Sans Peur et Sans Reproche

(Without Fear and beyond Reproach)

"Il faut avoir voulu mourir... pour savoir combien il est bon de vivre."

Alexandre Dumas, Le Comte de Monte Cristo

("It is necessary to have longed for death... in order to know how good it is to be alive.")

1. Être prêt

(Be ready)

Athos woke with a groan. The wine had evidently failed to rid him of the headache that had been plaguing him for the past two days. He had retired early, expecting to find himself restored to full health in the morning. Instead each thought seemed to struggle through his brain agonisingly slow like a fly caught in honey.

Going about his morning routine proved to be a challenge, as every muscle in his body apparently found it necessary to ache the way they would after a particularly long and vicious fight. He thought back to the previous day as he stretched, but could not discern a particular reason for the soreness. There had been no fight, not even the slightest skirmish since that nasty business with Anne — Milady de Winter that was — nearly two weeks ago. In fact, life had become positively boring by their standards. Not boring enough for him to have arm-wrestled with Porthos though, even if he currently felt no better than after that ill-fated endeavour years ago.

He walked down narrow Rue Férou, careful to heed the shouts of "Gare à l'eau!" as the city around him began to wake. It was dark between the tall buildings, but once he was out in the open, he had to shield his eyes against the early morning light streaming down Rue Saint Sulpice, drawing his hat far down to cover his face as he walked past the church the very moment the great bell struck six o'clock. He inwardly congratulated himself for his soldier's discipline in rising so early. Discipline was one of the safeguards against his previous life; no overindulged young weakling of a Comte rose with the sun. Little though he might have achieved over the past few years, some things had changed for the better.

Paris was a long way from La Fère and rounding the corner to the musketeer garrison felt more like a homecoming than a return to his ancestral lands ever had.

He lifted his head minutely as he entered the common room, scanning the tables for his friends, but found them absent. Several musketeers were currently breaking their fast here, but he only gave them a court nod before taking a seat at an unoccupied table. A plate with bread and cheese appeared in front of him and Athos nodded his thanks, regretting the movement instantly as it felt like his brains were rattling about his skull without restraint. He declined the readily offered wine and took a cup of milk instead. His throat was sore and gave an uncomfortable twinge when he swallowed the warm liquid. He took a bite of his breakfast and chewed it slowly, but found it would simply not go down, so he took to dipping the bread into his milk instead.

Bernard, a comrade he valued greatly for his strength as much as his habitual silence, had smiled at him as he entered, but he was seated next to Etienne, one of their newest recruits, a promising boy who nevertheless looked far too excited at the prospect of having Athos join them. Athos had no particular desire to become the subject of an interrogation by some inquisitive youth. He already had to handle d'Artagnan's incessant questions.

With a clatter and a shout of "Good morning!" so loud it made Athos cradle his forehead in his hand, the young Gascon burst through the open door and threw himself onto the chair to Athos' left, taking a hearty bite from an apple and shoving another across the table.

"First apples of the season, Serge found them at the market yesterday. Constance says they're good for you. She worries about us, you know. Thinks highly of you, Constance does. Still a bit bitter though," d'Artagnan said, then hastened to add "The apples, not Constance that is."

Athos' only answer was a groan as he massaged his temple. Constance... he made a mental note to talk to d'Artagnan about that matter. Later, when he felt better. When he looked up, the young musketeer watched him with a mixture of sympathy and teasing.

"That bad, eh?" he asked with a pointed glance at the cup of milk.

Athos drew himself up to his full height. "I fail to see how my choice of beverage is any of your concern," he replied acerbically. "A clear head can only be beneficial to our duty. We are to report to the palace at noon."

D'Artagnan looked poised to give a mocking reply judging by his smile, but Porthos' arrival interrupted their conversation. He clapped them both on the shoulder in greeting, and then sat, grabbing the apple and the bread that remained on Athos' plate.

"Aramis got himself in a spot of bother just outside the gate," he said, leaning back in his chair.

D'Artagnan's hand immediately flew to the weapon at his hip and he made to get up, but Athos waved him down. With the relaxed manner in which Porthos enjoyed his breakfast, danger was hardly imminent. Athos arched an eyebrow, demanding an explanation from his friend.

"Fat bloke," Porthos elaborated. "Rich by the looks of him, some merchant or something. Shouting up a right storm about some Elaine."

"Young, beautiful, and his wife, no doubt," d'Artagnan added.

Porthos laughed. "He seemed the sort to be rather concerned with fidelity," he admitted.

"Not inclined to shoot Aramis on the spot, I take it?" Athos asked.

