CURA
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Sick with loss and disappointments, a remedy for what ails our Musketeers is not easily found; until the cure promptly breezes through like a whirlwind. This is an entry for the March 2020 Fete des Mousquetaires challenge with the theme of 'Epidemic'.
Above her shrill shrieks of recriminations, Athos heard the knock at the door and on instinct opened it without thinking. Over time he had recognized his symptoms as perhaps contagious and made it his purpose to lock himself away.
He needed to be alone.
However, solitude and drink wreaked havoc on his reason. What had he been thinking? He should have guessed someone would come looking for him. He should have nailed the door shut.
Sluggishly, his coordination impaired, he moved to push the door closed. Too late; it was of no use. Aramis was swifter and stronger. "No, no my good friend", he stressed, "You will not shut me out", and pressed his shoulder to the door; easily pushing him aside.
Aramis stepped into the room, his stance ready for resistance. None would come from him. He had not the energy.
Resigned, Athos turned away; sat heavily in his chair and reached for his strong, liquid companion. The only comfort present with him over these past few days. This loyal companion … who did not judge; who did not speak and who only wished to help him forget.
Aramis shut the door softly behind him and studied the room. It was dark, murky, stale, his friend inebriated … unacceptable. Without permission he strode toward the lone window to let the sun and air flow through.
"There, isn't that better", he chimed out; hoping to illicit some bit of mirth.
Athos narrowed his eyes to the brightness and groaned. "I would ask you to leave, but I see it would do no good", he deadpanned and took a swig from his bottle.
Chuckling, Aramis removed his cloak; then his hat and took a seat. "And why on earth would I leave you here alone when you need me most." Scanning the room and finding no evidence of food he sighed; exasperated, "You have sat here in darkness long enough I think."
Athos leaned over the table between them and frowned. "I am contagious", he sighed. "I wish for you not to catch my infirmity."
Startled, Aramis stood and moved toward his friend; searched his face and touched his brow. "Are you unwell?" he asked, and finding no fever inquired with worry, "What ails you? Should I retrieve a doctor?"
A doctor – Athos thought. What could a doctor do? How could a doctor cure him of this melancholia; of this bout of depression that grabbed hold of him without warning and turned his moods black and his disposition sour? Moods that when unchecked spread to others like an epidemic.
Suddenly from the corner of the room, he heard her bitter tone laughing at his drunken sate; condemning him for his treacherous acts … for his betrayal … for doing his duty. He could feel the noose tighten about his neck and sputtered.
Through a haze, he could almost see her there standing over his dead brother with blood on her hands … laughing at him … torturing him. He would never be free of her; of that moment in time infecting the rest of his life.
"Be still", he called out, then stood and with force threw the bottle in her direction and watched; unsteady on his feet as wine and shards of glass splattered the wall … she, left untouched.
He turned away from her, shoulders hunched… defeated.
"Come." Aramis whispered and held him up by the shoulders. "Come and lie down. I don't believe you to be contagious. I am perfectly safe from what ails you and will keep you company."
As Aramis lay his head to pillow; removed his boots and pulled the coverlet to his chin … Athos reached for his friend and grabbed hold of his arm. "I am haunted", he lamented. "There is no cure." And in that moment exhaustion dragged him down where she begged for mercy and he turned away.
Aramis sat quietly at Athos' beside and felt the grip of his friend's dark mood. It was heavy and oppressive. Haunted, he said. Athos was haunted. By what, he wondered. For years he and Porthos speculated, unwilling to ask.
There were secrets hidden beneath the man's cool exterior. He knew this – but it was not his way to pry. One day Athos would share his burdens; as maybe he would share his … one day. But until then he would wait. Just as he waited for a miraculous sighting of his dear Isabelle; as he waited for the beautiful, vibrant Adele whom he cherished; who had left him without notice … disappeared.
Her abrupt departure left him brooding; wondering what he had done wrong. He supposed he should have said the words – reassured her in some way of his feelings and commitment.
Rubbing his eyes Aramis sighed deeply. He wished it was his way to speak plainly of such things. Love had not come easy for him and never lasted. Looking toward Athos, he then thought of Porthos and knew only that brotherhood had saved him … protected him against the sickness of heartache and tragedy.
Athos shifted on his small cot and turned away to face the wall – his murmuring a stab to his own heart of "leave me be", conjuring up long ago memories of Isabelle weeping; his promises to find her; his declarations of devotion … only to never see her again. And now it was Adele – lost to him.
Aramis looked to the ceiling, "Perhaps you are contagious after all", he voiced aloud as Isabelle and Adele watched him closely from the corner of the room – their hands joined in solidarity against him.
"I am sorry", he pleaded with them both and closed his eyes to blot out the images of tears and disappointment. He was weary and would rest just for a moment.
Porthos entered the room and shivered. It was dark and cold. Coolness swept through the open window and he quickly moved to shutter it. Rubbing his arms to stave off the chill, he stamped his feet for good measure.
