My apologies for the delay in posting. It's entirely down to having one of the craziest work weeks of my life. A week full of ridiculous levels of responsibility, international & national travel, many challenges (mostly very successfully dealt with), and very little sleep. I finally managed to get some rest last night and had the energy to spare to get the edits done on this chapter today. Half time for this fic now! Five more chapters to go after this one. And a rather intense story line for the musketeers, particularly for poor Athos...
5. Être et durer
(To be and endure)
At Tréville's orders, the garrison was deathly quiet. They hardly spoke; with no change in the situation, there was very little left to say between them. The noise of Paris was muted by the heavy shutters and the blankets they had pinned up to try and keep the room dark. At any time, the room itself was cluttered with three bedrolls, piles of soiled and clean cloths, several basins of tepid water and a variety of cups and spoons.
It felt like a morgue.
Aramis alternated between pacing and prayer, finding no relief in either. There was no escape from the incessant questions that plagued his mind, but his ears were deaf to the answers the Lord undoubtedly provided.
He tried to sharpen his senses with diligent scripture study, but couldn't find comfort in the holy bible. He sat and read by the light of their solitary candle or by one of the small rays of sunlight they still permitted into the room. It was never enough light. He could decipher the words, but not the meaning behind them. Even his favourite verses seemed oddly hollow and meaningless.
Darkness surrounded him, both physically and spiritually.
Yet, if there was one ray of light, one living embodiment of God's love and mercy, it was Porthos. He remained steadfast and caring as the days wore on without any sign of improvement.
Aramis tried to smile when he was tending to Athos, but it felt more and more like putting on a mask. He was familiar with masks, juste Dieu he was, but he never had to wear them when tending to the sick and injured. He was only aware he smiled at his patients because Porthos used to tease him about it. Now he had to force his mouth into some weak approximation of a smile.
It hurt.
Porthos smiled naturally and brightly, sometimes barely suppressing his usual booming laugh into a quiet chuckle. There wasn't much to laugh about, not after days upon days of spasms, but Porthos found some happiness even in the most ordinary of scenes. Aramis accidentally snapping a quill between his fingers while trying to make an annotation; d'Artagnan's clumsiness after yet another night with hardly any sleep; even Athos' wild hair, matted with sweat and tousled by his constant agitation, made Porthos smile fondly.
Porthos found his happiness wherever the Lord put him.
Aramis knew no such contentment. He yearned for answers. He wanted to know why Athos had been struck with this horrible disease, what he had done to deserve such harsh judgement. He wanted to know how a seemingly innocent and quickly healed cut could cause such agony. He wanted to know what triggered the spasms. They diligently avoided noise and light now, and Athos made no attempts to exert himself in the slightest, but the convulsions still occurred, sometimes multiple times in the space of an hour. Most importantly, Aramis yearned for an answer on the matter of treatment. There had to be something other than prayer to bring Athos some relief.
The others suffered from no such qualms. They were there with their whole body and spirit, while Aramis' mind wandered.
D'Artagnan was devoted to Athos. They were all close friends, but d'Artagnan adored Athos as a mentor and something of a father figure. In d'Artagnan's eyes, Athos could do no wrong. He was evidently heartbroken, but he also had the unwavering conviction that his hero would pull through.
Porthos on the other hand was well aware of Athos' minute chance of survival. Between the four of them, Porthos was most intimately acquainted with death and disease. Yet his spirit never faltered. He only saw a friend in need and responded accordingly.
Aramis wished he shared that strength.
Athos was no longer granted recess between bouts of torture. His body remained rigid throughout, even when he was not in the grip of a seizure. They struggled to feed him and care for him. The very things they did to keep him alive were also the most likely to kill him. Every action caused Athos great agitation, and would easily make his poisoned muscles contract. Aramis felt that speaking to Athos was necessary — to preserve his sanity if nothing else — but sometimes the slightest sound resulted in untold agony.
Nourishment remained their most difficult challenge. For every time they managed to feed him some weak broth or gruel, there were two or three attempts when Athos could not open his mouth enough to receive a spoon.
