A/N: thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter! Enjoy chapter 2. :)

Comes the Darkness

The second day is for rage.

Brilliant sunlight pierces the darkness behind his closed eyelids and Athos groans. The ground is hard and cold beneath him. He knows not where he is, or how he came to be there. It feels like stone beneath his hands, not dirt or wood, but this is little clue. He pushes himself upward onto his knees on principle, but his head spins with residual intoxication and he slumps to the ground. His head lolls limply onto his arm, and he sinks back into a half-dream.

Athos is falling again, falling through his memory, through sun-dappled shadow onto soft silk. Equally soft warmth reaches his cheek through the fabric, and when he breathes he inhales the scent of soap and clean skin and lavender left from the clothes press. He shifts a little and the aroma of lavender mingles with that of grass and sun-warmed soil. Slender fingers run delicately through his hair and he lets out a little contented sigh.

Ninon de Larroque smiles at him when he opens his eyes, haloed by sunlight. His head is pillowed in her lap. He smiles at her sleepily. For a moment he feels so safe and warm and loved that he forgets everything else beyond her. A little blue flower falls from her hair to land on his face, and she laughs as she brushes it out of his beard. He reaches up to take her hand, but Ninon is no longer Ninon.

His wife looks down at him now, her lips pressed into a cruel smile. His wife the temptress, his wife the liar, his wife the murderess!

Athos cries out with horror as her green eyes narrow in rage and her fingers become vices in his hair. Golden sunlight becomes flame, the flames of his old life, the flames of hellfire, as she holds him close and presses a sharp slender blade to his throat. There is a part of him that thrills to her touch, warring with the part of him willing her to cut his throat, but his brother's blood cries out for vengeance and he struggles in her grasp. Some demonic strength has possessed her and he cannot get away.

He shouts again, but this time the sound is not in his dream; he can hear it echoing back at him off stone. Something that feels like a broom hits Athos the Musketeer and he drags himself to his feet, reeling with drink and despair. He still does not know where he is, nor does he care. Angry shouts chase him out into the street. His wife's smirk sears into his back.

Hatred swells through him while he stalks through cobbled streets in search of wine, poisoning his thoughts, his blood, even the pleasant dream of love and sunlight. It is all her doing. She entrapped him, she lied to him, she murdered his brother in cold blood. She even managed to take Ninon and everything she might have been away from him. He hates her, hates what she had done, and hates what she has made him do.

Yet the memory of her fine green eyes still makes his heart pound and even now, after five years and all her crimes, he still sometimes wakes longing for her touch. She has always had this spell over him, like she did with all men. Even after he sentenced her to die he could refuse her nothing; not her white gown nor her little nosegay of forget-me-nots, as though she was bound for her wedding day rather than her execution.

Another tavern, another table, another bottle, ad infinitum. The locket weighs down upon his neck like a millstone but Athos cannot bring himself to throw it away. He has not the strength. He grips his bottle so hard his knuckles go white, cup and any last shreds of his dignity long forgotten while he tries to drown the memory of her so-called love. The day is lost in long stretches of wine- induced darkness punctuated by short staccato bursts of awareness that slowly become blacker and blacker with pent-up rage.

The sun is setting blood-red in the western sky when Athos next comes to himself, swaggering brazenly into a tavern he knows will be filled with Red Guards. He wants to fight, needs to fight, needs to release some of this accursed rage within him before it claws through his chest. He takes a table and calls for wine, glowering blearily, daring them to approach.

It will not be a long wait. Many of the veteran Guards recognize him even without his fleur-de-lis and know well not to rise to his bait, not in his current temper. But there is always a man hoping to impress his peers by killing a Musketeer, or raw recruits drunk and stupid enough to challenge him. Athos is counting on them.

There is a table full of younger guards, just a bit older than d'Artagnan but with much less sense, nearby. He waits, nursing his wine while they work up their courage. After several bottles, they decide that Athos' mere presence is insult enough to Red Guard to challenge him. He readily accepts, though the wine has now cost him the feeling in his fingertips, and follows them outside. They set upon him four to one.

