He often dreamt of her, though it was always those last moments before he'd ridden away; the forget-me-nots falling from lax fingers, her white gown floating wispy in the wind, dainty shoes peeping from beneath the hem.
Tonight, with the benediction of the herbs and alcohol coursing warm blood through his frozen heart, confession might have been possible. Tomorrow, in the cold light of day, he knew he would be grateful Aramis had effectively corked the spill of words.
The Musketeer had expected that he would sleep, and sleep deeply, but he did not, though as promised, neither did he dream. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, an arm above his head, the other lying across his belly, thumb tucked into the waistband of his britches.
Porthos slept soundly, never moving a muscle. Aramis twitched and fidgeted and once, sat straight up without ever really waking. Athos tugged at the back of his shirt, to no avail. Aramis sat for some time with his head in his hands, quivering like a blowing stallion, before slumping down senseless, on his side again, back pressed up against the wall.
Athos had not ended up at the Musketeer garrison by chance. Joining the elite guard had been a lifelong dream, one that had fueled his youthful desire to become the best swordsman France had ever known. Though it had been thwarted, first by his parents, who had been prominent members in the court of Henry IV and Marie de' Medici, then by tutors who had insisted he follow the plan his parents had mapped out for his life, even after their deaths. And then – by the witchy siren he had taken to wife.
There was very little Athos did not know about the current company of Musketeers, including details of the Savoy mission that were not general knowledge. Porthos' implication that Aramis had a story about Savoy likely meant a first-hand story, which meant the youthful Don Juan had to be one of the two survivors of the massacre, since the other had deserted.
Athos wondered if seeing the bodies of one's comrades, slain in their sleep, was any easier than watching the woman one loved be hanged by the neck until dead.
An interesting dilemma; from whence sprang the guilt in that quarter? The Musketeer had had no responsibility for the deaths of those men, though it appeared he found it no easier to sleep than Athos.
His own guilt was such a mélange of bits and pieces he could not unravel its beginning or ending. As the local magistrate it had been his responsibility to investigate and then pronounce sentence on the accused. He had done so in a cold, unfeeling rage, when out of the murkiness of her misleading lies and protestations of innocence, the truth of the deception she had perpetrated was finally uncovered in its entirety.
She had been so enamored of her new position as the Comtesse de la Fère, she had reveled in the status of her elevation, though in such a way that it had come across as naive joy, innocent of malice. She had wanted to be by his side every moment of the day. And all night long.
He had been naïve himself, inexperienced with women, and thus so flattered by her interest and devotion it had never occurred to him to look deeper, to dig beneath the tissue paper thin layers of sophistication and gaiety. She had thrown back the dark curtains of his home literally and figuratively, opened a door to his soul he hadn't even known existed, invited sunshine and flowers and the sweet smell of hay into his life.
He had been truly madly deeply in head-over-heels love from the first moment she'd spoken his name.
Captivated.
Transformed.
Philosopher's stone, transmuted from lead into gold.
They would live forever in one another's embrace and change the world. Or at least visit every corner of it. The Comte and Comtesse de la Fère would take the courts of Europe by storm, entertain the dynastic royalty of India and Asia and dine with the redskins of the America's in complete accord.
His brother had tried to tell him – over and over again. But his ears had been tuned only to her voice. Her ascendency over him - a thing he had despised in others and mocked piteously - had been absolute. He had been unable, or unwilling, to see it in himself until his brother had been dead and the shattered mirror of his idyllic life had been mercilessly held up before him.
Justice had required a life for a life, though even then he had wavered. She had pleaded piteously from her prison bower: he was the only one who understood her; how could he throw away their love like this; she was not what he'd been led to believe; she was a victim of jealous rage; she was being punished for sins she had not committed.
He might yet have been persuaded, as he'd sat on the floor with his back to the locked door, wise enough not to let anyone else guard it, but in such vulnerable despair the trickle of her voice stricken with tears creeping out to him from the millimeter of space between carpet and door was like a siren song.
It had been her one and only mistake – when she'd told him she'd done it for them. She'd realized her blunder quickly, though, and instead of words there had come heart wrenching sobs that had petered out when – he'd supposed – she had finally fallen asleep.
He had sat on the floor in the hallway neither eating nor sleeping for three days, while proof of her guilt had been gathered with quick and brutal efficiency. Only four people knew; one was dead by her hand, one had been sent to America to take charge of the de la Fère shipping operations, and one had acted as executioner.
In those three days she had pushed letter after perfumed letter under the door. The library probably still reeked of violets, for he had burned every one without a glance, on his return from overseeing justice done.
Justice though, might have been tempered with compassion, but he had been so completely and utterly devastated by her insidious betrayal, retribution had been the only thing on his mind. And his mind had been very busy indeed, imagining all the ways he could repay her. His word was law; whatever punishment he chose to mete out would be dispatched without question and he had considered everything from drawing and quartering to disemboweling. With the judicious placement of a word here or there, he could have easily planted treasonable evidence, but in the end, his better nature had prevailed.
At least - in the manner of her execution.
In the days and months following, reason had fled completely. He'd honed his sword, packed a bag and, taking only a manservant, set out on horseback to rid himself of her fingerprints on his soul.
It had taken him two years to realize that instead of expunging her, in his anger at his own abasement at her hands he had allowed bitterness to taint all that had once responded to virtue and beauty and grace. The gaping hole where his heart had once resided was not an empty void; it had gradually become the habitation of malice and spite, the proponent of all that was rancorous and mordant.
While he had methodically and with considerable success set about achieving a reputation as the finest swordsman on the Continent, he had also learned to shred a character in a sentence or less. A look from the Comte de le Fère could make or break a reputation; which he had done at the merest whiff of taint about a person, no matter the gender.
To how many had he passed on his tainted legacy of depression and despair? How many lives had he ruined in his quest to soothe his own lacerated wounds? How many lay in the dark this night cursing him as he had cursed her?
He had no expectation of the intercession of grace on his behalf; but he might, if he was very, very lucky, work his way out of this pit he had dug himself into if he could hold it together long enough for the illusion of reality to solidify into something more than its current mirage.
Perhaps the tacit pact to desist from providing fodder for his inner demons ushered in a new spirit of calm for eventually sleep stole over him and before he could chase it away, he was dreaming.
These were the dreams of his youth, though, where upon his shoulder a fleur-de-lis of polished leather flashed in the middle of a kaleidoscope of streaming sky blue cloaks. He was at the epicenter of a battle, power coursing through his sword arm such as he had never experienced, for he served with a host of comrades, vanquishing the enemies of the Flower of France.
Courage flowed through newly thawed veins, and a sense of purpose that rang with the call of honor and duty. Even in sleep, Athos sensed a new path was opening before him; he had only to seize the courage to follow it.
tbc