As much as Aramis had hated the physician's diagnosis, but it was due to his warning that they kept trying to feed Athos with such desperation. Every time they managed to get the smallest amount of food into him, they shared a look of delight. Death was not yet imminent. If they could help him keep up his strength, Athos would survive.
Porthos patiently sat and dripped wine into Athos' mouth during every reprieve between spasms. Porthos sat for hours, smiling at every drop that found its target, wiping away any that didn't.
After his failure with the laudanum, Aramis had permitted Athos wine. It might not mask the pain, but he knew that his friend took solace in the drink. With the small amounts of liquid they could force down his throat, it might as well be something fortifying. There were many who claimed that wine was the best remedy for ailments of the soul, as well as those of the body. Since Athos certainly subscribed to the former part of the theory, Aramis saw no reason to deny him the latter. He remembered Athos' insistence that he would like to drink something of exceptional quality while he still could and made sure to requisition only his most treasured vintages. Nobody objected. If it served Athos' wellbeing, every single one of the musketeers would have eagerly sworn off the wine for the rest of their lives.
The wine supply was truly not the difficult bit. Getting Athos to swallow it was. He tried valiantly; Athos always tried, but he didn't normally fail. Athos was a superb swordsman, an excellent strategist, a magnificent leader, and a great friend. Watching him struggle was painful, but Aramis chided himself for the feeling. He should not dare think of pain when Athos was so obviously taken hostage by much worse agony.
It still hurt to see the shaking, sweating figure on the bed. That pale, drawn face, those parched lips that could not open of their own volition... that was not Athos. The accursed illness was destroying the man Aramis knew and loved.
Sometimes the drink choked Athos, making him cough as it ran down his windpipe. Sometimes the cough triggered spasms. Still, there was nothing for it but to continue trying. Aramis admired Porthos' strength and fortitude, his willingness to risk hurting their friend again and again. They both knew it was the only way to keep Athos' fleeting strength up.
When they were lucky, the liquid just ran from Athos' mouth. They gave him only white wine now, nominally to spare the blankets, but really it was because Aramis could not bear to see Athos with what looked like blood covering his face. It was too painful, too close to that dreadful reality Aramis refused to imagine.
Less than three weeks ago they had play-acted, had staged a funeral for Athos. Afterwards, he'd asked how it was, sitting safe and sound in a tavern. Now...
Aramis bit down on his finger.
He would not think of it.
The sharp nip of his teeth against sensitive flesh brought his thoughts back to the present, not that it had become any less painful. He stared at the bible in his hands open at the Book of Job. He'd been trying to read it, trying to find answers in this great tale of woe and suffering, or more importantly this tale of suffering that had ended and turned into a glorification of God. Like Athos, Job had had three friends surrounding him. And like Porthos, d'Artagnan and himself, those friends had been useless and outright wrong.
What use are all your books and those snooty doctors if they can't even take away the pain?
Porthos' words kept coming back to him.
What use are you?
Porthos was too kind to voice that, but the implication was clear. What use was a medic who couldn't even keep an ailing man comfortable? What use was his medicine? What use was his skill with a musket? What use was his religion? What use was Aramis himself in the face of tetanus?
Not much was the honest answer.
They had stopped asking him what to do; they had accepted his utter impotence against this almighty foe. At first, they had turned to him frequently, hopefully. At first, Aramis had had some ideas, some form of advice. Now there was nothing left, just darkness and emptiness.
He cradled his forehead in his hands, sitting slumped over Tréville's desk.
Darkness, inside and out.
Porthos padded over to him quietly. They had all fallen into the habit of taking their boots off inside the room to silence their steps as much as possible. Aramis did not even lift his head. He had nothing to offer Porthos, no smile, no words of comfort or jest.
Porthos' hands were on his shoulders, a warm presence, grounding somehow. Aramis didn't stir as Porthos began to knead his muscles, but slowly he felt a tension fall away from him, one he had not even been aware of. His glance fell upon his bible, still open upon the desk.
God has softened my heart, and the Almighty has troubled me. For I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me, neither has the mist covered my face.
Gradually, Aramis relaxed into Porthos' firm touch. He wished he could share that blessing with Athos who needed it so much more than him. As Porthos dug his fingers into his shoulders, patiently working out the knots, Aramis looked at Athos. He could not begin to imagine the pain his friend suffered. Darkness hung over Athos, and over all of them.
