Chapter Three
Athos leaned over the garrison bench and smoothed out each piece of parchment before laying it down on the table.
The Lord has prepared his people for a great slaughter and has chosen their executioners.
Cursed be he that doeth the work of the Lord negligently, and cursed be he that keepeth back his sword from blood.
I will send the sword to kill, the dogs to drag away, the vultures to devour, and the wild animals to finish up what is left.
"What does it all mean?" Athos sat down heavily with a sigh. "It has to mean something… This is the only connection we have to the murderer's state of mind."
"Well, he probably means himself with the chosen executioner reference…" Aramis leaned over to look at the scrawled words. "He doesn't want to be cursed by doing the Lord's work negligently, or keeping his sword from blood… and the last one seems quite self explanatory."
"Is there any significance to the parts of the bible he has chosen to quote from?"
Aramis studied them for a moment. "Not that I can see… but he is clearly a religious man. He knows the good book well."
Porthos gave the others a serious eye. "Maybe we should put a little more pressure on the priests."
"Porthos…" Aramis said his name as a chastisement. "They are men of God, we must respect them."
"Men of God they might be, but they are men all the same."
"I can tell you now they will not speak of anything said during confession. Priests have endured torture and gone to their deaths before breaking that inviolable seal."
Porthos scowled a little and turned away.
"Still, I think it might be worth having another word." Athos intervened in a more delicate tone.
"Very well." Aramis conceded. "I'll visit Father Chardin. He's the priest at the church I attend; he might be a bit more helpful… especially considering lives are at stake."
Athos stared at the notes and frowned, deep in thought. His words came slowly. "Only the musketeers have notes left with them… Only the musketeers are killed by blades... Their own weapons no less."
Porthos shrugged. "Could mean something, could mean nothing. Perhaps just the unravelling mind of a madman."
At that d'Artagnan warily put forwards an idea. "Their own weapons turned against them… What if we're looking at a musketeer? One of our own turned against us?"
"Don't be foolish." Aramis scoffed. "A musketeer would never kill one of their brothers."
"It was just a thought…" d'Artagnan trailed off.
Athos and Porthos remained quiet, staring at the notes intently.
Aramis broke the uneasy silence by getting to his feet. "I'll go and have that word with Father Chardin. Are we drawing straws for tonight?"
"Certainly not." Athos' head shot up. "You decided to stay with Porthos, so with Porthos you shall stay."
Treville insisted the musketeers remain together at all times, even at night. Paquin had been killed in his own bed, and so the Captain did not want to take any chances.
Aramis sighed over dramatically. "But he snores!"
"I do not!"
~oOo~
Aramis found it was not Porthos' snoring that kept him awake. It was something else entirely.
They were at Porthos' lodgings and the hour was late, but Aramis sat wide awake at the table. It was positioned before the window where a flood of moonlight cast shadows against his hands atop the wooden surface. He leaned against the table, his dagger twisting slowly between his fingers. Every so often Aramis' eyes wandered to Porthos, making sure he was still there and that he still lived.
He had to protect Porthos. He had failed to protect so many… but Aramis was a soldier, and it was his duty to protect. He closed his eyes and shuddered out a breath. The names and faces of the fallen ran seamlessly behind his shut eyes… Every one one of the twenty beneath snow, Isabelle, Marsac, Allais… He would die before failing Porthos.
And so Aramis stood watch, keeping his silent vigil through the night.
At one point he thought the door rattled under the hand of some unseen intruder. Aramis took hold of his dagger in a tight fist and crept over. He crouched behind the heavy door, and it shook again. Taking a deep breath Aramis stood and tore it open, holding his weapon aloft. But there was nobody there… Only a wild gust of wind battered his face. Aramis let out a relieved breath. The wind. It was just the wind. Still, he stood a moment, watching and waiting. Aramis wasn't sure how much time passed as he listened intently to the near silent night. It wasn't entirely quiet. There were voices on the breeze, a whisper caressed his face… or was it screaming?
Aramis shook his head. No screaming… Not here, not now. The night was quiet. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he shut the door and turned to find Porthos still deep asleep. A half smile pulled at his lips. Porthos could sleep through anything. Aramis imagined even the last trumpet sounding for the day of judgment would not wake him.
Aramis approached Porthos' bed, just to be sure, just to see he still drew breath. Some stealthy intruder may have slipped in during the distraction. He held out the dagger, its pale shadow lengthened across the bed sheets as he drew near. But there was no intruder, no distraction. It was just the wind.
Still, there was an intruder out there. A murderer intent on spilling their blood.
So Aramis would keep his watch.
~oOo~
The next day Aramis seemed to sleepwalk through his duties. It was instantly picked up on by Porthos.
"I know you didn't go to bed last night." He pointed out in an accusing tone.
"How do you know? You were fast asleep. I could have dropped a tonne of rocks on your head and you would have slept on." Aramis shot back at him.
"I left you some bedding on the floor, and it was untouched."
"Well… I might have just been extremely tidy and straightened it all before you woke."
That earned him a withering glance from Porthos.
"Alright… I just couldn't sleep. Knowing there's a killer out there. If anything happened to you I would never forgive myself."
