Pierced
A/N: An entry to the April Fetes de Mousquetaires Contest with the theme "Coup de Foudre" (literally "strike of lightning" or figuratively "love at first sight"). My gratitude to Issai for her beta-reading skills. The mistakes are all mine. Also the only thing worse than my French is probably my Italian. Thank you for your generosity on my language deficiences.
Claudio Monteverdi is credited for developing the first work we would know now as Opera. L'Orfeo is the tragic story of Orpheus's descent to the underworld to beg Hades to spare his love, Euridice, from death. If you would like to listen to the music that so captivates Aramis and D'Artagnan in this story, you can find it on youtube: youtube dot com / watch?v=3Ma4OelX45I: listen to the opening overture, then forward to 31:40, the entrance of Euridice (Eurydice) if you want to cut to the chase.
One
She was exquisite. He had noticed her immediately as she disembarked from the carriage. Her dark hair loosely plated and falling over her exposed shoulder and trailing down to her waist. The green brocade dress was chosen perfectly to accent her dark hair and alabaster skin, the bodice revealing enough to show the tops of her rosy breasts but not so risqué as to leave nothing to the imagination. And Aramis was full of imagination.
He was supposed to have followed the others to get their orders from Treville but he paused just before the arched entrance to the west wing, his comrades walking off toward the garden while she went inside. He hesitated a moment his eyes following her fluid movements as she made her way down the corridor with the rest of her company. There was nothing for it – he followed her.
She paused at the foot of a grand staircase that would lead her to the guest apartments, putting a hand to the balustrade as she bent to adjust her shoe. She called up to her companions to go on, she would catch up, her voice lyrical around the swirling Italian vowels of her native tongue. Aramis didn't hesitate, he stepped before he and offered a deep bow, asking if he might be of assistance.
She looked at him and her brown eyes captured whatever was left in him to resist her. Her French was poor, but her Italian was close enough to Spanish that he knew she had a pebble in her slipper. He took the offending object from her hand, tipping it and tapping and then running a finger inside to be sure no more gravel had made its way in. He was on his knee before her then, grasping her delicate ankle as he raised her foot to rest upon his thigh. Gently he cupped her heel, slipping the shoe over her foot while she complained of him tickling her.
She flashed him a smile that lit the world and said she was now unsure where to go. Her friends had abandoned her to her fate with the handsome soldier who had come to her aid. He smiled at her compliment and offered to help her find her rooms. He tucked her hand around his arm and escorted her up the stairs. She thanked him and he bowed deeply then raised his face and took her hand in his, pressing his lips upon her knuckles in a shameless open-mouthed kiss. She took in a small sigh and her cheeks flushed – her desire for him as evident as his for her.
He knew he could not linger – had already been too long as it was. She asked him to stay anyway, but he promised to return that evening, after supper. He rose and slipped his hand down her cheek and she nuzzled into his palm like a young fawn pressing against her mother's neck.
He raced down the stairs to find the others, whispering her name to himself, 'Sofia', over and over again like a melody stuck in his heart. When they made love that night, the windows of her apartment open to the heady scents of the garden below, it was as if he was lost in another world. When they talked well into morning, piecing together the conversation in a canto of three languages, he knew he was lost to her completely.
Two
"We're in trouble," Porthos said under his breath, trying not to disturb anyone around them.
"What?" D'Artagnan hissed, frustrated at having the performance interrupted yet again by Porthos. They were on guard duty at the palace for a very special evening. The famous Italian composer Claudio Monteverdi had brought the court musicians of Florence to visit Paris for a special performance of his opera L'Orfeo to celebrate Louis and Anne's marriage anniversary. Opera was a new form, where the story was entirely sung, and everyone at court was excited for the opportunity to see it. D'Artagnan had not known any music or art outside of the folk music of Gascony and he was completely fascinated by the sounds and spectacle in the King's music hall each time he was assigned to duty there.
And right now, the sounds were amazing. That human voices could make such music was beyond anything D'Artagnan had ever experienced. Athos had explained the story to him, that it was from ancient Greece. Orfeo marries his beloved Euridice, but tragedy falls on their wedding day when she is bitten by a poisonous snake. She dies and Orfeo must travel to the underworld to beg for Hades to give her back. This part now, though D'Artagnan did not speak Italian, was Euridice telling her husband she was dying. The woman singing was breathtaking. Long, dark hair draping over her body, her movements graceful and precise. But her voice! It was so beautiful it was painful, and the sorrow that colored it was more powerful than the tears that flowed from her eyes. D'Artagnan was entranced.
