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If Athos has learnt anything over the last few centuries, it’s that time does not, in fact, heal all wounds. Occasionally they can be blunted, that much is true, but nothing truly heals.
He can still feel the crushing blow, deep in his chest, where he had been killed in a joust, knocked from his horse by an opponent’s lance.
Well, killed in a very loose sense of the word. He had been dead for a few days, before resurfacing and setting to work on creating a new life for himself.
The plague had taken him out of the world for a fortnight, and since then he had felt death close over his shoulder as a constant companion.
Now he had another spectre that would haunt him through all his long days, that of his wife.
When he was arrested and sentenced and stood facing down the barrels of his executioners’ muskets, he felt the tug of freedom. He could die and then leave, escape from his musketeer life and those that had worked their way in past his defences.
He would be free from the ties of loyalty and brotherhood and affection again, and he would be saved. Saved from the dreaded inevitability of being forced to watch them all wither and die. Saved from having them all leave him one way or another, as they must.
But then a shout rang out and there they were, rescuing him from the blessed relief that had washed over him at the thought of being able to escape into death for a while. And Aramis was chastising him for demanding his executioners to hurry, and Porthos looked as though he wanted to deliver a thorough beating to each man for doing their job, and even d’Artagnan was there, and Athos knew there was no leaving them now.
Porthos and Aramis were untying him, hands gentle at his wrists, and Athos would have no escape and no relief, but he would have his brothers.
He had never intended to be counted in the ranks of the Musketeers, but Treville had taken him in when he had nothing else and had been quick to realize and appreciate his skill and put him to work, and Athos was the garrison’s de facto leader before he knew it.
Porthos had intrigued him from the beginning. He had never seen someone with so much determination, or one who had risen so high by their own merit and without compromise. Soon after he joined, they were working together almost exclusively.
Aramis he had known before due to his reputation of skill with a musket, but it was not until he had returned from Savoy a broken man that Athos took an interest. He had seen that look in his own eyes and the idea of someone suffering alone as he had done was too much for him to bear witness to.
He set Porthos as Aramis’ partner for several missions and was satisfied to see their bond deepen and Aramis begin to take pleasure in things again and Porthos finally relax into his role as a Musketeer, to get used to hearing his deep, warm laugh ring out over the courtyard.
With this, inevitably, Aramis also spent more time with Athos and without Athos noticing the three of them had earned the soubriquet of the Inseparables. And, it seemed, that they were.
Despite Athos’ misgivings about putting too much faith or reliance in men who’s lives seemed short as a butterfly’s, there was no denying that they fought better together than anyone else in Paris, or the whole of France if you listened to Aramis. That skill and talent wasn’t something Athos could pass up lightly. Their near constant companionship was something he would simply have to suffer through for the greater good.
Then they were saving him from execution and the hope of release, and Athos was finally forced to admit, if only to himself, that this was it, he would stand by these men until their dying day.
These men that now, apparently, included d’Artagnan. He had clearly impressed Aramis and Porthos while Athos had been locked away, or else had done something that had made them assume responsibility of him. And really, Athos thought, as he watched d’Artagnan’s form critically, if the boy was going to broadcast every passing emotion he had with his blade like that it wasn’t right to leave him alone.
Athos’ resolve to stand by his brothers while they lived faced a trial by fire soon after it was made.
He couldn’t bring himself to mourn the loss of his chateau. Any hope or happiness that had existed there had long since been over shadowed. To see it burnt to the ground gave him no more pain than being away from it for years had done.
Terror struck his heart when he realized his wife was real though, that he had tried to kill her and she had lived. What if she was like him, what if immortality lived within her as well, and what if she could never die but would follow him, blackening his already cursed life until the end of time.
Her hands were on him and he let his head fall against her in defeat, her lips on his hair. God help him, he would never be free of his love and hatred for this woman.
He wished she would kill him. It wouldn’t last long, knife wounds never did, but he wanted her to do it. Not wait for the flames she had lit to do their worst, but to complete the action herself. To have to live with the agony of having killed the one she loved, as he did.
