Chapter 5

She reached her room and collapsed, her breathing still fast, and her heart continuing to thunder in her chest. She hardly dared consider what had just happened. She leant against the wall, her legs still shaking and weak, and slowly she slid down, until she sat shivering upon the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her head rested upon her knees as agonising sobs slowly wracked her frame, until she felt she no longer had the strength to cry. She had once believed she would never shed tears again, she certainly hoped never to feel such desolation. Yet now she was hollow once more; where her revenge had burnt bright, lighting the darkest hours of her life, now there was the pain of confusion. Her path was no longer clear –nothing was clear. Love, hate, life, death – she did not know what she wanted. She only knew how she had felt, how he had made her feel. It had taken almost nothing – the merest stare, his arrogant tone, his refusal to back down – and her resolution had deserted her, her hate melting away with the evening mist.

But there was no hope, no way forward, only a painful limbo in which they must both exist, a reality in which they would both hate and desire one another; where they would have to acknowledge each other's nearness, and yet maintain a separation. It could not happen again, she would not let him get so close in future – she could not allow her emotions, or his, to overrule her senses. What she desired, and what she would allow, would have to remain forever separate, two halves of a whole that could never be.

oOo

Aramis and Porthos ate their supper and decided to return to the garrison; Porthos did not even feel like playing a game of cards.

'Where do you think he is?' Aramis asked after they had walked in silence for some time. Porthos shrugged.

''E could be anywhere, things aren't as bad this time, e's probably found 'imself some rooms.' Though he tried to sound convincing, they both accepted that, knowing Athos, this was not necessarily the case.

'Should we tell Treville?' the marksman persisted. Porthos frowned but eventually nodded.

'I think we should, it's only fair. After all, 'e might 'ave some idea where we could find 'im.' Aramis brightened at the suggestion, and the two men hurried through the garrison arch.

The light still burnt in Treville's office, and the two men wondered if he had slept at all since the King's announcement. The sudden outbreak of sickness in the garrison meant that most of the reconnaissance that had been due to begin that morning had been delayed. One or two of the more far-reaching destinations had been reassigned, due to the length of time it would take to ride there and back. However, the Captain had held off sending Aramis and Porthos, as with so many men ill, added to those sent on their mission, he wanted them close at hand – just in case.

He sat at his desk, head resting in his hands. His eyes were tired, and place names which were normally familiar to him swam across the page, as if they were unknown or foreign destinations. He heard the tread of boots upon the stair and, for once, welcomed the interruption– until he saw who entered.

As fond as he was of these two men, experience had taught him that when they knocked late at night, he needed to prepare himself. At best, he would hear some fantastical tale, that would leave him speechless, at worst… well, at worst, his reaction was usually the same – only with added stress.

To his surprise, Aramis and Porthos both appeared to be in a good mood, Aramis in particular seemed almost jubilant.

'How can I help?' Treville asked. If he sounded abrupt, Aramis was aware that it was merely the result of too little rest. Before either of them could answer, Treville sat straighter in his chair and, for the first time in days, his expression lightened.

'Where?' was all he asked, hoping he was not wrong.

'Outside The Fleece,' Aramis answered, Porthos no longer able to stop himself from emitting a deep chuckle.

'He kinda fell out,' said Porthos, attempting to give a clear report of events and failing. Treville frowned, his worst fears edging closer to the front of his mind. Aramis noted the Captain's concern and jumped in.

'Not like that, at least I don't think so,' Aramis clarified. 'He can fight pretty well drunk, but tonight it was quite evident he was sober.' He turned to Porthos for confirmation, and the big man nodded in agreement.

'Yeah, the two men he was after were losing, when the Red Guards turned up to spoil his fun, as usual.' This time Treville looked aghast.

'Not again?' the Captain moaned. Aramis and Porthos chuckled and Treville felt his anxiety lessen, as the two men would not be laughing if their friend was languishing in the Châtelet for a second time.

