When Darkness Falls – Chapter One
Aramis shuffled beneath the already warm sun. The day promised to be the same as the days preceding it, hot and airless, but that, however, was not the reason for the marksman's discomfort.
'Have you seen him?' he whispered out of the side of his mouth.
Porthos stared straight ahead and mumbled his reply. 'Nope, 'e did it again. Sometimes I think 'e's in league with the devil, the way 'e gives us the slip like that.'
'If he is late this morning Treville will have him flayed alive.' Aramis looked hopefully toward the gate of the garrison, desperate to see Athos striding through the pillars, glowering at anyone who dared glance in his direction, but the opening and the square beyond remained empty. Athos had not been in his room when Aramis had passed this morning, but he had reason to know the swordsman had arrived back in the early hours – in what condition he could only guess.
'Where's Treville? 'E's never late.' Porthos growled.
'I suspect he is giving Athos time to show his face, but he will not wait much longer.' As he finished speaking there was a disturbance upon the balcony above and the door to the Captain's office opened. So intent were they upon Treville's emergence, the two men failed to note the flurry of activity at the back of the lines. It was the furious expression upon their Captain's face, and the way he stared at some point beyond them, that alerted the two friends to the subject of his wrath. Though both men were desperate to confirm their suspicions, they dared not turn to determine the target of his ire.
Without giving voice to his anger, Treville gave out the day's roster, and it was not until they heard the name amongst the daily chores that they knew for sure the late Musketeer had arrived.
'Athos! There is a message to be collected from the Church of Our Lady on the outskirts of the city. Leave now and be back by noon... no later! Go alone.'
'Wot's 'e up to, sending 'im off on his own like that?' Porthos asked, his face lined with confusion.
'I am not sure I want to know,' the marksman replied warily.
The two men were about to follow when an angry voice bellowed from above. 'You two, my office, now.' It was not the first time – and both men doubted it would be the last – that Treville had issued such a summons, but at least they usually had some idea of what misdemeanour they needed to talk their way out of. When the object of his anger was Athos, they had to pick their way in the dark.
The man in question was currently riding out of the garrison, grateful to have avoided Aramis' accusing disappointment, complicated by Porthos' anger. All he had to do was stay on his horse and be back by noon, how difficult could that be?
'Come!' The loud summons made the two Musketeers' hearts sink. One by one they entered the office. Depending upon the Captain's demeanour, they could usually tell how the meeting would go; if he was working and ignored them, it was not good, if he gestured for them to sit then that was better. But if, like now, he was leaning on his desk glaring at them both, it was dire.
'What is going on? I have given him time, but it has been months and he is getting worse not better. I cannot keep turning a blind eye, men like Deveaux have noticed and that is bad for the regiment. So talk, and do not try to distract or prevaricate.'
The two men risked a glance at one another, then Aramis sighed and began to talk.
'To be honest, Captain, we do not know what the problem is. Athos has clammed up completely; he goes through the motions of everyday life, but it is as if part of him is not present. He is not sleeping, so to be fair to the man, I do not know how he is standing. I know for a fact he has not slept for at least three days.'
'How do you know that?' Porthos asked angrily.
Aramis shrugged. 'After he gives us the slip I sleep and wake early. Usually he does not get home until the early hours, so it has been easy for me to listen outside his door, he is... tormented – that is the only word to explain what goes on within. He has nightmares bought on by the horror of the tunnel, but what else haunts his dreams is not for me to say.' He stopped and looked at Treville, his dark eyes registering the helplessness he felt. 'I do not know how to help him.'
'Why didn't you tell me? I would have helped.' Porthos ground his teeth as he muttered the remark.
Treville ran his hand through his hair; he had no idea what to suggest. 'Is she the problem?' there was no need to mention names, they all knew who she was. Porthos snorted. He had never liked Milady, and even after she had saved Athos' life, he had still refused to alter his opinion.
Aramis had tried to treat the woman fairly, but he, too, found her behaviour toward Athos left a bad taste in his mouth. However, it was not their opinion that counted. Athos and Milady de Winter had a complex relationship; it was obvious how they felt about one another, but there was a much hate as love in the mix, and their feelings swung from one to the other with no middle ground to make things easier. Since she had left and gone to England Athos had struggled, but the subject was very much out of bounds.
