A new snack after a long while... This is a tag to S2 Ep.1, set right after Aramis learns of Adele's fate with Athos.
XVI. Locks You Can't Pick
For a few moments, neither of them have words.
In the dark, floating mist, Aramis stands by his former love's grave, unable to move, unable to turn, to leave. Athos sees him shudder, hand pressed to his head, breaths harsh as if he's suddenly forgotten how to breathe. He seems... lost.
The chill in the air grows even colder, the thunders rolling one after the other create mocking echoes that expand and swallow the two Musketeers, as if to capture their very souls and seal them inside the tomb along with Adele Besette. Athos watches, his own breath an inexplicable weight, struggling strangely, twisting into a tangle and unable to find the correct way down. Aramis, stood motionless, leaning his shoulder against the wall, head bowed and face swathed in shadows, may already have turned into a ghost.
They are suspended, in space and time. Perhaps, they're not even real.
A quiver – a sharp quiver in a sliver of blue light on Aramis's chin – and Athos draws a sharp breath and breaks the spell: he strides forward, clasps Aramis's arm and draws him away. "Come on."
Aramis goes with him easily enough.
Once they are outside and under the awning above the gate, Athos stops when he feels Aramis slow down, and turns to find the marksman swamped in the dark near a corner, standing one step beside the door. A careless streak of light catches the lower part of his cheek and jaw, illuminating tense lines – a study of agitation in black and white.
"Aramis– "
"I need to be alone."
He stalks right past Athos and into the rain, crossing the small yard quickly and leaving the church behind.
Considering but for a few moments, Athos follows.
/
He remains behind, having given the man a deliberate head-start, as Aramis walks through the streets with harsh, purposeful strides, head bowed against the torrent, hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clenched into a fist. Woe betide if anyone comes across his way. Athos has no need to try and disguise his own footsteps: the humming of the wind and the splashing, the perpetual dark of Paris near midnight, and a Musketeer's experience help him plenty in keeping his distance. Not that he is necessarily trying to remain hidden - not that he expects Aramis to pay any attention to his surroundings at the moment. And indeed, after two alleyways, one high street and a few aimless turns, Aramis begins to slow down.
His steps are no longer determined - ferocious - they slow down as if having lost a train of thought and only half-willing to reclaim it, until he seems to gradually give up, and comes to a silent standstill, at the edge of a sphere of spilling yellow light, in the mouth of a narrow alley opening to Rue Calbert. Athos observes in concern as his friend's shoulders slowly bow, the tension thawing out, like frost under the sun, and Aramis lets his weight drop sideways, until he's sagged against a high garden wall: weary, giving up, sliding down somewhat, hands on his knees, tipping his head skywards.
Athos closes the distance with quick steps and approaches him in worry.
"Aramis-"
"She is dead. Because of me." Looking up at Athos's face without straightening himself, Aramis speaks in a less-than-steady voice. His face is calm, but his eyes filled with anguish - and God help Athos, he seems lost.
"She defied the Cardinal because she loved me. And now, she is dead."
Pursing his lips, Athos looks left and right, trying to spot some shelter they can take and talk somewhere dry.
"I didn't even know. I didn't even know-"
"You couldn't. And if you did, it wouldn't have made a difference."
Aramis looks at him incredulously, right before his face twists in disgust, but Athos is unperturbed.
"Come. We'll find somewhere dry to talk."
"I don't wish to be indoors," Aramis puts coldly, pushing himself up.
"Then we'll remain outside. Come on." With an encouraging pat on the arm, Athos turns and begins to walk, not waiting to see if Aramis will follow.
If they are to resign themselves to the weather, there is only one place to go.
The Seine.
To their luck, the rain is letting up as they're walking down the steps to the riverbank. The streets are empty; there's not a single soul to be found in the quay. The whole of Paris may as well have vanished – even the street dogs have gone quiet. The two Musketeers are thoroughly soaked, hats no more than drenched accessories on their heads, water having found its way through their collars, gloves, boots - more water will make little difference now. They sit on the edge of the wall, side by side.
Neither of them speaks for a while.
Until the rain finally stops, and an inviting quiet takes its stead.
"She shouldn't have died," Aramis says at last, drawing in a shuddering breath that seems to fill up and straighten his crumpled form, "Adele-"
"The Cardinal murdered her, Aramis," Athos reminds gently, "You are not to blame."
