D'Artagnan
"He what?" The young man asked bewildered.
At last they had managed to be together again, to support each other, inséparables, and now… D'Artagnan wished he could keep them close, but it was like keeping a handful of sand between clenched fingers. Why now? It wasn't time to be separated, united we stand divided we fall, wasn't it their motto… So what had Aramis done? He had ...
"Left." Porthos answered, sparing his words, because he felt that his voice would betray him, betray his anger and his worry.
"But why?" D'Artagnan asked again looking up at his mentor. "He is …"
Athos stood, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning a shoulder against the wall, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. His expression, both surprised and resigned, obviously said: once more, Aramis has followed his instincts. Honestly, it didn't seem to surprise him but maybe he had hoped that given the circumstances he wouldn't be such...
"A fool." Porthos grunted.
"So, why did our foolish friend decide to run away?" Athos asked, his calm and noble voice revealing nothing of his thoughts.
"I don't care why he ran." D'Artagnan replied. "He is alone, it's dangerous with …"
"He left because he thinks that it should be your wife here with you, and not three worried old soldiers. He wants to bring her here."
Athos shook his head with a sigh and left the wall.
"I'll go after him."
D'Artagnan raised a hand to stop him and looking straight into his friend's eyes, he said :
" We will go after him."
"You are not …"
"I am ready." The young man interrupted, hauling himself onto his feet with as few grimaces as possible.
"As ready as a freshly skinned rabbit" Porthos mumbled, watching with a raised eyebrow as the young Musketeer dangerously swayed on his feet.
Athos had left the wall, ready to catch his friend if necessary, but he still had his arms crossed, right hip canted in a -probably fake- casual attitude, a slightly amused expression gracing his features.
"A rat, you mean." He drawled, earning an outraged glare from d'Artagnan which made him realise that the word was poorly chosen.
"How can you joke? Don't you know that Grimaud is still hidden somewhere in the streets. Ready to kill again. Again."D'Artagnan's voice broke as he repeated 'again'.
Athos exhaled a breath, as if he had been hit in the stomach. Porthos swallowed with a strangled sound. Reality crushed them with as much violence and brutality as if the roof had suddenly collapsed. The silence which followed d'Artagnan's words was heavy and suffocating. The young man looked at his friends, breathing heavily, realising that he had broken the spell, broken the bubble in which they had carefully retreated since they had found him, pushing aside the terrifying reality of Tréville's death, of Grimaud's threat, of an uncertain future. He stepped back slightly, using the bed frame to steady himself, his calves against the wood. He felt his vision blurr, the pain in his ribcage coming back with a renewed force and something which was worse than everything, a feeling of emptiness. The dark hole left inside him by Tréville's death and Constance's absence. Aramis' disappearance worsened his anxiety and he needed to leave this room. It was more than a need, it was a necessity and it made him tremble on his legs. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of his own breathing. He heard someone approaching him but he refused to open his eyes. A hand on his elbow. His throat constricted. He wasn't going to cry. He couldn't, not in front of them.
"Better embrace Athos than the floor, don't you think? He is closer and more comfortable"
First, D'Artagnan had thought that it was Porthos' hand on his elbow, but his voice came from the other side of the small room. He felt the hand shake slightly and the characteristic almost silent laugh of Athos made its way through the thunder of his own ragged breathing.
"I think you need to rest." Athos said, his voice low and hushed.
D'Artagnan shook his head like a child refusing to go to bed.
"D'Artagnan, please, sit down." Athos said calmly but firmly, tightening his grip. "And breathe slowly or you will faint."
"Faint!" Porthos mocked fondly.
D'Artagnan opened his eyes in a vain attempt to glare but he just bowed his head, feeling suddenly drained, and turned to Athos. The latter looked helplessly at Porthos who shrugged and repeated:
"I told you, better embrace Athos than the floor."
D'Artagnan's shoulders shook from his effort to contain both his grief and the sudden laugh which unexpectedly came to his throat and he closed the gap between him and his friend. Athos slung an arm around his shoulders and clumsily, and briefly, hugged him under Porthos' fond gaze. When they drew apart, d'Artagnan raised his head and his shining eyes met Athos'.
"Shall we go now?"
Athos shrugged but nodded. Porthos opened his mouth but didn't say a word. There was nothing to do against the famous Gascon stubbornness, nothing to say, except maybe …
"At least, wear something before we leave." Porthos said holding d'Artagnan's shirt.
oooo0000O0000ooo
Aramis
He knew it. All he deserved was an eternal place in Hell but he had imagined it different. Less cold, less wet… more crowded, more noisy, more … Wait … Were there bells in Hell?
He shook his head and tried to open his heavy glued eyelids, actions which only made him lose consciousness once more. Before sinking in a sea of black molasses, he briefly thought that he hadn't counted … but he couldn't remember what he had forgotten to count…
oooo0000O0000ooo
Sylvie
The hushed sound of bells somewhere in the city awoke her with a start. Constance was still asleep but she had rolled on her back -leaving Sylvie free of her movements- and snored gently, a soft sound similar to the child's light breath which made a lock of blond hair tremble on his forehead. Sylvie stood up to peer through the heavy curtains. The night was still dark. What time could it be? She waited, hoping that the bells would ring again, but the only sounds of the night were those of the servants running to satisfy the whims of their masters, running to fetch a glass of water, a spoonful of honey or a bowl of fruits because a nobleman or a noblewoman could ask anything at any hour of the day or night. Sylvie had always been strong and her mind was usually clear and pragmatic, shaped by years of suffering and misery, but during this strange night she couldn't help but feel anxious. Where were they?
