The Avatar Of The Presage
'To punish the oppressors of humanity is clemency; to forgive them is cruelty'.—Maximilien Robespierre
Purgatory, as I have been told is but a conceptual manifestation of our reflective vision—a state of pure reprobation, wherein the souls of the departed linger in dreadful uncertainty. The terror I felt in confronting those four judges, who gazed upon me with such palpable contempt and antipathy, was as surreal as it was ineluctable. This grim spectacle of judgement, all too familiar, witnessed the dishevelled criminals like myself, taken towards that corridor of death and oblivion.
The wailing, the pleas for mercy, all fall upon deaf ears, negated by the sanguine stench of death that fills the air. It is a gruesome scene, too common to be avoided, with the heap of the dead left for the mongrels to feast upon. The steady drip of water echoes above my cell, whilst the beetles fall, one by one, into the well, as though these drops were but the remnants of some forgotten storm. The weary fingers of the imprisoned souls incessantly carve their names into the cracks of these desolate walls.
The eternal darkness that encloses my dungeon shall never relinquish its grip, nor will it cease to haunt me in its relentlessness. Death, I now see is but the culmination of an endless cycle—a sequence that shall know no mercy. The harsh condemnation and resistance that I endure serve both the purpose of humanity and the course of my destiny. Know this—once I was the son of the deity who created me in his image.
I hear the measured footsteps of the guards approach, methodical and foreboding, as the pulsations of my heart quicken, each beat more irregular than the last. Presently, my solitary cell is opened, and I am led through that narrow corridor of death from which I cannot willingly avoid.
A faint gleam of light falls upon the dull oubliette above me, stretching towards the gates of the Conciergerie which now stand ajar. When you read this account in its entirety, I shall be six feet beneath the earth, stone-dead. My executioner awaits me, and the cries of the dark raven echo through the air, whilst the spectators gather, eager for the commencement of this macabre spectacle. I hear the dreaded bells toll from the belfry, heralding the procession of my death. The emboldened madness of the presage has begun—veritas nunquam perit!
Heretofore of death, I can only attest to my own, and the clear vestige of my daunting certitude that emerged from the gloomy shadow of my empty soul. Unto the northern and opaque corridor, I travelled, until my body sojourned within the terrible blade of the guillotine.
There are those brazen fools who claim that death is a predilection, yet I shall fancy the sober truth, that my death was predestined—inevitable. I assure you, I did not choose death—it chose me! The reaper of death favoured me above the million mortals who had preceded me.
There beneath the soot and grime of the earth lies my headless and pallid cadaver. All that remains of me is the spectral guise that haunts, as a bedevilled shadow from the belfry. Each and every day, when I contemplated my plight, I was forced to relive the unyielding, phantasmagoric episode of my predestined death—a terror that knew no surcease.
I never broke these heavy manacles of great oppression that bound me, but I would roam the earth as a sempiternal wanderer of the night, exposed to the elements. The eternal breath of the world of mortality no longer! Thus, you will come to know the bold, ebony bird of reverence that wielded over me illimitable dominion—the Angel of Death. Heretofore, allow me to relate to you faithfully—my sombre account, willfully given. The historic name by which I was once christened bears no significance, for it is but a hollow attachment, predisposed to my benefactor.
Therefore, I shall not entertain you with the whims of selfish indulgence. The place of my birth matters not, nor does the place of my death. If you must know, the period in which I lived was the tumultuous age of the French Revolution. I was once a mortal sent to this earth to live, but my life was consumed by the wretched curse that gripped me relentlessly.
The ire of Heaven, I was told, struck when man faltered under the temptation of iniquity, yet his salvation was found in belief. This acknowledgment, I must contend, is nothing more than utter fallacy and an aberration to the disbelievers; though it remains the wishful atonement sought in the redeemable contrition that grants us a mitigated reprieve during the height of the tempest we so fear.
For years, the growing populace had resented the privileges enjoyed by the callous clergy and the nobility. They stormed the Bastille in Paris, driven by a ragged fervour, with cries of justice and redoubtable vehemence. It was the harbinger of doom, the impassioned call of defiance and the insurrection of the clamorous bourgeoisie. The majority of Parisians were directly incited to revolt, embracing rebellion and treachery, as the maddening fervour for change and vengeance rose to a wild, unruly Pandemonium—unprecedented in France's history.
Through my incontrovertible affirmation, you shall come to understand the aftermath of this unimaginable development. The relentless succession of events that followed was assiduously recorded, the narrative attesting to the undying madness that transpired in those heartless years of revolution.