'The Cadets love working with 'im, the men respect 'im, and 'e does his job, Captain,' Porthos offered. 'As Aramis says, I'm not sure how, especially if he is drinking most of the night and then not sleeping. Oh, and I've not seen him do anything but pick at his food for days.' Aramis shot Porthos a look of annoyance and the big man shifted from one foot to the other as the Captain scowled.
'You could have said before I sent him off on his own,' Treville snapped. Then, reading the confusion on the two men's faces, he sighed. 'Yes, I know, I did not ask, and you would not have volunteered the information had I not. What are we to do? I thought getting a commission would settle him down, but it is as if it has made matters worse.'
He looked from Aramis to Porthos, hoping for an answer to his question, but all he saw were his own concerns staring back at him.
'Should I speak to him?' Treville asked. His shoulders had relaxed, and his anger appeared to have dissipated – though it could just as easily have been interpreted as defeat.
Aramis gave the matter some thought. 'He respects you, Captain, but I am not sure he is in the right frame of mind; he may just bolt if he feels he is being cornered. Let us deal with him. If we cannot, we will ask for your help.' Treville did not look happy, but he nodded.
'See that you do, I want no more late arrivals – he may not be drunk, but he smells like the taverns he frequents. As I said, Deveaux is enjoying his misery and is just biding his time to make trouble. If he calls my bluff I will have no choice but to punish Athos, if I am to maintain the respect of the regiment.' Porthos made a noise that could have been interpreted as insolence, but Aramis talked over it.
'We understand, Captain. We will do all we can, believe me.' But he sounded far more confident than he felt.
Treville sat and began moving paper around on his desk. The meeting was over, though no man in the room felt as though anything had been resolved. The mood was brittle and the two Musketeers left the room under a very dark cloud, partly formed by their own fears and frustrations.
ooOoo
The day was humid, and the storm that had threatened to break in the night had not yet fulfilled its promise. The sky was a strange yellow and the air was so still even the birds had fallen silent. When it eventually broke it was going to be both relieving and destructive.
Athos rode through the streets of Paris as the morning grew increasingly stifling. He remained vigilant, though the pounding in his head was not helping the accuracy of his vision. His mouth was dry, and every tavern that he passed seemed like a siren's call, promising a salve to his dry, rough throat. The more establishments Athos ignored, the deeper his scowl grew. He wasted no time evaluating his mood, so the question whether his displeasure was due to his discomfort, or whether it was the battle between the swordsman and his demons, remained unresolved.
By the time the Church of Our Lady came close enough to be discernible from the over-arching buildings, Athos' mood had deteriorated, and his demeanour had reached downright terrifying.
He approached the wooden door of the church, and as usual felt the thrumming of anger that burst in his veins whenever he was forced to acknowledge God, or those associated with him. As far as the Musketeer was concerned, religion was a fantasy, a mythical crutch for the lost and desperate. Either he had no need of such a support, or God just did not care, having already abandoned him early in life as a lost cause. In his darkest moments, he was inclined to believe strongly in the latter. He almost envied men like Aramis who fell back on God's plan whenever life displayed man's worst tendencies towards his fellow man.
Athos had no time for God, and that was the end of it. However, his upbringing demanded he show respect for those within the confines of the edifice towering above him, and duty to the regiment ensured any cynicism was held in check.
He took in the cool air within the darkened interior, and had the building existed for any other reason he would have found a measure of solace within its walls. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Aramis, of course, would have found a far deeper meaning behind the swordsman's calm upon entering the house of God.
As Athos stood there drinking in the solitude, an elderly man approached from a side chapel. Like all men of the church, he wore that quiet smile that suggested he was in on some divine secret that only the initiated could comprehend –the swordsman personally considered the look to be condescendingly smug.
'Good morning, my son.' Athos turned to face the voice and dipped his head in silent acknowledgment of the greeting. 'You are the Musketeer sent to collect our missive for the King.' The sentence was a statement, not a question, and its inflection made Athos sense something was not quite right.
'I am Athos, at your service.' Despite the offer, the tone of his delivery made it sound highly unlikely. It was not unusual for men of the King's regiment to come from the nobility, but Athos had an added hauteur which often made him sound more aloof than the King himself. However much he hated his former life it was ingrained in his very bones, and anger simply exacerbated the traits, no matter how hard he tried to suppress his birthright.
The priest tilted his head slightly and pursed his lips, as if seeing all of Athos' hidden resentments imprinted upon his handsome, if rather stern features.