"Nah, probably can't tell one end of a pistol from the other," Porthos said with a dismissive gesture. "Aramis'd run him through before he could even find the trigger."

Athos fervently hoped it would not come to that. He had quite enough on his mind already with regards to Aramis and his libertine ways without adding Elaine's suddenly deceased husband to that list.

The worry about their friend alleviated, banter flowed easily between d'Artagnan and Porthos. They came up with increasingly outlandish suggestions for activities Aramis had indulged in with his latest flame and Athos relished their joy and easy laughter.

D'Artagnan in his boundless youthful energy was grappling with Porthos before they had even exited the building. Athos listened to them wrestle in the courtyard, leaning against one of the support beams, closing his eyes, and pressing his aching head against the wood. There was indeed some commotion in the square beyond the gate, but listening carefully he could discern Aramis' voice and while it was raised, it did not sound distressed. He should probably go out to ensure his friend's wellbeing, but seeing that even conscientious Porthos had prioritised breakfast over the matter, he allowed himself a few more moments of rest. Intervention proved unnecessary when Aramis appeared in the archway a moment later.

"Pedicabo ego vos et irrumo," he shouted over his shoulder, loud enough for all to hear.

Athos opened his eyes and watched Aramis swagger towards them, a tell-tale smirk around his mouth.

"Irrumabo," he corrected. "Future active indicative, not present — clearly."

"Rather obviously. Once more, I bow to your superior education," Aramis said with a tip of the hat and a laugh.

"At any rate, you could do better than that, no doubt."

"Please! I would never sink to that level!"

"Plague stifle you and your Latin!" said d'Artagnan, wriggling out of the headlock Porthos had held him in. "What did you shout at him?"

"Nothing fit for your little apprentice musketeer ears," Aramis replied, flashing him a grin.

"Pardieu," d'Artagnan cursed. "Will you stop it already, it's not funny."

"Still is to me," Porthos said reasonably.

"Athos, what did he say?"

"For once, I entirely agree with Aramis," Athos said. "That is not for you to know."

"Oh come on! You are supposed to be in charge of my learning here!"

"And it seems to me that you have much to learn before we progress to the finer points of Latin verses. Porthos just overpowered you with such ease as to be embarrassing, both for you and for me as your mentor."

D'Artagnan bristled visibly at the attack on his pride.

"I was distracted!"

"Then see to it that you are not."

"Diable, I swear if Aramis doesn't come in shouting some Latin..."

"Don't blame your failures on me," Aramis said in mock indignation.

"Oh fine then, I'll show you that I can do better," d'Artagnan replied and drew his weapon, pointing it at Athos. "I promise I can do better."

Athos groaned and flexed his shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do in his current state was to spar, but he knew how insistent his young protégé could be if he really desired something and decided that there was no point in wasting his breath; it was easier to get the matter over with quickly.

His resolve wavered as soon as he drew his blade only to find it unusually heavy in his hand and the muscles in his arm aching from the small effort. He would have to end this swiftly.

D'Artagnan had improved dramatically since their first encounter, and even then Athos had found it more challenging to defeat him without hurting the boy than he did with most opponents. By now his natural talent had been enhanced with great experience and rigorous training, and it had become increasingly difficult for Athos to beat him. He still did, one way or another, his reputation as the best swordsman in the regiment not entirely undeserved, but while he would never tell the youngster, there was less between them in terms of skill than he cared to admit.

Their blades clashed in rapid succession as d'Artagnan's furious attack led them in a merry dance around the courtyard. With a detached curiosity Athos observed that his reflexes were a fraction slower than usual, the swords meeting just a little closer to him than anticipated time and time again.

Fortunately, his legs seemed unaffected by this fatigue and he managed to sidestep a series of dangerous lunges. Nevertheless, the clanging of the metal was grating on his nerves and the abrupt movements did his head no favours, giving him little patience. For the sake of his sanity and at the expense of any teachable moments, he had to bring this fight to an end.

He was on the defensive for longer than he wished, able to see openings for an attack, but unable to capitalise on them due to the unusual slowness of his reactions. By the time he had forced his body into submission, his opponent had already changed course again.

His opportunity came when Tréville stepped out onto the balcony and called a group of their comrades into his office. D'Artagnan cast a quick glance at their captain and that moment of inattentiveness was enough for Athos to sweep his weapon aside, sidestep d'Artagnan's attack and, using his own momentum against him, tap him lightly on the back with his own blade.

"You're dead," he said coldly. "Focus."

"I did!" d'Artagnan protested.

"Obviously."

"You said to keep an eye on my surroundings at all times!"

