Chapter 9
(aka the extra long chapter that I just couldn't separate into two, because reasons)
ATHOS pov
Three days ago he woke up.
He woke up from an injury he did not remember. His last memories consist of chunks of a conversation with Sylvie. A conversation he doesn't remember either. The last thing he remembers doing is taking out Milady's glove. The same glove that he should have burned before leaving Paris, instead of stuffing it into the furthest corner of a chest, because as expected, the moment he stepped foot in his apartment upon his return, he dug out the glove.
Whatever happened after that conversation with Sylvie, he doesn't know, and his friends keep their mouths shut. Sylvie said that she found him injured, and D'Artagnan said that they don't know what exactly happened. From the guilty look on their faces he can tell that they are lying. All of it leads him to believe that the last conversation was in fact an argument. He must have stormed out and found some trouble.
But the blanks in his memory consume his thoughts, and he can't stop his anger from rising as each day goes by. It's a cycle with no end in sight: he asks what happened, he is told nothing. And when he's not thinking about this incident he is thinking about his wife. The feeling of guilt is ever present, but he has learned a while ago how to deal with it. Every night he sees the same dream. His wife begging him to stay as he wraps his hands around her neck.
As he sits on the bed and eats breakfast with Sylvie, he is incapable of looking up at her. Not after everything he has done. Keeping his eyes down, he fails to notice the constant guilty glances that are sent his way.
Just like every other day, Sylvie takes his plate and stands up to leave the room. Except this time she stops by the door and looks him straight in the eyes.
"Do you remember anything from that night?"
He leans back onto the pillow and tilts his head at the unexpected question.
"No."
He looks back down. Because he might not recall that night, but he does remember something else. He was unconscious most of the time, but has a recollection of a few moments. He knows that a physician came, which was reasonable, and that his wife came, which was much less reasonable.
Sylvie must have noticed something because instead of leaving she asks more questions.
"No? You're not telling me something? Something we should know?"
A quiet grunt escapes his mouth, and he thinks about ignoring her questions, but then he remembers that Sylvie now knows everything, and for some reason she is still by his side.
"Milady… She was here? Wasn't she?"
Sylvie freezes on her spot, and for a second she looks startled, but then her features relax and eyes narrow in confusion.
"Milady? No. Why would you think that?"
He took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.
"I remember it. She held my hand."
Sylvie looks concerned as she sets their plates on the table and walks up to him.
"It must have been a dream."
He stops himself from narrowing his eyes.
"Well then."
Sylvie smiles tightly and leaves the room.
He closes his eyes and tries to relax. Instead, he sees Milady's face. He sees her at Pinon, at their wedding, covered in his brother's blood, with a rope around her neck, with a knife to his throat, on her knees in the middle of Paris, hidden in Rochefort's office, then his hands once again wrap around her neck.
If this goes on much longer, he will go mad. Between his dreams about Milady, his thoughts about Sylvie and their daughter, and the void in his memory, he can barely sleep, and sitting in one place for hours makes his hands itch for a good sword fight, or at least some action. But he made a promise to Sylvie that he wouldn't leave without a warning, so he stayed in his room. At least until it became too unbearable.
By nightfall, he sneaks out of the Garrison, and finds his way to a Tavern that is far away not to be frequented by Musketeers. The wine is appalling, and even though it doesn't take away the shame it pacifies his boredom. He feels at peace amongst all the noise, and for the first time in a while he feels at ease in Paris.
The times have changed, people have died, but Paris is still the same. Full of activity, loud, and…
His line of thought is interrupted when someone walks into the tavern.
At first he thinks it's a hallucination, but as he blinks a few times, and the world around seems to unfreeze, he realizes that what he is seeing in front of him is his wife.
She is wearing a dark cloak, the hood covering half of her face, but it is more than enough for him to recognize her. She looks uneasy as she sits down and orders wine, and he considers if he should bother her. But before he can make up his mind she notices him. Her eyes widen slightly and lips part as she lets out a breath, and the next thing he knows she is running out of the tavern.
He clenches his jaw and follows her. He knows that she doesn't want to see him, but he has to see her. Talk to her. Apologize.
As the cold breeze hits his face and the door behind him slams shut, he turns around and looks around the alley, expecting it to be empty already. But she is there, waiting for him to walk up. So he walks up.
It takes all of his self control not to turn around and leave. He wants her forgiveness but knows that he doesn't deserve it. He wants to be near her, to love her, but he also knows that Sylvie deserves better.
She is the first to speak as she leans against the wall and warps her cloak tighter around her arms.
"Athos. I was not expecting to see you here."
He straightens his shoulders slightly as he looks at her.
"Likewise."
She opens her mouth to say something, but then she bites her lip and looks down.
His own eyes follow hers to the ground as they stand in silence.
