Finally, Maximilien's pulse and breathing slowed back to normal. Reminiscing had helped. He took a deep breath and carefully leaned his forehead against his knees. He needed to just come to terms with his impending death. It was inevitable. He shuddered again, remembering his horrific dream. Had he really been so cruel as to execute one of his friends? And to justify it by claiming that it was for the good of France? Maybe he deserved to die. He'd failed not only his friends but his mother as well.

"Maxime," his mother had said to him years ago, laying pale and ghostlike in her bed. One of her thin hands was clasped tightly in young Maximilien's. He let go momentarily and unceremoniously crawled into the bed beside her, nestling himself in a fetal position and grabbing her hand again. She stroked his hair slowly, as if the simple act was the most difficult thing in the world. "Do you promise to do everything in your power to protect Charlotte, Henriette, and Augustin? They're all younger than you and will need your support as a brother more than ever." The young boy had nodded as solemnly as a six-year-old could, his wide eyes trained on the sweat soaked form of his mother. Until an hour or so earlier he had believed that he was to gain a new sibling, not lose one and his mother as well.

"Oui Maman," he'd said, tears filling his green eyes. "I promise." She had smiled faintly down at her son, then motioned for him to leave the room.

"I love you, Maximilien," she'd breathed on his way out. "I love you and I always will."

"I love you too Maman."

She died later that day, Maximilien thought sadly. She died, father left us to drink his sorrows away, and together they left us to live with any family member who would take us. And I've done a terrible job honoring my promise. The horrific image of his brother leaping headfirst out of a second-floor window flashed through his mind. Not wanting to dwell on it, he thought back to his childhood and the days he'd spent with Jacques, Gabrielle, and his siblings. His troubles then seemed so trivial now, like the time his sisters accidentally caused the death of one of his pigeons.

"Please Maxime," Charlotte had begged, standing in the doorway, blocking him. "Let me borrow one of your pigeons! I'll be good to it I swear!" Maximilien had frowned, angrily crossed his arms, then uncrossed them again, trying to gently push past his sister.

"Non! Absolutely not! I don't trust you with them! They need extensive care!"

"What does that mean," she'd asked puzzled. Maximilien had sighed exasperatedly and recrossed his arms impatiently. Charlotte often didn't know what 'big' words meant and he'd always have to explain them to her.

"It means they need a lot of care and you won't be getting them. They aren't little dolls to be played with!" Charlotte had nodded earnestly, her shoulder length brown curls bouncing up and down.

"I know that Max! I'll feed it every day! Just like you do. Heniette can remind me." Maximilien seriously doubted that the seven year old girl would be any help. "And I'll only hold it the way that you've shown me. Please, Maxime?"

"Fine," he'd said shortly, glaring at his sister. "Anything to shut you up. Have our aunts not taught you any manners? But if anything happens to it, anything at all, I'll never let you borrow my birds or anything else again. Do you understand?" Charlotte had turned and started down the hall to where Henriette was standing. Maximilien had grabbed her thin wrist and she'd turned back to face him. "Charlotte! Do you understand?" She had nodded once, then took off running down the stairs yelling for her sister.

Days later, when his aunts had brought his sisters to visit again him and their grandparents, the girls were surprisingly quiet. Charlotte and Henriette had shuffled over to where he had been reading, tears in their eyes. Immediately Maximilien was suspicious. They'd done something to the bird.

"Maximilien," Charlotte had whispered, always the spokesperson of the two. "We... we're sorry. We left the bird outside because we wanted it to feel free. Then it started storming and we were called inside. Neither of us thought about the pigeon." His hands clenched around the cover of the book and his look had turned stony.

"I told you," he said reproachfully. "I told you that you'd be bored of it after a few days! I never should have lent it to you."

I was angry with them for days, Maximilien thought, wanting nothing more than to laugh. I refused to talk to them when they came to visit and complained about them to Camille, Gabrielle, and Jacques every chance I had. Augustin had thought it was amusing and relentlessly teased the girls about it.

He shifted his head, trying to be as gentle as possible but to no avail. A sharp pain shot through his jaw and across his whole face.. This is an awful constant, he thought wearily. Of all the idiotic things I've done, this has to be one of the worst, if not the worst. I can't wait to be rid of it. Oh wait, he thought bitterly. I can. If it's gone, I'm dead. He sighed heavily, then winced in pain.

Gone were the days when he was called "the Incorruptible." Gone was the time long before when he and Camille Desmoulins had laughed at a classmate's terrible test score. Gone was the time when the worst thing he had ever done was when he'd swear behind the house with Jacques and Gabrielle, his first friends. Gone was the time he and Camille had spent their school days together, reading together outside in the sun and wondering what their lives as adults would be like. Ah, Camille. A friend who, like many of his others, had died for the so-called good of the French people.

