Many thanks for reading and commenting! Uia, I hear you. I'll do my best.
This one is for Helen, who likes this sort of thing.
oOo
Set after The Prize, Episode 9, Series 3
116. The Visitor
Treville was dead and Athos was stone cold sober.
Heartbroken, bereft. Yet sober.
It did not occur to him to understand why he was sober. When he thought about any of it, it seemed now that he was a different person to the one who woke up this morning. Cut adrift - from himself and his life. He did not understand how he still drew breath, or how his feet had brought him to this place.
Nor did he understand how Treville was now standing calmly before him in the Infirmary, where he had eventually sought solace after the dreadful, brutal slaying just a few short hours ago.
He had split from his fellow Musketeers, with a promise to meet up later. He could not bear company. He had no voice to lament, no tears to shed. He wondered how his blood still flowed, how his treacherous heart kept beating. But was that not always his penance? He had thought his heart brutally slayed in a similar fashion all those years ago, but it seemed it had the strength of Atlas!
That same heart had clenched though, perilously close to stopping, when the shadows had seemed to part, though no candles were lit. There was no sound as the man he had loved, still loved, stepped silently forward. His boots made no sound on the stone floor.
"It isn't over," Treville said, with no preamble, much as his old self. "Worse is to come. France needs you."
Athos had raised his head from his seated position at the table. For a moment, he was frozen with fear, until that familiar voice broke through. His mouth remained agape though, as he struggled to think. Realising he was being addressed directly and was being rude, he fought for words for the visitor waiting before him.
"The King is safe," he managed.
Treville, Treville, nodded.
"I know," he said. "Porthos took him."
Athos blinked.
"Am I dreaming?" he gasped softly, his eyes wide; not a little afraid.
"I don't know," Treville replied. He walked toward him, and Athos fought not to shrink back in his chair.
"If I am," Athos continued, in a heartfelt whisper, "Your words are my own and there is no prophecy here."
"And if you are not?" Treville countered.
"Then God help us."
"It is not over," Treville repeated. "Though you will prevail," he added, firmly.
Athos shifted in his seat, staring at the man before him.
"In two days, we bury you with full honours. The Queen has decreed it," he said.
"Thereafter, I can no longer help you," his visitor replied.
"But tonight?"
"I am here. Take my words. Think on them. Act wisely."
"I hear you. France needs us," Athos replied. "France has always needed us. Your words could be my own, though. God knows, there is turmoil enough in my mind!"
Treville frowned. And sighed. Such a familiar gesture.
"Remember this," he said, after a moment of silence between them, broken only by Athos's ragged breathing. "You are the Garrison."
"I don't understand," Athos replied, staring up at the man, his hands now clenched together to still the tremor.
"You will."
"Captain ..."
"I am your Captain no longer, Athos," Treville interrupted.
"Minister ..."
"No longer."
"Jean." A plea, wrenched from his throat.
Treville stepped back. The shadows gathered around him.
"Don't go."
"I am gone already."
"You live on in each of us," Athos said, urgently, wanting to impart his own truth. His eyes stung; his lungs burned.
"Peace, Athos," his friend said, his face softer. Peaceful now.
"I hear you," Athos said. "I hear you, Jean."
Treville nodded once.
And with that, he was gone.
Athos sat where he was for what seemed like a long time. Treville had said he would understand. Perhaps he would, when it all came to pass.
"Peace, Captain," he whispered into the shadows. For he would always be that, no matter what he had said.
After the funeral, he would join his comrades and watch as they raised a glass to their fallen leader. Their friend. The man who had guided them. Who, perhaps, guided them still. He would say nothing of this, but he would hold it in his heart, as he held the man. A heart which, apparently, to his great surprise, had the capacity to hold sadness and love in equal measure.
Now, he let the tears come.
oOo
Thanks for reading! More soon.