A/N: So I've recently fallen into The Musketeers fandom! Spoilers for Episode 7. Trigger warnings for alcohol abuse and dark thoughts.
Comes the Darkness
The first day is for mourning.
Rain drips down onto his bare head while Ninon de Larroque takes her leave. He has felt the sinuous darkness menacing the periphery of his consciousness since the sham of her trial, the shock of witnessing the demon he married step forward and pour poison into the Cardinal's ears. The fleeting brightness of saving Ninon's life had been the only force keeping it at bay, and it leaves with her. He sighs. Athos admires her, surely, for her wit and grace and her indomitable courage, but why did his heart tear itself so over a woman he hardly knows?
It has many times before, though. He had barely known her either, as it were.
Athos returns to the monastery with only the rain for company. His leathers are increasingly damp and his boots are sodden; the road a muddy mess, but he saddles his horse and flees like a coward before the other musketeers can catch him up. The chill in his soul at the prospect of their questions drives him into the first inn he finds (a stupid error; surely Porthos or Aramis will think to look for him there). The rain provides an excuse to sit near the fire, and a coin from his purse provides the wine. He runs the tip of his thumb along the surface of his humble clay cup, studying it with expert eye. He knows, nearly to the ounce, how much wine will blur the memory of her sharp wit or dull the gold of her hair to a tolerable prickle.
It is far too much for any gentleman to drink in a reputable establishment, but more importantly, too much for Athos to be able to keep his seat on his horse afterwards. He knows that limit all too well. The darkness pooling in the back of his mind whispers that the prospect of breaking his neck in a drunken fall from his horse is not all together unpleasant, ignoble though it may be. He kills the dregs of the bottle instead. Another coin produces a skin of wine for the road, and he takes his leave of the inn.
He is gratified to find that the rain passed over Paris and the streets are mercifully dry. Athos has already resigned himself to the fact that he is likely to sleep in the gutter that night, if he sleeps at all. At least it will be a dry gutter. He does not bother to change his muddy clothes before heading out into the city, but he leaves his blue cloak and fleur-de-lis spaulder behind. His actions need not bring open shame upon his brothers-in-arms.
The tavern owner crosses himself when Athos crosses the threshold, even as he hastens away to fetch him a bottle of good wine. He has good reason to do so; Athos only frequents this particular tavern at his most desperate, and without Porthos or Aramis to temper his behavior. But unlike the other patrons of the tavern, he always pays his bill, and for this, the owner tolerates him.
The first bottle goes down quickly, too quickly for the quality of the vintage, but he can feel the darkness sucking him down and he cannot hold out much longer. He forces himself to take his time with the second bottle; he has not eaten today and the room has already begun to wobble a little. Athos lets his unsteady head slump into his hands. The hard wood bites into his elbows as he presses his palms to his eyes. The Comtesse de Larroque smirks at him from behind his eyelids and in the single moment of hesitation before he can seize the bottle and drink until she disappears, Athos constructs a whole lifetime of fantasy.
The Cardinal has taken her fortune and her holdings and her titles, but he is the Comte de la Fere, and he has a fortune and holdings and a title. He has the favor of the king. His house might not be so grand, nor his library so extensive, but he would give it all to her without hesitation or expectation. He sees the house again, not sad and empty, but bright and filled with life. She is there, walking the corridors with him, the discouraged (not defeated; she will never be defeated) grief in her eyes replaced by happiness. He is happy too, content. A door opens and he looks up, smiling, because it is his brother back from the-
But, no, the darkness whispers. Thomas is dead.
Athos the Musketeer twists his fingers mercilessly into his hair to stop himself making a noise as the shining dream shatters. A lump swells into his throat and an empty bottle clinks to the floor beside him. What little of it had ever existed, could ever exist, is long gone. Thomas is dead these past five years; the house is a shell burnt hollow. The Comtesse de Larroque, Ninon, would have never accepted him. But nor, coward that he was, would he have offered.
Athos is burnt hollow too; hollow of all but wine and grief. Dully, he realizes his cheek is pressed to the wood of the table, while he mourned the life he once had and the life that would never be. When he finally managed to raise his spinning head, he notices a fresh bottle on the table before him. He seizes it violently and lets the darkness consume him.
There's more to come! Please review!