And yet...
I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me.
And if Aramis had any say in this, Athos wouldn't perish at all.
He tilted his head back, looking at Porthos at an awkward angle, smiling instinctively as his friend gave his shoulders a fond squeeze.
"Care to explain your plan?" Porthos asked, his voice so low it was just a rumble against Aramis' back.
"We'll help him relax a bit," Aramis said. He let his head fall backwards until it rested against Porthos. He could feel his friend's fingers card through his hair, pressing gently against his skull. Porthos did not rush him, he gave Aramis as much time as he needed to formulate his plan.
"I need Serge to boil water," Aramis said eventually. "As much as he can. And if you could get the bathtub up here..."
Porthos chuckled.
"I know," Aramis said. "But we can't move him out of the room and I think... well warm water usually helps with sore muscles. If we make it as hot as we can, maybe it'll bring him some relief."
Porthos hummed his assent. "He'll need it after all these days," he said.
Athos agreed. They put the plan in front of him after he had recovered from yet another spasm and he did not argue or even question Aramis' explanations. He merely blinked his eyes to signal his agreement.
"A hot bath... would be... welcome," Athos said, his voice even although he had to pause for breath frequently. "I have been... uncomfortable."
"Does it hurt a lot?" D'Artagnan asked. He had barely left Athos' bedside since his return, helping where he could, but mostly just watching him.
Athos remained silent for a few moments, clearly contemplating his options. Aramis imagined that he was chiding himself for some imagined weakness, wishing he could just deny his pain, but deciding it was too late for that.
"Do you know... the feeling... you sometimes... get at night... when you wake up... because... a cramp... has set into your foot?" Athos finally asked.
D'Artagnan nodded, as they all knew he would. They spent enough nights sleeping next to each other.
"It's like that," Athos said simply, as if that closed the matter.
A scoff came from the corner.
"Only that it's in every muscle in his body and it's been there for a week," Porthos said and d'Artagnan paled.
Athos closed his eyes for a moment.
"Porthos," he replied. "I was... attempting... to not frighten... the boy."
Aramis had to bite his own hand to keep from laughing out loud at that. Judging by the choked snort that came from Porthos, he was not alone in his predicament. For the space of one heartbeat, something like mirth flickered across Athos' face, but it was gone again as quick as an illusion.
Aramis smiled. There was still some of the usual snark in the sweating, shivering form of his friend.
It was more difficult than it ever should have been to provide a bath for Athos. The garrison had its own tub, a simple metal trough that was perfectly adequate for use in its usual place next to the kitchen. However, it was not built for traveling. Wrangling it up the stairs and into Tréville's room proved to be a challenge. Muffled curses and occasional clangs of metal could be heard from the courtyard.
Porthos had taken d'Artagnan with him, insisting that he needed his help and implying that a bit of air would do him good. Aramis was left alone with Athos, trying to keep up a light conversation with him to give him something to focus on. He kept telling himself that the others were just outside, a shout away if Athos should take a turn for the worse.
A shiver ran through Athos when Porthos came back into the room. They had dragged the metal screen that usually separated Tréville's bed from his office across the room and covered it with heavy blankets to keep out the light when they had to open the door. It was still not enough, the faint glow of daylight causing Athos to groan in pain.
Porthos cast Aramis a worried glance, but addressed Athos directly, kneeling next to the bed.
"We have to lift the tub upright to get it around the corner and through the door," he explained. "I can't do that with just d'Artagnan. We need Bernard's help."
Silence.
Bernard was the only musketeer to rival Porthos' strength and more than once besting him in hand-to-hand combat. If any one man was able to help them lift that tub, it was Bernard.
As the silence stretched, Aramis fully expected that they would have to argue with Athos. At the best of times, Athos was reluctant to share his perceived weaknesses with anyone. This time he had to. Aramis knew they were clutching at straws, but better straws than no hope at all. Maybe the bath would bring Athos relief and if Bernard was the only one able to help — then that was just the way it had to be.
But Athos would despise making a display of his feebleness. Bernard was a comrade they all valued highly, but he was still an outsider to their little circle and would be the first other than Tréville and the surgeon to step foot into the room since Athos had fallen ill.
