A/N - If you're interested - the descriptions in this chapter of both the outside and the inside of the Berner Münster are as accurate as I could make them from pouring over pictures. Before the Reformation reached the Swiss Confederacy in the late 1520s, the Berner Münster was purposefully stripped of most of its priceless art, leaving it looking empty and barren. Whether or not this state of affairs influenced radicals who destroyed religious institutions throughout Europe, the carving of the Last Judgment over the front doors was not chipped away, nor were the stained glass windows, dating back to the mid 1400s, ruined, as happened in many other places. The internal carvings of the stalls in the choir loft described here were left intact as well.
Translations
prie dieu - prayer bench
joie de vivre - cheerful enjoyment of life or exultation of spirit
"Religion without art is so much less ... seductive." - Aramis S1E5 - The Homecoming
Chapter Five
Athos' head rang with each resounding peal of the bells calling the faithful to services throughout the city. The bright morning sun streaming through the striated layers of fog rolling off the encircling river lanced an ache deep behind his eyeballs, but on the whole, Aramis' witch doctoring had done its job. Weariness yet dogged the comte's heels, but it was the kind of lassitude brought on by too little sleep after a long night of revelry, not the dragging stupor of illness he had been dealing with.
He had been mentally rehearsing his apology throughout their walk to the center of Berne's religious life, but left off his cogitations as his party approached the Berner Münster from the opposite end of Münsterplatz.
Aramis was instantly entranced with the scene of the Last Judgment intricately carved above the tall twin doors inset beneath the middle, and tallest, pointed Gothic arch. Two slightly less lofty arches with single inset doors completed the front of facade.
"What is it?" Porthos tilted his hat back to study the carvings. "Looks like a lot a nekkid people to me, 'n some angels, maybe."
"That is Justice in the middle." Aramis pointed. "The saints - clothed - on the right; sinners - unclothed - on the left. Miraculous, really, that this was not completely obliterated in the Reformation."
"That mean we ain't sinners 'cause we're clothed?" Porthos inquired with a smirk, sliding a hand around Aramis' neck to urge him forward. "You c'n look at it to yer heart's content after the service. I don' wanna be tromping up the aisle to the Venner's pew once it's started."
"True." Aramis allowed himself to be chivvied forward.
d'Artagnan, performing door duty again, bowed each of them through, allowing the door to whisper shut behind their quartet. Athos, the set of his shoulders square beneath the blue cape, was already moving up the center aisle with that take-no-prisoners stride of his, boots ringing on the quarried blue sand stone floors.
Aramis counted fourteen flying buttresses supporting the high vaulting of the central nave, noted the lacy gothic style of the ceiling and tallied no less than ten small bays hosting chapels dedicated to various saints. The soaring edifice did not require the extra dressing the reformers had stripped away. Though some wise soul, free of the frenzy of spiritual chaos, had thoughtfully stored away that art rather than allow its desecration.
The very bones of the structure invited one's spirit to transcend the mundane and soar to the gates of heaven. Aquifers of ascended prayers permeated the porous stone, the scent of incense and beeswax an eternal reminder of souls gone before. The sandstone columns and capitals, the repeating pointed arches, the bent light transfiguring what was left of centuries old statuary all declaimed glory to God in the highest.
Aramis would have overshot their destination so enamored was he of the morning sun pouring through the stained glass windows, repainting the brilliant colors of the heraldic devices and religious iconography on the floors between the choir stalls.
Porthos fisted a hand in the back of Aramis' cape, stopping his forward movement, though it did not stop his feet until his mind left off drinking in the beauty of the interior to process the cessation of his forward progress. Still he did not move, at Porthos' urging, into the row of seats. His gaze was transfixed.
Somber as the subject was, Aramis particularly liked the windows depicting The Dance of Death - a stained glass skeleton claiming people from all walks of life regardless of station or wealth. This was how spirituality should be framed, in magnificent splendor, the sacred and the mundane side by side; an allegory of life. For who among them lived in a soap bubble of perfection?
He came back to himself with a shake of his head only when Porthos dragged him into the row, attempting to seat him next to Athos. There ensued another kind of dance as Aramis, with a lifted eyebrow at Athos, ensured a mystified d'Artagnan was seated by the comte, who had taken the chair next to Madam Joos.