Aramis snorts. "You and I both know that is not true." Taking a deep, tremulous breath, he lowers his head and buries his face in his hands.
There is nothing Athos can do or say except to ache for his friend, and put his hand on Aramis's shoulder and keep it there, until several long moments pass, and slowly, gradually, Aramis pulls himself together and raises his head once more.
"If the Cardinal knew about the dauphin - " he begins (and Athos almost sighs in relief when he hears Aramis again – fearful, yes, but determined – not a ghost) -
"He can't have," he cuts him off swiftly. "We were in a convent, Aramis. Even the nuns do not know. There's no way for him to have found out."
"That man had a long reach-" Aramis hisses, eyes flashing as he rounds on Athos-
"Even he can't reach from beyond the grave," Athos supplies coldly.
"Indulge me for but a moment! I have to be prepared, Athos – if there is the slightest chance – I have to be prepared."
"Very well," Athos returns calmly, studying him, (indulging him) , "What is your plan?"
"My plan," Aramis hisses again, leaning in close, "is to keep the queen and my son safe, no matter the cost."
"And that differs from what we do how?" Athos's voice is even; reserved. "From what we have dedicated our lives to? Our duty as Musketeers?"
"It is different," Aramis all but spits, "you know damn well it is –"
"Aramis - careful."
Aramis starts.
Athos's hand is magically on his wrist, squeezing, and there's such naked worry in his eyes - the warning warm with fear, instead of cold with a needless threat- that it stops Aramis in his tracks. It is the same quiet, concealed worry he's heard in a bitter truth spoken softly just two days ago: "The dauphin is not your son, Aramis, he can never be your son.
"Not unless you confess to treason and take the queen down with you."
But there's a world of difference between a Musketeer protecting the future king of France, and a man protecting his son. Athos knows.
And yet.. he can't really know, can he?
A father's love and a Musketeer's duty - this is not a difference anyone but Aramis can appreciate, can really understand. No other Musketeer has ever been in the position that he is. The heir to the throne of France is his son, and deep in Aramis's heart, that is a truth that no one, not even Athos, can touch.
It matters little, then, whether anyone acknowledges it, or whether anyone (Porthos, Tréville, the whole world) knows. This is Aramis's burden –his most secret, most torturous joy – alone.
"Athos, I..." Dear God, he has no words. "I do believe I am doomed," he chuckles bitterly, shaking his head from side to side. To want the things he cannot have -shackles chaining his heart to invisible walls.
Silence sinks.
"Despair doesn't suit you," Athos says at length, sounding subdued.
"Coming from you, that's rich," Aramis retorts.
"Hm," Athos grunts quietly, then dips his head, contemplating. "Here I'd thought the melancholy aspect to my looks was intriguing."
Aramis looks at him in surprise, eyes wide. He catches the curl of a smirk on Athos's mouth, and it is as if a string has snapped: he throws his head back and barks out a laugh.
"Come," Athos sighs, struggling not to smile now, "Allow me to keep the despairing. You already have your charms."
"It is nothing but your lack of interest that keeps you back, my friend, you know it as well as I."
"Indeed."
"Though," Aramis sighs, passing a hand over his brow, "God knows, Athos, you have good reason."
"I thought this wasn't about me," Athos murmurs amusedly.
"It isn't. Don't get ahead of yourself."
Athos snorts.
Aramis sighs again.
The river is rushing hurriedly beneath their feet, humming to herself as if she has somewhere to be, too distracted to be concerned by spectators.
"I should have tried to contact Adele." Aramis leaves the words quietly on the flowing water. "Tried to track her down in the country. I should have suspected something was wrong; her departure was too abrupt."
"You had no reason to-"
"I should have tried, Athos." His eyes are suspiciously bright as he looks up plaintively at his friend, his throat working laboriously to swallow the lumps that are piling up, strangling his words. "I should have, if I... if I truly loved her."
"Stop this." There is that worry again, the same with which he'd first said 'you can't blame yourself for this'. "You cannot doubt yourself, Aramis. "
"It is because I do not doubt what my heart wants that I say this."
He hasn't loved Adele the way he loves Anne.
"What you feel now," Athos says, looking him earnestly, "does not invalidate what you felt before. You loved her, you have told us as such several times. Do not dishonor her memory by doubting your own heart now."
Aramis blinks, and lowers his head, feeling chastised.
Athos is right. His heart did not know then what it knows now. He's loved her the only way he knew how.
