Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to the BBC and that's okay.
A/N: Written for the prompt "Be Prepared" of the March challenge of the Fete des Mousquetaires.
I had fun writing it. Now go ahead and have fun reading it.
The Burden of a Men
If Athos had the innate trait to gloat it would have been over exactly one aspect in his life that he was proud of: the ability to be in control. To be the master of any situation that dared to come his way.
Admittedly, his childhood was anything but in his hands, yet it was all about control. Precisely, his father's over his every move and pursuit. Then, at one point in his later teens, the whole concept of being UNDER control shifted to the much more agreeable idea of being IN control.
It wasn't just the perception of power or the ability to actively influence what was happening around him that turned him into a man of collected serenity, whose passion did only show in the twinkle of his eyes or the almost imperceptible crinkle of the corner of his mouth. It was his analytical understanding of course and effects and the knowledge that some things just plain could not be changed. It was pointless to try and he had better things to do than wasting times on things or people who defied his well-meant attempts.
So he took everything with a stoic composure bordering on negligence.
The day his father died he swallowed his grief and accepted his new responsibilities.
The day his brother was murdered he ignored his sense of betrayal and did what was socially expected of him.
The day his wife hung on that tree he turned around in the knowledge that a crime was rightfully revenged and from then on put all the pain in a bottle to drown it in a never-ending flow of red salvation.
This how his life meandered through various happenings – war, loss, pain and friendship – and all of it led to this one moment in life that had it all come crashing down on him. The moment his inner sense of calm was rearing up like mount gone wild.
A hand wrapped around his own and while he was grateful for the warmth and strength it provided he almost shrinked from the touch. "She is strong. "
He swallowed, almost hissing an angry retort but held his fire when he looked into young friend's face, which was mirroring his own rising panic.
The two men returned to their silent vigil on the kitchen table, engrossed in thought while the night seemed to stretch into infinity. How could time be so relentless in its clarity? Athos could feel the beating of his heart, the rush of his blood in his ears and the nervous knocking of d'Artagnan's foot against the floorboard.
He flinched when a scream filled the small house that had served as a home for the last few months. A sound filled with agony. Audible testimony of what was human endurance taken to the limit.
"This is torture," he burst out and the sweat on his forehead and profound tremble of his fingers underlined his words. "It's… warm in here."
He stared at the hearth, where a large pot hung over the merrily dancing flames filled to the rim with steaming water.
"We could go outside," d'Artagnan suggested, cocking an eyebrow. "Get some air."
It was that very moment when the door to the bedroom opened and Constance appeared. Her sweaty hair glued to her temples and her face pinched with exhaustion, holding a mountain of cloth pressed against her chest. d'Artagnan's words were carried into the bedroom and promptly answered.
"DON'T YOU DARE LEAVING…!" Sylvie's voice shrilled from the other room and Athos' eyes widened. "DON'T YOU DARE LEAVING ME NOW, YOU BASTARD!"
The outburst was being followed by another pained grunt and Athos' posture was tensing even more at being addressed by his wife in such a manner.
D'Artagnan threw him a half pitying, half apologetic glance as Athos swallowed with some difficulty.
"Don't you worry," Constance said, as she rushed past her husband towards the fire, tossing her dirty load next to it in the corner. His eyes fell on the mountain of cloths and the bright red stains on it didn't do anything to ease Athos' terror. Quickly, she balled up the bloody proof of the ongoing affair with her foot and wiped her hands on her apron. The latter not without red stains either.
He felt slightly dizzy. "I can't do this," Athos murmured and hid his face behind cold fingers at which Constance suddenly spun around and placed her hands on her hips.
"What do you mean, you can't do this?" She echoed with a raised eyebrow. "Your wife is doing all the work here. The least you can do is to take it like a man."
"My dear Constance," d'Artagnan chimed in with a soothing voice. "This is what Athos is talking about. We're not accustomed to be standing at the side line."
"Well," she replied, wiping some invisible strands of hair out of her face. "Then this is your burden to take," she concluded and added, more gently now: "It won't be long now." She left, closing the wooden door behind her with one last glance at her husband who nodded with the underlying message "I'll take care of him".
Once more, an oppressing silence reestablished between the two souls while the constant voices and expressions of pain from the neighboring chamber put them in a subdued mood until Athos sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
"This is torture," he blurted out.
Gladly, he would have taken on a group of the Red Guards. Or a whole Spanish regiment. Or even be on parade duty for a whole month. In August. Anything was better than this. Waiting. Being reduced to stand by. He wasn't prepared for any of that, wishing he could at least be sitting at his beloved one's side to do… to do what? Hold her hand? Whisper soothing nonsense in her ears?
He had tried just that and what had happened? Got kicked out quite spectacularly by his furious wife with the unmistakable message to "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT. THIS IS NOT HELPING!"
So he had retaken his guard duty on the kitchen table.
At some point, he got up and walked in circles around the small table until d'Artagnan told him to sit down again before he wore trenches in the floor.
The night crept one and hours trickled by agonizingly slow while both men were deep in thought. Only when the sky in the west lost its pitched darkness and started to glimmer in a grayish blue the men looked up, realizing the sudden quiet that had erupted quite suddenly.
Until a high-pitched scream - sweet as honey and refreshing as a blackbirds morning greetings - met their ears.
"Congratulation… papa…" d'Artagnan grinned and his smile widened almost slyly.
Athos swallowed, suddenly unable to do anything but listen to that new voice. A voice of a real person. One, he had been involved in creating.
A human being he could teach and guide and shape into a proud and strong man or woman, whatever he was blessed with.
And then, Constance stood in the door with a tiny bundle of cloth wrapped in her arms. Her face was glowing with a tired serenity as she came closer to Athos who had stood up and held his arms out to welcome his offspring.
"Is it…" He managed to croak before he realized his mouth was dry as the Louvre's courtyard on a hot summer day.
"It's a healthy little girl, Athos, " Constance beamed, exhausted but with a halo of happiness around her that made the whole situation almost solemn.
"I have a daughter," he stated, grinning stupidly and not caring about who saw it.
His eyes fell on the tiny face which was wrinkled to such an extent that the newborn's eyes were merely slits in the crumpled, moon-shaped face. Its lips were pursed, the pink colored tongue wriggling constantly and the skin was flaky under the soft hairline.
It was by all means the most beautiful thing Athos had ever seen.
"A nose, two ears, ten fingers, ten toes," Constance stated and Athos missed the affectionate glance she changed with her husband while he was utterly hypnotized by his daughter.
The stress of the last hours was forgotten, the fatigue wiped away and his former doubts as if they had never existed.
He was now a father. From now on, he was ready for anything. Seriously, how hard could it be to parent a child?