This is another tag to the Series 2 finale. The following may be spoilery even if you've seen the episode. In the final scenes of the episode, both Athos and Porthos are wearing blue sashes under their belts. I saw a very old tweet by Jessica Pope mentioning that the one Athos wore was actually Aramis's sash, and this snack is born out of that.
Once again, any recognizable lines are directly from the show.
IX. A Private Goodbye
The return to the garrison is unusually quiet.
D'Artagnan takes his leave early on, before the trio has even left the palace grounds. He has permission to see Constance that evening and after everything they've been through, there's no place else the Gascon would rather be. That leaves Athos and Porthos by themselves up on their mounts, a strange awkwardness between them in the wake of Aramis's sudden goodbye. This, being the two of them, at the moment, feels uncomfortably odd.
"Did we do this righ'?" Porthos asks abruptly as they leave the gates behind and start towards the Seine. Athos cast him a glance, seeing openly that with the slightest encouragement, Porthos is ready to turn around and dash off in pursuit of their now-wandering marksman.
"Could we have held him back?" Athos asks back carefully, watching his friend. It earns him a dark, narrow-eyed glare.
"At least we could 'ave tried."
Porthos is clearly angry, almost as if Athos has been the one responsible that Aramis drifted away. But Athos is serene in the knowledge that Porthos is not actually blaming him. They both know damn well that he needed no permission from Athos if he truly wanted to stop Aramis.
So the bigger man huffs in annoyance, like the horse under him as he jerks the reins a bit too harshly, and the two men ride side by side in a trudging, steady gait through the Quai de l'Ecolle. When they reach Pont Neuf, Porthos breaks the silence, growling, "I need a drink. You comin'?"
"No," Athos sighs, "Not tonight. Unless you require company...?"
"I need nothin' but a bottle of good wine," Porthos grumbles, "Or several." He's in a truly sour mood, and Athos watches him almost fondly as he steers his horse and moves off, joining the evening crowd.
Taking an opposite turn for the bridge, Athos makes his way to the garrison alone.
It is a bright, clear night that is descending on Paris. Street lanterns are being lit, vendors closing up shops, taverns and alehouses beginning to light up; reputable women of the neighbourhood make haste to be away, maids quicken their steps, pulling children along. The alleyways have long been swallowed by shadows, but the stars are showing up one by one, and Musketeers are lighting the torches around the courtyard as Athos reaches the garrison's vaulted gate. He greets the guards with a curt nod, and inquires after Tréville. The captain has yet to return from the Louvre. Nodding his thanks, Athos nudges his horse forward, dismounts before the stables and throws the reins to Jacques, but he stops when the lad lingers instead of taking the animal away.
"Monsieur Athos.." he begins hesitantly, "Has Aramis really left the regiment?"
"How do you know that?" Athos asks sharply, confused as to how the news could have reached the garrison so fast.
"He was in the garrison earlier," Jacques replies quickly, taking half a step back as if wary of Athos striking him, "I - I saw him packing up his things. Then Bernard and Pinchon were talking in the stables - something about Aramis asking them to find an ass for a journey. I saw him go up to the captain's office, but when I came back from the kitchens I went to his room and.. he was gone."
Wordlessly, Athos regards the boy.
Aramis always took time to engage with the pathetically timid Jacques. Everyone knows that Aramis is Jacques's favourite person in the regiment. Unfortunately, Athos is not one for tender words when it comes to stating truths.
"It is true he has left," he confirms after a long pause, tone perfectly flat.
"Oh," says Jacques, just before his bottom lip trembles. He ducks his head and spins around, and hurriedly pulls the horse along without another word. Athos trails him with his eyes until he disappears into the stables, making a mental note of asking d'Artagnan to keep an eye on the boy.
With Jacques gone, Athos finds himself alone in the middle of the yard. It's only then that he notices, not with a little amount of surprise, that he has no real reason to be at the garrison this night. He's had a mind to go back to his rooms at Rue Férou, for it's been days he's last had any decent rest, but somehow, apparently, his thoughts have led him back to the garrison. This is strange in and of itself - Athos can't really recall what exactly he's been thinking on the road. Perhaps he's more tired than he has realized.
With nothing to do, he stands where he is for a few moments and observes the courtyard. Few men are passing to and fro, the muffled buzz of conversation filtering through the two ground-floor windows of the refectory. Dinner must have been served. Having no appetite of his own, Athos drops his arms and walks to the bench -their bench- and picks up the decanter to pour himself a cup. He swirls the liquid absently for a few times, then downs it slowly in one go. As he's setting the cup down, his eyes slide towards the seat where Aramis usually sits.
Where he usually sat.
Aramis will not be here tomorrow.
Athos sighs and sits down.
