Athos kept drinking despite the interruption, staring at the bottom of a wine bottle with increasing frequency.
Thief.
Murderer.
Whore.
The words he has said to the two men he was closest to in the world kept spinning around his mind, yet guilt never filled his stomach. He had spoken the truth.
/
It wasn't until the tavern keeper made his way over and cut him off that the amount of alcohol he had actually drunken that evening hit him. He staggered as he stumbled to his feet, having to grip onto the table to hold himself up as he allowed his stomach to settle. Groaning softly, the Musketeer made his way through the tavern and out of the door, swaying from side to side as he walked.
'We never want to see you again, brother.'
The words were screams of pain in his head, knives in his already broken heart as he realised what had happened that night. He had pushed Aramis and Porthos away and now they didn't want to see him again. He had to go and apologise to them. He had to let them know he was sorry and that he never meant to say the things he had.
Athos stumbled down the street, down the road, down the route to what he thought was to Porthos' sleeping quarters. It was a hard journey and Athos wished the path would just remain still, walking down it was like walking across the deck of a ship in a bad storm. Groaning, he fell to his knees, clutching his head as he collapsed on the ground, staring up at the sky.
"SIR! MOVE!"
