Chapter 37

They looked from one to another, hardly believing it could have come to this.

'Well?' Milady searched the face of each man in turn as they responded to her question, looking for some sign, some indication of an idea. Every savage beat of her heart was a reminder of the seconds they were wasting, seconds Athos did not have.

Treville's brow furrowed in concentration. 'How deep is the blockage?'

'I am not sure. When I clasped his hand the soil was past my elbow, but other than that I could not say. Milady fidgeted with impatience as she awaited Treville's response. The Captain appeared to be considering the information, but he remained annoyingly silent.

'We can't let 'im drown,' Porthos moaned, though it was more a statement than a complaint.

Aramis ran his hand through his hair. 'I thought he may drown himself in drink, but…'

'Of course, that is it!' Treville stared at Aramis as if the Musketeer had said something amazing. 'Like a cork in a bottle. We need to let the water work for us.' Treville could not explain his theory quickly enough, his words tumbling out one after the other. 'Milady says she cannot move the soil in time to prevent Athos from drowning, but if we use the pressure of the water, then maybe it will do part of the job for us.' The Captain was aware of the faces staring at him, a general air of scepticism emanating from each of them. Shrugging his shoulders, he continued. 'At the very worst, it may help level out the water enough for Athos to breathe.' He looked around to see how his idea was being received but had to admit the others' reactions were not particularly encouraging.

'What do you suggest I do?' Milady asked, urgency evident in her tone. She was ready to move into action – it was the only suggestion, and though it was not particularly brilliant, it would have to do.

Treville hurried toward the opening, talking to the woman as he went. 'Move as much soil as you can, not just from the centre, but all around, try to thin out the fallen earth. You need to weaken it so that the force of the water will push it toward the entrance.'

'You will need to pull hard when I signal – you will be pulling us both,' Milady pointed out. She still sounded unsure, but what else could they do?

Milady did not wait for further discussion. 'Tie the rope.' With a flurry of activity the rope was reattached, and Aramis offered her the flask. 'I am sorry, you have some nasty wounds. I will make sure they are tended when this is done.' If this was meant as an apology, Milady considered it a rather poor one. However, the brandy was welcome. She drank quickly, then dropped to the floor and crawled back inside the dark shaft.

ooOoo

Athos had heard his wife retreat along the tunnel, then there was nothing but silence. The water now up to his chin, he did not have long, and he had no idea where Anne had gone. He parted his lips to breathe, but only ended up swallowing a mouthful of water. It was filthy, and the foul taste made him gag.

He felt panic rise inside once more. The swordsman had fought it for so long, but to drown in this dark pit of despair was too cruel – surely even he did not deserve such a fate. He battled to calm his shivering body, suppressing the urge to lash out, to fight his way through this tomb, this watery grave, but truth was he was too tired. The prospect of struggling was only in his mind, his body simply could no longer comply. Athos' eyelids were heavy, beginning to droop. Perhaps it would not be so bad if he let himself go to sleep, perhaps he would not notice when his lungs slowly filled with water. If he just closed his eyes, just floated in the current, he would rest, and by then it would be too late.

ooOoo

As Milady moved through the tunnel, more rapidly now that she was familiar with its terrain, she began to dread what she would find. 'Athos, can you hear me? Athos, answer me!' Her heart began to pound, and as she crawled, she ran through the possibilities of what might lie ahead. If he had fallen asleep; if he had allowed his head to sink below the water. 'Athos!' She was almost at the fall-in now, just about able to make it out by the illumination from the lantern.

Athos was drifting away, contemplating his end – his eyes closed, the blissful silence sapping his reality – when the scraping noise returned. Voices, he could hear voices. He wanted to sleep, why would they not let him sleep? Someone was calling his name, but they were far away, too far to hear. The water lapped against his cheek and he felt cradled, as though he were being soothed with a lullaby. If only the voice would stop and let him rest.

Thrusting the light to one side, she felt for the gap she had created earlier. Plunging her hand though the hole, she felt around for Athos' hand. Her heart leapt as something touched her fingers. 'Athos, are you awake?'

Suddenly, something touched his hand, and the surprise was enough to jolt Athos back to wakefulness. He was confused, and the shivering reminded him just how cold he was. Then he heard her voice, clearly this time, felt her fingers reaching for his, and like a man clinging to the last thread of sanity, he gripped them with every bit of strength he had left.

