The Musketeers
Three Fingers on One Hand
"Do you know what friendship is?' he asked.
'Yes,' replied the gypsy; 'it is to be brother and sister; two souls
which touch without mingling, two fingers on one hand.'
― Victor Hugo, The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
Book 1 – The Lost Ones xxx
„Home, it's far beyond long lost horizons
Home I'll never see
For I'll be a prisoner of the road
And I hold no key that will ever set me free
Most humbly on my bending knee
I'm begging you to help me, please
For I'm a prisoner of the road
And I hold no key, I hold no key that will ever set me free"
[Prisoner of the Road by Sivert Hoyem]
Paris, May 1625
Athos
The dimly lit room is full of people and stinking. Athos smells stale beer, unwashed bodies, rotten food and vomit. Being able to smell all this means that the room reeks even worse than he himself and that should almost be impossible.
It is loud, too loud and in addition somewhere in this den that is allowed to call itself tavern somebody roars with laughter. Athos shies away from the piercing sound and shrinks back farther into his seat at the wall, trying to melt into it.
The wine tastes like vinegar, but it's at least strong and so he doesn't mind.
He doesn't care about anything at all.
Not the sour reek or how the people cast curious glances at him, nor the brackish food. He doesn't care that at some point during this night they will put him out on the street where he won't be able to do more than collapse right into the dirt, just like the nights before. And even the noise he wouldn't mind if he just didn't have such a headache. But he actually doesn't mind this too, if the pain only wouldn't remind him that he still lived. Because this was not the plan, this was not the plan at all.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
His hand unconsciously goes to the chain around his neck. His fingers feel along its metallic length until they reach the oval silver locket and curl around it. He doesn't need to open it, its content already is ingrained on his retina. Forget-me-not. How should he ever do this? It's a miracle he is still in possession of the necklace. Every day he is doing everything in his power to spend the night in drunken stupor, not caring what death and devil do contrive for the time he is sleeping off his intoxication in one of the back alleys. But nothing happens to him.
Every morning he wakes up, still being alive. It's death himself that is protecting him, he believes. It is his presence. He is staying near to Athos and takes everyone that's coming close. The people around him seem to be aware of this and avoid him as if he had the plague.
His fingers tense around the locket, wishing for it to start blazing, to burn his skin so that he is able to feel something, something above this emptiness, more than the black nothingness inside of him. Forget-me-not. Never.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"Go home!" somebody shouts in his ear and brings him back to the raucous, reeking room. On instinct he sinks deeper against the wall. He raises his eyes, just a little. It's the barmaid. A young, pretty girl, that doesn't fit here. She seems full of life and healthy. When she smiles no teeth are missing and she smiles at most of the guests – besides him, but that doesn't surprise him.
"Another bottle," he orders because the previous one is empty, or if it isn't it soon will be.
The barmaid shakes her head.
"You've had enough!" she remarks and for a moment Athos is too surprised to react. But then he remembers the plan and decides that he can't let this pretty girl stop him from following it through.
"You don't get to decide this!" he bellows, at least he believes that he does. But she isn't impressed and just rolls her eyes.
"That's just what I meant."
She turns away and Athos looks after her, thinking about stopping her, but it's not worth it. He has a goal and if he can't achieve it in this drinking hole then in the next one.
As he stands the world suddenly tilts to the left. He clings to the thankfully steady table and squints his eyes. After a moment it gets better.
He is glad now that it is so crowded, so he can't fall on his way outside. He uses the other guests as support, some mind, others don't, but none of them is hindering him. No one wants to start a fight and Athos is disappointed. He wouldn't be a hard opponent this evening. He would loose. It is tempting.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Although it can't be that much fresher than inside, considering the filth in the street, the air outside is like a punch in the gut and Athos gets a good look at the dirt when he needs to brace himself against a wall in order not to fall into it face first. When he feels better, he looks up. The day draws to a close, but it isn't even really dark yet. He still has some time to complete his mission.
He takes some steps when he hears a noise from a back alley. He can't even fathom why he is turning to it. It's all the same to him what is happening there and he doesn't fully understand what he is looking at anyway.
Three men are standing in the alley, leaning over a fourth. One of them strikes out, flesh hits flesh, somebody is moaning, a stifled cry.
One of the three men suddenly turns to him.
"Back off, tramp!"
