Two days. It had been two days and the image hadn't left his mind, no, not his mind, his eyes. It was printed on his retina: pale blue eyes losing their light, their life in an otherwise already dead white face. Athos couldn't remember anything else but the eyes. Eyes which had once been full of so many expressions, eyes which had once looked at him with affection or anger, with understanding or irritation, with sadness or joy, with pride or disapproval, eyes which had always looked at him like a father's eyes would look at a son ... but eyes which hadn't looked at him once in their last moments of life.

Athos tried to breathe but something kept his chest from expanding enough to let the air enter his lungs. He slipped a finger into his collar to loosen it but it had nothing to do with his clothes. He wanted to close his eyes but the vision was still there. It had kept him away from his bed, even though he knew he needed rest. Two days without a real sleep, two days during which he had only dozed because his body needed it and had dragged him towards short intermittent moments of oblivion against his will.

The courtyard was noisy and men were running around him. Life continued. He leaned against the wall of the stables, letting the cold stone soothe his agitated nerves.

"Captain!"

The word itself shocked him. For him, the Captain was still Tréville, he had always felt as if his charge was just temporary, as if he was there only to keep things right during Tréville's absence. He turned around abruptly making the world dance around him and he felt a nausea making its way up his throat. He swallowed to chase the burning sensation of acid saliva.

"Yes." He croaked and his voice seemed to astonish the young cadet who had spoken.

"Er … I'm sorry, Captain, you are requested at the palace."

Athos sighed and the insignificant amount of air which left his lungs surprised him.

"Will you be alright, Captain?" The young cadet asked.

Athos stared at him with a blank expression, just letting his eyes watch the freckles on the boy's cheeks, his brown eyes, the scar on his left eyelid which nearly closed it, making him look older, and his orange mop of hair sticking out in every directions as if he had just left his bed.

"Captain?"

Athos came back to his senses and he breathed again.

"Go back to your duty."

The young man bowed his head at the harsh tone, clearly hurt by the behaviour of his Captain, a man who was usually so kind. Athos noticed it and, as the cadet was about to turn around, he caught his elbow.

"I'm sorry, Galland, thank you."

Galland just nodded but a small relieved smile appeared on his lips before he ran towards the smithy.

I need it, I need it but I can't. They need me. I feel so lost. Athos thought gritting his teeth and fighting another nauseous feeling

He walked wearily towards the stables where the new stable boy had already prepared his beautiful friesian. The sight of the shining black coat calmed him a little, he removed his glove and let his hand roam over the silky croup and flank. The black stallion turned his big head to nuzzle his neck and Athos felt his eyes water. Crying. They had all cried. Aramis, bending over Tréville's head had sobbed like a child, his shoulders shaking when he had realised than his skills wouldn't save him this time. Athos had never seen him in this state. D'Artagnan …Athos could still see the horrified expression on the young man's face, the way he had tried to stifle a cry with his gloved hand. He had just lost another father. Athos could understand his despair.

And Porthos … It was Athos who had told Porthos what had happened. He would never forget the way the giant had stared at him with an unbelieving look, the way he had seized the collar of his uniform as if Athos had been responsible for Tréville's death - perhaps he was, after all - and the way he had suddenly curled up, wrapping his arms around Athos as if his Captain was a board allowing him to stay afloat after a wreckage, and he had cried, the giant steady Musketeer, he had cried helplessly against Athos' neck, while the latter held him with all his strength. They were orphans now and the realisation had broken them.

But Athos hadn't cried. Athos couldn't cry. When he had joined Sylvie after they had taken Tréville's body to Le Louvre as requested by the Queen, he had thought that he would, at last, be able to grieve properly. When the young woman had taken his hands into hers, silently lowering her head against his shoulder, he had thought that the thing -as he called it inwardly- which was suffocating him, would leave his body, but nothing. Tell me, Sylvie had said softly, cupping his cheek, but he had averted his eyes and had fled. Once more, he had fled and had taken refuge in his office, throwing himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow, waiting, waiting for something to happen but nothing had happened and the image of Tréville's dying eyes was still printed inside his eyelids.

His horse's soft neighing brought him back to the present . Requested by her Majesty, very well, he would go and do his duty. He led his stallion through the courtyard and ignored Aramis who called him from the stairs.

"Athos!" Aramis tried again.

Athos stopped and waited for his friend to reach him. Aramis put a hand on his shoulder and watched him with concern.

"Are you alright Athos?"

"Perfectly fine." Athos replied dryly, turning around and leaving a stunned and sad Aramis.

He didn't see Porthos coming behind his friend and asking softly:

"How is he?"

"Bad." Aramis' voice was strangled as he watched Athos' hunched figure move away.

"Don't worry, he'll be alright." Porthos tried to reassure him squeezing his shoulder but his voice wasn't as steady as he wished and his eyes as dry as he tried to make them look.

Aramis ran a hand over his face, discreetly wiping his eyelids and Porthos noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

"You know him. I fear that …"

"I know, but we are here, and he has Sylvie too." Porthos tried to reassure him.

"How is d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked changing the subject abruptly. Porthos suspected that he didn't want to talk about Sylvie, it made him frown.

"Like a child who has lost his father a second time, but Constance is watching over him and he works a lot to forget his sorrow."

Aramis sighed and turned around. He would try to do the same: drown himself in work to forget. Porthos watched him leave with worry. He was sad of course, enough to make him sick, enough to make him stare at his ceiling when he should try to sleep, but he had already lost so many people, he would survive this new death.

