If you're still reading, I'm thrilled that the last chapter didn't sway you otherwise. Thank you to those still with me on this journey.
On with the show...
Aramis gripped Athos' shoulder, and then slowly seated himself beside him. He was quiet for a long moment as Athos' grief bore a weight that he could not manage alone. "You were merciful, Athos. There is not a one of us who wanted to see her hanged for her crime. I pray she made peace with God, I pray she realized and was remorseful for the wickedness of what she had done, and… I'm grateful she did not take her own life." With a hand still on Athos' shoulder he looked up when Porthos entered the room.
Porthos leaned against the doorframe, clenched his jaw, and closed his eyes.
D'Artagnan ran toward the room with Athos' cloak and hat within his grasp. He stopped next to Porthos and exhaled slowly. He looked at Athos and Aramis and shook his head with a wince. "The Red Guards are moving to search the building. We need to leave."
Aramis tightened his grip on Athos' shoulder. "Let's go, brother."
Porthos turned suddenly, grabbed the handle of the door and swung it closed, closing Aramis and Athos inside. Porthos stood with his back to the door, d'Artagnan stood beside him as two members of the Red Guards ran up the steps.
"Musketeers 'ave searched this floor," Porthos said, and pointed toward the steps to the third floor.
Both men nodded and rushed past them.
Porthos took a deep breath and looked at d'Artagnan, who shrugged. He reached for Athos' cloak and hat and nodded toward him. "Go find us some wine — good wine — an' meet us at the garrison in 'is office."
D'Artagnan nodded, clenched his jaw, and glanced at the closed door. He clapped Porthos' shoulder and said, "I'll meet you there."
Porthos inhaled deeply through his nose, exhaled through puffed cheeks, and grabbed the doorknob and opened the door.
Athos leaned his head back against the wall and took a deep breath. Dark lashes clung together, bloodshot eyes looked toward the ceiling, and his Adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed. He noticed the room for the first time, the chipped daub walls, the debris that littered the floor, and the dust covering the windowsill and the broken chair that lay shattered against the moulding.
Porthos stepped into the room and cleared his throat. He reached his hand out, and said, "Time to go, Captain."
Athos nodded, grabbed the extended hand, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
Aramis grabbed Athos' pistol, stood, and then pressed his hand to Athos' back as they slowly left the room.
The crowd had fled; the prisoners had received a temporary stay of execution, and Milady de Winter's body had been removed. Red Guards stood near the entrance and the door at the back of the Bastille. Athos paused, looked toward the gallows, and then walked between Porthos and Aramis toward the Garrison.
A quick wind picked up and caused the King's flag on the pole to flutter, stretch, and the fabrics to fold as they once again rested at peace. The sun continued to peek through the clouds that moved across the sky and as the day transitioned to evening and slowly darkened with threats of rain. People went about their business as though nothing had happened. Merchants continued selling their goods, children continued to play, women completed their duties cleaning, cooking, and tending their children and husbands. Soldiers walked the streets, some missing limbs, others carried bottles of wine as they stumbled and used the walls to steady themselves.
The hollow clops of hooves echoed, horses snorted, and neighed. Pans were hit and rang in unison with carpets being slapped and dust billowed, and laughter echoed. Smoke filtered from chimneys and snaked toward the sky, disappearing as the breeze caught it.
Porthos glanced toward Aramis. There wasn't anything to be said. Athos' grief was genuine. He had loved her, regardless of her faults, her lies, her need for aggrandizement. He knew he was beneath her spell, it was why he worked so hard to stay away, to keep his walls reenforced while he was around her, but Porthos had seen those walls crumble — just in sections — just enough to be on speaking terms and allow himself moments of weakness.
Although Athos walked resolutely between them, he was anything but. He kept quiet and behaved in a manner they were familiar with. He would hide himself away, dwell on his guilt in private, and bury himself… at least for a short while, in the confines of wine. He had always been private, unnaturally so, but Milady had forced him to acknowledge a part of his past that he could not outrun. She had opened the lid of that vaulted box just enough to expose the man he had been, and the man who had fallen in love with a beautiful woman who presented herself as someone she wasn't, someone he wanted, someone he could share himself with, have children with, and spend his life with. It had all been a lie. A deceitful, devastating lie that had broken his heart, shattered his spirit, and changed him forever.
Porthos had a heart made of gold, not fool's gold, but solid gold. He loved Athos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan as his brothers. And now he included Constance and Treville within that cluster he found himself protective of. More than anything, he wanted to ease the guilt Athos would spend days, if not weeks, agonizing over. Was it the right decision? Did he ease her suffering or enhance it? What could he have done to save her? Porthos knew those questions would never be answered because they couldn't be. Not by anyone. But it wouldn't make the exhaustive effort and agonizing decision to do what Athos had done any easier. Porthos placed his hand on the hilt of his sword and kept it steady as he walked. He didn't know if he would be strong enough to do such a thing.
Athos wiped his mouth with a cupped hand. "I'll inform the king in the morning —"
"Athos —"
"I cannot proceed with my duties with this over my head, nor would I ask either of you to keep this private —"
"We can —"
"An' we should," Porthos said. He took a deep breath, looked toward the skies that turned gray as the evening hours arrived and the sun descended. "The king sentenced 'er to death — why does it matter 'ow she died?"
Athos kept quiet and looked ahead as the garrison's archway came into view. He stopped suddenly and looked between them both. "I need some time to think," he said, and then placed his right hand on his belt and rubbed the back of his neck with his left. "Start organizing a plan to recruit 175 recruits. The king has requested an increase in men and I will not disappoint him."
"Athos," Aramis shifted uncomfortably, "you shouldn't be alone right now."
Athos huffed, looked toward the ground to compose himself. "I need some time to think and I cannot do that here." He glanced upward and through he tried to appeared poised, his eyes bore the grief that he could not hide. He took a step forward.
"We want to help, Athos, let us," Aramis said, placing his hand on Athos' shoulder to stop him.
"You already have," Athos replied as he walked away.
Porthos sighed and rubbed his face as he watched Athos turn right and disappear from view. "I knew it was goin' to get ugly." He looked at Aramis. "Just not this ugly."
Aramis nodded and placed his hands on his waist. He ran his fingers along the leather of his belt and then looked toward Athos' cloak and hat that Porthos held. "He knows we're here, Porthos." He clapped his shoulder. "He needs time." He turned and walked back the way they had come.
"Where are you goin'?" Porthos asked and shrugged his shoulders.
"To speak with Treville."
"You want some company?"
"No," Aramis said, and then shouted over his shoulder, "but let d'Artagnan know things didn't go as planned."
Porthos raised his hands to his side and shouted at his back, "Have they ever gone as planned?"