said; with that, he slipped into the sewers.

I would hear footsteps in the background – whether they were the police or no, I could not say for certain. Probably I had little to fear from them anyway. However, credit me with some loyalty to my friends. Excessive loyalty, one might go as far as to say.

Case in point: inwardly consigning every policeman, aristocrat and conservative bourgeois to hell (along with England, Austria and Prussia, whilst I was at it), I descended down the unpleasantly slippery ladder into the very veins of Paris.


Present Day

France, England and America are sprawled at their various stations in the room: France sitting at the desk in the centre of the room; England in an armchair by his side, somewhat swamped by it, looking small and defensive; America unable to remain motionless for long without feeling the urge to pace from side to side in order to dispel excess energy. Contentedly, they munch pizza.

"This wouldn't be around the time you began insisting people call you Citizen Bonnefoy, would it?" says England, waving a piece of crust, presumably for emphasis. "Because you really reached a new height of pretentiousness back then. You know our human names are nothing but an affectation."

America makes a disgruntled noise. "What's wrong with our human names?"

"I know nothing of the sort," France smiles in reply to England. He smiles because he knows that England's human name – Arthur – holds far more significance – and regret - than England would care to admit, or to be reminded of on a regular basis."It was to prove a point. Transition to democracy, Angleterre; it was a difficult time for all of us. Suddenly we had to actually query who we were. Autocracy was so easy, no? Existentially speaking. If, of course, one discounts the mass poverty, lack of liberty and appalling social injustice."

"Yeah," says America. "Yeah, that kinda features."

"You have tomato sauce on your upper lip," England informs him, with satisfaction. America sticks out his tongue.

"And you, Angleterre, have the indelible stain of cynicism on your life," replies France, poetically.

"Spare us your ill-conceived imagery and write," England orders him.

France obediently complies.


France

"Would you consider it discourteous if I questioned you as to why you are running from the law?" I asked as we trudged along the pitch-black tunnels.

"Don't call it law. Arbitrary constraints constructed only to benefit the rich and powerful do not deserve the name of law," he answered, promptly. "Which is why I am at perfect liberty to flout them."

I raised an eyebrow. "Care to tell me how you ended up falling foul of these unfortunate arbitrary constraints on your liberty?"

He chuckled. "Take a guess."

I did not even make a show of pretending to consider. "I would guess that you managed to annoy one group amongst the many who do benefit from said constraints."

"Wrong. I have pissed off everyone," he said, with blunt satisfaction.

I rolled my eyes heavenward (the ceiling rather got in the way, but, well) and indulged in a gusty, regretful sigh. "What have you been saying, my friend? Or, rather, writing?"

"Let's just say that I spared no-one. I revealed nothing more than the truth about several -institutions. The Constituent Assembly. The ministers. The corps municipal. That hypocrite, Lafayette, who is a republican in America and the royals' lackey in his home country. Mirabeau, in the pay of anyone who offers, with half the National Assembly in his clutches, who somehow manages to command the adoration of a slavish majority. Orleans, who thirsts for the throne, but lacks the brains to stage a coup. In short, I made a few derisive comments towards a keg of powder, and the keg went and took offence." He gave me an ingenuous look: what can you do?

"Marat," I said, mournfully. "You have been languishing in a cell for months. You now skulk in the sewers. In all likelihood, you will be back to languishing within a matter of days. Yet you keep going. I swear, you are either a martyr, or mad!"

The word 'mad' reverberated across the mud-drenched walls, with a correspondingly maniacal edge to the sound. Marat's laughter soon interspersed, giving the impression of a macabre duet.

"I am serious," I said. "You astound me – that's the truth."

"Don't idealise me, France," he grinned, slyly. "Don't idealise at all. S'dangerous. We're none of us paragons of vertu. Although, for the record, I didn't languish – I raged."

"I can imagine," I said, wryly. "But you didn't answer the question."

"Probably because you didn't ask a question."

I stopped. "I didn't? Oh. No, I suppose I didn't. Well – 'why?' springs inexorably to mind."

Marat peered at me, like an inquisitive bat. "Because we have to take the people with us," he said, as though it was self-evident. "They can witter on about the constitution and their trivial regulations at the National Assembly – some of us remember that it was the Parisian 'mob' that won us our victory. They have to give their consent, or anything we do is meaningless. So... so we read Rousseau in the streets, to the people it was made to address." He tapped his foot, impatiently; I began moving again.

