A/N: This chapter was getting so long that I decided to split it into two in order to get it published more quickly! Many thanks to RedTigress, VleRoux, and Isilarma of The Beta Branch for their help and suggestions!

Comes the Darkness

The Third Day

The numbness sets in on the third day.

Slowly, very slowly, Athos wakes into a dim, quiet emptiness. The torrent of rage and sorrow has at last run dry, wringing out every last thought, draining every last emotion from his soul. He might weep with relief, if he could bring himself to feel anything at all.

At first, he doesn't move, doesn't even open his eyes, for fear of disturbing the spell. He is drifting somewhere on the edge between intoxication and sobriety. Too much movement in either direction will shatter the hard-won numbness and render his earlier torment irrelevant. The goal now is to consume just enough wine to stay on that edge for as long as he can until his body rebels. With luck, there is perhaps another day before the physical misery sets in. He needs that blessed day of numbness, that day of nothing, to face the coming weeks.

Athos feels his eyes move a little under their lids. Wherever he is, he is lying on something soft and warm. No one has shouted at him yet, which he takes as a good omen. He can sense daylight, but he is not outdoors. He shifts a little and gradually becomes aware of the weight of a blanket covering his body. It feels rather like he is in his own bed. That would be an unexpected surprise.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he reaches down for where a bottle should be on the floor. He gropes for a moment but finds nothing. There is just the barest twitch of irritation under the numbness. Athos opens his eyes.

It takes him a moment to recognize the ceiling. He is at home, in his own bed. He can't bring himself to question how he got there. Gingerly, Athos pushes himself up on one elbow so he can reach farther and search the floor below the bed more carefully. His head twinges warningly and he winces a little. There should be something down there, even empty-

"We tidied up for you," says a familiar voice.

A low chuckle, belonging to a second voice, rumbles around the room. "Looked like one of Madame Angel's parties had been here."

Athos freezes. He blinks once, twice, cringing as the sunlight from the cracks in the shutters pierces his sensitive eyes. His heart sinks. He is not alone.

Aramis is sitting in the single chair, his boots up on the table and his hat resting in his lap. Porthos leans against the wall near the doorway with his arms folded across his chest. Athos looks between them with narrowed eyes. There is a single bottle of wine on the table beside Aramis' boots. He studies it calculatingly. It won't be enough, not nearly enough, but it will be a start. He is too numb to be ashamed of the thought.

Regardless, all will be lost if he doesn't get rid of them soon. Athos licks dry lips with a drier tongue. "Get out," he orders hoarsely.

Porthos and Aramis look at each other and shrug, clearly unconcerned by his displeasure. "Have you any idea of the time?" Aramis asks rhetorically.

"Or the day?" Porthos adds.

Athos slumps back onto his pillow and throws his arm over his face. The first throbs of a dull ache are beginning to pound behind his eyes, and cracks are beginning to appear in the precious numbness. If he doesn't get a drink soon, they will spread and the illusion of peace will be gone. Porthos' boots creak heavily across the floor and a moment later the shutters have been flung wide open, flooding his room with fresh air and sunlight. Athos can't help crying out in protest.

"You were supposed to be on duty this morning," Porthos says reproachfully. Something that feels suspiciously like a boot impacts the leg of his bed, jostling it. His head spins and Athos bites his lip to keep from groaning aloud. It was remarkably unfair of Aramis to drag Porthos into this, though he cannot quite place why. "D'Artagnan's covering for you."

"And yesterday. And the day before that," Aramis observes. He pauses for dramatic effect, and Athos can picture his vaguely amused expression. "We told Treville you were taken ill."

"It's no small thing to lie to a superior officer," Porthos says. Athos cannot help rising to the bait.

"I did not ask you to lie for me!" he snaps at them. Tired frustration is seeping through the numbness. He forces himself to sit up, wincing and cursing inwardly as his sore muscles protest being driven upright. He holds a hand up to shade his eyes from the agonizingly bright sunlight.

"You'd think he wants a court-martial," Porthos remarks to Aramis.

"Well, that's one way to leave the service."

