Aramis was praying.
He was praying for several reasons, the first of which was that he genuinely desired to; there was, after all, a great deal to pray about. Furthermore, there was little else on day three at the estate with which to occupy his time.
Finally, it had the added bonus of irritating Athos, even when he did it silently.
He had been kneeling by the window for some time, moving his lips occasionally, going through the rote prayers and then adding his own petitions. By noon, Athos was shrugging into his jacket and and buckling on his sword belts. "Boguain should have been here by now," he said, more loudly than necessary. "I'm going to ride out for a while and look for him."
Aramis continued to pray.
He heard the door close, also a little harder than necessary.
His legs were beginning to fall asleep, so he finished that particular prayer, stood up, rotated his neck, and thought about having some of the food the maid had brought up earlier. Not that he especially had any appetite.
A tap sounded at the door, and he went to it at once, hoping for Constance with some word; it seemed an age since he had been able to see Anne...
And there she was, she, herself, and he felt for a moment as if he'd been given a kick to the stomach, it took his breath to see her, right there in the hall, looking so much better than when they'd arrived that it was completely worth it, if the break from him had done her good.
Anne gave a tiny, tentative smile.
"I should like to go out," she said. "Will you come with me?"
He leaned back against the door frame for a moment, overwhelmed. "Yes."
Her eyes widened minutely, expectantly, when he didn't move right away.
"I just need my—" He found his weaponry, crushed his hat on to his head, and stepped into the hallway. With her. It did not feel real. He would wake soon, wouldn't he? She was wearing a blue cloak, not one he'd seen, that masked the lines of her body. The hue brought out the limpidity of her eyes. Her hair had been dressed simply, in low waves around her ears. Her cheeks were too hollow, but their color was better.
He held out a hand for her to take. After only the smallest hesitation she slipped her fingers into his and they walked, side by side, an irreproachable full body's space apart, down the hall.
Outside, it still felt like his imagination, or the right kind of dream—the air so fresh, the colors so vibrant, no one watching them walk—no one around at all except a stable-lad in the distance returning a horse to the stables. Aramis was almost afraid to breathe deeply lest it all disappear, or worse, simply become corrupted. He didn't want to say the wrong words, didn't want to watch her face grow cold or angry and have her tell him that she never wanted to see him again. It still felt like those things were a possibility.
This was enough, if this was all she would give him. This walk in her presence, her hand in his. The sound of their footsteps crunching in unison against the white gravel.
It was not all he wanted, of course. He wanted to take her in his arms, span her waist with his own hands, see the child they were supposed to have created, tell her—tell them both—there was nothing and no power in this land that would keep them separated, if she didn't will it. To tell her that somehow, someday, they would make sense out of all of this.
Anne stopped, pulling on his hand for a moment. He looked at her anxiously. They were in the garden. She closed her eyes. "Hear the birds," she said.
"Your voice is far sweeter," he said.
She blinked with girl-like embarrassment.
"I don't say that to be charming," he said, and then honesty compelled him to add, "although I have. Before. I'm sure."
"Why do you say it now?"
"I only want to hear you. I want you to tell me that you're well. If you can." Still holding her hand, he dropped impulsively to one knee, though it hurt, particularly on the gravel and considering he'd been praying all morning, but the pain was almost rewarding. "And, if you can, say you forgive me."
"For what?" she murmured, staring down at him, putting her other hand on top of his.
"I don't truly know what you have had to endure. I only know I should not have left you. Not after what—when there was even the slightest chance—"
"You could not have stayed. Aramis, get up. There is a bench—just over there." She indicated it with her head, a stone seat that was bordered on all sides by flowering vegetation.
He rose, trying not to wince when he straightened, and she led him the rest of the brief way to the bench, where they both sat. He took her hand again, turning it over in his, realizing now that though it still felt soft to him, it bore the marks of labor, was no longer pale and uncalloused. He brought her palm to his lips and pressed a kiss against it.
But after a moment she pulled back, and he sensed a shift to distraction or irritation in her, and he relinquished the hold at once.
"Tell me," he said, "what you're thinking."