The transient vagaries of this revolution were achieved, alas, erroneously, through the tenfold splattered blood of a thousand innocent and condemned victims. I, who was no haughty aristocrat nor august man of presumption, had been selected by the Barmecidal fate that awaited me with such vileness unforeseen. If this irrational bedlam found in these untoward men and women, was not reflective of arrant turpitude, then the representation of the guillotine had surpassed all limits, extending into the unparalleled confines of an interminable madhouse.
Remember, I was but a sanctimonious victim of an implacable presage that obviated my felicity and hope. If there was any essential need to continue this narrative, it was to divulge my past knowingly. My insignificant infancy has been reduced to an immemorial recollection of mere memories. Of all my numerous occupations, none afforded me greater pleasure than that of a writer; in that pursuit—and in death—I was destined to be forever immortalised.
A family I had none, save for the occasional days of affection bestowed upon me by the amorous proclivities of love. Wealth I possessed not, for my social status was precluded by my humble birth. Happiness too eluded me, as the shadows of sorrow and despair prevailed over the fleeting whims of my felicity.
I was an absolute creation of the venerable Maker, who bestowed upon me the privilege of life. From that life of emptiness emerged the ineffable ruthlessness of bearing the consequences of my senseless sins. Through my reflection that enabled me to ponder the unfolding events, I persisted in my existence, though in vain. The singularity of life is forever linked to the multitude of mortals who render worship as the embodiment of faith. It was this nascent purpose that functioned as a precursor to my destiny, soon purported by the primordial fiend of my demise.
If there be a singular visage of a being synonymous with death, it is that of the Cimmerian bird which reaps the souls of the dead. I was once a man of innate brilliance; yet, along that uncertain path I trod, my shadow faltered, lost in a shade of obscurity I abhorred with passion.
My assuetudes and penchants were abundant, yet I envied the festive balls of the lofty aristocrats in Paris. My concupiscence was manifest in the pursuit of carnal pleasure, which I gallivanted after of my own accord. All these deeds, deemed unprincipled sins, I confess to be guilty of; but can I be held accountable for traits inherent to my natural disposition since birth, or did I inherit these impious proclivities from my tormentor, as has been suggested?
The presage of the dauntless raven was the continual manifestation of my grim consternation and the ghastly symbol of my approaching death. It served as the conclusive indication of a destiny predisposed to follow its own course, regardless of my volition or objection.
Creation is the universal function of humanity that binds us within the mystery of life and death, yet the circumference of that mystery remains inexplicable. Facile dreams form the eternal wonder of the palatial world, even though to me they appeared unattainable and paltry—a ghostly illusion of mere particles.
Henceforth, the unique gradation of my days of fortune was sealed by the totality of their lack of repletion. This endeavour, such as mine, could only be interpreted as a token reprieve in the aftermath. Verily, how often do day and night differ when there is only darkness and no gleam of light? Does the essence of difference ever become the indifference of alterity?
If so, then the process of that contingency revolves about the absolute principles of that theory. The culprit of my death shall be proclaimed the redresser of my ultimate persecution, and hallowed be the name of my redeemer. Can this harsh punishment serve as a tangible salvation from original sin? Was my predestined death not merely that, or was my death an unpreventable murder from the very beginning?
It is said that from the beginning, man was created from dust, and the specks of dust we shall become in the final hours. Does progression then require regression to be logical, or does progression hold meaning only when an evident sign of regression is manifest?
Perhaps my analysis is but a modification of human psychology imposed by the uncertainty of death. What we do not know will not harm us, so man has long believed; yet what must be known of this eventuality is the inducement that causes death—for we are unwitting participants in its duplicitous scheme.
The arrival of death could not be truncated, and the realisation had arrived when I perceived that the prospect of human malevolence was both inextricable and insoluble. It occurred shortly before the darkened hour of my demise was presupposed. I could not delay the inevitable moment of my execution. If the soul had managed to traverse the frailty of my mortal frame, then the incompossible prolongation of that journey into the afterworld would surmount even the most transcendent state of human psychomacy.
A disquieting appersonation had taken hold of my spirit, and in its wake, I discerned the ceaseless despair reflected in my eyes and mien. To describe death is to compare it with the delusions of the mind; although the brain is not empty and its inchoate voices do not fall silent, the unintentional silence that follows is the most pitiless form of a fathomless death—a condemnation far worse than any agony. It is silence that, inexorably, accompanies the soul after death, imposed with a forceful horror.
