Page 78 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
“I could see so far. I felt like I could see all of France, and even further again. And I looked down, straight down at the ground below, and I felt so sick, and so scared. And there were all the hills and the land in the distance. And it was so peaceful. But I was so high up.”
Henry lowered his lips to kiss Léon’s chest. “That’s how I make you feel?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
Henry rolled onto his front. “Good.” Before Léon could express his surprise at the answer, Henry kissed him. “We’re going to make for those trees, Léon. Those hills. All of France and beyond. And we’re going to do it together.” He stifled another objection with his lips, only broken when Léon’s hand accidentally settled on his arm, right on the bullet wound.
Henry drew it away with a pained breath, and Léon sat bolt upright, locking eyes on it for the first time since he’d cleaned it at the lodging house.
Henry attempted to hide it, but Léon’s fingers drew tight around his wrist. “This is bad.” The skin wrapping Henry’s entire upper biceps was bruised, reddy purple all over, and the wound…
He wrenched it away. “It’s fine.” He grinned tight against the truth. “I just need some vinegar. Or some salt or something.”
“That’s not fine. Didn’t they treat you in prison at all?” The thought of the filth in there infecting Henry’s wound horrified Léon.
“I don’t think they go out of their way for prisoners they’re about to burn,” Henry rebutted.
Léon’s cool hand touched Henry's forehead. “Do you feel okay? You shouldn’t mess around with things like that. It’s very dangerous.”
Henry leaned into his touch. “I feel perfectly well. Can’t you tell?”
His look was lascivious, and it pulled a blush from Léon, making him reach for his clothes. “We’ll find a doctor.”
Henry scoffed, pulling Léon’s sweater over his head. “I don’t need a doctor. But there is something I need to do…” His eyes fluttered up to Léon, curiously shy. “I need to show you something. Important. Come outside with me.”
37
LOVE AND DEATH
They stumbled into full and blinding daylight, a harsh clap in the face compared to the dark and damp interior of the cottage. But the field outside was idyllic. It was bright sunshine and green grass and two horses lazily grazing, the cooing of partridges and the breeze in the trees forming a soft and wholesome soundtrack. Destroyer lifted his head and walked to Henry. Léon ran a hand down his neck while Henry rubbed his soft snout.
Eyes almost shut against the sunlight, wind blowing in his hair, Henry looked so soft to Léon. His sharp lines were augmented pleasingly by the flush on his cheeks, the two still high from their moment in the ivy. And Léon felt desperately shy by his side. It was the strangest thing. He felt he knew Henry so well in some ways. That he knew his anger and his darkness, that he had begun to know what pleased him. He knew what he tasted like, his smell was becoming an obsession, almost as deeply desired as his touch. But who was he when he wasn’t violence or sex? Of that, Léon had only glimpses. Beautiful glimpses.
It was a wild imagining to Léon that they two could ever have something like this—a field far away from everything. A placeto simply be together. That they would get along. Maybe they would? Had it been an option.
He tried not to let sadness overtake him at the impossibility of the daydream, and before he could, Henry took his hand, leading him a little way from the horses. He stopped somewhere about the middle of the field and locked eyes with Léon, a sort of melancholy confidence about him. Then he held his arm out long, and he whistled low.
Léon recognised the sound. It was the same strange and unearthly whistle from the night Destroyer had carried Émile away. His inclination was to look to the horse, but a flap of wings drew his attention, and out of the trees came a partridge. It flew fast and serene and landed right on Henry’s arm.
It was no coincidence. Léon knew it logically, and he felt it in the quality of that whistle. But it was too bizarre to attribute the occurrence so easily to Henry.
Henry clarified the matter. “You asked if I’m a witch. I am. But this is the sum of all my skill.”
He moved the docile bird closer to Léon and gave a small nod. And the animal, wild as the night, remained exactly where it was, except to raise its small head and blink its little eyes.
Léon raised a slow hand, and the partridge didn’t flinch. He touched gentle fingertips to soft feathers, barely at first, then more firmly, stroking down its neck, over its wings. He was caught in wonder, bright eyes wide, with an almost childlike curiosity, so wonderfully at odds with the remoteness those same eyes had held back in Reims.
Henry made a clicking noise with his tongue, and the bird flapped away. But no sooner had he done it than he whistled again, and another bird, a small and bright yellowhammer, landed lightly on his thumb.
“That’s marvellous,” Léon whispered, just as tentative to touch this bird as the last, but soon caught up in the beauty of the creature and the scene.
“I can do simple animals,” Henry explained. “Anything I tell them, they’ll do it. Insects, rodents, birds…”
“And horses,” said Léon, glancing at the two they’d taken. “Can you…” He felt so stupid saying it aloud, but having seen what he had… “Can you understand them?”
“Just as well as I can understand you. Horses are smarter than people think. Quite satanic. They enjoy violence.” Léon gave an unsure laugh, shortened by Henry asking, “Would you like to hold it?”
His face lit gorgeously as Henry passed him the small bird. “Is it scared of me?”
