Plic, plic, plic.
The unnerving sound slowly pierced the veil in which his strange trance had wrapped him. He didn't even remember hauling the heavy soaked body out of the cold filthy water to lay him there, facing him in the posture of a dark marble knight. Blinking, he lowered his gaze towards the unmoving hated face but he barely recognised it, he couldn't find the heinous rictus anymore or the thirst for revenge which always distorted the grim features. Lying in the arms of death, he was just a young man broken by a ruthless life.
Plic, plic, plic.
He shook his head with a bitter sigh which made the oozing walls spin, forcing him to close his eyes again. No, Grimaud was a murderer, an insane man. What was happening to him? How could he even have an ounce of pity for a monster who had dedicated his last days to destroy him and, above all else, all the people he loved, the people who were his world, the pillars making him stand every day.
Plic, plic, plic
He didn't even remember how he had ended propped up against the icy wall, his arms wrapped around his belly. He slowly lifted his right elbow and clumsily unbuttoned his jacket, enough to slip a hand under the soaked leather. He winced at the contact and his fingers came back dripping with an already coagulating sticky blood. He groaned and curled up a little but when a muffled sound came from the entrance, he fumbled to button the uniform again and hurried to compose himself an impassive expression. The footsteps shuffled towards him, the sound, almost metallic, reverberating through the depths of the cold vault. He didn't have to raise his eyes to know who the person was. He slightly turned his head towards the young man and croaked, his voice betraying him:
"It's done."
Then he lowered his eyes again towards the body at his feet.
Plic, plic, plic.
"Athos."
The hushed worried voice of d'Artagnan startled him because he hadn't noticed that the young man was now kneeling next to him. How many seconds or minutes had passed? He couldn't tell. The grimace he couldn't hide made the young man frown.
"Are you …?"
Athos didn't let him finish his question and, gingerly unfolding his sore body, he tried to stand up. He kept a hand flat on the wall at his back, the other one gripping the hard stone at his feet and tried to keep enough dignity through the whole process. A gloved hand hovering in his field of view made him look up at d'Artagnan with a stare under which the young man recoiled slightly. He knew how to avoid hurting his mentor's pride but something was wrong.
"Athos." He sighed.
The grey-green eyes, darkened by the reflections of the dim light over the water, softened slightly when Athos noticed the bleeding gash on the young man's cheek. He lifted a hand towards the wound and it made him lose his balance. D'Artagnan grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and pulled him towards his chest keeping him from falling back into the turbid waters. The muffled scream which left Athos' mouth when his wounded side met the lean but muscular body forced d'Artagnan to take a step back and, without releasing the wet leather, he looked at Athos from head to toe.
"Are you hurt? Where?"
"I'm fine." Athos mumbled.
The moisture covering his face, making the grey circles under his eyes even more dark and the long lashes even more black on the pale skin, had now nothing to do with his previous bath. He was clearly in pain.
"Let me see."
"We must … mmh … go …"
"Then … let me help you."
Athos shook his head and walked ahead of the sceptic young Musketeer who watched the unsteady gait of the Captain walking with his head as straight as possible, his right shoulder slightly more down than usual and his right hand clutching intermittently at his right side.
They slowly made their way through the vaulted tunnels. They could hear the muffled sounds of the crowd outside the church, the screams of a baby, distant footsteps which made the eerie silence of the crypt even more sinister. When they turned round a corner, Athos stumbled and he would have fallen if not for the quick reaction of his young friend who caught his elbow in a firm grip. Athos leaned his shoulder on the wall and tried to silence the pain flaring through his whole body. Now wasn't the moment.
"Will you let me help you now?" D'Artagnan murmured in his ear.
Athos shook his head and straightened. D'Artagnan sighed.
Stubborn fool. He thought inwardly.
"I … may … I think I could…"
"Rest a little before continuing?" D'Artagnan asked with a wry smile.