On the lone cot Athos slept; as did Aramis in the nearby chair … undisturbed by his entry.
What was this, he wondered?
Treville had sent Aramis to drag Athos back to the garrison hours ago. Two days away with no word or sight of him had the Captain yelling to anyone and everyone, "Enough."
And when they both had not returned, he had been sent … to find what; strewn, shattered, and empty bottles about the floor. He had seen this before. But Aramis still here, in isolation alongside their troubled friend was new. Usually Aramis had the gift of words that could coax Athos back out into the world.
Moving toward the hearth he lit a fire and watched as the flames took hold and warmed the room. "There, that's better", he sighed and dragged a chair close to sit and contemplate as the embers floated upwards and wood crackled.
Over time, as the flames grew stronger, Porthos leaned back in his chair and let his body relax. Amber light swept along the floor, leaving the far corners of the room dark. Peering into the shadows he sensed a presence lurking – more than one presence, and felt the hairs rise on his forearms. A tingling sensation tickled his spine.
Something heavy invaded his heart and he wondered if this feeling, this weight was what had befallen his friends.
Reaching for his chest he rubbed their vigorously to ease the ache and thumping palpitations.
Looking to his friends, he made a decision. The hour was late. He would not disturb them. Tomorrow was soon enough to make their way back to the garrison and Treville's ire.
Staring into the flames – the reds, the yellows, the golden hue reminded him of Flea. His Flea – who he had not seen in years; who still in quiet moments like this came to him. Her face, her smile, her toughness unchanged; as if she were in the room with him.
He missed her. For half his life she had been his rock – a true friend who stood back to back with him in fights that seemed insurmountable but followed through and won in the end.
He had loved her and she him.
But when he could no longer stay; could no longer accept a boot on his neck … wanted more; she did not want to leave – refusing to come away with him. Her rejection of his dreams had left him stunned; hurt. At the time her words, "Then what of me?" had carried little weight.
But as time passed, he could see her point. She had wanted to stay; make life better in the Court in her own way without leaving behind the many that depended on her. He regretted his short sightedness. He could only blame it on his youth at the time; the lure of Paris; the dreams of brotherhood and the Musketeers.
He had found those things – all his dreams and ambitions come true and wished still he could have shared it all with her.
Over his shoulder, from the shifting shadows … his eyes drooping form exhaustion, he could just hear her voice uttering, "Then what of me?"
d'Artagnan entered Athos' lodgings with a flurry.
He was feeling on top of the world. Constance had said, "Good morning" and wished him a good day. What could be better than that? Well … he supposed with a brief frown, she could not be married. But still – she had said "Have a good day." – and so he would have it.
She had inoculated him with joy and he would share his joy with whoever would accept it. The sun was brighter, the air fresher … the world a better place – all because she was in it.
Even the Captain's shouted orders from the balcony to "Bring those damn fools back to the garrison this instant", did not dampen his spirits.
And so here he was, a witness to the three Musketeers sleeping like the dead; the fire all but diminished and streaks of sunlight filtering through the shuttered window.
"Porthos, Aramis, Athos", he called out with undisguised excitement.
All three, as if on cue, stirred in sync to his overture and groaned as he rushed through the room to throw open the window.
Laughing as they stirred, their bones creaking – d'Artagnan pulled up the bucket of frozen water hanging over the sill.
"Captain Treville seeks your audience", he sang out.
Dragging the bucket to the center of the room, he continued, "The day has begun. The sun is shining. The air is crisp. Come and ready yourselves."
Head in hands, the taste of wine foul on his tongue, Athos mused aloud to his young friend, "Your good humor overwhelms me", and stood to begin his routine of smashing through ice to revive himself.
Aramis stood, stretched arms above his head and yawned with force. Throat dry from lack of use he coughed then chuckled as the whirlwind that was d'Artagnan began to pick up empty bottles and line them up on the table.
Porthos gathered his wits as Flea's smile dissipated into the ether with his dreams.
After some moments of cleaning up bottles; straightening up chairs and humming sweet folk songs of love… his mind distractedly on red hair; dimples and the perfectly chimed notes of "good morning" … d'Artagnan stopped to consider his friends. All eyes were on him.
"Are we ready then?" he said through a wide smile – his eyes glistening with … something.
"Today is a wonderful day", he imparted – his smile so wide it lit his face which parted the pervasive darkness in the room, chasing the weighted presence of loss and disappointment back into the murky corners.
"No need for all this gloom." Waving them forward, d'Artagnan headed for the door.
"No", Athos agreed and found his brothers standing at his sides; shoulders touching. Nodding to one another, feeling rejuvenated and well - they followed d'Artagnan directly; closing the door behind them with emphasis.
Thank you for reading. Please leave a review to let me know what you think. I am not 100% sure, but according to one definition I found CURA is Latin for care, concern and responsibility. I hope you enjoyed! This is an entry for the March 2020 Fete des Mousquetaires challenge with the theme of 'Epidemic'. If you would like to participate in the March Challenge, go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn about the rules and how to enter.