Chapter Text
I. Sopor
Sopor (noun)
An unnaturally deep sleep.
The silence was oppressive. It had surrounded him, ever since leaving the scene at the Rue Saint-Honoré. And the quiet lingered, like a dark, perpetual raincloud even the fastest run could not shake off.
Now, as he rushed across the palace yard, Athos perceived nothing but the sound of his boots against the gravel, and the cold wetness of the crisp autumn air against his skin.
The Musketeer felt as though he had made this journey alone, accompanied only by a ghost. Yet he had not. Wistfully, he gazed at the pallid young woman he cradled in his arms.
She was too heavy to be a mere apparition. Yet her skin had the ghastly whiteness of one. Unable to support herself, she lay slumped in his arms. Her legs dangled in midair, like those of a marionette. He hoped that she looked worse than she actually was. In the past, she had shown an eerie talent for it.
"Do you still think she is only a little worse for wear?" Porthos inquired. He was asking the exact same question that kept floating around Athos's mind, unanswered.
"We will have to see," he replied quietly. It would be a great miracle if their young lady friend had only taken a minor scratch in her accident.
Suddenly concerned, Athos touched her cheek. His hand came back warm, too warm. She required care, urgently. He quickened his pace even more. At a near run, he climbed the broad stone stairs and approached the palatial building ahead. All this time, Porthos stayed close, running with him.
Pushing past the servant who admitted them, Athos stepped into the ample entrance hall. Briefly he held on, but not to admire the finery of the marble tiles, silk hangings or golden chandeliers all around him.
"You are home," he told his friend in a low murmur. But the young lady took his words as impassively as everything else he had said before. She remained entirely insensible; deaf to the world around her.
Even though her body was a dead weight, it shifted uneasily in his hold. It felt as though its motions travelled through his arms, straight into his own body. He had to lay her down, fast. Tightening his grip, Athos moved on. He knew where to go. Two steps at a time, he ran up the polished marble staircase that lead to her bedchamber.
Once he had reached the top floor, he perceived the tread of a maid upon his heels. Without a single question, she slunk past and opened the double doors to her mistress's quarters. He did not miss the horrified look she gave the huddled bundle in his arms.
Quickly Athos approached the large fourposter bed in the center of the spacious room. He laid her down. Very carefully he unwrapped her from his green cloak, never glancing up from her perfectly motionless form. He tossed the heavy leather cloak over his left shoulder, listening. Without turning he knew that Porthos and him were no longer alone with her. Before he could identify the new arrival, Athos found himself spoken to:
"Monsieur, does my niece require a physician?" A soft female voice asked. Great concern made her words sound tremulous. It was Princess Charlotte.
"Your highness," Athos turned and sketched a quick bow. The princess looked startled. Her large blue eyes gazed back at him from a pale round face full of trepidation and her dark golden curls were in disarray. Yet he doubted that she had cried. "The matter is already in hand."
Aramis had gone to the Louvre to fetch Lemay. They should be arriving soon. Until then, Athos was reluctant to leave his friend. Yet protocol dictated otherwise: Musketeers had no business in the bedroom of a young, unmarried lady from the royal family. But it did not mean they would just give her up to her family's care.
He glanced at Porthos. Consternation was consuming his comrade. The seemingly placid look on his face did not fool Athos. All he needed to see was the deep sadness in Porthos's eyes and the way they remained fixed on their unconscious friend. Once, she had meant the world to him. And now, these ancient affections left him heartbroken.
Before Porthos noticed his scrutiny, Athos turned back to the princess. "If it would be agreeable with your highness, I would like my comrade to remain with Mademoiselle. As long as the incidents at the royal procession are still under investigation, her safety is our primary concern." Athos stopped himself abruptly. He was fabricating a tale, telling half truths. They knew what had happened at the procession. She had only been an innocent bystander. Still he found no better excuse to leave Porthos with her. "I am aware Monseigneur le Prince might not agree to..."
Princess Charlotte held up her hand, groaning quietly. She had heard enough. "My husband is not here, Monsieur." Her sour expression told Athos all he needed to know about the dismal state of their marriage. "And I would welcome it if you stayed with my niece, for however long she needs you. As you well know, Désirée does not have many close friends. And I daresay, you are the closest thing to friends she has ever had."
She was right. Although her knowledge of Désirée's past relations with the Musketeers astonished him. But Athos had no time to waste on this notion. He had work to do. "Thank you, Madame."
His hand touched Porthos's arm, giving him a gentle push towards the bed. "I will leave this to you and Aramis", he told him in a low voice, "D'Artagnan and I are expected in Rouen by nightfall. We shall return to Paris tomorrow. If she misbehaves, let her know I will lecture her when I get back."
Porthos snorted. For an instant, his eyes lit up. "I will, if she wakes up until then. If not you might have to yell at her not to die on us", he whispered back.
"She won't die, Porthos." Athos sighed. Désirée had had countless opportunities to die in the past. He did not believe that she would jump at this one.
Albeit Porthos looked doubtful. "You cannot know that..." he muttered.
"If she ever finds out you said that, she will punch you in the groin," Athos quipped. With one final slap on his comrade's broad back, he pulled away from the glum spectacle.
Outside the window the red skies announced the afternoon drawing to a close. He hated to leave but duty never ended. It was a soldier's lot. There was nothing he could do here. And, on a horrid day such as this he could not allow to drown in this crippling sentiment of powerlessness. And Désirée could not allow herself to die now. It was her duty to stay alive, for her family, and for them. She knew that. And she would never let him down.
Hopefully...