I hate the evening. Because in the evening I cannot distract myself from the memories of her, of my wife, of the woman I loved. The woman I still love.
Let me explain. Milady de Winter, I don't love her, nor do I love the criminal Anne responsible for my brother's death. But Anne, the innocent, kind, pure and beautiful Anne I met years ago, her and the idea of her, I will love forever.
And in the evenings with nothing and no one left, bar perhaps a bottle of wine, my happiness haunts me. I remember the feel of her skin under mine, her arm was so soft under my callous touch, and her cheek, it fit perfectly in my cupped hand.
Her eyes, the perfect indescribable shade of blue that they seemed to capture blinds me every time I close my eyes. It is one of the oddest things in the world to me, the colour blue. One the one hand it terrorizes my every waking moment, and on the other hand it offered me my life back. The bright and proud blue worn by the musketeers symbolises brotherhood and honour and perhaps as close as I will ever come to my redemption.
I spare a glance to Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan sitting supposedly preoccupied with whatever tale they are telling now, but I can see by the way their chairs are angled and the cautious and conscious way they hold themselves that they are watching over me.
I allow this thought to chase away Anne for a moment, but then she is back and I'm remember the day by the river. It was a beautiful day, at least in the early morning it was. The sky was cloudless and the sun was lazily climbing slowly upwards surrounded by the calmest blue colour.
I'd been up for an hour or so preparing the bags and food that we would take and then I went to wake Anne. I stopped for a moment in the doorway before I woke her just admiring the serenity on her face as the early morning sun broke through the shutters and danced across her face colouring it richly.
I woke her with a kiss, feather light just barely tasting her lips, my hands running down the length of her arms to rouse her slowly from her sleep. She had, perhaps she still does have, a curious way of waking, I was captivated by it. Her nose would scrunch and she'd role away from the touch, her hands pulling the covers closer.
I woke her with the promise of a surprise, bidding her to get dressed quickly and meet me outside when she was ready. I was stood, leaning against the front corner of my home watching the Suns lazy ascent when she found me, that beautiful captivating smile dancing across her face as she asked me where we were going, what it was I was up to.
We walked hand in hand down to the river, it was not a long walk, perhaps an hour through a forest which sounds like something out a storybook, and across a meadow full of grass with horses grazing. I was not so sullen back then, and I indulged Anne everything. So we walked and we talked of nothing of consequence. I told the most outrageous stories of how I would prove my love to her and the honourable battles I would fight in the name of our love.
I did it, I said those things to hear her laugh, she her smile, to simply watch her be. I should have seen it the first time I met her, but I mistook her weary and tired expression as a consequence of a cruel and unjust world, an unfair hand so to speak. And so, it became my own personal mission to take away those burdens, those threats of the world that had exhausted her so.
We reached the river bank by mid-morning and feasted on the food I'd had put there earlier. We watched the world wake and ate ripe fruits and sweet breads and drank the richest wines of my hometown. And when we were done eating I sat against the trunk of tree and watched her paddle in the shallows of the river. The sky darkened imperceptibly, at least to me anyway I was so focused on her, and eventually she bored of the simple pleasure of cool water running around her feet and came to sit with me.
That is the moment I remember most of that day, sat under a tree with Anne in my arms watching a picturesque sky turn into the worst storm that spring. All of a sudden it began raining, heavy thick sheets of rain that soaked you through instantly. And I remember not caring, I remember sitting with Anne in my arms, completely soaked through and kissing her. She still tasted so sweet in the rain, and she didn't seem to care about the rain either.
So we sat in the storm and found a new kind of beauty, one I assume is so rarely seen and appreciated, one of the rain trickling through the branches like some intricate dance, and droplets of water rippling the surface of the usually calm river.
We ran back home, never once letting go of each other's hand and paying for it by slipping many times, especially in the meadow. But it did not matter, the cold or the mud stains or the near blinding rain.
And when we arrived back at the house we shed not a single thought to the disapproving looks of the servants as we chased each other up the stairs almost falling into the master bedroom. She was in my arms and I was spinning us around as my back hit the door to open it and allow us into the room.
Later we shed our wet clothes and lay in front of the fire under a pile of fur blankets watching the flames dance. We I say that, she watched the flames flicker and burn, I was watching her and twisting a strand of her hair in my hand.
The crackle of the fire I'm sat in front of brings me back to reality. That and the distinctive sound of three chairs being scrapped across the rough stone floor. I look at my friends, at Aramis reaching out to grasp my shoulder.
I take a breath, and deep gulp of wine effectively finishing of my third bottle and once again attempt to lock away the memories of her. It works, to an extent at least and I'm able to find my voice again, able to look my brothers in the eye.
D'Artagnan gestures towards the door with the slightest nod of his head, and I agree, this bar and its wine has lost the appeal for the night. And so I walk out not with the woman I once loved, but with three far more important people, my three brothers who saved me more than she ever did or was able to.