"I must be practical," Anne said. "I have learned that over this winter. Or, if I knew it before, I have relearned it. I do not have true power. I do not believe I ever did."
They listened to the birds for a while, watching the gentle wind stirring the flowers beyond. The sun was drifting in and out of clouds so thin they seemed to have been dusted across the sky by a gentle hand.
"You still have not told me how you are," he said.
"I have rested much these past days. I have done nothing but sleep and eat." She regarded him wryly. "And you look as though you've done little of either."
He shook his head. "I am well enough now that I've seen you."
"It's not that I was trying to keep you away, but I was too tired to talk, and I didn't wish to vex Athos unnecessarily. Constance had a maid keeping watch on the door, and she told us when she saw him leave." Anne sighed and put fists to her back, angling her body forward on the bench, and he could see the curve of her stomach take shape under the cloak. She saw his face, and seemed to hesitate, to pull back again, but with sudden impetuous need he said, "May I?" and put out a hand. They locked gazes.
He slid closer to her on the bench. Their knees touched, and she flinched a little.
He was aware, although not entirely why, that he had to proceed carefully here, possibly because it seemed in this moment far more intimate than what they had already done together—or at least a different kind of intimacy, one with which neither of them had any experience. Her cloak was fastened at her throat, chest and waist, and he reached for the ribbons at her neck first, tugging them free, seeing the pulse under her skin as the cloth parted. Then the other two, and he could see the true rounding of her belly. The child they'd created. With reverence he put a hand against it, just skimming the fabric, hardly a touch at all, and when Anne didn't protest or seem to tense though she was watching him intently, he placed both his hands on the curves.
He mouthed the words of a prayer, the Latin chant fusing into several prayers at once in his mind—pleas for health, safety, mercy...He had not expected to feel so overcome, and he had to look away then and strive for composure, moving his hands, pulling her cloak back over her.
Now Anne's face was anxious when he finally looked back at her. "What is it? Do I seem so different?"
"Different?" he repeated. In some ways that was the right word, but there was not one so encompassing for all that she seemed to him now. "You seem lucent."
"I am no saint, Aramis."
"I know that. Still. You seem alight to me. And if that is not power..." He gestured towards her body.
Self-consciously, she folded her own arms over her stomach. "Only the power that all women have, to bring life into the world."
"The life we made," he said. Wonderingly.
"Yes."
"I will not leave you. I don't care what the orders are."
"You must care. You can do me no good if you abandon your friends, your duty." She began to get to her feet. "I need to walk again." He pre-empted her quickly and took her arm, helping her up. She swayed against him for a moment, gathering her balance. Aramis thought about putting his arms around her, holding her still, but the opportunity passed. She did take his arm this time as they walked, closer than before. It was enough now too. He would always want more, but merely that she didn't hate the sight of him for fundamentally altering her current and future existence was a gift he had hardly expected. Or probably deserved.
Boguain was not to be found within several hours' ride of the estate, but Athos had undertaken the lookout more for an excuse to get away and do something that could be considered purposeful than because he'd thought he would actually end up meeting him. The ride, at least, took up most of the day and by the time he returned in the late evening, he was ready to pour himself a drink and settle down for the night. The side table in their room was laid out with meats, cheeses and plenty of wine, for by now whoever was arranging their food had apparently noticed his predilection for the stuff.
Aramis seemed to be poring over some scrolls at the desk when he walked in. Athos threw him a glance. "Have you eaten?"
"Yes. Go ahead." Without looking up he gestured. Those were the most words he'd gotten out of him in as many days, so Athos regarded him momentarily before heading to the table to empty some of the decanter's holdings into a glass.
"No trace of Boguain yet," he said, to the painting on the wall. "I expect tomorrow he will be in. He must have stopped to rest."
Aramis made a mild sound that was neither agreement nor argument.
"Unless he was waylaid," Athos continued, "in which case he's probably dead."
"Mm."
"You don't sound very concerned at the possibility."
Aramis re-rolled a scroll and set it aside. "I suppose that's because I'm not."
"That's a fine attitude, I must say."
