Author's Note: I had posted this story once, but due to somehistorical inaccuracies and lack of direction, I took it down and made some modifactions. The story remains, for the most part, the same, only now I have a clear idea where it shall lead.
August, 1789. Shouts reverberated along the worn cobblestone streets of Paris. The elegantly clad speaker, crowned with dark, close-cropped hair, stood loftily on a rugged box before the Hôtel de Ville, holding a freshly printed pamphlet in his right hand for his captivated audience to behold.
Nous sommes trahis! the fiery orator shouted, waving the pamphlet furiously. Several lackeys—for so the less-elegantly clad young men appeared to be—carried stacks of the same pamphlet, and began to distribute them to the desperate peasants.
'Betrayed!' the local butcher exclaimed, as he wiped his blood-stained hands upon his dirty apron. 'Betrayed, indeed!' He quickly grabbed his copy. 'God bless the man Marat and his paper!' The surrounding bystanders echoed the cheer.
An old broad chimed in, 'Remerciez le Seigneur! Our prayers have been answered!' She gleefully received her pamphlet and gratefully patted the young deliverer of the newly discovered gospel. 'What a good boy you are, Gaston—so good to help Monsieur Marat spread enlightenment to the French people.'
Gaston smiled sheepishly. 'I do what I can, Madame.' In truth, he did nothing to assist this preposterous revolutionary, except dispense his papers. Nevertheless, he was helping to depose a tyrant he knew nothing of, to destroy a human being he had no sympathy for, and that was sufficient for Gaston's personal contentment. He deserves it, the lad thought, because we the common people suffer while this tyrant in Versailles does not.
'Might I have one?' a voice queried suddenly—a voice so distinctly beautiful, rich, and melodious that Gaston started at first, almost dropping his diminishing stack of leaflets.
'Certainly, monsieur,' the lad replied, as he hastily readjusted the pamphlets in his arms. A copy almost escaped his grasp, but Gaston reached it in time and handed the requested item to the apparent beholder of that unearthly song.
'Here you are, monsieur,' Gaston began, but stopped short, as he found himself staring into the most brilliant hazel eyes he ever beheld. A sudden terror gripped his heart—more out of awe than out of fear—and the lad could not help but gawk. The man simply smiled, tipped his top hat in thanks, and then turned to leave. Gaston continued to stare after the stranger and pondered how such an eye color came to exist.
'What you gapin' at?' the Old Broad yawped, tearing the young man from his thoughts.
'Why, at that man who wanted a paper,' Gaston returned, pointing to a figure mingling into the crowd. 'That one—with a top hat and fancy clothes.'
The Old Broad scratched her head, glanced behind her, then riveted her eyes back to Gaston, and finally shook her head. 'There's no one wearin' a top hat here, lad.'
'But he was standin' right next to you!'
'The butcher's been here the whole time!'
'Then, Butcher, did I not just a hand a man wearin' a top hat a paper?' Gaston was becoming exasperated.
'As far as I'm concerned, lad, there was no one there.'
To most of the lower social classes of society, any piece of clothing that simply fit the wearer, and contained no sign of ill-treatment, bore the appellation of 'fancy.' The man in the top hat, however, deemed his apparel unworthy of that description. O, the trifling affairs of mankind! How they are satisfied with so little!
In any event, after the small encounter with the young man Gaston, the stranger did his best to slip away unnoticed. Hordes of the Enemy had stationed themselves everywhere in Paris. Yet, somewhere, in this wretched, demon-infested city, where Enlightenment became God and philosophes the authors of its Bible, faithful saints knelt in prayer.
'Kael!' a voice called softly from behind. A seemingly handsome young republican with loose golden hair and bright azure eyes emerged from behind the butcher's shop. Kael nodded, and together, the two tall silhouettes silently stole into the dark alley before them and vanished from the sight of men.
Clack! Clack! The iron cane clipped the street; its possessor bounced slightly to its beat. His auburn hair, partially hidden by a felt hat, was pulled back and braided, and a long, wavy ponytail descended upon his back. The viridian redingote frockcoat suited him wonderfully, and his sparkling sea-gray eyes betrayed his delight with his material disguise.
Indeed, Monsieur Raoul Champney was a striking gentleman, though he was hardly seen among the Parisian crowd—if he was seen at all, that is.
Nevertheless, the striking monsieur strolled down Saint Antoine—or at least what remained of it after July—until he came upon a familiar street lantern. The well-proportioned figure took a quick glance around and then stealthily slipped into the small alley.
'Bonsoir, messieurs,' he called out jovially to the two shadows lurking in the darkness, still clacking his cane.
'I see you are enjoying yourself immensely, Rafael,' the golden-haired youth said, observing the cane and felt hat.
'Quite so, dear Gabriel, quite so,' Monsieur Champney returned, obviously amused. The gentleman turned to Kael and his countenance became stern; his smile, grim. 'So tell me, General, what became of the gathering?'
Kael said nothing at first, but handed him the pamphlet.
'L'Ami du Peuple!' Rafael exclaimed, as he read the first column. 'Confound Marat!'
'And there's plenty more where that came from!' Gabriel added.
Kael only shook his head. 'At least sixty heads rolled yesterday on account of this paper.'
'And they have the audacity to proclaim that this revolution models the American one!'
'Can we not put an end to this scribble?' Rafael asked. 'If this hate-filled rhetoric continues, it will be the death of the king of France!'
Kael looked up, and Rafael perceived the anguish in his hazel eyes. 'You are not…serious?'
'He and his family have been transferred to Paris, for the moment,' Kael assured him. 'But Jean-Paul Marat and his associates do not lie within our principality. For now, our assignment is to keep the saints protected and praying. A particular target will be revealed to us in a short while,' the General turned to Gabriel, 'and I believe it is your mission to find him, once he is revealed.' The golden-haired youth nodded.
'For now, let events run their course,' Kael continued. 'Rafael, I want to know who rules Paris for the present and the size of his legion.' He adjusted his brown cuffs and top hat. 'Meanwhile, I must attend a meeting elsewhere in town before I head off to America to evaluate our two feisty targets there.' Kael chuckled slightly, and then said, 'Be certain to remain hidden; avoid skirmishes at all cost.'
'General, there's a rumor circulating in the princes' choir,' Rafael interjected softly, 'that you will be meeting…him.'
The slight bronze cast which tinted Kael's fair countenance suddenly paled.
'What?' Gabriel cried, righteous anger manifested in his brightened eyes. 'Whatever for?'
Kael attempted to regain his composure. 'A deal,' he responded, almost inaudibly.
The youth was aghast. 'With him?'
'The Lord consented.'
'Kael, it's a trap!' Gabriel gripped the General by the shoulders as though attempting to awaken him from a trance. 'Paris is infested with demons! You have no strength here!'
'I'm aware of the situation, Gabriel,' Kael said affectionately and gently brushed his friend away. 'Be comforted; everything remains under His control.'
Kael adjusted his cuffs once again. 'You have your orders,' the chief prince said firmly. 'Remember, conduct your business quietly. We cannot afford open war at the moment. Report to me as soon as possible.'
The General of the Heavenly Host gazed upon his fellow combatants and companions one last time, and then finally breathed, 'Godspeed.'
'Godspeed,' the remaining heavenly warriors echoed.
Kael turned back to the direction from whence he came; Gabriel and Rafael ventured towards the street lantern.
An ominous silence fell upon Paris. The night seemed so unsettling that it appeared as though the hand of Evil had stretched forth its black fingers and enveloped the city in total darkness.
Kael lifted his face towards the heavens. He saw no stars.
