Edith found herself walking down alone the empty streets of Paris.

The silence in the dead of night enveloped her like a thick fog, and the only sound she could hear was the echo of her footsteps. The usually fearless young girl clutched her cloak tightly around her shoulders, her nerves on edge - the city was eerily quiet, as if Paris had been deserted and she was the only one left.

Finally, a clamour could be heard from the other end of the street. It grew louder and louder as a horde of lower-class masses approached, carrying torches and singing boisterously to the tune of Carmagnole. At the head of the procession, a man was surrounded by the crowd, holding high a long wooden stake in triumph. At the top of the stake was a noblewoman's head.

Edith had a feeling of déjà vu at this scene. Whose pale and beautiful head was that? Was it the miracle angel from under the bridge by the Seine?

As the crowd drew near, Edith's eyes widened in terror. She recognised her most familiar features: it was Charlene Saint-Clemont's head.

Her bestie's almond eyes looking down at her from the top of the stake had lost their luster, and her mouth was widely open like a black hole. Her face was covered in messy pale-coloured hair that was soaked with dark blood. The expression left on her face at the moment of her death was half-horror, half-sorrow.

As the man leading the charge passed by Edith, he maliciously turned Charlene's face towards her and manipulated the wooden stake like a puppeteer, moving the stake up and down, making the surrounding crowd burst out into a guffaw.

By the light of the torches, Edith recognised the man's face with his messy beard. It was exactly the avenger who had tried to take her life the day before.

Edith's head spun dizzily, and something surged up her throat. Instinctively, she ran in the opposite direction until the taste of rust filled her mouth, until the tears of fear and anger froze on her face from the icy wind, until she thought she had left the city of Paris behind, yet still she couldn't stop.

But why still couldn't she see the end of the street?

She was suddenly tripped by something on the ground. The gravel tore her dress, leaving bloody prints on her palms.

Yet she couldn't care less about the pain - at the moment she turned around, she recognised the body that had tripped her.

Even with messy black hair covering almost her entire face, she could still see the horror in her sister Margot's eyes before she died. Her clothes were in disarray. It was clear she had suffered brutal abuse by the soldiers.

"Margot!" She screamed in despair.

Terrified, the girl did not dare to approach. She staggered to her feet and instinctively turned to continue running, but was once again tripped by a corpse nearby - this time it was Aunt Adele, her short and elderly body lying next to a puddle.

It was until then that she noticed the darkness around her was piled up with dead bodies. There were too many faces she was familiar with: the Desmoulins lying intertwined with their bodies already cold, and Philippe's temple, pierced by a bullet, oozing thick, dark blood profusely...

Edith wanted to scream, but her throat seemed to be strangled and no single sound came out. She wanted to run, but her legs felt rooted to the spot, only able to cover her open mouth with both hands and make fits of despairing gasps.

She smelled a strong smell of blood. Was it from her own throat, or from these unfortunate dead?

Neither. She lifted her head to see a guillotine on the square in front of her. The black and red blood kept dripping from the edge of the raised platform, gathering on the ground to form a scarlet stream, flowing towards her feet rapidly as if it had gained life.

However, it was the figure being led to the guillotine that caught the young girl's eye. He was dressed in a blood-stained white shirt, his blonde curls crudely cut above his neck, fluttering limply in the strong winds.

"Andre!" She rushed madly towards the guillotine, but her legs felt so slow and heavy, as though she were walking through deep water. Her heart pounded violently, mixed with the drumbeats of the execution surrounding the guillotine.

The chopper fell. The executioner lazily picked up the head of her beloved from the basket, grinned provocatively at the girl below, and tossed the head down into her arms.

His lifeless pale-blue eyes still seemed to hold some consciousness, gazing at her with sorrow.

"No!" Edith knelt in the pool of blood that seemed to engulf the entire world, cradling the bloody head to her chest and crying out to the heavens.

-----------------　　

"No!" With a sudden jolt, the girl awakened from her nightmare.

But in the next moment, she was even more frightened. She felt a head really in her arms, and when she looked down, she saw Andre's head lying on her blanket, his pale face turned towards her, his golden lashes still slightly trembling.

Edith exclaimed in surprise, quickly letting go of him. It was then that she realised he had been sleeping on the stool next to her bed, his upper body leaning against hers.

Her sharp movement also woke him up. Andre opened his slightly dazed blue eyes, sat up and absently smoothed his blonde hair at the back of the head.

"Ah, you have an addiction to the guillotine, don't you?" she called out to Andre, annoyed. "Why do you put your head into my arms like that, like under the chopper of Sanson's?"①

Andre, however, seemed a little aggrieved, "You seemed to be caught in a bad dream just now, and I leaned over to comfort you. But you suddenly held onto my head tightly, and wouldn't let go. So I had to sleep like that. Your grip is so strong, my neck still hurts a little now."

She noticed the red mark left on his fair neck by her arm. Imagining the scene he described, she laughed.

"Then didn't you dream of an intimate contact with the guillotine?" she wickedly teased, the shadow of her previous nightmare now gone without a trace.

"No, it's really unbelievable," Andre replied, playing along. "Seems I was indeed too tired."

Edith sat up and kissed his reddened Adam's apple. Andre couldn't help but let out a low moan.

"But how do you also speak of me in such a way, like those journalists?" he complained, holding her close in his arms.

"That's inevitable," she smirked, poking his chest with her finger. "Rumours, when spread too far, become the truth. Who knows, behind closed doors, you might really be a disciple of the Marquis de Sade, a bloodthirsty devil?"

