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The Crown of Death

The king returned to Paris in disgrace after Varennes, his carriage surrounded by his people’s silent, unrelenting sneers.

Two years of labor by the National Assembly—two years of cautious progress toward a constitutional monarchy—had been thrown away by the king’s ill-fated flight.

The nobility had fled, and what remained of Louis’ support in the Assembly crumbled alongside his credibility.

The people would never accept a citizen-king allied with Austria and Prussia against the revolution.

War loomed on the horizon, and when it arrived, the National Assembly’s poorly trained militia army collapsed against the disciplined Austro-Prussian forces.

Meanwhile, nobles and royalist officers who had fled France rallied to support the invading armies, determined to restore their king.

Yet Paris braced itself, summoning militia from the surrounding provinces within its city walls. It only worsened the king’s plight.

“Treason!” was shouted across the divided Assembly: the former bourgeoisie and the poor. Among the most radical group, a new leader, Maximilien Robespierre, arose and saw anything related to the monarchy as a serious threat that should be eliminated.

Rollant watched as the armed crowds swelled outside the Tuileries. Month by month, their numbers grew, their chants rising in anger, growing louder and more ferocious, until Paris seemed ready to rise and devour its own. The thin line holding them back broke when the king issued two final vetoes.

The crowds stormed the city hall, seized control of the government under the name of the Commune, and focused their fury on the Tuileries. With an intent to overthrow the king, they massacred what remained of the King’s Bodyguard, though the King had ordered them to stand down.

Rollant awoke in a pool of blood—his own mingling with others.

A summer draft swept through the shattered windows of the Tuileries, carrying with it the acrid stench of burning flesh and smoke.

He groaned, phantom pain rippling through his back and belly where a pike had impaled him.

His hand flew to his gut, but his skin was smooth and unbroken. Once dead, but reborn, as always.

He rolled to his side, pushing himself upright as his gaze swept over the carnage.

The Swiss Guards lay still in their gleaming scarlet uniforms, their bodies hacked and mangled, their faces frozen in the grim rictus of death.

Gunsmoke choked the air and clung to the back of his throat.

He bowed his head and whispered a prayer for the souls of his fallen comrades, should the Lord listen to him.

His head sank under the weight of anguish—exhaustion born of dying.

Every death and every forced resurrection tore a piece of his soul.

It was unnatural. It was wrong. He just wanted it to end.

His chin rolled to his chest. But it was no longer his life to control.

He had traded the natural and the right for the eternal bond with the relentless yoke of time.

His hands fisted on his thighs, for he had to bear it.

With a calming breath, he pushed the thought aside.

He focused on the motionless soldiers. The people of Paris had killed the Swiss Guards—the Swiss who were in charge of the banks. Rollant scoffed at their stupidity, given the dire financial crisis.

Rollant closed the eyes of a nearby Swiss Guard and muttered, “If this does not anger the neutral Swiss to the point of declaring war, I’m unsure if anything ever would.”

Rollant moved over the bodies and glanced out the window.

Guards from the Temple prison goaded the royal family into a prison carriage amid the angry rebels.

Rollant knew his next move; he needed to become a Temple Guard.

He stripped the Captain’s uniform, put on the blue uniform of a dead National Guard, and slunk into the streets.

Carnage reigned triumphant. Men lay dead, hacked to pieces, still burning, or fed to dogs.

He covered his mouth and nose against the stench, his thoughts drifting to élise.

God help her—she had to be far from this nightmare.

He prayed she hadn’t been swept up in the bloodshed, her courage drawing her into a fight she couldn’t survive.

The city he had once walked with pride now churned with filth and death, a cesspit of its own making.

At the crossroads, Rollant hesitated. One path led to the Temple, where duty awaited. The other led to Charonne—to her. He wondered if the bonds of his service had been severed, if the crown had been overthrown, and the royal family lay in chains, as commoners. Could he live the life he wanted?

He drew the stolen dagger from his belt and slit his palm with a swift, practiced motion.

Blood welled and spilled, but within a few moments, the wound stitched itself closed.

He let out a bitter breath. As long as the crown endured, so would his curse.

The war’s outcome was still uncertain, with the crown’s fate dangling by a thread.

And so, too, was his. Eternity stretched before him with no end in sight.

Despite all his miraculous rebirths, the crown had once again failed. He was just a man, a man who could never stay dead. He went with the king, and that was where he resided.

Fate pulled him toward the Temple, the weight of his immortality pressing on his shoulders like a yoke. élise was with Hugo anyway. He thought the notion would soothe the ache, but it only worsened its cruel bite.

He gave his commoner’s name, Rollant Montvieux, and exchanged the bloodstained National Guard uniform for a new one as a Temple Guard.

As long as the war sided with the king, there was a crown no matter what the insurgents from Paris declared, and he was subject to it, though his heart wished to die.