The Comte de la Fère started his first morning as a new instructor at the Musketeer garrison the same as he had begun morning's for the last two years. By dunking his head in a bucket to clear away the remnants of the previous night's over indulgence and punishing every aching muscle with a series of fencing exercises designed to reawaken sinew and tendons gone slack with drink and sleep, while lubricating joints with something other than liquor.
Though this morning, as he had for the last ten days, he'd had to draw up his own water, figure out how to button and buckle his various accouterments, and find his own breakfast. He had sent his servant home the day after his encounter at the Musketeer headquarters.
He was too young to feel this damn old, though he was too old to change the habits grooved into his brain. He bathed quickly, dressed slowly – there were a lot of buttons, he'd discovered - and all the while wondered what insanity had made him to agree to this charade. Buckling on his sword belt, he picked up his parrying dagger, stowed it in its sheath behind his back, and clamped his hat on his head.
Breaking his fast was actually not on his agenda today. He did not think he could stomach more than the sip of water he'd used to rinse his mouth and scrub at his teeth with the willow bark.
He stood, head bowed, hand on the door latch for several long moments before dredging up the courage he knew he would need to face this day. He had only to keep a civil tongue in his head, refrain from wounding anyone too seriously, and stay out of Tréville's way. He had memories at least, of what it was to be a gentleman, he could draw on those for the first two if necessary. As for the third – well, staying out of Tréville's way could very well depend on whether or not the captain had allowed this for his own nefarious purposes.
Whatever the case, Athos had decided if he could do it for one day, then he could do it for two. And if he could do it for two, he could do it for a week. He just had to get through one day at a time. He had friends here – or people he was not paying, who said they were friends. He supposed it remained to be seen whether there was any truth to their affirmations.
He was weary to his very soul and knew if he did not find a purpose for his life soon, Tréville's acidic commentary on his jaunt across the Continent would become a reality. He could admit to himself now - now that a glimmer of hope had pierced the stygian blackness – that there had been a grain of truth in Tréville's observation. He could admit this because he had taken a good long look at himself in the mirror and acknowledged the poisonous self-doubt he had allowed to inform his thoughts and actions. He was beneath contempt, but he had not always been so, and he was being offered the chance to regain his humanity at the very least, if not pieces of his soul.
For the first time in more than two years, a sense of anticipation welled up, a desire to be part of something bigger than himself. And, he had decided, if he found he was allowing self-deceit to draw him on again, this time he would find the courage to take himself off home, announce his guilt to all and sundry, and climb over the rail in the main gallery.
He was finding it difficult to maintain the façade that he cared not one wit what the outcome of this experiment might be. Inside the form of Athos, the one striding through the streets toward the garrison as though he had not a care in the world, there was nothing but quivering jelly. Only the skeleton and the skin were in decent working order, keeping the quivering mass in, and the bones upright.
"Well hello!"
Aramis' voice boomed across the space and the young man bounded up from a bench at a table in the courtyard to cross to Athos as he entered the garrison through the arch.
"Welcome to our little slice of Paris, monsieur!" Throwing an arm around Athos' shoulders, Aramis drew him toward the table. "Porthos would have won if he'd allowed me to bet. He was absolutely certain you would be here. I could not quite decide if you trusted yourself yet, to keep your word," he said in an undertone, grinning through the recitation.
Athos, seriously uncomfortable with the easy display of camaraderie, steeled his shoulders to stillness within the loose embrace, though he continued forward at the urging of the elbow crooked behind his neck.
"Everyone, this is our new sword master. The assessment schedule has been posted in the common room, check your time and be sure to be back here in the courtyard where we can all watch you show off your skills. He is called Athos, though you may call him Master when he is done with you."
Porthos stuffed a roll in his mouth and cocked his head just enough that Aramis got the message and dropped his arm from around the stiff shoulders. The fingers of the left hand stretched unconsciously, the blue eyes closed briefly and the urge to step away was beaten back by force of will alone. Porthos watched each finger close individually until the hand was a fist and the man drew a deep, slow breath, holding it just long enough that it wouldn't gust out of him and draw attention. The nerves steadied and the eyes cut directly to Porthos, who lifted a tankard in silent acknowledgement of a battle fought and won in the space of a few heartbeats.