'Mmm… yes… sorry…' He began to cough, and she could tell he had swallowed water.

'Listen, Athos, listen very carefully. I am going to let go. I need to scrape more dirt away, and as soon as the water begins to run through this hole, we need to use the flow to help shift the soil. Do you understand?' There was no immediate reaction.

He heard her words… let the water help… use it to get free. He heard what she was saying, but somehow he could not quite take it in – then the water closed over his head and everything went black.

Milady heard a garbled noise, and had a horrible feeling that, whether because of the rising levels or his weakening state, Athos was now underwater. Motivated by emotions she did not want to acknowledge, she reacted with every ounce of strength she had left, clawing at the soil like someone possessed.

Flying earth rained down upon her, scratching at her eyes and finding its way into her airways, but she kept on, pushing it away from her as best she could. The hole did not appear to be getting any bigger, but still she scraped away at it, her fingers sore and torn. As a sob caught in her throat, her body near the point of exhaustion, she felt something else, not just soil, but water. It was beginning to run in small rivulets onto her face.

The leaking moat began to flow more rapidly. Her fingers were tearing at mud now, and it came away much easier. Her body had cleared the obstruction almost up to her shoulders and she was moving the earth in large, muddy clods. As the water flowed past her, so did the soil. Surely the level on the other side would have to drop now. Her chest was heaving and she had to blink to clear the mucky residue from her eyes. Water was pouring over her head, but it continued past her and poured down the tunnel, so she had no fear of drowning. As she scrabbled in the stinking mud, a large section of the blockage gave way, sending sludge and muck over her head and shoulders. Her breathing hitched, as it covered her ears and face, and she began to thrash about, believing the tunnel to be collapsing on top of her. As the flow of filth began to subside, so did her panic, and as the alarm in her head began to fade, she realised most of the blockage had gone.

Milady wriggled further forward feeling around, desperately searching for Athos. Sobbing with relief she felt his arms and began to pull.

Under the water Athos held his breath, but it was so quiet. Cold and dark, but peaceful, like being in a dream. Something was striking his arms, spoiling his reverie. He opened his mouth to protest and water poured in. Coughing and spluttering, he let the solace of the water-induced vision dissipate. Inexplicably, Athos was filled with one final urge to fight for self-preservation and, feeling in the mud and darkness, he clung on to the hands that reached for him.

Milady tugged at the rope with her foot, aware how tenuous her grip on Athos was. 'Pull, damn you,' she sobbed. Nothing happened. What were they doing? Those men might hate her, but she knew they would not abandon Athos. At last she felt the rope go taut. 'Athos, if you can hear me, whatever you do, do not let go. Do you hear me? DO NOT LET GO!' She was yelling now, spitting out the sludge that had worked its way into her mouth as she did so.

Gradually, she began to move backward, and Milady felt her hands slide on her husband's muddy arms. 'NO, Athos! Do not let me lose hold of you.' She felt so helpless as his arms slipped slowly through her hands. 'Nooo!' Then, just as she thought she would lose him, his hands grasped her fingers tightly. 'Yes, hold on!' For the longest while, it felt as though little was happening. Then, gradually, with the flow of water and the gradual pulling of the rope, she felt herself begin to move more quickly, and with her, Athos. She could only pray her arms would hold as her shoulders screamed in protest.

ooOoo

'Will it work?' The King had remained quiet for some time, and the Musketeers were so wrapped up in Athos' predicament that they had almost forgotten he was present. Louis was certainly not the man they were used to. Filthy and dressed in farming clothing, there was no air about him, no trace of the peevish child they knew so well. As he addressed them now, the King spoke quietly, as if he regretted having to ask the question.

Treville shrugged his shoulders, all trace of his earlier excitement and enthusiasm having vanished. What had appeared to be a good idea only moments ago now held very few points of merit. Aramis distractedly picked up his discarded hat and attempted to brush it clean. The afternoon was warm and still; dust remained suspended in the air and in the distance smoke still rose from the smouldering rubble.

'I still do not know why it had to be my hat.' The other three men turned at the sound of the medic's voice, but only Porthos responded, slapping his friend gently on the shoulder. The big man accepted the remark for what it was: a desperate attempt to break the silence; to focus on something, anything, other than what was transpiring inside that tunnel.