D’Artagnan saved him again, from the fire, from his wife and from himself.
Afterward, Athos renewed his vows to stay with his brothers. Not to be the one who left them, to be there when they died.
He was surprised that they all lived to see Aramis’ son born by the Queen.
Athos knew by now his friend’s great capacity for love and affection, but that it would turn to the Queen he had not predicted. He was furious with Aramis for treating his life so lightly. If anyone ever discovered the truth behind it he would be hanged, as would any co-conspirators, which included Athos. Though hanging would have little effect on him and would hardly matter, beyond the fact he had never been hung to death before.
He had made the decision to dedicate his life to his brothers and he would do so. That did not mean he would stand idly by while Aramis created even greater risk in their already danger filled lives. The idea that they would make it to peaceful old age seemed impossible, but Athos would simply not allow any of them to end hung for treason and so he told them.
He was still more surprised that they were all still alive to bear witness to Aramis’ son being crowned King, even though it was under a regency.
Louis XIII had never fully outgrown his reliance on first his mother and then the Cardinal. It was to be hoped that the new Louis XIV would be more successful, though he would have to endure a similar beginning to his reign. Anne had always been a serious woman, however, and would be a better guide for her son than Marie de Medici had been for hers.
There was hope for France, Athos truly believed that, and, as he watched Aramis swear fealty to his son and new King, Athos thought that there was hope for his friend as well.
Over the years, they’d all aged, Athos only through sheer force of will, but it took more than time to slow a Musketeer. D’Artagnan, indeed, was in what could only be called his prime. He had learned restraint and control over the years, though he still felt deeply and was always the first to offer up his protection to anyone that might need it. Out of them all, Athos thought, d’Artagnan would be the only one who might achieve true happiness and he was glad. The boy, now man, deserved it.
In the end, Porthos was the first to leave him.
It was ridiculous in a way, a sword thrust he had parried a thousand times before, this time driven in under his guard. Athos almost thought he would see Porthos suddenly straighten and reveal that he was fine, that it had been a joke, that a sword wasn’t really buried deep in his chest.
Porthos’ enjoyment of the fight and the laughter on his lips barely faded as he sank into Aramis’ arms, cradled against his friend’s chest and spilling his life’s blood out onto the muddied ground. Athos watched him go, knew from vast experience that it wouldn’t take him long. Dimly he could hear d’Artagnan dispatch the two remaining attackers with violent rage before throwing his sword from him and falling to his knees, railing against God and fate and anyone else he could think to blame.
Aramis held Porthos gently to him, staring down into his face, careful not to miss the moment. Porthos reached up a hand to his cheek, smiled his blinding, heartfelt smile, and spoke his name once more before breathing his last, gone forever.
No one knew how old Porthos was when he died, and the man himself wouldn’t have been able to tell them. He died beloved though, however his life had started, and he would be remembered in Paris as Porthos du Vallon, of the King’s Musketeers.
Porthos’ death had marked the end of Aramis’ time with the Musketeers as well. With Porthos gone, he couldn’t bring himself to return to the fight and finally gave in to his calling, became Abbé d’Herblay at Noisy-le-Sec, some hours east of Paris, and fought no more.
Captain Treville was past the age of retirement and this last seemed too much for even him to overcome. He was seeing his friends and contemporaries fall around him and it turned him into an old man over night. He looked to Athos to take over his command, but Athos refused to allow himself to be tied to this life with any new bindings and pointed him instead towards d’Artagnan.
D’Artagnan, he knew, would make a great Captain of the Musketeers, and Athos stayed for a time after Treville left to see it happen. D’Artagnan was well respected by his men and soon began to receive the undivided loyalty they had always given Treville. He did well at the Palace too, was never too busy to explain something to their youthful King and Athos could see in his relationship with Mazarin that he would handle him as well as Treville had ever dealt with Richelieu.
There were new recruits, some of them so unbearably young, and Athos watched them train. They were coming along nicely and he was grimly satisfied in the knowledge that there were several he would deem competent enough to watch over d’Artagnan.
