Chapter 1

ATHOS

He should have stopped at the Garrison. He should have ridden into the yard, and announced his presence to his friends. But the shame and anger made him ride past. And while he considers all the possible ways to tell his brothers about his daughter, Roger, his ever loyal horse brings him to his apartment. He doesn't know if the horse wants him to tell the truth to Sylvie, or to help him avoid his friends while he wallows in self pity. He couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief when the door swung open and he found everything in place. He hears the moment Sylvie freezes behind him, and knows she will have questions.

Questions that he can't answer. Because he doesn't know the answers himself. Or maybe he doesn't want to admit the truth to himself, afterall he's been living in denial the past two years. So he can live like this a little longer.

The apartment is dusty, but not overly, making it clear that it had been used not long ago. When he hears Sylvie's footsteps, he realizes that she will realize that someone was here not long ago. And that someone just happened to be him. This is where he was while his daughter was dying. Sylvie was there, and he was here with a bottle of wine and a whore, all the while his unsuspecting friends were a few blocks away.

He had tried to work. He had tried hard, for his daughter, for Sylvie, for his friends. But he couldn't. It all felt wrong. So he would tell Sylvie that he had a quick job in Paris, come here to drink, fuck, and forget, and then take some more money from his bank account. And she believed him, because she believed he was a good man, and while she was happy and his daughter was well, he didn't care that he wasn't such a good man. He now feels sick, thinking that he could have simply told Sylvie the truth, he could have spent more time with his daughter, instead of running away from his problems. Just when he thinks about telling her that it was his friends that took care of the apartment, she huffs loudly, making him turn towards her.

"So all these little jobs… They were here in Paris? You were here in Paris?"

He turns away and drops his eyes to the floor as his hand tightens around the bags he's holding.

"Yes."

He hears some shuffling behind when Sylvie sits down on the only chair in the apartment.

"If you didn't sell it, then where did you get money to buy the house?"

She looks up expectantly when he turns around to face her. He looks at her, and knows that she deserves the truth. All of the truth. But instead he only gives her a half-truth and another lie.

"I had some money saved up from what I earned while I was a Musketeer."

He did have money saved up. But not from his time as a Musketeer. No, almost all of it was spent on wine. All the money he now had was his family's money.

She nods softly and turns away to look at the rest of the apartment. There was the bed, it was quickly made and the covers hung unevenly from the sides, there was the table, a chest where he kept some old things, and the chair she currently sat on. It was worse than when he lived here, even though back then he had empty bottles all over the floor and few full ones stashed under the bed. Now it looked exactly like a place that a man would keep hidden from his wife. Cheap and dirty, in more sense than one.

He places his bags on the ground and heads toward the door.

"We'll sleep here tonight, and go to the Garrison in the morning. I'll go get us something to eat."

Without waiting for her response he opens the door and leaves. The knowledge of what this place is burns him, and he hates himself for it. He hates leaving Sylvie there, he hates the amount of time he spent there over the past year, but he also hates that little town. One year was bearable, but the second one was a nightmare. He didn't know what to do with himself. He trained with his sword, every day, at least twice, but still after a few months an itching sensation, the desire for some action, took over him, and he couldn't stop his hand from reaching towards the drink.

When he went to Paris the first time he thought about telling his friends that he was there, but then he didn't. There was the slight thrill of staying hidden right under someone's nose. And it only grew when he began visiting the establishments they would frequent, and they would not notice him. The whore was just a beautiful serving girl at the tavern, who was turned down by Aramis.

This time he goes to a different tavern, a cleaner place, with adequate food. He keeps his hat low and eyes lower on his way back, even if he knows it's too dark for anyone to recognize anyone. When he comes back, Sylvie eats the food without a word, and then goes to sleep. And he is once again left alone with his thoughts. He closes his eyes and sees a woman. How sick was he if even so many years later, now living with a different woman, he still sees her. Her eyes, her lips, her sharp cheeks, and soft skin. He sees her, and hears her voice, her laughter. He hates himself for seeing her, hates her for being in his dreams, and hates the world for making them who they are.

He doesn't fall asleep, dreading the next day, and the inevitable meeting with his friends. He thinks about Sylvie, their dead daughter. He thinks about what he will say to Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan. And then he thinks about his wife. His mind wanders where it shouldn't, as he thinks of where she is now, who she is with. He once again hates himself for sleeping with that whore, and hates the whore for being so pretty and for being right there. He hates himself because Sylvie deserves better. Just as his wife deserved better. And he too, probably deserved better. But he knows that his happiness has never lasted long, and never will. So he satisfies himself with the quick moments of joy Sylvie brings, and the memories of the man he once was and his love for a woman that he himself killed.