He doesn't know what to say. Having imagined this meeting countless times since D'Artagnan told him that she was here in Paris, he thought he would apologize, and she would tell him to leave, and he would have left. But he doesn't know what to start with. He has hurt her so many times. They both hurt each other so many times that it's hard to keep track of what was forgiven and what remains to be so.
"We have to talk."
She scoffs quietly as her gaze rises to meet his.
"Then talk. Isn't that what we are doing already?"
He clenches his jaw and once again wonders why she makes his anger flare so easily.
Closing the distance between them, he looks down at her. He understands why she doesn't want to talk, but he has to apologize. For once.
"Inside perhaps?"
She smirks and shakes her head.
"In that case, I don't want to talk."
She crosses her arms at her chest and turns away to leave. He narrows his eyes and tilts his head to the side. And before he can think he grabs her arm to turn her back to him.
He expected a slap, maybe a punch. Instead she hisses loudly as she grabs onto her own arm. Biting her lip she straightens out and glares at him.
He glares back.
"You're injured."
She steps away from him and lets go of her arm.
"Not your concern."
He steps closer.
"I beg to differ."
Before she has time to react, he pulls her cloak away from her shoulder. There is a blood stain on her dress where the wound no doubt is.
She pulls away, but he pulls her closer.
"What happened?"
She struggles against him.
"Not your business."
He pulls her even closer so that she is fully wrapped by his arms, chest to chest.
"The Queen's business then?"
She freezes for a second and then narrows her eyes.
"Aramis?"
He shakes his head and looks down at her.
"D'Artagnan."
She huffs loudly and relaxes slightly in his arms.
"Either way, you shouldn't concern yourself with it."
He lets her pull away.
"At least let me help you redress the wound."
She takes a deep breath and stares at him for a few long seconds. As he stands in silence, he realizes that it's worse than fighting her. When they fight, at least he gets to hear her voice. He gets to see her fury, and for reasons unknown to him it makes him love her even more.
She studies him, thinks, and clearly considers her options. She then finally nods.
"Fine then. My place is not far away."
Not waiting for his reply she turns around and starts walking, leaving him no choice but to follow.
She leads him through narrow alleyways and dark streets, and it is a wonder that he doesn't get lost mid way, because he can barely see where he is going, much less her. But she knows where she is going, doesn't pause, doesn't slow down, and he starts to think about just how well she knows Paris.
As promised, it doesn't take long, and soon enough she is opening the door to a small apartment in a rather lavish building. She lights some candles while he looks around. It is exactly what he expected : elegant furniture, well chosen decor, everything tidy and clean. Everything is in its place, even the candles are positioned with thought.
He takes his hat and gloves off and leaves them on a small table near the door. She takes her cloak off and throws it carelessly onto the couch, and then drops down herself, propping her feet onto the table. Very unlike the woman who was the King's mistress, and very much like the woman that rode into the Garrison with most of her skirts missing.
She then looks up at him and sits up.
"There should be some fabric to bandage my arm in the next room."
He nods and makes his way to the other room. When he opens the door he realizes that it's her bedroom. It feels as though he is intruding, because over the past years they have met in many places, but nothing as personal as a bedroom. His mind is immediately flooded with memories of sharing a bedroom in Pinon. She had always kept forget me nots on the bedside table. And now there are pink roses standing by her bed.
He closes his eyes and reminds himself that he is here with a purpose, one that does not involve reminiscing about their old lives.
Fortunately it doesn't take long to find the bandage, as it lays right on the commode by the door that he just walked through. Grabbing it, he chastises himself for allowing his mind to wander into places it shouldn't, and leaves the room.
When he walks out she already has the sleeve off and has begun unwrapping the wound. He sits by her side and takes over the work, and she lets him do so without a protest. She looks tired, more tired than him, and it surprises him, because the fatigue doesn't seem to be caused by the injury. He rarely saw her without the mask of stoicism and indifference, and even when he did, she had never seemed so powerless.
He doesn't speak, afraid to say something wrong - afraid to scare her off. As he cleans the wound, there is no hiding that it's a bullet wound, but he doesn't ask. He knows she works for the Queen. And knows that he doesn't deserve to know more.
She breaks the silence eventually. Maybe it is to distract herself, or maybe she doesn't find the same comfort in the quiet that he does.
"Why did you offer to help?"
She doesn't look at him when he raises his gaze from her arm, so he has no choice but to look back down.
The answer is simple. He doesn't wish to see her hurt. And he wants her forgiveness. But he is a coward, and his shame doesn't allow him to say it out loud.
"Because you needed help."
She scoffs and drops her head. And he knows how stupid it sounds.
"You made it perfectly clear that you didn't care for me when you tried to strangle me in your office. So why the sudden concern for my health?"
His hands freeze as he raises his head. The question he dreaded, and waited for. He wants to lie, or maybe ignore her question, but he also wants to tell her the truth. After so much hurt, she deserved an apology.