He turned towards the gates when he heard the heavy hooves of Athos' gigantic black horse. He caught a glimpse of Athos' hair flying in the wind. He addressed a Musketeer coming from the mess and asked:

"Do you know where the Captain is going?"

"The Queen has asked him to go to the palace to organise the funeral."

"Oh. Thank you." Porthos murmured frowning.

He stayed for a while, his arms down by his side, his fingers clenching and unclenching nervously. The atmosphere in the courtyard was eery without the presence of his friends.

"Sir? Where do I store these weapons?" A young voice called.

"In the kitchen, of course." Porthos snarled irritatingly pushing the young cadet towards the armory.

With a last look towards the gates, he followed the young man and prepared himself for a busy afternoon, but an image wouldn't leave his mind: Athos' vacant eyes.

Athos didn't listen. The beautiful porcelain eyes were teary and red rimmed and he was tempted to disappear into them. Words were trying to make their way into his brain but they had no meaning. The Queen was talking about funeral, coffin, homage, noblemen, France, father, King, hate, … words with which Athos' brain couldn't create a single meaningful sentence.

"I can't think of anything else, Athos ... Do you hate me so much? " The Queen whimpered.

What?

"I'am sorry, your Majesty. I was …" Athos stammered blushing deeply.

" Do you hate me so much? These were the last words he heard from my mouth." She repeated, the end of the sentence dissolving into a sob.

She clapped a hand on her mouth and tried to stop her tears from falling. Athos stared at her, frozen. She straightened suddenly, reached out her fine white fingers and gripped his forearm.

"How are you Athos?"

"I'm fine, your Majesty."

"Don't lie to your Queen, Athos." She smiled softly.

He stared at her mouth. Words couldn't enter his brain but images could and it was a disturbing sensation. Everything looked more bright, more clear with a strange relief. He paid attention to things he had never noticed before, like the shape of the Queen's mouth. A tear trembled above her upper lip, shimmering under the light flowing through the high window. Those lips reminded him of the flesh of the peaches he used to steal in the orchard when he was a child . They were vine peaches, with a rosy flesh and a delicate perfume.

He startled when the Queen spoke again.

"Go back to the others and rest. You deserve it, you need it."

He nodded and bowed. He waited until the murmur of the silky black skirt ,the colour of which had the shades of a swallow's feathers, disappeared, then he straightened slowly, feeling the wound on his back stretch painfully.

When he couldn't bear the smells and suffocating atmosphere of the palace anymore, he fled, ignoring a call from a man. Who was he? What did he want? He didn't care. He had to breathe again and he needed to leave those high severe corridors, the carved golden ceiling which seemed to want to crush him, the ballet of the ridiculous wigs and swirling shimmering dresses. He briefly felt disgusted. He knew how those rich fabrics, expensive perfumes and real hair wigs hid stench, filth, cruelty, jealousy and deadly political games. He needed to flee.

Their Captain was so better than them. He was so honest, so brave. He hadn't deserved to die by the hand of a monster, but he had died fighting like a hero like the Captain of the Musketeers he hadn't ceased to be.

What would he have become, prisoner of the inner wars of the palace? Two days before he had saved his country, how many ministers could be proud of such a glorious deed.

The cooling air of the late afternoon welcomed him when he arrived on the doorstep leading to the back of the palace where his horse had been led. He tried to calm his heartbeating and raised his eyes to look at a buzzard or a hawk which was flying in spirals very high in the blue sky. It wasn't the only bird of prey 'hunting' around Le Louvre . The thought made him snort angrily. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair before crossing the courtyard towards the stables. He stopped when a stable boy roared like a rabid dog because a horse had escaped its box. The elegant mare was galloping cheerfully ignoring the boy's screams.

Athos froze. He closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning but the image was still there, behind his eyelids, waiting for him. Pale eyes looking away, pale eyes dying. He tried to stifle a whimper with his gloved hand but he felt sick again. His eyes were dry, his throat was dry. He needed it. Now.

He started to run ignoring the people who were forced to step back. He let his legs carry him through the streets until he arrived in a narrow alley where he stumbled, his feet unable to bear the weight of his body. He tried to steady himself by leaning on a dirty wall. When he looked up, he noticed that it was the wall of an inn. A shabby inn of course, but a place where he could isolate himself amongst strangers who were too busy forgetting their life with the help of cheap alcohol to notice him. He bent his head to enter the low ceilinged filthy room.

"What do we do?" Aramis asked anxiously for the tenth time in less than five minutes.

"He has probably been delayed." Porthos mumbled without conviction.

Aramis ran his hands through his hair and walked towards the corner of the street, coming back a few seconds later, even more agitated.

"It's becoming dark, he should be here now."

"Maybe he is with Sylvie …" Porthos mused.

"Alright, I will go there and at ask her if she has seen him."

"I will search the inns."

Aramis turned around staring at him with wide eyes.

"You think he could … Please tell me he isn't that stupid!"

"It's not stupidity Aramis, it's sorrow. We all have our own ways to cope. Go and tell d'Artagnan before leaving but stop him from coming with us, he must stay here in case Athos comes back." Porthos explained looking towards the young Musketeer's quarters.

A strangled sound coming from Aramis made him look at him. His friend's head was bent, a hand covering his eyes, hidden behind his hair. Porthos approached him gently and parted the matted curls with one finger.

"May I come in?" He whispered.

Aramis snorted and looked up with a sad smile, his eyes shining in the glower of the torches illuminating the courtyard.

"If …"

"No, Aramis, we will find him."

"We can't lose another …"

"No, we won't lose another Captain, I swear. Now, let's find our grieving brother."

TBC