By the time they were all seated, Porthos having to step over d'Artagnan's long legs after Aramis plunked down on the other side of the youth, the Venner's lady had a black fan lifted before her face to hide an amused smile.
Aramis had been oblivious as the rest of his team had greeted the Venner and his lady wife. He bent forward at the waist, offering subdued salutations. "You are fortunate in your place of worship," he whispered.
Smiling nods of approbation met the heartfelt admission with agreement. The sanctuary rustled with the same sound as a room full of silkworms pursuing their instinctual purpose as Aramis settled himself to luxuriate in the unusual opportunity. At home, church attendance usually meant guard duty, or the occasional fishing expedition for a new patroness.
Three seats down he caught movement in his peripheral vision and turn his head slightly to watch Madam Joos lean to Athos. He could not discern the words, but the contrition on her face appeared sincere.
"Herr Joos was exceedingly vexed with me last night," the lady breathed into Athos' ear, "I am to apologize for angering you with my poor hospitality."
Athos controlled the instinct to draw back. He would consider the implications of that disclosure later, he thought silently, though perhaps there was a God after all. At least they were not to be expelled from Berne like so much dross in the wind. "I must apologize as well," he responded quietly, infusing as much sincerity into it as possible. "The blame lies entirely with me." Perhaps the almost playful tone of her admission should have warned him, but Athos was too relieved to parse such a small thing.
"Nay, my lord. I alone am at fault, it was discourteous of me to tease you so."
Tease? His mind recoiled instantly. His dead wife had used to tease him endlessly, though at the time he'd thought it merely an infatuated lover's prerogative. In light of the investigation he had instigated upon the death of his brother, that teasing had taken on sinister overtones.
"Truce, then?" he offered neutrally, with that inclination of the head that might have been copied from kings and potentates across the continent - or might have been arrogated by kings and potentates from Olivier d'Athos de la Fère.
The dame behind them hissed disapprovingly.
Beside him, the forward Venner's wife slipped a hand beneath Athos' elbow, squeezing his forearm briefly. "Truce," she agreed, her soft spoken accord continuing to be colored with a gaiety foreign both to the circumstances and their surrounds. Strange too, since if one looked into her eyes they appeared flat as coins laid upon the eyelids of the dead.
Athos resigned himself to an uncomfortable afternoon. Hell - an uncomfortable trip, period.
Aramis had plastered and potioned and piled blanket upon blanket last night, until Athos had thought he would smother beneath the crucible of quilts. But the fever had broken, leaving him weak as a newborn kitten. He had slept, finally, toward dawn, waking to Aramis' regretful physiognomy and insistent hand.
Athos had wanted to rescind his own order and roll away from those persistent fingers. Duty had dragged him out of bed, bathed the recalcitrant body sagging over the wash stand and eventually seen him tidily dressed and waiting on his companions as they broke their fast. Food had held no appeal, though Aramis had insisted the comte break his fast. The night had taken its toll, Athos' body needed sustenance, especially fluids to replenish all it had sacrificed.
Aramis was a fiend when it came to his patients. One complied with his orders or suffered the consequences the next time one found oneself in a quandary requiring a healer's assistance. Athos and Porthos had both learned diffidence in the face of Aramis' highhandedness when it came to matters of medical import.
Madam Joos did not remove her hand, leaving it to rest lightly upon his sleeve as though they were boon companions. Athos let it lie, though he had to repress an involuntary shudder; her familiarity both attracted and repelled. He was unused to being in the no-man's-land of indecisiveness and disliked it excessively.
What little he had eaten was threatening to reappear. He sternly forbade such an occurrence and arranged his features into their usual glacier composition. This female would not discommode him again.
Athos turned his attention to the carvings in the choir stalls, eyeing the intricate details of the heraldic beast of Berne sitting upright with its back to a chair knob, clutching a disproportionally largish berry between its paws. There was a cherub sucking its toes and a jester with one foot planted on the mask of tragedy eternally plucking the strings of a lyre set across his lap. Art he could appreciate, though the sanguinity of spirituality pervading the place did not touch his soul in the same way he had seen it plumb the depths of his friend just a few moments ago.