"That is actually what I wanted to speak to you about."
Her head turns slightly to the side and he can see her raised eyebrow.
He can't see her eyes, and it is better that way, because if he saw the hurt and anger, he would have run away as he always does.
"Then speak."
He lowers his head as his hands get back to work.
"What I did… it was unjustifiable and unforgivable… I was afraid, and I lashed out at you."
She turned her head away as her hand instinctively flew to her neck. And he wanted to choke himself for what he did to her. He hated himself much more than he could ever hate her. But admitting that he was wrong was harder blaming her for all his problems. He hated her, because loving her was too painful.
"I had no right… I was so surprised to see you, I thought I would never see you… But you were there, so I kissed you."
She jumps up from the couch and angrily glares at him. Her eyes are slightly red, but she keeps her composure, as she faces him.
"So that is what you feel bad for? Kissing me?"
He grabs her hand and pulls her down.
"No! Let me finish speaking!"
He could never regret kissing her. She should know that, but he would never be brave enough to tell her that.
She bites her lip and turns away as he continues.
"I kissed you, and what I felt… It was unexpected. I thought that now that I had Sylvie, I could love her the same way I loved you. But I couldn't. Because I could never love another woman, not after you. That is what I realized when I kissed you. And when you mentioned Sylvie, I … panicked. Because she had been kidnapped, and all I could think about was you."
She closed her eyes.
"So you tried to kill me…"
He took a deep breath, and prepared himself for what he was about to say, and what possible reaction she could have. He would be surprised if she didn't kill him with the first weapon she could get her hands on, and there were no doubt many here, in her own apartment.
"And I will forever be sorry for that. As I said, my actions were inexcusable, and I had to apologize to you… At least I had to try."
Her eyes flew open as she turned around completely to face him.
Once again he prepared himself for a slap.
"So you came here to apologize..?"
She narrowed her eyes as he stared at her confused.
"I know that an apology is not, and never will be enough. If you want me to leave, I'll go."
Her facial features relaxed and lips parted slightly, before she turned away again.
"No. Stay."
Sitting still for a few moments he stared at her. This was the first time that he had apologized to her. And he had not even apologized for what he did before the war. And she was still asking him to stay.
So he stayed.
He got back to wrapping her wound, as the silence continued. This time much more relaxed than before.
Soon enough he finished, she left to put on a new dress, and he was left alone to wander through her apartment. Helping himself to some wine, he waited for her to return. He looked at the painting hanging on the wall, and the books on the shelf, recognizing some of his favorites that he used to read in Pinon. He lit the fire and sat back down on the couch.
"I'm going to assume your friends are unaware of your whereabouts?"
Not once, in the past hour, had he thought about his friends, or Sylvie, or his dead daughter. For once he had focused on something else, and he felt calm for the first time since he arrived in Paris, without having to drink an abundance of wine.
"I can do without their constant supervision."
She raised her eyebrows sarcastically.
"That's questionable seeing as the moment they left you alone with your mistress, she bashed your head with a bottle."
The moment he realizes what she said tha glass of wine falls from his hand. It was empty, and low enough to the ground that it does not create a mess on the velvet carpet. But it does create a mess in his head.
She looks confused at first, and then realization hits her. He must look like an idiot, or a drunk, because she looks truly concerned as she sits down beside him. But he can't think of his expression, when all he can think about are the blanks in his memories that have just been filled.
He could understand why Sylvie didn't say anything, but why did his friends keep quiet? Did they really think that he was better off not knowing? Did they think that he would never remember or find out? A sudden feeling of betrayal crushed him as he struggled to believe what his wife had just told him.
"What do you mean?"
He had to be sure that he understood it correctly. That it wasn't some figure of speech, or joke. He had to know what exactly happened.
"You don't remember? They didn't tell you?"
He shook his head and dropped it into his hands. Meanwhile she took a deep breath and explained.
"I had a meeting with the Queen, but Aramis was there. He told me that you and Sylvie had an argument, and it ended with her bashing your head with an empty bottle. You were unconscious, and kept asking for me in your sleep. He asked me to come and see you."
He leaned back into the couch and looked up at her.
"They told me that they found me injured. And I don't remember much, except chunks from a conversation."
She bit her lip as she leaned back into the couch right by his side, shoulder to shoulder.
"Well, when I came to the Garrison, a doctor was there. They let me sit with you. But Sylvie and I started an argument, and D'Artagnan escorted me out. Even though I was not the one who almost killed you. This time."
He snorted slightly at her last words as he thought over what she said. Turning his head towards her he closed his eyes.
"I remembered that you were there."
She huffed quietly before replying.
"Really?"
His lips pulled into a sad smile.
"Yes. But I was told that it must have been a dream because you have not stepped foot in the Garrison."
