It was over in the blink of an eye, but the memory, for Athos, would live forever to haunt his soul. Aramis deflected Catherine's gun upward, while lunging to the side. The moment he had a clear view of her, Athos' main gauche flew straight and steady into Catherine's throat. Her shot went wildly astray as she fell to the earth, clutching her gurgling, bleeding neck. An instant later, Athos was on his knees next to her, cradling her dying body to his own.
"I'm sorry, Catherine," he moaned as tears began to trickle down his face. "I have done you grievous wrongs and perhaps I deserve to die. But I couldn't let you kill Aramis."
"You save your musketeer scum, over me," she croaked out as death's touch clutched at her.
"He is my brother, as much as Thomas was," Athos whispered, his eyes sorrowfully fixed on the dying woman.
"God… damn… you… Athos." With that, the light in her pale blue eyes was extinguished and she drew her last breath.
Athos clutched her dead body even closer to his chest, bending his dark head over her auburn one as he silently wept. Aramis waved off Porthos and d'Artagnan, who had coming sprinting from the woods at the sound of the gunshot, to give Athos time to grieve alone. The marksman moved over to where his two friends had stopped and silently, they watched their fourth mourn. Their hearts broke for their brother, whose life seemed frat with heartache and loss.
Eventually, Aramis moved back to where Athos knelt and placed a comforting hand on the lamenting man's shoulder. "It's time to go, Athos."
The bent head lifted and watery green eyes looked up at him. His voice, when he spoke, was that of a desolate man. "I killed her."
"Her need for revenge killed her," Aramis replied, neutrally. "Revenge is an awkward passion to indulge in; they who employ it find it a double-edged weapon, which, in the recoil, frequently wounds the hand that wields it."
Athos stared at the lifeless form he still held to his chest, then laid her gently on the ground. "She hated me so much."
Reaching down, Aramis drew Athos onto his feet, then wrapped him in a tight embrace. "I love you. Thank you for saving my life."
Athos rested his aching head against the comfort of his brother's shoulder. "I have to bury her. With her family." Athos voice broke as he tried to speak.
"And we will help you. When you are recovered." Aramis motioned with his eyes for Porthos and d'Artagnan to join them with the horses. "Perhaps you would allow me the honor of riding tandem with you, back to the garrison. It will do wonders for my reputation to be seen as the new Captain's favorite."
But of course, Athos insisted he was well enough to ride on his own. Worried, Porthos kept Flip, and d'Artagnan maneuvered Zack, so close to Athos and Roger, that both man and beast lashed out at them, one with words and one with hooves. However, it did not deter his brothers or their beasts from sticking to his side to ensure he didn't fall from his horse.
The trip back to the garrison was uneventful. A wagon was sent back to pick up Catherine's remains and take them to the undertaker who would prepare the body for burial. Aramis relegated Athos to his bed, where he was forced to remain, under the watchful eyes of his brothers and Constance, for three days to allow time for his body to heal.
His mind, like his physical body, would always bear the scars of this tragedy. His brothers simply hoped he would learn to move past this tragic event, or lock it away as he had with so many of the other tragedies in his life. It wasn't healthy, but it was Athos' way of coping.
On the third day after Catherine's death, Athos rallied against his captors and insisted upon being allowed to be up and about. Other than sitting on him to keep him in bed, which Porthos had offered to do, or tying him to the bed, which d'Artagnan had volunteered to do, there wasn't any medically safe way to keep Athos bed bound. Even Constance's acerbic tongue and scowls failed to dissuade the partially healed musketeer from rising. That night, d'Artagnan was forced in his martial bed, to listen to a full blown lecture on the stubbornness of men, which when Athos was fully recovered, he'd be sure to thank him for. It had not been what the Gascon had in mind when he had gone to bed with his beautiful wife.
As soon as he was back on his feet, more or less, Athos began making preparations to take the deceased to Pinon where she could be properly buried. His arrangements, of course, did not include his brothers, but as soon as they got wind of his intentions, they modified his plans. D'Artagnan had earnestly explained that as a farm boy, he was most qualified to drive the wagon. Porthos insisted, as the strongest of the lot, only he could dig her a proper grave. Aramis had expounded that he had to conduct a proper service for the deceased. Athos used everything in his arsenal to dissuade them from his famous glower to a direct order, but everything fell upon deaf ears. So two days later, the four of them rode out the garrison's gate for Pinon, with d'Artagnan driving the wagon with the body, while the other three rode alongside.
Though they had left the garrison at first light, the wagon forced them to go slower than if they had been strictly on horseback. So when darkness descended and they had not yet reached Pinon, they decided to pull off the road and make camp. The bumps and bruises from the explosion they had luckily survived, had made the trip unpleasant for the lot of them, Athos particularly so since he was also recovering from being beaten and stabbed in the alley. The muffled groans and moans and the extraordinary amount of time it took them to set up their campsite was directly related to the discomfort caused by this road trip.
Morning first light found them stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground and their bones and joints crackled as they stretched their limbs in preparation for the day. Aramis had tried to check Athos' wounds, especially the one on his side, for fear all this activity might have caused it to open. But he had been abruptly brushed off by their Captain, whose haggard countenance spoke of how little sleep he had achieved last night.
They got back on the road and two hours later arrived at the outskirts of the village. So as not to attract any untold attention, where they might be forced to explain their presence, Athos led them around the village to the cemetery where Catherine's family was entombed. Unlike the de la Fére crypt, which was under a portion of the house, this one was a more traditional cemetery-like arrangement with headstones. They located the empty space next to her deceased parents and set about digging her grave. Try as they might, his brothers were unable to deter Athos from helping dig the hole. Hours later, after the last scoop of dirt was patted down and Aramis' prayers had concluded, it was only sheer willpower that kept Athos on his feet.