Madam Joos leaned into his shoulder, not so obviously as to be remarked, even by the disdainful female behind, yet the contact scorched like fire, making his skin crawl beneath jacket and shirt sleeve. Her bejeweled fingers began to pet the back of his - thankfully gloved - hand resting on his thigh, setting every nerve ending to quivering. It irritated him no end that a strange thread of desire wove itself into the bleak landscape of revulsion, though he did rather desire to slap those progressively importunate digits.
The Venner, who had risen with sagacious politesse on their arrival, greeting Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos with grave bows and Aramis' enthrallment with smiling charity, now turned an approving beam upon his wife, patting her other hand in obvious encouragement.
Had the priest not been making his way to the high alter to begin the service, Athos might have turned yellow and fled the battlefield. Madam Joos he could handle; the Venner pandering his wife as a negotiating tool was more than a bit maladroit.
The Musketeer bowed his head, closed his eyes and prayed to a god he did not believe in, for forbearance and equanimity. On his other side, d'Artagnan leaned into his shoulder too, head bowed as well, though the dark gaze sought his, eyebrows raising beneath the fringe of long hair. A well of solidarity to draw from. Beyond the youth, Aramis and Porthos wore identical expressions of smugness.
Athos would deal with them later. An eye blink and the slightest of shoulder shifts garnered a relieved smile from the Gascon - and a moment of complete accord - before they both turned their faces up to the altar, ostensibly at least, listening to the Word.
The Venner, his wife, and their guests, were the center of attention after services. The belle of the ball was besieged by a flock of silk-clad mammas towing equally eager daughters in their wake. While Aramis, quite often the recipient of all that attention, disappeared into the cavernous depths of the cathedral, probably to lay his hands upon the stone in an effort to eke out the last bits of tranquility he could draw into his soul.
d'Artagnan glued himself to Athos' shoulder, a fluid mirror as Athos bowed and complimented and seethed.
"The carriage will be around front by now if you would prefer to wait in its obscurity," Herr Joos declared affably.
Athos bore his scrutiny without remark, though the uptick at the corners of his lips could hardly be deemed a smile. "My thanks, we will retire there when Aramis joins us again."
"He seems much captivated by the charm of our sanctuary."
"He is," Athos agreed easily. "Though Aramis is enthralled by every cathedral he meets. He is quite ecumenical in his regard for all things ... spiritual."
"Perhaps he missed his calling?" the Venner suggested lightly, drawing on the gauntlets he had removed to greet friends and neighbors.
At Athos' shoulder, d'Artagnan shifted on the balls of his feet, the Musketeer correctly interpreting the pivot as an unvoiced shout of laughter. "Some might think so," Athos replied smoothly, canting a hip into the youth, whose lips twitched with the silent shared jest.
Porthos, having had his fill of praise and glory, joined them. "What's 's funny?" His brows drew together at the uncomprehendingly blank faces the pair turned on him.
"Funny?" Athos queried, d'Artagnan's quiet camaraderie lifting his dark mood in a way he could not have foreseen. "Nothing. We should find Aramis; our hosts may wish to leave soon." Dispensing that small shared moment of harmony would distill its impact. He turned so he could slide through the disorderly row of empty chairs across the aisle.
"Last I saw him, he was headed toward the stalls up front." d'Artagnan glanced that way again.
"Choir loft," Porthos grunted, having hung around Aramis long enough to have learned a thing or two about cathedrals as well. "Not surprisin', though hopefully he won't succumb to the urge to try out the sound."
d'Artagnan, starting across the empty expanse between the chairs and the chancel, looked over his shoulder.
"He likes to sing." Porthos grinned, following in the puppy's footsteps. "Though he's usually discreet about his venues. Unless he's drunk."
Athos found their errant Musketeer kneeling at a prie dieu in one of the small side chapels, an onyx set of rosary beads echoing softly around the space as they clicked through the long, slender fingers in counterpoint to the whisper of sound as Aramis prayed.
Athos set his feet, crossed his arms and waited. This accommodation was not his to gainsay. d'Artagnan and Porthos joined him shortly, coming almost on tiptoe in deference to Aramis'' solemnity.
