Work Text:
déjà vu interrupted
Nothing that suffers … can pass without merit in the sight of God. – Aramis S1:EP3 - Commodities
His heart seized. Literally seized in its cavity, the constriction ripping through his chest like the sharp plunge of a parrying dagger. Athos clamped his jaw, cutting off the gasp of pain that would have alerted his companions, and slowed his steps before the nearest vendor, an architect of chapeaus by the wares on display. He could not stop the involuntary clutch at his chest, though he turned it into a discreet cough by a quick turn of his hand, catching the eye of the merchant.
“How may I serve you, my lord?”
Athos shook his head. “No lord,” he managed on a choked exhale, turning slightly so his pauldron was on display. He snatched the nearest hat and held it up, left arm bent and pulled tight into his side. “How much?” he punched out, though the words were nearly stillborn.
“For you, monsieur, a King’s Musketeer, five livres.”
Athos, gritting his teeth behind a tight-lipped smile, produced a gold piece, ensuring change, as his gaze darted around the marketplace, searching the shadowed archways desperately for evidence one way or another, scanning the crowd for assurance.
He was weeks into sobriety, again, and past the lingering effects of withdrawal. There was little hope it had been just another momentary phantasm.
“Thank you.” He pocketed his change, exchanged half bows with the proprietor and took the proffered hat.
“May your lady wear it in good health,” the man offered genially.
Athos glanced down at his impromptu purchase, a wide-brimmed concoction not unlike his own, though beneath the front edge, a veil nested in a profusion of dried posies. He glanced up with a sigh. At least the spasm was releasing its hold. He could breathe again and by the time Aramis, accompanied by a grinning Porthos and trailing the new puppy, threaded through the throng of midday shoppers, he could speak.
Not that he could think of a thing to say.
“Mon ami!” Aramis clapped a hand on a rigid shoulder. “This is a side we have not seen of you.” Grin sprouting, he added, with just a touch of the effete, “Whether it’s for you or someone else.”
A comté never lost control, never felt the burn of mortification, he was master of all he surveyed, far superior to any lesser beings. Or so his father had drilled him endlessly. Athos could not remember the last time chagrin had touched the core of his person so effectively. Any riposte he might have made died in the back of his throat.
d’Artagnan eyed the offending headgear with narrowed eyes. “What do you want with a lady’s hat?”
It was Porthos’ too observant stare, though, that saw beneath. “You alright? Ya look like ya seen a ghost.”
Athos blinked, drew in deep breath, and with iron will, made himself shake off the disorientation without any physical exhibition. “Fine,” he barked dismissively, curling his fingers compulsively around the hat brim, though the grip burnt like fire along his nerve endings. He could not explain the hat and he would not share what he should not have been able to see.
Aramis cocked his head. “You do look a bit pale. Is something wrong?”
“No,” Athos snapped, shuffling forward. His mind was still grappling with the singular impossibility of the glimpse he’d caught out of the corner of his eye. A glimpse of whole flesh and blood so wrong as to be blasphemous, and therefore, he could not have seen what his mind was still trying to persuade him he had seen.
He moved with purpose, past Aramis, but floundered so un-characteristically that Porthos grabbed him by an arm. “We were goin’ … this way.” The big man jerked a thumb over his shoulder, though Athos was certain they had not been headed back to the barracks.
“No we weren’t,” d’Artagnan contradicted, only to be jolted by an elbow in the ribs.
“Yes we were.” Aramis, heeding Porthos’ lifted ‘what the hell?’ eyebrow, fell into place on the other side of Athos, linking arms with the comté. “Serge will have dinner on the table soon, best not be late.”
Athos was well aware he was being managed, a thing he hated, but it was if the world had tilted on its axis, or perhaps it was still flat and he’d gone right over the edge.
It certainly felt like he’d gone over the edge. How else could he explain seeing the wife he had hanged, dead these five years, in living, breathing flesh?
He caught d’Artagnan’s sidelong glance and knew for certain the momentarily disorienting lapse had not affected his internal compass, but he also knew himself more shaken than he cared to admit and allowed his companions to shepherd him back to the barracks.
He attempted, discreetly, to rid himself of the hat, but d’Artagnan, likely imagining it had slipped from his grasp, snatched it up before it hit the dirt, pretentiously dusting the brim before handing it back with a bow, though without comment.
Dinner, was in fact, being served as they arrived back at the garrison. They heaped plates, collected utensils, and returned to what had become their private dining table in the courtyard. Athos humored Porthos and Aramis’ bewildered stabs in the dark regarding his sudden, strange turn, passing it off as an ache of the head that had come on without warning. He ate a little, swallowed the strong, sweet tea made of linden leaves Aramis insisted would help, though it nearly made him vomit, and purposely failed to meet d’Artagnan’s troubled gaze.
The damn hat sat in the middle of the table breathing malevolence, or perhaps hilarity. Malice on his side, mirth on the other. He did not dare leave it when he made his excuses and rose to leave, else the puppy would come scampering after him with it.