Athos salutes them mockingly as he drops into his en garde. They like their odds, four against one. He likes them too. In this miserable part of Paris, no one will interfere if he is in over his head. Maybe, the darkness whispers, maybe this time they will manage to kill him.

It is not to be. He is less than steady on his feet, but his blood is up and his blade does not waver. Athos beats them back one after another with flat and pommel, guard and fist, with none of the fine bladework that is his pride and with every brutish trick Porthos has ever taught him. He does not kill any of them; he never does, but he beats the first to draw steel within an inch of his life. The three remaining Red Guards flee, dragging their injured friend, bleeding and cursing this mad Musketeer.

"Come back and finish the job, damn you!" Athos roars after them, though he staggers with drink and exhaustion. "Are you men or dogs? Cowards! Come back and fight!"

"Athos?" a familiar voice asks incredulously from behind. For an instant, his hot blood runs cold and fear clenches in his stomach. It sounds like Aramis. It cannot be; Aramis cannot see him like this, he cannot he must not-

He whirls around. The sudden motion is too much for his wine-saturated head, and the world tilts crazily to one side. His sword slips out of his hand. His knees buckle, forcing him to grab at the alley wall to keep from falling to the cobbles. Athos still slides halfway down before he manages to catch himself. Someone's hands are clutching his coat, helping prop him upright. He flinches away from the touch and opens his eyes.

Aramis stares back at him, his dark eyes wide with shock and horror as he peers into Athos' face. "My God, Athos," he breathes. He looks Athos up and down as if to check him for injury; glances over his shoulder at the fleeing Red Guards. "What- Why- My God, what are you doing in this place?"

He should not speak, lest Aramis accidentally learn the truth, but the wine has stolen his resolve and the words tear themselves from his breast. "I am judged, Aramis!" Athos cries. A bubble of hysterical laughter rises to his lips and he wrenches his jacket from Aramis' fingers. "I am judged as I have judged!"

Aramis' face crinkles with worry. He reaches towards a cut on Athos' cheek (Athos can feel blood trickling down even if there is no pain) but Athos shies away. "Athos," Aramis says softly, looking him in the eye. It is the same tone he uses to gentle a startled horse. "My friend, you are not yourself."

He moves to place his hands on Athos' shoulders. Athos' blood still screams for violence and he can only see the potential threat. Before he is quite aware of his actions, he has Aramis by the neck. He jams his left forearm under Aramis' chin while his right hand draws his dagger from the small of his back and presses it to his friend's exposed throat. Aramis raises his hands slowly in surrender.

A wave of dizziness caused by the sudden movement sweeps over him and Athos stumbles. The dagger edge catches in Aramis' skin before Athos can steady himself, and a few drops of blood trickle down his neck. Aramis' face goes very white but he does not move. "Your God has judged me, Aramis," Athos explains, suddenly desperate for someone to understand. "And He has found me wanting!"

"Athos, listen to me," Aramis pleads. His throat bobs nervously under Athos' blade, but his voice is even. "You are unwell. Let me help."

Athos almost laughs again madly. Aramis is right; he is not well. He is sick with hate and drink and darkness. But he stops when he sees there is fear in Aramis' eyes, real fear. There is trust too, and Athos sees Aramis' fear is not for himself. Suddenly, he realizes this is Aramis, his friend, his brother, that he is holding here at the point of a knife. With a choked cry, Athos releases him. Aramis stumbles away, holding his hand to the cut on his neck. The naked fear and confusion on his face sear deep into Athos' very soul.

"He has judged me for my sins and I am in Hell!" Athos cries wildly after him. Somehow he crouches to retrieve his fallen sword without collapsing and staggers to his feet. He must get away from Aramis before he drags him down into the darkness. "There is no help for me!"

One more chapter to go after this. Please review! :)