"You do have the heart to tease me like this. Those rumours are already weighing heavily enough on me." He looked at her with a touch of bitterness in his eyes, his tone both hurt and playful.

"Then let me make it up to you, poor little thing," Edith rolled her eyes mischievously. "Bring me pen and paper, up to the bed."

"What are you planning?" Andre couldn't fathom.

"You'll see soon enough." She winked at him.

Andre shrugged and left the bedroom. Soon, he returned and handed the requested items to Edith.

Edith lay prone on the bed, scribbling away on the paper. Her two shins playfully kicked up high, her restless feet swinging to and fro.

Andre curiously peered over her shoulder and read, "...those who accuse others of being dictators, tyrants, and executioners, are they really driven by compassion for the bloodshed? They confuse the public with their words, portraying the retribution for criminals as if they were martyrs. It's hard not to recall the Brissotins' hard work in their attempt to evoke sympathy for the king. If these ones turn a blind eye to the people's suffering, yet are so quick to empathise with conspirators, then Lady Liberty could only conclude that their blood is no purer than those."②

"Now I become your hack writer!" Edith turned her head and wittily smiled at him.

"Grateful beyond words." He smiled with relief, placing both hands on her shoulders and massaging this sharp-tongued little journalist.

Edith bit down on the quill, proudly announcing her idea. "The snobs say that Lady Guillotine is Quenet's mistress. Then in response I shall declare that your one true love is none other than France herself."

"And you," he whispered softly in her ear as he leaned in.

--------------------　　

"Charlene! Best friend!" The moment she entered the old hut of the Saint-Clemonts, Edith flew towards Charlene's wheelchair like a bird spreading its wings.

"You've come to see me, dear Edith." The former noble girl's face blossomed with a tender smile. "I've always been thinking of you, but I can't leave home. Seeing you so aglow once more, I'm so happy."

Edith took Charlene's thin, frail hands and sighed. "You're my benefactress now!"

"Don't make fun of me like that, Edith," Charlene smiled with a blush. She looked so delicate at the moment, making it hard for anyone to associate her with the Valkyrie who had slain a burly man with her own strength just a few days ago.

"Are your legs still hurting? I just heard from Raphael, the Desmoulins have invited us to take a joyride to the horse ranch in the countryside this weekend. Citizen Danton and his lovely new wife will be there too. You should come with us together, Charlene!" Edith spoke excitedly, her words rushing out.

"If it won't be too much trouble for you, I'd love to come along. Because of these legs, I've long grown accustomed to living indoors. Going on a tour suddenly, it's quite fresh," Charlene replied.

"There's still hope for your legs to recover, isn't there, Charlene?" Edith gazed at her friend's knees under the blanket, then back to her face, her eyes sparkling.

"What?" Charlene went blank for a moment, then realising that Edith was referring to her feat that day. She then shook her head with a bitter smile. "No, I never hold such extravagant hopes. Since I was seven, I've stopped fantasising so. If you ask me how I was able to stand up back then, it was only a miracle you bestowed upon me, my dear friend."

"But can't this miracle's power go further?" Edith asked, unwilling to give up.

"This can only be left to fate's arrangement. But I won't pray for it!" Charlene smiled and placed her hand on her chest. "I willingly accept everything that is given to me. As long as I don't covet what doesn't belong to me, I won't suffer from shattered hopes! In the first two years of the revolution, it was exactly this kind of suffering that brought down Raphael. He always dreamed that one day, when he opened his eyes in the morning, the life of the old days would return to us. Alas, yet I know very well that the past will never come back. I never complain about anything, so I won't suffer."

"But Charlene, haven't you ever felt a moment that fate has been unfair to you?" Edith couldn't help but ask.

"I think, what fate has destined for us to endure, if we can't bear it calmly, it is instead a kind of weakness." The expression on the wheelchair-bound girl's face at this moment was similar to that when she saved her friend that day.

Edith pouted, "You're just the type to take things as they come! Seeing you like this always makes me feel sorry for you."

"I am lucky too. I have such a great friend like you, don't I?" Charlene bent down and stroked her friend's hair.

Edith happily leaned her head on Charlene's knees. In the past, she often willfully scolded her friend for their differing views; but by Charlene's side, she always unconsciously became childish, just like when she was at her mother's side as a child.

She started to cheerly imagine the upcoming leisurely time in the countryside, talking to Charlene about her various plans with delight.

Charlene sighed, "It's good for Brother to take a breather. His strings are too tight. The past two months of Terror have made him worry too much. Raphael's heart is very soft. Like the generous Citizen Danton, he looks forward that this terror could soon curb its pace."

"Andre and his collegues will make the best judgment for the Republic based on reason. We have to trust the two Committees." Edith replied indifferently.

"Have mercy on Raphael, my dear friend! Just for my sake." Charlene held Edith's both hands and made a plea.

***Author's Notes***

①Charles-Henri Sanson (1739～1806): He was born into a well-known executioner family in Paris. During the Reign of Terror of the French Revolution, more than 3,000 people were sent to their deaths under his blade. Sanson personally executed a series of famous figures such as Louis XVI and his queen Marie-Antoinette, Madame Roland, Danton, and Robespierre. Heads flowing like a stream, Sanson made of steel beams. (If you had to time travel back to that era, it would be strongly advisable to land in his shoes, as the odds of survival would be extremely high.)

②Jacques Pierre Brissot (1754～1793): One of the important leaders of the Girondins. He advocated for reprieve of the king's death. In 1793, he was sent to the guillotine. "Brissotins" was another name for the Girondins.

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