Chapter 5

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He spurred his horse again and again, in a desperate attempt to make him run faster. Time was of the essence; three lives depended on it, and he wasn't sure which prospect terrified him more – losing the new King, D'Artagnan or Treville, possibly all three of them…
He didn't spare a glance at Aramis, racing on his horse against time as well, but he knew they were praying for the same thing.

"We're almost there!" Aramis shouted as they spotted the old mansion appearing behind the alley of trees they were galloping through.
At the same time, they heard the sounds they feared the most, and a deadly shiver went down Athos's spine – it was the sound of gunshots…
"No," he whispered, still believing in the best.

Then he saw it, as suddenly as the horse beneath him shot out from behind a tree into the open – Treville fighting off one man after another, his legs unsteady but his will to fight until the bitter end unwavering. Athos's heart was racing as he hastily descended from his horse and grabbed his shotgun, Aramis doing the same.

He fired once, drawing his sword right after. And then his heart almost stopped when he saw Grimaud aim at Treville, the expression on his face rock-hard and ruthless. Athos's eyes widened in horror as he ran as fast as he could towards him, and shouted a single word, a desperate and heart-wrenching call for mercy, begging like never before.
"Noooo!"

A gunshot sound pierced his ears…

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"No!"

Athos shot up on the bed, breathing heavily. He felt a gentle, soothing touch on his back. He groaned painfully and buried his face in his hands, feeling the beads of sweat under his fingers.
"It takes time to get used to it," Sylvie said softly after a moment.
He tried to steady his breathing, exhaling loudly. This can't be true, it just can't be true…

Once his brain took over from his emotions, acceptance replaced the initial disbelief, and he dropped his hands into his lap.
"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered.
"You don't need to apologise," Sylvie replied, still drawing circles on his back.

Athos turned to see a sad smile on her face. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, searching for peace that, apart from a few brief moments, had been eluding him for months. He knew he wouldn't find it until Grimaud was dead and buried. The sudden thought of revenge gave him enough energy to face another day.
"I need to get ready. It's going to be a long day," he whispered again, kissed her temple and got up to get dressed.

Sylvie watched him putting on pieces of his uniform with routine, assured movements. The broken man from the past few days was still there, his eyes still clouded with melancholy. A mild frown settled on his face – a shield against the crushing reality. However there was also a warrior, and warriors don't give up. They suffer but endure, fall but get up again, and Athos's body language showed clear signs of resilience and resolve.

This warrior was ready for his next battle.

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"I'm surprised Grimaud hasn't attacked yet," D'Artagnan remarked while he was getting his horse ready.
"He's waiting for the best opportunity," Aramis replied, putting his pistols in the holders on his horse's saddle.
"When will he get a better one? He missed one at the King's funeral, and Treville…" The remaining words died on the Gascon's tongue.
Aramis sighed and patted his horse. "Grimaud is no regular villain. Marcheaux is a spineless show-off, but Grimaud wants to be sure of a certain kill. He is a master of surprise, doing something that no one would expect. Besides, he loves setting traps. With Marcheaux being his loyal dog now, you can bet he'll come up with something special."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth. As much as he hated the mere thought of Grimaud, his animosity toward the former Captain of the disbanded Red Guard had reached an unprecedented level in recent weeks, and his greatest wish was to send him to Hell with his own hands.
"We need to be extra vigilant at the funeral," he said, trying to sound calm. "They might not wish to miss this chance."

Aramis nodded and turned away from his horse, seeing Porthos walking toward them. His facial expression was austere, unchanged since Treville's death. At his heels was Constance, passing D'Artagnan his pistol.
"You forgot this," she said, understanding fully the reason for the musketeer's unusual negligence.
Her husband took it hastily. "Thanks," he replied quietly, then looking at his wife, suddenly not knowing what to say.
Constance's sad smile spoke of the understanding between them, as her hand stroked his cheek before pulling back again.
"See you in the cathedral," she added before stepping back from him.

Porthos checked the readiness of his horse, for about the fourth time that morning. Although the air was chilly, since winter was knocking on the door, he felt inexplicably hot in his leather uniform. He had spent an almost sleepless night, which only added to the tension he felt in his body and mind in equal measures. Finally, he was satisfied with his horse, turned to his friends and spoke for the first time that morning.
"Where's Athos?" he asked.

No answer came, though, because the man in question just appeared in sight, slowly descending the steps to the yard, with Sylvie silently shadowing him. All eyes, the musketeers and cadets alike, watched their Captain, the man who had throughout the years become more than just their leader – he was a man they truly looked up to.

Aramis nodded silently as their eyes met.
"Everyone is ready, Captain," Brujon said quietly. "The final group of musketeers is prepared to stand guard in the cathedral before the service."
"Thank you, Brujon," Athos said softly, acknowledging once again the quiet but always reliable actions of the young cadet.
"We better get going. The Queen wants to pray at his coffin before the funeral. She'll need us there," he remarked to his three friends before speaking to the other musketeers and cadets. "The rest of you know what you are doing."