'No, this time he had the sense to run, which is one reason why I believe he was sober. Drunk, he would have taken them all on. We, too, decided that it was not our fight to explain, so we left them to deal with the casualties. However, we did return to The Fleece for supper and asked a few questions. It would appear that our reluctant friend has stumbled across a protection racket, here in Paris!' Aramis awaited the Captain's reaction. He was not disappointed.

Treville was angry. 'Why did we not know about this?'

The two men shrugged their shoulders. 'The way they work leaves the victims too scared to tell anyone what is happening. Athos probably noticed them in more than one tavern, you know what he is like – even drunk he does not miss much. He would be in the right place, at the right time, if you know what I mean.' Porthos appeared to become pensive at this thought. None of them liked to think of their friend returning to his old ways.

'Where is he now?' Treville demanded. The two Musketeers exchanged glances, Porthos pouted, scowling hard, and Aramis' buoyant mood deflated.

'We do not know. He ran, I do not believe he even noticed us, he was rather occupied at the time,' Aramis explained.

'Treville became thoughtful, realising that Athos would be an enormous asset in planning and foreseeing potential problems during the King's tour. If the Captain was correct about his background, then he may have extra insight which would prove invaluable.

'I want him found!' Treville barked. Aramis was about to speak when a look from the Captain silenced him. 'This is Athos we are discussing, how many places are there where you would be likely to find him? He is a man of particular habits – even in Paris it cannot be hard.' Porthos grinned and Treville rolled his eyes. 'That is not permission to devote your time to playing cards in taverns, Porthos. I have enough men sick already, and I do not want to lose any more. Report back when you have him – and make it quick.' He added this last order with a look that clearly said, before he does anything stupid, his tone implying a level of concern which both men understood. He again turned his concentration to the maps on his desk and the two Musketeers knew they had been dismissed.

'He made it sound easy,' Aramis complained, running his hands through his long hair.

Porthos grinned. 'It is easy,' he said, and winked at his friend as they descended the stairs together. Aramis thumped the big Musketeer's arm and Porthos laughed loudly, the reassuring noise eliciting a smile from their tired Captain, alone in his office, still revelling in the latest news.

'Think, what does Athos care for, far more than himself?' Porthos asked.

Aramis scowled. 'Apart from wine I…' He paused, and his expression altered from confused to enlightened. 'Roger!' And with that, he headed toward the archway, not bothering to wait for Porthos' confirmation.

'Woah!' Porthos shouted, grasping the excited Musketeer by the arm. 'It's late, and there is a good chance he is well into… well, God knows how many bottles by now. I'm not sure we would be welcome. Let him sleep it off.' Feeling anxious, Aramis urged his friend to reconsider.

'What if he is gone by the morning, Porthos? I do not think I could stand it.' Aramis grabbed his friend's arm, his face bleak with the possibility of Athos having been so near then disappearing once again.

Porthos patted the marksman on the shoulder. 'Trust me, after that fight, 'e is going to drink, and not just a glass. You know our friend, 'e was angry, you saw his face. When 'e's angry 'e drinks. 'E won't risk Roger by ridin' 'im while e's drunk, even if he doesn't care for his own neck. 'E will still be there.' Aramis reluctantly agreed to wait, though he knew it would be a restless night – for both of them.

oOo

When Athos awoke it was still early, though he had not managed to rise and remove himself from the stable before the farrier had begun to ready his forge for the day. He could hear the clanking of metal on metal as he tried to remember where he was, until a soft whinny and a gentle nudge, along with the sharp scratching of the straw on his face, reminded him of his sleeping arrangements. Then, as if that had opened the flood gates of his memory, the events of the previous day came rushing from the dark recesses of his mind, where he had attempted to banish them. Like a tidal wave crashing onto the shore, the sudden realisation threatened to overwhelm him. He struggled to order what had happened, but only one thing emerged clear and dominant. She was alive.