She couldn't help but be resentful of the Queen who thought that this heavily furnished room, with its comfortable chairs, roaring hearth and sumptuous fabrics shimmering under the soft light was a much better place to stay than her miserable rooms in Saint Antoine, but it wasn't her home. Moreover, she suspected that the Queen's intentions were a little more selfish. Her son had been so distressed and scared when his governess had approached him while he showed such a blind trust towards her and Constance.
She shook her head. The Queen's reaction was normal as a mother and Sylvie, who had been deprived of this kind of love for years, understood it, but her tired mind fought against her and brought back the revolutionary ideas amongst which she had been raised. Don't be stupid , she admonished herself. Anyway, she felt like a prisoner.
The little King mumbled something unintelligible and she murmured in his ear to calm him, a hand on his smooth forehead, then she looked around her. The flames of the candles were producing their last sparkles. She found a new candle on a chest of drawers. She couldn't help but admire the imposing piece of furniture, the black wood inlaid with ivory, the delicacy of the sculptures, the warm reflections of the tarnish bronze of the handles. She sighed, not really knowing why, and turned around to light the new candle with the dying flame of another one.
Constance raised her head and her eyes half open, she looked at her, a question already on her lips. Sylvie shook her head and came to sit beside her.
"Did you sleep at all?" Constance murmured.
"A little."
"You should try. I know you are worried but …"
"I'm fine."
Constance sat up and patted the mattress next to her.
"I wonder who taught you these words."
"What do you mean?" Sylvie asked, smoothing the folds of her embroidered apron over her still flat belly.
"You said 'I'm fine'. I know someone else who is always fine, even when he has just been beaten by …"
"What do you want me to say?" Sylvie interrupted. "Of course I'm worried, but no more than you."
She lay on the mattress, on her side, facing the door, hoping that someone would come to tell them to leave, to tell them anything that could reassure them. She closed her eyes and felt Constance lie down at her back, she felt her hand on her shoulder.
"I know. Try to rest."
oooo0000O0000ooo
Athos
Porthos had managed, God knows how, to light the torch again. Its flame sent acrid whirls of smoke around them. They rode silently, abreast, scanning the streets. Athos felt his throat constricting when it reminded him of another day, a long time ago, when they had all proudly ridden like that, crossing a village, his village. They were five at the time. Five men who unconsciously thought that they were invincible as long as they were together. Now they would never be five again. Athos looked up at the dark sky, sending a prayer towards the clouds, hoping that somewhere… He shook his head. He had long lost any trace of faith, but felt that he owed it to the pious Aramis. He heard d'Artagnan cough and he instinctively brought his horse closer to the young man who rode on his left. The reddish glow of the torch and the black smoke gave this sinister walk through the streets of Paris something even more hellish.D'Artagnan coughed again and bent over the neck of his horse, gripping the mane.
"D'Artagnan, do you need to stop?" He asked, his voice hushed, laying a hand on his friend's neck.
.
The young man shook his head, stubbornly. His forehead briefly shone under the orange light of the torch. Sweat , Athos thought and he associated it with an intense pain and probably the return of the fever.
"And if he has chosen another street?" Porthos grumbled.
Athos had nothing to answer. He was lost, exhausted to a level he had never experienced. He felt almost detached from his body, all his movement dictated by habit and instinct. His mind felt paradoxically clear and sharp, keeping an eye on his young friend's reactions and scanning each corner of the streets, barely lit by their torch. The bells of a church rang four times. Athos thought of the stupidity of such a task. If somewhere Aramis' God existed, He probably didn't care if a few monks slept peacefully, resting from their day of labour instead of leaving the straw mattress they had barely managed to warm in order to run towards a freezing church. D'Artagnan moaned, it was discreet, muffled, but Athos didn't miss the sound.
"You should have stayed. You are in no condition…"
"It's not about my condition." D'Artagnan interrupted, clearly biting his cheek to silence his pain.
They stared at each other like two angry cats.
"Look over there." Porthos suddenly murmured.
D'Artagnan and Athos looked in the direction showed by Porthos.
"What was that?" D'Artagnan asked.
"A man, with a hooded cape."
"Was it …"
"It can't be ..." Athos whispered without trying to hide his anxiety. "Where is he now?" He asked, urging his horse towards the place where they had seen the dark shadow, sliding along the walls. "Wait here." He added before entering a narrow street opening onto a small square place.
He had no illusion of being obeyed and soon his two friends came to his sides.
"Nothing." He breathed out angrily.
"What was he looking for here?"
"You mean who ." D'Artagnan whispered.