"I cannot pretend I care a great deal about anything other than Anne and myself at the moment, it's true."
"That much is obvious and has been for some time."
"I am not sure why you keep striving to fight," Aramis said, "but if you are bored, please just continue drinking and leave me out of it."
Athos put the bottle down and looked at him. "Do you think if you were anyone else you'd even be in my presence at the moment?"
"I wasn't aware people were vying for the privilege to be in your presence, honestly," Aramis said frankly.
"That's not what I meant, you deliberately difficult idiot."
Aramis raised an eyebrow. "That's new."
"You're being obtuse and it is making me angry. If you were anyone else you'd be locked up in the basements right now."
"So I'm meant to be grateful you're letting me share the room, or...?"
"You're my friend, fool!"
"See...when you say things of that nature, it makes me think it is why you don't have any friends," Aramis considered, tilting his head.
Athos rolled his eyes. "I want to understand why you put me in this position. You're not making it easy."
"I didn't do anything to you. And if you think that I did, perhaps you take too much on yourself." Aramis took one of the candles and used it to re-light another that had guttered into darkness.
"Just make me understand, will you? Why you thought a few moments with the one woman you should leave alone—the one woman in all of France—was worth uprooting everything?"
Aramis shook his head and smiled, but not with humor, and Athos knew he should probably desist, but it felt good to say the words—to have them said.
He took a long drink. "In the end," he said, quietly, "was it just the challenge? The idea that nobody but you could make it happen?"
"You'll forgive me if I don't open up to you on matters of the heart. You're hardly a sterling example of how to do things the right way with a woman," Aramis retorted.
Athos knew it was just a stab, he knew he'd asked for it. Still.
He put the glass down, slowly. The wine had lost its appeal. Or just being here had. He inhaled through his nose, breathed out through his mouth. He walked to the door, took his sword belt where he'd just put it back not long ago, slung it over his shoulder.
"Athos." Aramis' voice was already contrite. "Wait. I didn't—"
He held up a hand, not looking back. It's all right. And it was, well—no it wasn't—but he was, mostly, just tired. Frustrated with all of this.
He closed the door behind him, on Aramis' exasperated epithet.
He headed down the hallway in the opposite direction from the one they usually took, which was the quickest route to outdoors. A door opened behind him, but he ignored it. The passageway led to a curving staircase, which he followed down, the sconces on the wall casting amorphous shadows as he moved. Before long he discovered firelight glittering beyond a set of partially closed doors. He stood in front of them for a moment, seeing between the gaps in the slats that there was only a maid tending the fire. When he pushed the door slightly open she stood up and bobbed at once, and when he asked if he might be here, she replied he might and scurried out, leaving him alone.
It was a sitting room, with broad lounges and a large bay window whose view was obscured by closed draperies, and there was a sideboard with a generous collection of different bottles for his perusal. Athos helped himself to several drinks at once. He was sampling the strong brandy when there was a rustle by the door.
It was Constance, looking rather self-conscious. "I—I followed you," she confessed.
"So I see," he said, but not discourteously. "Did you need me?"
"No, I...I heard the door. Anne has already retired, but I cannot sleep just yet."
"Have a drink with me, if you care to." He raised the glass.
Constance took a few cautious steps in the room. "Wouldn't you rather be alone?"
"Granted, that is my habitual condition," he said, pouring her a shot of brandy. The dark amber liquid caught the light of the fire and glowed as he held it up. Constance approached, taking the glass and holding it for a few moments.
"The fire draws excellently in here," she said. "Ours smokes from time to time. But it is almost past the season where it is needed."
"It's nearly summer," Athos agreed. He threw back another shot and tried not to think about how the situation might be unfolding back at the garrison.
Constance sipped at hers delicately and sidled into his field of vision, since he'd turned back towards the sideboard. "Are you concerned for things at home?"
"You read my mind, madame."
"I only thought that I would be, if I were you."
"You doubt d'Artagnan's ability to manage?" He couldn't resist being sardonic, if only momentarily.
"No, I didn't mean that," Constance said, ducking her head, "only that the garrison belongs to you. It would be unusual if you did not harbor some concerns."