God, how he wished it had been a dream. For once he would have gladly fought off the pain and the anguish, had it only been his fevered sleep. However, he was only too aware that she had been very real. He could still feel her lips on his and, no matter how hard he screwed his eyes closed, she was still there, emerging from the mist to stand in front of him, smiling that smile, the one she kept only for him – or so she had always said. How could the man he had trusted to carry out the task of killing her have betrayed him so badly? He laughed to himself; of course, he had had no choice, when she had begged for her life, the poor man would not have stood a chance. Athos should have stayed, should have been brave enough to see it through; instead he had taken the coward's way out and left it for someone else to witness. He peered over the stable door and saw that the old man was busy talking with a customer. Athos let himself out of the stall, turning to fondle the horse's nose. 'It looks as if we must move on again, old friend. I cannot stay in Paris knowing she is here. I cannot see her again, I cannot.' Roger tossed his head, as if in compete agreement.

'Monsieur Athos, I did not see you arrive, forgive me. Are you taking our fine friend out this morning?' The man was well aware where Athos had spent the night – the fact he still had straw attached to his rather unkempt hair was a rather telling sign. Still, the farrier had grown rather fond of the taciturn young man, and did not wish to cause him distress. If he wished to sleep with his horse, René could think of worse places where he could choose to spend the night.

Athos could still feel the sharp straw down the back of his shirt, and suspected from the concerned look on Monsieur René's face, that he was fully aware of his sleeping arrangements. However, he appreciated the man's discretion.

'Good morning, Monsieur René.' He squinted slightly as, despite his hat, the morning still felt unnaturally bright, and he found talking difficult, his mouth dry, his tongue too big. He was grateful when a voice hailed the farrier and the man departed, leaving him with a cheery goodbye.

Athos was hardly awake, his head throbbed, and even holding it beneath ice-cold water until his lungs burst for air had not helped. He leant against the door of Roger's stall, trying to piece together the images and memories whirling around inside his head. Some were mere fragments of dreams, souls that tormented him at night invading his peace. But this morning he knew that not all of them were figments of his guilt-ridden imagination – though he wished they were.

He hung his head, reliving the encounter over and over, hoping somehow it would diminish, or fade like last night's nightmares.

But no matter how hard he tried, his thoughts could not break away from the events of the previous evening. He could not fathom what had occurred, how she had gone from lifeless and buried, to be encased in his arms once more. He could not even claim confusion, he had surpassed that state, and was completely lost. What was he supposed to feel? Happy? Horrified? Ashamed? He had no comprehension of how to deal with what had happened. He did not know how to carry on; she was his wife, she still lived, how did they exist in the same place knowing what each had done? He could not reason over it any longer, the very thought of it beginning to develop into a physical pain, a deep ache that tore at his body and soul. He needed to be numb, no longer able to think, it was the only way he could cope. Stumbling out into the bustling street, he let his feet lead him to the nearest tavern – should it be the Red Barrel, then so be it.

oOo

Aramis awoke with a start. He had struggled to sleep, just as he had known he would; anticipating the beginning of a mission, or an important event, always hampered his sleep. However, knowing that by waiting until morning, their search may result in complete failure, had been almost painful.

Porthos had not slept at all. He had tried for an hour or two, but in the end, he had given up. In fact, he had sat on their bench, beneath Treville's window, for much of the night. The sky had been clear, stars twinkling high in the heavens, unaware of the turmoil suffered below them in the mortal world.

It had been he who had persuaded Aramis to wait, and if Athos was no longer there in the morning, he did not know how his friend would cope. Since Savoy, he had been overly sensitive to those he considered close, mainly Porthos, but Athos had soon been assimilated into his cloak of protection. When he had chosen to leave, Aramis had been hurt deeply, despite defending his actions to an angry Porthos. Aramis was a brave and gallant soldier, but he was fragile in ways others would not comprehend – Porthos knew that, and he suspected Athos did too. No, the morning could not come soon enough, and if Athos had left, he would be to blame.

Having dressed, Aramis bounded down the stairs to the garrison courtyard, stopping abruptly when he found Porthos with his head upon his arms, fast asleep. Grinning, he shook the big man awake.

