Chapter 6

Aramis had been waiting to hold this conversation ever since he had denied smelling the fragrance of jasmine at the Château at Rambouillet, and he had felt guilty ever since. For a moment, he wondered if he had been in error bringing the subject up. As Athos looked at him in response to the statement, the expression on his face, initially one of shock, was followed by utter desperation.

Athos dropped his head and stared at his hands, turning the ring over and over once again. Aramis leant forward until their foreheads touched.

'I am not asking you to divulge your secrets, a man's past is his own, but the pain you are carrying is too heavy for one man, it is breaking you, Athos, tearing you apart from the inside. I am no stranger to that kind of agony, and believe me it helps to talk about it, to let a friend share the burden – if you do not, it will consume you.' Aramis spoke quietly and slowly, unsure whether or not Athos was listening. There was silence for a moment, and then the swordsman spoke.

'It is my burden to carry, of my own creation, I should feel the pain, it is part of who I am, of whom I have become.' The voice that spoke was not the Athos they had come to know. Gone was the insolent tone, with the confident arrogance that made him stand out from many of the regiment – now it was ragged and broken, as though the words were being torn from his throat. Aramis searched for the right advice to give, aware that, if he took the wrong path, Athos would retreat inside himself and they would have lost the chance to reach him.

'It is obvious something of great import has occurred, mon ami, I do not believe this is the result of what happened here at the garrison. Though wrong and unfair, I believe you were strong enough to weather the disappointment. I believe this is something more powerful. I ask you again, is it the woman with the jasmine scent?' He waited, his heart beating fast. If Athos refused to talk now, he did not know how else to get through to him. Raising his head Athos held Aramis' gaze.

'I do not how… how to begin.' His eyes held the pleading quality of a frightened child, and Aramis could not contain his compassion. He pulled Athos into a tight embrace and felt the man sink his head onto his shoulder, the man's body shuddering as though wracked with a fever. Aramis held him until he appeared to calm, then released him slowly, until he could look into his eyes.

'I will not judge you Athos. I know the kind of man you are and nothing you can say will change that. I fear that whatever haunts you, you have judged yourself too harshly.' Athos listened to Aramis' declaration. This time he could not help the snort of derision, his response to the inaccuracy of the statement. Judged yourself too harshly, how could he admit to his list of crimes and Aramis not think ill of him? Yet to share the burden would be a blessing, to speak of his wrongdoings aloud and feel them leave the dark room, where he kept them locked inside his soul. Perhaps once they were free, they would not return, maybe it would let in the light, and he would feel the weight of the guilt lift from his heart. Could it help? How would he even begin to tell the story? There were parts he was not yet ready to reveal; his identity was his own, it was not relevant, it was of no import.

Aramis waited patiently, aware of the chasm Athos needed to cross in order to say the words he needed to say, to enable him to share his load. He walked over to the cupboard, reached for a bottle of wine and, pouring it into two cups, he passed one to Athos. The swordsman did not drink the liquid, though he nodded his appreciation; instead he simply held it, watching the blood red wine as if its presence alone would supply him with the strength he needed. The silence lengthened, but still Aramis stayed unmoving, sipping his own drink in an attempt to make his friend feel relaxed. Then Athos took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

'I once told you there was a woman. I loved her very much – no, that is wrong…' he paused, considering the statement. 'She was everything, our love consumed us, controlled everything we did, said, wanted. We were not whole if we were not together, apart we were diminished. I neglected the rest of my life – it was nothing compared to being with her. What we had was so powerful it was like being caught up in a storm. Perhaps it was not meant to last, could not continue, maybe there was too much passion for one mind to contain. Then, out of the blue, she betrayed me, betrayed my trust, my love for her. She committed a most heinous crime, for which she had to pay.'

His voice was beginning to break, but Aramis dared not intervene, so enthralled in by the tale as he was. 'She died by my hand, I had no choice.' He almost cried the words, holding his head in his hands as though the memory was too heavy to hold inside his mind. 'I watched her die, and my world died with her… No, that is not accurate. I did not see her lifeless body, did not even have the courage to stay with her until the end; I could not face the result of my actions.

'For two years I thought she was dead. Only at night did she come to me, smiling, crying, screaming my name, blaming me for her end, begging me to forgive her, declaring her love, over and over, until the dark became a torment I could no longer endure. Then I came to Paris. At the flogging I thought I saw her in the crowd, then I would smell her scent in an empty room, on the evening breeze. I thought I was going mad, that my guilt was getting a revenge of its own. Until I saw her.' He looked at Aramis now, his voice taking on a new sense of urgency, almost madness.