Thus, the hour of death admits no definite amorphous quality; rather, it is marked by the intolerable compulsion to count each minute and second of its lethal progression. I confess that death shall never be lenient in its discretion, and only the passage of time may eventually reveal what follows. It is comparable to the sand that pours from an hourglass, as time elapses to occupy our unvarying trepidations, much like the steady sway of a pendulum in descent.
It is akin to the horrid tick-tock of the giant clock in the hall, its mechanical hands advancing each second, or the coming of tomorrow, when the sun reigns by day and the moon by night. Our sanity is judged by our concrete actions rather than the mere evolution of our thoughts. Consequently, we are inclined to submit to the prohibitive aspects of our tentative disposition. How often are we confronted with a dreadful situation in which we hear naught, but the beating of our hearts and the deafening echo of our voices—until, at last, our hearts cease to beat and our voices fall into a taciturn oblivion?
I cannot juxtapose the breath of life with the sepulchre of death. This unexplained, pure contradiction is a discernible paradox of the world in which we dwell. It is neither just nor unjust; rather, it is transparent—a veritable contrast. I shall endeavour to convince you once more that my death was conclusively predestined and to expound upon the nature of its unfortunate occurrence. I remember clearly how my final days on earth unfolded and how my last breath was taken from me without my actual consent.
It was during my final week, so vividly and ghastly recalled, that the timely abatement of my life occurred. The trammels of darkness did not obscure the path I had determined, and the consequential events of my demise brought an end to my harrowing existence. The raven, perched upon the window of my barred cell, had sealed my fate and condemned me to a persecution in history which I had long renounced. Its granular impression was a portent, overshadowed by the wedge-shaped tail of that ominous corvid. In the midst of the continual phantasmagoria that haunted me daily,
I conceived the sequence of my death as it commenced within my cell. First, I suffered emotionally; then, my anguish became mental; and at last, physical torment overwhelmed me, until I yielded entirely to the execution of my fate. A horrible accusation had befallen me, conceived with such dauntless capacity and injustice. I was charged with promulgating a philosophy founded upon analytical methods deemed inflammatory in Paris, and I was stripped of my free will and imprisoned for the mere crime of apathy towards the revolution.
I was sentenced to fulfil a destiny I had neither desired nor chosen. My desperate entreaties were drowned out by the caws of the reaper of souls. Day after day, for many months, that horrifying dream consumed my mind like a blazing and uncontrollable flame.
I had envisioned myself standing before a throng of spectators enshrouded in a mist, as a surreal raven alighted from the bough of a tree on to the very pinnacle of the tormenting guillotine, its posture exuding gallantry and predominance. Thereafter, I beheld my body confined in the stocks beneath the keen blade of that sanguinary contrivance, utterly unable to elude my executioner. Each time, I awoke from this recurring nightmare drenched in heavy perspiration, my thoughts were rendered bleary and incomplete. This portent was both authentic and unremitting during my confinement, its direful influence upon me was a reminder of the Angel of Death who perpetually hovered over my cell.
I cannot, for my own sake, disclose the precise hour of my death save to say that it befell when the raven cawed before me. It is the lord of the instrument of demise and the nocturnal keeper of the earth—a fiend who reigns without interludes. To this spectre, I never bowed in reverence, nor did I avow any sympathy for my own repentance. Why should I surrender willingly to the purpose of my defeat when I had once dared to confront my foe?
I was doomed to endure the horror of the guillotine’s wrath. Must man die to be born again—not in the womb of the flesh, but in the hollow vessel of his soul? Would my life have been restored or spared in the end if I had embraced the reality of my fate? From this terrible fact, I was compelled to resign myself to the cruelty of that grim admission.
Had I been a cold-blooded murderer, perhaps I would have understood my fate; but my condemnation was exacted by the depravity of the commonalty. If my reality were dictated by the pages of my journal—those pages which contained the unadulterated purity of my contemplation—then the motive for reproach might have precluded my death and vindicated my innocence.
I claim not the throne of the earth, nor do I decree such grievous sentences upon my fellow man. I was but an innocent soul, interposed and exposed to the vagaries of a maddened populace that delighted in my demise. It was a death not chosen by my own nature.
I had pondered whether the resurrection of the body might be a logical possibility, and whether the body indeed ceases to function after death. If I was destined to die, could my soul be reincarnated and never truly perish? If you must know, the manner in which I spent that final week was indifferent and unremarkable. By day, I listened to the horrendous clamour of the prisoners; by night, I drifted endlessly in my thoughts.
