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Aramis sits frozen, not comprehending, refusing to.
D'Artagnan is sobbing in the corner.
Treville is just standing there.
Athos feels empty. He acts rationally.
He covers Porthos' head with the sheet. He tells the physician standing at the door that his services are no longer required. He stands over the body and prays that Porthos will go to Heaven. Then he puts on his hat and walks out the door. He should probably be helping the others. Walking them home. But his feet guide him forward. He enters the Court. He tells Flea. He watches her cry without offering comfort. There is no comfort now.
He walks home. He sits on his bed. He takes of his boots. He takes of his hat. He lies down. He instructs his limbs to do simple movements. He takes the bottle of wine from next to his bed. He walks to the window. He hurls the bottle out. It arcs through the sky, reflecting the moons light in a thousand different directions. Then it shatters on the floor. Red wine pools.
The bottle's flight was Porthos' life. Lighting up the world around him. Coming from the dark. Soaring high. Then shattering on the ground. Blood pools.
He staggers back to his bed, leaning heavily on it. He's gone. Just gone. He died to save Aramis. He would've wanted it to be like that. It hurt so much. He died. He'd never come back. He'd never appear at his door. He'd never cover for him as he staggered in with a hangover. He'd never fight for him again. Defending him in bar brawls like he does on a battlefield. Did.
A week later Athos stares up at the ceiling. There's straw behind him. There's blood on his hands. His friend's name on his lips. A headache, or is it heartache. They seem to merge into one. He stabbed the man who shot Porthos. He had hunted him down, waited for him in a bar he frequented. Stabbed him through the stomach. Where Porthos had gotten hit. He'd watched the man bleed to death in front of him. It was only right that he should die. After what he did. He was in Hell now. For what he did.
Treville had stood outside his door. He'd asked Athos to never return to the Musketeers. He had cried as he walked away. Athos didn't know if Treville was crying for him or Porthos. Maybe for both. Athos sat in silence. D'Artagnan had come to visit him, pleaded with him to say he hadn't killed that man. Pleaded that it was all a mistake. He had cried too. Athos' eyes were dry. Tears wouldn't bring Porthos back.
D'Artagnan was a mess. The boy had fallen into depression's cold embrace. He had sunken so far he could never get out. Athos's heart ached for him. He wanted to make everything better for his little brother. D'Artagnan's face blended with Thomas's. He had failed him. He had failed them both.
He did not reach for the drink. He had been blind to the world for far too long. He was done with hiding behind a bottle, done with being a coward. He wouldn't hide from his own past any longer. He would pay for his sins. Suffer for the things he did. And the things he didn't do. Didn't save Thomas. Didn't save Porthos. Couldn't even save d'Artagnan, who had a chance of surviving. Athos didn't try and escape from the cell. There would be no point. Treville could arrange a fair court. D'Artagnan could bribe and blackmail the witnesses. They could pin the death down to a bar brawl. Treville could give him another chance at in the Musketeers. He could carry on living.
But what was the point?
What was the point of living on?
Living without his large friend. Without his jokes, his grins, his gambling. What was the point of living if they could never be the four Musketeers again?
As Athos stood in front of the noose he was thankful that Aramis and d'Artagnan didn't have to see this. They would have to hear about it. It would be hard for them, but their hearts were already shattered into so many pieces, Athos' death would only spread those pieces further apart. And he needed to release himself from this constant nightmare. He slipped the noose around his neck.
He had died the day he held Thomas' limp body in his arms.
He had died the day his wife hung under his order.
He had died the day Porthos' heart stopped beating.
This would be easier.
The platform fell away and the rope tightened around his neck. He was going to a better place, where he could see Thomas and Porthos again. He felt his last breath leave his lungs, and at last felt peace.