The wheels were set in motion; a quiet mounting of horses followed by the clanking sound of the horse hooves filled the yard. Aramis and Porthos were just leaving the garrison when the Captain noticed D'Artagnan struggling with his reins, trying to adjust them. His patience was wearing thin as Constance helplessly watched him, with compassion.
"For God's sake!" he cried in exasperation.

Athos walked calmly over to him, wordlessly took the reins from his hands and did the job for him. Then he looked at his still so young friend, seeing the barely contained pain on his face. He put his hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder and smiled. It was a small gesture but more effective than any words, and his wise eyes gave the Gascon the assurance he needed. He exhaled loudly and managed a small smile in return, nodding. He mounted his horse and followed Aramis and Porthos, waiting outside the garrison.

Athos sighed and turned to see Sylvie, watching him, seeing so much more behind the calm exterior of the man she loved with all the heart. He walked toward her, took her hands and leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. For a brief, precious moment, he was allowed to stop being the Captain and be just himself.
"I'll be there," Sylvie said quietly.
He didn't reply, only squeezed her hands and took a few more deep breaths as if drawing strength from her.

"The men look up to you. You can't let them down… We all have our duty, Athos…"

The voice from his memory washed over him like a tide. He pulled back, looking into her eyes, and she saw everything written on his face. On this, for what Athos realised was the hardest day of his life, it was more than just strength he would need.
"I know," Sylvie whispered.
She kissed his hands before dropping them down again. "Go… They need you."

The Captain's look lingered on her for a beat longer before he slowly released her hands and walked to his horse. He mounted it and was about to move when Sylvie's voice stopped him.
"He loved you, very much…"
He looked back at her, puzzled, but teared up anyway. The question in his eyes made Sylvie smile.
"Later," she said.

Defying the new jolt of pain in his heart, Athos smiled at her and rode out of the garrison, leaving Sylvie standing alone – not seeing how she wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

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The Palace was still very different than just a few days ago. The usual buzz of daily activities and cheerful demeanour of the courtiers was replaced by whispering or complete silence, only the quiet sound of shuffling feet or opening and closing of doors breaking it. It had been five days since King Louis XIII passed away, and in an unprecedented run of events, France's First Minister and Regent died on the same day. The mood was sombre, with uncertainty and tension hanging in the air.

Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan rode into the Louvre together, and walked right up to the Queen's quarters, already expected.
"Your Majesty," Athos said, and all four bowed.

The Queen was sitting at the window, dressed all in black, a delicate, black lace veil covering her hair. Her hands were holding a rosary. She was still young but felt as if she had been sitting on the throne forever. Her looks were a paradox – in her double mourning, she looked fragile and majestic at the same time, like a Phoenix that had just burnt into ashes but was slowly regaining its beautiful shape. At the sound of the Captain's voice, she turned her head and smiled warmly.

"My musketeers," she said quietly, regarding them, her eyes briefly stopping at Aramis, their eyes locking for a pained moment of longing.
Her bright blue eyes looked tired and her complexion was paler than usual, but the sight of her most loyal friends brought her a visible relief. She stood up, walking over to them.

"I know how difficult today is for you," she said, her voice soft and filled with compassion. "Treville had left his mark on all of us, on the whole country. He was always a dear and most loyal friend, even if we might not have realised it at times…" She paused, blinking several times, swallowing unshed tears. "We will always be in his debt."

The musketeers watched her in silence, fighting with all their strength to hold still and stay composed for the sake of their sovereign and their own dignity. Nevertheless, they shared a common understanding: for one moment in time, there was no social class wall parting them. They were men and a woman, united by one thing – grief for someone dear to their hearts.
"My friends," the Queen whispered, smiling, voicing their own thoughts.

In an unexpected move but resolved, she outstretched her gloved hand toward them, her palm turned down.
"All for one," she whispered and looked at each of them in turn.
Athos was the first to overcome the shock and with a small, knowing smile, he placed his hand over the Queen's. He glanced at his comrades, who nodded and mirrored his move.
"One for all," Aramis added quietly, smiling.

The tension in the air lifted momentarily, reminding them of the ever-present light even in the darkness. For one fleeting moment, the heartfelt smile on the Queen's face brought back a spark of life they all had been missing for days.

After their hands separated again, the Queen took a deep breath and spoke with a slightly upturned head, in a dignified tone, worthy of her status.
"Shall we?"

The musketeers stepped aside to let her pass, and then quietly followed her like shadows covering her back as they all walked out into reality once more.

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"Pain, anguish and suffering in human life are always in proportion
to the strength with which a man is endowed."
- Alexandre Dumas: The Man In The Iron Mask