The Venner and Madam Joos, too, found them, and still Aramis remained on his knees, head bowed, a bead occasionally clacking a little more assertively against its mates, a supplication repeated with emphasis; a blessing given extra merit.
There was about Aramis' person, a contemplative calm, as he rose. An aura of inner peace glimpsed only from the corner of the eye and only if one knew what to look for. Athos, who counted himself a Philistine, caught the shimmer of it and was glad for his friend.
"My apologies." Their marksman moved with consummate grace to light a candle outside the chapel, carefully placing a handful of coins in the requisite box so they did not jangle jarringly. "I did not mean to hold everyone up. Are we ready to depart?"
Madam Joos smiled benevolently. "Only if you are, Herr Aramis." She took his arm, though far more impersonally that she had plied Athos' arm. "Perhaps you would prefer we linger a little longer and request Father Pfyffer tour us around the place. He is a bit of an historian and would love an appreciative audience. Herr Joos and I both remarked your appreciation."
"Another day, perhaps." Aramis bowed, extending a graceful hand toward the narthex. "It would be my pleasure to spend time here with Father Pfyffer, but not today when my wanderings would hold up everyone else."
"I hope you will have time to return here, then, before you leave." Madam Joos smiled, allocating a filial pat that fanned Athos' slow burn to flame.
The worst of it was, the woman knew it. If she'd been a cat, she would have been purring. He could not fathom why he had been singled out for her feline attentions. Despite the strange sense of familiarity, he could conjure no memory of her, but then his rather solitary jaunt across the continent had not been about female companionship, rather the opposite. He'd left home hoping to rid himself of the fingerprints a woman had left on his soul; he had not gone looking for new ones to cover them over.
Aramis would likely tell him that alone put him in the role of mouse in the usual court games. No matter if he was rich as Croesus or pockets to let, whether he bore the mien of a gargoyle or King Louis, any man desiring to hold himself aloof from women became instantly more attractive. He had learned this for himself, abroad, but forgotten the lesson. It had been the sole reason for his participation, as the deeper he had hidden in the shadows, the more sought after he'd become. So he had quit hiding and forced his retiring nature into submission, joined in the dancing, acceded to requests to 'make up the numbers', ridden to hounds though the sport did not appeal, and generally made himself agreeable in whatever capacity was required of him.
Nothing had worked. Those fingerprints remained deeply embedded; he had found nothing to erase or pry them out. When he'd grown tired of putting on an agreeable front, he'd collected his horse and his manservant, and made his way back through the frozen wastelands of Russia in the dead of winter. Once he'd made up his mind, there was no stopping his progress toward Paris and a sudden resolve to pursue a long-stifled dream. Not the constant sniveling despair of his valet that they would never see home again; not the short days or blustery winds that all but drove them backwards; not even the winter wastes themselves, one day icy, the next boggy as a swamp. They had traveled back by the northern route through Livonia and Prussia, across to Brandenburg and down through Saxony over to Luxemburg and back into France through Reims and then to Paris. Though the sniveling varlet of a valet had been dropped at Pinon, replaced by a more stalwart individual who could not only tie a cravat, but shoe horses as well, though even the replacement had been sent home shortly after their arrival in Paris.
Despite his apparent willingness to share, the Venner seemed domestically content with his wife. Which was too bad, since Athos' palms were itching to commit bloody murder. He wondered how deep the Aare was and how much weight it would require to keep the body submerged.
Dinner, a long slow torturous affair served al fresco on the Joos' back terrace, with several other guests in attendance as well, took up most of the afternoon.
The wine, an excellent vintage, flowed as though the Venner owned a winery, and was far more palatable than Aramis' potions. Madam Joos discovered Athos' singular weakness and made certain his glass was constantly refilled.
And, as the empty bottles began to stack up, Athos, in a much improved mood, discovered Madam Joos' delightful side. He had purposely staked a claim on a single chair so as to avoid madam's over familiarity and yet, she had pulled up a chair as close as possible and begun a nattering recitation of her travels around the continent with her widowed sister.
The woman sighed theatrically. "My lord, I've flirted outrageously in an attempt to jog your memory and still you don't remember me."