Athos did not play the fool. If he had ever had any bent toward it, it had been purged from his repertoire so thoroughly as to have been born without it. But, he knew, if he could not turn this into an antic, somehow, this was going to haunt him forever. He picked the thing up, removed his own hat and set the travesty of a bonnet upon the crown of his head, tilting it at coquettish angle. “Well?” He pitched his voice falsetto high. “What do you think? Is it becoming?” He turned this way, then that, for his dropped-jaw audience. “Perhaps I will wear it to the queen’s next soiree. It is grand enough, is it not?”
d’Artagnan snorted, sucking a bit of bread crust down his windpipe. He coughed once and grabbed his throat, eyes bulging. Porthos was over the bench in an eye blink, smacking him on the back, producing a fit of coughing that finally dislodged the offending crust, leaving d’Artagnan gulping for air as he wiped his streaming eyes.
Athos waited out the storm of hacking that followed, hands at his waist, one hip jutting out in a pose he’d seen Madame Bonacieux strike. Copying her pout as well, he raised an eyebrow beneath the hat brim. “Something amuses you, monsieur?”
“Stop, please, stop! It hurts!” d’Artagnan gasped, one hand pressed to his chest, the other to his stomach, trying to choke off his helpless laughter while still coughing. “I will never … see Constance … the same again,” he wailed, between gulps of air.
Aramis and Porthos, for all their shock, joined in heartily.
Porthos was first to collect himself. “If t’weren’t fer the beard, your lordship, you’d make a grand armful. B’what makes it s’funny ain’t even the damn hat, Aramis s’right.” Chuckles continued to roll through his big frame. “Never thought ya had in’ya!” he chortled.
“I could introduce you to a few friends,” Aramis offered suggestively, wiping at his own tears of merriment, “who would appreciate the armful just as it is.”
Hearing the creak of the captain’s office door, Athos whipped the hat off, shooting a look of dire warning at the other side of the table. “Good evening, sir. My apologies if we disturbed you.”
Tréville crossed to the railing, curling his hands over it as he looked down on the still laughing trio across from his second in command. “Something amuses you, gentlemen?”
Only Athos kept a straight face amidst the ensuing further hilarity at the unwitting repetition of his query.
The frosty blue eyes gleamed for a moment. “Care to share?” Tréville pivoted and trotted down the stairs to join them, much to Athos’ mortification. “I could use a laugh.” It was rare to hear such a jolly sound as was still echoing around the courtyard.
“I believe that would be my cue to exit.” Athos drew the hat from behind his back and bowed as he held it out across the table. “d’Artagnan, it would be a great boon if you would deliver my thanks along with the hat I picked up for Madame Bonacieux.”
The youth rose to the occasion with aplomb. “Of course, I’m headed there shortly anyway.”
“My thanks. Gentlemen, I will see you in the morning.” He tipped his own hat back onto his head, bowed and turned to stroll unhurriedly across the courtyard.
Athos heard the hastily crafted, vindicating explanation, though he did not turn around at the new explosion of gaiety behind him. d’Artagnan, he assumed rightly, was now modeling the hat. A kindness Athos knew he in no way deserved.
Back in his own apartment, he paced, willing the image out of his head. He had honed his will scalpel sharp; he did not tolerate straying thoughts or creeping conjecture. Nor was he a fanciful man. But it was as if the image had been burnished into his mind’s eye.
Barring the surcease of alcohol, he would get no rest until the puzzle was solved. Though if he was honest with himself, this was too vast for oceans of alcohol to drown.
He threw himself down on the bed, flung an arm over his eyes, and conceded the contest of wills. The picture in his mind flickered as though laughing slyly, a thing so patently characteristic of his dead wife it made him shudder. But as he let his mind expand the captured portrait, he realized it was not a face he had seen. Rather it had been the tilt of the head, the curve of a black-clad shoulder half-turned from him, the arch of a slender neck slightly blurred by the lacey black mantilla draped over head and shoulders.
Relief swamped him like a benediction; uncurling his fingers from the bed frame, easing the headache that had truly bloomed behind his eyes and relieving the tension tightening his shoulder blades.
Of course he had not have seen his dead wife. Only God or the devil could reanimate flesh; though he was not certain about the devil. And while he was not on speaking terms with any god, scriptural or otherwise, the thought garnered a relieved reprieve. Surely no god, great or small, would resurrect the lying, cheating whore he had had hung from a tree by the neck.
Not that those qualities had in any way deflected the fierce, undying love with which he had worshiped her. No, probably for his sins, that barb had been left buried deeply in his flesh, a relentless reminder that love was a patently false concept spuriously perpetrated by … fine, he could not think who might benefit from perpetuating the myth, but it was surely still being perpetuated.
Dismissing the thought all together, he let himself drift off, knowing dozing now would disturb his night’s rest. In the moment, he cared only that sleep offered refuge.
~*~
Athos was not a fan of tennis, though he was as proficient at it as he was at all other things. The single exception, seemingly, being the art of love. But he was happy to leave that distinction to Aramis.
From an early age, he had been motivated to master all the entertainments the aristocracy pursued, by a father highly skilled in the nuances of political maneuverings that took place, not just in the vaulted halls of the Louvre, but in fencing salons, on tennis courts, in ladies’ parlors, even on the revered fields of hunting.
Thus, he was a much sought after partner on the tennis courts. While it was not a sport he particularly enjoyed, he had found the exercise of chasing a ball afforded augmented lung capacity, suppleness of limbs, and enhanced the eye/hand coordination a superior fencer needed to rout an opponent.
This day, his exceptional ability to calculate the trajectory of the ball meant he and Porthos were ahead four games to two.