Porthos, having reassured the medic he understood, now paced up and down in irritation, face like thunder, filled with a burning rage, and frustrated that he could find nobody to blame or to vent his fury upon.

'Water!' Aramis shouted, and all eyes turned toward the tunnel. As they stared transfixed, a steady flow of water and muck began to pour from the tunnel. The Musketeers and the King watched in horror, knowing the emergent slurry could mean only one thing – the obstacle had finally been breached, leaving a sickening sense of dread at what that might mean for the two people trapped beneath ground.

When Treville finally felt the tug upon the rope, his subsequent cry of relief had all three men attend him immediately.

'We need to pull!' the Captain yelled.

Porthos manhandled Treville out of the way – this was not the time to stand upon ceremony, or acknowledge rank. The fighter took up the slack, the others forming a line behind him, and Louis hesitated, but only for a second, before he, too, took up the rope.

'On three!' the big Musketeer shouted. 'One, two, three!' They pulled, but nothing gave. 'Again. One, two, three!' This time they put everything they had into it, and they were soon rewarded when, albeit slowly, the rope began to move.

'Do not pull them out too quickly!' Aramis suddenly yelled. 'We could injure them if we drag them out too fast.' The others understood the Musketeer's fear, but the adrenalin was now flowing freely, and each man was too consumed with his own urgent sense of purpose to give the request much credence.

ooOoo

The journey that had earlier taken just a few minutes, now acquired a whole new time scale. From the moment she had clasped Athos hands, seconds and minutes appeared to have slowed almost to a stop. The rope had pulled hard upon her ankle, and she had felt the rough hemp claw at her skin, as at first neither she nor Athos moved. Then, gradually, along with the muddy river, Athos began to appear through the muck and grime – first his shoulders then his head – though if she had not known it was her husband, she would not have recognised him. Hair plastered to his head, shirt in rags, all she could make out were the whites of his eyes as he blinked away the filthy water.

Athos pushed with his feet, and was amazed as the slick mud began to aid his passage through the tunnel. He felt Milady's hands begin to slip and, as he felt his hope diminishing, his fingers clamped tight, something deep inside re-emerging, wanting and needing to see daylight once again. The obstacle was little more than a frame of soil and debris now, with the men outside hauling on the rope, and both Athos and Milady began to slip and slide their way toward the light glowing golden at the entrance.

The men outside groaned and yelled. Teeth gritted and hands burning, still they leant into the tension and pulled. Bit by bit they passed the rope through their painful palms as the slack began to increase.

Porthos howled in agony, shoulder flaring. Then, to his utter joy, two bodies flopped from the oozing mouth of the tunnel as if it had given birth to demons from hell.

Athos and Milady lay motionless, panting for breath, still clasping one another's hands. Aramis went straight into medic mode.

'Porthos, water, clean water. Try over by the stables, there must be a well of some kind.' Though the big man was desperate to check Athos was really alive, he understood Aramis' request. God alone knew what filth adhered to the swordsman's body.

Tenderly, Aramis pulled their hands apart, though he noted the resistance on both parts. He could not tell how badly his friend was hurt, so heavily was he coated with mud. Milady struggled to sit up, but Athos still lay on his back, eyes closed.

'How badly is he hurt?' Her voice was ragged, and the question came out in a far more aggressive manner than she intended. Aramis glanced at her, and for the first time felt a pang of guilt over his treatment of the woman.

'I cannot tell, there is little of him that is not covered in mud,' the medic replied. 'I do not wish to wipe it away in case I rub it into any wounds.' At that, Porthos appeared carrying two large wooden buckets.

Aramis took them and considered the still form of his friend. 'I am sorry, Athos, but I'm not sure there is a better way.' He took the first bucket and began to pour it over Athos' head. The swordsman, hovering between sleep and consciousness, was suddenly back in the tunnel once more. He began to thrash around, drowning in his fevered mind.

'Athos, it is I, Aramis. You are safe, mon amis, calm yourself.' He looked at Porthos and nodded. The big Musketeer knelt beside the panicked form of his friend and gently placed his hands upon his shoulders. As the water began to wash away the soil, the extent of the damage was slowly revealed.

Treville hovered over the two men as Athos began to calm. 'No more… water,' Athos moaned.