They resumed their slow walk but now, they felt the threat of the dark shadow. They weren't sure it was who they believed it was, but the mere thought added weight on their shoulders, an anxiety, a fear for their friend and for themselves. They rode so close to each other that their legs brushed with each step of their mounts. The streets were eerily silent. They passed the shop of the blacksmith with its white horse shoe and continued in another narrow street. They were very close to the garrison now but no trace of their friend.
"If we don't find him, we should go back to Constance's former house by using another route." Porthos said not expecting any answer.
"I agree," Athos said, "but we leave d'Artagnan at the garrison first."
"D'Artagnan is here with you, just in case you have forgotten, and he refuses to be left aside like an invalid." D'Artagnan replied, his voice betraying his pain, but his tone full of authority.
Athos thought that he would make a much better captain than himself but said nothing and just nodded. He had long abandoned the idea of giving orders to this stubborn young mule.
oooo0000O0000ooo
Aramis
He felt the ground vibrating under his head. His muddled mind deduced that he was laying on his back. At least, his mind was still working and his body still felt something. Do the damned souls feel something in Hell? Probably. If not, how could the sinners of his kind expiate their sins. Of course they had to suffer, but … how could he feel his body suffer like that, his soul should be the only remaining part of him in Hell. Opening his eyes was a task he was loath to execute but he needed to know. If he had to spend the rest of … Wait, no, his surroundings, his sensations felt too … earthly. His pains had nothing to do with a few demons' forks. His pains came from the fact that in the past days and weeks he had been mistaken too many times for a quintain, and he was so cold, so soaked in freezing smelly water. The vibrations increased, he opened one eye, even if his head kept telling him that it was stupid and saw them, the big terrifying hooves a few inches from his head, then he saw the dirty boots … Unable to fight one more time, he curled on himself and protected his battered body with his arms .. .
oooo0000O0000ooo
D'Artagnan
He felt his stamina fade more quickly than he had expected. He had thought that once his rather superficial wound was closed and bandaged it would be over, but now it was as if his skin didn't fit his body anymore. Too tight or too large, cracking or crumpling, he couldn't tell, but something was awfully wrong. The sticky sensation of the honey was almost unbearable and the sweat dripping drop by drop into his eyes kept him from seeing clearly. One thing he didn't have to see was Athos' green eyes fixed on him. He didn't have to see them because he felt them, boring into his skin. When the smoke suffocated him and he had to cough, he thought that finally, his body had decided to rid itself of his skin, but a warm gloved hand on his neck calmed him almost immediately.
He couldn't think of himself, he had to focus on Aramis. He shook his head, squinted to clear his sight, and, slightly bent forward, gripping the pommel of his saddle, he scanned the streets. He just wished that Porthos could stop muttering under his breath. It made him nervous, but he understood, so he tried to ignore the constant stream of:
"Stupid, stupid arrogant fool, where are you? Selfish idiot…"
They soon turned into a narrow alley. The sky seemed less dark now, a faint glow of greyish light appearing above the lower buildings making them even more black and gloomy. Dawn, already? What time could it be? Three? Four?
D'Artagnan looked up at the sky. A few white feather-like clouds floated over the still bright moon but the stars now blinked like the eyes of a myriad sleepy owls, their light slowly fading, unable to fight against the sun which would soon rise and extinguish them. A new day. Suddenly, images of the past one came back to his mind, violently taking his breath away. He had almost forgotten. Only a few hours earlier, they had lost … The man who … D'Artagnan swallowed his saliva, closed his eyes and opened them again to concentrate on a small cloud whose shape reminded him of a shell.
D'Artagnan was so enthralled by his observation of the sky, by his grief, that he had forgotten for a few seconds what their current mission was. Stupidly, it made him blush, ashamed, when he realised that despite the confidence he had tried to show, he was unable to stay concentrated on a simple task. Athos had stopped and d'Artagnan understood that he was waiting for him while Porthos continued his walk and his angry muttering, taking the torch with him.
"How are you feeling?" Athos asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
"Fine."
"I don't doubt it." Athos answered, unable to hide the fond sarcasm in his voice, before silently urging his horse to walk again.
Porthos had already turned the corner of the small street and d'Artagnan was about to follow when his burning eyes fell on a dark opening in the wall of a seemingly abandoned house. Squinting again he saw a form huddled amongst the rubble. A human form, and … a hat. A hat with a ridiculous blue feather which gracefully danced in a pale ray of moon. The sound coming from his mouth sounded more like the whimper of a wounded dog than a human voice, but Athos immediately turned around, his features distorted -at least it was how d'Artagnan saw them- by worry and fear. Porthos had heard too and he violently pulled on his reins to join them, making his horse's hooves noisily splash in the puddles of mud.
"What is it?" Athos asked.
But d'Artagnan didn't answer, he was too busy trying to slide from his saddle with a minimum of dignity and efficiency.
"What-are-you-doing?" Athos enunciated his tone slightly annoyed.
Porthos was next to d'Artagnan now, supporting him with his fingers firmly wrapped around his elbow. Athos made his horse come closer and he looked down at the part of the building which d'Artagnan stared at so intently.
"Oh God." He murmured, literally jumping from the big friesian and rushing towards the dark figure shaking on the dirty ground.
To be continued...