Athos refrained from rolling his eyes. He did not have enough hairs on his head to count the numbers of times he'd heard women sigh those exact same words to Aramis. Only Aramis did remember them - every single one of them - and could call them by name. He had never chosen to cultivate that facility.
"We've met?" he inquired staidly. Had the Aare flowed with this vintage of wine, there would still not be enough to make him give in to that tweaking thread of desire.
"Yes. After we trailed you half way around Europe, we finally met at the Moscow court," she twittered. "My sister was the Baroness von Rasmussen. "
It took a moment to register, but when it did, Athos' slouch straightened so quickly wine splashed over the rim of his glass.
Every head on the terrace turned in their direction.
He'd been slumped in the chair, drinking steadily as an antidote to her stalking. Now he turned toward her. "No ..." The wine glass came up, right index finger pointing at the woman regarding him steadily. He was drunk enough to have been caught completely off guard at this revelation; his normal boundaries blurred so far as to be about non-existent. Shock loosed his tongue, though he had presence of mind enough to keep his voice down. "You are half of the Heilesen twins? Good God..." he bit off a groan as he returned the regard in the softening afternoon light. "You've cut your hair." Not only was the long blonde hair bobbed at chin level, the intervening years had left their mark. While she was still magnificently proportioned, the curves were padded now, the neck and line of the jaw beginning to sag just a little. She had passed through the thresholds of maiden and mother and now bore the marks of the crone. They did not, however, detract one bit from the quiet air of earthy sexuality she yet exuded.
Distantly, Athos heard her spouse chortle, though the man was far enough away he could not have over heard. Several things fell into place along with the scalding memories of the one and only night of Athos' life spent in complete and utter dissipation. Surely she wasn't going to bring that up here on her terrace, surrounded by friends and family - her husband not ten feet away. He did not dare slump back in the chair as he wanted to do. Or get up and make a spectacularly fast exit; he was already too drunk to accomplish that.
"I will not importune you, my lord, but that night ..." that night came out on a quiet exhale, "that night," she repeated, "I discovered wickedness could be devastatingly wonderful."
Athos had no idea the vessel of his mind could contain the confluence of emotions cresting like a wave about to crash over him. He could not control the color he could literally feel heating his cheeks, nor remember the last time he'd blushed; his only saving grace was the shadowing hat brim.
She'd been a sad goddess trapped in human form. Athos had purposely tried to erase the memory.
He lifted his wine glass in salute and took a very small sip lest - for his sins - he choke on it. He had been wicked exactly once in his life, if one discounted the stupidity of taking to wife a thief and a murderess in violation of a long-standing betrothal agreement. His experience before taking that wife had been limited to dallying dairy maids and tolerant tavern wenches. Apparently said wife had taught him how to please a woman well if years later his wickedness was yet another unusual topic of conversation. Naturally, being a man, he could not help the little spike of pride, though it was tempered by the equally impaling question - what exactly was Madam Joos after?
As if reading his mind, madam's fingers fluttered over his bare hand again, the one holding the wine glass, since his wrist rested once more on the arm of the chair. "Only to reminisce a little. I promise I will not importune you," she said again. "My sister and I were one court after another behind until we caught up with you in Moscow. You were oblivious of the attention you attracted and the court gossip that followed in your wake; it made you doubly intriguing. A man so sure of himself, and yet so distant and unavailable."
A dreamy look had replaced the flat affect in her eyes when Athos chanced a glance in her direction. He cut his gaze directly to the wine glass in his hand lest he be caught staring. The recitation at the very least explained how she had come by her information. He had noted, repeatedly throughout his travels, the same faces appearing in every court across the continent. The nobility of Europe traveled much like packs of wolves, devouring anyone in their path and weaning their pups on the milk of gossip. His had not been the only noble house in the vicinity of Aisne, nor, as he'd informed Aramis, had the hanging of his wife been done in secret. Given the dissolute nature of European courts, it should not have surprised him that the small, insular world he had inhabited prior to being commissioned as a Musketeer, knew of his personal heartache.