Porthos began to chuckle. 'No, never was your favourite.' He eyed the medic, who merely rolled his eyes but, despite his irritation, Aramis produced the flask of brandy and held it to Athos' mouth. The man choked a little, but the slight twitch of his lips was a sight to behold.

Gradually, Athos' eyes fluttered open, causing him to squint in pain, not sure if it was as a result of the grit or the blinding light. Aramis noted his discomfort and gently wiped at his face, attempting to remove the remainder of the mud.

Porthos hurried to fetch fresh water and Aramis gradually worked his way over Athos' chest and arms; luckily his legs had survived most of the jagged rocks, protected by the leather of his trousers and boots. As the mud washed away, the blood began to flow more freely from his wounds; some were slight abrasions, others were deep and torn. The day was coming to a close and Athos was shivering. Aramis examined the flesh around his left wrist and began to shake his head.

'What is wrong?' It was the first time the Captain had spoken since Athos had emerged. Having initially let Aramis have room to do what was needed, both he and the King now hovered close by, waiting to hear what worried the medic.

'He has a nasty infection from the abrasions on his wrist, and time will tell if any of these cuts will fester.' As he was talking, he indicated to Porthos to help him roll Athos onto his stomach. The swordsman tried to protest, but he really did not have the energy to put up much of an objection.

As the water sluiced over his skin, mud and filth ran off his body, and Aramis stopped speaking. The tear that followed Athos spine was ragged and deep; he had dragged himself through the low hanging rocks at the point he had become stuck, and the damage was painfully evident.

'My God, what is that?' Treville asked, horrified by the damage.

As his fingers ran along the jagged skin, Aramis shook his head. 'I can only imagine. The roof was low perhaps. To have the tunnel so close, pressing down…' His voice trailed away as the horror of his suggestion impacted upon the others. The medic shook himself and tried to concentrate on what needed to be done. 'I need a fire, hot water, rags.' He looked around and everyone began to move at once.

Whilst he waited, Aramis remembered the figure quietly watching over the proceedings. 'Milady, may I see to your wounds?' the medic asked gently, unsure how to deal with the woman who had been the source of so much pain to his friend.

'They are not important. Some salve would be sufficient if you have any.' She watched the Musketeer closely – now Athos was safe, she had retreated behind her cold persona. Aramis shrugged and rose to fetch what she needed from his bags.

Milady moved closer to Athos. 'You are safe now, I am glad.' She stroked his skin, feeling the heat begin to radiate from it.

Athos tried to turn over, but she applied pressure to his shoulders, 'No, do not move. Aramis will return soon, and he will make you more comfortable.' There was something in her voice which alerted Athos from his stupor.

'Do not… leave.' He had recognised her intention from the tone of her voice.

'I have no place here. They hate me and, if I am honest, the feeling is mutual. It is time for me to go.' Athos moved his arm and tried to raise his hand. Milady grasped it in her own.

'Wait, just a… little… need to talk.' Athos struggled to speak, a mixture of relief, pain and sheer exhaustion urging him to sleep.

'Here, this should help…' Aramis stopped abruptly, and Milady let go of Athos' hand.

'Thank you.' She took the offered jar and stared at Aramis, as though daring him to pass comment. The medic merely smiled and knelt once more at Athos' side.

'This is going to hurt, mon ami,' Aramis informed his friend as he traced the jagged tear on the swordsman's back.

'Why?' whispered Athos, reaching deep to form the words. 'Are you… going to… waste another good… brandy?' Aramis and Porthos both laughed, and even Milady smiled, each of them picturing the wry twitch that would normally accompany such a quip.

'I am afraid so. Would you like some first?' Athos turned his head, and even through the pain managed to offer an icy stare.

'I thought so.' Aramis nodded to the big man and Porthos gently raised Athos' upper body so that he might take a swig from the bottle. He laid him back on the ground and Athos spoke once more.

'Do not… punch me.' Along with the King and Treville, Milady looked somewhat surprised, but Porthos merely roared with laughter as Aramis began to chuckle.

'No, mon ami, that is your job.' That said, he began to pour the alcohol over Athos' wounds. Porthos placed his hands carefully upon Athos' shoulders once again, attempting to ease the bucking as the swordsman reacted – but there was no cry, just a slow hiss as the stinging liquid did its job.