Because of the slowness of the wagon, there was no way they would make it back to the garrison that day. Even though the residents of Pinon would have welcome their ex-Comte with open arms, Athos had vowed never to return. He refused to accept his brothers' suggestion that they lodge there for the night, even though they were all exhausted.
Instead, Athos hauled his shaking body on to Roger and led them back towards Paris. After a several miles, he turned off the main road, onto a small, nearly undistinguishable track that was barely wide enough for the wagon. Eventually, it had led them to a nice clearing along the edge of a medium sized creek, a perfect spot to pitch camp.
Three of the hot, sweaty men eyed the delightful looking creek with pleasure, thinking how refreshing a soak in its clear running waters would feel. But duty first, and they set about making their campsite, and taking care of the horses before heading to the stream. A brooding, distracted Athos, his normal mode since he had killed Catherine, had trailed along behind them to the water, but had shown no inclination to strip and join his brothers in their soak.
Porthos solved the problem by wading from the river, in all his glory, and threatening to throw Athos in the river, if he didn't willingly join them. There was something rather amusing watching an animated nude man vigorously lecturing a sullen clothed man, though Aramis and d'Artagnan made sure their chuckles were muffled as they watched from the river. Whatever Porthos said, or more likely threatened, worked as Athos slowly removed his clothes and waded into the waters.
d'Artagnan made his way to where Athos had dropped his clothing on the ground, gathered the garments, sans his doublet and took them to the stream to scrub. When the clothes were as clean as they were going to get, the Gascon laid them out the bank to dry along with everyone else's garments. Athos had acknowledged the act of kindness with a minute head nod, grateful the boy had done it for he was too exhausted to even contemplate the chore.
Aramis had frowned when he saw the red, splotched bandage about Athos' midriff and had risen to intercept his brother.
"You pulled my stitches," he accused as he neared the man.
Since the evidence was there for all to see, Athos didn't deny the accusation. He merely shrugged and proceeded to move away.
"Damn it, hold still, Athos. I need to examine your wound."
Athos stopped, stared at Aramis, then moved to a nearby rock in the stream and sat upon it. The water lapped over his legs and groin, but left the rest of his upper body exposed so Aramis could examine the gash. Athos hadn't chosen the rock for modesty sake, but simply because it was close, and if he hadn't sat, he would have fallen.
Aramis tut-tutted and scolded his patient as he unwound the bandages and saw that a few of his meticulously placed stitches had been ripped asunder.
"You had to be your normal, pigheaded self and dig the grave, even though we three could have easily handled it," Aramis scolded the weary man sitting on the rock.
d'Artagnan, finished with the washing, joined Porthos who was sitting on a rock ledge, letting the cool waters wash over his body as he watched Aramis tend to Athos.
"You are always so damn stubborn. You do realize we go to war with Spain in less than a month. What if this gets infected! War, Athos. War! Treville has entrusted you with the regiment. How are you going to lead us successfully into battle, if you don't take care of yourself?" Aramis ranted at the injured man.
A haunted, melancholy voice replied. "It was my duty to bury her. I caused the misery in her life. By all rights, I should be the one in that grave."
Angered, Aramis cocked his fist and deliberately punched Athos in the side of the face, knocking him from the rock into the river. Athos, never one to back down from a fight, came up sputtering, getting to his feet surprisingly fast to launch a counterattack. Both men crashed back into the river with a huge splash, momentarily disappearing under the water.
"Christ," Porthos mumbled as he watched his two brothers bob to the surface and continue grappling in the creek. "They choose now to do this."
d'Artagnan, alarmed, sprang to his feet and was moving to intervene when he felt Porthos' large hand clamp down on his arm.
"Leave them be."
The Gascon rounded on Porthos, his face a mask of disbelief. "You're kidding right?"
"Aramis knows what he is doing. His reason returned after he threw the first punch. He is now trying to beat some sense into Athos."
Lowering his body back down onto the rock, d'Artagnan dubiously watched the scuffle. "I hope when you use the word beat you don't mean it literally."
"Nah, not really. It's a method of getting past our mule-headed leader's barriers. It seems extreme, but it works."
"You've seen them do this before?" the youngest of the quad inquired.
Porthos nodded. "Twice."
"And it somehow helped?"
"Aye, it did. What Aramis is doing is pushing Athos to the edge of physical and mental exhaustion to make those famous walls our leader has built around himself crumble. That gives us a chance to breech them long enough to make him see sense."
"So this is a siege?"
"Somethin' like that."
"And if that fails?"
Porthos considered that question carefully. The boy had never known Athos at his worst, when the former Comte had first joined the regiment. Porthos had seen how low the self-destructive Athos could sink. He and Athos had gone on a mission together, at Captain Treville's insistence, before the swordsman was an official musketeer. It had turned into a nightmare neither man would ever be able to erase from their memory.
During that mission to Dieppe, Porthos saw how the depths of despair could twist Athos' heart and soul; what the man would do for penance, a sense of misguided duty, and honor. It had terrified Porthos, who had seen a lot growing up in the Court of Miracles. He wasn't even sure Aramis, who had only witnessed the aftermath of their trip to hell, even truly understood how dark Athos could go.
"It won't fail," Porthos answered, finally with desperation-edged conviction. "It can't."