Porthos, on the other hand, had not been pleased. He had little care for music other than the occasional bawdy song in a tavern and found enduring "high art" to be worse than having to accompany the King on one of his mostly fictitious hunts. At least there was a horse involved on those days. Dressing up and having to be polite and interested through two hours of opera was more than Porthos was prepared to bear. Instead of focusing on the music, or the singing, or even the spectacular scenery, Porthos seemed to be biding his time by looking at anything but the opera.
"Over there," Porthos whispered, "Look,"
"What are you talking about?" D'Artagnan mouthed, eyes scanning the room for any possible signs of trouble. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Everyone was focused on the performance, even Louis was showing no sign of restlessness. "Everything's fine. Stop."
"No, no, over there," Porthos said, motioning to the left with his head, "Aramis. We're in trouble," he repeated.
D'Artagnan shifted slightly so that he could catch the marksman in his line of sight. The musketeer was still, his attention riveted on the stage. His hands hung loosely at his sides, his features were soft, lips parted. He was enraptured. D'Artagnan did not think he had ever seen the marksman so centered and still except perhaps in the moment before he made an impossible musket shot. The intensity of the man's focus was palpable even from across the room.
"So, he likes the music," D'Artagnan muttered, "so does everyone else. Now stop."
"That's not love of music on his face," Porthos said darkly, "that's just love. He's smitten. And Aramis in love means trouble for the rest of us. Mark my words."
Three
After the performance, Athos waited for the other musketeers in the main hallway outside of the concert hall. The King and Queen had retired to their rooms to change for dinner – it was to be a splendid celebration that would go deep into the night. They had a short time for a meal together in the palace kitchens before returning to duty for the night.
D'Artagnan and Porthos found Athos quickly, the former looking bright-eyed and eager and the latter looking so utterly bored and annoyed that Athos couldn't help but flash a rare smile.
"I see you enjoyed your first opera," he said, putting a hand to the big man's shoulder.
"If listening to screaming cats for two hours is something you can enjoy, then yes," Porthos grumbled.
"It was incredible," D'Artagnan said, his enthusiasm for the experience dancing in his eyes, "I had no idea singing could be like that." Athos offered him a fond smile, glad he had taken the time to explain the story to his protégé and enjoying the unbridled joy in his young friend's face. It was a rare thing to see in a soldier's life.
"Where's Aramis?" Athos asked, looking behind them toward the concert hall.
"Congratulating his Signorina, I suspect," Porthos said, rolling his eyes. Athos raised a brow to that.
"Surely you are not jealous of his time or companionship," Athos asked, only a slight upturn of his lips indicating he was being playful with his friend.
Porthos snorted. "Jealous, no! But Athos, this is a problem. He's serious about this."
"It's been a fortnight," D'Artagnan offered, "How serious can he possibly be?"
"You don't know Aramis," Porthos said, shaking his head.
Athos had to admit that Aramis's devotion to the lady had been extreme even for him. They had barely seen him since Monteverdi and his company had arrived two weeks ago. He spoke little of her, which was often a sign of his deep affection. While he was well known for his conquests and escapades, in true matters of the heart, Aramis would keep his own confidences. But even if Porthos was right and Aramis had truly fallen for the beautiful Italian soprano, she and her company were returning to Florence tomorrow. There would be nothing for it but to make sure they got Aramis good and drunk to help ease what would be an aching heart. At this they were quite practiced.
The crowd in the hall had thinned out considerably and Athos spotted Aramis finally making his way toward them. He looked surprisingly content, not forlorn that he was about to have his last evening with his beloved singer. For all that Athos could usually read Aramis like an open book, in matters of the heart he still could remain a mystery.
"Apologies, mes amis" Aramis said as he joined them, "I was caught up in conversation."
"Is that what you call it now?" Porthos said, reaching over to smudge a bit of red pigment from Aramis's cheek, "Must have been a very intense conversation for her to get that close." Aramis raised his hands and gave a shrug, not showing the least bit of embarrassment.
"I'm hungry enough to eat an entire roasted pig," D'Artagnan said, "Let's go." D'Artagnan forged ahead with Porthos close on his heels. As Aramis moved to follow, Athos put a restraining hand on the marksman's sleeve.
"I have to check the upper colonnade first, would you accompany me?" Athos asked. He knew any other man would just take it as an order but with Aramis, he was sure it would still be seen as a request. The marksman gave him a broad smile and a nod of the head.