"One eye. Not both."

Porthos laughed at that and clapped Athos on the shoulder, while Aramis put an arm around d'Artagnan, chuckling, but finding some encouraging words for the boy. Athos found himself a stool and sat in the shadow, leaning heavily against the wall and drawing his hat far down his forehead. His skull felt much too small to house its contents, squeezing his brain uncomfortably, and the light of the sun threw daggers at his eyes. He watched his friends engage in more friendly duels, but did not feel compelled to join them. Even in the shade, he was perspiring heavily, much more so than the temperature or the mild physical exertion warranted.

Athos tried to focus on assessing d'Artagnan's development. His technique was good, even if it could still use some refinement, and he was swift on his feet. He tried to note any particular weaknesses they would have to work on, but felt his attention waver. He seemed just as unable to focus as his young charge.

The pain in his head only increased as the morning progressed, sharp flashes of agony becoming more and more frequent. He clenched his jaw against the pain and noticed that he must have been doing that a lot, as his jaw felt decidedly stiff. He was usually very aware of the damage he was doing to his own body, so this failure to register his behaviour earlier struck him as odd.

Even after he had rested for a while, he was still sweating profusely. It was a nice enough day for the early autumn, but by now it had become overcast and he could not blame the sun for the heat he felt. He realised, somewhat belatedly, that he had a fever. Again, this was peculiar. He was a man in good health and while he was not entirely unacquainted with the dangers of a fever, he usually only encountered them after injuries that had not been seen to fast enough, and with Aramis at his side that had become rare.

Rare or not, he evidently had a fever now, so Athos rose slowly from his perch and made his way over to the table. He almost dropped the jug trying to pour himself a glass of water, his hand was shaking so badly.

"Somebody needs a glass of something stronger," Porthos shouted over to him. Athos glared at him. He was intimately familiar with that kind of fever and this was not it.

He forced himself to pay attention to his friends while trying to force the water down his throat. Even swallowing was a struggle. Aramis and d'Artagnan were lining up in front of the targets for some shooting practice, while Porthos was leaning against a wall polishing his pistol.

"So, you finally going to tell me what you said to Elaine's husband?" d'Artagnan asked.

"That's Madame du Pont to you," Aramis called back. "And her husband died two years ago, Dieu ait son âme, the gentleman who came calling this morning was her darling brother."

"He didn't seem to find you all that darling," Porthos said with a snort.

"A regrettable misjudgement on his part."

"So what did you say to him?" d'Artagnan interrupted.

"Persistent little bugger, aren't you?" Porthos said as Aramis laughed.

D'Artagnan just smirked. He knew full well that his persistence usually paid off and Athos knew that he himself had proven him right in the past.

"Fine," Aramis finally relented. "I'll tell you, mon ami."

He gave their young friend a moment to relish his victory before attaching conditions to his acquiescence. "Thirty feet, five shots. You beat me, I tell you."

D'Artagnan was not shy about voicing his discontent and Athos wholeheartedly agreed. Not that it bothered him that they were unlikely to ever beat Aramis at marksmanship, but the ten shots required to reach that foregone conclusion were bound to be pure agony for him.

He retreated back to his corner, burying his head in his hands and wishing there was a somewhat dignified way to stuff his fingers into his ears. Each shot reverberated in his skull with a pain that was almost as bad as if the bullet had actually hit him.

His friends knew to leave him alone when one of his moods overcame him. In truth, they were probably quite content to have him remain within their line of sight and far from a bottle of wine for once. They had learned that there was no telling when he would regress and gave him a wide berth for most of the morning. Every now and again, one of them would check in on him.

Aramis wandered over to talk to him about their duty in the afternoon, assigned to attend to the king at a garden party, but his easy chatter was too loud in Athos' head. The sound was somehow magnified to uncomfortable levels and he wished once more that he could block it out entirely. It seemed to set his whole body on edge, undeniably a side effect of the fever. His replies consisted of no more than a curt yes or no and with a shake of the head Aramis finally gave up and left him to his thoughts again.

Porthos came bearing gifts or rather wine.

"You look like you could use it," he said and pressed the drink into Athos' hand. He accepted it, but made no reply and shrank from his friend's touch when Porthos made to grasp his shoulder in silent reassurance.

Athos stared at the wine in his hand without drinking as Porthos returned to the others, undoubtedly relaying the news that there truly was reason to worry, as the old drunkard would not even touch his wine. Porthos was wrong. They were all wrong to worry about him after what had happened.

He had banished Anne.

