Hey guys! This is what happens when I start with the intention of writing Christmas fluff; I write ridiculously sentimental thoughtfulness instead. Still, I rather like the result. This is a story which takes place in the L'Incorruptible 'verse, although it's a stand-alone - reading L'Incorruptible is not necessary, just helpful. Call it French Revolution: The Christmas Special. Enjoy! :)

Christmas Eve, 1790

Cher Amerique,

Ah, my darling, it is late on Christmas Eve and I find that I do not believe in God. Shocking, no? Well no, I realise, not for you – not to one for whom the separation of church and state is a fundamental doctrine. But to an old, church-ridden Nation whose culture holds its foundations in superstition and the slavery of minds, in interminable religious conflict and battle-forged piety... you must understand it clangs a somewhat hollow note in his increasingly rational mind.

Rationality! Ah, that I could reconcile it with faith. (Such a heartfelt, dutifully lacklustre yearning!) But God, I feel, is a notion just as false as that of aristocracy. Indeed, He is your ultimate Tyrant, and binds us to his unfathomable laws through a social contract not one of us has signed, or for that matter, read.

This is nothing new to you. But you, my dear firebrand, have an old, established tradition of embracing the new – I mean, beginning it. Setting off the spark, so to speak.

Well, a quietly kept, surreptitiously nourished spark within me whispers that a world without God is one without heaven to act as a ceiling, or hell as a barrier; a world in which the angels do not arrest the soaring ascent of some courageous Icarus... but now see what I have done – I am mixing mythology with orthodoxy! No matter. For myths are myths, and stories are just that. The greatest story limits. I do not know if religion is even the greatest – surely there are more ambitious fables!

Oh, England would rage at what I say (and privately agree). But I shall not mention Angleterre, else you will become quite petulant and tear this letter to pieces in a paroxysm of humiliated guilt over certain economic partnerships. (But ours is a partnership of souls – and, more importantly, ideology; surely economics must bow before that, and follow suit? I have no wish to see you succumb to British rule once more, my beautiful ingrate.) (I tease, I simply tease! Please do not hurl this missive into the fire – it would be a great shame.)

To summarise, mon coeur, I am quite at a loss, adrift on a sea of doubt, and unwilling to crawl back to the rotting confines of my sinking ship of faith. "Man overboard!" I cry, and blissfully drown. Would that enlightenment did not herald such destruction! For, if there is no God, there is no salvation, and the miserable lot that so many of my people endure is to be their only lot, with no hope of reprieve in the illusory next world.

Adrift, adrift... where is the land, in this metaphor? Is there land? Or does hope lie in the depths of the ocean?

All I know is that today has a mystical streak to it that glimmers in the corner of my eye and captures my imagination. A spirit sits on my numbed shoulder, and whispers incomprehensible words of ineffable beauty. Encouragement or chastisement? I do not know, but they remind me of all that is wild about this day, wrapped in the scent of pines and sealed with the searing burn of snow. I have not been to church today, so I suppose the spirit is Wickedness, or perhaps Audacity, come to thrill me with words of blasphemous enticement. I shall take my magic from life, my love, not the wonder of false, extravagant myths. Perhaps this spirit is Liberty.

You laugh, and tell me to stop drinking so much. I roll my eyes, for you have missed the point by being absolutely right, and brush a snowflake from your cheek.

To you, go all my love and adoration, for you are the only Nation who understands the intoxicating delight of Liberty,

France

France scratches his signature with a tired flourish, sending a drop of water-thinned ink spiralling onto his sleeve. Writing to America is the epitome of the bittersweet; whilst in the process of composing fond compliments and wry asides, he feels closer to him than he could hope for – indeed, closer sometimes than during actual communication – and, once done, a sense of isolation and distance so profound settles upon him that he feels he could count and lament every single mile between them. He wonders if this is the real reason for warfare – an excuse to communicate, albeit briefly and antagonistically, with other Nations. Certainly it is the reason behind diplomacy and alliances.

He sits on – is practically frozen to –a fragile, badly crafted wooden chair, at an equally shoddy desk beneath a window, beneath the dim, waning light of a cheap candle. He has left the window slightly open for the sake of fresh air, and it allows for a freezing draft which pierces with cold, along with a few errant snowflakes. It occurs to him that this values-driven attempt at frugality does not suit him; with some nostalgia, he remembers opulent Christmas feasts at the Palace, the air flush with warmth and scent and elegant chatter. Silken gowns and powdered hair and gold-buckled shoes.

Not that he has any regrets – what has happened is all too important to regret the loss of fripperies. But good God, landowners such as Danton are allowed to be revolutionaries – and rich!

Except there is no God.

No, France hates living within such miserable – well, modest – means, but knows that he could not bear anything else. Until the last vagrant on the streets is living like Louis Capet, he will not return to the palace, or accept accommodation from the new government, who he knows would be more than happy to fund their Nation's cost of living. He is paid the same amount as a member of the National Assembly, and would not wish for more. Not and be able to face Marat, at any rate. Or Maxime.

