It's Done
His blood was pounding in his ears as his awareness slipped away.
All he saw was the cruel face before him, still defiant, but now held down beneath the water. Every drop of adrenaline was now coursing down his arms and into his hands as he held that hateful face beneath the surface until the life ebbed out of him. He held him under for ... how long? ...he didn't know.
He had dragged him out, and was now sitting on the edge of the watercourse, his back against the wet cold wall, looking at the corpse of the man who had consumed his every waking hour, and many of his nightmare-filled nights.
The water was red now with the blood that had flowed from his side, sliced by Grimaud's blade. Suddenly, d'Artagnan was there, skidding to a halt. A sigh of relief escaped his lips.
Outside, the Queen had been quickly and quietly ushered back to the Palace by Aramis and Porthos. The crowd was agitated, anticipating, aware that something of importance was happening beneath the Cathedral. Aware of the two young women who clung together on the step.
Sylvie stood with both hands clasped to her mouth, eyes searching into the gloom through the open doors of the cavernous crypt. Constance had wrapped her arms around Sylvie, and they were both literally holding each other up.
Someone ran out then, and called for a cart. There was a body to be taken to the morgue.
"Who?" whispered Constance to herself, desperate to know and yet, not wanting to. Wanting this moment to freeze in time, despite all that had happened, and all they had lost, some things still too hard to bear.
They heard the rumbling of the cart then and they held their breath, staring into the gloom. They tightened their hold on each other.
Then an arm appeared in the doorway. The glimpse of a tan leather doublet.
d'Artagnan appeared supporting Athos, who was bent low, holding his side, blood seeping through his fingers.
d'Artagnan sought her face, and gave a nod, his eyes haunted, but his face relaxed.
Athos lifted his head then and saw them both.
"It's done", he said.
Later, he would lie, bandaged in their bed. She would listen as he uncharacteristically recounted the battle with his nemesis; needing to excise all memories of Lucien Grimaud. He was aware he would always bear the physical scar on his side. That would be a scar he would not be proud of, the thought drifting off as quickly as it had seeped into his consciousness.
"He did not struggle," he said as she pulled the sheet over him. She looked quizzically at him, searching his face for meaning. It had been a ferocious battle, she knew.
"In the end, those final moments – he stopped struggling. He just looked, broken."
He was struggling with that, knowing how Grimaud never gave up.
"Don't you know every man dies alone?"
The last words Grimaud had said to him.
"He doesn't have to live alone."
The last words he had spoken in reply.
"He was dead long before you finished him; Grimaud saw love as weakness. He underestimated all of us," she replied, her face close to his, losing herself in his fathomless green eyes. She well remembered looking into Grimaud's eyes when he questioned why she would want to bring a child into this world. What she saw there saddened her deeply.
Of course, there were nightmares. As much as he had wanted Lucien Grimaud dead, the manner in which he finally despatched him did not make him proud. She would simply put her hand on his back and whisper, "We are free; we are all free," and he would relax back onto the pillows.
He had to learn to relax, and to realise that he could sleep. There was no need to be alert to every noise. Gradually, as his wound healed and the scar faded, so did the nightmares.
There was so much more to look forward to now.
It was alright.
Later he would learn from d'Artagnan that Gaston had been found dead, a knife wound between his shoulder blades; made with a small but deadly stiletto. And also, a musket ball fired into his chest for good measure.
He knew the modus operandi well enough.
Someone was settling scores.
And that was alright too.