"Go ahead," Athos said, softly, but with determination.
Porthos murmured his thanks and pressed a gentle kiss onto his hair, the only part of Athos they were somewhat confident they could touch without causing him additional pain.
"This won't be without light and noise," Aramis cautioned.
Athos looked up at him and somehow, inexplicably, there was trust in his eyes. He let out an audible breath before replying.
"Blindfold me."
He had refused the blindfold at his execution, but that had been then and now…now a sliver of light held more terror than a firing squad.
They moved the tub through the narrow doorway with great care, Porthos and Bernard taking the bulk of the weight while d'Artagnan nudged it in the right direction. Of course it did not go smoothly. Of course there was a metallic clang and of course Athos reacted to it.
Aramis had watched him closely and caught the telltale shiver immediately. Once again, Athos' neck snapped backwards, almost throwing off the cloth covering his eyes, and his fists clenched.
It was nothing, a small spasm, nothing out of their new ordinary.
But it was enough for Bernard to pale. He had carefully avoided looking at Athos, but turned when he heard the commotion of his fit. Porthos held him back.
"There's nothing we can do," he said.
Bernard shook his head, seemingly transfixed by the sad spectacle, but soon dragged his eyes away and turned his back to the bed, granting Athos the smallest bit of privacy.
"We pray," he said.
The tub successfully placed in the corner of the room, Bernard tipped his hat and turned to leave. Aramis was reminded why Athos in particular valued him beyond his considerable fighting prowess — he was a man of very few words.
Aramis escorted him to the door, expressing his thanks.
Bernard stopped, about to leave, and looked straight at Aramis.
"For when I am weak, then am I strong," he said before gently closing the door behind himself.
I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then am I powerful.
Aramis stared at the door in a daze. A fellow musketeer quoting Paul to him? Highly irregular, bible verses were usually his domain. For all that Athos was eager to correct his Latin, he rarely indulged in theological debates, even though he was exceptionally well-read.
For when I am weak, then am I powerful.
Paul explained all the things he had to endure by calling to mind Christ's suffering. I take pleasure in my infirmities... for Christ's sake. Aramis took no pleasure in Athos' infirmities, that much was certain. But he had to admit that there had been so much strength in Athos' weakness. He was truly powerful, and maybe Aramis himself needed the reminder of Christ's suffering. Taking pleasure in the situation he was put in, in aiding his friend in his suffering, to ensure he was as safe and comfortable as he possibly could be. There was weakness, but the four of them together were also incredibly strong. As long as they had Christ on their side, what was tetanus but a test from above?
For though I go in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they have comforted me.
Aramis smiled broadly and turned back towards his friends.
"Bath time!" he announced.
They made quick work of filling the tub. None of them even had to step outside; a chain of musketeers had formed between the kitchen and Tréville's room. They swiftly passed pail after pail of water from one to the other, Bernard right in front of the door. Even though Athos was hidden from view by the screen, Aramis appreciated his discretion.
Porthos helped Athos undress while Aramis and d'Artagnan fretted over the temperature of the bath. It needed to be as warm as possible, but not hot enough to scald Athos. They spread linens over the metal of the tub to make him as comfortable as possible.
All notions of comfort were forgotten when Porthos started to help Athos from the bed. Athos made no sound, but the unblinking stare of his eyes and the carefully measured breaths told Aramis just how painful and exhausting the process was. Almost a week without much sleep or food would take its toll on anyone, and Athos had been in supreme pain the entire time.
They slowly covered the few steps between the bed and the tub, Porthos taking most of Athos' weight. Athos' limbs were stiff and he was shaking with weakness, pain, or both.
Mercifully, all this activity was not accompanied by yet another spasm.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
Maybe it would work; maybe Athos would get to relax a little in the warm water. Aramis hoped and prayed for that small miracle with all his heart.
He dipped his hand into the bathwater once more, adding a bit more cold water.
"Well, they've both had their fingers all over your bath," Porthos said in a low voice. "Time for you to get in, mon cher."
With his body being so inflexible, settling Athos into the tub proved to be a real challenge. When he was finally submerged in the hot water, he was still stiff as a board and breathing in harsh little bursts, his eyes fixed on some faraway point, unseeing.