“Advantage, Porthos and Athos. Porthos’ service!” Aramis called down from the gallery, a dozen vouchers fanned in his right hand. “Betting remains open until service is concluded!”
d’Artagnan, knowing nothing about tennis, had offered Madame Bonacieux, whose man milner of a husband was out of town, another shooting lesson this afternoon. He’d requested the opportunity to keep his options open, delivering his decision as soon as Madame had accepted the invitation. It went unsaid that teaching the lovely Madame Bonacieux offered far too many opportunities for unobserved lingering touches.
The former trio of Inseparables were on their own for the afternoon.
On the court, Frayne and Lancelin stole a moment during the lull before Porthos’ serve, to swipe sleeves across eyes burning with sweat.
In the gallery, a flurry of bettors hurried to collect and reinvest winnings before the game was called.
Porthos tossed the ball high. “Tennis!” he shouted, racquet connecting in midair to smash the ball across the net directly at the feet of Frayne, who danced backwards, managing to swat it back with enough force, despite the odd angle, for the ball to fly towards Porthos.
A grunt and a smack kept the ball in flight. It hit the wall behind Lancelin, spinning like a top, bounced high enough that Lance caught it on the rebound and flipped it without force, so it landed just on the other side of the net.
Athos raced to catch it, lobbing it with the lightest of touches, so it wobbled a moment on the top before sliding down to land at the bottom, too close to the net for either Frayne or Lance to sprint forward quickly enough. Though they both tried and collided in the middle of the court.
The watchers in the gallery hooted derisively.
“Fifth game to the team of Porthos and Athos!” Aramis shouted gleefully. “A decisive game, friends! Frayne’s service. Final bets, ladies and gentlemen, unless Messiers Frayne & Lancelin can turn this around.”
Which they did in a fast and furious manner, flying around the court batting back unreachable balls, stretching to their full height, nearly horizontally, to return volleys that looked impossible. At thirty love, Lance hit his first ace, but Porthos scored on the next point and it was looking like a comeback for team Porthos and Athos as they immediately scored again, though it was still forty thirty. Frayne rebounded an overhead in the next point, splitting the width between Porthos and Athos such that both expected the other to get it and the ball bounced twice before they realized it.
“Five to three, Porthos and Athos. First team to take six matches wins the game!” Aramis cupped his hands around his mouth to augment his voice above the giddy chatter. “Athos’ serve.”
Athos bounced the ball a couple of times. “Tennis,” he declaimed, tossed it in the air and slammed his fifth ace behind their opponents. Frayne retrieved the still spinning ball and pitched it vigorously back to Athos, scowling when the man plucked it out of the air as if picking grapes. It should have stung, at least, though Athos showed not the least sign discomfort.
“Fifteen Love,” Aramis announced, “Messiers Porthos and Athos.”
“Tennis!”
Frayne dodged the bullet that whizzed past him by a hairs breadth, hit the wall again and bounced halfway to the ceiling before the musketeer managed a wild swing that connected, slamming the ball back toward Porthos, who had to dodge, too, and missed on his backswing.”
“Fifteen all,” Aramis shouted above the gallery hubbub.
Athos served a second ace.
“Thirty fifteen, Meissers’ Porthos and Athos.”
Athos, who had no affinity for the sweat and grime tennis invariably produced, either, was ready to be done. He threw the ball up, only to miss it on the descent as a flutter among the gallery patrons caught his eye. He bent, gaze searching the balcony packed with watchers, as he scooped up the ball, briefly catching sight of a backside swathed in the folds of a gleaming red dress, a concealing hood drawn-up over her head. The female pushed through the door leading back out to the corridor and stairs.
The slide and glide was so familiar it caught at his breath again, blackening the edges of his vision for a moment. His heart did not seize this time, though it certainly knocked about in his chest uncomfortably. Occluding the sight, if not the memory it jangled, Athos tossed the ball again and smacked it, every ounce of suppressed rage spurting the ball across the court. It hit the wall and flew back to Porthos without touching the floor on Frayne and Lancelin’s side. Porthos let it fly up past his shoulder, catching it on its downward spiral to slam dunk it between the opposite pair with no hope of return.
“Forty fifteen,” Aramis intoned, managing to keep the glee from his voice. “Messiers Porthos and Athos.
The derision from the onlookers leveled up, reaching a new frenzied pitch.
Athos, gaze narrowed, caught the ball Lance tossed back and in the same easy movement, tossed it over his head and slammed his racquet into it at shoulder height, sending the ball caroming around the room as though it was a ricocheting bullet.
The force of the ball caught Frayne on the shoulder, spinning him around, racquet flailing like a rookie, and dropped dead at his tangled feet. Lance caught his partner before Frayne toppled.
“Game, set, match!” Aramis shouted, waving the chits in his hands as the gallery exploded with excited noises. Athos, with a single glance up to the balcony, tossed his racquet to an unsuspecting Porthos, who nonetheless caught it, and dashed for the nearest door.
The door of the tennis court opened directly onto the street where the woman would have had to exit, though swivel, push and shove as he might, not a trace of red showed itself up or down the street.
Briefly, Athos debated dashing in and out of the establishments lining the broad thoroughfare, then gave it up as hopeless.
