Epilogue

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.

Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;

And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,

That thus so cleanly I myself can free.

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,

And when we meet at any time again,

Be it not seen in either of our brows

That we one jot of former love retain.

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;

When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes—

Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,

From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

- Michael Drayton (1563-1631), Since There's No Help/Sonnet 61 -

-o-

The Sixteenth of March, 1631. Turin, the capital of the Duchy of Savoy.

The long shadows of the surrounding hills had fallen over the city, wrapping the buildings and streets in a dusky shroud. From the darkness, the stone spires and towers rose to reach for the heaven, towards the silvery bright stars that emerged from the blue-black canvas of early night sky. In the midst of these man-made structures of both faith and power was one that was fairly modest amongst its many more splendid peers. The church stood on the outskirts of the city, looking worn and abandoned. No lights shone in any of its windows.

Behind the old walls of the church was an inner courtyard, a small square with a few trees, a well and a stone bench. Secluded and hidden, it was a perfect place to meet without being seen by prying eyes. It was the second time Anne sat on the cold and hard seat, waiting. On the bench next to her hand, but concealed under the fabric of her dress, was a loaded musket – even now, she didn't take any chances.

She didn't have to wait for long; the Duchess of Savoy was right on time. Stepping into the courtyard, Christine of France walked confidently towards Anne. Even hidden by a dark cloak, her regal bearing was easily distinguishable. She came to stand directly before Anne, not a hint of apprehension or hesitation apparent on her face. It was admirable, although Anne didn't make the mistake of believing the Duchess had come to the meeting alone. No doubt she had trusted men somewhere in the shadows, guarding her.

"I have kept my end of the bargain." Anne went straight to the point of the matter; there was no reason for them to exchange pleasantries or empty platitudes. She also didn't wish to stay in the city more time than was strictly necessary. Although nestled at the foot of the Alps, Turin was still too close to Venice for her taste.

"So I hear," Christine said, looking at Anne calmly.

Anne took out the treaty from where it rested securely against her bosom and lay it on the stone bench, the other woman's eyes following her every move like a hawk. Not wasting any time, Christine picked up the document, a small frown marring her otherwise self-possessed expression. It was too dark for her to read the small, squiggly text. Anne couldn't help the little smirk that sneaked onto her face. Sometimes even the best spies forgot to take into account the smallest details.

"I assure you, it is the real article that I went to great lengths to acquire," Anne asserted frankly. It would have been foolish and pointless to try to deceive the Duchess of Savoy by giving her a fake treaty. Besides, Anne had always been loyal to her employers, whoever they had been. No one could claim otherwise.

Christine tucked the document away and asked, "What about the other treaty?"

"I thought that wasn't your concern?" After all, she had been tasked to find and acquire only the one signed by the Duke of Savoy.

"Unfortunately, my brothers are always my concern – juts slightly less than my husband," Christine said, her mouth pulling into a small, wry smile.

"The Musketeers managed to get it. I take it that is a preferable outcome to someone else having it?"

The Duchess nodded approvingly and presented Anne with a purse of coins. It felt heavy and solid, resting on her palm. She judged its weight to correspond to the sum she had been promised at the task's completion.

"I assure you, every livre you are owed are there," Christine commented. Anne knew that it was her turn to trust the other woman, trust that the item changing hands was the real thing. She put the purse away without opening it.

The Duchess moved to turn around, but the slight movement was aborted almost immediately. As if she had thought better of it, her eyes turned back to look at Anne. "Thank you. You did me – and Savoy – a great service."

"And you paid very handsomely for it," Anne reminded her, suddenly uncomfortable. Her own motives for stealing the treaty had been far from altruistic.

"I know." Christine gave her a small smile, somehow guileless and ironic at the same time. "Nonetheless, I am grateful. I hope that if I ever need further…assistance, I can contact you."

"Yes…" Anne paused and then surprised even herself by continuing, "But I am planning to…do something else for a while." She didn't exactly know yet what she would do, only that she wanted to be without masks, without the kind of deceit that slowly eroded one's soul. Now she had enough money to do something else, to be whoever she wanted – to be herself, whoever that turned out to be in the end, away from all the deception and play-acting.

"Where are you going to go now?" The Duchess sounded genuinely interested, her gaze wondering.

"I have no idea." And she didn't. She and Louise could go anywhere – or almost anywhere. There were a few places she would have to avoid and one place she could not go, a place she would be beyond stupid to go anywhere near any time soon. And yet, she found that was the one place out of all the places that she wanted to go.

"Good luck," Christine of France wished and then turned, swiftly walking across the small square and vanishing inside the old stone walls of the church. Anne, despite planning on leaving Turin as soon as possible, stayed on the courtyard, her thoughts on the familiar city that lay far across the mountains and valleys.

