A/N: Something for the Season?
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Peace and Goodwill
Advent was upon them.
The frosts at least made the city look a little more presentable, certainly in the areas where the Musketeers patrolled.
Splendid celebrations were being prepared in the palace, of course, as the King loved Christmas. Now, on Christmas Eve, as the four walked back to the Garrison after their guard duty, the streets were growing dark and a light snow had started to fall.
The morgue attendants had been busy for the last week, collecting the bodies of those unfortunates who had died in the streets, frozen in doorways and in back alleys. No joyous Christmas for them. The Inseparables had found three such bodies at dawn that very morning shortly before going on duty at the palace. It would no doubt be the same tomorrow.
They had left the palace through the kitchens, where they were allowed a small repast after their duty. It had been a sight to behold. The palace cooks were busy preparing a huge amount of food in preparation of the Christmas feasts to come. Smoked salmon and oysters, foie gras, goose, turkey stuffed with chestnuts. Massive mounds of vegetables were being prepared. There were pots of garlic, butter and provincial herbs ready for the potatoes. They would be cooking throughout the night and into the morning. In another section of the kitchen, desserts were being prepared. There were fruits and nuts, cherries, dried figs and hazelnuts, walnuts, almonds and dried grapes. There would be baking and basting, roasting and grilling. The smell was wonderful now; once it was underway, it would be tantalising.
Porthos though, had lost his appetite. He had stomped through the kitchens with a frown on his face, merely taking a drink of the wine that was available on the table in the corner. The others briefly joined him before heading out into the late afternoon.
Noel was a difficult time for many people who had lost someone, and all the four Musketeers had. It was a reminder of times past. It was a bitter sweet season.
d'Artagnan's thoughts at this time of year turned to his childhood farm of course, where the homestead was always adorned with holly and pine cones. As a child, everyone was welcome; uncles and aunts, cousins and neighbours, or anyone who just needed a little comfort on the day itself. There would be a pig to roast and plenty of potatoes and vegetables and the trip to church was always a highlight as he sat and gazed in awe at all the villagers, all in one place, all celebrating. He had taken it for granted as a boy. Now, it was a heartfelt memory, tucked away. They were good times and he missed them.
Aramis's thoughts went to his own childhood, spent with his mother in the brothel, where the girls were kind but sometimes sorely used, especially at Christmas time, when drink flowed in the taverns and the men who paid for company often demanded more than they deserved. Even so, the girls snatched some time to be together and share what they had gathered. Genuine laughter rang through the premises as they held up baubles and bits of jewellery and pooled everything in order to buy a little frivolous food, just for the day. Gifts were small but treasured. Aramis still had the belt buckle that one of the girls, Josie, had presented him with as a boy of nine. She had winked at him, and he had not cared that she had probably 'lifted' it from a client. It was given with love and affection and received as such. He learned how to support others during that time but he still wished he could have done more.
Porthos's early years had meant Christmas more often than not, was something to get through rather than celebrate. He and his little group of friends snagged whatever they could amid the excitement of the city and the sight of people laden with parcels and food. Poultry hanging in the butcher's windows made his mouth water, even in its uncooked state. The windows of houses and businesses were decorated and the streets were alive. The boys were not as reckless as they might have been in such circumstances, as no-one wanted to be thrust into prison over Christmas. Better to take their chances on the streets. Usually, Porthos and his friends climbed up on to the roofs and crowded around the chimneys, gaining what warmth they could. Being with his friends made Christmas for Porthos, who never had a gift as a child.
Of all of them, Athos was the one who did not have tales of poverty and hardship. His burden, though, was just as heavy as the memories were just as bittersweet. His brother, Thomas, had been born on Christmas Eve and, to this day, it was a day to be got through. He did not step foot in a church, he did not celebrate. He and God had not seen eye to eye for some years and so he eschewed visiting a church. The saving grace was that his brothers understood and let him be. As for food, the sight earlier in the kitchens had turned his stomach. The citizens of Paris starved outside the Louvre walls, but here, there would be food thrown away. He had learned at an early age that food brought more than comfort. It brought power and prestige. The palace kitchens were a demonstration of that, the many guests expected on Christmas Day were all a part of the tableau. As a boy, he saw how their tenants toiled in the fields to provide produce for the house. He saw both sides.
Thus, the time of year was received with mixed emotions and all of them had been lost in their thoughts for several days. Now, as they walked through beggars and ill-clothed children, their tempers frayed.
"Don't seem right," Porthos growled as he side-stepped an old man carrying a turnip as if it was the finest thing he had ever seen. As they approached, the man warily tucked it into his old cloak, but Porthos simply patted his shoulder and wished him well. The old man hurried on his way, relieved he would not be arrested with his ill-gotten gain.
