"CEASE!!!"
The young men and women halted their stoning, eyes shifting back and forth, wondering with frightening ferocity at why their fun game was being stopped. The challenger stepped into the circle, the small river stones being crunched beneath his ragged shoes. The others around him withheld their weapons only to see what he would do. Their eyes held fierce hunger for blood.
She was one of THEM.
She needed to DIE.
The 'she' in question was a young woman, dressed in a common-looking dress that shone softly as it caught the light.
Silk.
Not a wise choice when walking through France during the time when blood ran through its streets and the people drank every single drop like it was fine wine.
The maiden was crouched down on the ground, arms shielding her face from being hit with stones, her hair in disarray and her thin frame gently shaking. After a few seconds, she suddenly realized she was no longer being attacked, and slowly and timidly raised her head to find out why. Her hero, or perhaps enemy, was clearly a peer of her attackers, and she did not know what he meant to do to her. But, within the deep depths of her soul, a small blue fire crept into her frightened eyes as he drew near.
There was no smile upon his face, no sign of friendliness. That is, unless you counted his order to halt the shower of rocks as a sign of a friend. He wore a threadbare shirt that fitted his frame, but was fraying at the edges, and his trousers were coming apart near the cuffs. His feet were covered by what you could barely call shoes, and a makeshift bag was slung across his chest. But his head was held high, like that of a prince or a king (a dangerous posture in those days), and his hair, though shaggy, was of the deepest raven black. Darker than the charcoal that fire leaves behind.
He walked over to the girl, each step made swiftly and surely, and grabbed her arm.
"No one is to touch her unless I say so," he said, his voice booming across the group with confidence, like that of a general (another dangerous thing to be like in those days).
She stood, not completely by choice, and he yanked her away from the group. No one else moved a muscle, but only followed them with their eyes, still hungry for bloodshed.
"Let them go burn another prison," the young man said under his breath, still holding onto the lass as firmly as he could without hurting her. They walked into the forest, towards the road, and their footsteps fell in sync. The aforesaid blue fire in the young woman's eyes was now gone, replaced by visible bewilderment at her current position. When they were finally out of earshot, she tugged on his grip.
"May I ask why you did that . . . monsieur?" she said, not sure if she was even allowed to speak to her savior.
His eyes, which had been fully occupied with the road in front of them, turned to her with such sudden swiftness, that she almost turned away again in fright. But she bravely looked back into them, and saw a silent fury boiling and brewing in the deep brown eyes.
"You are one of them, no?" he asked, his voice low but strong.
She hesitated. But she knew what he was asking. Was she one of the aristocracy?
"Yes. I am one of them," she replied. He let go of her arm but continued walking. She followed.
"And you are running away?"
No hesitation this time. "Yes."
"That's enough to tell me we're on the same side."
Her brow furrowed. He saw her puzzled look and stopped dead in his tracks. They halted.
"Look," he said, seeming exasperated as he explained. "If we weren't on the same side, I'd be picking up a stone to throw as I spoke, just like the rest of them."
She flinched. He leaned in closer.
"I know you come from court."
He stepped back and gestured to her figure.
"The way you walk and carry yourself clearly demonstrates that you've been brought up in a genteel household."
She nodded, seeming somewhat ashamed of the fact.
"Yet, I do not throw any stones at you because at base level, you and I are the same. Merely human."
She lifted her head in response. He continued.
"You know of the Bastille? When those very peasants who were pelting you with rocks burned the God-forsaken prison?"
"Yes," she replied, quietly. His breath was hushed, as if telling a great secret.
"I was there. And I am not fighting to have my enemies heads put on pikes."
He looked her dead in the eyes.
"The minute you walked out of their society was the minute you joined me."
He started to walk away, but she stopped him. He didn't fight her. She spoke.
"But why would you stop them from hurting me? You hate people like me. Why interfere?"
His eyes softened, letting the tough façade slip just a little.
"Because violence only brings more violence. It does not change someone's heart. It only stops it from beating."
He lay a hand on his chest, where his heart would be.
"By helping you, I've just started my own little revolution."
She tilted her head.
"You now know that we aren't all bent on murdering our enemies. Perhaps some of us wish to make them our friends."
YOU ARE READING
Acta Non Verba; Deeds, Not Words
Historical Fiction'[V]iolence only brings more violence. It does not change someone's heart. It only stops it from beating.' During times of war, there can be nothing but hate in the hearts of those fighting. But every now and then, you will find someone, an enemy pe...