Milady had seen enough. Turning, she walked slowly away – she needed to think. The reality of her situation was beginning to dawn; now the hunt was over, she had to decide what to do next. She doubted the Cardinal would welcome her with open arms, and should matters take a turn for the worse, she may end up being blamed for a whole host of things – anything to tie events up into a neat parcel. Then there was Sarah; it would be fairly obvious what had happened to her, if the woman had the courage to tell.

No, it was time for a change. She spun round, alerted by the sharp cry of pain. Aramis was pulling a thread taut, no doubt attempting to bring together the tattered edges of Athos' wound. She had no stomach for such dramas – usually only expected to inflict such wounds, not heal them.

The King watched her leave. He, too, did not relish the spectacle before him, and was glad of the distraction.

'She is a rather unusual woman, is she not Treville?' Louis asked, as she vanished amongst the trees.

Treville turned in time to see her disappear. 'Indeed Your Highness, she certainly is.' His brow furrowed as he considered the woman's part in recent events. He could not deny that without her both Athos and the King would both have been dead. What worried him more was what Milady had in mind for the future, and more specifically if that future included Athos.

Aramis worked upon Athos until the light began to fade. As usual, the swordsman did not make it easy for him, refusing to slip into unconsciousness, and not until the last stitch was cut and tied did he finally let himself slip away.

'Why does 'e always bloody do that?' growled Porthos, stretching his limbs, stiff from holding Athos still. 'It would be so much easier if 'e was out of it, instead of grittin' 'is teeth and feelin' every agony. Bloody stubborn bastard.' He walked a way off and Aramis let him go. He knew that is was only that the Musketeer hated to see his friend in so much pain.

'We need to move him. He is still feverish, though I think he has lived through the worst already and somehow survived,' said Aramis, addressing no one in particular.

'Told you. 'E's even too bloody stubborn to die.' Porthos frowned, before finally smiling, as he at last allowed his joy and relief to calm his temper.

Treville searched the area in the fading light. Milady was approaching once more, rubbing her arms to fend off the evening chill. She had removed all semblance of sleeves from her gown when she had entered the tunnel and, now the adrenaline had worn off, she was cold, tired and aching.

'I suppose there is nothing useful left of the structure which would house us for the night, and I do not wish to knock upon Gaston's door, even though I doubt we would find him in.' Louis looked rather alarmed at the prospect, but fortunately Milady interrupted.

'I have just walked along the drive, and there is a small lodge by the gate. It does not look as though anyone has lived in it for some time, but it is still furnished, so presumably it will have a bed.' Her teeth chattered and Aramis approached her with a blanket. Her eyes widened, and for once she smiled and offered her thanks. However, she was under no illusions – he was merely a chivalrous man, one who would not inflict harm if it was unnecessary, but that did not mean he liked her, or cared one way or the other for her welfare. Nonetheless, she was glad of the warmth.

Gradually they made their way to the small building, Porthos carrying Athos in front of him on his horse as though he were carrying the King's jewels. As Milady had said, the house was furnished, everything shrouded in sheets, rising like ghosts in the fading gloom. Though the fabrics had faded, and little visitors had burrowed into the cushions to make their home, the structures were sound. Athos was soon sleeping, if rather fitfully, in a narrow bed, whilst Porthos cooked up something to eat. Treville and the King talked quietly, once or twice looking Milady's way, and she knew she should really leave.

The night passed and morning dawned clear and dry. There was much discussion as to what they should do next, and eventually it was decided that it was impractical for Athos to continue as a passenger with Porthos for the entire journey back to the Château Rambouilet. They doubted that Gaston or any of his entourage would be stupid enough to remain at Amboise, so Porthos, Treville and the King set out to borrow a carriage or some such conveyance for the journey.

Athos slept through most of the day, occasionally coming to just long enough for Aramis to assault him with broth and potions. Once or twice Milady had seen him seek her out and, once reassured she was near, he would sink back to sleep. Aramis, though noting his patient's reaction, had said nothing.

The day was once more drawing to a close, and a small fire burned in the hearth to ward off the evening chill. Porthos and Treville were expected back very soon, when they would begin to prepare for departure. Milady stood at the window, worrying at her lip, as she tried to reach a decision. She had only waited because Athos had asked it of her; the day had dragged, and she was growing impatient. Though no one had spoken to her much at all, she knew they grew restless around her, and when Aramis came to stand beside her, she knew the conversation she had dreaded was imminent.