/
He has been the one least surprised by Aramis's abrupt goodbye.
Perhaps he's felt it coming, although the thought has never crossed his mind; but he alone shared in the past eighteen months the real weight of Aramis's secrets. He, having once fled the ruins of his own life, understood the need for distance the best. But there's no question in Athos's mind that Aramis is the nobler one of them both.
Whereas he had fled out of sheer cowardice, Aramis has left to seek atonement for his sins.
Sinners, the whole of us, Athos thinks, despondently bitter as he fills a second glass. He's never harboured any hopes of redemption, but who was he to deny Aramis seeking it for himself?
He drinks the second cup even more slowly than the first, and once it is emptied, he pushes himself to his feet. Turning around, he starts directly towards Aramis's rooms. There is no objective in the move, but a hint of urgency in his steps – waging a short but fierce battle to not give an inch of room to logical thought at the moment, for it would deter him from this purely instinctive, pointless venture – he holds up the lantern he's picked up on the way and pushes the door in.
The barracks room is empty.
It's dark and deserted.
The cot against the wall stands naked; the nail above where once a cross was mounted is now bare. The cracks climbing through the ceiling are still there, as is the spider web stretching in the corner, and the wooden chest under the window. Frowning, Athos takes a few more steps in and holds up the light.
Upon the chest is Aramis's blue sash.
His frown deepens.
It is not forgotten, but clearly left there: cut into two, each folded neatly, placed side by side.
Athos leaves the lantern aside on the windowsill and raises a hesitant hand to touch the fabric. His fingers trail through it, and if his sight suddenly wavers in the dusty light, if the edges of the sash blur and bleed into the wooden surface of the chest, well- no one's there to witness the rush of warm memories in his eyes.
Of seeing Aramis for the first time in that double-storey tavern which has long since burned down, silent and alone, drinking with a steadiness to rival Athos's own*.
Of that first spar with him in the courtyard, prompted to impress Tréville enough to gain admittance to the ranks; the first handshake afterwards and the sparks of interest in Aramis's eyes.
A slight smirk passes through Athos's lips.
What of the countless times he and Porthos had flanked the man in duels with offended husbands and brothers, until the day that honourable practice was banned? The silly, sometimes downright idiotic rescues they would have to mount to get the man out of trouble... The antics he and Aramis had to deploy to get Porthos out of trouble!
His smile fades slowly as one hand goes absently to clasp the back of his arm. There's a long, fresh cut there, still healing, still tender under the leather and shirt and the bandage that Aramis has wrapped.
It would be the last one, then.
The last wound to be stitched by his friend's skilled hand. The scars - how many neat, faded scars do they carry, him and Porthos and even d'Artagnan, of wounds once tended by their friend? Aramis has his signature left over all of them.
The sorrow hovering above swirls and thickens in a gust of emotion at that thought. Wraps itself around him like a flag around a pole. A lump lodges itself uninvitedly in his throat and Athos leans heavily forward against the chest, closing his eyes.
Then comes the morning in the convent over a year ago.
"They'll hang you. Then they'll hang me for letting it happen."
"Well, more chance we'll be killed here and take it with us to the grave."
"That's a comfort!"
The banter that came as easily as breathing - there's that sting again at the back of Athos's eyes! - His fingers twist into a fist around the fabric and he bows his head, anger rising steadily from somewhere deep down. It's a pointless anger, a thick, smothering smoke; not directed at Aramis, but at the thought of that one fateful night, of that single, simple act that triggered a series of events leading them to this day, to this point, to Aramis's farewell. If Athos has had any faith left in fairness in life, he'd be in close danger of petulance right now.
But he merely sighs again, deeply and carefully through his nose.
Athos is not usually a sentimental man.
He'd once let go of a life, a name, a noble heritage without a backward glance, but he could not let go of a silver locket containing a few dried forget-me-nots. He'd been imprisoned by that chain, carried it for years like a shackle over his heart.
But if forget-me-nots have become a symbol of betrayal and pain, Musketeer blue has set him once more on a noble, worthy path.
Athos opens his eyes and stares at the colour of Aramis's sash. He picks it up and tucks it carefully under his belt. The second one goes into his pocket, to be passed to Porthos the following day. Their final goodbyes have now been said. There is no point in lingering. At least Aramis is not dead.
Farewell, old friend, Athos thinks as he turns on his heel and makes for the door. May God grant you the peace that you seek.
And can't help but smile again as he pulls the door close.
... and patience and mercy to the brothers in Douai.
Stay safe, Aramis.
Until our paths cross once again.
Notes:
*Some "scraps" about the trio's first meetings will be posted soon.
I hope this wasn't bland - or mushy, God forbid. Thanks for reading.