He frowned. Sylvie lied. And D'Artagnan kept quiet. He understood their dislike of Milady, but he didn't understand why they couldn't tell him the truth. He felt angry, but not as much as betrayed. And he wished he could understand why they chose to hide the truth, but couldn't think of anything that could justify it.
He opened his eyes, and realized that she had also turned her head towards him, and they now sat too closely.
He was so angry that he suddenly didn't care what his friends would think of him for seeking out Milady. He knew it was petty, but he was angry. And rational thoughts rarely entered an angered mind.
Not wanting to think about Sylvie or his friends, or what happened, he turned the conversation away from that topic.
"So what happened to your arm?"
She closed her eyes, but didn't move away from him.
For a while he thought that she wouldn't say anything. He closed his eyes as well, and enjoyed their closeness.
"The Queen sent me to spy on Comte de Breuillet. He was supposedly in contact with Spain. I had to attend a party. But on the way there, one of Richelieu's old assassins found me. But he spent too much time talking, bragging, so I killed him, and his men. That is how I came to be injured."
When he opened his eyes, she was already looking at him from underneath her eyelashes, waiting for him to say something.
"And then..? I don't believe your adventures ended there."
She rolled her eyes but continued.
"Pierre de Jouy. He and his men came upon me, and six bodies. I told him that no one would believe that one woman killed them all. He pointed out that I am not just any woman, and that I work for the Queen."
He pulled his face away from hers a little.
"How did he know that you work for the Queen?"
She shrugged.
"That is what I intend to find out."
He narrowed his eyes slightly and used his hand to tilt her face up so that she was looking him straight in the eyes.
"He is blackmailing you?"
She scoffed but didn't pull away from his touch.
"Something like that."
His hand moved up from her chin to her cheek, and after a moment she pulled away and sat up straight while he remained leaning back.
The name de Jouy seemed familiar to him, but he had never met this 'Pierre'. From what he remembered Jouy was a small piece of land not far from Paris. Too small to be owned by a Comte or Marquis, so most likely it was ruled by a Baron.
Personally he didn't know many low ranking nobles, as his father often considered them unworthy of being his friends and companions, not that he had many friends in general when he was still the Comte de la Fere. Since joining the Musketeers he spent enough time at court to learn more about the noble families, especially those that resided near Paris, but most of the time he had so little interest in their affairs that he chose to forget what he heard at the palace.
He took a deep breath and sat up.
He might have apologized, but if he wished to earn her forgiveness then he might as well help her with this mission.
"I could ask around."
She raised an eyebrow and looked at him as though he just said the most ridiculous thing.
"You shouldn't get involved. And if you did find something, it wouldn't help me in any way. The Queen will pay me for spying on Breuillet, not this Pierre de Jouy. And seeing as there is no way for me to attend that pitiful party, I will have to come up with another way to find out if he is actually in correspondence with the Spanish."
Comte de Breuillet. A young man who recently inherited the title from his older brother. He had never met him, but he knew the previous comte's wife. She was, after all, his cousin.
He kept his face expressionless as he looked straight into his wife's green eyes. He waited as the silence carried on for a few seconds. She stared back at him, at first confused by the lack of response, but as each moment passed, she must have realized that he was still offering to help, because suddenly her eyes widened.
"No."
He tilted his head and glared at her somewhat playfully.
"André de Breuillet, younger brother of Jean de Breuillet. Jean's widow just happens to be a distant cousin."
She seemed to consider his words before standing up.
"No. Athos, I can't ask you to do something like that."
He stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders.
"You're not asking, I'm offering."
He was not exactly sure what he was offering, but he didn't particularly care. He has yearned for some action, some adventure, the past two years. And the past few days, while he was forced to sit still, he had truly realized just how much he hated the boredom that came with inaction, that came with a civilian life.
If she wanted to use his name, she could do so freely - it was her name as well. If she wanted him to come with her, to make whatever story she came up with more plausible, he would willingly go. He needed to get his thoughts away from his daughter, Sylvie, and the past few days that turned out to be a betrayal, and helping his wife didn't seem like the worst idea.
"If you're offering just because you think you owe me something…"
He shook his head as he leaned slightly closer to her.
"I owe you a lot. But I am offering because I believe that if I needed your help you would have helped me."
A small smile appeared on her face, and her eyes brightened up.
"Well then. If you wish to pass as your old self, I would suggest beginning preparations immediately. We can't have the Comte de la Fere looking like a drunk Musketeer."
He glared at her but couldn't stop his lips from curling into a smirk.
"Then I shall get going."
She walked to the door and opened it for him, leaning onto the doorframe slightly.
"Meet me tomorrow. Here. At midday."
He grabbed his gloves and placed his hat atop his head as he sent one last glance in her direction. His eyes met hers, and just for a second he allowed himself to forget all the pain that they caused each other.
"At midday."