From those indelible musings, I composed a journal—an account entirely my own and most riveting. It stands as an attestation to an achievement I witnessed reach its fatal completion. When my hour of death arrived, who would lay me to rest beneath the sod? Who would inscribe my epitaph and sing my hallowed eulogy? Would my paean be one of rejoicing, or would it be too elegiac that it would be reminiscent of a fallen composer from the days of yore?
The advent of Romanticism marked an epoch of splendid art and regalia, in which the kings and queens of Europe lavished their wealth immensely. I, however, did not lavish so prodigiously in my life as did the monarchs. Instead, my existence was replete with misfortunes and insufficiencies which I never surmounted. The years of my life were sequestered and ruined by the insurmountable uncertainties of my needs, and indifferent and vile were the characteristics of my cruel oppressor.
The main thoroughfares of the cities across Europe, I visited extemporaneously, as an itinerant man of art and refinement. My good fortune proved to be but a brief respite, a transient sojourn. I had sought prosperity and prominence, but never could I grasp the motive behind its negation—save for the truth that I was not born a selected martyr, bestowed by providence. It was written by the ingenious sages that the Angel of Death would appear first to claim the souls of the reprobates. This scourge of God, as it was named by its detractors, was said to have feasted upon the bodies beneath the guillotine and upon the rotting flesh of the fallen.
Of this fiend, I can declare there is no covenant to be made, for commiseration is as foreign to it as deliverance. The Angel of Death was never conceived to perform any duty other than reaping the souls of the defunct, and the presage befell all whose death was certain. I was selected to die beneath the horrible guillotine.
My malefactor bore no malevolence towards me, for its task was inevitable. The populace were the judges, and the Angel of Death was my prosecutor. Devil or daemon, the raven was neither in the end, but a herald of the presage that had condemned me to the ringing of the bells and the descending blade of the guillotine.
The Angel of Death professed no recognition beyond the lordly title to which it was appointed. I was acutely aware of the aberrant caws of the master of dominance, who waited for my nameless soul to surrender. The eerie sound of this fiend, when heard, abruptly contributed to the peculiar effects of its morbidity.
None was as lethiferous as the Angel of Death, for its shadow was always present. To and fro, it sought to reap the infaust souls through the remotest corners of the earth. I, who was never entitled to the privilege of mortality, saw my life shattered within the dissolution of my hallucinatory confinement. There, amidst the miscreants and demigods, the Angel of Death awaited me.
If there existed, visibly, an infandous Abaddon beyond that achromatic gloom that pervaded the aimless madness of this world—substantially seen in provocation—then my horrified eyes bore witness to the actual existence of untamed terror. The unspeakable presage I mention was meant to serve the forbidding purpose of the finality of my death. The abode of my last days was never to be eschewed, as was the indelible place of my execution.
Therefore, what is to be remembered, and what should be known about me, does not concern me. What I have lived in my life, I have since disclosed. If there is something I have omitted from my admission, then heed the minacious words I profess.
My immortal destiny was to be procured, and out of a thousand souls, I was chosen for this one purpose. At every corner of my cell, I perceived the presence of my persecutor and the strong gale that carried the echoes of its caws. Within the confines of my cell, I often heard the bells of the belfry, wondering if my hour of death was imminent. I thought of the array of angels who could succour me in my hour of need, but if my guardian angel did not come, then my sin would be too impardonable, and no concession would be granted, however meritorious it was in nature.
The cell felt colder now. Perhaps it was the dampness creeping in from the stone walls, or perhaps it was the inevitability of what was about to unfold. I stood by the barred window, staring out at the bleak street below, but my mind was far away, lost in the shadows of the past. How many times had I stood in similar places, watching the sun rise or set, unaware of how fleeting each moment was? How many men had passed through the gates of that guillotine, their names swallowed by the madness of revolution?
I glanced at a nearby prisoner, sitting motionless on the bench, his eyes closed in a strange kind of meditation. The stillness was oppressive, hanging heavy between us. He had not spoken in hours, not since I had asked him if he had any last words, any final requests. In truth, I was afraid of what he might say. What could he ask for? Freedom? Redemption? A last taste of life? Or perhaps just the knowledge that someone, anyone, still cared?