'Good morning. Are you making an early start, or was it a very late night?' Porthos squinted, finding the morning sun very bright, especially as he had only had an hour's rest at most.

'Couldn't sleep,' came the gruff reply. 'What time is it?' Aramis shrugged and consulted the pocket watch he always kept about his person.

'A little after seven. Have you already eaten?' Aramis asked, hoping Porthos was not going to delay them for too long.

'Nah, it can wait, come on let's go.' Aramis was delighted, though the fact that Porthos was prepared to forego breakfast, was not lost on him; nor was the indication that he had obviously been up all night.

Neither man spoke as they walked through the waking city. Paris was never truly still, even in the depths of the night; as well as the sounds from nocturnal animals, there were those humans who stalked the darkness to ply their trade or prey off those unfortunate enough to still be abroad at night. But, like most cities, it awoke early, and for many it was their busiest time of day, with deliveries arriving from outlying farms or the nearest ports. Market traders lay out their wares, making the most of the longer hours of daylight during spring – April was now close at hand, and the sun rose early.

Porthos thought it had been some time since he had heard Aramis remain quiet for so long, but he understood the man's mood and chose not to interrupt his thoughts. Both men quickened their stride the closer they got to the farrier's yard, both of them fearing they would find an empty stable.

Aramis dashed through the farrier's paraphernalia, heading straight for the stall where he prayed he would find Roger and, with luck, his master too. His heart soared when he recognised the proud black head nodding over the half door.

'Roger, good boy. Are you alone?' Aramis peered into the dim interior of the stable, but all he could make out was hay, no sleeping figure curled within. He stroked the horse's long velvet nose and turned to face Porthos. The big Musketeer did not need to ask, the look of anguish upon Aramis' face told him all he needed to know.

'Roger is here, so Athos will be in the city somewhere. We just 'ave to find him.' He slapped Aramis on the back, eliciting a wan smile. 'Where shall we begin?' Porthos attempted to sound positive. In Paris, looking for a man who did not wish to be found was almost impossible, but then Athos did not know anyone was looking for him. The two men appraised the busy street, where carts and horses all went about their business, unaware of the urgent search getting underway.

'I suppose, if the worst has happened, we may as well begin with the taverns,' Aramis acknowledged. 'I doubt 'e would have been best pleased after last night.' Porthos snorted in agreement.

'E didn't look exactly 'appy when 'e practically fell on top of us, and that was before the Red Guard showed up.' Aramis supported his friend's statement with a frown. 'May as well begin at the beginning. If 'e was desperate, he wouldn't have gone far,' Porthos surmised, unaware of just how accurate he was. 'Let us begin with our favourite establishment, The Red Barrel.'

It was horribly early to consume wine in the quantities Athos was intending – in fact half the bottle had vanished already, with another full cup disappearing rapidly after that. He did not even lift his head when the door opened, the devil could have entered, and he would not have given a damn. He did not want to care about anything, or anyone anymore; the pain of hurt and betrayal was simply too much to bear. Better to feel nothing, than live with a world of agony, so he was totally unprepared for the hand that stilled his goblet in mid-air.

'Woah, isn't it a little early for a wine breakfast?' Porthos' rumbling voice only just punctured the fog of self-pity that Athos was currently wallowing in, but he did not react, simply staring up at the big man, his face void of any emotion.

Aramis had been overjoyed when he had set eyes on the familiar leather-clad figure seated at the rear of the room, though the bowed head posture, along with the flagon of wine, was not a good sign at a little past eight in the morning. He glanced at Porthos and began to increase his pace, but the big man put out a restraining hand and shook his head. As they neared the table, Porthos stepped forward and, reaching for his friend's hand, halted the arc of the cup he was about to drain. When Athos lifted his head, both men felt the impact of the man's anguish like a physical blow. His eyes were red rimmed and his expression, though blank, showed a level of desolation they had never seen him display before. They had realised that he had been in a dark place when they had first met him, but it was nothing to the misery he exhibited now. Porthos almost physically recoiled, but kept his hand steady. Athos said nothing but shook off the restraint, draining what was left in the cup. He stared at the bottom, as if hoping for some revelation, some sign of what to do next, then appearing disappointed, reached for the bottle. When Porthos moved it away from his grasp, he was not ready for what happened next. The gesture was akin to placing a flame to a barrel of gunpowder – Athos exploded. He stood abruptly, his fist catching a completely unprepared Porthos in the jaw.

