Human nature could be vulgar and heinous at times. The morbid fascination with death, or watching people die, or partaking in the actions of harming a human life, was unnaturally sinful. Aramis stood at the back of the courtyard, and looked at the hangman's nooses. Five in all hung from a crossbar that would bear the weight of those who would lose their lives in the moments to come. Beneath each noose rested step-stools that would eventually be kicked from beneath those guilty of sins committed and the victims of their own actions. It was a horrific scene… in both the action of the executions and the action of those watching it happen.
It was inhumane and cruel.
Aramis understood the legal justification of capital punishment. He did not agree with it. He believed in his heart that all persons, regardless of the sins committed, could be redeemed. Perhaps it was his faith in God, his desire to do good, and his compassion for those around him. But as he stood near the wall, and watched the spectators arrive to witness the ugliness about to take place, he wondered how God could be so merciful when men were so sinful.
Death should be a private affair. Mercy was not something to be selfish with, but instead, it was something to be embraced and shared. Those who understood the context and the beauty of it were not standing in the courtyard awaiting the actions of executioners. But here he was, among those who had arrived to watch criminals die. His reasoning, however, was not for the gratification, or curiosity, or the morbid fascination associated with death. He had witnessed it, been a part of it, and learned to despise it as his life in the military and musketeers continued. Instead, he was here to hear the announcement of Milady de Winter's death. Instead of a beautiful woman being brought out, forced to have a rope placed around her neck, and a stool kicked out from beneath her, her name would simply echo amongst the crowd.
D'Artagnan stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, and his hands tucked beneath his armpits. He would not watch. He would divert his eyes from the ravages of it, and look toward the clouds as they moved through the sky. Death was an unforgiving and a lonely journey. He pitied those who would face the crowd and die looking at those who hated and despised them enough to want to watch them die.
The building to the left was vacant, and the open windows provided escape for those who wished to be elsewhere. It was a hint to something else, a different time, place, and different people. The open windows into a vacant building was a gift to those who needed escape, for those who could see themselves elsewhere. They provided an empty space to focus on, a place that might provide refuge, and hope for something beyond the turmoil they now faced. Nobody would watch from above or spit on them when they died.
The building to the right was solid. There was not a window in sight, just cold stone and mortar. Behind the gallows stood the back of the Bastille. Hangings were reserved for the common folk, the peasants, the simple people. Unlike the shooting gallery that was reserved for military personnel sentenced to die, or nobility who were beheaded, those to be hanged were displayed, dehumanized, and demoralized.
Porthos stood strong, like the soldier he was. A head above the Parisians who watched, he stood with a clenched jaw, flared nostrils, and tightly fisted hands. He hoped the vial Athos had passed to Milady worked. He did not want to watch her die. He did not want to see her humiliated. He did not want Athos to suffer the loss of her in a public setting, despite her actions against him, against all of them. Porthos knew in his heart she was not good for Athos, but he would never want to see his brother relive the moment that changed his life. Porthos closed his eyes, swallowed, and then watched the sun peek through the dense clouds. Light cascaded along the wall of the building and then, just as quickly, it was gone. He could hear the clip-clops of hooves as riders passed by, and the clanging of carts and voices as merchants readied their afternoon sales. Life beyond the walls of the Bastille and the hangman's courtyard was normal with merchandise changing hands, animals being tended to, children playing in the streets, and the fireplace chimneys releasing smoke and the aromas of cooked vegetables and meats.
Porthos turned suddenly when Athos stepped beside him. His cloak was draped over his arm and the brim of his hat clutched in his hand. "You shouldn't be 'ere," he said, and looked at Aramis and d'Artagnan, who both turned.
"I need to be."
"They'll just announce her name, Athos," Aramis said. "We can be here for that."
Athos clenched his jaw, felt his heart seize, and repeated, "I need to hear it." The scene made him sick. Women gossiped and pointed and men chuckled. Lives were about to be lost. It was not a moment to rejoice. Athos understood hate, he understood anger and the desire to seek revenge, but understanding it and actively engaging in the violence of it were distinctly different.
All four men stood together. Those around them had left enough space not to hinder their movements should the need arise. Intimidating in both size and skill, the tension in the surrounding air warned of a potential threat that nobody would risk.
The back doors to the Bastille opened, the heavy clang of metal against metal echoed, and the crowd suddenly hushed. Four men in torn, wrinkled, and plain clothes exited while members of the Red Guards escorted them. The chains around their wrists jingled, they shuffled their feet, looked at the crowd in fear, as if seeking sight of those who would provide them mercy. A priest stood at the top of the platform, a Bible clutched within his grasp. His long robes dusted the ground, and he nodded and spoke with each one of them as they stepped up onto the wooden structure.
The crowd whispered words of contentment, speculation, and gossip. Aramis looked at them and saw no difference between those watching and those being led to their death.
Sin was sin no matter the severity.
The loud collected gasp from the crowd caused everyone to stop as Milady de Winter was pulled by her arms from the darkened doorway. She squinted against the light of the sun and then searched the crowd for someone she knew, someone who might rescue her, someone who could save her from the noose… from herself.
"Athos!" she screamed when she spotted him. She struggled within the grasp of the men holding her as they walked her toward the platform.
Athos hitched his breath, clenched his jaw, and met the desperate eyes of the woman he had once loved. Suddenly, he turned, tossed his cloak and hat aside and ran toward the building to his left.
Aramis turned to Porthos and pointed, "Don't let anyone follow us," he said, and chased after Athos.