"De R-Robespierre," Camille had whispered from the seat beside his own, his ever-present stutter still noticeable. Maximilien looked up from his notes and frowned slightly at the interruption. If the two were caught whispering during a lecture they'd be done for. Monsieur Dubois was in an absolutely dreadful mood that day. "M-maxime,"Camille whispered a little louder. "What did you g-get on the exam?"

"I got everything correct," Maximilien whispered sharply. "Now would you be so kind as to shut up? If we get caught, there'll be hell to pay." Camille had sighed and turned away from his friend and faced the front once again, a strand of curly brown hair falling into his face. Maximilien had redirected his attention back to the lesson.

"Maximilien," Camille had said again some moments later, slightly louder this time. "I h-have something f-funny to t-tell you." Maximilien had scowled. It was unusual for Camille, who was normally an incredibly attentive student, to be trying to tell him something in class.

"What," he muttered sharply under his breath, trying to shut his friend up. Camille grinned victoriously. He always loved winning, especially against Maximilien, even if it was over something as trivial as this.

"Did you h-hear what score Alexandre got on t-the exam?" Maximilien had shaken his head slightly. What is Camille getting at, he asked himself as he glanced at the board. "Take a g-guess. Take a w-wild guess Maxime." Alexandre Charpentier was an exceptional student, even rivaling Maximilien himself at times. No doubt he had gotten every question correct. Camille simply wanted to tease him again.

"Let me guess," he muttered, careful not to let Monsieur Dubois, who was scanning the room, notice him speaking. "He also got everything correct." Camille's mischievous grin had widened.

"Non! Not even close," he'd whispered gleefully. "He d-d-didn't even get ANY of them right!" Maximilien had stared at Camille. There was no way, he thought to himself. None.

"Class is dismissed for the day," Monsieur Dubois had said, snapping the boys back to attention. "Do not forget to turn in your essays on the way out." Maximilien had turned his attention to his bag for a few seconds, fishing out the essay in question.

"C-can you believe it Maxime," Camille had asked gleefully as they left the classroom. "He failed it!" Maximilien had laughed and smiled along with his friend.

"It is rather hard to believe isn't it," he'd said, wrapping an arm around Camille's thin shoulders. "At first I thought you were just trying to mock me again." Camille had turned to him, attempting to keep a hurt expression on his face.

"H-how rude of you! You h-hold me to such low standards! Me, mock you? I'd never," he'd said unable to keep himself from laughing. Maximilien frowned slightly. "Oh, Max! W-what would I do without you?"

"Probably end up dead on the road because you were reading instead of watching where you're going."

"Probably. It's a good thing I keep you around then."

No Camille, Maximilien thought. It's not a good thing you kept me around. I've become a terrible person. Don't associate yourself with me anymore. A new, harsher voice entered his mind. We killed them, remember, Maximilien thought to himself. We executed Camille, we executed Danton, and if I remember correctly, we executed Charpentier at some point as well. They're all dead. All it seemed he could do anymore was kill people he had loved.

All of my friends are dead, Maximilien thought. All of them except for Saint-Just, and he's as good as dead. It's only a matter of time now. Saint-Just was so young. Too young to die and only in his twenties. But somehow he, with his extraordinary revolutionary fervor, had managed to send himself to an early grave. And he'd been so good at it. He'd been a perfect example of what the other revolutionaries should have been.

He thought of the first time he met Saint-Just with a painful smile. He'd been impulsive and eager to please in those days. Even before they'd met, Saint-Just had written him a letter saying, "I know you the way I know God, through your miracles." It had flattered Maximilien, but he'd been sure it was only that. Flattery that could get the young man anywhere. Shockingly enough when the two finally met in person Saint-Just had been just as sincere in everything he said. The young man seemed to worship the very ground I walked on for the first few weeks, Maximilien remembered fondly. And everything he did was always for the revolution or the good of the people. If only the rest of us could have been as perfect a revolutionary as he was.

The sound of footsteps outside in the corridor halted Maximilien's thoughts. Fighting through the pain, Maximilien snapped his head up. No, he thought hastily. No! It can't be time yet! It can't! There's so much left for the revolution! There are so many things I can do for France! His pulse sped up, and he felt his hands start to shake. The footsteps grew nearer and nearer, but to Maximilien's surprise, they didn't stop outside of his cell. He was still safe, his head still attached to his body. For now, he reminded himself. My head is attached for now.