Athos obviously being intent on continuing his attack, Aramis finally sprang to life. The sight of his friend's sorrow had momentarily stunned him, but as Porthos lurched backward into the empty tables and Athos moved forward, instinct prevailed. He grabbed the man's arms, pinning them to his sides.

'Athos, it is Aramis. Stop! We have not come here to fight. Stop it!' Athos took no notice, it was as if he were somewhere else, fighting an invisible army, instead of a single Musketeer. Staggering to his feet, Porthos rubbed his jaw, his eyes filling with sorrow. He had underestimated Athos' state of mind, and he could see now that this was not just one more drunken night, this was something much worse.

He gazed intently into the man's eyes and what he saw terrified him more than anything he had ever faced before. They were empty – there was no emotion, no fear, no anger, nothing. Athos still struggled and Aramis was beginning to lose his grip.

'Athos, Athos, can you hear me?' Aramis was now shouting, having given up on subtlety. Porthos shook his head and approached the pair, whereupon Athos began to struggle all the more, and the big man raised his hands to show he meant no harm.

'I'm not sure he can hear you,' he managed, though his jaw was very tender – Athos always had packed quite a punch. Suddenly, just a he was considering knocking the man out for his own good, Athos slumped against Aramis' chest, all the fight vanishing from him in an instant, leaving just a shattered and empty shell held tightly in Aramis' arms. The two men exchanged worried expressions. Porthos came closer, but this time Athos did not react. He was not sure which was worse, angry Athos, or this version of the man, who appeared to be somewhere else entirely, completely unaware of his surroundings.

Aramis gently steered Athos to his seat and sat beside him whilst Athos continued to stare at the floor, his face expressionless.

'Athos, what has happened? Are you hurt?' For a moment Aramis panicked, for it would not be the first time the swordsman had concealed or played down an injury until it was almost too late. His eyes scanned the obvious parts he could see, but there was no sign of blood from a head injury, and none upon his hands. As he studied the long, elegant fingers, he noticed Athos turning and turning a ring, round and round, over and over. It was an object he had noted before, having had to remove it some months ago, when Athos had fallen from a third-floor window at the palace, sustaining many lacerations. Now the ring was back on, but he had never noticed Athos pay it any attention before. He surmised that the obsessive gesture was just another sign of the man's deep anxiety.

Aramis looked to Porthos for guidance. 'What should we do?' Porthos frowned, giving the question due thought.

'Will he come back to the garrison?' the big man asked hopefully. 'Perhaps Treville can get through to him.' The mention of the Captain's name seemed to penetrate Athos' mental trauma.

'No!' he croaked. Finally, he looked up at the two men. 'Please,' was all he said. Both Musketeers stilled, neither of them could remember ever hearing Athos say please. It was not that the man was rude – well not intentionally so – he just had a way of avoiding certain social graces mostly, it seemed, because he usually preferred to communicate by facial expression alone, rather than verbally. Now, the broken word emerging from the man's mouth was agonising to hear. Porthos sank down on Athos' other side, all three sitting in silence. Eventually, Athos sighed.

'I am sorry.' He did not look at Porthos in particular, and it was difficult to know what self-imposed crime he was apologising for. Leaving without saying goodbye? Not sending word he was well? Staying away? Or hitting Porthos in the face? Neither man wanted an apology for any of them. In the end it was Porthos who broke the impasse.