"Lead on," he said with a flourish, his ebullient mood making him all smiles and acquiescence. Athos hoped it was not for show, that deep down Aramis was prepared for what would be the inevitable end of this romance.
They made their way to the upper floor, Aramis smiling at people as they passed by and stopping to offer compliments to everyone from the ladies of the court to the chamber maid hurrying on with her business. Athos had to admit that he had missed this open warmth from his friend. Since the departure of Adele Bessett some weeks ago, Aramis had just not had the same joie de vivre that they were all accustomed to. His declaration of love for her had seemed so off the cuff that he and Porthos had not taken him seriously, but his mood since she had left had spoke of the deep hurt he had felt. In retrospect, Athos realized that Aramis was not one to declare love lightly. He should have been more empathetic.
The upper colonnade was essentially a crossover space for members of the court to move easily from their apartments to the east wing of the palace. Athos was not expecting danger, but it always struck him as worthy of a walk-through on those days when there was much business about the palace. Right now it was mostly deserted as the court had retired to their chambers to relax and re-dress prior to dinner and the subsequent evening festivities. It would be a sleepless night for all of them. While the empty hallway seemed to hold no threats, it did offer an opportunity for quiet conversation.
"Signorina Moretti has an exquisite voice," Athos said, "It certainly matches her beauty."
Aramis smiled deeply and sighed, "It is angelic," he answered, "Truly no one born of this earth should be graced with such a voice."
"You are lucky then to have made her acquaintance so thoroughly," Athos replied, a hint of humor in his eye at his suggestive choice of words. Aramis's smile turned wistful.
"Luck, fate who is to say, mon ami," Aramis answered, "All I know is that we are meant to be together."
"That is a strong statement," Athos said.
"It is a strong love," Aramis replied simply.
"She leaves tomorrow," Athos answered, a question hanging in his voice.
Aramis stopped, taking his hat off and raking a hand through his unruly black curls. Athos paused and turned, watching him as he shifted his gaze to rest anywhere but on Athos's face. Athos could see plainly his friend was struggling.
"Tell me," Athos said, no preamble needed.
"I love her," Aramis said matter-of-factly, "I have loved her since the moment I laid eyes on her and I cannot let her go. Not tomorrow, not ever." Aramis looked up at Athos, eyes full of determination even as worry played across his face.
Half a dozen thoughts crossed Athos's mind. It was too soon to declare love. He hardly knew her. What would her father say? What of his career, his future, his responsibility, his duty? Half a dozen thoughts that were verbatim what his father had said when he declared his love for Anne. Half a dozen thoughts that had driven an irreparable wedge between them.
"And your plan?" he said instead, letting a warm, heartfelt smile reach his lips. A smile for the sake of love and brotherhood because he wished nothing less but happiness for his reckless, headstrong brother. And he wished to leave him always with a place to come home to.
Aramis's countenance transformed from one of doubt and fear to one of pure, unrepentant joy. His eyes danced as he heard Athos's tacit acceptance in the simple question.
"I leave with the company tomorrow," Aramis said, grinning broadly, "We travel on to Luxembourg and then Geneva. Vienna, London, Barcelona and Amsterdam. Maestro Monteverdi has already promised me a place as his aid and personal guard. I will see all of Europe before we return to Firenze and her father's home," Aramis's pace had picked up in his excitement and Athos thought it was much like how his younger brother Thomas had described his plans for a new great house once he married Catherine.
"And what of her father?" Athos had to ask because as much as he wanted to offer unconditional support, he also had a deep need to protect those that he loved and Aramis to him suddenly seemed more vulnerable and young than a soldier of his experiences ever could be.
"She will write him tomorrow before we leave Paris. He will be thrilled. He dotes on her. Do you know that in Italy, like England, she would not be allowed to sing on stage if she did not have the approval of her father? The female roles are sung by men, the castrato."
"Castrato?" Athos asked.
"Boys who give up their manhood in order to preserve their soprano singing voices," Aramis explained, "Despite objections, her father encouraged her, supported her to tour with Maestro Monteverdi. He is very progressive and he can deny her nothing," Aramis was confident, unshaken in his faith in her, "Barone Moretti has a maniero in Toscana. He is a cousin of Marie de' Medici so very well respected. We will live on his estate and Sofia promises he will welcome me as a son. Our wedding will be in the Fall," he smiled.
Would he welcome a soldier, a French musketeer no less, who was from a regiment sworn to protect the King that his cousin had birthed then tried to depose? Would he accept the bastard son of a French noble who had been raised in a brothel by his Spanish mother? Would he see in Aramis the man he truly was and not the circumstances that life had served him?