"I'm sure he hasn't let the place go to complete rack and ruin." Athos downed his third portion of brandy and by now his stomach was starting to feel warm, the tension in his spine promising to dissipate. "Naturally there will be some pieces to pick up when I return."
"What do you suppose Minister Tréville intends by way of orders?"
"If I knew that, I would already be on my way to carrying them out."
"But you must know his mind very well. He was your captain."
"Yes, well, as captain, his priorities would have been to protect his men, but they will necessarily have shifted to include broader concerns."
"You think Aramis will be disciplined?" She hesitated before the last choice of word.
"I know Aramis will be disciplined. It is a question of when and to what degree."
"Then how do you intend to protect him?" She took another wide-eyed sip of her drink.
"You are brimming with questions tonight, madame," he pointed out.
Constance gave a chagrined laugh. "I apologize. It is more than likely not my business."
"Conventionally, perhaps not. Yet you are affected by the outcome of this situation in more than one way."
"Yes," she said, and now she finished her drink in one swallow, gasping a little afterwards.
He smiled, amused by her innocence. "You have drunk brandy before, surely?"
"Only medicinally," Constance said. "I'm sure I have not had it when my faculties were not blunted by pain to begin with. It is very...bracing."
"And of fine quality. Our hosts were well-placed."
"They keep to themselves, do they not? I never seem to see anyone but servants and groundskeepers, and the guards of course."
"It was a prime reason for choosing this location. The lady is elderly and abed, while the son who inherits, keeps to Paris much of the time. A taste for country life has to be developed, it would seem." He was reminded of his own estate that was, and took another drink. "Perhaps you would prefer wine now?"
"Yes, thank you." Constance pressed her lips together as if testing their ability to feel sensation. "Wine would be preferable."
Glass in hand, she moved to sit on the edge of one of the elaborately carved sofas. He looked at her running her hand across the embroidered fabric, thinking that even in her simple dress with her hair down, she did not look out of place in the noble surroundings. D'Artagnan was a blind fool if he didn't take steps to enter into a formal alliance with this girl while he had the chance. Then again, he was probably a blind fool even if he did.
And he himself was the blindest of them all, if Aramis' jab was to be believed.
You'll forgive me if I don't open up to you on matters of the heart.
So Aramis imagined he was in love with Anne. That was problematic. Athos would have much preferred his own version of events—that Aramis had merely been playing a game, setting his sights higher than usual. That wasn't an illogical way to bet, given his history with women.
And now there was a child involved, a permanent connection indissoluble no matter where they hid it or in which family it was placed to grow up in...
It was a problem. The kind he did not like; the kind that did not go away.
"At first," Constance said, startling him because he'd become lost in the silence, "I did not feel concern for Aramis at all. In truth I was suspicious of him when we traveled together, for his attentions to Anne, and then his intentions—but having seen him lately—"
"He's charmed you," Athos said, taking another drink, and adding, "Do not feel badly, he does it to nearly everyone he encounters."
"That is what Anne said. But my good opinions are not quite so easily won."
He gave her a look.
She sat even more straight-backed on the sofa. "I may be young, but I was a married woman, and I saw my share of all types of men pass through my house. And even though some tried, none of them charmed me."
"I could have sworn d'Artagnan managed to," Athos said.
To her credit, even though he was being snide, Constance held her head high. "I have done nothing to which I should be embarrassed to admit."
"At any rate that would be between you and your confessor," Athos said, not having the stomach to tease her further. "I am not one to judge."
"But you judge Aramis?"
"Not for any perceived immorality—rather for neglecting his duty." And for being stupid, he reflected, but did not voice.
"There is a distinction there I am not sure about," Constance said. "Well...in summary, I wanted to say that I feel differently than I did, before. I feel that they should not be kept apart—"
"They are two people who must live with the consequences of their actions, just as the rest of us must." Athos walked over to the window and pushed the curtain aside to stare out into the darkness.
"Just as you do?" she persisted.
"I have not drunk enough wine to imagine that you are my confessor," he said, as lightly as he could manage.
