Treville buttoned close his long brown coat as he walked through the back doors of the Comte's château and followed the hearty laughter over the trimmed lawn out to the edge of the forest. Rene was sitting up against a decaying log, his head thrown back in loud mirth as Thomas stood a few feet away with a longbow clutched in his hand and his face streaked red.
"It keeps moving!" he growled and Rene laughed harder.
Behind Thomas about fifteen feet away, multiple rows of bags swayed to and fro on a rope tied among the branches of the front few trees. Between there and Thomas lay scattered arrows, broken or buried halfway into dirt and some even in the trees. The empty sacks fluttered with the slightest wind and the rope, that was looped just lose enough, jerked with the wind as well; not helping the archer.
"A longbow?" Treville asked as he neared the lad sitting on the ground.
"Builds patience and awareness," Rene made to shrug but stilled, he grinned instead.
Treville raised an inquisitive brow. If Rene understood the inquiry there he chose to misdirect. The lad smiled cheekily and went on to explain how essential it was to know about the wind, the angle of the shot and keeping a calm head when it comes to aiming.
"You're doing this just to frustrate me aren't you?" Thomas stalked over to the two of them and threw down the bow before he shrugged off the quiver.
"Ridiculous." he grouched.
Rene laughed again and reached for his friend. Before he could extend his arm much further and straighten his elbow, Thomas bent and grabbed his hand. Rene kept one arm around his chest even when Thomas pulled him to his feet in one fluid motion.
"You are hurt." Treville said.
"Astute observation," Rene smirked and motioned for Thomas to hand him the bow and the quiver.
Treville frowned; the halted movements and the limited reach spoke volumes to him. Unbidden to his mind came Thomas's words about Rene's uncle. Maybe he hadn't been exaggerating when he talked about the man beating the lad.
"Your uncle wasn't pleased with your duel in the market." He said and tried not to cringe as Rene settled the quiver on his back and raised the longbow. Treville saw the bruising as the sleeves fell back on the lad's arms.
But Rene notched the arrow and pulled back the string, then shifted and changed the direction of his bow. He was widely facing off to the side from the trees looped with the empty sacks. He let lose an arrow and then one after the other in quick succession shifting his angle in a limited arch at every shot.
He stopped with an empty quiver and a sharp breath. All the arrows had found their mark, pinning the sacks to branches and barks of the trees beyond. Rene looked to his friend with a smug grin.
"Ridiculous," Thomas shook his head with a scowl.
Rene laughed and dropped the longbow. Impressed as he was, Treville didn't miss the shaking in lad's hands nor did he miss the tremble in his shoulders as he let the quiver fall as well. One arm snaked around his lower chest again.
"He beat you," Treville tried to keep the judgment out of his voice. After all he wanted to meet a d'Herblay again if he could.
"Not a crime," Rene said.
"It should be." Thomas scowled at his friend.
"He is rather fond of his cane." Rene snorted and shrugged. The wince and the immediate stillness pulled on his tunic and Treville noticed the crisscross of thread across the small patch of skin at the top of the boy's shoulder.
Rene caught his eye but didn't try to hide it.
"It cracked this time." he said.
Of course it cracked; Treville clenched his jaw to keep from screaming at the lad. His hand's itched to grab this uncle d'Herblay's throat, Psychic or not, Felipa's clan or not, he felt an all consuming desire to wring this man's neck.
Instead he turned his attention to the boy who had saved him and then suffered for it.
"You put these in yourself?" he loathed to ask.
"We own mirrors, three of them." Rene smirked, "It's amazing how you can use them to see where your eyes can't reach."
Treville's hand rubbed his sore but healing wound as he tried to reign in the anger blazing under his skin. He hated suffering, hated it even more when children suffered, but this, this was beyond his understanding.
"Rene Aramis d'Herblay! You better not be dragging that poor lad into trouble again!" it was a woman who approached them and Treville's heart dropped like a stone in water; it dropped down to his knees and pinned in his exhale.
"I strive only to help him," Rene grinned, "both in and out of trouble."