'I'm starvin', we missed breakfast hunting your sorry arse. Serge won't keep it warm for ever. How about we go back for sumthin' to eat? At the very least you can sit and watch.' Athos stirred slightly but said nothing. Aramis stood, whilst Porthos applied just the slightest pressure to Athos' elbow, encouraging him to stand also. For a moment, he remained immovable, then, without warning, suddenly became compliant and rose alongside the other two men. As they left the tavern, Athos pulled his hat low to block the glare from his tired and sore eyes. They walked as quickly as Athos would allow, Porthos still having hold of his friend's arm, as if he was not quite sure he would follow without being guided. When they approached the garrison archway, Athos halted. He stood appraising the home of the regiment he had been deemed unworthy of joining. Walking back inside was painful – another failure, another reminder of being rejected. A young woman passed close by, her derisive laugh echoing in the open space. Athos flinched, transported instantly back to the scene of his nightmares.

'Why do you look so surprised husband? Did you think I loved you, did you really believe I would marry you for love? This... this is what I wanted, this house, this title, this estate – not you, never you. He was back in Pinion; he was standing in the meadow, she was dressed in white, small blue flowers in her hair. She was laughing, mocking him, rubbing his heartbreak in his face. The image wavered. Now she was crying, pleading. 'Athos, oh God, Athos, please. It is all lies. I love you, I have always loved you, I will only ever love you. No matter what you do to me, it will change nothing. You are murdering me for nothing. There is only the truth of us, nothing matters before us, and if I die you will have no future, there will only ever be us. Please God, do not do this!' He heard her cry, diminishing, echoing. Now there was mist, he was back in the alley again, she was stroking his face, his lips. He had her in his arms, real, solid – he was kissing her. Oh God! He was lost.

Aramis had noted Athos' expression change to one of confusion, his eyes had closed, and a small groan of pain escaped his lips. Again, Aramis panicked, convinced his friend must be ill.

'Athos what is wrong, are you in pain?' Athos heard the question, and he wanted to laugh, it was funny, the most ridiculous question he had ever heard. Was he in pain? No, he was not; he was pain.

Both Musketeers now started to become alarmed, this was out of their experience, and Athos was slowly becoming more and more agitated. His eyes darted in all directions and his breathing was rapidly increasing. He turned to Aramis, his eyes full of anguish, grabbing hold of his jacket in both hands and gripping it tightly.

'Make her leave me alone. I do not know what she wants any more. I cannot go back, it is too late.' Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and his legs buckled. Porthos, as always, was ready, halting Athos' fall before he could hit the floor. He glanced at Aramis, his face full of questions.

'Get him back to the garrison.' The two men dashed toward the archway, Porthos carrying an unconscious Athos over his shoulder. As they entered the garrison, Porthos turned towards the infirmary.

'No!' Aramis shouted, 'Take him to my room. He hates the infirmary, and in any case, I fear he has no physical injury that the infirmary can heal.' Porthos nodded, and together they bought Athos to the quiet of Aramis' room. It was near the chapel, a peaceful spot, and many a night he had been grateful for the uninterrupted silence the location had granted him. Now he was even more grateful. He had no idea what ailed Athos, but he did not wish the rest of the garrison to become aware of his friend's distress.

Treville had witnessed their arrival and followed close on their heels, reaching Aramis' room just after them.

'What happened?' he barked, not daring to look too closely, as had he seen Athos arrive back at the garrison half dead too many times. The fact they had not headed to the infirmary was encouraging, though the idea of him insensible this early in the morning was not encouraging either. 'Is he drunk?'

Porthos bridled, 'No 'e isn't, 'e's…' He glanced at Aramis, unsure what to say. Aramis waited as Porthos settled Athos on the bed, then began to unbutton his doublet, still needing to reassure himself he was not injured. No blood, no wound he could see, though he could clearly see Athos' ribs, that was for certain. He had not been eating, but then he hardly ever did, even when well. He felt around his head for signs of a bump, nothing. Sighing, he finally sat back on his heels.