Well, if the message had not been drilled into me before, it was carved on my very bones at this point: take the people with you. But then, how could something so obvious, so pure in its simplicity be radical? Logic was not radical, but, as dear America would put it, self-evident. Egalite? Certainly, there was an ideal that was radical. Marat. He lived, breathed and thrived on rebellion – I imagined that it was sedition which drove his limbs, not muscle. So different from Robespierre, although they fed on the same heady substance – that elusive idea, that far-reaching vision...

Down here, lofty ideals met with – well, put bluntly, dingy walls, underfoot slime and a smell that truly defied description. I imagined Robespierre's face if he could see us now – or, rather, could scarcely picture it! Here I was, stepping gingerly through the muck – Marat trod confidently, evidently able to navigate his way in this parody of a maze.


Present Day

"Oddly, I cannot imagine you stalking the sewers," says England.

"That much we have in common," says France. "I could not for the life of me imagine exploring that particular ground. Yet it happened all the same. Poor Marat. He did not know how finicky I could be."

"Distaste for that situation is not finicky," says England, who sounds as though he never imagined he would have to actually explain this. "But – granted, quite unusually, for you – utterly normal."

"It was not an experience I was eager to repeat," admits France. "Although – that resolution didn't quite pan out."

"And that is a story none of us want to hear," decides America, quickly.

"Yes, continue with the story we do want to hear, Frog," says England, impatiently.

France considers asking England why he is so adamant to hear his tale, but eventually decides against it. After all – the very fact that it happened is enough to summon an arrogant, yet pleased, grin to his face. "Ah, appreciation!" he says, more vaguely. This, of course, serves to infuriate England all the same, what with the insinuation that he appreciates France. Ah, perversity!


France

We reached a section of the tunnel in which the sludge level... rose. Well. "Marat, how can you bear it?" I cried, with no small measure of anguish. "Regardless of what you say, you are one of the greatest men I know. And yet, here you are, wading ankle-deep through mud, waste and excrement! Is this how I and my people treat the great and virtuous?"

A pause, in which my outburst echoed embarrassingly.

I think he doubled over laughing. But silently, for which I was marginally grateful. I was beginning to feel ever so slightly ridiculed.

"And what's more," I continued, with dignity, "I am drenched in muck."

The laughter ceased to be silent.

"Thank you," I said, stiffly.

"Oh," Marat choked through his mirth, "you can sound imperious!"

On the contrary, I felt completely defeated, deflated and somewhat dejected.

"You've started wearing inexpensive clothing – I'm assuming out of solidarity for the poor," he said, more soberly. "Now you have the conditions to match. To the Parisian underclass, the sewers are your only high street. If you are going to mend your ways, you can't be afraid of getting your hands dirty."

"Or my attire, apparently," I said, bitterly.

"You're a nation!" he said, frustrated. "Surely you've seen worse on the battlefield."

"Much," I assured him. "It is the sheer indignity of the situation! And how unjust it is – for you more than for me, although I confess that sewer exploration is hardly a passion of mine."

"Now you are beginning to empathise as well as sympathise," said Marat.

"You mean I'm beginning to understand the degradation of the masses?" I said, sarcastically.

"Yes," he said, ignoring the insincerity.

"I've always felt what they feel," I said, dismissively.

"And now you are beginning to live it," he retorted. "You are beginning to live for the Revolution – beforehand, you were simply an observer."

"So what do you propose? Would you suggest a training session for every revolutionary? Drag the National Assembly to hold their meetings down here?" I was being insupportably arrogant, but somehow once the bile began to flow, I could not halt its progress. Almost certainly due to the fact that I believed what he said far too wholeheartedly to be comfortable with my own position. Strange how I had failed to perceive the vein of frustration running through the mountain of my principles until now. "How about we starve them? You can't lower everyone to the level of poverty – you have to allow the poor to rise instead!"

"Lofty words indeed," said Marat. "Who are they meant to console? Who are they mean to address?"

"Leave me be," I said, angrily.

Unacknowledged fear had given way to guilt, and pricked me into animosity. The creeping, unthinkable supposition that the problems could not be dug out, but only ameliorated. The terrifying prospect that, for all the anticipation and rapture, my show of defiance had been for nought. That revolution would subside into moderation, and moderation would solidify into a new form of apathy and oppression.