'I was in an alley in the city, it was evening, and a mist was hanging in the air. She began to walk toward me. I was numb, thinking she must be a spectre, coming to drag me with her to hell. Then she was standing right before me – as close as you are now – solid, pale and beautiful, her smile just as before. When she reached out to touch me, I was prepared for the cold hand of death to chill my bones. Cold she was, but her skin was soft, palpable, she was as whole as you and I. When she spoke to me, it was not the broken nonsense of a dream, but real words.

'Then, I do not know what happened, but she was in my arms.' The urgency had gone from his voice, and he was slowly rocking to and fro, wrapping his arms around himself, as if to prevent his body from breaking apart. 'When I kissed her, she was warm, just as before, I could not deny her; so long had I thought her dead, so long had I been alone. The need was as powerful as it had always been, the very fires of hell could not be more consuming. Just as I was becoming lost in her once more, she was gone. I do not know what I did, but she pulled away; she was terrified, she turned and ran. I could not follow, I could not do anything.

'Now I know I was wrong, she is not dead, not a cold corpse lying in the ground, she is alive and whole. She hates me, I know, as part of me hates her. But there is still love, I know it, I feel it again as I once did, but I do not know how to deal with it, with her. How can we exist? How can we go on, two parts of the same whole, needing, wanting to be reunited with the other half of ourselves, yet at the same time repulsed at the very thought of it, afraid of going back, of feeling again? What do I do, how can I stay, how can I go on?' The final question came out as a strangled whisper. Athos held on to Aramis' arms, beseeching him to supply an answer, yet knowing there was none – knowing he was lost.

Aramis was speechless. He guessed there was so much more Athos had not disclosed – the story was full of gaps – but he had heard enough to begin to understand the man he saw before him. The man who spent his nights writhing in mental agony, who preferred to drink himself into oblivion rather than subject himself to his darkened visitations. That a man like Athos would love with a ferocity that was close to obsession, did not surprise him. He was a man who appeared calm and removed, but Aramis understood that his controlled demeanour hid a tempestuous nature, and that he would love with a powerful passion was again no surprise. The story, however, was a tragic tale, full of torment and desperation, and now he understood why Athos was so torn apart, so damaged. To believe her dead for all those years, then to suddenly see her appear out of the mist, only to fall back so easily into the need for her that he had felt in his former life. He could almost feel the soul-wrenching agony that emitted from the man, but what terrified Aramis more, was knowing how to help him. What did a man say to another who had experienced such emotional trauma? What answer could he give him? What hope?

Athos was exhausted. He had observed the marksman's expression closely, as Aramis' face reflected the horror he felt as he had told his story. He watched as his friend began to withdraw, as he began to understand the monster he saw before him. Athos was not surprised, what else had he expected? He had been wrong, he did not feel unburdened, there was no light in that dark, locked room, just jeering laughter at his own naivety, his childish desperation for forgiveness. He would not be forgiven – absolution was not for men such as him. Aramis was a good man, he would try to speak the necessary words to make his friend feel better, but inside he would recoil, sickened by the inhumane treatment Athos had doled out to the woman he had purported to love.

His head throbbed and his stomach threatened to revolt; he collapsed back onto the bed, his eyes suddenly heavy and tired. Aramis was talking, words that sounded soothing and kind, his hands stroking the strands of hair that stuck to his warm cheeks, to the tracks of his tears. He heard the rhythmic sound of Aramis' voice, but the words held no meaning, and they drifted away down a dark tunnel until there was nothing but silence.

Aramis was glad Athos had fallen asleep, as it was obvious that the man was thoroughly exhausted. He waited a moment or two, until he was sure the swordsman was not going to awaken, before slipping quietly out of the room. Porthos had been waiting outside, as he had realised that Athos was unlikely to talk in front of both of them. He understood that Aramis and the swordsman had a particular bond, and that Athos would talk to Aramis, and then allow the marksman to pass the information on to him. Athos was not a man who liked an audience, so he had stood outside the room waiting patiently. He may have slipped down to the refectory for some bread and cheese, but then Athos would not expect him to starve.

When Aramis finally emerged from the room he did not need to speak.

'That bad?' Porthos asked, looking at his friend's face. Aramis nodded, still unable to find the words to explain what he had heard.

As the two men stood on the balcony, Porthos placed his hand on Aramis' shoulder, the solid weight reassuring, grounding Aramis back into the reality of the garrison and away from Athos' haunted nightmares.