Athos suppresses the impulse to turn around and see at whom he is shouting. He still isn't used to being thus addressed. Although he can't really blame the man. He looks like a beggar. A rare glance into a clean window pane confirms it.
The man at the ground makes a gurgling noise and one of the thugs hits him again.
"Whats goin'on?" Without the noise from the tavern around him Athos can hear how slurred the words sound.
"That's none of your business. Bugger off, or you'll be next!"
Athos now notices that the men are wearing red uniforms. 'Red Guards' his mind supplies, 'the troupes of the cardinal'.
"Wha 'e dne?" Athos inquires pointing to the men on the ground. His words are almost unintelligible, but this time on purpose.
"That still is none of your business!" the man in red repeats. He is stepping towards Athos who also has come closer. If the soldier draws his rapier now he won't need more than a step to impale Athos.
'What is the idiot waiting for?', Athos is asking himself.
Meanwhile the idiot's two friends are kicking the man on the ground. One of them is holding a knife in his hand but doesn't seem to know exactly what to do with it. The man on the ground is making urgent panicked noises and Athos is slowly loosing patience.
He comes another step closer and hits his adversary in the stomach. The man seems earnestly surprised as he goes down on his knees with a moan. His two friends turn around and immediately let go of their former victim. The one not holding the knife draws his rapier.
'Finally!'
The kneeling Red Guard hasn't recovered yet and Athos adds a good punch on the nose. While the screaming man is busy holding both hands to his bleeding face Athos borrows his rapier.
The following duel is one-sided. The man with the knife has switched it for his rapier and Athos is mostly busy deflecting their combined attacks. The alley is narrow, the ground slippery and Athos is impeded by the amount of alcohol he did drink. His body is tired due to his excesses of the last weeks and he notices that the two assailants are forcing him to back up. He will loose.
'But that's what you wanted, you blithering idiot!', he thinks. And yet everything in him rebels against it.
When he feels the wall in his back he misses his rhythm. One of the opponents reacts instantly and jabs at him. Athos parries but the impact makes him back up farther and he hits his head on the wall. Seeing an explosion of colors the pain lets him stop breathing. His legs give in. He senses the blade coming down more than he sees it and raises his arm. A shot rings out, then only darkness.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"He took on three Red Guards. It's a miracle that he could keep up as long. He saved Bréant's life."
There is a voice, loud, too loud, saying things he doesn't understand. He wants to protest but his tongue does not obey him.
"It's not yet safe to say Bréant will live. And that this one could even stand is miracle enough."
The second voice is lower, but sounds a little indignant. However for Athos this one is more likeable, it booms significantly less. But he still doesn't understand a thing.
"Just imagine how he fights sober!"
"I can't even imagine him being sober any time soon!"
Somebody laughs, but it dies down quickly.
"I'll leave you to your work then."
"I'd be obliged."
A door opens. Somebody sighs in the following silence. Athos thinks about opening his eyes, because he wants to know what is happening around him, but his eyes don't obey him any more than his tongue. Darkness has almost taken him again when he hears whispered words.
"You've made quite a mess of yourself."
The words still make no sense and so Athos lets the darkness surround him.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
When he wakes, the first thing he notices is that he is lying in a bed, a clean bed. That is new, at least since the last weeks. When he tries to sit up he realizes that his right forearm is bandaged and his head is aching as if a bell was ringing inside.
"Be careful with the stitches," somebody says and Athos looks around.
At the opposite side of the room a man is sitting in a chair, examining him with wakeful eyes. In one hand he is holding a harquebus, but it is pointed on the floor. The brown eyes look tired. Dark curls stick up from his head in disorder. Athos sees the weapons cleaning equipment on the table next to the man, as well as a book and a candle. It is obvious that his counterpart hasn't slept but spent the night otherwise occupied.
"Morning," Athos states and lifts his left hand to his pounding head.
"Your head just got a bump," the other comments, "but the wound on your arm needed stitches."
Athos nods in acknowledgment and proceeds with his plan to get up. Slowly he pushes his legs out of the bed. His head still throbs, but not worse than on other days.
"I recommend drinking a lot, water preferably. You should get the liquor out of your system, if you even want that."
"Thanks, doctor," Athos mutters, trying hard to make it not sound grateful.
The other man keeps a straight face, takes the cleaning rod and starts to clean the barrel of his harquebus. He doesn't get far until suddenly his hand starts to shake. He swears softly, lays cleaning rod and weapon on the table and interlaces both hands.