"At least you get your bath all to yourself," d'Artagnan said lightly. "I always had to go after father and mother, and when you work on the farm all day... you know..."
"Quit your whining," Aramis replied, joining in with d'Artagnan's attempt at some of their usual banter. "Some of us had siblings to contend with. I swear my sisters scrubbed me raw every time."
That drew a quiet chuckle from Porthos. "Always trouble with the ladies, mon ami."
"Not my fault maman kept birthing girls," Aramis protested. D'Artagnan and Porthos sniggered at that. His reputation as an incurable libertine never failed to amuse them.
"She needed... the help..." Athos replied. He was breathless and spoke in a hoarse whisper, but Aramis could have embraced him for this show of good spirit.
"Have you two been having correspondence?" he asked. "Her words exactly, she praises the Lord for granting her some support."
Athos seemed to relax a little in the warm water. Maybe it was Aramis' imagination, but he thought he saw the tightly clenched muscles unfurl ever so slightly. Maybe, just maybe, this was actually working. Maybe he had finally been allowed to find a way to give Athos some relief.
The three of them crouched around the tub, anxiously watching Athos.
"How is it, mon cher?" Porthos asked.
"It's good," Athos answered, struggling to focus his eyes, even though Porthos had made sure to move within his limited field of vision. To Aramis, his words were more beautiful than the song of heavenly choirs. It was working; it was good. They had finally found something that worked.
He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul.
The smell of camomile wafted around the room with the steam. Aramis had added some to the water. His mother used to do that when one of them had been ill and he was sure it wouldn't hurt.
Even if it did nothing for Athos, the familiar fragrance certainly calmed Aramis.
He watched as Athos' fingers slowly uncurled and were soon spread almost straight in the water. He seemed to be melting into the warmth like wax in a flame and it was a joy to witness. At least some of the pain seemed to be floating away on the water.
The bath was not a cure, but at least it provided some help in Athos' recovery. At least they had not subjected him to additional torment for nothing. A bit of relaxation was not much, but it was something. A bath every day, maybe, depending on how long the effects lasted and how Athos felt about it all. It was a plan, and it was finally something they could do for him.
When Athos suddenly slumped and his head fell face-first into the water, they all shouted in surprise.
D'Artagnan, who was closest, reacted quickly, dragging him up by his hair.
Aramis was next to him in an instant.
Dear Lord, let him not be dead.
Breathing.
Pulse.
"He's alive."
Athos was alive, unconscious, but not dead. Aramis had not killed him.
"Get him out."
Too hot, too much for his battered body, too much, and Aramis should have known. He should have realised he was only doing more harm.
Porthos lifted Athos like a ragdoll and placed him on the bed.
"Open the window."
It was too warm, the steam, the camomile, everything was too much, and Aramis needed air. Athos needed air.
The light breeze was a blessing.
Aramis frantically patted Athos dry. He had to get dry before he caught a cold on top of everything else — or worse. Who knew? This whole idea was cursed. He should have listened to the physician. He should have known. Too much. He had hurt Athos with his ineptitude. Through all of this, Athos had never passed out, but Aramis' ridiculous plan had done it.
D'Artagnan watched with wide eyes. The boy knew whose fault this was. If they lost Athos now, it was Aramis' fault. He was a poor excuse for a medic, a musketeer, and a friend. He had made it worse.
Porthos gently nudged him aside.
"Let me."
And Aramis was left to stand there with nothing to do. Watching Porthos make up for his failure.
He was shaking.
With more light than usual streaming through the open window, it became apparent just how emaciated Athos looked. His naked body was pale and weak. Too weak to bear such agitation. A hot bath — he should never have suggested it.
If Athos' heart had stopped...
"At least there's no spasm," d'Artagnan said and draped his arm around Aramis' shoulders.
No spasm.
But if his heart had stopped...
Athos woke briefly, but seemed barely aware of his surroundings before he dropped off into a deep sleep. He slept for hours and still there was no spasm, not even when he woke, completely exhausted, but not in any great deal of pain.
Aramis took the first watch that night, knowing he would not be able to sleep.