"How is it to be done?" I asked, suddenly. "How is the Assembly to manage this revolution?"

"They are not the Revolution," said Marat, vehemently. "They are just parasites. There are few men in the Assembly who are impervious to bribes or immune to self-interest. The bourgeois have taken over. Soon, all our revolutionary gains will be in tatters! Their replacement? The flag of the property owners."

"No," I said, firmly. "They care."

"'They' meaning who, precisely? Name me one man in the government who is not in some way out for his own ends."

"Maximilien Robespierre," I replied, without hesitation.

"Ah. Him. The Candle of Arras." Marat knew of Robespierre, whose reputation was beginning to flourish. "He is a notable exception, I'll grant you. A rarity indeed – one who does not thrive on veneer. Name another."

"Georges Danton."

"Danton? Ha! He's lining his own pockets out of all this, you know. To be fair, I like his ideas. He will go far. He and Camille Desmoulins might just be able to steer you in the right direction – and by that, I mean republicanism."

"Danton, corrupt? Never him!"

"He's out for all he can make out of the Revolution," said Marat. "The strange thing is, he does not let himself be bought – merely paid. His ideas are admirable. But you are naming those of the radical faction. Those defenders of liberty comprise only a tiny minority – they make a lot of fuss, but little impact. France, it's vital that you listen to me. Don't take everything they say on trust! Only a fool would believe that the National Assembly are doing all that they can. Look around and what do you see? Are the poor living like kings? Has the king been flung into the gutter where he belongs? Constitutional monarchy!" He spat, derisively.

"What good comes of attacking people who are trying to make things better?"

"I don't attack them. I think they are irrelevant. What matters are the people! You have to keep them engaged," he said, "otherwise the Revolution will be overthrown, in turn, by a new ruling elite. We need to fan the flames, keep the anger burning. Shock people out of submission. They must be taught not to accept even the smallest injustice – set a precedent by taking to the streets. And then we need leaders, with strong republican convictions, and equally strong stomachs, with which to implement what needs to be done. I'm by no means averse to terror as a method, if necessary. And it is most certainly necessary."

"Terror?" There I was, aghast at the thought. How laughable.

"It can be a potent weapon. If the wealthy do not fear us, they will make fools of us. This is war, France. Just because the battlefield is within your own mind does not mean that you can escape without bloodshed. The enemy must be rooted out; you can either control what is inevitable, or wait for the masses to perform the executions of their own accord. It is to save the nation, to prevent the greater massacres that would result later."

I shook my head. "The bloodshed has ended. It's time to rebuild. We've finished destroying."

"If you refuse now, then we've barely begun."


Present Day

"Indeed," says England, "we've barely begun. I can't say much for your ability to be succinct, Frog."

"It is not a succinct subject, Angleterre."

"This could take some time to finish," sighs England.

"Undoubtedly. I suppose once your little leadership crisis has resolved itself you will throw me unceremoniously out of your house and land?" inquires France. He fixes England with melting eyes, and refrains from adding 'although, given the nigh interminable nature of said crisis, I imagine I will be enjoying your hospitality for the best part of a year', as that would probably detract from the imploring effect.

He is rewarded for this prudence by England's reply:

"Oh, very well! You can stay until you finish this damned saga of yours. Though why you would rather be here than at home is frankly beyond me."

Oh, England! He is completely incapable of doing anything for anyone else without disguising or begrudging his own generosity, thinks France. Utterly ashamed of his own altruism and proud beyond all reason of his faults.

"Is it so incomprehensible that I might want company?" France asks, sweetly.

"You never gave the impression that my company was anything but repellent to you," England counters. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't we meant to despise each other?"

"That does not necessarily mean I find your company abhorrent," twinkles France, provokingly.

"God, you two are so weird," says America, decisively. A thought occurs to him. "You do know that the longer France stays here, the more everyone else is going to think the two of you are together now, or something." He snickers at the prospect.

England blinks at him in a delicate amalgamation of contempt and horror.

"Ah, it was his carefree and optimistic nature that first attracted me!" proclaims France, theatrically, eyes gleaming with mischief, twining his arm around England's waist. "One deep look into his eyebrows and I was lost!"