'Forgive me for asking, but what are your intentions after this? Will you return to Paris?' The Musketeer kept his voice casual, but there were too many hidden words between the lines of his question.

'For a time, yes, but not for long. Paris has outlived its usefulness, I believe.' She did not look at the man; she was sick to the stomach with the sanctimonious civility of them all.

'I suppose it has. Where will you go?' he continued.

'Does it matter? What you really mean is will it be far away from Athos?' This time she turned and glared at the man who sneered at her with feigned courtesy, whilst wishing her a million miles away.

Aramis' smile faded, and for the first time he examined the face that looked at him. Yes, she was undoubtedly a very beautiful woman, and a brave one as she had proven. However, there was a coldness and ruthlessness which emanated from her, and she made no attempt to hide her resentment of his and Porthos' relationship with Athos.

'I cannot but think that it would be for the best,' he said eventually.

Milady stuck out her chin, eyes glittering with anger. 'Best for whom? For you and Porthos, or for Athos?'

Aramis sighed, and for the first time she thought she noted an expression of pity in the medic's eyes. 'Best for the both of you.' He held up his hand as she made to speak. 'There are some things in life that cannot do without the other, but when they are together, the combination is deadly. Gunpowder and flame, for example. I have seen how the two of you are together, and that is what you are, fire and dynamite – cannot live with, and cannot live without. But I think you know deep down that there is only one outcome that will leave you both sane.' His dark eyes were filled with sadness, and she saw no subterfuge or recriminations now.

'What about content?' she whispered, speech somehow difficult as a lump formed in her throat.

Aramis shook his head slowly. 'I am not sure that is possible. I do not believe there is a middle ground.' They eyed one another for a moment, and then she gave the briefest nod and hung her head. She would not let him see the tears that threatened to flow.

'Then I believe it is time for me to go.'

Aramis caught her arm. 'It will be dark soon, wait until morning, and then we can travel together.' She shook her head, her shell of protection surrounding her once more, any hint of vulnerability carefully hidden.

'No, I can look after myself; I certainly do not need a troupe of Musketeers.' Her sarcastic smile hid the sick feeling that pervaded her being.

'Then if that is what you want, I will say thank you. I know what you did – and I know why.' It was probably the worst thing he could have said. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stormed from the room before he could add anything further.

Just then, Treville and Porthos arrived with a carriage, and suddenly the house was filled with noise and the overpowering bombastic presence of men. The noise awoke Athos, who had been asleep on a bed in the corner. Now sitting up, he was in pain and stiff but, apart from being deathly pale, looking more like himself. Just as Aramis had predicted, the fever had been on the wane when he had left the tunnel, the worst of the infection having worked its way through his system. Now he only had his wounds to contend with – at least on the outside.

As they talked and chattered, Milady moved further away from the men; the voice of Aramis, still chiding Athos like a naughty child, gradually beginning to fade. Part of her was glad Athos had these men in his life, but there was an even greater part that hated them for their interference and their influence. She clung onto that belief, for it helped to have them to blame, though she would never allow herself to acknowledge that. In truth, once he had reached a decision, Athos was not a man who could be influenced by the opinion of others– whatever the outcome this night, it would be his desire and never theirs. And it was this which terrified her now. She was no coward, but Milady had no intention of waiting to hear him speak those words, for she knew whatever may be said here, there would be no going back.

With a heavy heart she packed her horse and untied him, leading the animal away from the building, away from the glowing windows, toward the trees that edged the drive. It was time to go, time to make a new life, a new name, create a new past – one she could control and design, one that right now she could only dream of – one she had already had and now lay destroyed in the rubble of her marriage.

Athos was now wide awake. He saw the movement in his peripheral vision and, pushing Aramis' hands away, he turned and watched her preparations to depart. The woman who had so often spoken only of hate and revenge had probably saved his life. He could not let her leave like this. He struggled to his feet, but Porthos blocked his path.

