Chapter 2
Aramis stalked out, nearly running down a young musketeer who was coming up to Treville's office, or so Aramis thought. The young man said something unnice but hadn't count on Aramis actually hearing him. The young and valuable musketeer stopped in his tracks and turned around. The other didn't wait for an outburst however and hurried away before Aramis could do as much as open his mouth.
Aramis smiled to himself at that. After the mental blow D'Artaganan had given him it felt cruelly good to see someone actually cower away at the very sight of him.
Once on the street, he took a moment to decide to his next step. He had to calm down. It hadn't been really mature to run off like that, neither had it been to fly away after his argument with D'Artagnan earlier.
He walked through the many streets without destination. It started to rain and it was getting colder as time passed but Aramis didn't bother.
Porthos had followed Aramis out but had soon lost track of him. After a couple of minutes he stood still again with no Aramis in sight when Athos joined him.
"At last." Porthos mumbled.
Athos didn't provide that with a reaction. Instead he asked: "Did you see him?"
"Last I know he must have gone that way." Porthos pointed at a little lane. An old man was yelling and shaking his fist towards a figure who had run off in the alley after he ran him down.
Athos nodded. There came a glance in his eyes which Porthos knew all to well.
"Do you think what I think?"
"We are not far from the place where Marsac has been buried."
They looked at each other and Porthos nodded.
Aramis stood before the grave of his late friend and former musketeer with a heavy heart.
"Did you ever forgive me, Marsac? For shooting you down like a bandit. While, actually, you saved my life back than and this is the way I repaid you for that. You died as a gentleman. What has become of me?"
"Maybe D'Artagnan was right. I am such a coward! I am not worth the name of a musketeer."
He threw himself on his knees and started to cry.
"What has become of the friend you saved in Savoy, five years ago, Marsac? You risked your own life to safe me and then grieved for all those years about what you thought was your fault. In your heart you were a noble man, until the moment I…"
Aramis started to cry more freely now, his shoulders trembling. He heard D'Artagnan's voice in his head again. They had both been at fault, he knew. And it was not to him to blame D'Artagnan. As for himself, he knew he had gone to far at last. But then it hadn't bene fair. At the moment, he hadn't had no choice but what he did. The conversation had turned to D'Artagnan's mission which was supposed to become a tough one. Athos had just shared his concerns for the young man and so had Aramis and Porthos. Aramis had taken the golden cross he always wore around his neck, hidden under his garments and told D'Artagnan God would look after him. Porthos had snorted and said something along the lines of 'As if he could handle a fair fight.' Aramis had started to argue and D'Artagnan chose the side of Porthos in what he considered to be a little teasing. When Aramis got really fed up about something, D'Artagnan had said the doomed words.
"You pretend to be a Christian but you excite every bloody woman you meet and you fill your days with the fucking blood on your hands."
From there, it turned all for the worse.
"I'd take that the other way around." Athos said. Porthos thought about that for a moment before he burst out howling with laughter, interrupting the heating conversation.
"I'll drink to that." He took the bottle of wine off the table. "To the bloody blood and the fucking women." He rose his glass. D'Artagnan stared at Aramis with a smile but that smile soon vanished when he saw Aramis's face.
"At least I can get the girls in my bed and the blood on my hands."
He could see at D'Artagnan's eyes alone that had hit its aim. He felt a smile creep over his face.
"Pity you can't keep them there for longer than one night." The Gascon's voice was loaden with menace. His eyes narrowing dangerously "And as for the blood on your hands, it's not only your enemy's."
At that, Aramis had first stiffened and paled when the full meaning of the words sank in. Next he had surpressed the urge to lay his hands around the younger man's throat. He had seen Athos standing up and that had stopped him somehow to proceed. How embarrassing as that was on his own. He withdrew and left the inn without as much as a glance at Athos and Porthos.
"He might be right, you know. After all, I have your blood at my hands. For the sin of murder, God might forgive me, but for failing you, my friend, only you could forgive me. I hope, if I ever can reach for Heaven, we will meet again and you will say that; yes, you forgave me."