The woman swatted his arm lightly and turned to regard the man in their group; her dark eyes widening. Treville straightened and took half a step forward before he stopped. His hands dropped back to his sides and clenched into fists lest he grabbed her to him.
She wasn't the same as he remembered her and yet she was. Older, more weary and more beautiful.
"Felipa," he said.
"Jean," Her eyes traced his face in surprised recognition and she drew closer to him, as though pulled by a force beyond her control.
But then she glanced from him to the two boys and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. With a smile that looked too forced, she stepped away from the man giving him a vague nod.
"Mother?" Rene looked from her to Treville.
It hit him then, harder and sharper then a musket ball, and Treville simply stared. Not at the woman but the boy; the boy who was exactly the right age, with olive skin, dark eyes and the texture of his hair that he had inherited from his mother. But the dark hair colour, that straight nose and those sharp features made Treville swallow to wet his suddenly parched throat, because they were his. This lad was...
Treville locked his knees to keep from swaying where he stood.
"Monsieur Treville and I knew each other once," Felipa told her son, "A long time ago."
Treville couldn't look away from the lad who shifted on his feet under the unexpected scrutiny. If Rene was who Treville thought he was...
The soldier suppressed a shiver and shook his head. Still he could not look away from the teenager.
"You two need to clean up the mess you've made," Felipa nodded towards the scattered arrows and empty quivers rolling in the grass.
"Are you alright?" Rene asked her, "You look pale."
"I'm fine," Felipa smiled, "Don't think you can charm me from letting you out of the cleanup."
"I'd never," Rene gaped in mock horror then laughed as he shifted out of his mother's smack and pulled Thomas after him.
An irrational desire shot up in Treville and he made to stop Rene. He pulled his hand to an abrupt halt in mid air and his finger's twitched at the opportunity forgone.
"He's a good lad," Felipa followed his gaze, "A bit impulsive."
"He is mine," It wasn't a question; Treville could not ignore what was staring at him so blatantly in the face.
Felipa touched his arm and he had to forcibly pull his gaze back. There was a storm in her dark eyes and a hard set in her jaw. He felt her anger and a warning growled in his mind, one that would have left a weaker man a shivering mess. She didn't need words to protect her child, she had power enough and Treville had a feeling she was holding back for his sake.
She would keep her child safe, even from him.
"Then why didn't you keep him from getting beaten black and blue?" The anger in his low voice was surprising even to him.
Felipa sighed and pulled back, her hand dropped and her presence receded from his mind as she looked to her son and not at the man beside her. Rene sat in a tree, pulling out the loops of rope and pointing out the arrows Thomas had missed. The young lord grumbled and cursed at his friend's helpful tips.
"You have no right to a child you didn't even know existed." She said.
"You never told me," it hurt to think about now.
"I wanted to, when you came home for dinner that night I was —" she clenched her teeth and shook her head, "It is done. Rene is my son, my responsibility and we have a life together."
That night he had been late, he had been told to stay back for his orders. If he had known about what awaited him at home Treville wondered if he would he would have made a different decision. Something stirred in the hollow of his chest as he watched Rene drop to the ground and land gracefully on his feet, only to cradle his chest with one hand and grab the bark with the other for support.
"Aramis," he did not look at Felipa this time, "You named him after my grandfather."
Regret was a stranger to Treville, he had been aggrieved by his decisions, felt his heart get torn up over them, but for the first time in his life he wished he could turn back the years he had lived. He wished to swim against the stream of time and go back to that one decision. He would place a musket on the head of his younger self and force that idiot to delay his words that night, to just hear what his wife had to say and he knew, he knew for sure as he now looked at his son that he would have chosen differently.
"Can he stay at the château for the night?" he asked the mother.
Felipa shook her head instantly; she glanced back at the building and shivered. Treville noticed her reaction and frowned, there may be various reasons why she wouldn't want him close to her son but there was fear in her eyes as she avoided looking at the château.
"You fear the house."
"I fear what lives in there." She said.