England looks at a loss for how to reply: namely, preoccupied with which scathing comment to begin with and who to pour scorn upon first. "Number one," he says, "I detest you, Frog. Number two: let go of me or I won't be considered responsible for the consequences of my actions. Number three..." he looks disdainfully at France. "Actually, no, let's keep this simple enough for you to comprehend. Let go of me."

"But my love! Mon petit chou!" cries France, enjoying this mockery immensely.

"Call me cabbage one more time and I will eviscerate you," England informs him, calmly.

"Like I said," mutters America, more to himself than anyone else, "totally weird." This spoken amidst the violent scuffle as England attempts to free himself.

France reflects wryly that England is probably regretting that last minute's generous impulse. However, there is no danger of it being revoked, primarily due to England's inveterate pride, but also owing to how, deny it as he may, he is just as fond of company as France. Never has such an isolated nation been so secretly sociable.

France suddenly remembers how, many centuries ago, England was such a reclusive child, delighting and wondering in the landscape around him, discovering countless hideaways and imaginary friends – eager beyond words to share these treasures, but secretive and guarded, lest his chosen confident only mock him.

Well, France had only mocked a little. And England had failed to appreciate that France's method of expressing his amazement was to laugh. In fact, with almost astonishing lack of perspicacity, he had spent centuries failing to appreciate that. The reclusive boy had cautiously crouched in places with which he was familiar, whilst the laughing child had grabbed him impetuously by the hand and pulled him along through the wilderness anyway, neither even coming close to comprehending the other, violent misunderstandings and hostile conflict imminent, fates inextricably intertwined.

Dieu, he is becoming sentimental...


France

Marat and I stared at each other, faces set, differences irreconcilable.

"I understand what you say," I said, eventually. "But to give up hope now would be criminal."

"Poor choice of words, Francis," he said, dryly. "Apparently I am acriminal."

"Apologies."

"Heh, forget it."

"You're right," I said, firmly blundering on, regardless. "We must take the people with us. They have to believe in the revolution. But what am I saying? They already do."

"I'm just fanning the flames," he agreed.

"But no terror," I pressed, adamantly. "Passion. Belief. Hope. Never terror. I trust the Assembly; I trust Mirabeau and, yes, I trust Danton, Desmoulins and Robespierre most of all. We have to work together – I want no divisiveness."

"I wish you will always believe that," he said, lightly, indulgently. The impression given was that he did not much expect his wish to be granted.

Anagnorisis. It was useless to rail uselessly against a useless situation. A revolution is a revolution is a revolution. Somehow, I had managed to snatch hope from the jaws of this tautology. We had broken the chains, but it would take time to learn how to fly, and time to adjust the wax wings until they could stand the sun. And all the while, the people must be informed and guided. Every step of the way, their consent was paramount. Marat had exasperated, astounded and angered me – all of which had been necessary.

(Which, of course, he was quite aware of.)

Time to resurface from despair, and from the sewers. To tussle with historical precedent and win the prize of an untainted future. And to smile, broadly, all the way, never losing resolve - or panache.

Well, I had set down my objectives. Today had been the nadir of my expectations and, as with all depths, the only possible direction was up. I planned to hurtle upwards with preternatural speed.

"I think we've managed to put them off my scent," said Marat.

"Yes, because the foul smell of the sewers disguises it," I grumbled, cheerfully.

"Well, as soon as I find an exit, you can escape and try to forget the experience," he replied. "If I'm right, we're somewhere near your lodgings."

"Right," I said. "What do you plan on doing?"

"Me? I plan to lie low for a while. Don't worry – I've no intention to disappear completely. I'll evade them instead. Sewers and cellars are the perfect places to hide."

"If I can help in any way..."

"Well, for a start, don't go to the gendarmerieand tell them where I am," he said. "That's about the extent to which you can help."

"I shall endeavour to perform this duty to my utmost ability," I said, smiling. "Have you anywhere to stay?"

"Oh, probably."

"Marat! You have nowhere to go!"

"I have an entire network of hideouts. Don't underestimate me. I might foist myself on Camille, if it comes to that. Here – help me lift this grate."

We shifted the cover, sending sunlight streaming in, piercing the dullness of our surroundings.

Perfect. Time to re-enter the world on the surface. Time to fly on deliberate collision course with the sun.