A city she could not return to, however much she hoped otherwise. And she did hope against all hope, with a longing that was suddenly like a visceral thing, gripping her insides and squeezing painfully. Perhaps one day she would see it again, but for now, she could only repeat the name silently in her mind, like a prayer, a wish, a promise.

Paris.

Athos.

-o-

Two weeks later, in Paris.

The scene was ordinary and familiar, the setting of a countless nights spent drinking and gambling and watching the others' merrymaking. The Galleon hadn't changed a bit during the time they had been gone; it was still a noisy, smoke-filled pit of vice and drunkenness. The normality of it was slightly jarring, for Athos felt strangely out of place. Like he didn't fit anymore into the old pattern, into his role of heavy drinking and brooding in a dark corner.

They had all changed since the last time they had spent a night in the tavern; that much was obvious to those who knew them best. D'Artagnan and Aramis had been keeping Athos company the whole night, but none of them had really said much to each other. They were all deep in their own thoughts and disappointments, both personal and professional. Only Porthos showed any signs of his usual merry self, gambling and drinking with the same red-headed wench that usually found her way into his lap. But Athos could easily see the tightness in his friend's shoulders, the glimmer of disillusion in his eyes. Porthos was still affected by the dressing-down they had received from both the King and the Cardinal. They all were.

The King's angry disappointment had been justified; the Musketeers had failed in their mission, at least in part. The Duke had been delivered in front of the King to face justice, but without any concrete proof but the Musketeers' word, he was unlikely to suffer any worse than banishment. Athos doubted that a harsher penalty would have ever been possible, even if they would have gotten a wealth of evidence against Gaston. The man was royalty and still the heir to the French throne; a different, unwritten law existed for him and his like.

As was his wont, the King's wrath had luckily been short lived. The Musketeers' pride had suffered a serious blow, but at least they had managed to leave The Royal Palace without demotion or any other punishment. However, to Athos the worst punishment had already been dealt; the King's faith in his most loyal Musketeers had been shaken. He worried what that meant for them all in the future – if the Cardinal would get an even tighter grip of the young King.

The Cardinal's displeasure had been scathing and biting. Listening to his berating words, Athos had drawn enormous satisfaction from the fact that the Cardinal's own plans had also failed miserably. His mercenary had left Venice even more empty handed than the Musketeers. Watching the Cardinal's cold anger and knowing it stemmed from the man's own failure to get his hands on the treaties had been the only bright spot during the whole hellish meeting.

It had been surprisingly difficult to tell about how they had gotten one treaty and then had lost it, to reveal Anne's involvement with everything that had happened. Briefly Athos had entertained the idea of somehow glossing over it altogether or not revealing her identity. But it would have been futile to try to cover her part in the plot. Gérard would tell the Cardinal that she had been in Venice and Gaston had seen them handing one of the treaties to the Venetians. They had to explain all of it to the King, and although very displeased, he had seemed to understand that their honor had demanded that they keep their word to the Venetians. The missing treaty between Gaston and Savoy had worried Louis for a moment, but Anne had managed to generate some goodwill by giving the other treaty to the King through the Musketeers.

Athos couldn't help now but think, if that had been her motivation all along. If she had left the treaty for Athos to find only because she wanted to diminish the wrath of the King by giving him half of what he wanted? He wondered why the thought hadn't occurred to him sooner and why it was so hard for him to believe in it.

The night had already grown old, when d'Artagnan and Aramis decided to depart for their lodgings. They looked inquiringly at Athos, but he shook his head; he would stay a little while longer. Athos was only now reaching the bottom of his first wine bottle. The pleasant warmth of alcohol didn't blanket his thoughts or drown his memories – everything that had happened was steel sharp in his mind, pricking him and making him bleed anew, but for the moment, he reveled in it. He didn't want to forget anything.

When the others had gone, Athos took a piece of paper out of its hiding place; he had carried it with him since the moment he had found it with the treaty. He had read the words innumerable times, knew them by heart. Still, he wanted to see the shape of the letters, how they were hastily drawn on the piece of paper. The stark inky lines formed the few words that felt truer than any of the long, thought-out letters he had ever received. Hope was a dangerous thing, but still, he let himself feel it. Feel the maybe, the perhaps, the someday.

After he had tucked the paper carefully away, he still heard the words she had written echo in his ears. As if she were whispering them while they lay together in the darkness, entwined.

I can't regret a single moment I ever spent with you. This may seem like an ending, but I know it's only the beginning. Yours,

Anne.


It's finally finished! Thank you all so much for reading, following, favoriting and commenting this story. You are all awesome :)