His brain knew good and well he was chasing a phantom, but that did not ease the ache in his chest. He’d had five years to regret his actions, though they had been deliberate and unhurried at the time. On his own land, he was judge and jury and the woman had murdered his brother in cold blood. But he had taken the time to establish who and what she was, before pronouncing sentence. A branded thief, in addition to a murderess. He had been well within his rights to enact justice, which made him judge, jury and executioner. Though he had only watched the proceedings, unable to force himself to pull the cart out from under her. He had made another a partner in his guilt by refusing to carry out that last act himself.
Athos sagged, elbows propped on bent knees, still a bit breathless from both the game and this … whatever it was. Either there was a woman in Paris that carried herself in the same manner as his dead wife, and looked to be her twin, or, and this perhaps was the greater probability, he was slowly losing his mind.
Porthos’s boots pulled up directly in his vision, Aramis’ hoving into view slightly side-stepped to Porthos’.
“What’s wif you?” Porthos wanted to know, bending himself as he was still huffing from the exertion as well. “You din’even stay to collect th’grudgin’ congratulations of our opponents.”
Athos turned his head to meet Porthos’ sideways gaze. “I can do without Frayne’s grudging anything, though I am certain Lance proffered his felicitations freely.”
“Yeah, yeah, but you hied yr’self outta there like you was after someone or something.”
Athos shrugged and straightened, rubbing at his smarting hand. The fast ball Frayne had sent over in frustration had stung, though Athos had refused to give him the satisfaction of owning it. Frayne wanted Athos’ skill with the sword, without putting in the hours, weeks, months, and years of honing the skill. They were not exactly enemies, but neither were they friends.
“I saw someone is all, an old friend, thought I might catch up.”
“Perhaps he will come again, to another match.” Aramis, between them as Porthos straightened, too, clapped them both on the back before reaching into his jacket. “We are rich and increased in worldly goods, my friends.” He poured out a fat purse into Porthos’ readily cupped hands. “The day is young; how shall we beggar ourselves again?”
Athos, sloughing off the strange lassitude that wanted to creep over mind and body, for once chose advance rather than retreat. He flung an arm, unexpectedly, over Aramis’ shoulder, ignoring the look the gesture precipitated. “Lead on. I find myself looking forward to an afternoon in company, messiers.”
Porthos and Aramis exchanged baffled looks, then shrugs.
“Here’s an idea.” Porthos shouldered the pair of racquets he carried. “Hows about we visit the baths. I could use a good relaxin’ soak after that game.”
“As if you had to put much effort into it,” Aramis laughed. “To the baths, then, gentleman. Adèle won’t mind a sweet-scented musketeer in her bed tonight! But I, for one, would like to collect clean clothes and perhaps we should inform d’Artagnan of our plans.”
Athos shrugged agreement. He was willing to do anything if it kept his mind off his dead wife. Plus, a bath would relive him of the sweat and grime of the dusty tennis court.
And so, the trio set off for the garrison.
~*~
Apparently Madame Bonacieux had proved an apt pupil for they collected not only clean clothes, but d’Artagnan, who they’d found idling away the remainder of the afternoon in the courtyard. He reported that she’d been quite enamored of the new hat and planned to wear it the very next time she and her husband were summoned to the palace. Though she would have to tell Bonacieux she’d saved up her pin money to buy it. He did not approve of his wife accepting gifts from other men.
d’Artagnan did not impart her strangely non-curious acceptance regarding the unexpected gift. He was aware Athos knew her; after all, Monsieur Bonacieux supplied cloth for the company uniforms, but something was up with Athos. The whole hat thing was … disturbing.
The baths proved to be quiet and their newly acquired wealth stretched considerably further than it might have on a busy afternoon. It garnered them a private room and four decent-sized tubs, along with servants to see to the filling of them. Aramis flirted shamelessly with the matron, securing them free towels, and after all, what more did a man need on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of June in the year of our Lord 1630?
Aramis, their resident sybarite, stripped off his clothes, stepped into the tub and sank blissfully into the water. “d’Artagnan, before you get in,” he nodded toward his clothes, “pass out the smokes. Inside jacket pocket.”
“You brought ‘em!” Porthos cackled with glee. “Nothin’ I love more than a soak ‘n a’smoke. Get the flint and steel from m’britches, Aramis never ‘members to bring a lighter.”
d’Artagnan, grumbling, found the flint and steel and emptied the contents of Aramis’ pocket into his palm, picking out one to hold up curiously. Then sniffed it. Earthy and a bit herbal with hints of lemon and a faint whiff of skunk as a bottom note. “Smells like tobacco, but different.”
“A bit of cannabis cut with sweet tobacco. The Dutch diamond merchants occasionally share.”
d’Artagnan started to hand them around.
“Give them all to Porthos, he’ll start the first one and light the rest, then you can pass them.”
Athos, groaning, slid into his assigned tub. “How is it you are acquainted with Dutch diamond merchants?”
“Salons, musicales, endless boring routs. You know, society events you avoid like the plague.”
Porthos, puffing on his twist, lit them all and splayed d’Artagnan’s fingers to insert the other three. “Careful, don’ breathe too hard on ‘em.” He leaned back and looked at the Gascon. “Ever smoked before?”
d’Artagnan, sporting some goose flesh by this time, shrugged. “Never appealed.”
“Don’t feel obligated to start now.” Aramis plucked one from between d’Artagnan’s fingers, pinching it lightly between his own. “Porthos will be happy to relieve you of the burden.”