"The Comtesse,"
"She's too powerful," Felipa gave a sharp nod.
It was odd to hear her say that, this woman before him was the most powerful Psychic of her clan. Treville glanced back at the château and imagined that he could feel the eyes of the Comtesse watching them. Abruptly, he turned away from the building with a cloying feeling in the pit of his stomach and the prickling rise of the hair at the back of his neck.
He looked instead to Rene, whose laughter washed up to him like a balmy tide on a cold beach.
"I'll keep him safe, he will come back to you in the morning," he turned to the woman, "I will let no harm come to him."
"I cannot let you lead him into a promise you will not be able to keep." Felipa muttered as the boys began making their way towards them.
"Please, I ask for one night, only to get to know him and — we can be friends and nothing more, simply correspond through letters," he was not above begging for this, "I wouldn't tell him who I am; just a grateful soldier."
"The Comte wouldn't approve." She said.
"Olivier wouldn't approve what?" Thomas asked.
"I was wondering if we could invite Rene over for the night," Treville spoke before Felipa could, "We will spend the time sharing stories."
"Battle stories?" it was Rene who asked.
"I've had some experience," Treville said as he stamped down at the welling emotions that were stirred by the way Rene looked at him, in an almost childlike awe.
"Not too descriptive?" Thomas frowned.
"Kill joy," Rene scowled.
"Age appropriate," Treville couldn't help the teasing smile as Rene groaned in protest.
"I don't think Olivier would mind," Thomas shrugged, "And it's my house too you know."
Three pair of eyes turned to Felipa. She glared at the man. Her warnings echoed much louder in Treville's mind than in her gaze and he desperately made to show her that he meant the boy no harm. He had never been one to communicate through his thoughts, he wasn't gifted that way but he wanted her to know how much he was simply aching to get his son to look at him one more time. He hoped she could see the desire to protect that now throbbed somewhere in him with a ferocity that he hadn't imagined himself capable.
With a smile that didn't reach her eyes Felipa gave a sharp nod. Three faces grinned and she grabbed her son by the ear.
"You promised me two dresses done by the end of the day," she said.
"But I was working at the smithy all morning." He wriggled out her grasp.
"And you've had enough time for a break I think," she smirked and slightly shoved the lad ahead of her.
As Rene began making his way Felipa turned to the other two. Although she glared at both of them her words Treville knew were meant for him.
"Don't make me regret my decision," she said.
"You said you wouldn't be a part of this," Flea raised an eloquent brow as Isaac packed up his travelling gear.
"I said I wouldn't be an assassin." He picked up his worn bag and began settling it on his horse.
Charon had left with Gerald and Francis. Isaac had watched them ride out and beyond his view before he had began packing up his things. With any luck he'd be able to reach the château with the other three.
If Flea let him pass that is.
The slim girl with fierce blue eyes blocked his path to his horse. She crossed her arms and bestowed a chilled glare upon him.
"I thought you were different." She said.
"I'm following them, true. But I've said it before hadn't I?" Isaac drew closer to her, "I'm not an assassin."
"Then why are you — oh!" he eyes widened and Isaac smiled to see her catching on.
"I can't let them do it," Isaac nodded, "Not for their own sake."
Isaac knew his friend. Charon was hardened by the life dealt to him, but deep down his friend was a compassionate man if slightly dishonorable. Flea cocked her head and wrinkled her petite nose as she considered his reply. Isaac tried not to think how adorable he found that gesture.
"Fine," she turned around and made her way to her horse, "Let's see if we can get there before them."
"What?" Isaac hurried over to her, "No, no, no you're not coming with me."
"You think you can order me around do you?" Flea straightened in her saddle and glared down at him with an intensity that had Isaac flinching.
"I thought so," she smiled.
Dinner was a strained affair. It took every ounce of a soldier's control for Treville to keep a smile from his face. Tonight he would get to know his son.
His son, Treville marveled how thrilling a word could sound. Then glanced up to see the brothers' still locked in a staring contest across the long dining table. Olivier blinked first and turned his gaze to his food, spearing the meat with more force than necessary.
