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The town they settled in was small but Athos loved it. In the beginning, he had worried that it would be too reminiscent of Pinon but for whatever reason, whether it was because he was no longer a Comte, and none of his neighbours looked at him with anything but the general curiosity a newcomer always elicited in a community that didn't see many of them, or if it was because of the woman at his side … It didn't bother him, whatever similarities to his childhood home he discovered.
Sylvie loved it, too. No matter how well she had dealt with war-torn Paris, she had not grown up in a big city, and she immediately felt at home. And she made plans: she wanted to establish a school to teach the local children how to read and write, and one day, there might even be another printing press. But first, she had a child to plan for, and a new home to establish.
Athos had to admit that there were moments where he was jealous of her drive; he was not entirely sure what he should be doing now that his duty to the Musketeers had ended. He was receiving a small stipend, as the Queen had promised him when he told her of his plans, so they could live modestly but well enough without struggling. If he had missed any luxuries after giving up his title, the life of a Musketeer had cured him of that. It had also made him unaccustomed to idle time, though, and he knew that sooner or later, he would have to find something to keep himself busy.
For now, he spent his time helping his love make their house into a home and getting to know their new town, mostly in the time whenever Sylvie threw him out of the house to 'get some peace and quiet without your fussing' because however much her growing belly may be hindering her, she did not take kindly to him suggesting that she rest and let him do all the work. To be fair, she did let him do more and more, but he still wished that she would take it easier.
So whenever Athos felt her patience wane, he went out for a walk. He met their neighbours, and if there was a need for a helping hand, he did what he could, aiding in fixing broken tools or painting a fence, brushing down a horse, tossing hay, in any way he could be of use. He took his rapier and found a secluded spot where he could run through his forms because he intended to keep his skills sharp, no matter what the future might bring.
And when he walked back to their house, he always brought Sylvie something that he hoped would make her smile.
Sometimes it was a fresh pastry from the local baker, sometimes a pretty ribbon he had spied at the market.
But most of all, he brought her flowers.
It had been in the early days, when they had barely arrived in town, when a bright red flower had caught Athos's eye as he was walking home. Red like her skirts, a bright colour that would look wonderful against her dark hair, as fiery as her zest for life … He had bent down and picked a handful of the flowers before he had even finished the thought. They might be anemones but he would be lying if he claimed any expertise in identifying flowers. It didn't matter; it mattered that they would hopefully bring her joy.
He almost hurried home, eager to bring a smile to his lover's lips.
Though he had no need of flowers for this; as soon as Sylvie noticed him coming into the kitchen where she was kneading bread dough in a large bowl, her face lit up. She did not stop her work, though, and Athos stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, one hand coming to rest on the slight swell of her belly.
Sylvie leaned back against him for a moment, turning her head to nuzzle against his cheek. No words were spoken but none were necessary; after a moment, she straightened again to bring her weight bearing down on the dough. Athos released her and picked up the flowers from the kitchen table where he had set them down. “I brought you these,” he said, slightly hesitant. He hoped she would not think him silly … “They made me think of you.”
Sylvie turned again to see, and her eyes lit up at the sight. And there was the smile he had wanted to see. “They're lovely!” she said. “What about them reminded you of me?”
Athos smiled and took one of the flowers, stepping back up to her and choosing a part of her hair. She held still as he began braiding her curls around the stem to anchor the flower. “They're bright,” he murmured, “like you; you've brought so much colour back into my life. It is only fitting to adorn you with all the colours nature has to offer.”
Sylvie bit her lip, her face turned up to him, her eyes wide and shiny. “And here I always thought that Aramis was the one with a honeyed tongue,” she returned.
He felt his cheeks warm up and was glad that she probably didn't see it when he let go of the braid and took a step back. “I might have spent too much time with him,” he said with a shrug. He observed his handiwork – he hadn't tied the braid off, so it might unravel soon, but for now, the flower sat securely among her dark curls.
Sylvie laughed. “That's true but I'm still surprised it was flattery you learned from him.”
“What else should I have? Poor decision-making?” Athos smirked. That made her laugh harder, and he relished the sound.
“Given that I really like how your decisions have turned out lately, I cannot say that's the case,” she finally said, abandoning the bread dough and going to wash her hands. She covered the bowl with a towel, then gave him a kiss on the cheek and said: “I've got to see how it looks. Put the other ones in a jug with some water for me?”
Athos nodded and moved to do her bidding while she went to their bedroom with the small mirror on the cupboard he used to shave.
She was back moments later, smiling even more brightly. “It looks so lovely! Thank you!” She rewarded him with another kiss, this one deep and sweet, and when they broke apart, he returned the smile, happy to have achieved his goal.
Soon it became something Athos did regularly – he brought her marigolds, irises, lilies, all the flowers he could name and many more he could not. The ones that made him think of Sylvie the most were yellow, red, orange, a burst of colour, though he sometimes picked purple, white or blue ones, too. Whatever he brought her, she was delighted and gladly indulged him in letting him braid some of them into her hair.
The only time it gave him pause was when he happened upon a field strewn with small blue dots. For a moment, he remembered a different woman, pale where his love was dark now, a different dark head of hair under his hands, and his chest restricted painfully. He barely remembered her these days, and he was thankful for it.
Shaking himself out of the memory, he turned away and went to find the brightest, most colourful flowers to bring back to his love.