"It is just the way it is," Athos replied. "You of all people know that."
Porthos stopped and rounded on him.
"Says the man who grew up in a château. Doesn't make it right!" he said, his voice low and deadly. "It's been going on like this for years. When is the King goin' to do something!"
He walked off ahead of them.
"Treason, Porthos," Aramis said, quietly, but out of earshot, before turning to Athos. "He doesn't mean it."
"Perhaps not," Athos replied, tersely. "But he has a point."
Athos knew it was no good saying he understood as he knew he never could. He sighed and silently wished the year gone.
They all walked on in silence.
d'Artagnan was equally quiet as they walked, kicking rubbish out of the way.
"I don't think I ever appreciated what we had, back on the farm," he eventually said. "It was just the way it was," he added, echoing Athos's words. "I'd give anything for just one more day as it used to be."
Aramis clapped him on the shoulder, amiably. "It's a time of year when miracles happen, my friend. So who knows, maybe your wish will be heard."
Porthos snorted up ahead and Athos turned his face away.
d'Artagnan, though, looked at Aramis with sincerity. "I suppose this time of year is different for you," he said.
Aramis smiled. "The Lord's birth is always a time for celebration. It is what we make it and what we wish for."
"I wish for it to be over and for things to return to normal," Athos murmured.
Porthos stepped over a beggar, dropping a coin into his lap.
"How does it go? Peace on earth and goodwill to all men?" he grunted.
"Peace, Porthos," Aramis sighed. "It is not the Lord's fault we lead such disparate lives."
"It is not the beggar's fault that He does not see them," Athos replied.
"Athos," Aramis scolded. "What would you wish for?"
"Forgiveness," Athos said, without preamble, before stepping away and leaving Aramis to stare after him, his heart heavy.
"And you, d'Artagnan?" Aramis called out, as they turned the street.
"To think about my childhood Christmas times with joy, not sadness," he replied, before looking around, "And for not taking things for granted."
"That's two wishes," Porthos said, though he smiled for the first time that evening.
"You, my friend?" Aramis asked him.
Porthos frowned.
"That no-one else dies alone on the street tonight" he said.
"A worthy wish, my friend," Aramis replied.
"And you, Aramis?" Athos asked, before turning to face them all.
"That's easy," Aramis smiled. "I wish for you all to find peace."
They continued on, each lost in his own thoughts. Up ahead, the street turned once more. The snow was coming down a little more heavily now. They walked side by side, hats pulled low to shield against the cold flakes that dashed against their faces.
To the left, an alleyway stood.
Athos, on the left, turned his head briefly to look down its length. It was a dead end but at the very end, he saw movement. Stopping in his tracks, he moved his cloak over his left shoulder and unsheathed his sword. The others stopped and followed his gaze.
"What is it?" Aramis whispered.
"I don't know," Athos replied. "Someone is down there."
Although it was getting dark, there was a light at the end of the alley. They each withdrew their swords and turned, walking tentatively toward the light.
"Who goes there?" Athos called. "State your business."
There was no response, but the light grew brighter and moved toward him until he was unaware of his brothers. It was a young man. Athos had a feeling that this was not right at all, but he was transfixed by the figure.
"You do not need your sword," the figure said, as he waved a hand at him and then to his left, no doubt encompassing his brothers.
Athos turned to his right. His brothers seemed equally transfixed and they each re-sheathed their swords
"Do not be disquieted," the young man said, "They are alright."
"This concerns me?" Athos said, turning back.
The snow continued to fall but he did not feel it. He was drawn to the young man before him, though strangely, the figure's face was indistinct.
"This does," the figure said, quietly.
Utter silence fell in the alley, now pure and white. The cold had receded. Athos too, felt compelled to re-sheath his sword.
"You are angry, Athos," the young man said. "You carry guilt and shame."
"Who are you?" Athos managed, taking a step back. He found though that he didn't move at all.
"I am who you see before you," the figure replied, simply. "You suffer from an unforgiven wrong," he said.
Athos did not respond, his hand reaching for the hilt of his sword once more.
"You seek forgiveness, but the barrier to that forgiveness is yourself. Tell me, which feels better, forgiveness or revenge?"
Athos stood perfectly still. For the life of him, he was lost for words.
"You have exacted revenge upon yourself for a long time," the figure continued. "You do not seek revenge upon the person who has wronged you, for there is still love there. But you cannot forgive yourself, because you have no love for yourself."
Athos huffed. He was about to engage in a philosophical debate with a man half his age in an alleyway.
However, as he opened his mouth to speak, the figure changed. It gradually became more distinct and with it, a different feeling enveloped him. He cried out in surprise, but no sound came. The feeling was warmth. It was peace. For a blissful moment, it was love. The love he had felt so many years ago.