"One can simply tell some things to friends," Constance said.
"If one is fortunate enough to have them...which I apparently am not."
"Was that self-pity?"
"I am not drunk enough for that either."
"You are a curious man, captain Athos."
"And you, madame, are a curious woman. In the other sense of the word." He turned away from the window to see her looking over her shoulder at him. They both smiled.
"You shouldn't waste your time here," he said, after a brief pause.
Constance's smile faded. "What do you mean?"
"You have youth and pulchritude, and a good man who is devoted to you—last I heard—It seems to me those are not inconsequential things."
"For a woman who has already been widowed, you mean."
"For any woman, surely. And given those blessings, though I have already noted your laudable devotion to the queen, for you to continue spending months sequestered in the countryside seems, as I said, a waste."
Constance ran her fingers along the gold-embroidered edging at the top of the sofa, and said, in little more than a whisper, "I cannot help but think I have more freedom now."
"Freedom is here." Athos tapped the side of his head.
"You think I should return to Paris?" she asked softly.
He elevated a shoulder, swirled wine in his glass, watching the color glint in the firelight, and said eventually, "I think you should consider what you might be giving up if you do not."
"Some days I feel as though all I do is think about..." She faltered, and then finished, with more defiance, "—going back to Paris."
He smiled, amused by her skirting around the topic, and said blandly, "As a city it's not perfect, but it has many good qualities."
"It is noisy, and crowded," Constance said, her voice cracking, and because he was watching closely now he could see tears gathering in her eyes. "I cannot breathe there."
"Have you made enough of an effort? One has to embrace Paris, you know. One cannot just exist on its outskirts, neither here nor there." He was conflicted between not wanting to take it too far and wanting to see how much she would continue to invest in this metaphor of Paris being d'Artagnan.
She sipped at the remaining wine in her glass, blinking, gazing straight ahead.
"You love Paris," he pointed out. He could well imagine Aramis' expression of disgust for making her cry—as if she held the position of younger sister not to be teased—but he also couldn't help feeling that in some way he was doing d'Artagnan a favor.
Preemptively, he angled his body, thinking she might be compelled to throw her glass at him in anger or frustration, but she was motionless, and then after a short silence she only said "Yes," and then he felt a little sorry for having made it all so plain.
She drank the rest of her glass and rose, bringing it to the side board and setting it down. She met his eyes. "It is getting late; I should retire."
"I'll escort you back to your room." He put his own glass down.
"No need." She put a hand on his arm.
"Constance—" He hadn't used her given name before, but it felt natural, again as if she were a younger sibling.
"No," she said. "It's not—You should speak freely, if it's something in which you truly believe. If I have the chance to be that friend to you, I hope I take it."
He narrowed his eyes, trying to decide what she meant by that. Alcohol made it difficult to persist in wordplay as in swordplay. At last he said, "I hope you'll tell me if I've offended you."
"I am not so easily offended."
"No doubt why you stayed as long as you did," he said with rueful self-scorn.
"Why do you do that?" Constance's fingers tightened on his arm.
"Do what?" Since they weren't moving anyway, he helped himself to another drink.
"Behave as though you're some sort of creature that no one would want anything to do with."
He crinkled his eyes, considering that. "I suppose I believe that I am."
"Well, I do not see you in such a light. You expect too much of yourself. And possibly of others."
He nodded thoughtfully, although he didn't know if he found her words agreeable as much for what they were or because of the wine.
Constance gazed at him, and then said, "Good night," and patted his arm, telling him with the gesture to remain behind.
"Good night," he echoed as she departed the room, bringing the doors softly closed, and turned his attention back to the bottles on the sideboard, which more than probably didn't contain any answers, but nor was there any judgment, either.
He spent most of the remaining night in the study, leaving the fire to die to embers, leaving the bottles lined up mathematically once their contents were gone, and at some time during the grey dawn he lay down on the embroidered sofa and was insensible to the world around him for a few hours. And later, by the time the sun was starting to light the tops of the trees in the east, he left the house and walked down to the gardens to the fountain, where he splashed water in his face until soberness seemed more within reach than it had been.