He was a man who had once spoken of visions—of a future reshaped by ideals, by a dream of equality, liberty, fraternity. But now? Now he seemed far removed from the young, fiery revolutionary I had once known. I thought of those days, when he had been so full of purpose, when we had believed, foolishly perhaps, that we could change the world. How different the man before me was now—his fervour replaced by an almost serene acceptance of his fate.
The clanging of keys echoed from the hall, drawing my attention to the door. The guard appeared again, with a grim expression on his face. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension in the air.
‘It’s time,’ he said at last, his words blunt, devoid of any empathy.
The prisoner didn’t move at first, as though waiting for the world to shift, for something—anything—to delay what was to come. But eventually, with a heavy sigh, he stood. He was thinner than I remembered, his once-vibrant coat now threadbare, his face hollow with exhaustion.
I moved forward, instinctively reaching for his arm, but he stepped away before I could touch him. For a moment, I thought I saw something flicker in his eyes—something close to fear. But then it was gone, replaced by that same resigned calm. He turned towards the guard, his back straight, his movements deliberate.
‘Lead the way,’ he said quietly.
And with that, they left, and I was left alone in the cold cell pondering, as my heart pounded in my chest, knowing that there was no turning back now.
I had seen many men condemned to die before. I had heard their shouts, seen their final moments as they were dragged from their cells to the scaffold. But never had I felt the weight of death so personally, so intimately, as I did now.
As I stood in that cold, empty room, waiting for the inevitable sound of the bell that would signal the end. The fire was gone in him. In its place was an unsettling calm, a man who seemed more a spectre than a person. His once vibrant eyes, those eyes that had burned with revolutionary zeal, were now dull and resigned.
The consummation of the soul was inevitable, amidst my lack of strength. I became increasingly aware of the unfolding sequence of events. My mind gravitated towards the severity of these occurrences, as my body began to falter under the suffocating pressure of the madness that surrounded me.
Then, on an ordinary day of the week—one that seemed devoid of relevance, except that it would be remembered as the day of my death—I met my executioner and the reaper of my soul, against my will. That dreaded day, I was to be executed under the calamitous sequence of the presage that had haunted me in countless nightmares.
The darkness of the cell pressed upon me like a physical weight. The small flicker of the candle was the only thing that broke the oppressive blackness, casting long, quivering shadows against the stone walls. I sat on the cold floor, my hands bound, though I could hardly feel the rope anymore. In the silence, the faint sounds of the city outside seemed to echo in my ears—the distant rumble of carriages, the occasional shout of a passer-by—but they felt far removed, as though I existed in a world apart from the chaos of the revolution.
My mind raced, even as my body felt strangely still. Time was no longer the familiar friend it had once been; it stretched and contracted in ways that seemed almost absurd. The moments before death are said to stretch out endlessly, and yet they seemed to pass in an instant. How could it be that my life—my entire existence—would be reduced to this single, inevitable event? The guillotine loomed in my mind, that horrible, gleaming blade that would sever my connection to the world.
A noise at the door broke through my thoughts. The guard. He had returned, as though he were a spectre who visited every condemned man before the final walk to the scaffold. He stood in the doorway for a moment, and in that brief moment, something shifted in the air between us. His eyes, usually empty and hard, seemed to soften, just slightly, as if there was some recognition of the gravity of this moment. He was only doing his duty, after all.
‘Your time has come,’ he said, his voice flat. It was not an invitation, nor was it an announcement of something new. It was a statement of fact. I had known it was coming; the moment had been predestined long ago.
I stood slowly, the chains on my feet rattling with the movement. My legs trembled slightly, but I forced them to obey. I would not show fear—not now, not before the end. There was no need for defiance, either. I had made my peace with the course of events long ago, even if I had not expected this outcome.
‘I suppose it is,’ I muttered, more to myself than to him.
The guard stepped aside, and I stepped out into the dark hallway, the chill of the stone floor creeping up through my thin shoes. Each step seemed to echo louder than the last, and with each one, the reality of what was happening became more undeniable. I was moving towards the end of my life, toward the fate that had been sealed by forces beyond my control.
But there was no fear. I had made my choices, and I would face the consequences. The revolution had been a fever dream, a fleeting hope that had turned sour. In the end, we all paid the price for our ambition.
I would meet my end as I had lived—quietly, without regret. And yet, as I stood at the door of the prison, ready to step out into the waiting cart that would carry me to the guillotine, I could not help but feel that there was something unfinished, something left unsaid. But it was too late for that now.