Athos took one carefully, leaving d’Artagnan holding the last one somewhat gingerly as he climbed into his own tub. He leaned forward, turning to watch Aramis, on the other side of Porthos, who held the twist between index and middle finger, put the unlit end in his mouth and drew gently.
The other end glowed cherry red, immediately forming ash.
Athos, on the other side of Aramis, was blowing smoke rings.
“Yep,” Porthos sighed happily, “Nuttin’ better’n a soak n’ a’smoke.”
“First time,” Aramis instructed, “you might want to take shallow inhales and blow out the rest.” He demonstrated, inhaling gently, holding the smoke for barely a second or two in his mouth before releasing it on a long exhale.
d’Artagnan, curiosity aroused, tried it cautiously, rolling the smoke around in his mouth for a moment before exhaling. “What’s different about it from tobacco?”
Aramis hummed. “Some people find smoking has a calming effect; this is …” He observed the glowing tip thoughtfully before drawing a longer breath, holding the smoke for several seconds this time. “This …” he paused again, “I suppose you could say, has an even more relaxing effect than plain tobacco.” He turned his head languidly toward d’Artagnan. “Though, like coffee, it is an acquired taste.”
d’Artagnan, copying Aramis’ relaxed draw, inhaled again and coughed. Then coughed again, and again, before his throat seized and he was hacking, though with no obstruction to cough up.
Porthos shot out of his tub, streaming water, to seize the burning twist before d’Artagnan accidentally dunked it in the water. “Hold your breath for a few seconds.”
d’Artagnan obeyed, holding his nose with his fingers, then coughed once more as he drew a deep lungful of air at the end of it, and slumped back in the tub.
“Better?” Porthos held out the twist.
“Yeah … done.” The puppy waved away the offering. His throat was still raw from last night’s coughing attack. He had no desire to prolong his misery.
“Ya sher?” Porthos waited a moment.
d’Artagnan coughed again. “For sure,” he echoed, blowing out another deep breath.
Porthos climbed back into his tub with blissful disregard for all the water splashed over the sides.
d’Artagnan leaned his head back, laying his arms along the sides of the tub. “Who won the tennis match?”
“Pffffft, you have to ask?” Aramis puffed out a wobbly smoke ring.
Athos breathed out a perfect one.
“Where’d ya think we got the blunt for this?”
They were perpetually broke, except for Athos, who, unknown to his companions, refused to touch any of the estate funds sitting idle in the bank. Which left him in the same tight spot as his friends.
“Ahhhhh. Well then, thanks for thinking of me.”
“Of course,” Aramis replied complacently.
Porthos stubbed out the last of his second one before it burnt his fingers, expelling a long, satisfied mmmmmmm. “That there is a fittin’ reward for all our hard work.”
Athos hummed agreement.
“Aramis. … I need m’hair washed.”
Aramis, floating in a sea of contentment, sloshed a languorous handful of water at his best friend. “You know…” he sighed deeply, “you only get that treatment when you’ve been sick or hurt.”
“’M’sorewounded.” Porthos’ diction was even more slurred than usual.
Athos ground out the end of his twist on the floor by the tub, sinking back once more, with an unusual sigh of pleasure. “One of those of balls get ya?” Even his precise pronunciation was losing its tutor-taught crispness.
Porthos huffed. “Not likely.” And reverting to his slurred speech, repeated, “Sorewounded.”
“’kay,” Aramis prompted, “I’ll bite, how sore is this wound?”
“Baaaaaaaaaaaaaad. Reallllllllllll bad.”
d’Artagnan, the only one of the quartet not thoroughly under the influence, though thoroughly enjoying the hot water, shifted his gaze to Porthos. “You don’t look wounded.”
“s’cause ya can’t see on the inside. Insidesa’mess.”
“Poor results from your latest patroness fishing expedition?” d’Artagnan rolled his neck.
“Ain’t been fishing in awhile.”
“Make us keep guessing and I will give you something to be wounded about,” Athos suggested lethargically.
“Welllllll… s’you that caused it anyway.”
“Me?” Athos’ single eyebrow went up, they all heard it in his voice, the precision was back in his pronunciation. “Did I not just hand you an entire courts’ worth of pigeons for the plucking?”
Porthos sighed again. “S’not that.” Followed several heartbeats later by, “S’the hat.”
Aramis snorted.
“Ya thought with that stage worthy performance ya put on, we’d ferget all ‘bout it.” Porthos shook his head mournfully.
Athos rolled his eyes.
“‘appened ‘gain, din’t it?”
Aramis sat up straight. “What happened again?”
“You were there, right after the match; he went chasin’ out the door after somp’in. Athos don’ run; he don’ get ta’lookin’ like a just bleached bed sheet either. Somp’ins up he ain’t telling us about.”
Aramis, alarm lessened, pulled up his knees and sank to his chin in the water, propping an elbow on a kneecap to keep his still glowing twist out of the water. “Alright, Porthos wins the hair wash. Athos will do it.”
“I do not do hair.”
“Fine, I’ll do it, but then you have to tell us what’s going on.”
Athos growled, low in his throat. Under any other circumstances it would have been menacing. “Nothing is going on.”
“Plus he’s lyin’.” Porthos’ tone was aggrieved.
“For that,” Aramis decreed, “you get to wash all our hair.”
A rather tense, extended silence filled the space.
“Fine.” Athos, having gone from utter relaxation to muscles tight from neck to toes, willed laxity back into his limbs. “When I am soaked ‘til every bone is waterlogged, I will wash your damn hairs. Every last one of them.”