Two words reached him across the alleyway.
"Forgive yourself."
Athos fell to his knees, staring at the figure with wide, shining eyes.
"I cannot!" he cried.
He felt warm fingers under his chin, raising his head.
It was Thomas who stood before him, looking down into his face.
"Peace, brother," he said. "In this, you can. After all, didn't you always tell me I could do anything?"
Athos was utterly confused and frozen to the spot. He took in his brother's face, the pain of seeing him again almost overwhelming.
"Do you forgive me?" Athos whispered.
"There is no forgiveness without love," Thomas said. "I love you, brother. Now it is your turn. If you cannot forgive yourself for some perceived wrong, you cannot love. But I see that you are surrounded by love. You do love and you are loved. Forgive yourself."
Encouraged by his brother, Athos rose unsteadily to his feet. The alleyway grew cold and the snow once more fell.
Thomas was gone.
Turning around quickly, he saw Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan looking dazed beside him.
"Did you see …?" he began, looking wildly at the end of the alley, but it was now in darkness.
"The woman," Aramis said, in response. "Yes!"
"Woman?" Athos murmured, staring at him in confusion.
"At first, I didn't recognise her," Aramis continued, running a hand through his hair, before looking up, his eyes alive and bright. And then, I swear it was Josie. She told me I couldn't have done more. She told me that she knew I still had the belt buckle she gave me."
"You're both seein' things," Porthos said. "I saw a young girl. I didn't know who she was at first, but then I remembered her. Marie, full grown - I thought she'd died as a young 'un. But there she was, tellin' me my wish was a good one. She said I was a good man," he said, his voice trailing away.
"You are a good man, Porthos," Aramis said, his hand rubbing Porthos's shoulder.
"d'Artagnan?" Athos said, quietly.
d'Artagnan was lost in thought, but his head snapped up as Athos spoke.
"I could taste the food," he said, his eyes bright. "I could see it. Father was carving the bird. Our family, the neighbours. I saw it all, as if I was there! I could smell it and taste it. It was wonderful!"
"So Athos saw ..." Aramis began.
"Thomas," Athos interrupted, his voice calm.
"And Porthos saw, Marie?"
Porthos nodded, a smile breaking out on his face.
"d'Artagnan saw his father and his family, and I ..."
"Saw Josie," Porthos finished.
"I couldn't see any of you," d'Artagnan said, then. "Only the figure."
"Me too," Porthos said.
Athos and Aramis nodded in agreement.
"We all saw what we wanted to see," Athos said.
"What we needed to see," Porthos added.
They all walked slowly to the end of the alley, expecting to see nothing.
But there, in the snow, was a set of foot prints. Coming from the back of the alley and stopping right in front of where they had all stood.
Athos looked back at them. They all had their swords sheathed. They had all withdrawn them when they first encountered the presence in the alley. At some point, they had re-sheathed them. Or been requested to do so.
"I don't understand any of this," Porthos said, scratching his head.
"I don't think we need to," Aramis replied.
"Perhaps not," Athos said, pulling his cloak around him as the cold began to bite.
"I have a new childhood memory," d'Artagnan said, with tears in his eyes. "It's there. I can see it any time I want to."
"It seems that we all have," Athos said, and, for the first time in a long time, thinking of Thomas did not bring a terrible pang of guilt to his heart.
"Gentlemen, I think we have been granted our Christmas wishes," Aramis said, feeling more settled himself.
Porthos was happy for his three brothers, as he wondered about his own wish. Still a little disquieted by Marie's appearance, he said nothing.
Aramis turned to Athos.
"Will you come to Midnight Mass tonight?" he asked cautiously. Athos had never joined them, despite Aramis's entreaties.
Athos did not respond and Aramis thought he would not, until a small smile broke out on his face;
"Yes, if you wish it," Athos replied, before finding himself enveloped in a hug from his friend and pats on the back from Porthos and d'Artagnan.
"And after, a drink in the Wren," Porthos declared, recovering his good humour once more.
"Though, not mulled wine," Athos stated, categorically. "It does not agree with me."
"Only wine that doesn't," Porthos laughed.
"No, not mulled," Aramis agreed. "The finest wine they have. This is a celebration!
"Joyeux Noel, brothers!" Aramis said, brightly, as they all headed off, with one last look down the alley.
The next morning, amid the cacophony of Christmas bells that rang in all the churches in Paris, Porthos found his own wish had been granted. Not one person had died alone on the street during the night.
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Merry Christmas, everyone! My grateful thanks to you all for your support. It keeps me inspired. I will be publishing one of my stories as an e-book in the New Year. Exciting times!