Something sour gurgles warningly in Athos' stomach and he scowls. He is going to be sick in earnest if he does not get some of that wine. He has long since accepted the physical price of his dark periods, the subsequent days of misery as his wine-poisoned body purges itself. The coming suffering will provide oblivion of sorts, but he isn't quite ready to face that agony so soon after the other. "Come to the point," he growls at them. "Or leave me be."

Aramis curls one end of his moustache thoughtfully. "You see, Athos, one day might have gone overlooked. Perhaps you needed a day to mourn the loss of the fair Comtesse de Larroque?"

How very like Aramis to assume everything was about a woman. He hits much closer to the mark than Athos likes, though, even if he has the details wrong. Athos will not speak of it, not to Porthos, not to Aramis, not to anyone. He glowers murderously at Aramis, who merely exchanges a knowing glance with Porthos. They both smirk.

"I see. Completely understandable. But three days…three days, my friend, is excessive."

"Three days made us wonder," Porthos rumbles. "And once we started hearing rumors of a Musketeer run mad, well...you didn't know her that well, did you?"

Athos stiffens and looks up sharply, ignoring the stab of pain through his head. His memories of the previous night are fragmental at best, blurred by wine and darkened by rage, but mad does not seem to be very far off. He can feel the blood draining from his face. If whatever he had done had brought open shame upon the unit, if he had been recognized by someone who mattered, his commission could be at stake. God knows it is all he has left.

"It was only a rumor, of course," Aramis hastily reassures him. "Everyone knows Red Guards are such…unreliable witnesses."

Porthos grunts. "They'll say anything to make us look bad, they will."

"Regardless," Aramis continues, "Accustomed as we are to your usual drinking habits, imagine my surprise finding you were the mad Musketeer."

Athos has a sudden confused vision of blades and bellowing after men in red sleeves; of Aramis' horror and the tear of his own flesh against a plaster wall. His face grows warm as he slumps to cradle his head in his hands. Tender skin pulls on his cheek and he runs his thumb along a cut he does not remember receiving.

"After last night," Porthos says, his leathers creaking as he shifts to hook his thumbs in his belt, "We got to thinking. You've done this before."

"There was that time in Lille a year or two back," Aramis observes, idly stroking one of the feathers on his hat. "You disappeared for a few days; caught us up on the road."

"I've never seen a man go so white at a field of flowers," adds Porthos.

Athos studies his scraped knuckles. They were not really trying if that was the only occasion they could come up with. Lille itself was nothing but a drunken blur, but he vividly remembers the sick, twisting shock of recognition at the sight of the little blue flowers. "Forget-me-nots," he corrects Porthos dully, without thinking. He runs his hands miserably through his tousled hair. "They were forget-me-nots."

Porthos and Aramis look to him in unison, like hounds on a scent. Athos curses himself for saying too much, but there is naught he can do about it now. He grits his teeth and stubbornly refuses to elaborate through their expectant silence. After a moment, Aramis huffs a little and Porthos shrugs.

"You've not been yourself since La Fere," Porthos continues, taking a different tack. "Don't think we haven't noticed."

The name sends a chill down Athos' spine. D'Artagnan had found him there in the flames of his family home; half-mad with shock and drink and raving about his wife. He had almost, almost convinced himself that the foggy memories of that night had been a nightmare, that the cold touch of her blade against his throat and the warmth of her embrace had been nothing but a drunken hallucination, until she had walked out and spoke before God and the Cardinal at Ninon's trial. What had the boy told them?

"You disappeared after that, too," Aramis says. "Though only for a night."

"I thought d'Artagnan was with him," Porthos points out, frowning a little.

"He was," Aramis confirms. "He went-"

Athos can feel the snare tightening around him. They know. They have to know. He will kill d'Artagnan for breaking his trust. He squeezes his temples against the beastly pounding in his skull with a shaking hand. "What did that damn boy tell you?" he snarls before Aramis can finish his statement.

Porthos and Aramis exchange looks, as if surprised by his sudden temper.

"D'Artagnan has not told us anything," Aramis tells him gently, but a shrewd light has come into his eyes. Athos feels his shoulders slump in defeat. He is a fool. All he has done was confirm for them that something occurred at La Fere. "This…wasn't about Ninon, was it?"