"You will not miss soldiering?" Athos asked instead, meaning will you not miss us, my brother, as we – as I – am sure to miss you?
Aramis knew the heart of the words, stepped close to Athos and put a hand to his shoulder, "I will miss it terribly," he said, a sadness tingeing his eyes despite all the joy that remained on his face, "and I will not forget it, ever."
Athos put a hand behind Aramis's head and leaned forward to kiss him on the temple. The kiss was a blessing, and a prayer for protection as much as Athos could ever say he prayed. They parted and Athos tapped him on the shoulder.
"Shall we to dinner," Athos asked with a rare smile, "and to tell the others?"
Aramis hesitated, twirling his hat uncomfortably in his hands. "I'll tell them tomorrow before I leave," he said, looking down at his feet, "I don't think I can bear . . . I just want tonight for everything to be as it is for one last time." Aramis looked up, a need for permission, for reassurance, for Athos's strength in what was perhaps one of the most difficult moments in his life. Athos wondered why he was always the bearer of secrets.
"Of course," he said warmly, putting a hand over Aramis's shoulder as they resumed their walk down the corridor. Athos felt the weight of leadership heavy on his shoulders as he knew tomorrow's dawn would require all his strength if those who remained were to survive intact.
Four
Dinner was raucous. They drank too much wine for men who were due on guard duty. Aramis tested his skill as a marksman by tossing peas into the wine cups of the red guard at the next table. An unfortunate shot landed on the long nose of one Henri Dupuis but before an argument could start, Porthos took up a bet and soon everyone was proposing impossible shots and exchanging coins as wagers were made and lost.
Aramis shocked D'Artagnan with tales of battle and conquest that he had waged in the bedrooms of Paris. Athos told the story of the first time they had to stitch up Porthos and Porthos retaliated by putting Aramis in a headlock. D'Artagnan's laugh was infectious, Porthos's terrifying and loud. Aramis could not look happier and Athos realized they were celebrating his bridegroom night – the last night of freedom for a bachelor before his wedding day.
Supper was not long enough, but it could have gone on all night and still not have been enough.
Five
She lay tangled in his arms as sounds of the party drifted up from the garden. Her leg wrapped around his thigh, her torso draped over his side and her hair scattered around them like summer grasses in an open meadow. He cupped her breast in his hand and marveled at the perfection of it. She sighed into his neck and he let his hand drift to her soft belly and thought how it might feel when it was rounded with the swell of a child he had put there.
Six
Treville's face was like thunder when he found Athos by the grand staircase.
"What?" Athos asked, hand shifting of its own accord to the hilt of his rapier.
"We have a problem," Treville said, low enough for only the lieutenant to hear, "Two red guards were killed in the city tonight."
"That is hardly our problem," Athos said, "We have been here all night."
Treville did not look amused. "They were found in a back alley behind the foundry, stripped of their uniforms."
"You think they are here," it was not a question and Athos already knew the answer anyway.
"'We need to shift the guard. I want the king doubly protected. Where are the others?" Athos knew which musketeers Treville was referring to.
"D'Artagnan and Porthos are near the fountain in the garden. I assigned Aramis to the west wing," specifically the guest apartments but Athos did not feel he needed to add that.
"I'll take D'Artagnan and Porthos and we'll reposition by the dais. You get Aramis and find those men. Keep it quiet, we don't need the entire court panicking." Treville stormed off and Athos hoped that Aramis had had the good sense to not dally longer than the hour that he had given him.
Seven
They had searched for two hours and still no sign of the men or of anything remiss. It was well into the small hours of the morning, but the King's anniversary party showed no sign of abating. As the lords and ladies of the court fell deeper into their cups, it became more difficult for Athos and Aramis to remain unnoticed. Particularly Aramis who was the target of most of the drunken affection of both courtiers and courtesans they encountered in the grounds.
As Athos watched as Aramis set yet another inebriated Comtess on her wobbly way toward the last known position of her husband, he felt a growing sense of dread. There were too many people, too many possibilities and this search had been taking too long. With the rest of the musketeers guarding the King, they had been forced to rely on the red guard to aid the search. They were not ideal, but since it was two of their own who had been killed, they were at least motivated.
But so far they had turned up nothing, not even a hint of something being out of place, and Athos was beginning to wonder if they had been looking in the wrong place. Perhaps the death of the red guards and the theft of the uniforms had nothing to do with the palace at all?