'Let 'er go.' Athos glared at the big man, though every part of him throbbed and protested with each awkward breath he endured. The stubborn swordsman took another step forward, but still Porthos did not move, and the men now hovered nose to nose. Aramis watched the standoff, but he was not afraid – Athos was too weak and Porthos would never hurt Athos, but even attempting to govern their morose brother's behaviour was a recipe for disaster.

'Move aside, Porthos, this is not your business,' Athos growled, the intensity of his stare even more menacing, but Porthos made no effort to move. It was Treville who thankfully broke the tension as, speaking with quiet authority, he addressed the angry Musketeer.

'Porthos, stand aside. I think she has earned five minutes of his time.' Athos glanced at his Captain with surprise. Treville gave the slightest inclination of his head, and Athos acknowledged it with one of his own.

'Five minutes, and I'm countin',' the big Musketeer grumbled.

Athos pretended not to hear his friend's parting remark. Though the very act of moving made him groan, he owed her more than a mere nod of thanks. He sensed the tension in the atmosphere, like a coming storm, a portent of something momentous, as if everything between them over the last two weeks had been leading to this.

Whilst he had moved agonisingly slowly along that tunnel, every advancement tortuous to both body and soul, he had thought of her. Not just her, but she had hovered in that darkened abyss like a phantom. At times, he had not known if she urged him toward salvation or enjoyed his decent into hell, but she had spoken to him, her voice sometimes cruel, sometimes kind, sometimes sensual and compelling. Now she was leaving, and he felt her impending loss in ways he had not expected.

Milady had seen Athos' awkward attempt to stand, and watched as Porthos endeavoured to stop him. She could not control the anger that rose inside – still they hated her. Eventually, Athos began moving in her direction. Her heart pounded, and her throat was dry. Leaving had been the right decision – despite the encroaching darkness, she could not remain here any longer. In spite of her efforts, regardless of what she had done for Athos and the King, she had long been aware how the other men felt about her, that they were merely tolerating her because of her most recent actions; her actions of the past another thing entirely. Now she refused to stand beneath their honourable judgement any longer. Aramis' advice burned in her head, cannot live together, cannot live apart.

Athos had shown his allegiance; as he emerged from that vile hole, it had been them he had embraced. They had pushed her aside, her usefulness spent. But as she watched him now, struggling to walk toward her, she could not deny that some small fragment of her consciousness, somewhere deep inside, trembled. Could there be the slightest possibility that his choice was not yet a foregone conclusion?

Athos stopped beneath the towering trees, the golden light flickering through the new leaves, dappled light playing upon the ground, as the sun slowly dipped toward the horizon. Though the light breeze that ruffled the canopy above them created a slight chill, Athos embraced it; heat still throbbed in his left arm and every one of the small cuts and grazes criss-crossing his body sighed with pleasure as the cold draught cooled their fire.

He had stopped close to her side, though neither spoke. Milady waited, he was so near now, standing merely inches away. Words, desperately struggling to be set free, were almost visible in the evening air, and so heavy was that unspoken conversation that both appeared as if they would suffocate beneath its burden.

Oh Athos, should I apologise... beg forgiveness... beg you to let us begin again? Would you even listen?

If she begged for forgiveness, could I forgive?… Should I forgive?… Could I forget?

Should I tell him I love him still?... Do I love him still?… God, yes – so very much.

Could I let her love me?… Could we ever make this right?

Their eyes locked, their breathing heavy, and expectation hovering between them in the growing gloom. But, like so many times before, the words remained implicit, silence the only witness to their inevitable failure. The air remained undisturbed; only the swifts sweeping through the sky, heading for their night's rest, made any sound at all.

Athos broke eye contact, looking back toward the lighted windows. The spell was broken. Milady felt the shift in atmosphere; whatever promise had been present before was now replaced with a sense of loss. The old, familiar sensation ignited deep inside, like ice spreading outward, flowing into her veins. How many times had she experienced that unbearable stab of pain, the harsh reality of rejection? She thought she had suffered so much as to be immune – how wrong she had been. A veritable fool, she had allowed her derelict heart to thaw and warm, dared to allow emotion to blossom inside, even to risk hope. Now the iron vice that clamped inside her chest squeezed so hard she thought that her heart would simply cease to beat. And what would it matter if it did? In the end she had let her one chance pass, so what use did she have for a heart anymore?

'Where will you go?' he asked, voice no more than a whisper. So, there it was, he was letting her go… again. That familiar anger began to resurface, the urge to lash out, to hurt back, to hide behind indifference, even hate.

