"O how lovely, O how pure,
Is this perfect Child of heaven"
He is Born (Il est né)
Traditional 19th century French carol
CHAPTER I
It was a typically gloomy December night in Paris, and the cold, damp, air was insidiously and methodically working through the labyrinthine streets and alleys of the old city. "Kindly remind me why I agreed to this," murmured Athos grimly. He and Aramis stood stoically outside the locked gate, attempting to ignore the pouring rain. A curtain of dense fog was descending, and the giant black metal grille in front of them, graced with an enormous gilt fleur-de-lis, afforded them very little view of the courtyard within. Aramis glanced at his companion, his dark eyes weary. One hand ran distractedly through his dark hair. That hair, which was unruly on the best of days, was now plastered in defeat against his head, highlighting his now prominent cheekbones. Athos scanned his friend's face, estimating that he had lost twenty pounds since the birth of the Dauphin. This weight loss was a cause for concern on the part of the Inseparables.
As had become his custom of late, Aramis remained silent, continuing to nervously tap his chest with his sodden hat, the usual jaunty feather that graced it bedraggled and lifeless. Athos finally reached out a hand and stilled the other musketeer's arm. "You're driving me mad," he snapped. Aramis looked at him again, his eyes pleading. "You promised," he said hoarsely, his voice thin with anguish.
"I promised nothing," Athos hissed in return, his clear blue eyes intent. "I knew this was a mistake from the beginning, and I told you so. You are taking a risk of incalculable proportions, and I blame myself for allowing it." He shot Aramis a look of despair mingled with frustration, then turned as the sound of a pair of boots was heard was heard echoing through the deserted courtyard. A pair of lanterns bobbed in the darkness, and steadily approached them. Threads of jovial conversation sparked with laughter drifted to them along the icy gusts of wind that skirted along the damp cobblestones.
These musketeers are normal men, thought Athos gloomily, adjusting his hat to allow a pool of water to drain listlessly off the brim. Men who in a quarter of an hour will be safe within a warm, snug house. Each will sit by the hearth with an arm around a doting wife, while a sleeping child, thumb firmly in mouth, snuggles against his shoulder. The dull, familiar pain of Anne's betrayal throbbed in his chest, and he shook his head, willing it to leave him. For tonight, he had to put his own past aside and focus entirely on the present. A present that was tormenting a vulnerable Aramis, grieving the fact that he could never claim his own son.
There was a selfish part of Athos that bitterly resented the fact that he would have to spend Christmas Eve stone-cold sober. The past five years, he had quietly whiled away the 24th of December in the familiar comfort of a large bottle of wine, preferably drunk alone in the darkest corner of a half empty tavern. But this year was to be different-and for good reason, his typically generous nature gently reminded him. Only he understood the true nature of Aramis' unhappiness over the past two months. While the rest of the garrison, along with the entire country, had celebrated the birth of the heir for weeks, Aramis had been absent. He had unexpectedly volunteered for a secret courier mission to the Duchess of Savoy shortly before Anne had gone into labour, and returned sometime after the christening, uncharacteristically morose and taciturn.
Porthos and D'Artagnan had assumed the trip had brought back bad memories of the massacre Aramis had miraculously survived in that region, and tried several times to draw him out. However, an indifferent wall of silence and a regretful shake of the head had been the answer each time. Athos watched his friend carefully, gauging the correct moment to broach the topic. One morning at dawn, when the two were alone on patrol just outside the city, he reached across and took hold of Aramis' reins, halting their horses. "It's the baby," he stated gently, confident in the knowledge that he was correct the second he saw a flash of sorrow pass across his companion's face. "I am right, am I not?" Aramis began to speak, a denial at the ready, and Athos read his mind instantly. "The truth, Aramis. You owe me that much."
"You're right" his friend said huskily, turning his face for an instant to hold his breath against the tears that burned against the backs of his eyes. "I have to see him Athos, just once. While he is still an infant and still"- he swallowed—"so fragile. What if some sickness were to befall him and I never got the chance…" his voice caught and trailed off. Aramis looked so miserable that Athos felt a surge of compassion, and squeezed his friend's hand. "We'll manage something," he murmured reassuringly.