Into this second long void, Porthos muttered on another lamenting sigh, “’M’really hurt now … not even wif s’econ chances n’all.”
d’Artagnan cleared his throat. “I am … perfectly capable of washing my own hair.”
“Oh no, Athos will be washing everyone’s hair,” Aramis proclaimed, adding magnanimously, “but only after he’s done soaking.”
“Y’know ‘e never gets out ‘afore he’s all pruney.”
“Stop whining, it’s unbecoming of an officer and gentleman.” Aramis flicked ash toward Porthos and stubbed out his twist as well. He was the only one inclined to draw out his pleasure to the absolute last puff before he burned his fingers.
“Never claimed t’be either a’those, so I can whine all I want.” Porthos stretched his arms to the end of the tub before sliding beneath the waves he’d created, spraying both d’Artagnan and Aramis as he came up shaking his head.
“Hey! That’s cold!” d’Artagnan shied away from the airborne sprinkles. “Why are you poking at Athos? You both know he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
Athos blew out a breath, though he kept his mouth shut. A response one way or the other would only fuel the fire he’d unwittingly lit. He was not easily alarmed, but God almighty, that first sight of the woman had truly frightened him. And while the impossibility of his dead wife being alive kept repeating in his mind like Aramis clicking through his prayer beads, regrettably, a tiny piece of his heart, apparently yet unfrozen, was wildly rejoicing. He knew himself a fool, but try as he might, there was no dousing that hopeful spark.
“Bet’er be goodn’soaked soon, Athos,” Porthos rumbled, helping himself to the pot of soap Aramis had set on a chair between them. “Catch,” he ordered, tossing the fat-bottomed jar to d’Artagnan, who caught it neatly and set to work soaping himself clean.
“Ack! No cheating,” Aramis warned, when d’Artagnan started on his hair.
d’Artagnan, long hair a mass of bubbly froth, shot Aramis a squint-eyed look. “I want no – ow.” He tried to rub soap from his eye and only made it worse. Squeaking, he ducked under the water, vigorously rinsing his soapy hair, bending further, beneath the suds for clear water, to rinse his eyes. “I want no part of whatever the two of you have cooked up as punishment for this crime you seem to think Athos is perpetrating. He’s entitled to keep his thoughts to himself.”
Aramis lifted the back of his hand to the side of his mouth, as if speaking only to Porthos, and in a loud whisper asked, “Do you remember ever being that innocent?”
d’Artagnan sent a fair amount of water splashing toward Aramis, though it mostly deluged Porthos. “You have no idea whether or not your moral high ground is stable.”
“Hmmph.” Porthos crowed, climbing out of his tub. “Think the puppy just put ya in yer place, Aramis.”
“I believe you have acquired a loyal squire, good knight.” Aramis splashed back, though affectionate laughter lit his grinning glance at d’Artagnan.
Athos packed up another sigh, tucking it away for future use. He did not need, much less want, an eager puppy fighting his battles. “Get back in the tub, Porthos.” He rose, water gliding caressingly over muscle and bone as he retrieved a towel, slinging it low on his hips and tucking it in on itself.
Collecting the soap from where d’Artagnan had set it on the floor between himself and Aramis, he motioned the puppy to immerse.
“I do not need my hair washed again.” d’Artagnan stood like Poseidon rising from the waves, only to find the hand on his shoulder had a great deal of strength. That and a strategic nudge to the back of his knees, as Athos hopped on one foot, and d’Artagnan found himself sitting again, bent over his legs as Athos soaped his hair.
“Spread your knees.”
When d’Artagnan did not immediately comply, Athos spread them for him, a hand on the back of d’Artagnan’s neck bending him forward. His hair was rinsed so thoroughly he was sputtering when Athos let him up for air.
“While I appreciate the rousing defense, I do not allow others to pay my debts.” Athos reached to collect d’Artagnan’s towel, skinned much of the water from the long hair and toweled it mostly dry. “Thank you. Do not do it again.” He ruffled the still damp hair and tossed the towel over d’Artagnan’s head, shoving off the rim of the tub to move around Porthos to Aramis.
d’Artagnan, experiencing a strange duality of emotions – annoyance and satisfaction – draped the towel around his neck, closed his eyes and settled back to soak some more.
Aramis did not wait to be dunked. He slid under the water and came up dripping, though it did not take long to realize Athos had retribution of a different sort on his mind. The whisper of words in his ear, as those long fingers massaged his scalp, were so soft as to be little more than puffs of air. “I hope Mistress Adèle will not be unexpectedly busy servicing the Cardinal tonight.” Certainly, no one else heard them.
It required an act of iron will on Aramis’ part, to keep his unruly bits under control as those fingers swept soap through his hair, massaging here, knuckling there, sweeping constantly, brushing softly before fingernails scraped lightly over sensitive scalp.
Aramis was a bit ashamed of his surprise. The comté had been celibate, so far as Aramis knew, the entire time he’d known the man. He did not visit the bawdy houses, he did not keep a mistress, nor tend a garden of flowers such as Aramis assiduously weeded and hoed.
Those times he disappeared from the garrison without a word, Aramis had discovered, Athos spent drying out under the care of Madame Bonacieux. He had not shared that discovery, even with Porthos. It could, he supposed, explain the hat, though it had been clear Athos had not intended to purchase a hat of any kind.
