Poems of Love and Death

Jean’s hand swept over the fluffy feather attached to his quill, candlelight glinting against its ivory tip, waiting to be grasped, to dance on the page once more. His other hand clutched an elaborately embroidered kerchief, still damp with the blood he’s coughed up. His breath labors, his skin sallow, yet his eyes are determined. He’d complete the manuscript and send it to the publisher before daybreak. As he leans forward in his wheelchair, a mop of raven curls forms cursive shadows around his face, he once again thinks of Pierre, bold, brave Pierre, going to war, poor sweet Pierre. 

Their friendship had started strangely enough. When the consumption had taken from him the ability to walk, Jean had locked himself in the Manor’s library. He couldn’t tolerate the pity in the faces around him. “Oh dear boy!” They’d shriek while cradling his hands. “Robbed of life on the cusp of youth!”, they’d cry in his face, their own powdered masks and coiled wigs quivering with agony. The tragedy seemingly affecting them more than him. He was merely another oddity to them, like an exotic bird or a new mistress, something to gossip about in their masquerade balls. The Books did not offer any judgement, they simply opened up the world under his feet, from his wheelchair he’d feel the surf from the sea spraying his face, he’d run with wild horses on the plains, he’d converse with dead poets and argue with silent philosophers. 

Pierre’s father owned Jean’s favourite bookstore. At first he’d simply leave Jean’s stacks of books tied in twine with the manservant. But Jean would often glimpse him from the window, standing there broad shouldered, wiping sweat off a sun-ripened face. Oh how he’d ache to feel those rosy cheeks. Pierre had taken him by surprise by slipping in a list of book recommendations nestled between the folds of a romance novel. Jean was taken aback by the boy’s acute sense of taste, what a miracle, another teenager in Paris who shared his eclectic proclivities.  

The next day Jean had invited him to tea, Pierre showed up wearing a velvet coat with emerald trim, his green eyes filled with mirth and promise. Amidst a whirlwind romance they never stopped to question their actions, they didn’t care how society would react, shame was never a thought that crossed their mind. Their love had been an inevitability, a force of nature, as certain as a star falling from the heavens. They were two halves of the same soul, split apart when the cosmos came to being. 

The whole Manor came alive with tales of their dalliance, tittering voices echoed behind alcoves. Chamber-maids would trade stories about them being locked up in the bedchambers till the early hours of the night. They’d often take tea in the gardens holding hands. Jean’s father didn’t care one bit for rumor, he was happy to see light and life in his son’s eyes again. Pierre’s father was content with the climbing figures in the bills being sent to the manor. 

But fate’s cruel hand had yet to plunge the knife in their budding hearts. Pierre was drafted in the army, he was to go across the ocean and bring the enemies of the empire to their knees. Viva la France! Rang through the streets of Paris.

Oh how Jean had raged and cried, beating his feeble fists against Pierre’s firm chest. How he’d promise to slay all the generals of the army by his own hands, to cut off the King’s own head, if only it would halt the course of destiny, he’d tear the whole world down for only a few more days with his beloved. He’d sobbed for hours into Pierre’s shoulder.

The last night before Pierre left, he’d stayed up till dawn soothing Jean. Their bodies intertwined, on bedding strewn aside, amidst open books and blue carnations. Jean rested against Pierre’s flank, feeling the warmth of the body where his own heart now dwelt. His long fingers tracing the curve of Pierre’s cheek. He felt the rhythm of Pierre’s steady breathing against his own uneven one. Their hands and mouths moved with reckless abandon, marking and remembering the other. Jean kissed Pierre with an intensity of devotion, willing the very act to somehow shield his love from all earthly harm. 

Pierre’s eyes were heady and moist, he knew even if he did survive the war, Jean may not be here on his return. He stared intensely in the bright eyes of the tender boy beside him. Trying to commit the soft, intelligent face to memory. He wanted to know that face as well as his own. Something unspoken passed between them as Pierre’s lips found Jean’s. One set full and red, the other cold and clammy. Both equally hungry. 

The day Pierre’s chest was pierced by a bullet on the battlefield was an ordinary day by all accords. The sun still rose from the east, birds sang in trees, fresh bread was set to cool on windowsills and children ran their way to school. All was well in the Kingdom, except for a young boy sitting at a balcony in his Chateau. He had moved to their family’s summer home, to be closer to the ocean, lessening the distance between him and Pierre by a few miles. Staring over the horizon, his heart slowed, it had felt it’s counterpart stop beating. A heavy sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes, for the last time. He was found in the afternoon, his hand clutching a leather bound book, a first edition. “Poems of love and Death” the title shone brightly, written in gold letters. Below the author’s name stood clear and proud: 

Jean Pierre…