Percy's Death

    "Surrender!" Chauvelin ordered.
    "You surrender to me?" Percy mused, nodding in satisfaction. "Very well, I accept."
    Chauvelin held the long, thin blade to Marguerite's throat, its sheen glowing in the moonlight that provided the silvery veneer over the night scene on the pier. Their shadows cast long and thin over the rotten, saltwater-eaten wood that creaked and groaned under their steps, the waves of the Channel lapping against the pier support with the incoming tide. Percy's own sword held aloft, perfectly balanced, never wavering in its steady point towards his enemy. No detail of the French soldiers escaped his darting eyes: not the loaded guns sheathed in their tri-color sashes, not the hijacked letters shoved into Chauvelin's pocket, not the drop of Marguerite's blood that trickled over the thin blade.
    "I make no jokes, Blakeney. Surrender," the dark Frenchman snarled again. "Or she dies!"
    "Don't listen, Percy!" Marguerite pulled against the restraining arms that held her steadfast. "They'll only kill you! Don't--!" She cried out sharply as Chauvelin grabbed her mane of hair, yanking it back painfully to expose her throat fully, his sword angled only the more perilously against it. The slightest amount of effort and her soft white skin would be severed. Percy could almost see it before him...the sword piercing her porcelain throat...her life pouring from her onto the deck at his feet. Clenching his eyes shut, the Pimpernel shook his head, clearing the thought from his mind. He wouldn't let that happen. Not as long as he breathed...
    His sword tip wavered ever so slightly, his features faltering in their resolution. Behind him, the hand that was lifted for balance clenched and unclenched in a betrayal of agitation. His sword began to lower. "You know I can't do that, sir."
    Chauvelin only laughed: a high, wheezy noise of triumph that was so close he could taste it. But he didn't want just a taste...he wanted to sink his teeth into victory, savor its flavor and delight in every moment as he stood back and watched the Pimpernel kneel at Madame Guillotine. The pleasure was intoxicating. "Oh, you can, Blakeney," he hissed. "It makes little difference either way. It would be much easier if you surrendered willingly, but if you don't my men can take you by force easy enough." He jabbed the sword forward, pulling Marguerite's auburn curls to make her cry out in pain. "I would so much hate to see something happen to such a pretty little thing."
    The tall Englishman was trembling in anger now, his face hard with a renewed determination at this threat against his wife. Gripping his sword with white-knuckle tightness, he lifted it again, grinning with a clenched jaw. "Ah, but sir, you forget: one step forward and I could easily escape across the channel, and should you kill the young lady then," a slight laugh, whether of nervousness or hatred it was difficult to tell, "England would not be happy with you." He crouched, widening his en guarde stance with the sword held at ready. "If you want to spill blood, sir, have at me!"
    Chauvelin, at first perplexed, withdrew his sword from Marguerite's throat and released her mane, raising it up against Percy instead. It was more than he ever could have asked for...a man-to-man fight with the Pimpernel himself. Since he'd discovered the existence of the Pimpernel and his League, learned of his cunning and resourcefulness and unending bravery as he followed him throughout France, his anger and determination renewing each time the man eluded him, he had wanted a face confrontation. A chance to best the master himself. He couldn't contain his excitement, and grinned maliciously. "I accept your challenge, sir, and will enjoy delivering your head to Robespierre!"
    "Give him my regards, Chaubertin," Percy growled.
    With a wave of his arm Chauvelin motioned the guards back, removing his hat and handing it to Desgas. "If he's still standing at the end," Chauvelin muttered to his second officer, "kill him." He then slipped off his heavy overcoat and turned back to the Englishman, his sword at the ready. Percy's smile was gone, replaced by a fire of grim hatred and resolve. Matching their rapiers, the two men began to circle...like falcons waiting to dive.
    Percy and Chauvelin's eyes matched each other even as they prepared to duel. Their sword tips barely touching, each of their steps were measured and precise on the soft wood, their boots padding their steps in their deadly dance of death. The moonlight shone fully down upon them, the torch lights from the guards flickering like beacons, a distance so far as the two men only concentrated on one other thing.
    "She's mine, you know," Chauvelin growled just loud enough for his rival to hear. "I had her first."
    "D**n you, sir," Percy replied evenly, his voice calm but the force it carried at powerful as his anger. "D**n you, sir, and d**n your Revolution!"
    An explosion in both their eyes, and the two men lunged forward, their swords clashing in a bolt of thunder. Blinded by insane rage Chauvelin thrust forward with all his might, driving Percy back by the sheer ferocity of his blows. The Frenchman snarled, his face that of a wolf as each of his thrusts and feints were driven off by a skill that matched and surpassed his. Metal rang upon metal, their clangs and strikes providing music for their deadly dance. Percy's boots slipped upon the moist wood, his feet teetering at the edge of the pier where he found himself cornered by Chauvelin. Unable to back any further Percy crossed his sword over his head, his willpower alone holding it steady as Chauvelin's rapier slammed down crosswise on it. Straining, teeth clenched, Chauvelin put his entire weight down upon the sword, driving both his and Percy's resisting blade down lower and lower until it formed a lethal V across Percy's throat. Chauvelin, his dark hall falling loose around his face, laughed insanely as he turned his sword inwardly in a scissors movement.