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
D'Artagnan had curled up in a ball at the foot of Athos' bed, unwilling to be even a few feet away from him. He had not said anything, had merely stared at Athos wide-eyed before falling asleep. His fear found voice in his sleep, as he whimpered softly.
Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!
Athos had heard the small sound d'Artagnan made, of course he had. He was always so attuned to the boy's needs.
"I'm sorry," Athos whispered, his voice somewhat stronger than before. "I'm sorry to heap this onto him."
Aramis shushed him. "Don't speak, mon cher ami. Preserve your strength. We will take care of d'Artagnan."
"He should not have to bear this," Athos said. "Nor should you. I am in your debt, Aramis, for all you do for me."
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand?
"I do very little," Aramis replied. "I endangered your life today."
"You saved it, countless times. You have given me relief today that I wasn't granted before," Athos said and Aramis could not believe that his unconsciousness was a good thing to him.
"What brutes are we to see that as relief," he said.
"It was more than I could have hoped for," Athos replied. "You all are. You have come with me into this hell and I thank you for it."
But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered.
They sat in silence for several minutes as Athos regained his breath. Even though the tetanus had for now released its relentless grip, he was still very weak.
"You do not need to stay and watch," he said eventually.
"It is..." Aramis started, but Athos interrupted him.
"It is my punishment to bear."
"It is not! God does not..."
"I know what I have done, Aramis. This is just punishment."
It was not and never could be. Nobody deserved this, certainly not Athos. Whatever sins he had committed, Aramis knew him as a just and honourable man. He had his faults, as they all did, but he was a good man.
"Don't resign yourself to this," Aramis pleaded. "You are strong."
"I shall fight," Athos said as calm as ever. "For them, for you, and for all you have lost, but I do not, for a moment, question the fairness of my sentence."
I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning.
Aramis prayed to find the right words, a way to comfort Athos.
"Your sins are forgiven," he reminded him, but Athos would have none of it.
"Some are born high and fall far," he insisted.
Athos had not fallen, had never failed anyone but himself and his own impossible expectations. But no matter which avenue Aramis tried, Athos would block his advances, so set was he in his terrible opinion of himself.
"It is not punishment," Aramis insisted. "You are merely a good man being tested by God."
Athos looked at him with great fondness and the slightest approximation of a smile ghosted across his face.
"If it makes it easier to bear for you, so be it."
When the spasms returned with renewed vigour, Aramis left the matter in God's hands. He did what he could to ease Athos's suffering, but he knew that his life, indeed both of their lives, were subject to a higher authority.
He spent the rest of the night in prayer.
O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem. It is he who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities.
Translations & Explanations
Être et durer —"To be and endure" Motto of the 3rd Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment of the French army.
Juste dieu — "Good god"
Job 23, 16-17 — "God has softened my heart, and the Almighty has troubled me. For I have not perished because of the darkness that hangs over me, neither has the mist covered my face."
2 Corinthians 12:10 —" I take pleasure in my infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ's sake. For when I am weak, then am I powerful."
Psalm 23, 1-4 — "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul. For though I go in the midst of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil; for you are with me. Your rod and your staff, they have comforted me."
Psalm 130 — "Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications! If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, Lord, who could stand? But there is forgiveness with you, so that you may be revered. I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the Lord more than those who watch for the morning, more than those who watch for the morning. O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is great power to redeem. It is he who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities."
A word about the bible verses: To be historically accurate, Aramis would in all likelihood be reading these in Latin, even though there were French translations around at the time. However, I made the decision early on that I would not use either of those languages for the passages from the bible, simply because I want those verses to resonate with people and that's difficult if the majority of my readership needs to scroll down for a translation. For reading ease, the versions I use might also not be the exact words of any official bible translation, but I will always provide you with the information you need to find a certain passage in the bible of your choice. I usually look at translations that were around at the time (namely the Geneva bible and the Douay-Rheims bible) first, but give myself some flexibility. They won't be the exact words that a historical Aramis would have read anyways, so I might as well take some freedom and pick the translation that works best in my context. While I do not fiddle with the content, I have sometimes made adjustments for readability (e.g. "makes" instead of "maketh"). So yes... I'm cheating with the historical accuracy!