'I think I can only communicate this once,' Aramis admitted quietly, 'so perhaps it would be better to tell it in the Captain's office.' Porthos raised a brow, but said nothing, simply turning around and heading back down the stairs to the courtyard.

Treville heard the knock upon the door, and something about it put him on edge. Two men had approached the door, and he could only assume it was Porthos and Aramis, yet the knock had been reluctant, unlike the usual exuberance shown by the two Musketeers. The sound was almost reverent, causing him to fear that the news would not be good.

'Come.' Aramis heard the usual command and opened the door, and as he went to enter the room, he knew that he would rather be doing anything other than what he was about to do now. To repeat the details Athos had just shared with him simply felt wrong. Even though there had been no entreaty to keep the information to himself, no plea for secrecy, he still felt that he was betraying a trust, betraying a man who had already been so badly damaged by treachery.

They trooped inside, Aramis standing in front of the Captain's desk, Porthos next to him. Treville, like Porthos, took one look at Aramis' face and knew that something was wrong. He instructed the two men to sit, and poured three glasses of brandy whilst he sat awaiting the news. Aramis stared into his glass in much the way that Athos had done. Was this how his friend had felt, when he was trying to find the words to tell a story he knew would be as painful to hear as it was to relate? He swallowed the brandy and began to talk, the whole story tumbling out in a torrent of anguish and sorrow. When he had finished, he stared down at his empty glass, as if he, too, shared some of Athos' own self-inflicted guilt.

Porthos had tears in his eyes. For a big man he had an even bigger heart, and though he had not heard Athos tell his tale, the misery Aramis obviously felt told its own story. Treville said nothing at all, his face a stoic mask.

He had listened to the story appalled. Of course, he was in possession of other pieces of the puzzle – he knew about Athos' title, his obligations, the murdered brother. He ran his hands through his hair. Now it all began to fit, to make sense. No wonder the boy had fled.

Athos, so enamoured with this woman, had neglected everything else around him – his estate, his responsibilities, his own brother. She must have been the one to commit murder, must have been. Athos, as the law in that territory, would have had no choice but to condemn her, to sentence her to hang. That guilt alone would be enough to finish most men, but to lose a beloved brother too, one he obviously loved, had been the final straw. He carried both of their deaths around with him as if he carried their very carcasses. How he must have felt when he realised, she had evaded his punishment, he could not imagine. What did she want with him? Was breaking him her revenge, or did she believe she could win him back? What a bloody mess. No wonder Athos had become the man he was, most men would have crawled under a rock and never come out. Thank God the young man was better than that.

Aramis and Porthos sat waiting for Treville to comment. Time appeared to stand still, as all three men ached for their friend. Then the Captain reached a decision. Athos had told Aramis what he felt needed to be said. He had kept his identity and the details of the crime to himself, and therefore it was not Treville's place to pass on to the two men the additional information he himself held. If Athos chose to disclose it, so be it, but he would say nothing.

Somehow, Athos was aware he was asleep, but where his heart should have been beating slowly, and his breathing deepening with the onset of the rest he so sorely needed, his heart pulsed rapidly, and his breaths were shallow. His body tensed, as if anticipating the cries and accusations he knew would come, the clawed grasping hands attempting to drag him down to share their pit of despair. Instead there was silence, his heart began to slow, his breathing became regular, and he allowed himself to relax, to let down his guard. Whilst they remained silent, he would sleep, and be free, for a short time at least.

When he awoke, the sun was streaming in through the window. Outside he could hear the familiar sound of swordplay, amidst cries, as the men sparred and shouted words of encouragement to each other. The loud rumble of laughter he knew so well, indicated some poor wretch had just succumbed to Porthos' idea of sparring. He could not help the slightest curl of his lip in recognition of the big man's humour, though his eyes still bore the trace of anguish from before. His head felt like it belonged to him now, but his throat was so dry he could hardly swallow. On the table beside the bed stood the cup of wine Aramis had poured for him earlier. Reaching for it to slake his thirst, the recollection of his revelation exploded in his mind, hitting him like a physical blow. His hand shook as he replaced the cup, and it had nothing to do with his hangover. He could see his friend's shocked face – the horror and disappointment – following the telling of his story.

Athos closed his eyes tight, as if he could obliterate the scene from his mind's eye, but Aramis' sad eyes still burned bright in the darkness of his memory. His body told him to curl up, block out the sounds of laughter from the men below, hide away and shut out the world, but somewhere in the deepest recess of his soul, was a spark that refused to die. It was definitely neither pride nor respect, for he could not bear to catch his own reflection in the mirror, for fear he would see a coward, unworthy of either. Perhaps it was stubbornness, something inside that simply refused to lay down and die, something that forced him to keep drawing breath – whether he wanted to or not.