'There does not appear to be any physical injury. I almost wish there were. I do not know what ails him.' Treville was losing patience.

'I ask again, what happened?' Porthos answered this time.

'I don't really know. We found 'im in the Red Barrel, 'e 'ad worked his way down a bottle of wine. 'E didn't speak, nothin'. I tried to stop 'im drinking anymore and 'e, 'e just erupted, then, just like that, 'e calmed down. Came away with us a meek as a kitten, though 'e still said nothin'. But his face...' Porthos paused, as if the memory were too painful. Aramis took up the story.

'Something has happened, but I do not know what, perhaps a trauma of some kind. He simply walked with us to the garrison, Porthos led him like a child.' Treville listened, horrified by the events unfolding before him. Aramis continued. 'We were almost at the garrison gates when he stopped, something changed, scared him, the gates perhaps.'

'No,' Porthos interrupted, 'It was not the gates, I think it was the woman.' He eyed Aramis, who looked puzzled. 'There was a woman, with a group of people, she was laughin'. 'E looked at her and 'is face changed. 'E left us, went somewhere else. Then 'e collapsed. It don't 'elp that 'e's probably starvin' and has a terrible 'angover. I can still smell last night's wine.' All three men eyed Athos and, as they did so, he began to stir.

'Give us a moment, gentlemen, if you please.' Treville ordered. Aramis hesitated but nodded his consent, and he and Porthos left the room.

Athos opened his eyes. For a moment his confusion returned – faces, names, laughing, crying, his head was so muddled. Gradually, things began to clear, one face remained constant, a face he recognised, respected, and trusted.

'Captain,' he managed to mutter. He began to raise himself up from the bed, but Treville placed a restraining arm on the young man's shoulder.

'Stay where you are, you look awful. When was the last time you ate?' Athos was taken aback, it was not the response he had expected. He appeared confused. Eaten? Why would he care about food?

Treville softened his approach, aware that he was taking out his own fear upon the man. 'What happened Athos? You were so much better.' He sat beside the bed, awaiting an explanation. When none was forthcoming, he sighed. That the young man harboured a bitter pain was evident by his face; his skin was pale, his eyes pink, and his dark hair and lashes only served to emphasise his lack of colour. 'Stay here and rest, I will instruct Serge to send up some food. Aramis and Porthos will stay with you. I will return later. Perhaps then you will feel like talking.' He placed his hand on Athos' shoulder. 'It is good to have you back, son.' As the Captain turned toward the door, Athos' eyes filled with tears.

Suddenly the garrison felt like a safe harbour in a terrible storm, one he could not ride, control or hope to overcome on his own.

As Treville left, so Aramis and Porthos entered. For the first time since they had encountered him in the tavern, Athos appeared to focus on them, and to realise that they were really there. Aramis was first in the room, over to the bed and holding Athos in a tight embrace. For a moment there was no reaction, then at last he returned the gesture, which was all the more poignant for its rarity – Athos never having before shown himself to be a tactile person. Porthos followed, hugging Athos to him as though he were a treasured possession. When they were done, all three simply stared at each other in silence.

'I hit you, I am sorry, I was not myself,' Athos whispered at last. Porthos smiled and rubbed his chin.

'That's alright. You pack quite a punch, next time I will just let you drink.' Athos gave the merest twitch of the lips but, after his behaviour earlier, it was tantamount to an exhibition of joy, and the two men took it as reassurance that he was going to be alright.

But once again Athos slipped back into silence, threatening to withdraw to that distant place once more. Aramis and Porthos exchanged nods.

'I'm going to find food, I'm starvin', thanks to you. I'll bring us sumthin' back and you will feel better.' Aramis smiled, understanding what the big man was trying to do. Once the door had closed, he pulled a chair up close and sat by the bed, where Athos was now leaning against the pillows. His face showed a little more colour, but he could hardly be described as a picture of health.

'So, mon ami, what is wrong? I suggest it is time, do you not think, that you explained to me the significance of the jasmine.'