This is a very old one. (I'm sorry these are so morose lately. I've no explanation.)
Imagine Athos – Le Comte de la Fére – coming home to Catherine's screams and finding his brother dead. Imagine the people at the house gathering quickly and crowding the room, a sense of shock pervading the atmosphere. Catherine as white as a sheet, frozen at the door after identifying Milady as the murderer, and Anne is dragged out of the room. Athos takes two steps in and falters before a window, several steps away from Thomas's body, staring.
He stood there, then, for the longest time, staring at his brother's face, unseeing, uncomprehending, and utterly immobile. Unable to move, unable to reach out and touch him, unaware of the constant shuffling of feet in the room. Servants and townsfolk whispering, constantly whispering, none daring to come close, yet none making to leave, either. Athos knew two things, and two things only: Thomas's grey face before his eyes, and Anne's declaration of love in his ears.
Thomas was dead.
And I love you! she kept shouting.
In the end, it was for Catherine that he looked away from Thomas. His eyes trailed her as she moved around, walking as if in a dream, and sunk to her knees beside Thomas, hands fisting slowly on the voluminous fabric of her skirts. Her body bowed, silent and rigid, until her forehead almost touched Thomas's (still) chest. A copper curl bounced like a coil when her shoulders shook with a sob, still completely mute, but Athos saw the silvery glint of tears dripping from her chin, and how tightly her fingers were clenched.
She, too, seemed to have stopped breathing.
Athos went to her, leaned over and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, then pulled her to her feet and steered her out of the room.
She clung to his arms as they stood in the hallway, trembling violently in his grip until she finally took in a big, heaving breath, and let out a piercing keen, and broke down into tears in his arms.
Cold and stiff, Athos extracted himself from her clutch, and did not excuse himself as he walked away.
/
The document was still in his hand.
The list of crimes committed by Anne de Bruil. His Anne.
A thief, and now, a murderess. His wife.
His wife.
Comprehension was eluding him.
He stared at the door of Anne's guarded room, Athos's young footman staring in respect and in embarrassment down at the lacquered floor. Athos studied him. Did the man dare feel sorry for him? Was he embarrassed to have been in his employment? Athos stood and watched as other servants passed him by, a couple of young maids courtesying him and scurrying down the stairs, and wondered, were they fleeing the house? His old valet standing at the landing, scolding the maids, then rushing back into the drawing room to usher the crowd out; Athos watched and heard the noises of feet and the fleeting, curious glances cast about his way by these people, all of whom seemed to be strangers to him – what were they thinking? What had he – not Olivier, but the Comte de la Fére - suddenly become?
Athos wondered, but did not care.
His eyes steered towards the open door of Thomas's room across the other side of the hall, and a freezing cold claimed him with the speed of a cannon ball – his heart thundering against his ribs, Athos turned and fled.
/
He shut the double doors of the study and slid down, trembling from head to toe, and rested his head back against the wall.
Thomas.
He swallowed convulsively.
My God, Thomas..
His brother was gone.
He lurched violently to one side, crawled on all on fours to snatch the flower vase in the corner and threw up.
Thomas.
Athos was cold.
Thomas.
He was shivering.
Thomas.
His vision blurred. There was an acrid smell in the air and the room was large and he was utterly alone.
He dragged himself to the settee like a frail old man, pulled himself up, and slept.