Among the ranks there were many rumors surrounding Athos and he knew they didn’t know what to make of him: dour and silent, often closeted with their leader, occasionally dispensing advice to a promising recruit, so much a fixture in the place that it was as if he had been their forever.
Athos sometimes wondered if maybe he had been there forever. The years passed strangely and he sometimes couldn’t remember the count.
A young lad appeared from the country and d’Artagnan took him into his regiment. He was quick and charming and had a broad smile, and Athos could see enough of Porthos and Aramis and d’Artagnan in him for it to be painful. The boy sought him out as if by instinct and the overwhelming reminders became too much and Athos couldn’t stay.
He gave the boy some good advice he had learnt over the years (Don’t attack an unarmed man. Don’t get involved. It’s every man for himself, until it’s not. Always keep a bucket of water handy for the morning.), and made his goodbyes to d’Artagnan, which were hard though he fully intended to return one day, and he left.
He spent time traveling and exploring France, and the surrounding countries as well. Soon he would need to begin again. Athos, Comte de la Fère could not remain in Paris much longer without rousing suspicion. For a man who lived the life of a Musketeer for many years, he looked far too whole and hale. He hadn’t aged enough, nor did he show evidence of enough injuries to be believable. The people he saw from day to day didn’t notice, but visitors to court might, especially those with a grudge to settle, and history certainly would. The time had come for the Comte de la Fère to disappear.
He rode over Europe looking for somewhere to settle, to ply his trade as a swordsman, perhaps, but this time he was determined not to get quite so close to the seat of power, it caused trouble and attracted too much attention.
It was almost time to leave France, as well, maybe he would return to Italy. Not Florence again, he had become too much the honorable gentleman for such a licentious town, somewhere further South perhaps.
He wouldn’t leave France just yet though. He still had two companions he had vowed to never leave and he wouldn’t, he would wait for them to leave him.
He visited Aramis. The Abbé seemed quietly happy in his parish. Athos found him staring into the distance sometimes and he was slower to laugh, his prayers were incessant but conversational and he seemed more content closer to his God.
Athos actually attended a mass, his first in many years, to hear Aramis speak. His old charm showed though, and Athos thought he had probably stumbled across the happiest and most devout Catholics in France.
There were several women who lingered after the service to speak with the Abbé, but Aramis turned them away with a sweetness he didn’t use to possess and Athos assumed he had turned his back on the dalliances of his youth. That was until Aramis revealed he had been corresponding with Ninon de Larroque and showed him one of her letters, written with great wit and completely inappropriate coming from a schoolmistress. She was well and happy and unmarried, and a weight Athos hadn’t realized he was carrying along with the rest was lifted.
Aramis asked after Louis and Athos answered honestly. The boy was happy and healthy and growing into manhood. His reliance on Mazarin spoke of similarities to his adoptive father, but Athos thought that his true father’s instincts would win out, d’Artagnan’s influence would grow and, one day, Louis would make a good King. Aramis seemed pleased to hear it but did not display any sadness at not being part of his son’s life beyond expressing his relief that d’Artagnan would stand in the same position to him that Captain Treville had to both his fathers.
Over the years, Athos continued to visit Abbé d’Herblay sporadically. These visits were the only time he lingered on his days with the Musketeers, rehashing old stories and triumphs with Aramis. It was noticeable that even after every dark hair on Aramis’ head grew white and his old laughter lines deepened into wrinkles, Athos still looked little older than he had when they met. Aramis never mentioned it, though his eyes were keen as ever even if he no longer stood as upright as was his wont. Sometimes, when his friend looked at him, Athos thought Aramis could see something other than what was there on the surface. Something revealed to him by his God that made Aramis look at him with great understanding and a mix between sympathy and pity.
Once, late one night after they had stayed up talking longer than was suitable for someone the Abbé’s age, Aramis leant forward and took his friend’s hand in his, holding it and looking into his eyes for a long time.
“Athos,” he said finally. “You are the best of men.”
There were tears in his eyes, as if he knew and understood what Athos had experienced in his long life, and Athos felt his history rise up and threaten to overwhelm him, but Aramis said no more, slipping into a comforting, murmur of prayer before leaving him for his bed.