"We have been through the grounds three times. I'm beginning to think there is nothing to find," Aramis said, echoing Athos's thoughts.
"What other target could there be?" Athos said trying to puzzle out someone else's plan with almost no information to go on, "Every important noble and dignitary is here, in this garden, at this party."
"Maybe a prison break from the Chatelet?" Aramis offered "A robbery of Paris maison, theft from the treasury?" Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face, "Mon ami, the possibilities are endless. But the King and Queen are well guarded, they are surrounded by musketeers. A red guard could not get within five toises of the King without being spotted. This search is fruitless."
Athos considered a moment, something clicking in his mind about what Aramis just said, "If I were planning to assassinate Louis, I'd take the uniform of a musketeer."
"As a red guard could not get close, especially once the plot was discovered," Aramis said thoughtfully, catching on to Athos's train of thought.
"So who can I get close to in the uniform of a red guard?" Athos said.
"The Cardinal," Aramis breathed, a wry smile playing across his face, "We've been looking in the wrong place."
"Where is Richelieu now," Athos asked, hand on his hip as his eyes raked over the grounds again.
"He hates these affairs," Aramis said, "Excuses himself as early as possible. I haven't seen him since after dinner."
"His quarters," Athos said, everything falling into place, "Let's go and let us hope we are not already too late."
The two men took off at a light jog back toward the palace. They could only hope that they would be in time to interrupt a plot, not sound the death knell of the Cardinal. While neither man had any love for him, their duty to the King and to France was clear and they would protect Richelieu at all costs.
As they approached the entrance to the palace apartments, Athos noticed a light in the distance where there should not have been one. He paused, putting a hand to Aramis's arm to get the marksman to stop.
"What's that?" he asked, indicating with his head toward the distant light.
"The boat house," Aramis answered, "but no one should be there at this time of night. Although it could just be another courtier looking for a quiet place for an assignation," Aramis seemed to speak of experience, but Athos did not think they could take the chance.
"Go. Check it out," Athos ordered, "I'll head to the Cardinal's apartments. We'll meet back here if we find nothing." Aramis acknowledged his friend with a dip of his head and a look that clearly told the lieutenant to be careful. They trusted each other to watch their backs and splitting up always gave them any of them an uneasy feeling. But that was hardly enough to keep them from their duty. They ran off in opposite directions – Athos toward the palace and Aramis down the path toward the boat house.
Eight
As he made his way down the path toward the boathouse, Aramis felt himself smiling. He loved the feeling of his heart beating wildly, the niggle of fear in the pit of his stomach, the anticipation of raising pistol and sword and engaging in combat. He never felt more alive than at those moments and here, at this last night of being a musketeer, he could not help but relish the battle fever this one last time.
As he approached, movement to his right caught his eye and he slowed, stepping off the path and nestling himself in the shadow of an oak tree. A figure was moving on the path by the lake, the one that led from the palace. It was hooded, but the lithe form and graceful movements could only be those of a woman. This confirmed his initial suspicions that the light in the boat house was merely that of a courtier waiting for his lover. He himself had visited there often enough. He considered immediately turning back to catch up with Athos when a shift in the breeze caught the edge of the woman's hood, stripping from around her head. The bright moon shone off plaited black hair and Aramis stopped breathing. Sofia.
She should not be out here, not alone, not this far from the festivities but then he remembered their encounter here only three days ago. He had made love to her by the edge of the water – her skirts hitched up over her hips and her back against the side of the boathouse. She had loved being taken like that, saying she felt all the world opened to her as her ecstasy became that of sun, water, sky and forest. They had lingered there for a long time, talking of a bright future full of music and freedom. They made love again laying in the warm sunlight, the rough boards of the dock gentled by Aramis's cloak beneath his back. She had loved the seclusion of this place, said it was the perfect spot to hold all of her secrets. He was not surprised that this passionate creature would come back now on the eve of their departure, by the light of the full moon, to whisper her heart's desires once more to the silvery waters.
But who then was already in the boathouse?
Aramis thought to call out, to warn her, but realized he would also be alerting whoever was inside. It still could be just another romantic couple, but if it was the duo they were seeking, Sofia would instantly be a target. She was just right there, only steps from the entrance. Aramis drew his pistol and ran toward her just as she reached the latch and opened the door. As she slipped inside Aramis felt his heart in his throat.