From Paris, from France, but most importantly from his heart. He had banished her. She was not haunting him now, or so he tried to convince himself. He had banished her, he was finally rid of her, and there was no reason to worry about him. Two weeks had passed and he had not lost himself entirely, had not crawled into a bottle to wallow in his misery. He might not be hanging on by much, but he was hanging on, hanging on to that certainty that he had banished her, that he was rid of her forever.

Finally, they sent d'Artagnan. Aramis, at least, was well aware that the young Gascon was a powerful weapon where Athos was concerned. It was difficult to refuse him anything and already that had been enough to drag Athos out of a bottle more than once. So d'Artagnan it was, the last and most effective offensive against what his friends assumed was a return of his melancholia.

"Your Latin is so much better than Aramis'," he said. "You always correct him. What was it that he did wrong this time?"

Morbleu, the boy was like a bloodhound on a boar hunt.

"Verb tense."

"What was he really trying to say?"

Athos shot him a withering glare.

"Will you tell me the translation if I beat you in a duel?"

Athos did not dignify that with a response.

"I promise to stay completely and utterly focussed this time around. Even if the heavens open and judgement day arrives, I won't be distracted."

Athos gave a huff.

"Please Athos. I need to learn after all and it's always better when you know you are fighting for something."

Athos made a non-committal grunt.

"You always say I need to gain experience."

"Correct."

"What better way to gain experience than to fight the best swordsman in the whole of France?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"But Athos, it's no flattery," d'Artagnan said and without looking up Athos could picture his wide eyes, the look of pure innocence upon his face. "It's the truth. And I know you want to help me gain that experience. It's your duty after all."

Athos looked up sharply at that. He had to go and say that, he had to bring duty into this.

D'Artagnan was smiling at him expectantly, his excitement evident, quite possibly at both his ability to elicit a response and to get his much-desired duel. They both knew he had won.

Athos rose slowly, his entire body aching as if he had been severely beaten. He tried to massage his jaw to alleviate some of the stiffness. He was no stranger to pain, but this was decidedly uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he agreed to the fight. It would not do to worry the boy, and maybe Aramis' tactic was going to work and this would shake him out of his reverie.

There was, however, no reason to sacrifice his honour needlessly.

"Left hands only," he announced as they took their positions, switching his blade to his left and adjusting his stance accordingly. "You need the practice."

And you really do not need to know that you would easily beat me with your right, he added in his head. D'Artagnan had not trained much with his left before he joined them and was frustrated with his slow progress in the face of Athos' practiced ambidexterity. It was probably not an entirely honourable move to force this upon the boy now, but Athos knew that he had a much clearer advantage over him with his left and therein lay his only hope that his friends might not notice the sorry state he was actually in. It would only worry them.

To d'Artagnan's credit, the boy hardly even grumbled at the announcement. They both knew that he needed the practice. It was too easy to suffer an injury to one arm; with the lives they led it was not an option to be so easily incapacitated. Not that Athos wanted to think about the boy being hurt in any way, but he knew it was bound to happen and regarded it as his duty to prepare him adequately. Some skill with his left might one day save d'Artagnan's life.

They started off slowly, going through the motions of a duel with little evidence of d'Artagnan's customary fire and creativity. He was not exactly clumsy with the sword in his left, but his movement lacked the finesse and refinement he exhibited with his preferred hand. D'Artagnan was testing the waters, trying to get used to the unusual challenge. The leisurely pace suited Athos. He used either hand easily and knew he did an opponent no favour by fighting with his left, having been drilled long and hard to achieve an almost identical level of skill. At any rate, much of the fight was in the mind, the physicality only providing a framework that was then to be filled by precise planning and cool intent.

True to his word, d'Artagnan focussed. The look of rapt concentration on his face would have been comical, had Athos not known how utterly necessary it was to their profession. While d'Artagnan's youthful spirit was endearing, he could not afford to let his emotions rule him. They were soldiers of the king, and fancied themselves among the best, but that distinction brought with it more challenging tasks and more dangerous assignments. They had seen time and time again that they were not invincible and that their weaknesses were bound to have a grave impact upon those they protected.

D'Artagnan gained confidence with each clash of their swords. Soon he began to move more swiftly, adjusting his movement to the inconvenient fighting stance and started to make use of his superior agility. A few times Athos managed to break through his defences, but each time d'Artagnan would dance out of harm's way in the nick of time. It frustrated Athos to see his usually impeccable efficiency diminished by the inexplicable slowness of his motions.

Athos had become rather skilled at fighting with the one or the other handicap. He saw it as an exercise, a way to prove his mental and physical resilience, that he was able to adjust his style not only to his opponent, but also to his own limitations. There was no adjusting for this though.