    Marguerite found herself not breathing, her eyes locked on the two men who fought with pure savagery and passion that was not like civilized men at all. Never had she seen Percy show such anger, such aggression as she saw him deflect blow after blow. His face, his handsome face, never once flinched from the flash of a blade or hesitated in returning a blow. Even as he kneeled with his own sword and his enemy's crossed over his throat, his eyes never fell. "Percy!" she gasped in horror.
    "Rargh!"
    With a roar of effort Percy forced his strength into his legs and threw himself back up, bringing up one leg to Chauvelin's middle to kick him away, bringing his sword up forcefully to throw Chauvelin's back. The sword flashed in an arc and fell from the Frenchman's hand. Chauvelin stumbled back, panting from exertion, and for a moment stood dumbfounded as he stared at his sword lying on the pier. Slowly, dazed, he reached up to touch his shoulder, and when he drew his hand back the tips of his fingers were covered in a glistening red. Percy's sword hadn't missed: the entire shoulder of Chauvelin's vest was slowly staining. Wide-eyed in disbelief, he looked at his rival.
    Percy wiped his brow, damp from perspiration, and without regard to Chauvelin's wound or taking his eyes away he bent to retrieve Chauvelin's sword, leaving his enemy unarmed. For a moment all was still. Percy and Chauvelin stared long and hard, each waiting for the other to move. Chauvelin expected the flash of metal to come, for the sword to find its sheath in his chest and for the Pimpernel to cut him down like a dog, just as he had planned to. That would explain Chauvelin's surprise when Percy tossed the sword back at him, not a word spoken. Slowly Chauvelin picked up the weapon, and the two clashed again.
    Percy hadn't been blind. He had seen the guards beyond Chauvelin reach for their guns the moment Chauvelin lost his rapier. They would never let him or Marguerite leave this pier alive, whether he killed Chauvelin or not. Percy was worried. For once, he knew not what to do. In any other situation before this he had been able to make split-second decisions that would decide the life of himself and his men, and in any other situation before this he had always made the right choices. But it looked like here, now, the Scarlet Pimpernel was at a loss. Percy's only regret was that Marguerite had to be dragged along with him.
    This worry and remorse might have explained Percy's mistake. His mind distracted by the thought of Marguerite, of her safety and well-being, the Englishman grew careless, and in the onslaught of blows that followed Chauvelin retrieving his sword, he made one fatal mistake.
    He looked at Marguerite. Their rapiers locked at the hilt, Chauvelin and Percy were but inches from each other's face in the center of the jetty when Percy risked a glance over the darker man's shoulder to catch some sight that his wife remained unharmed. A small mark on her throat, but she was untouched, held fast by Chauvelin's men. With the moonlight shining down on her ivory skin, her face so distressed and yearning as she watched, he wanted nothing more than to drop his sword and run to her; comfort his wife and tell her everything was alright. In that moment he was caught in her eyes, a moment in which he hesitated just to watch her. A moment was all Chauvelin needed.
    From Chauvelin's red, white, and blue Revolutionary sash the Frenchman withdrew one arm from his sword long enough to reach within it and pull out a long, wicked dagger, which already in its waist-height position needed little adjustment before he shoved it hilt-deep into Percy's middle.
    "Nooooo!" Marguerite screamed when she saw Percy's face go slack in astonishment, his sword resistance falling away as his mouth fell open in a cry that never came. Drawing back, Chauvelin tore the dagger from the folds of Percy's sailor disguise and tossed it away, throwing his arms up to knock Percy's rapier aside and raise his own. Percy was in too much shock too even lift an arm.
    Chauvelin's sword flashed a silver arc in the dark night as he lifted it over his head and thrust down with a roar of effort, and drowned out by Marguerite's horrified scream was Percy's cry of agony as the sharp blade slashed the length of his side and he collapsed to the ground, defeated. The Pimpernel's rapier clattered against the wood of the jetty, its sheen unmarred, while Chauvelin's ran with blood as red as the Pimpernel's color. Stepping back with what could have been an expression of horror as he stared down at Percy, clutching his middle and side in agony, neither Chauvelin or the French guards bothered to break their gazes when Marguerite tore away from their restraints, dashing past Chauvelin to throw herself at her husband's side. "No! Percy! Oh, God, noooooo!"
