Chapter 3
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Aramis poured himself another full cup of wine. It was only his third, but he drank the first two uncharacteristically quickly and immediately felt the need for more. Porthos was silently regarding him, his mind in turmoil. His first cup was still almost full. Despite always indulging in the taste of wine, he had no wish to touch it today.
They were sitting in Aramis's room, trying to process the dramatic events they had been through earlier that day. The shocked, confused and pained looks from the cadets and other musketeers they had passed by on their way made them seek solitude even more. However, as they were sitting alone now, the sudden stillness without the constant presence of others, the need to solve any problem or rush to someone's rescue seemed unnatural and unsettling to them both.
"One more?" Aramis asked listlessly when he glanced at his friend.
"No," Porthos replied quietly, his look dropping to the cup in his motionless hands.
"As you wish," Aramis remarked and filled his cup yet again - his fourth within five minutes since they had sat down.
Porthos lifted his eyes again, observing his friend and wondering how much wine he would need to drown whatever he felt at that moment. Drinking to kill pain used to be Athos's domain, but the Captain had cut down significantly on his wine consumption in recent months.
Aramis rarely gets drunk, that's why he'll feel this much more in his head tomorrow…
"Have you ever felt remorse, Porthos?" the man in charge of the wine bottle asked.
His friend knitted his brows. "Seriously? Are we seriously doing this now?"
"Now is all we have, so yes, now," Aramis replied earnestly.
Porthos sighed and gave in. "Quite a few times. I suppose you have since you're asking."
Aramis chuckled. "You're not only a mighty warrior but also a clever one, my friend," he remarked, his tongue already loosening up although his words sounded clear. "Yes, guilty as charged."
He took another gulp of his wine. Then his eyes became distant as if he was looking at the past and not at what was right in front of him.
"I have felt a few in my lifetime as well, and they all found a quiet, private place in my heart where they will live until the day the Lord asks me to return home," he continued less cheerfully now.
"I don't think you should drink anymore," Porthos remarked, pushing the almost empty wine bottle to the side of the table. "These philosophical talks of yours are never a good sign. You are rubbish at it."
Aramis laughed. "Oh, Porthos!" he exclaimed theatrically. "What would I ever do without you?"
"You didn't seem to wonder about that when you had decided to abandon us and become a priest," came the dry reply.
Aramis raised his eyebrows. "That hurt."
"You deserved it."
They fell silent for a while, each cradling their wine cup, each lost in their own thoughts. Time was ticking away; the shadows on the walls kept growing longer; the air was getting thicker despite the open window; the only sound heard was the occasional snorting of the horses in the yard outside. In all its rush and endless activity, the world stood still for once indeed.
"I made him angry," Aramis said quietly, just as the silence between them seemed to have stretched forever.
Porthos lifted his dark eyes. "Who?"
"Treville, at our last private meeting before the King died." Aramis's voice was suddenly very quiet and coloured with shame.
"Why?"
A heavy sigh preceded the answer. "He scolded me for distributing the secret correspondence between the Queen and her brother. He said a soldier should never play a politician."
"And he was right, as you have found out yourself," Porthos replied without thinking.
Aramis ran his hand through his hair in an act of sudden despair.
"I'm sorry," Porthos apologised, seeing he was being unnecessarily harsh with his friend. "I didn't mean-"
"Whether I agree or not is beside the point here. That's not why I mentioned it."
"So what is the point?" Porthos wanted to know.
"The point is, my last private words to him before he died made him angry with me, do you understand?!" Aramis cried with anger. "I never got the chance to apologise… "
His last words faded into the emptiness around them.
Porthos finally understood; he took a sip of his wine and sighed.
"Remember the time when I thought Treville knew something about who my father was and was holding it back?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well… You know I didn't make it easy on him either. I didn't even want to shake his hand when he thanked me for saving his life in a fight. I knew I had hurt him but in my pride and stubbornness, I refused to step back. I behaved terribly towards him for a while, and yet he never changed his attitude about me, never stopped treating me justly and kindly, never turned his back on me. That's the man he was; when he fully trusted someone and cared about them, he never pushed them away, no matter how tense it might have been between them at times. He knew I cared about him and respected him very much and that I just wanted to find out the truth."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Aramis kept staring down into his cup, his eyes unmoving.
"My point is," Porthos continued. "Treville might have got angry on impulse, but I'm sure he knew you didn't want to hurt him, that you just didn't understand the real weight of the responsibility on his shoulders and what consequences your secret actions might have had. All you wanted was to help keep peace in the country."
Aramis lifted his head to cast a painful look at his friend, who went on.
"He didn't want to be the Minister; we all knew it. The problem was he didn't have a choice. With things being as serious as they have been, with traitors left and right, constantly attempting to get rid of the King and Queen, he knew the country needed someone truly loyal to the Crown to look after it. Someone with military experience but also diplomatic and calm manners, who could deal with anyone and make the most of it in the interest of France without looking only for his own profit. He had become a politician out of necessity, but he was a soldier, protecting his King and country, and remained one in his heart until the moment he died."
Aramis sighed and buried his head in his hands for a long while. When he finally raised it again, his face was streaked with tears.
"I hope God will forgive me one day for misjudging him," he said quietly, shaken, swiftly wiping the tears away. "I don't know if I ever will."
Porthos reached over the table and put his gloved hand on his shoulder before he spoke.
"There are others who should be asking for forgiveness, Aramis, but not you. Good intentions and righteous heart don't need one."
Unexpectedly, his friend laughed through tears.
"Who did you say was the philosopher here?" he teased. "I thought I heard Athos speaking."
Porthos snorted and poked him playfully in the chest. "Behave, or I'll draw my sword."
His hand inadvertently landed on the guard of his sword. His smile faded, and his eyes fell on the weapon hanging from his belt he had only parted with in his sleep, and even then having it within reach. He remembered the day when Treville gave his prized sword to him before he had left for war. It felt like passing on a family heirloom…
The musketeer's eyes started burning. This caught him by surprise; still, he didn't fight it. The tears that found their way to escape were unavoidable, expressing the grief that he had kept inside since the moment Treville entrusted him with the new King to carry him away to safety. The look in the Minister's eyes at their hasty parting spoke clearly – Treville knew they would never see each other again. At that moment, Porthos knew it as well, even though his heart was willing it not to be true. Torn between his emotions and duty, the musketeer rode off, saving the new ruler of France, at the cost of losing one of its greatest protectors, something that would weigh heavily on his heart for the rest of his life.
His fingers gently squeezed the sword handle, mentally checking it was by his side as if the spirit of his one-time owner was too. No, Treville would never be gone, not for the man who became an orphan barely having learned to walk, who fought his way through to become one of the best and most respected musketeers in the King's guard and who fearlessly defended his country in the most brutal battles of the war with Spain. Treville would never die, as long as his legacy lived in those who loved and respected him the most.
"We are soldiers," Aramis broke the silence, more composed now, mirroring the same words to his then-Captain years ago. "We follow our orders no matter where they lead. Even to death."
Porthos looked up and nodded. "Soldiers."
The two friends lifted their cups, clinked and emptied them to the last drop.
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