"You must understand, my lord, I was married young and had born my spouse three children without once experiencing the kind of intimacy we shared that night. It left a lasting impression; add to that it was one and only time I have been able to completely escape my grief for a few hours." Madam Joos sat back in her chair, a large floppy hat of her own shielding her face from the sun on this lovely spring afternoon. " Your d'Artagnan reminds me of my youngest. Not in looks, though he is quite handsome with his dark, exotic heritage. It is in their natures that I see the similarities, the youthful charm and ... how do you say it? Joie de vivre?" Gaze turning inward, she added quietly, "When grief presses most assiduously those memories remain an assuagement."
Athos the Silent was completely at a loss for words. An unusual occurrence, as he was rarely without them; he just chose not to use them. Kammiel, and her twin sister, Kamilla, had been a bit of a revelation to a recently widowed male attempting murder most foul upon his own feelings. While they had been fledgling wicked-ites themselves, the pair had raised 'feeling' to a new level of anticipatory pleasure.
His mind had allowed him to rewrite the reason he had preferred the frozen Russian steppes. The mere thought of allowing the duo to thaw out anymore of his 'feelings' had driven him right out of Moscow. He'd worked hard to freeze those feeling and had had no desire to take them out every now and again just to see if they were still in good working condition.
"I understand it did not leave as lasting an impression on you as it did on us. Kammilla vowed she would settle for nothing less if she married again, and a year ago, she met a gentleman she claims has your hand and heart."
If he could do her this one courtesy, Athos would extend it willingly. "My lady," the title was extravagant but offered with respect, "I had no heart then and I have no heart now. You are correct that I hung my wife. She was a lying, thieving whore who killed my brother in cold blood - but she took my heart to the grave with her. It is not mend-ably broken, it is as gone as if it had never beat in my chest." He rose carefully, exonerated both in his duty to apologize and untangle any knots in the negotiations. The Venner would be pleased with their new accord. "Please give my regards to your lovely sister when you see her again." He had no interest in reviving those 'feelings' now either.
"It is unlikely I will see her again this side of the pearly gates. She married a Russian count and moved back to Moscow. That trip was a once in a lifetime event, it will not be repeated. We were both grieving losses. You were our gift to ourselves; one night of decadence to last the rest of a lifetime. One night to lay aside our sorrows and remember the joys of youth. I am elated that Kammilla has found someone to fill her empty arms." Madam rose as well. "You are young yet, comte, do not let one woman's betrayal taint the rest of your life.
"Love is a mendacious bedfellow." Athos lifted and kissed the back of her fingers with unfeigned gallantry.
Madam Joos smiled, the coins lifted from those eyes to reveal an unfathomable depth of despair. "All the more reason to kick that one out before it puts roots right through the mattress and down through the floor. Find a new love that will put down nurturing roots."
"Alas, no amount of chipping, chopping or burning has even marred its thick skin." Athos stared at the bottom of the empty wine glass; drink, too, was ever a deceiver. It made him far too garrulous for his own good.
Aramis was wandering over. Slowly, but with intention.
"I thank you for your concern and wish you health and happiness to spare, madam. Aramis?" Athos put down the glass and retrieved his gauntlets from the arm of the chair. "Have you been deputized to collect me?"
"I have," Aramis said pleasantly. "I am sorry to part you from such lovely company, but the boys are getting restless. You know d'Artagnan, sitting still through an entire church service has already overtaxed his tolerance. Not to denigrate your hospitality, madam. The food was superb and the company even better, but we really need to let the puppy off the leash for awhile before bedtime." He accompanied this with a fond smile in d'Artagnan's direction, thankful their exuberantly youthful puppy was still engaged in conversation with the Venner and paying no attention. Else Aramis would have gotten his shins kicked - probably exuberantly. d'Artagnan had not taken well to the nickname.
"Thank you for graciously opening your home to us and feeding us again. If we do not see you before, then I will look forward to the closing reception, no matter the outcome of our negotiations." Athos' smile nearly knocked Aramis off his feet, unprepared as he was for the rueful honesty of it.
In the three years he'd been acquainted with the man, he'd never seen the like, nor had Athos ever made such an obvious about face. In point of fact, Aramis was almost positive he'd never seen the comte change his mind once it was made up.
"Madam." Aramis bowed and linked an arm through Athos', discreetly steadying the wandering footsteps as they left the terrace. "Porthos is collecting d'Artagnan. Can you walk back to the Rathaus or should I request a further loan of the Joos' carriage?"