'Come, Monsieur Athos, the day is warm, take some refreshment whilst the parchment is prepared.' Athos hesitated for a second. He had no desire to linger within the cold, silent confines of the church amongst the lingering, sickly-sweet smell of incense – the cloying scent seemed to cling to the very stonework of the building. Furthermore, he was extremely thirsty, and the offer of a cool beverage was too good to refuse. In consequence, Athos followed the tall figure through a low stone doorway and emerged into a tranquil courtyard.
The priest gestured for Athos to sit; the stone table and bench was positioned in the shade, and a small fountain bubbled discreetly nearby. Monks from the attached presbytery scurried here and there, as Athos watched. He was inherently suspicious of these pious men, who had few troubles in life yet always seemed to be in a terrible hurry as though they were privy to some awful future event, and they alone were planning to be prepared, like Noah and his ark, ready to weather the storm.
No one raised their head or caught his eye as he made his observations, his attention only broken when a young novitiate poured ale into a cup. Athos nodded in thanks and drained the cup almost instantly; replacing it, empty, upon the table before the wide-eyed young man had finished pouring for the priest.
'Another for our guest, Brother Matthew. The streets of our city are indeed dry on such a day as this.' Athos forced himself to leave the cup untouched upon the table, rather than snatching it and downing the cold liquid within, as he had before. The priest eyed him carefully and supped his own ale in silence.
'The ale is good is it not? The brothers brew it themselves.' The two men supped their drink in the cool shade of the courtyard for a moment or two, before the priest spoke once more.
'You are not comfortable within these walls, Monsieur Athos?' His tone was somewhere between amused and disappointed. Athos took a long drink from his cup, then replaced it before him on the table whilst contemplating the old man's observation.
'I have been given a job with instructions to be swift. It is nothing personal, I simply wish to be on my way.' The excuse was delivered with Athos' usual aplomb, no inflexion in his voice as to his true feelings either way. Athos drank from his cup, though those green eyes remained steady and watchful as the priest unashamedly studied the Musketeer.
'The letter is on its way. Do not worry, we will not create any intentional delay.' After a short pause, he added, 'You do not strike me as a soldier, Monsieur Athos. Have you been a Musketeer long?'
Something set off Athos' warning signals. His senses, already wary in such surroundings, now shot to high alert, and it was all he could do to remain sitting and not draw a weapon, though the stiffening of his spine told of his discomfort.
'Forgive me, I did not mean to pry. So many men of the nobility seek glory with a sword, yet I do not sense it is glory that you seek.' He looked saddened and almost irritated, as the young monk returned with a leather tube encasing a scroll.
'Ah, your letter.' The priest indicated that Brother Matthew should hand over the scroll to Athos, and as the Musketeer rose, the nervous monk scurried away.
'I thank you for the refreshment, Father. Now, if you have no further instruction, I will be on my way.' The swordsman turned to leave, one hand holding the tube, the other on the hilt of his sword.
'Do not be angry at God, Athos, he merely made us in his likeness – how we choose to conduct our lives is our own doing. He is simply there to support us when we make the wrong choices.' The melancholy voice hit the Musketeer like a bullet.
Athos stilled, the priest's words like ice to the fire in his blood. Turning slowly, he faced the priest.
'And what of the victims? What of those innocents who suffer from those poor choices?' The words were spoken in a hushed tone, but one that carried more menace than the loudest battle cry.
The priest held Athos' gaze and slowly shook his head. 'Innocents? Who is truly innocent? Does a suckling babe not manipulate its mother to satisfy its own desires? Do not take on the burden of the choices of others; when he reaches the gates of heaven, each person will be judged for his actions and his alone.'
Athos stood still. 'Then I am already damned.' And with that, he turned abruptly and strode away. If the priest said anything else, Athos could not hear it. He could hear nothing over the deafening scream inside his head.
Outside, the bright sunlight seemed more painful than ever, the crowds louder and busier than normal. Athos pulled his hat down to shield his eyes as he mounted Roger. At least the cold ale and the respite in the shade had diminished his headache to a dull murmur. He turned his mount back toward the garrison, grateful for the unstoppable rising of the sun, as it overruled his desire to stop on his way home and seek solace where he knew he should not.
The priest stood in the cool interior of the church and watched the Musketeer leave.
'That is a very angry young man,' he stated, solemnly shaking his head. The person to whom he addressed the comment chose to remain in the shadows, but his voice carried easily in the silent building, the retort so filled with hatred it was like a physical presence in the dark.
'Not half as angry as I!'