New symptoms of his disability kept appearing. Not only was his arm weak, the muscles clenching at the weight of the rapier, but he also found his ability to turn diminished. His head in particular just would not move, the stiffness from his jaw bleeding into his neck and down to his shoulders. To be able to follow the ever-moving young musketeer with his eyes, he found he had to turn his whole body, a major inconvenience in any fight, but even more so when his muscles were so slow to obey his command.

To his horror, Athos realised that he was not fit for duty. He would have to beg the afternoon off from Tréville, possibly even face the wrath of the king who was not used to being denied what he wanted or who he wanted at his side, but he would be of no use to anyone in this state.

The glint of metal at his shoulder startled Athos out of his ruminations. He needed to take his own advice and focus. He managed to parry the blow at the last moment, but the impact made the muscles in his arm and neck spasm. His jaw clenched painfully, teeth grinding together. He staggered backwards on stiff legs, trying to keep his eyes on d'Artagnan.

"Athos," Porthos called out, worry evident in his voice. Worry that should not be there.

D'Artagnan did not hear. This time around he was actually focussing. His sword glanced off Athos' shoulder guard and down to his unarmed right hand. Athos felt the touch of the blade, but was unable to withdraw his arm.

This was getting dangerous.

Every clash of their blades rolled like a shockwave through his body. There was blood in his mouth from where his tightly clenched teeth had bitten into his cheek. He had to end this. He was not usually one to surrender, not willing to go down as long as he still breathed, but now he wanted to do just that. He wanted to give up. He wanted to call out to his friends, but he couldn't. He was unable to open his mouth or move his tongue. The only sound he could make was a distressed grunt. Not even Porthos would see that as anything unusual in a fight.

D'Artagnan struck a vicious blow towards his chest and Athos tried to take a step backwards, tried to get out of reach. He stumbled. He could not tell if there was something on the ground or if it was just the stiffness of his legs, but he lost his balance.

D'Artagnan cheered and lunged forwards at the same time as Porthos hollered for him to stop and rushed to catch him by the shoulder, before Athos had even hit the ground.

Athos stared at them wide-eyed as he fell, d'Artagnan's glee at his first victory over him a sharp contrast to the dread on Porthos' face. His legs and arms were stiff, offering him no chance to break his fall, the sword still clutched tightly in his left.

The impact on the ground was sharp. As soon as his back hit the hard soil, his abdominal muscles clenched violently as if he had been punched in the gut and Athos involuntarily curled in on himself, his face pressed against the earth. His jaw was seized by an even more intense cramp and he felt his whole face stretch, the corners of his mouth being drawn back against his will, lips stretching, baring his teeth in a grin.

There was pain, the taste of blood on his teeth, and somewhere far away he heard a clamour of voices. All he could see was the ground and the hard earth beneath him.

There was a gentle hand on his shoulder, warm and grounding, and somebody was calling his name. He was here, he had not lost consciousness, but he could make no answer.

They turned him until he was lying on his back, looking up at them. Aramis was kneeling next to him, Porthos and a very guilty looking d'Artagnan leaning over his shoulders. In the distance, several other figures were approaching, but Athos focussed only on his three friends.

Porthos and d'Artagnan seemed relieved to see him conscious, but Aramis had barely glimpsed Athos' face when all the colour drained out of him and he crossed himself.

"Mon Dieu," he gasped. "Athos. Mon cher Athos..."

Translations & Explanations

Rue Férou According to Alexandre Dumas "Athos dwelt in the Rue Férou, within two steps of the Luxembourg"

Gare à l'eau Literally "watch the water" — shout to warn the passer-by that a chamber pot were being emptied into the street. Incidentally the reason it's called a loo.

Rue Saint Sulpice Road in Paris' 6th Arrondissement featuring the impressive church Saint Sulpice

Pardieu "By God" (2nd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 38 times)

Diable "Devil" (3rd most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 19 times)

Dieu ait son âme "God rest his soul"

Mon ami "My friend" (used by one of the four to refer to another 22 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", most often Athos to d'Artagnan)

Morbleu A polite version of "mordieu" "God's death", substituting "bleu" (blue) for "Dieu" to avoid blasphemy (6th most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 10 times)

Mon Dieu "My God" (most common curse in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", used 72 times)

Mon cher "My dear" (used by one of the four to refer to another 78 times in "Les Trois Mousquetaires", 19 times by Aramis)

With many thanks to my wonderful beta Marigoldfaucet. Without her this chapter would have been written in approximately seven massive and massively confusing paragraphs.