"I am perfectly capable of walking." Athos shook off Aramis' hold, only to walk straight into a gate post hard enough to jar his teeth.
Aramis, with a twist of the lips that might have been a repressed chuckle, caught up with their obstinate sword master. "Yes, I can see the feet are in fine working order, perhaps it's the ability to focus that's plaguing you. Likely a walk in the fresh air will do you good. You, Monsieur le Comte, should consider going straight to bed when we get back. Porthos and I will tire out the puppy so he sleeps tonight."
"Why? Didn't he sleep last night?"
"He was up every hour checking on you."
"Aramis, you must tell him this is not serious."
Aramis could have sworn Athos had clucked like a mother hen. "It could easily be, if you refuse to take care of yourself," he clucked in return. "Here they come, tell him yourself."
"He won't believe me."
"Probably not. Wonder why that is." It wasn't a question. "And while we're on the subject, no more alcohol until you're fully recovered."
"It was medicinal."
Aramis stopped in his tracks, forcing Athos to stop as well since the healer still had him by the arm. "It is medicinal only if it comes from my hand, are we clear on this?"
Aramis could count on one hand, with fingers to spare, the number of times one of the three of them had been sick. In point of fact, this was a first for Athos during his tenure as a Musketeer. Scratches and scrapes, rapier and lead wounds were par for the course - illness was not.
"Whether you choose to see it or not, excessive alcohol use depresses the spirit. It could well have consequences we do not yet understand on the body's ability to heal itself. Aside from that, Madam Hildegard cautions against the use of strong spirits during recuperation, and I trust her observations." He'd proven the nun's medicinal knowledge again and again in his own practice of the healing arts. "On the other hand, as I told d'Artagnan not that long ago - you are only my responsibility insofar as you allow it. You can deal with this yourself, or we can ask the Swiss to send a real doctor."
Athos borrowed a convenient arch to lean against. "Do you require a white flag?"
Aramis scowled. "I require your cooperation, one of the very few things you are not good at, especially when it comes to compromising your willingness to accept help. You're ever ready to provide it; accepting it is an entirely different ball of wax."
"Must we have this conversation in the middle of a foreign street?"
"Yes!" Tension climbed the hill between them, then slid down the other side. Aramis sighed. "No, of course not. Porthos and d'Artagnan are coming around the corner. What's with you and Madam Joos? You were still giving her the iceberg treatment when we left church and three hours later the pair of you were looking like cooing love birds."
"Disgusting as that sounds, since we were lovers once , and it was ... pleasant for both of us, I suppose it's possible the memory momentarily overcame us both."
Aramis, who slept in a different bed if not every night, at least every other week, thought his jaw might unhinge itself. He snapped it shut, though he could not seem to control the exclamatory arch of his eyebrows.
Athos pushed off his resting place with a sigh. "Your God, Aramis, has a warped sense of humor." He spread his arms and raised his face to the sky. "I would have preferred lightening."
"What's goin' on?" Porthos grabbed an arm, attempting to pull Athos along. "Besides the fact you're drunk as a lord."
"I am a lord." Athos planted his feet. "And confession is supposed to be good for the soul."
"Not yours, it ain't." Porthos shot a mystified glare at Aramis, who shrugged.
"Church must have rattled his wits."
"Som'in got rattled, that's fer sure. Come along, my lord, before you do som'in really stupid."
"Too late." Athos smiled cheerily, though it was slightly cross-eyed. "However you will all be pleased to know the negotiations remain unaffected by my crass conduct last night." He swept off his hat, essaying a bow that would have ended in a nose dive had not Porthos caught him and dragged him upright.
d'Artagnan, hanging back slightly, frowned. He'd encountered angsty drunk Athos already, and morose drunk Athos, but not a comical drunk Athos. It was ... disconcerting. "What happened back there? In church you were doing a fine impression of a hedgehog sitting next to madam and just now," the youth jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "back there, you looked like a pair of cats that found the cream pitcher unguarded."
"Comparing notes with Aramis, were you?" Athos said coolly, resuming his erratic stroll, allowing Porthos the privilege of keeping him upright. It had been a very long night and now a long day on top of it, though it was barely past four of the clock.