He regretted it at once when the movement pulled on his wound. Athos looked at him with a deep frown.
"I'm fine." D'Artagnan retorted pulling Athos down onto a big block of limestone probably left there by a stone carver who no longer needed it or judged that the quality wasn't good enough. "Let's sit down for a minute, enough for you to regain your … panache?"
Athos snorted. He didn't feel like joking or laughing but he knew that the young man was trying his best to cheer his mind, to give him courage. He welcomed this moment of rest. He tried to stay upright, to breathe deeply, to forget the terrifying void he could feel inside.
It's done.
"You know you can let go while we are here. Here, you are not the Captain of the Musketeers, you are just Athos, so rest while you can and stop trying to hide your pain."
As if his words weren't enough, d'Artagnan laid two fingers on Athos' hand where it gripped his drenched knee as if it was the only way to stay conscious. He seemed to curl on himself at the comforting touch and dared to lean on the young man's shoulder long enough to regain his strength. D'Artagnan could hear the ragged breath and feel the tremors in the slender wrist. Athos progressively straightened and withdrew his hand.
"Say nothing to the others of what happened." He whispered locking eyes with his friend.
"But … Sylv…"
"Especially her." Athos replied sharply. "Please. She had been through enough ordeals, I don't need to add one."
"But tonight you …"
"Tell her that I have work to do."
"Athos!" D'Artagnan chided, his dark eyes blazing in the darkness.
He sighed resignedly. To make Athos see reason was as useless as doing the same with the stone where they sat.
"Very well, but find a doctor. Please!"
Athos simply nodded and stood up, swaying slightly but remaining straight, his head up, his gaze firm. They arrived at the bottom of the large stairs. Gripping the ramp, he bent down to retrieve his cape and hat but a burning sensation blinded him and d'Artagnan literally jumped to help him as his knees buckled and he fell forward, gasping, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a silent scream. D'artagnan knelt on the stair and gently grabbed his friend's shoulders, steadying him and helping him to sit back on the floor. He managed it without forcing Athos to uncurl his sore body knowing that they had to wait for the pain to fade. A sheen of sweat covered Athos' face where the curtain of his hair allowed it to be seen. D'Artagnan kept his hands on his shoulders. Shuffling on his knees he closed the gap between them and gingerly pulled Athos forward until his friend's forehead met his own shoulder.
"Breathe, it will pass… But …"
Athos tried to straighten.
"Wait …" D'Artagnan murmured in his ear.
Athos sighed and leaned a little more heavily against the young man who ran his hand up and down his left arm in a calming gesture.
"Show me, Athos. You can't stay like that."
"Mmh … things to do."
"Like what? Bleeding to death at the feet of the Queen." D'Artagnan replied sharply, straightening.
Athos stubbornly began to stand up and the young man had to allow it and helped him.
"Stubborn mule." He mumbled to himself.
"I heard you." Athos grumbled as he tried again to pick up his cape.
D'Artagnan shook his head and retrieved Athos' cape. The latter didn't object when the young man made him turn around and carefully wrapped him in the grey thick leather, strapping it with delicate gestures and finishing by laying both his hands flat on his Captain's chest.
"Very well, Captain, do as you wish, but promise me not to die alone because you are too stubborn to ask for help."
"I promise." Athos vowed with a fake solemnity. "But don't tell the others… and this is an order."
D'Artagnan just nodded and put Athos' hat onto his disheveled head with a fond smile.
"Let's go, Captain."
Gripping the iron forged bannister in one hand and his young friend's wrist in the other, he managed to climb the stairs and arrived at the top with something close to his usual appearance: head straight, right shoulder slightly hunched but left hand discreetly clutching at his side. He had managed to give his eyes their usual stern look but it faltered as a shadow appeared in front of him, the large body blocking the light.
"Wha …" Porthos began.
"It's done." Athos interrupted harshly.
"But what …" Porthos began before d'Artagnan shook his head frantically to silence him.