"Where are they going?" d'Artagnan asked and grasped Porthos' shoulder as he stepped away.
"Stay here," Porthos said, and chased after them.
Athos kicked the heavy wooden doors that led to the vacant building. He kicked again when it refused to budge. He took a deep breath, held it, and then kicked a third time. The door flung open, wood split, and splintered. The lock on the door skidded and bounced across the dusty floor and came to a rest against the riser of the first step. Athos grabbed the frame, rushed forward and took the steps two at a time until he reached the second story landing, where he paused, braced his hand against the wall, and collected himself. He would not let her hang, he would not let her suffer. He cursed himself, cursed his past decisions, his lack of understanding and empathy, his lack of compassion. He regretted his decision all those years ago, sentencing her to death… She had brutally murdered Thomas, taken his life before he had the chance to live it as a man. She had deserved to be punished. But there was a piece of him that wished the decision had not been left to him.
Aramis followed and stopped midway up the staircase. With both hands on a raised thigh, he looked at his brother in question and concern. He knew in his heart the action about to take place and wished above all else that Athos would not be the one to take it. Aramis felt his heart constrict and the forcing of fear-fueld blood through his veins. "Athos?"
With the look of a man who knew what he needed to do, but questioned his strength to do it, Athos inhaled sharply. "Don't try to stop me," he said over his shoulder in a tone that was desperatly unfamiliar. "I can't let her hang, Aramis." Athos closed his eyes, and struggled for a deep breath. He suddenly pushed himself from the wall. "I can't… I can't let her hang."
Aramis nodded and said, "I know."
Defeated, Athos looked at him, his eyes watered, and with a quick nod he turned and sprinted toward the room that faced the gallows. He pulled his pistol, felt his heart skip a beat, his lungs struggled to expand and were suddenly starved for air. His throat constricted as he walked to the window. Time froze. Athos could hear his footsteps across the dust covered flooring, the subtle breeze as it entered through the window, and the murmers of the crowd below. In this moment he hated himself, hated what he was about to do, and why he had to do it. His pistol felt awkward within his grasp, and he clutched his gloved hand around the grip and then pointed it toward her. She looked frail, awkward, desperate, and terrified. She looked unlike herself and out of place amongst those who looked at her in fascination and satisfaction. She struggled, looked wide-eyed at the crowd and searched desperatly for help. The guards forced her upright, and despite her small size, she put up a fight.
Aramis paused in the doorway, gripped the frame, and waited. He clutched at cross around his neck and looked at a man who bore the burden of grief, who fought and defended his values and duties, who tried to hide behind stoicism and honor but was moments from having his wounds exposed, every nerve frayed and painfully raw. Aramis pressed his face to his bicep, closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
Mercy was a gift for some, and a curse for others.
Milady looked fearfully at the crowd, at those who stood shocked by her appearance, and those who wished ill upon her. She caught sight of d'Artagnan, who looked at her and then tilted his head toward the building. Milady looked at the windows and then suddenly stopped struggling within the grasps of the men forcing her to the podium. When she caught sight of Athos, she knew her life had gone full circle. Now, instead of looking at him as he faced the firing squad, he looked at her with mercy and grief. She looked at Athos, the pistol he held, and she smiled gratefully at him. A "thank you," whispered past her lips. It was this moment she realized her loss… not just the loss of what Athos had given her, but the loss of the man himself. Her nostrils quivered, tears streamed down her face, and she raised her chin toward the sky. Anne closed her eyes and stood tall. She would not hang, she would not suffer the fate of strangulation and humiliation.
Athos secured his aim, took a deep breath, and then fired.
Smoke exited the end of his pistol and distorted the images below. He watched her fall backward, and collapse within the grasp of the men restraining her. The crowd screamed and fled, shoving each other aside, falling over one another, and seeking escape. Athos wheezed, felt his throat tighten as he lowered his pistol and leaned against the window frame. Muscles grew weak, uncoordinated, and debilitiated. He dropped his pistol and listened to it clatter against the floorboards. His chest struggled to rise, and he slowly turned with his back to the wall and slid to the floor. He rested his elbows on his raised knees, and threaded his fingers through his hair. "What have I done?" He looked up at Aramis with eyes that watered. The world closed in. Images of Anne, old feelings surfaced, both love and betrayal, but interwoven and connected in such a way that he could no longer separate the two.
Aramis stepped forward, walked to the window, and looked at the chaos below. Milady Laurence de Winter, Anne de Breuil, and the Comtesse de la Fere was dead. Panicked Red Guards shoved past the crowd and stood guard over the convicted men. "Athos."
"What have I done?" Athos closed his eyes, pulled his eyebrows into a deep set frown, and tightened his fingers within his hair. He wheezed again, he flared his nostrils, and through closed eyelids, his tears fell. "What have I done?" He never should have married her. He had allowed his need for companionship to override his sense of duty. It was a weakness he would never again allow within himself. He rubbed his forehead and then pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "What have I done?" He choked back a sob.
"Athos," Aramis said as he squatted before his friend… his brother. "You saved her from what she feared the most." He gripped his hand against Athos' neck and shoulder. "Brother?"
Athos huffed and hitched his breath. "I loved her." He exhaled through tightened lips and felt his heart constrict, his chest tighten. Grief was as painful as any injury, but instead of blood seeping from a wound, his heart ached and with it his body trembled. The hollow feeling centered in his chest swept outward, a cold chill radiated and felt as though it would never stop. He hitched his breath, threaded his fingers through his hair, and wept.