Honestly, it is loneliness which plagues him most of all. The spirit of Liberty at his shoulder is all very well, but hardly amounts to substantial company.

With this in mind, he rises and heads for the door. Perhaps a snow-ridden, moonlit walk through the streets of Paris will quell his worries, or at least give him a heightened appreciation for the isolated indoors.

For a while, he trudges solitary along the cobblestones, taking care to step in every patch of clean, untrodden snow that he can see – such patches are, so to speak, thin on the ground, as it seems the entire population of Paris have stepped through the snow on these streets during the day, transforming the surface to gray sludge. At this hour, the pious are at midnight mass; the moderately religious and atheistic in bed. There is little movement outside save the roaring whirl of the snowstorm and a few faint shadows of beggars, crouched in crevices and alleys. France shivers, pulling his threadbare coat a little closer. Foolish idea, this.

Really, does this day hold any meaning to him now, save a lingering sort of atmosphere of hush?

He finds himself drifting towards the rue Saintongue, through force of habit more than anything else; when caught in the cold, or in an emotional crisis, or both, seek out Robespierre's lodgings.

He is surprised to stumble into the man himself, a few yards short of his destination.

"Maxime!"

"My nation," he nods, face scarcely visible in the heavy, fleecy fall of snow. "Excuse me – I nearly knocked you over!"

France shakes his head, brushing it aside. "Where have you been?"

"Church," he says, briefly. "It is Christmas Eve."

Yes, Robespierre is religious – though France has never been able to ascertain how deeply. More immediate is the problem of his attire. "What are you wearing, my friend? You have no overcoat!"

Robespierre glances down at his flimsy, flawless green jacket and cravat – tied meticulously as usual - as though he has only just noticed this absence. "Oh. Yes – no – I haven't."

France blinks. "If I was inclined to believe in fancy, I would wager you had given it to some vagrant or other, out of excessive charity," he laughs. "Come now – let's hear the real explanation, before you freeze half to death."

Robespierre glances silently at the ground, looking exceptionally foolish.

France follows his gaze. "You did give it to some vagrant or other," he says.

"An old woman. We had a nice conversation," Robespierre replies, faintly.

"That is... ridiculous. Something out of a children's story. And typical of you. Maxime, your naiveté is always capable of felling me with one blow!" France laughs, long, loud and astounded. "Some people have principles; you have... I do not know what you have, but it goes beyond that."

"I fail to see how it is naive," mutters Robespierre, embarrassed. "She was cold, and I did not have any small coins to give."

"Why, it is something a child would do!" says France, delighted. "My dear Maxime, I hate to say it, but your beautiful gesture is ultimately worthless."

Robespierre flushes. "It wasn't... planned, like a gesture," he protests. Then: "Worthless how?"

"Surely you realise. With hundreds of distraught, freezing beggars on the streets of Paris, what good is it if one of them is suitably clothed for the purpose of starving? What possible difference can one act bring about? Oh, it assuages guilt in some circumstances – yet I know that your sense of obligation is too great to be pacified by the gift of one overcoat, so what possible end...? Why perform an act so futile – so, dare I say, egotistical in its selflessness?" France stamps his foot, frustrated, causing the snow beneath to crunch, as if in protest.

Robespierre meets his eyes, confused. "Because she was cold," he answers, lightly. And fiddles awkwardly with the edge of his shirt sleeve.

France nods, abstractedly. It was meaningless – and Maxime was aware of just how little impact it would have. It was no grand gesture – just a little, necessary, almost automatic proceeding. Nothing more profound or important than that – and its very profundity and import overwhelms him a little.

"Let's go inside, or you really will freeze," says France, eventually.

"No, let's stay," insists Robespierre. "Only for a little while, if you are cold. It is so pretty out here."

"It is harsh, cold and unbearable," corrects France, darkly.

"And rather pretty."

The snow is beginning to subside, at least. A glacial gibbous moon is discernable through the fading vapour of clouds – fragile, luminous and distant. No stars. The new, billowing piles of white snow, however, glitter in their place.

"And rather pretty," France concedes, eventually. "What did you talk about?"

"Hmm?"

"You said," says France, through slightly gritted teeth, "that you had a nice conversation with the old woman. What did you talk about?"

"Oh," says Robespierre, startled. "The winter, I think. The price of bread. Oh – and the Declaration of the Rights of Man." He smiles. "It was a little awkward, thinking about it."

France stares at him, in undisguised wonder. "There is no need for faith in illusions," he says, eventually, slowly. "No need for airy, insubstantial dreams of another world. I felt resoundingly hollow when I renounced them, though. I needn't have." He brushes a strand of hair, feathery and damp with frost, from his eyes. "Why concentrate on anything but the concrete? I have no allegiance to any God. I do not need that – for I have faith in the real world. In the triumph of life and living. Most importantly, in people."

Human potential shall replace superstition, then. In a rational world, where nature functions through science and science functions like clockwork, there is a benevolent, mercurial spirit that flies alongside and learns with rapidity: humanity.

A heavy gust of wind rushes at them, shocking them into further cold, and causing the remaining airborne snowflakes to dance. The solitary moon blinks calmly in the distance.