I was taken to the guillotine in a tumbril drawn by a horse, driven towards my horrific fate. There I stood, before my imminent executioner and the hooded magistrates.
As I was led up the narrow steps to the scaffold, the crowd seemed to fall away, their murmurs a distant hum against the thudding of my heartbeat. I could hear nothing but the ringing in my ears, the sound of blood rushing through my veins as though my body itself were protesting what was happening.
At the top of the steps, they halted me, and for a moment, I was still. I looked out over the sea of faces—some jeering, others silent, many with eyes cast downward as though they could not bear to watch the final act of this tragic theatre. How quickly we become spectators to death, how easy it becomes to forget the humanity of those we condemn.
I thought of the friends I had lost in these streets, the ones who had once shared my hopes and dreams of a better France. They had not been so fortunate as I. They had been swept away by the tide of change long before this moment. And now, here I stood, one of the last remnants of a movement that had promised so much but had delivered nothing but ruin.
I turned my gaze to the horizon, the faint light of dawn casting long shadows over the city. There, in the distance, was the spire of Notre-Dame, tall and proud, standing as a silent witness to the madness that had unfolded below. I had spent many hours there in my youth, staring up at that magnificent structure, lost in thoughts of ideals and purpose.
How naive I had been. We had all been naive.
The winds brushed my face with a powerful subaerial grasp. The square was filled with bloodthirsty commoners who cheered for my impending death, whilst the sound of beating drums reverberated with intense vibration. From behind me, I heard the loud, singular caw of the raven. Amongst the gathered crowd, it was a cacophony that no man should bear at his hour of death.
And there, upon the stench of the guillotine, dripping with blood, stood the bold ebony bird of dominion—the Angel of Death. Its form was identical to that which I had dreamt of a thousand times before. I vividly remembered its piercing eyes, its black feathered wings, its sharp beak and its hooked talons.
It was the stately presence of the raven that had been summoned to this momentous occasion, deliberate and deliberate alone. It stared at me with such a commanding gaze that time seemed to freeze at that instant. I knew then that the hour of my foretold death had arrived suddenly, and I was powerless to prevent it. Soon after, I felt a cataleptic horror seize my heart, as the veins constricted like a vengeful serpent tightening its grip.
I saw the towering apparatus of the guillotine, standing atop a solitary scaffolding. The heavy, angled blade was raised high, suspended for a brief moment. I was strapped securely in the wooden stocks at the base of the guillotine frame. My neck was positioned directly beneath the harrowing blade. I drew my last breath upon the earth.
A voice called out to me from below—one of the guards, though his words were lost in the chaos of the crowd. I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts.
I turned slowly, my gaze meeting the executioner’s. His face was hidden behind the black cloth, his expression unreadable. But there was something in the way he held the axe that reminded me of the quiet determination in the eyes of men who had long since abandoned hope.
‘Is there anything you would like to say?’ He asked, his voice low.
For a moment, I hesitated. What could I say? What words could I offer in these final seconds to explain my actions, my choices, my life? There were no words left. No justification, no remorse—only the reality of the present.
I shook my head slowly.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘There is nothing more to be said'.
And then the world narrowed to a single, inevitable moment that would seal my fate.
Nevermore would I see another day again, as the steel blade descended swiftly, severing my head, which fell into the waiting basket below. None was more cruel than the bold ebony bird of dominion, unyielding to my pleas for life. Redemption had once been a distant thought, yet it is said that through death, the human soul may find redemption in its very nature. If I have achieved this, then have I triumphed over my worthy adversary, needing no purification?
At gradual intervals, I began to sense the presence of the Angel of Death fading away. My soul had not been forsaken or accurst. I was reborn in spirit, in immortality, as the avatar of the presage took flight, into the violent surge of the tempest, beyond the Plutonian blood of the guillotine.
The supernal seraphim of old rose above the stench of death that lingered in the square, amidst the throng of the multitude. The suffocating darkness of the past was now covered by the light of a blest dawn, as I arose from my eternal slumber to the heavenly breath that emerged from the bloodshed. Blood had flowed into the goblets of wine that were now manifest.
The ominous boundary between life and death opened, then closed, before the daring raven and the tolling bells of the belfry. I had to die as an anonymous writer so that my name might be immortalised in grandeur. Hallowed be the name that the keeper of my solitary epitaph will forever remember—a brilliant writer who perished, executed during the French Revolution. I was a condemned man who had felt the ghastly blade of the guillotine. Another innocent victim of the madness of the Reign of Terror.
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