    Oblivious to the spreading gore, Marguerite took hold of Percy's shoulders and pulled him into her lap, turning him onto his side. Frantically she pulled aside the slashes in his civilian clothes, her throat turning into a knot as tight as her stomach as she saw the gaping wounds beneath them. "My God," she choked on a sob, pushing the cloth back against the deeper wound in his midsection, wrapping it about her hand as she pressed against it in any attempt to stop the bleeding, all in vain.
    "Marguerite," Percy gasped weakly, his voice barely a choked rasp as he reached for her face. Her skin was so soft, so warm, her features hovering above him in such beauty as his vision grew fainter she could only be an angel. An angel who loved him. And he loved her. If this was to be the site of his death, defending his beloved wife, dying in her arms, he wouldn't have had it any other way.
    "Oh, Percy," Marguerite wept, enveloping her husband in her arms as the tears fell unheeded down her face. Taking the hand that rose to her cheek, she held it there tightly against her. His hand was trembling, cold, deathly pale in the moonlight. She looked down upon his face, his dashing and handsome features now shamed by the fear that was obvious, the fear that came when one knew they were dying. No! Percy couldn't die! They had only so recently rekindled their love for each other, only yesterday she had learned what and who he truly was. He had fought so bravely to defend her. He couldn't die! "Oh, Percy..."
    "Now don't cry, dear," the man rasped, attempting to keep that inane grin and laugh in his voice. "It makes you look rather horrid."
    Marguerite's sorrow only increased ten-fold at the showing of this bravery in the face of death. Cradling her husband in her lap, she stroked his hair and face lovingly, her weeping quiet and reserved as she felt Percy's breathing grow shorter and shallow, his common sailor's clothes slowly becoming stained with red from the wounds Chauvelin had inflicted. She held his hand tightly to her cheek, gently rocking him as one would a child. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Percy closed his eyes and turned his face away. He was so tired...so cold...Marguerite shouldn't see him like this. Leaning down, the woman sniffed back her tears in attempt to control her voice, which she did a poor job of. Her voice was quiet, frightened, like a child.
    "Percy, don't leave me," she whispered pleadingly, stroking his cheek to bring his face back up to her. "I love you. Please don't leave me..."
    "Now now," he coughed, taking hold of her hands to kiss them gently, their petite size held entirely by his. "Don't talk like that, madame. I'm not going anywhere..." Their eyes met, and they both knew it was inevitable. Percy's blue eyes had lost their gleam, their usual glimmer of life. In the grim silence he reached up and brushed his fingers through her thick auburn curls, his grin faded from lack of energy. "I love you, Marguerite."
    The woman leaned down, and using his remaining strength the man arched his neck up in one last, desperate attempt to hold on. Their lips met, touched, and pressed intensely for one last, long moment of love before they parted from sheer weakness. Percy's breath passed in one final exhale, and his body went limp in Marguerite's embrace. His head lolling back against her shoulder, his eyes closed, and though it looked as though the Scarlet Pimpernel were just asleep, Marguerite held him tighter to her than ever, her weeping no longer restrained but letting loose in a flood of sorrow that was no true expression for what she felt.
    Percy was gone.
    It was with that slow realization that Chauvelin moved forward, looming tall over Marguerite as he stared down at the face of his defeated enemy. Whether he felt triumph, victory, or satisfaction from the kill was yet unknown as nothing but a strange calm covered his face. He set a hand on Marguerite's shoulder.
    "It didn't have to be this way," he told her softly. "You could have saved him."
    "No," Marguerite rasped as she buried her face among Percy's blonde mane, her eyes clenched though her weeping went unchecked. The weight of sorrow upon her heart then was so great it hadn't the room to leave any wrath for Chauvelin. All that was inside Marguerite was a bleak emptiness, an enormous part of her that was ripped away at Percy's last breath, when his flame of life went out and his soul left her alone on that pier. "Percy, I'm so sorry..." she whispered, squeezing his hand. She felt Chauvelin's hold on her shoulder tighten as he turned back to his guards.
    "Take her away," he ordered sharply. "As wife to the Pimpernel she is a traitor to this country as well." Snatching back his hat and coat, the guards closed in to do his bidding.
    "No!" Marguerite screamed as she was dragged away from her husband by rough hands, kicking and struggling to break away and get back to Percy, stay at his side, lay down and die with him if that was what it took to be with him in peace. "No! Percy!"
    "You're husband is dead, mademoiselle!" Chauvelin, sheathing his bloodied sword, said with the devil's own coldness, his voice as hateful and evil as he was. Turning to Desgas, he issued quick orders, not a thought given to the limp body of Percival Blakeney lying on the pier or his own wounded shoulder. "Tell Robespierre the Pimpernel is dead. We've no reason to worry over him any longer."
    "Robespierre will want proof, sir," the younger Frenchman said smartly. Smiling wickedly, Chauvelin's fox-like eyes were finally shining with victory as he extended his hand, dropping a single, small object into the palm of the other.
    "This is all the proof he will need...the Scarlet Pimpernel's ring."