"I think your brother only asks that you let him know before you invite guests to our home." The Comtesse explained gently.
"And I think my brother can himself ask what he wants of me." Thomas snapped back.
"Thomas," his brother looked up.
"Olivier," the younger one locked eyes but they softened, "Why can't you see brother? He knew something, he talked to her, made her upset and then he was killed."
"Enough!" Olivier was on his feet.
The screech of his chair left a thick silence in the room. The shadows around the rings of candlelight breathed an eerie visage over the occupants. Treville was taken aback by the hard gleam in the Comtesse's eyes and the malicious edge to her smile; he wished that Olivier would just glance her way.
"Your guest has arrived My Lord." A servant announced even as he bowed.
"Bring him to Monsieur Treville's room," Thomas said as he pushed away his barely touched plate of food, "I would like to be excused." He said and left the table without a backwards glance.
Treville watched him go, listened until his footsteps receded into silence then turned to the young Comte. He didn't want to sound too eager but his appetite had fled as his mind drew blank at the sight of food.
"I think I should…," he got up from the table and inclined his head slightly in fleeting curtsey, "My Lord and Lady."
He was out of the room before any of its occupants had a chance to call him back. He marched up the stairs and hurried down to the corridor towards the guest chambers; only stopping when he had reached the door to the room assigned to him.
"You're still having those nightmares." It wasn't a question.
"I think she cursed me," was the reply half way between a groan and a huff.
Treville entered the room to find Thomas half sprawled on his back on the bed and Rene sat on the chair shaking his head. He grinned as the man closed the door and nodded towards his despondent friend.
"Would you please tell my friend here, that magic resides only in the flight of imagination." He said.
"She's a witch," Thomas countered.
"I never saw her with a broom," Rene snorted.
"She has magic and she's evil,"
"And she flies as a bat and sucks the blood dry out of babies," Rene added with mocking nod.
He got a pillow to his face for that one. As Rene laughed and teased his friend, Treville was suddenly struck with the realization that Felipa hadn't told their son anything about her abilities. It could be that the boy had no power, just like his father. Treville smiled at the thought, it would mean that he was safe from all the dangers that side of his family could bring.
"You promised us stories Monsieur Treville, so come and pull up a chair,"
That he did. It was well into the night by the time he was done with the tales of swashbuckling adventures of a soldier's life, one that were far too exciting and clear-cut to be real. Treville was surprised to find out that he possessed a hidden talent in storytelling that the eager audience had pulled out of him. He ended another glossed account that set Rene laughing.
Treville sat back in his chair and watched the boy with a tiny upturn at the corner of his lips and unmistakable wonder in his eyes. Every night could have been like this for him, could have been even better when his son would have been younger and he could have tossed the child in the air, caught him in a hug and mussed up his hair.
His gaze misted over and he blinked to note that Thomas's snores had grown louder. The lad had dozed off three stories back, sprawled onto the rug at the foot of the bed.
"I thought my stories deserved a better reaction," Treville smiled.
"He's been having nightmares, I'm just glad he's finally resting." Rene shook his head in fond exasperation.
"And what about you?" he asked lightly, though he could no longer ignore the stiff posture of his son that Treville had been keeping his eye on. Every hitch in his laugh and every shift in his seat to find comfort were like sharp knives to the father's heart. It left him wanting to tear apart this uncle of his son, this uncle that he knew nothing about; Treville frowned to himself. As far as he knew, Felipa was an only child.
"I sleep well enough," Rene managed an aborted shrug with a smile teasing his lips, "And I don't sound like a lazy furnace."
"The surgeon left me a salve for my bruises. You could try some," Treville made the offer in a casual tone then held his breath. As Rene looked down at his tunic covered arms Treville hoped fervently that he had not pushed past their budding friendship.
"I guess," his son finally gave a nod.