Rising from the bed, Athos buttoned his doublet and buckled his weapons belt and, pulling his hat firmly down over his eyes, he straightened his shoulders and left the room, preparing his battered heart for the rejection he expected was to come.

Aramis sat at the table, watching Porthos as he threw cadet, after cadet to the ground, each time emitting a roar of laughter at their surprised expressions, the mystified young men not entirely sure how they had ended up in such an undignified position.

Aramis heard footsteps upon the stair and turned, and was amazed to see Athos walking toward him. Though his face registered no emotion, it was an improvement on the last time Aramis had seen him. Though he had no doubt it still remained, at least Athos' pain was for now kept hidden. He jumped from the bench and went to meet him.

'Athos, I thought you were resting.' Before the swordsman could say or do anything to stop him, Aramis had him in a tight embrace. Though brief, it made Athos' heart soar, and as he studied his friend's face for any sign of distaste or rejection, he realised there was none, only joy. Porthos, abandoning his current victim, bounded over, he too pulling a rather shell-shocked Athos into a bear hug, almost crushing him in his exuberance.

'Bout time you put in an appearance. This lot,' he said, indicating the gaping cadets, 'don't know one end of a sword from another. Do you Guinot?' he shouted to one particularly gangly lad. The boy in question managed a grin, though his expression acknowledged the accuracy of Porthos' judgement. Some of the cadets had been lucky enough to receive Athos' tuition before he had left, though one or two were new to the regiment, Guinot amongst them. For a moment, Athos was too stunned to reply, then he quirked a brow and gave the old twitch of his lips. There was something about the smell of the garrison that was a balm to his soul, and right now he needed all the help he could get.

Aramis and Porthos practically held their breath, and Treville, who had overheard the conversation, decided to finish what Porthos had started.

'Guinot, Le Brun, show Athos how you fight.' The two young men leapt to attention and drew their swords, then, with a last look at the surly newcomer, they began to circle each other like a pair of street fighters. All three men watched Athos to see if he would take the bait, for they knew watching poor swordplay was as painful to the man as drawing a knife from a wound. They each guessed he would not be able maintain his aloof air of detachment for long. Gradually, his expression began to change, first a frown, then a deep scowl. His hand rested on the hilt of his own sword and, if had they been able to make a bet without Athos noticing, money would surely have changed hands by now.

Athos watched as the two young men made a complete mess of their fight, each of them making it quite obvious to the other when he intended to lunge or strike – they might as well have been following the steps of a dance. He realised what Porthos and the Captain were doing, and he appreciated it, though he was also aware that they were trying to draw him back into the role they had promised him before, and he knew, deep down, that he could not take it. But with just one pair of cadets, he could at least end the painful display he was being forced to endure.

Removing his hat and doublet, Athos began to move, and it was all Aramis and Porthos could do not to declare their victory to the rooftops. Athos pulled his sword from its sheath and glared at the two Musketeers.

'Do not, for one minute, think I do not know what the pair of you are up to. I will deal with them, and then I will deal with you.' He swaggered across the courtyard, indicating that the two cadets should desist.

'I have to hand it to you, mon ami, that was a stroke of genius,' Aramis admitted to the grinning Porthos. Both men looked up at the Captain. He was also smiling down at the man, who was now berating the two cadets in the middle of the courtyard. He caught the two Musketeers' eyes and they exchanged nods of satisfaction.

After a mild yet pertinent reminder of the rules of swordplay, Athos began to show the two young men the error of their ways. One after the other, he sparred with them both, a small circle of onlookers becoming a larger one. Even experienced Musketeers enjoyed watching Athos fight, despite the fact it was only with a wide-eyed cadet. When he had finished, he shook both the boys' hands and elicited firm promises from them that they would practise.

Aramis and Porthos noted the look in his eyes as he slowly walked toward them, swishing his sword in the air before him.

Porthos' smile wavered. 'You don't think…?'

Aramis beamed. 'Oh, I am afraid I think he is.'

As Athos bought his sword up in front of him, both Musketeers prepared to defend themselves, appearing far too delighted for men who were about to square up to Athos. The swordsman raised a brow then lunged at an off balance Porthos, almost bringing him down with his first blow.

Treville laughed as he watched the display unfold below him. In the nicest possible way, Athos was wiping the floor with his two best men. He had no intention of hurting them, but he was going to make them sweat – and they were loving it.