Here's to alcohol: the cause of, and the solution to, all of life's problems.
Matt Groening
CHAPTER III-Advantage, Athos
D'Artagnan and Aramis were walking across the courtyard of the garrison when Athos and Porthos rode in. Aramis eagerly looked at Athos, anticipating the look of utter frustration that was usually apparent when he had had a run-in with Rochefort. Athos merely smiled at Aramis and touched a finger to his hat in salute as he serenely rode by. The marksman's eye turned to Porthos, who just shrugged, giving Aramis no indication as to what had transpired.
"Athos seems pretty relaxed." D'Artagnan was clearly not happy with what he had just seen. "If you set all this up and required me to freeze my arse off for no reason whatsoever, I am going to be very angry," he hissed.
"Do not jump to conclusions, my friend. They will emerge from the stables in a moment, and we will be able to more accurately gauge Athos' mood then."
"And I will be able to more accurately gauge how to make you pay for turning me into an ice sculpture," muttered d'Artagnan darkly.
At that instant, Athos came strolling out of the stables, followed closely by Porthos. He was humming quietly to himself, stopping only to clap a hand on Aramis' shoulder and engage him with his direct blue eyes, which were filled with gratitude.
"I did not get a chance to thank you for your noble gesture this morning, Aramis. That was quite gentlemanly of you to make sure that Porthos and I did not get an unfair share of outdoor duty in this inclement weather. That duty shift was a true blessing, as it allowed me a chance to mend my rift with Rochefort, which has weighed heavily upon my heart. You are a cherished friend."
"Not a problem," murmured Aramis, mystified as to Athos' manner. His comrade smiled and continued on past him, resuming his humming as he mounted the stairs and disappeared into his room.
"What was that all about?" d'Artagnan inquired caustically as the three made their way to Aramis' room for an impromptu strategy session.
"That's exactly what I asked him!" Porthos exclaimed. "He was so out of character at the palace—it was really bizarre."
"What do you mean?" asked Aramis as they entered his quarters and drew up three comfortable chairs by the fireplace. He shed his leather coat and tossed it onto his bed, then bent to coax the smouldering fire back to a blaze.
Porthos was thoughtful. "It was like—everything I expected him to do, he did the opposite. Get this—he told Rochefort he admired him and asked him to dinner."
"Are you sure?" d'Artagnan was dumbfounded.
Aramis narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Are you quite certain he hadn't broken open that bottle of brandy before you left?"
"I think I know what a man who has been drinkin' brandy smells like, Aramis," Porthos retorted, his tone derisive. "I am positive he was stone cold sober."
"Well then," mused Aramis, "there must be an angle here that we are missing. Did he say anything else?"
"Yeah. When I asked him what this little invitation to Rochefort was all about, he said it was about "the long game," then muttered something about all the pieces falling into place."
"Ha!" crowed Aramis. "This is clearly a ruse, meant to throw us off!"
Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at him quizzically.
"Don't you see? It's just like Vadim—"make them look the other way"! He wants to distract us and keep us off guard while he deploys his real plan! Trust me, I know Athos—and this is one of his classic mind games."
"I have heard the words "trust me" a little too often for my liking recently," grumbled d'Artagnan.
"Very well, my discontented Gascon," challenged Aramis, a thought inserting itself into his mind. "You want control of this plan, you can have it. I give you twenty four hours to come up with a plan to take care of Athos—since you obviously think you can do better than me."
"It would not be difficult in this case," retorted a sullen d'Artagnan.
"Enough!" Porthos growled. "If you children can't stop fightin', I'm puttin' myself in charge. Do you accept the lead for the next twenty four hours, or not?" He glared at d'Artagnan.
"Fine." D'Artagnan, doing his best imitation of a sulky schoolboy. "You both will thank your lucky stars you saw the light and let me take control."
"I'll reserve judgement on that," muttered Aramis. "Now do you have a plan, or are you just going to fake your way through it?"
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Athos lay on his bed, smirking as he thought of Aramis' obvious discomfort at his composed manner when he returned to the garrison. He patted the pocket on his leather doublet that contained his secret weapon… a tin of cocoa paste. He had been fortunate to have been introduced to the exquisite taste of the beverage during a duty shift last week at the palace.
The Queen had brought a casket to France as part of her dowry, and the King had quickly grown fond of the beverage. Since that time, he had made sure that regular shipments of cocoa paste were sent from Spain to satisfy his taste for the hot drink. The paste was very expensive, and only the wealthiest nobles could afford it. Anne had taken pity on Athos when she had seen him trying to keep warm as he made his rounds in the chill of the late afternoon, and had sent a servant out with a goblet of the piping hot liquid.
Athos had looked at it curiously, then decided that even if it tasted horrible, the warmth would be beneficial in the below freezing temperatures. With his first sip, however, he had fallen in love with the rich, sweet drink. He had requested an opportunity to thank the Queen when he went off shift, and she had been touched by his sincere gratitude for her small gesture.
When he had returned to the palace the next day, he had found a small package waiting for him in the Musketeers' office upon completion of his duty day. He had tucked it in his pocket, and when he had returned home, he had stared at the contents, warmed by the Queen's thoughtfulness. She had enclosed a silver tin of cocoa paste, with a handwritten recipe for the drink. In her elegant script, he read the instructions-one part chocolate paste, two parts sugar, eight parts water-add spices as desired. Since that time, Athos had guarded the precious chocolate carefully, keeping it on his person at all times.
His friends had been so confident that he would be out of the game by the evening that they had giving little thought to what they would drink in lieu of alcohol. Consumption of water in the city was done at one's own risk, as sewage that seeped into the groundwater often contaminated even the best wells. The garrison's own well had been the source of illness more than once, and Serge only used the water for cooking after thoroughly boiling it. He suspected that was what d'Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis had drank that morning….or they had simply gathered up a bucket of snow and melted it indoors.
He smiled as he recalled coming around a corner whilst on his way to the stables at the palace just a short time ago. He had been greeted by the sight of Porthos furtively stuffing a handful of snow into this mouth. Caught in the act, the big man had become defensive. "What? No one said snow was off limits! There's not a lick of alcohol in it!"
Athos had held up his hands in mock surrender. "Porthos, I said not a word. I congratulate you on your inventive approach to the restrictions placed on your consumption of liquids. Do you need a hand with the snow, or are you good?"
"I'm fine," responded Porthos grumpily, trying to appear cheerful, but failing miserably. "In fact, I don't know why I haven't been eatin' snow all along. It's quite refreshin'. I may make this a habit, even after I have won this challenge."
"Really?" inquired Athos with interest, his eyes dancing. "Do Aramis and d'Artagnan share in this new fascination for gathering freshly fallen snow? Or do they prefer the less pristine areas, shall we say?" He glanced over at a patch of ground that had been used by some animal for a privy some minutes ago.
Porthos had muttered something under his breath, then pushed past his brother, eager to get back to the safe confines of the garrison, where he would not be constantly assailed by the sight of goblets of wine sailing past him on trays. Who knew that the King's Council were such alcoholics? It was shameful, that's what it was.
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Thirty minutes later, Athos had finished consuming a large mug of steaming hot chocolate. He sighed in bliss. I am enjoying this challenge much more than I thought I would. He glanced smugly at the bottle of brandy on the floor by the door. I have found a new mistress, and her name is chocolate. You have no power over me now. Taunt me all you want, but I will not give in.
Thank you for all the kind reviews! They are much appreciated, since this a break from my usual angst/hurt/comfort/drama/romance mishmash. I hope you enjoyed it! More within the week...