"He was not," Aramis returned, just as coolly. "But if d'Artagnan observed it, rest assured he was not the only one."
"Thanks," the youth muttered. "Though I'm pretty sure I was just insulted."
"Enough, all of you," Porthos commanded. "This is gettin' out of hand. I don' know what's gotten into us, but this bickering stops now. Whatever's goin' on between the two of you-" He hauled Athos to a stop with a minatory glare, then turned it on Aramis, "Get over it. We're not effective as a unit when we're tearin' at each other. I'm real tempted to grab both of ya by the scruff o' the neck 'n shake some sense into ya." The glare softened slightly as he turned back to Athos. "You need to go back to bed and sleep off this drunk. The rest of us need to go shake out some o' these fidgets. Now move all a ya, afore I start crackin' heads; an not another word until ya can play nicely again."
The only sound was the soft sighing of a spring breeze soughing around buildings, and a short time later, boot heels clicking up the stairs then ringing across marble floors as they entered the Rathaus. The suite door closed gently behind d'Artagnan bringing up the rear. He hovered there as the three Musketeers divested themselves of capes and hats, and in silence, disappeared into their respective bed chambers.
Uncomfortable, he thought, stopping to hang his chapeau alongside the others before following Athos into their room.
The elder Musketeer was sitting on his bed pulling off his boots. He set them side by side at the foot of the bed as was his habit and crawled between the covers without bothering to undress. "Keep them out of trouble if you can," he said quietly, closed his eyes and was - very unusually - asleep between breaths.
d'Artagnan watched the slow descent into deep sleep as the stiffness in back and shoulders began to dissolve. A long, expansive breath in and then out and he knew their leader had truly succumbed. The man must be exhausted, else he would never have backed down, though if he hadn't been exhausted the errors in judgment would never have occurred. Those shoulders carried much of the weight on every mission, though Athos made it appear easy. In the heart of the vulnerability the man had exposed, the youth from Gascony read a valuable lesson. Even the best leaders had to rely on others occasionally; the very best recognized when it was necessary and acceded gracefully.
Normally, Athos was grace personified.
Porthos stuck his head around the door jamb, glanced at Athos, and motioned d'Artagnan to follow. "He'll be fine," Porthos assured the youth as d'Artagnan hovered in the doorway, torn by conflicting desires.
He wanted to stay and watch over this new friend and at the same time knew on some intuitive level Athos had disappeared into sleep because it was the only privacy afforded on this trip.
Porthos decided for him. "Not a thing you can do 'cept let him be. Athos ain't used to puttin' a foot wrong in any situation, it galls him when he does, but he'll sleep off his mad and between us, we'll jolly Aramis out of the sulks as well." He slung an arm around the youth's shoulders, guiding him toward the parlor door. "Aramis has gone for the horses, he'll have 'em out front waitin' for us. That man, Rachid, told Aramis there's a race course set up on t' other side'a the river. The townsfolk don' use it on a Sunday so we'll have the place to ourselves."
"Rachid?"
"The silver-haired man?"
"Yeah." d'Artagnan allowed himself to be pulled along. "Every member of the council is silver-haired. As were many of the other guests this afternoon."
Porthos laughed on cue. "Ya got me there. The one couldn't leave off oglin' Madam Joos' prow."
"Oh! Rachid."
Porthos laughed again and cuffed the youth good-naturedly. "That's the one. Told Aramis about a local tavern, too. You any good at darts? Said there's a friendly game every Sunday night."
"I can usually hit the board with my rapier." d'Artagnan reluctantly left his hat on the sideboard as he followed Porthos out. "I wouldn't mind a good gallop, but shouldn't we come back here for the evening?"
"Yer worrin' again and worrin' for Athos will likely getcha a tongue lashing does he catch you at it. He'll sleep 'til morning anyway. Sunday's 'sposed to be a day a rest, give your worry a rest, too."
This, d'Artagnan already knew, was not as easy as Porthos made it sound, though probably a good idea if he could manage it.
Events, as it turned out, earned d'Artagnan more than a tongue lashing. He very nearly garnered himself a cashiering before he'd even earned his pauldron. Though through no fault of his own.
BC 5/19