As revenge went, it was rather apropos. Aramis suffered manfully through the grooming of his beard, gritting his teeth a few times, but wise enough to refrain from further needling.
Athos sent a hand questing under water. “I did say all…”
Aramis’ snatching of his wrist produced a lazy, diabolical smile.
“I heard what you said!” Aramis sucked in air. “We await the reveal with anticipation.”
“We?” Athos drawled.
“I … I await the reveal,” Aramis substituted contritely, grateful Athos refrained from torturing him further by drying his hair.
“The reveal of what?” Athos inquired pleasantly.
“Nothing! Nothing … nothing, of course there is nothing to reveal.”
“You should know by now; I am never defenseless.”
d’Artagnan, listening to the byplay, frowned. There was some undercurrent in the room he could not read. No one enlightened him either. Times, like this, he felt as if he was intruding on continuing conversations that so predated his inclusion, the trio forgot he was in the room. He sank further down in the cooling water, ready to get out, but uncertain of drawing attention to himself. He did not want to become the target of whatever was crackling between Athos and Aramis.
Athos, on his knees, moved back to Porthos’ tub.
Aramis could not quite swallow his sigh of relief, though his ready sense of humor was kicking back in. He lolled back in the tub with a grin, grateful, also, for the now soapy water, and flexed his cramped fingers.
Athos slicked his hands with soap and plunged them into thick, tight curls. Porthos, despite being the originator of the complaint, did not merit punishment. His inquiry, though slyly dealt, had been his way of trying to come at the problem with humor. In his own way, Porthos was as observant as Aramis; occasionally more so.
One could not grow up in the Court of Miracles without acquiring a certain patina of cynicism, yet Porthos always looked for the best in everyone he encountered. Neither was he chained to the incessant demons that drove both Aramis and Athos, though in very different ways. It was a conundrum Athos had been unable to solve. By all rights, Porthos should be a surly brute of a man, running some seedy criminal element in Paris’ underbelly. The fact that he was a well-respected musketeer did not make sense to Athos. But then, his own situation made sense to no one else.
Porthos had not needed to hear the words whispered in Aramis’ ears. His keen gaze had not missed the fingers curled, white-knuckled, around the edge of the tub. Nor the locked jaw or the wide-eyed gaze pinned to the far wall. He chuckled as Athos’ hands worked into his hair, twisting and turning his head to get the full benefit of the innocuous massage. No magic digits performing on his scalp, just grooming fingers massaging soap into his full head of hair.
The big man sighed with contentment. “Not even Aramis does it better.”
d’Artagnan stood up, sluicing water off his skin with the blade of his hand before whipping the towel from around his shoulders to dry off as Aramis dissolved into hoots of laughter.
Normally sober Athos, soap up to his elbows, folded in half, forehead resting on Porthos’ broad shoulder as the bright joy of laughter struggled up from his gut to spread through his entire body.
“What?” Porthos asked with perfect innocence, though he could not hold back the laughter rolling up from his own belly.
Aramis slid beneath the water, his unrestrained mirth bubbling the soapy surface.
“Is this what those smokes do to you?” d’Artagnan inquired, fascinated by the extraordinary change in Athos’ demeanor. He’d seen Aramis and Porthos break into song simultaneously and practically fall down laughing after only a glance between them. He’d seen Athos smile exactly once in the short three months he’d known these men.
“Wacky tabbacy,” Porthos guffawed. “Yep, thas’ wha’ t’does! Listen, boy, never you mind us.” He held up a hand to stay d’Artagnan’s imminent retreat. “Nah, really, it’s more than that, Athos got his own back on us. Well, on Aramis anyway.” He trotted out one of his much-loved big words for the occasion. “Ingeniously, too! But I shoulda owned it. Sorry, Aramis.”
Aramis rose, too, the cooling water having lent a discretionary hand. “A lesson I won’t soon forget,” he admitted heedfully. “My apologies, Athos.” He draped the towel artfully and bowed over it. “Yes, d’Artagnan, to answer your question. The smokes do have a tendency to relax certain … mmmmm,” he hummed again, trying out tactful substitutes for inhibitions, “it relaxes certain gate guardians.”
d’Artagnan, having a few gate guardians of his own he did not care to let slip, decided he would not be partaking in the future either. It was just a little alarming to see the finest swordsman in France laughing like a loon. Though, at the same time, he found it … rather disarming as well. All in all, it had a been a very strange afternoon.
They dressed, counted their remaining largesse, and being ravenous, decided to go in search of the nearest tavern that served the little cakes Porthos was so fond of.
Much later that evening, lying on his bed, Athos pulled out the day’s sighting, examining it from every angle he could imagine, with the exact same results as his previous cogitations. He could not have seen Anne, it was not only impossible, but unbearable as well. He must banish her ghost from his thoughts; surely then his mind would stop playing tricks on him.
~*~
And so, over the next week, he refused to acknowledge her visage coolly staring down at him from a second story window, making his neck itch with awareness. He did not see her standing among the fruits and vegetables, caressing produce as though making love to it. Nor did he catch sight of her gliding between the porch pillars of the house opposite Bonacieux’s. She was most definitely not lounging at her ease in his favorite tavern. By the time he was on his third bottle, the mirage in the corner was just that, an illusion cooked up from the mess of his regrets.