But no shouts of alarm or cries of fear came from the building. Aramis slowed his pace, cautiously approaching so as to avoid being seen from one of the windows inset into the side. He circled toward the front entrance, pressing his back against the wall and listening at the partially open doorway. He could hear Sofia's melodious voice murmuring something and caught the lilt of her laughter. Aramis let out a breath he did not know he had been holding. She was fine. Safe. Talking and laughing with whomever she had discovered here. But until those renegades were found it was not safe for her or anyone else to be wandering around out here alone. He stepped inside.
She stood in a pool of lantern light that carved a warm, protective circle inside the shadowy building. Her hood was pushed back and gemstones sparkled in her hair. Her skin was golden in the soft light, her profile a study in the perfection of the human form. His entire body immediately responded to her presence, as it had since the first moment he had laid eyes upon her.
She was holding a pistol out in front of her, a steady hand directing it between the eyes of Cardinal Richelieu who dangled insensate between two red guards.
"Sofia," her name escaped from his lips like a desperate prayer. She turned her head at the sound of her name but her arm remained unwavering.
"Il mio amore, you should not be here," Sofia's voice was tender but strong, like mother to child, "Go back to my bed, mio cuore." Her smile was achingly beautiful.
"Sofia, whatever has happened, this is not the way" Aramis said as his chest tightened and his gut twisted. His mind played out dozens of scenarios as to the scene before him. She was being blackmailed to this by some former lover. She was misled or confused, under the influence of some herb or poison. Richelieu had ravaged her and this was her revenge. Anyone of these could be true, would remain true, as long as she did not fire that gun, "Let me help you, querida. I'll stand with you. We will go to the King. No harm has yet been done. . . ." She let out a sharp gasp, distress replacing the calm strength that had been in her face before.
"No harm has been done?" she was incredulous, "Do you not know the sins this supposed man of God has committed? The evil that he inflicts on this world? Are you not yourself a man of faith? How do you let him live, mio cuore, how? How can you be nothing but joyous that I am about to send this traitor to the pits of hell?" Her dark eyes flashed and she drew herself up with righteous anger, looking nothing less than a vengeful angel about to dispatch a wretched sinner to eternal punishment.
Too many of her words rang true, too many of them he had thought himself. How often had faith and conscience warred with duty when it came to Richelieu? How many of their problems would be solved if he walked away and let her pull the trigger? He was done with this life. Richelieu was no longer his concern and striking the head off that viper was a service to the brothers he was leaving behind. But one word held him.
"Traitor?" Aramis said, trying to puzzle out why that, of all things, was the word that she had chosen.
"To France," Sofia said, her voice hard and her eyes narrowed, "He betrayed France the day he betrayed my Godmother."
"Marie de' Medici," Aramis said it on a sigh, "Your father's cousin."
"Yes, and my Godmother. More than that, mio cuore, the only mother that I have truly known. She told me everything that Richelieu has done, that he did to her. He humiliated her, stole her son from her, stole the crown of France from her and she will be avenged!" Sofia turned her head back to the Cardinal, slightly raising the pistol as she sighted down the short barrel, "And when he is gone, she will return to her rightful place."
Aramis felt each word like a small knife wound to his gut. Her rage pierced him as deeply as cupid's arrow had pierced his heart. He felt cold, felt the tremors up his spine as surely as if his body was bleeding from the wounds of a dozen arrows like St. Sebastian tied to the tree. But he was no saint and there was no heavenly reward for what he was about to do.
He drew his pistol, aiming at the heart of the woman he loved.
"Sofia," he begged, "Stop." His hand shook but he held his aim.
"Ti amo, mio amato," the melody returned to her voice, the love to her eyes as she turned her head to him, "But mia famiglia, mio onore, mio dovere – they come before all." She turned her eyes again to her target.
The crack and bang of the pistol startled them both. Aramis let out a gasp as she staggered back, blood blossoming from her stomach where his hands had been just hours ago. She gave a soft cry and blood bubbled on her lips even as her eyes locked on his for a moment before their light faded and she crumpled to the ground.
Time froze.
Then chaos. One of the men holding the cardinal yelled out in Italian, taking the lantern in his hand and hurling it to the ground at Aramis's feet. It shattered, splashing oil and flame over the floorboards and onto Aramis's clothes. More gunshots and shouting and both men holding the cardinal collapsed in heap. Men rushed in despite the fire.
Athos was there, at his side. Grabbing him by the collar, pulling him from the building, throwing him to the ground. Athos rolled him in his cloak, desperately patting out the flames trying to take hold of his clothing all the while calling out his name, asking if he was alright, where else he was hurt. Aramis was trying to remember how to breathe and if he even wanted to.