Porthos smiled. "I'm touched, I really am, but you need to sleep. How about we take it in turns tonight? We'll both get a decent night's rest and we can share the bed then too."
"If you insist…"
"I do."
~oOo~
"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."
Aramis clasped his hands tightly in confession, his fingers slipped together… they were wet… slick…
The box he sat in wasn't much larger than a coffin. The air was musty and stale. It felt worn with the weight of sins coating each breath that had been whispered through the grating. The words were covered in guilt. Aramis could taste it in the air, through the bitter, metallic tang doing its best to mask the scent… Outside there was the intrusive clacking of footsteps against flagstones. The sound echoed back and forth until it became quieter, dying away to nothing. He listened intently to the silence. It smothered everything.
And then there was the gentle creak of wood as movement shifted the box around him. It was familiar and comforting in a way.
A heavy breath sighed through the grating. "There is no absolution... Not for you."
Hands against flesh… soft and hard… squeezing, crushing, breaking...
"Please Father…" His voice broke, choked off with a sob.
Red against white… ravens and crows… rending, tearing, consuming...
"You can't protect them. You can't even protect yourself."
Swords and steel and screaming… screaming and screaming and SCREAMING.
Aramis suddenly felt his own breath cut off. He gasped and heaved, lungs spasming at bringing in nothing… Nothing but the tainted breath of sinners enclosed in a wooden box. He was choking on it. Lies, theft, adultery… murder. Aramis flailed against the door in a panic, clawing at the wood, his nails gouged tracks against his coffin lid.
And then mercifully it gave way. Aramis burst out and crashed down to the cold stone floor, on his hands and knees, gagging and trembling... trying to drag a clean breath in. Through the blur of his eyes there was a trail of red… pitches and patches… it ran between his slick hands and onward down the nave. Slowly Aramis brought his head up and followed the bloody trail all the way to the altar. He got to his feet in one smooth action and pursued it to the end. There he found Father Chardin. The priest was spread eagle on his back, head hanging over the side of the altar so his grey face stared at Aramis upside down. But he couldn't stare… You needed eyes to stare, and Father Chardin had been robbed of his. There were just two black empty holes. Still, they managed to fix accusingly on Aramis all the same. A caw sounded from the thief, standing proudly atop his victim's chest. From its morbid perch the raven watched Aramis, just as Father Chardin watched with his false stare. The raven was wrong though, it had feathers white and pure as fresh fallen snow, and piercing pale pink eyes.
Aramis felt a hollow at his heart... a cracked sob threatened to erupt, but his throat was full of dust… clogged with unabsolved sins. Instead he reached out a tentative hand and stepped forwards. The raven flared its feathers and shrieked, warning him away. Aramis flinched, the awful cawing crashed around the aisles and arches before colliding into him again and again. For a moment he cowered and considered taking flight, but then something changed... Suddenly Aramis lunged forwards and took the raven about its scrawny neck. The cries reached fever pitch before dying abruptly under the sudden, violent, twitch of his fingers. Aramis drew it in close, restraining those white wings with his other arm. It felt so fragile now… The raven was no ghost, no phantom, not a herald of doom. It was just a delicate creature of flesh and bone. The trapped bird struggled against Aramis' chest as he tightened his hold… tighter and tighter… squeezing, crushing, breaking… He felt small bones give way and savoured each crack. The terrible sound echoed gloriously around the church. It almost seemed as if the great stone structure itself was shattering around him. When the raven stilled, Aramis' arms seemed to lose strength and he let the bird drop... It was left a ruined heap on the ground.
Slowly, Aramis brought his hands up to drag tired eyes across his palms. They were dirty, bloody, unclean. He moved over to the font… Holy water would make him clean again. He looked down into tainted red water, and his worn reflection looked up from the marred surface. There was a bloody cross anointing his forehead.
He didn't scream.
His throat was still full of dust…
But there was screaming… somewhere far, far away. Aramis fell back, and when he landed his head did not crack open against the hard stone as he expected. There was something soft at his back, and there were strong hands gripping him.
"Aramis! Wake up!"
He shot upright and heaved in a great breath as if he'd been drowning. Aramis certainly felt wet. As he came to awareness he realised he was drenched in sweat. Porthos peered at him through weak candlelight with an expression of pure worry.
"Are you alright? That was some nightmare…"
Aramis lay back down, he still gasped at the air as if it were too thin… Aramis felt exhausted, but he managed a nod for his friend.
"Do you want to talk about it? Was it… you know?"
Aramis licked his dry lips and turned away. Porthos seemed to take that as confirmation. He reached out to place a hand on Aramis' arm, the distresed musketeer flinched beneath his fingers.
"You're safe here. I'm watching over you, and I'm not going to leave."
Aramis' breathing had settled down, but his face was still turned away from Porthos.
"Look at me Aramis."
He reluctantly dragged his eyes over.
"I will never leave you - do you understand?"
Aramis looked at his friend for a long moment before giving a shaky nod.
Porthos smiled sadly and turned to look out the window. It was still dark outside, but the sky had started to lighten a touch. Dawn was on its way.
"Do you think you can get a bit of sleep?"