"So you are a right one to judge," Athos remarks. The other man rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he doesn't answer, just presses his lips together.
"Did you really stitch me up with that hand?" Athos asks, puts both feet on the ground and stands up. The room sways a little and he gets sick.
"Why? Are you afraid it won't look pretty? Believe me, no woman will care about your arm. With your stench she won't even come near you!"
Athos can't deny that. He breathes deeply to calm his stomach. His hand instinctively searches for the locket on the metallic necklace around his neck and finds it. He notices the interested look from the other man, but no questions are asked.
"So for you it's not the liquor?" It's the best he can come up with, somewhere between conciliatory and diverting.
"Head wound," comes the reply. And the tone leaves no doubt that the man will use his harquebus – never mind his shaking hand - if Athos asks any further questions about it.
Athos mumbles an "I'm sorry", but the other man just shrugs it of.
"Where are my clothes?" Athos asks as he registers that he is standing in the middle of the room in just his smalls. In answer he is shown a pile of clothes on the second chair in the room.
"Those aren't mine," he remarks and earns another shrug.
"Yours' weren't to be saved."
With a sigh Athos reaches for the clothes when suddenly a question pops up in his mind.
"Where am I?"
The other man nods approvingly. "It took you ten minutes. So you have good experiences with strange beds?"
"Very funny." It's more a growl and seems to work.
"Garrison of the Musketeers," the answer comes quickly, "and since your next question will be how you come to be here: last night you prevented three of the cowardly Red Guard to kill poor Bréant. He is a butcher, was falsely accused of selling bad meat, his wife will be forever grateful and you won't ever need to pay for meat again. You've roughed up the three quite a bit. At the end your head collided with the wall, and your arm got a strike. You got lucky that two of us came by, otherwise... well."
'Otherwise I'd finally have some peace and quiet', Athos thinks and at once remembers that he hadn't wanted to die last night.
"The money and rapier you had with you are both at the captain's office."
"The rapier isn't mine."
The other shrugs again.
"It isn't a bad rapier."
Athos isn't really sure what to make of this. He is dressed now and just wants to leave when he becomes aware that he hasn't even introduced himself nor has he learned the name of the man that did stitch him back together. But why bother? He will leave now and won't see him again, so why go for politeness?
"Where is your captain?" he wants to know, not because of the rapier but because of the meager amount of coins left, and he ponders if they are even worth it.
The other man points through the window outside. Athos believes the garrison yard to be there, for a while now there have been sounds of clanging blades and the babble of voices coming up.
"Just ask your way."
"Thanks," Athos nods a goodbye, "and well... thank you."
"No problem. It isn't easy, by the way," the other adds as Athos is turning towards the door.
"What?"
"What you are trying to do..."
When Athos doesn't react he continues: "You reek as if you bathed in wine. You are bloated; red eyes, sallow skin – you haven't slept well for some time. You are sweating although it isn't more than ten feet from the bed to the door – You are trying to drink yourself to death. My friend, I tell you, that isn't easy. It takes time, a lot of time."
Athos still doesn't say anything. He could deny it. All those signs are still no proof. But why should he? It is true after all.
"My opinion probably is of no consequence, but since the others were impressed with your handling of a rapier, you could consider to – instead of throwing away your life – to become a soldier, maybe. I mean, death in battle is a lot more likely than through drink. And you could do something useful in between."
Athos reflects on this shortly, but only shortly.
"Would you want somebody like me to have your back?"
A shadow crosses the Musketeer's face, but the answer is different than expected.
"Bréant is still alive. That is more than others can claim. Loyalty sometimes goes strange ways ..."
Bréant is still alive.
Athos is sure that it wasn't intended, but it is those words he can't get out of his head.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Bréant is still alive.
He did take her life; and now saved another. He doesn't dare to think about compensation, hell is all but certain for him, he is sure of that. But if he still has the opportunity to change something, to make a little difference in the world, after he stooped so low, to seize this chance?
'If I go now I am the monster she did see in me. Then this is everything that will be left of me.'
Does he really want this?
He wants to pay, pay for what he has done and what he didn't prevent. But does it hurt to be in drunken delirium all the time? It is only the moment he wakes that hurts. He needs to wake, he needs to do something. He needs to live on with his guilt and make amends, bit by bit.
Bréant is still alive.
With those words echoing in his head he knocks at the captain's door.