"I'm your first," the big Musketeer announced jovially, uninhibited by the mouthful of bread he was still chewing. "Hope you ain't got terribly high expectations, never been much of a swordsman, 'm much better with 'm fists. I like learnin' new things though." Porthos had risen, dusted his hands and drawn his sword as he'd made this speech. "But wait – where'm manners?"
"What manners?" Bastian jeered, before Porthos could get anything else out.
Beside him, Aramis felt Athos tense as though expecting trouble. He touched the arm attached to the hand that had instinctively wrapped around the sword grip, very lightly, so as to not startle a further reaction from the comte. "It's all in good fun," he said softly, adding in a brighter, cheekier voice, "We all know Porthos has no manners."
"Yeah?" Porthos growled, swinging his sword aggrievedly. "And where would I have learned 'em, pray tell? Not from any of you, that's for sure!"
"Well, there is that. Certainly not Bastian, as his manners are even worse than yours. But you were about to offer the—" Damn! He was going to have to stop thinking of Athos as the comte. "Our new sword master a place at the table to break his fast, yes?" Aramis quickly covered his stumble.
"I was." Porthos sheathed his sword and bowed with a courtly charm that under any other circumstances might have seemed exaggerated. Its elegance, however, gave lie to the friendly banter and ended it amid laughing groans.
"I have eaten already, but I thank you for the thought," Athos lied, attempting to remember what it felt like to smile. He rather thought the lips were supposed to do something, but they did not remember what, so he settled for following that up with the truth. "I am ready to start when you are, Porthos."
"Then by all means, let's have at it. Jus' promise you won't 'urt me too bad."
An area toward the back of the courtyard had been cleared for use and for the first time in his life, the Comte de la Fère – Athos now, just Athos, he had to remind himself, as he must remember to remind Aramis – went to work for someone else. He could buy the entire city block housing the Musketeer garrison without making a dent in his monetary worth, he owned houses in five of France's finest regions and land in twice that many.
Today he had acquired a job and an occupation. Two weeks ago he had acquired another house, and been genuinely amused for the first time in an age, when the landlord had demanded two month's rent in advance, grumbling about would-be Musketeers who regularly disappeared without paying up when their service was turned down. His Paris agent would likely dine out on that story for months, though it occurred to Athos that he could tell no one the story, not even his agent, if he really wanted to change the course of his life.
It was a novel experience, playing at being a commoner who needed to work to earn a living. Though on some existential level he could not have articulated, he understood that to live, he must make this play a reality.
And so he watched and listened and played at sword fighting, for there was no one in the garrison up to his skill with the sword. He taught where the student was willing to learn and gave just enough to those who thought they could best him to leave them thinking that next time victory would be theirs.
It was a mentally exhausting exercise, though physically, he'd barely raised a sweat. He was shrugging into his coat when Aramis found him again.
"Will you stay to eat with us?" The Musketeer took the hat with the beautifully curling feather down from the peg in the post where it hung, though he did not immediately proffer it.
It was an offer a deeply buried part of the comte would have liked to accept, but he'd been alone, and a loner, for too long. He could be around others when his body took over his mind and he became just an extension of his sword, but not sitting among a cadre of strangers with whom he would be expected to exchange small talk. He had never been good at small talk and now he no longer had words to spare.
"We could eat out here," Aramis offered, sensing the struggle, though nothing showed on the … on Athos' face. The man was an enigma wrapped in a question.
Athos took the hat and decided a little honesty might grease the wheels of this creaking friendship. "I need some privacy."
Aramis inclined his head. "Another time then," he said, leaving the invitation open. "When you have finished the evaluations, Tréville would like a report on whom you think would most benefit from further tutoring."
The comte looked up from where he'd been fiddling with his hat brim. "That would not necessarily be the ones who actually need it." He clamped the hat on his head, adjusted the brim, and headed for the archway.
Aramis paced beside him. "It's a rare man who can leave another believing a lie when only a small lesson might have engendered enlightenment."
They reached the archway before Athos paused and looked over again. "I am not a stupid man, but I have behaved foolishly for far too long. I was reminded today, what is to lead by example. I have you to thank for that."
Briefly, and so light as to have been touched by the feather from the man's hat, Aramis felt a hand on his shoulder.
And the comte was gone.
tbc