Athos does not respond. The hard-won numbness is slipping through his fingers like sand, only to be replaced by the faint tendrils of darkness he had been trying to forget. He is desperate to stave them off. Dread is beginning to seep into his stomach to mingle with the sour bile of too much drink. The chain of her locket has twisted around his fingers again. He grips it tightly. He will not tell them; he will not. He will not endure their judgment, too.

"That woman, Athos," Porthos prompts. He has scented blood now, they both have, Athos notes with dismay. He nudges a stool out from under the table with the toe of his boot and takes a seat. "At the trial. Who is she to you?"

His question is the last straw. Athos finally loses his temper. They have already stolen his day of quiet, that single day of nothing he pays such a stiff price to obtain; they will not have his secrets too.

"Get out!" Athos shouts at them, leaping to his feet. His limbs tremble like water under his weight but his anger keeps him upright. He is suffocating, drowning in hot shame but damned if he will let them see any more of his weakness. "My secrets are mine, and mine alone! Now leave me be."

Aramis' face hardens and his boots drop to the floor with a loud thump. The fresh cut on his throat stands out like an accusation. He has another flash of memory, of Aramis' wide eyes and blood trickling from the edge of his dagger, and Athos swallows hard against a sudden stab of guilt. "Last night, you made them Musketeer business," Aramis says sharply, leaning forward and stabbing a finger at him for emphasis. "It's either us, or Treville."

Something hot burns behind Athos' eyes at the threat and he reaches for his sword, even though he can hardly keep to his feet. But it is not on its pegs on the wall. He whirls around, gritting his teeth against the wave of dizziness that follows. Porthos shifts a little to one side, and Athos sees his rapier leaning against the table, well out of reach behind Porthos' back. His hands clench into frustrated fists.

"Athos," Porthos drawls reasonably, shooting a warning look at Aramis. He leans back, blocking Athos' view of his sword. "We're your friends."

Aramis leans back in his seat with forced casualness. He uncorks the wine and sniffs with exaggerated delicacy, using the gesture to regain his composure. Athos hates how his eyes are suddenly riveted to the bottle. "You're not leaving this chamber until you tell us what troubles you," Aramis tells Athos with a small smile, his brief spell of temper passed.

Out of sheer, ungentlemanly spite, Athos looks to the window. For a moment, he considers chancing it, but Porthos catches his eye and twitches his eyebrows meaningfully. Athos glances down and realizes he is stripped to his linen, barefoot, in no condition to flee unless he wishes to cement his reputation as the mad musketeer. A quick glance around finds his leathers across the room, folded neatly on top of his wooden chest. His boots are lined up below. Porthos' doing, judging by his smirk, though Aramis undoubtedly had a hand in it.

Athos scowls. Near-naked, weaponless, and barefoot. They've trapped him, and trapped him well.

Suddenly, he is tired of fighting. Athos sags back to his seat on the bed and leans against the wall. The plaster is hard and cool against his aching head. It feels good against the little raw place at the nape of his neck, where the chain of the locket chafed his skin.

Aramis notices the change in his demeanor and tilts the bottle a little. Athos looks up at the gurgle of liquid. "A little hair of the dog to ease things along?" Aramis asks with a little encouraging smile. Athos would hit him, if he could only summon the volition to move.

Porthos guffaws. "He needs the whole dog, more like."

Athos shoots him a withering look, eliciting a chuckle from Aramis. He is not so far gone that the idea of wine is revolting, yet, nor is he too proud to delay the wine-sickness by drinking a little more. He accepts the cup wordlessly and drains it in one go, ignoring Porthos' disapproving grunt. The pounding in his head starts to fade almost immediately. He rubs his free hand blearily across his face.

When he looks up, Porthos and Aramis are watching him expectantly. Their open, earnest faces, gone serious with concern, make his heart twist painfully. She has already poisoned everything good in his life; was she now to poison them, to turn them against him, as well?

But he cannot run from them any longer. He sighs a little with defeat. "You were right," Athos admits slowly. His tongue is reluctant; he has to force the words out, but his voice is steady. "The…woman at the trial. I knew her. She is not Madame de la Chappelle."

Porthos looks to Aramis, who is frowning slightly. "Then who is she?"

Athos' heart pounds horribly against his ribs. He forces himself to breathe deeply. "She was once the Comtesse de la Fere," he says tonelessly, putting every last ounce of control he can muster into keeping his voice steady. "My wife."