Treville grabbed the small tin-can from his pocket, unscrewed the lid and held it out to the boy; who took it with a quirk of his brow. The soldier shrugged and placed the lid on the bedside table, he was not going to tell the lad that he had been carrying around that thing in an effort to get inspiration on how to offer the salve to his boy.
His boy, Treville very nearly beamed at the thought until his gaze fell on the long marks of dark blue tinged with red that decorated Rene's arms. He pulled his face into neutral when he caught the boy glancing at him from under his dark bangs. Treville had a feeling that his anger would be misinterpreted as disgust and his concern as pity, he was sure the boy would be furious at both.
So he turned his attention to the young lord whose face was pressed into the rug. Treville winced at the thought of the epic rug burn that Thomas would soon be supporting. With that thought, the man began the endeavor of tucking a pillow under the teenager's head and a blanket under his body. Which was quite a struggle since the lad was dead weight and floppy.
Rene chuckled as Thomas slumped halfway into Treville's lap after socking the man in the face with his elbow and when the soldier glared at the sleeping heap; Rene threw back his head and laughed.
He missed the contentment that Treville was sure radiating through his very being at the sound of his son's mirth. One that vanished as his gaze fell onto the boy's bruised elbow. It was a swollen mass of black and blue, Treville wondered if the damage had gone to the bone. Tomorrow he would pay this uncle a visit; he would like to see what that child-beating scum was capable of when facing a man. He was so busy trying to quell his rising anger that he failed to notice the box of salve Rene held out to him.
"Thanks," said the boy.
"What about your back?" Treville frowned.
Rene's eyes widened for a second before he gave a nonchalant shrug. He could not hide the pain it cost him but his voice remained impassive.
"It's not that bad," he said.
Treville sighed, the boy would not ask for help. He was after all, the product his father's obstinacy and his mother's independence.
"May I….?" he wasn't sure if he should even ask but Treville prayed that the boy would allow it.
He saw Rene tense, watched with a bated breath as the lad studied the can of salve held in his fingers then looked up at the man before him.
Treville had faced many enemies, he had answered to various captains, he had been judged and he had been measured. But never in his life had he ever feared that he'd be felt wanting until he faced the wary scrutiny of his son.
"Why?" Rene asked
Because I care, because I'm your father, because you're hurting, Treville thought but did not voice.
"I owe you," he said instead.
"Alright." Rene gave a single nod and Treville felt something loosen in his chest. He inhaled lightly and took the salve from the boy.
Rene got up from his chair and for the first time since they had met, Treville found the boy looking unsure of himself. The soldier pushed himself off the bed and maneuvered the lad to sit on it. With their places swapped he motioned for the boy to take off his shirt.
It was a good thing that Rene's eyes were pinched shut at the movement or he would have seen the pure rage sparking in Treville's gaze as it fell on the jumble of welts; long, dark and in some places puffed grotesquely.
"Why don't you…uh lie down," Treville cleared his stuck throat and smiled at the lad.
The flinty brown gaze softened and Rene moved to lie on his side with his back towards the soldier. Treville could feel the soft heat radiating from the particularly swollen patches of skin. With pursed lips and gentle fingers he began massaging the salve into the worst of it first. He kept an eye out on the tension in the boy's shoulders and the rigid way he held himself even when lying down. It gradually dissolved with a barely audible sigh as the medicine took effect.
"Why let him do this to you?" he asked quietly.
"We live together, I can hardly escape him," Rene's voice was muffled from where his face was pressed into the pillow.
"Your mother…"
"We have an understanding," there was finality in the lad's tone.
Treville hummed and remained focused on his task, happy to feel the boy's posture relaxing as the pain slowly went numb. He glanced at the mop of loose dark curls and formed the question carefully in his mind. The two remained quiet for a while until Treville had gathered his courage.
"What of your father?" he asked.
"He's dead," Rene tensed again.
As Treville paused in his ministrations and closed his eyes in mute sorrow. The boy glanced back at him over his shoulder.
"He was the King's soldier," Rene settled back on the pillow, "he left to defend the crown before I was born and couldn't make it back."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Treville surprised himself by the steadiness in his own voice; "You and your mother must have missed him a lot."