"I'm fine." Athos whispered, his voice hoarse.
Porthos nodded, unconvinced, and d'Artagnan mouthed "Wounded" and made a gesture pointing at his own side.
"Alright," Porthos reluctantly admitted. "But let me help your fine person to enter the church without fainting on the pavement."
"I can …" Athos couldn't finish as he stumbled once more, his hat falling onto the dusty floor.
"Manage? Yes you can." Porthos replied under his breath, gripping Athos' arm in the vice of his strong fingers.
Athos was about to retrieve his hat but Porthos stopped him.
"You don't need that."
Before emerging in the clear light of the impressive nave, Porthos turned towards Athos, righted the cape which had slipped, tucked a wet strand behind his friend's ear and smiled.
"Ready?"
Athos nodded, smiling ruefully. They heard quick footsteps announcing a dishevelled Aramis running towards them.
"Don't …" Athos murmured.
"Don't what?" D'Artagnan asked in a low voice.
"Don't tell him."
"But you…" Porthos tried to reply.
Athos just sent him a dark look which made d'Artagnan sigh and Porthos growl.
"D'Artagnan?" Porthos asked looking at the long gash slicing the young man's cheek.
"We have other duties." He answered with a painful smile before covering his cheek with a large folded handkerchief.
Standing in the very place where they had said adieu to their beloved Captain not so long ago was as much a torture as the increasing burning sensation in his right side. He wanted to escape. He wanted to understand the carefully articulated words of the Queen. He wanted to forget the sensation of void he had experienced since he had watched the last breath of Grimaud die at the surface of the water in a series of thick bubbles, a few feet underneath the floor where they stood now.
For a moment, he stared at the big slabs of stone where tiny dust motes were dancing in the white light, then he tried to force his brain to work and dispel the thick fog which was slowly mingling with his thoughts.
A part of his mind was aware of the worried glances he received from his brothers, of the discrete brush of Sylvie's hand on his arm which he tried to escape to keep some kind of military dignity. He wished he could be engulfed by the darkness he felt growing inside his body and merely disappear. Feel anything, hear anything.
Disbanding my Musketeers?
He frowned and threw an anxious look at his friends. They looked a little surprised and worried for a second before their faces displayed a proud and happy expression. He almost jumped when he heard the crowd applaud. His mind tried to catch up with the whole situation and he briefly clapped his hands but the pain which flared through his side made him swallow his saliva and briefly close his eyes. He caught the frown d'Artagnan directed at him but averted his gaze. Aramis looked at him with a big smile. He hadn't noticed, then, or was too engrossed in what was happening and what was said that nothing else was important to him at this moment. Surprisingly, Porthos never turned towards him, his face serious and solemn.
Focusing on the Queen's speech helped Athos to stay upright. He lost himself for a restful moment in the sight of the golden spirals of her bright blue dress. She was radiating light, from the porcelain of her eyes, to the delicate architecture of her head-dress, from the colour of her dress to the curve of her mouth, from the ivory of her skin to sound of her clear voice.
Leaving the church without any support nearly brought him to his knees, his breathing was short and shallow as they approached the magnificent royal carriage. He could feel d'Artagnan's gaze on him. He tried to straighten but it was too difficult. He had to be the Captain of the Musketeers until the Queen's departure then, at last, he would be able to be the pathetic Musketeer he knew he was deep down. He would have to find a place where he could lick his wound alone. It almost brought a smile to his lips which made him forget his pain for a moment allowing him to follow the Queen's words, to understand that Porthos had become Porthos du Vallon, that Aramis had made an awkward joke which could have sent him to the gallows.
When the carriage left, d'Artagnan's hand on his back steadied him and when the young man whispered a discrete you alright? he nodded, brushing his hand on his friend's back to reassure him, then he turned towards the others. He had to keep going for a few hours, or minutes at best, then…
To be continued...