Another shudder - making him almost gasp - Aramis suspects, somewhere at the back of his mind, that it has more to do than with just the rain.
"I don't understand, Athos," he groans, pressing the heels of his palms to his brow and bending forward, unable to bear the weight anymore. He takes off his hands abruptly and looks up again. "Richlieu would have had months to make a move against me. He did nothing. Why? He had Adele killed, but wouldn't touch me? This doesn't make sense."
"You are a Musketeer. He would have known we're not easy marks." But even Athos only half-believes what he is saying, Aramis can see.
"That didn't stop him from sending Milady de Winter after you. He could have easily done the same for me, but he didn't. Didn't he want revenge? Why wouldn't he strike against me – what was he planning - what is he trying to tell me now? He had to have known about me and the queen. Why else would he ensure, in his deathbed, that I received his message?" He spits the word out like a foul thing. "He had to have been planning something, Athos. He had to have known."
By now, he is trembling with fury – fury fueled by terror. He can't even begin to grasp what may be happening, what may have just spilled over, what the following day may bring-
"Let's say you are right." Athos's frown is deep, his eyes troubled as he fixes his gaze on Aramis. "What would he do? He wouldn't have told anyone. Not Richlieu - he would keep this secret for himself."
"That priest – the one who summoned us. What does he know? The Cardinal wouldn't have told him, would he?" (By God, now he is feeling truly lost.)
"No." Athos's reply is swift and firm. "As far as we know, he is no one. But I will make inquiries. We will take care of it."
For a moment, Aramis can't breathe.
Fear, he knows; terror, even, he's tasted, but this...
The enormity of what he is at the center of – his life – the queen – the dauphin – the fate of France – it's – the possibility that Richlieu could have known, that he can still expose it –
"—Aramis!"
Athos's fingers are digging into his shoulders, his eyes wide and fearful, filling up Aramis's vision – Aramis has rarely seen him look so worried. With a gasp he wrenches himself free, turns the other way and hugs himself tightly, trying to hold himself together. Trying not to feel like the world is crashing down on his head and it is all his damn fault.
He just needs - he just needs-
"We are in this together, Aramis."
A ripple on tranquil water.
A fallen leaf, landing noiselessly.
Athos sits facing the river, his back straight, his head high – he is Athos. No one can tell that anything is amiss from his posture, or his voice - the rich timbre carries as steadily as ever.
"Perhaps you think me cold. Granted, I can only guess at how must you must feel. But I would remind you that you are not alone. We are King's Musketeers, Aramis; we exist to protect the queen and the dauphin. But we also protect one another. Our brothers don't need to know to protect them with their lives. Or you." He turns to fix his calm, blue eyes on his friend. "Do not forget that we are not alone."
We are not alone.
It is not the reminder that dispels the lingering tendrils of fear, the remainder of his ready-to-spike anger - it is the we Athos uses.
We are not alone.
God...
The mangled sound that spurts from his lips may be a sob, or a disfigured laugh.
A double-edged sword, this is - that Athos is privy to his secrets: it balances on the brink of guilt and fear on one side and relief on the other. Selfish as it is, Aramis is grateful, immensely grateful that Athos knows it all, that he is here. Because if he's not had someone to share this with, he knows, deep in his heart, that he would have long ago unspooled, drifted, gotten himself caught – gotten them all killed.
Athos is keeping him tethered.
And Aramis is shamefully grateful.
"Come," Athos says, climbing gracefully to his feet, "Let us return. The others will be waiting."
"Not yet," he shakes his head. He wants nothing more than to be alone, to think, to mourn. "I can't be indoors this night."
Athos seems hesitant. "Porthos will worry."
"You will tell him something."
"...very well," Athos assents. But he doesn't move to leave immediately, and instead lingers for a moment, standing beside Aramis's seated form.
"I am sorry about Adele, my friend."
His hand finds its way to Aramis's shoulder again, heavy and warm, and Aramis nods, reaching to pat Athos's hand gratefully, unable to look up.
"Take your time. But be at the garrison at first light. Tréville won't be lenient if you're late."
With a final squeeze, Athos is gone, and Aramis finds himself alone with his thoughts, his grief and his guilt, in his drenched uniform, sitting at the wet, cold riverbank, staring silently into the Seine.
If he hasn't returned to the garrison by first light, they will come to collect him, all three of them.
Piece by every piece.
He knows.