When Athos received the missive telling him of the beloved Abbé’s illness, he saddled his horse and rode day and night for Noisy-le-Sec, praying to Aramis’ God that he would not take his servant before Athos had a chance to see him once more, and watch him leave.
The entire village was standing vigil when he arrived, and he found d’Artagnan by Aramis’ bedside and a priest reading him his last rites. When Aramis saw him standing in the doorway, his face lit up and Athos could see the dashing young man who had recovered from the massacre of his companions to charm all of Paris up to and including the Queen.
He went to his side and clasped the thin, shaking hand in his own firm grasp, his other hand going to Aramis’ hair, stroking it back in the same comforting motion Aramis had performed for him time and time again when he was sunk deep in his dark grief.
“Athos.” Aramis’ voice had sunk to a whisper, but it sounded like benediction and absolution and Athos bowed his head under it. “We lived for you and now you shall live for us.”
There was the ghost of their old motto in the words and Athos took them to mean Aramis knew his secret and wanted his promise that he would live on, even without them. Athos looked up and nodded, beyond speech. Aramis offered him a last smile, let his eyes fall closed and slipped away, leaving Athos behind.
Athos and d’Artagnan remained some days in Noisy after Aramis was buried, with the accoutrements of both his professions with him, sword and crucifix side by side. They were reluctant to leave, it seemed like saying a final goodbye to Aramis and Porthos as well, whose memory Aramis had guarded and kept alive so diligently.
D’Artagnan had duties to get back to though; they couldn’t remain there forever. Age was beginning to tell on him as well, his hair was iron grey, shorter and swept back from his forehead, like Treville’s had been. His mouth was thinner too, no doubt at narrowing in disapproval at his recruits. He spoke of retirement, of getting another farm in Gascony perhaps, and Athos promised himself to spend more time with d’Artagnan from now on, not to leave it too long between visits.
As it was, when the time came, Athos had been coming to stay with him by prior agreement. It was spring and, while d’Artagnan hadn’t bought a farm in the end, too much hard work for a old man alone, the chateau he had bought in Lupiac was surrounded by beautiful fields and trees that looked their best in the spring. Since he had returned to Gascony, Athos was with him for every spring, whatever he did with the rest of his year.
This year, riding at ease under the blossoms, Athos felt less a sense of beginnings, more that of endings. He found d’Artagnan seated before a fire, the brisk spring day chilling his old bones where it didn’t affect Athos’ older ones. They sat together in silence for some time after sharing their news, peaceful and happy in each other’s company.
After a while, some good angel prompted Athos to tell d’Artagnan everything, all his secrets and all his past. Or perhaps it was Aramis and Porthos, who were not angels that Athos was sure of.
D’Artagnan heard him in wonder and amusement, but not disbelief. There is that that the old will believe without question that the young would dismiss out of hand.
His eyes mapped over Athos’ face carefully, taking in all the changes that had not taken place there after all this time.
“I knew it must be something,” there was triumph in his tone, sharing in a celebration as if Athos had actually achieved something. He reached forward to wring his hand. “Thank you, Athos.” And there was a world of meaning behind the simple words.
D’Artagnan passed away peacefully in the night.
Athos couldn’t shake the feeling that it was like he had waited only to see Athos that last time and to hear his story, finally.
He had thought that he might feel free now, without the bonds of brotherhood that had kept him tied to Paris and France and the Musketeers. But he didn’t. Nor did he feel a gaping sense of loss, however. He would forever miss them, but he had seen them live and he had seen them happy and he had lived that with them.
Forever after, once a year, a mysterious man visited three graves in France. A man who never aged and could remember the men buried deep in the ground.
Porthos du Vallon, valiant fighter and kind protector.
Aramis, Abbé Rene d’Herblay, devoted priest and brilliant musketeer.
And Charles de Batz de Castelmore d’Artagnan, who rose through the ranks to advise the King himself, the greatest success of them all.
There was no grave for Athos, Comte de la Fère and, after a while, no one to remember him.
He lived and fought on, but never again did he have three such brothers.