There followed a week where he saw her not at all and breathed a heavy sigh of relief that his plan was working. Not that he’d been able to eradicate her from his thoughts completely, but his mind became his own again, returning to contemplation of his duties and responsibilities. He let them settle around him like old friends, grateful for the solicitude slicking raw nerve endings. He could admit now, now that there were no more sightings, that he’d been dancing precariously on the razor-sharp edge of insanity. He might well have gone over, if not for his friends.
He was equally grateful for the business with Bonnaire, the relief of a mission to undertake, allowing him to finally douse the bonfire before it became a conflagration. The ride to La Havre cleared his head, the bit of contretemps at the inn a nice sideline in the bargain, though he’d been slightly disappointed his sword had never made it out of its sheath.
He’d even found it entertaining exchanging weapons fire with the crew that had been sent to hunt down Bonnaire - apparently more traitorous than they’d been led to believe - crossing swords and sticks with chain wielding ruffians, until that is, Porthos caught the blade of an axe; with his shoulder.
The happy little bubble Athos had managed to conjure out of thin air, burst on the wind of Aramis’ harsh indictment as he grabbed fistfuls of Athos’ jacket, their faces mere inches apart.
“Don’t you care about Porthos!”
Athos stepped back, inundated with memories he had been holding at bay all morning. It was a moment before he could find his voice. “Alright.” Half turning, he added, ruthlessly expunging reluctance from his voice, “I know somewhere. Nearby.”
He was damned; completely and utterly damned, and hell was not a fiery furnace, it was ice running through his veins. There was an unseen hand here, twisting the threads of fate. Dread hollowed out his bones, so for a moment, Athos thought he might float away.
Instead, he dutifully tethered his wandering spirit, helped load a groaning Porthos on to the wagon, collected his horse and led the way home. Sometimes he wondered if he had been wrongly named, perhaps his nom de guerre should have been – Duty.
His heart beat in his chest like a caged bird, wings ragged and tattered from its frantic attempts to gain freedom. Internally, he laughed, the unvoiced sound as harsh as Aramis’ accusation. There was no such thing as freedom, had he not learned that lesson repeatedly throughout his continental travels? The estate was no longer home; it was the tomb of all his naïve expectations, his youth, his joy. His soul.
She was not dead; he knew it with the surety he knew his own name. It did not require prescience to flush out the how – the drop had not been enough to break her neck.
And there stood the culprit, a step outside the blacksmith barn, the narrow face devoid of expression. Remy, the man he had made his guilty conspirator. Remy, who had pulled the barrow from beneath her. Remy who had cut her down and revived her. All the pieces slotted into place. It could only have been Remy; the priest would not have dared to disobey his will.
She was not dead. He had not been seeing figments of his imagination. She had been taunting him.
He turned his head neither right nor left, acknowledging none of the open-mouthed stares tracking their slow progress through the trees, past the barn, onto the open lawn - now a field - before the three-story, mansard-roofed manor. In a month or two, a riot of blue forget-me-nots would blanket the lawn.
Athos checked his horse, for a moment only, before urging it forward.
The key turned in the lock as though it had been kept oiled all the years he’d been gone. The huge double doors barely creaked as he pushed them open, though spider webs drifted down upon their heads as his companions followed him curiously into the house.
“Bring him in here.”
He did not see the rooms as he led them through to the library; he saw Thomas sprawled on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood staining the white of the lawn shirt he’d been wearing, trailing down over the side of his chest to blend in with the carpet.
He could do this, he could, so long as he only allowed his awareness to skim the surface. He opened a window, removed furniture covers, admitted he owned the place, acknowledged that, indeed, he was the Comté de la Fère, a son of the nobility. He knew he was walking and talking, even shook out his hand after granting Porthos a dreamless sleep while Aramis stitched him up, but none of it registered.
Athos had retreated as far into his mind as was mentally possible. Spinning scenarios, reliving every sighting, realizing he’d encountered her far more times than his conscious mind had allowed him to ‘see’.
He turned abruptly and strode blindly from the room. It did not matter that he saw nothing in his path, this was his home, he could pass through it blindfolded and touch nothing, so many times had his feet trod the maze of corridors and interconnecting rooms. Unerringly, they took him to the one room in the house that held his most treasured memories, the ones he had tried to pull out by the roots, and failing that, to poison to death.
The room shifted, he was as he had been in the prime of his life; young, titled, and arrogant, making reckless promises he’d had no idea would turn to ashes in a matter of months.
‘Athos,' her eyes had been lifted to his beseechingly, 'swear that nothing will ever come between us.’
He’d believe in Never, then. He had learned the hard way, what Never entailed. Never ending doubts, Never ending desire, Never ending pain. He backed out, slowly. His heart pounding in a Never-ending rhythm of horror.
In the morning … he slumped forward against the closed doors, seeing behind his closed eyelids, the tree of life. And death. In the morning he would send them away. d’Artagnan would turn his sights to Porthos or Aramis, both good men; men the youth should be emulating, not the broken husk of the man she had left behind.
And still his traitorous heart longed to touch her, to hold her, to be again, the man he had been in her embrace. He knew himself no better than Bonnaire; if not a traitor to his country, at the very least, a traitor to his own self-worth.
Yes, he would send them on their way in the morning and lay himself out like a pagan sacrifice. She would come. He knew it; because he knew her as well as he knew himself.
She would come. And one of them would finish the job.
~*~