Aramis tried to whisper out a hoarse 'no'.
"Here… let me…" Porthos went to fetch a drink of water.
After helping Aramis to take a few sips he filled a basin with water and set about wiping the sheen of sweat from his friend's skin.
"I think you should stop here today, you don't seem at all well."
Aramis wanted to object, but he was just so exhausted… worn entirely to the bone. Perhaps a day of rest would do him good. Although he wouldn't be getting much rest if he was subjected to the horrors of last night every time he closed his eyes.
They sat together in companionable silence while the sun chased the night's lingering hold away. Aramis dozed lightly, not managing to fall fully asleep. Porthos only moved to blow out the candles when their light was no longer needed.
Eventually the hour came when Porthos had to ready himself for duty. He firmly told Aramis to stay put and set about washing and dressing. Aramis watched him go about his activities through half lidded eyes. Just as Porthos was affixing his sword and pistol a heavy knock came at the door.
Porthos frowned and went to open it. Athos stood there with d'Artagnan at his back. "You both need to come quickly."
"Aramis is stopping here today, he isn't well."
Porthos moved to block Athos from sight a little. They lowered their voices but Aramis still caught snatches of their conversation… Father Chardin… found dead… mutilated…
Aramis saw the vision of his dream… Father Chardin, spread eagle on the altar... missing eyes... the ghost of a raven screaming on his chest…
Suddenly he shot up and fished for the chamber pot beneath the bed. Aramis got to it just in time to heave up spit and bile. There was the sensation of feathers brushing against his face… and then hands and soft voices supporting him. I told you he wasn't well...
~oOo~
When Porthos returned later on he brought some broth for Aramis. He handed it over with few words and an unusually cold manner… There was a stony quality to Porthos' expression. For a moment Aramis wondered if his friend was mad at him, but Porthos seemed distracted, his thoughts were elsewhere. He must have seen something that had shaken him deeply.
"Porthos, what's wrong?" Aramis managed between sips.
"Nothing…" He summoned the ghost of a smile, Aramis noticed it didn't reach his eyes.
There were no little gestures of comfort that flowed easily between the two men. No squeeze of an arm, or pat to the knee. The distance between the bed and Porthos' chair seemed a chasm. Aramis watched with concern as Porthos slipped into staring at the middle distance. His mind was somewhere else.
~oOo~
Something had changed when Aramis returned to his duties. All three of his companions seemed shaken and distant. They refused to tell him about Father Chardin. He supposed they were saving him the grief. Aramis had heard Athos at the door… he had heard that word… mutilated. But he was grieved all the same. The priest had been like a father to him at times. Whenever he felt lost and adrift from his faith Father Chardin was there to ground him. After Savoy he had spent many an hour seated on a pew, trying to make sense of everything with the priest by his side. The thought of him dead… killed and mutilated… It set a fire in Aramis' heart like no other.
Aramis made his way to the garrison with Porthos, it was getting late and they were to report for night duty. A strained silence hung between them. Aramis looked to his friend, but Porthos stared straight ahead with a frown marring his features.
Aramis huffed out a frustrated sigh. Something had to be said. "Will you tell me what happened?"
"No." The answer was abrupt, as if it were an end to a conversation that had only just begun.
"There is something troubling you… all of you… and I just want to share the burden."
"You don't want to know, Aramis."
"You can't protect me from everything. Though you try." He knew it was a hypocritical thing to say, what with his own need to protect his brothers, but Aramis didn't want to be coddled.
As they passed through the archway Porthos gave a weary breath. "Ask me again another day…"
Aramis suppressed a growl and made for the bench. He wasn't getting any answers tonight. The garrison was quiet. Not a soul graced the courtyard until d'Artagnan approached from the direction of the stables. The boy looked distracted, but at least he made an attempt at brushing it off. d'Artagnan managed to paint a faint smile on his face as he hailed his friends.
Aramis stalled before he took a seat. A cold hand clutched his heart. There on the table were two pieces of parchment. He drew in a careful breath and warily reached out to take one.
'Your blood will be poured out into the dust, and your bodies will lie there rotting on the ground.'
He passed it to Porthos before picking up the other.
'Strap on your swords! Go back and forth from one end of the camp to the other, killing even your brothers, friends, and neighbors.'
"He was here..." Aramis spoke with a note of fear. "He must have come here to place the notes."
"Look, there's something on the back."
They turned the notes over to reveal another message. 'When the bells toll seven, they shall go to heaven.' A location followed, Porthos' held a road near the Louvre while Aramis' was near Notre Dame.
"He's going to kill again." Aramis said grimly.
"But he can't murder two people at the same time in different places." Porthos fixed Aramis with a serious eye. "He means to draw us out and split us up."
"It's a trap for sure, but this is our chance to catch him! How long do we have?"
"Not long, twenty minutes if that."
"Then we have to leave now… Porthos, follow your note, and I shall follow mine. d'Artagnan, find Athos and come after us. We will not face him alone."
The boy shot off.
Porthos reached out to grasp Aramis' shoulder. "Stay safe… Don't do anything reckless."
Aramis managed a small smile. "You know me too well, my friend."
"And that's what worries me."