'Does it matter?' Her retort was harsh, cold, the mask of apathy once more in place.

Athos watched the swifts, swooping high above, flirting their freedom in his face. He was tired, not just physically, but right down to his very soul; tired of being torn in too many directions, tired from the burden of too many obligations, fighting to right too many wrongs.

He looked at her once more, trying to understand what he saw. The woman he had loved so powerfully, so completely… how had it ever come to this… his indecision eating away at his sanity – he wanted one thing, but needed to do another. He could not make that leap, that one final step that would take him back to a place of light and love, not with her, no matter that his heart wanted it so very badly. They were poison together, yet desolate apart. Her green eyes glittered in the firelight, and his resolve was just not strong enough. Reaching out he gently stroked her cheek, trying desperately to find the words, the right way to say goodbye.

Her throat was so tight that she could not trust herself to speak. She watched the struggle playing out on his handsome features and, even bruised and broken, she wanted him so badly. When he finally touched her face, she felt the tears she had fought so hard to hold back prick behind her eyes, just another reminder that her treacherous body, no matter how she tried to control it around him, always eventually let her down.

Darkness had closed in around them whilst they had been standing there, the shadows lengthened and melded with the coming night. Athos felt the tear tumble over his fingers and noted the slight tremble of her chin. It was his undoing, and pulling her close he felt that old, familiar thrum of passion spark like a flame. She clung on to his shoulders and it was a kiss like no other, a final goodbye, said in the only way either of them could find to express their emotions. It held all the love, desolation, recriminations and regret that burned within them both; a yearning and a passion that could find no resolution that would not fade with time, or disappointment, forever to haunt their darkest hours with what was, and what might have been.

Milady did not want the moment to end. If only it could have stayed like this, but she knew that when they broke apart, she would still see that look in his eyes, the mistrust, the regret, the unbreachable wall of the past. Finally, he moved his lips to her forehead, but instead of moving away, he drew her into his chest and simply held her close. Perhaps if he had broken free, or spoken, she would have been able to cope, but the act of such rare gentleness was too much.

Athos felt the quiet sobs as he held her tight, he felt her sorrow, the frustration and despair of what could never be. This had to be the end of it, for neither of them could continue like this, keep up this tearing at each other's souls forever. He stroked her hair and felt the shuddering beneath his hands gradually subside. He closed his eyes, as though he could block out what was about to come.

Milady could not remember crying. Perhaps she had once, when Athos had first shunned her, but since – there had been no point. Now, she let a lifetime of broken dreams, shallow promises and shattered illusions flow through her tears – perhaps this physical expulsion would give her some semblance of peace. As her sobbing eased, reluctantly she pulled away. She could not look up, however, the misery so heavy she feared she may collapse beneath its weight.

'Anne…' She did not let him finish, could not let him speak; whatever he had been about to say, she did not wish to hear it. Just the sound of his voice wrung her very being.

'England… that is where I will go. It needs to be some distance I think.' She looked up at last, and even in her misery she was beautiful. 'This will be the last time we meet Athos.' Her face was hard once more, no trace of love or desire. Cold and aloof. He nodded, acknowledging the necessity of her choice.

'You will take care. The English… well… they are not French.' He looked earnest and she wanted to laugh at the irony.

'You want me to take care. That is rather rich coming from the man whose hide I have followed from one disaster to another over the last few days.' She tilted her head and watched the familiar twitch of his lips that those who knew him well would recognise as a smile.

'Thank you, I…' She placed her finger on his lips and shook her head.

'Goodbye Athos.' Milady paused, and for one intense moment something flared in those green eyes. 'You do know I…' Then she faltered, and whatever she had been about to say remained unspoken, her nerve flying upon the gentle breeze. Turning abruptly, she mounted her horse and, without looking back, she urged her mount forward at a gallop. She did not want him to see the new tears that now coursed down her cheeks. The dam now breached, she feared they would never stop.

Another beginning, another country. But she would never forget.

That invisible thread may pull tight across the oceans, but it would never break.

ooOoo

Athos watched long after both horse and rider had disappeared from sight. Nobody bothered him or approached him, though they hovered close at hand, ready to deal with the aftermath of the fated couple's final parting.