"Mother doesn't like to talk about him," Rene mumbled as sleep pulled him, "she only ever says that he went to defend the crown."
Treville hummed his response; he could not risk the crack in his voice he was sure he wouldn't be able to avoid. Felipa didn't talk about him but Rene was sure that his father couldn't make it back to him.
Had his son wondered about him, had he sat up late in his little bed waiting for him to come home? Had he traced the roads coming into his town thinking which would lead him to his father? Then one day, after one of his uncle's beatings, huddled in the rafters of some neighbor's barn, the boy had decided that his father wasn't coming back for him. And the only reason that he would accept was that because his father couldn't come back for him. Had he doubted it? Had it hurt him to think otherwise? Had he cried?
Treville bit back a chocked sniffle as the moisture gathering in his eyes finally leaked out and trailed down to his chin. With a shaky hand he pulled the covers over Rene's shoulder and smoothed the bed cover for no particular reason. He raised his hand hesitantly, paused to stare at the steady rise and fall of his son's breathing, then slowly, cautiously, he laid his hand onto the mass of dark wavy hair.
It was unexpectedly soft and warm. Treville held back a sob as he let his hand just rest there, connected to his flesh and blood.
Frost covered windows sealed tight against the chill shone a pale gold from hearth fires. The streets lay silent. Isaac flitted in the shadows that chased each other across the walls and under trees as the half moon in the sky tussled with thin clouds. He had left the horses out of the village in case of a quick getaway and silently cursed the soft clomping of hooves that he was following.
Charon would wake the dead and join them in their eternal sleep with the racket he was creating, Isaac was sure of it. He glanced back to catch Flea move in a blur from the barn wall to crouch under the rimmed shadow of the town well. Poised and deadly like a lioness Isaac observed with a smile, then groaned softly and drew a hand over his face.
He needed to focus and not on the girl.
He puffed out a breath that rose in a cloud before his face and darted out from the side of the house where he had been hiding. He spied Charon and his group slowing down. They had dismounted under a large canopy and Isaac signaled for Flea to get ready. When the clouds next moved in front of the half moon, Isaac stepped up to block Charon's path.
"Come to your sense's now?" Charon grinned at him.
"Nah, was hopping you would though," Isaac crossed his arms and stared back evenly at his friend, "We're better than this Charon and you know it."
"We're better?" Charon stepped closer to him, "Our children starve, our old freeze to death and our women are beaten by anyone who fancies it. How are we better Isaac?"
"We don't kill in cold blood." Isaac straightened his shoulders and easily towered over the other man.
Charon gave a dry laugh and shook his head. The fluttering moonlight cast a hard edge on his features and a bitter sharpness in his smile.
"We're all sinners at the Court," he said, "What is one more my friend?"
"No, we're survivors," Isaac grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and hauled him up and closer, "There is no coming back from this Charon, you take a life and there's no returning it. You need to think if it's worth it."
"Worth it? You tell me it it's worth it?" Charon spat, "Is it worth for a chance at a better life? Is it worth it to have for once in our lives a fully belly, a warm hearth and no fear of it being snatched from us? I think yes don't you? Weren't you the one always going on about a better life? Didn't the great Issac d'Porthos always wanted to find a life out of the Court?"
"Yes I want a better life," Isaac shook the man in his grip, "A better life that has honor, a purpose and…" he broke off as he caught sight of Flea from the corner of his eyes.
He could not say that he wanted a life where he belonged, could not tell his friends that despite all they had went through together he had never felt that he was a part of something, that he had a home.
He could not tell them because he knew, 'you don't turn your back to the Court;' a sentiment that the king o' the court had beaten into him at an early age.
"I'm sorry my friend," Charon said.
Isaac's gaze snapped back and caught his friend's eyes just as pain exploded in his head. Distantly he heard Flea scream as the shadows around him settled into darkness.
TBC
I hope it was not too sappy.
Please Review?