Athos slapped him hard across the face and he took in a shuddering breath, then another as flames consumed the boathouse and they sat on the ground outside, Athos supporting him by a hand to the shoulder, his eyes trying to find something in his face.
"Aramis," Athos was urgent.
"I killed her," he choked out, tears forming in his eyes as he searched Athos's steel blue gaze as if to find a strength there that he no longer had.
"No mon ami, no," Athos said, giving him a small shake, "You did not fire. I killed her."
Confusion washed over him as Aramis looked down to the pistol still clutched in his hand. He stared at it, the striker still locked in place, no smoke or char on the cord. He tossed it to the ground, grabbing Athos by the doublet with both hands, pulling him closer.
"Why!" he howled, "How could you do this! I loved her!"
"Aramis!" Athos was gruff, grabbing at his hands, "No man should be forced to kill the woman he loves. No man should." They stared at each other, too many emotions, too much conflict rippling between them. Aramis started to breathe too rapidly, too shallow. He fought tears but it was in vain. His grip changed and he was no longer threatening Athos but clinging to him for stability, an anchor in his despair. Athos pulled his head to his chest, murmuring to him again "No man can live with that, Aramis. No man," he whispered.
They stayed like that for a long moment, silhouetted by the raging flames of the boathouse behind them.
Nine
The Cardinal reached out a shaky hand and picked up the bottle of brandy, pouring himself another generous glass. He was hunched up in his chair behind his desk, still in his night clothes and wrapped in a brocade blanket. A compliment of red guards was arranged around the room, and two monks were fussing with a bandage they were trying to affix around his head. He winced when one hit a particularly tender spot and shooed them off with a growl and a wave of his hand. He took a deep swallow of brandy then returned his attention to Captain Treville.
"I knew I should have never let the Italians back at court," Richelieu said into his glass, "Are you sure you have rounded up everyone involved?"
"There was no one else. We found letters in the woman's apartments detailing the plot and identifying the other participants. She had gold in her possession for payment upon services rendered," Treville was certain they had been thorough.
"Marie de' Medici," the Cardinal mused, "When are we ever going to be free of her meddling?"
"When she's dead," Treville said simply, "There is something else though," he passed the Cardinal a folded letter, the Medici seal broken, "It is a letter of thanks to Sofia Moretti and within she says moving against you is the first step in clearing the path for her return. There is a broader plot at work here."
"Intrigues within intrigues. Can always count on the Italians for that," the Cardinal scanned the letter, face wrinkling in disgust. He tossed it to his desk and fixed a sharp eye on Treville. "No one must know about this. Not about the attempt on my life. Not about this plot. There are those in Paris who might still rally to her cause. We cannot fuel unrest."
"And the King?" Treville asked
"I'll deal with it. The last thing he needs is to worry about the return of his beloved mother," the sarcasm was clear in the Cardinal's response. He flicked his eyes to the two men standing behind Treville, "And you two, I supposed I have you to thank for my rescue?"
Aramis felt Athos's grip tighten around his arm and realized his attention was needed somewhere. His mind had been drifting during Treville's report. He had lost sense of time, of what was said. He wasn't actually thinking anything. He just felt blank, empty, worn, like crumpled parchment. Athos's hand had kept him from straying too far and now the slight pain where he dug his fingers into the soft flesh under his arm pulled Aramis back into his body, into the room. He found the Cardinal's gaze on him and gave a slight bow, following suit to Athos's gesture. What was he saying?
"I suppose I owe you my thanks then," the Cardinal's sharp eyes raking over them.
"We did nothing less than our duty demanded," Athos replied dryly with a slight dip of his head.
"I'm sure," the Cardinal offered a quick, cold smile, "You understand the need for secrecy? You will tell no one of this?"
"Of course," Athos responded, a matching smile of his own.
Aramis said nothing, not caring about the Cardinal's intrigues or orders. Another squeeze of his arm was Athos's way of telling him he must respond. Aramis looked up, catching the Cardinal's gaze and giving a dip of his head. He would acquiesce to anything to get out of this room.
Something in Aramis's countenance must have caught the Cardinal's attention as his eyes narrowed and he pushed himself to sit back in his chair. "I hear rumor that you were bedding the Moretti woman," the Cardinal said, his eyes now holding a challenge, "I would hate to see you implicated in this somehow."
Aramis felt the stirrings of anger swelling in his belly and he swallowed hard, aware that anything he said now could, in fact, do just that. He knew well enough that the Cardinal held no love for him. The veiled threat likely had no teeth as there was no evidence to find of his participation, but Richelieu would not pass by this opportunity to twist the knife into Aramis's gut regardless. Athos had shifted his grip, it was now on Aramis's forearm, staying it on the hilt of his rapier. Aramis did not remember moving to draw.
"If Aramis took as many lovers as the court seems to speculate he does, he would have no time for his duties as a musketeer," Athos's voice held enough disdain to show what he thought of listening to rumors. Richelieu took this in, once more raking his eyes over Aramis.
"He does not look well," he said with a slight pinch to his face, as if he smelled something unpleasant.
"Aramis was wounded in the course of your rescue. If we are quite through, I'd like to see to him," the challenge was clear in Athos's voice. The Cardinal looked as if he wanted to protest further, but Treville stepped forward and gave Athos a nod of dismissal.
Athos gave Aramis a small tug and his body responded, letting Athos lead him from the Cardinal's office and down the long corridor to the outdoor colonnade. They walked in silence, boots echoing on the flagstone as the morning sun rose and birds called.
They were halfway to the stables before Aramis felt the first wave of grief wash over him with such intensity he staggered in his steps, a pained sigh escaping his lips and a hand pressed to his chest. His legs felt as if they might buckle and Athos's sure grip on his shoulders was the only thing that kept him standing. Athos maneuvered him a few steps backward and Aramis found his back pressed along the length of one of the columns while Athos held him upright. His breath came in long, ragged gasps as ripples unrelenting sorrow clutched at his heart. He fought back tears, rage, the urge to howl. He fought all of his feelings and tried desperately to find his center in a tempest of raw emotions. He leaned his forehead on Athos's shoulder and a strong hand held the back of his neck.
"Oh God, this hurts," he moaned into Athos's shoulder.
"I know, brother," Athos said, his hand tightening on Aramis's neck, "I know."
Ten
Aramis spent the better part of three days drunk in Athos's apartments, assigned to light duty by a concerned Treville. The Captain did not fully know what had passed but knew enough about his men to honor Athos's request.
By the second day, Athos could not keep the others at bay and Porthos and D'Artagnan joined them each evening. Aramis was not particularly forthcoming, but Porthos knew him well enough to know that Sofia Moretti's departure with Maestro Monteverdi's company was at the root. If Aramis seemed more deeply affected than was typical, Porthos chose not to bring it up. D'Artagnan, who was new to the loves and losses of Aramis, took the drunken sighs and moans at face value, just as he did the jokes and ribbing that Aramis offered up in equal measure.
Four days later, Aramis returned to the practice yard. The morning sun was warm and inviting as he stripped off his leathers and buckled his sword belt over his flowing shirt. Aramis looked fresh, rested, and ready to spar. D'Artagnan was already at center, going through a set of drills as he waited for Aramis to join him.
Porthos sat in their usual spot, his back to the table, sipping a cup of ale. He watched Aramis as he prepared, giving the marksman a thorough once over. The signs of distress had seemed to pass, his skin no longer pale and his eyes not full of too many emotions to read. Still, something nagged at him.
"She was beautiful, Sofia Moretti," Porthos said, contemplating his friend as Aramis paused in his preparation, raising his brow at the unexpected statement, "The kind of woman you can lose yourself in."
"Yes," Aramis said, the sad smile that Porthos had seen in the last few days sliding again over Aramis's face. Aramis picked up the pitcher on the table and poured himself some ale.
"The kind of woman you might travel to hell and back for," Porthos said.
"L'Orfeo is just a story, Euridice was just a role she played," Aramis's voice was flat, but Porthos knew something was hidden beneath a calm surface.
"Would you have done it?" Porthos asked. He suddenly had a desperate need to know because the answer would change everything, "Followed her?"
Aramis gave the ale in his cup a slight swirl and raised it to his lips, polishing it off in a long swallow. He looked back into the empty cup a moment, then set it down firmly on the table. He looked at Porthos, intense dark eyes lending a fierceness to his gaze.
"No," Aramis said. He turned on his heel and moved into the courtyard.
Porthos watched Aramis draw his blades, beckoning to D'Artagnan with a smile and a laugh. As he watched them spar he saw nothing less than the fluid grace and deadly skill he would expect from his friend. The blades rang in the morning air, measuring out the staccato music of the life of a musketeer.
Mia famiglia, mio onore, mio dovere – my family, my honor, my duty