Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Three days afterward the four Musketeers were in Paris; they had not exceeded their leave of absence, and that same evening they went to pay their customary visit to monsieur de Tréville.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the brave captain, ‘I hope you have been well amused during your excursion.’

‘Prodigiously,’ replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades; none of them looked the other in the eyes.

They all went home their separate ways that night, and did not see each other for the next few days, each assuming a different post in the service or at different hours. It was a strange thing, to witness a group of friends who never separated for so long to now go about their daily lives as if they never knew the rest of his companions, at most seeing glimpses of one another here and there. Finally, after a week has passed, Aramis found Porthos and exchanged few words with him – it was about Athos, whom no one has seen at all since the day they returned.

‘Have you asked d’Artagnan?’ asked Porthos, but without much uneasiness, for of all of them he was by far the most accustomed to Athos’ strange, altough periodical, disappearances and was himself partial to the very same custom, which he might have picked up from his somber friend and which he displayed any time he was in wont of money.

‘One could think we are the only four people in the regiment’ bristled Aramis in response. ‘I have asked him, and others, and even that idiot Bazin if he has heard anything from Grimaud, but to no avail. Will you go with me to see him?’

‘And do you think that it should be such a good idea, my dear?’

‘Why ever not?’

‘It is my experience Athos likes to disappear from time to time, and no good has ever come from disturbing him. This time, might I add, probably more than others.’

‘So what? He doesn’t like it, as if I should care. I don’t like that he locks himself up like that, does not to show for duty even once in a whole week, and probably drowns himself in wine for all I can guess.’

‘You’d rather he was thinking about what has happened?’ asked Porthos incredulously, stopping annoyed Aramis in his tracks.

‘No. But you’d rather he died?’

‘Of what?’

‘That much wine cannot be good for him. Or that much melancholy, for that matter.’

Porthos laughed sonorously:

‘Leave him be! He’s always been like that and doesn’t like to be reprimanded, least of all by us. He’ll mope for another week or some such and return to his usual, taciturn self.’

Aramis looked at Porthos for a while, contemplating the advice he was given:

‘I don’t know about that,’ said he after a moment’s deliberation. ‘Why should he come back to being as he was before? She is dead now – he could leave, or change, or die.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Porthos with a smile, clapping Aramis on the back, ‘but he will do neither.’ Aramis was known to possess many fine virtues Porthos did not, but he was deprived of such patience and optimism as his friend was displaying or, in truth, any patience at all, optimism being somewhat in question, because he attributed his calm adress to an unfailing faith in the Divine retribution. He was, therefore, not convinced by the reassurance offered to him, and after having waited in vain for two more days, on one calm evening he directed his steps to Athos’ lodgings at rue Férou.

He found the place looking much the same as it always did, which calmed his nerves in some regards, because Athos at times was known to be a very violent man when he drank too much. This time, however, it seemed that he was content with drowning his doubtlessly frayed mind with copious amounts of Malaga, which he was doing right that instant.

‘Ah, monsieur l’Abbé!’ exclaimed he upon perceiving Aramis, who stood silently on the threshold. ‘Come and join me, friend.’

‘I’m glad to see you have not changed a bit’ observed Aramis acerbically, walking in and sitting down by the table, so that he was placed perfectly across Athos, separated from him only by a large amount of empty wine bottles. ‘One can always count to find you if not doing your duty to the crown, the doing your duty to your mortal self: marching straight into death’s embrace, nay, running into it headlong! One would think you miss your wife already and want to meet her again.’

‘Listen, Aramis,’ began Athos, still impressively calm for someone who was not only drunk, but also gravely insulted, ‘are you reading me a sermon? Leave such things for your future, if you must, but do not bore me out of my good graces; for should you find yourself quite outisde of the reach of my magnanimity, you’d present a sorry sight to see.’

‘Such as you do this instant?’ asked Aramis innocently, harbouring by that a grim look from Athos’ furrowed brow. ‘A sorry sight to see indeed. And a rather tedious one, for you habitually choose to drink too much, for as long as I know you, and much longer than that, if Porthos’ words are anything to go by. I, at the very least, feel inclined to believe him in this regard.’

‘Believe me, when I tell you you have nothing to worry about,’ responded Athos, still in the same vein. ‘Join or leave, but do not expect for me to join you.’

‘A prayer would do you some good... if it’s not past the point where prayers are of any help.’

‘That, I believe, is a blasphemy.’

‘And because it is you who forced me to say it out loud, it will be counted among your sins, not mine, my dear,’ responded Aramis somewhat more at ease, but stil eyeing Athos distrustfully. Athos, who was not a newly minced recruit when it came to drinking, and did not get to that point by playing a charade, either, shrugged and poured himself more wine. ‘You don’t care? Ah, then it is indeed futile to try and save your soul.’

‘Try all you want, just don’t bore me.’

‘That,’ said Aramis very grimly, ‘sounds like a challenge.’

‘To save my soul without my becoming utterly bored for it? Say rather: a miracle.’

‘I have been getting better and better at performing them, as of late,’ responded Aramis, whose memory reached the mission they have recently accomplished. ‘I accept your challenge, then; in fact, I have expected something of the sort before coming to see you.’

‘How fanciful must be your thoughts, my friend,’ observed Athos with a sneer.

‘You wound me – but I accept your parry, since it will be mostly through words that we two shall duel.’

‘Why words?’

‘If we were to reach for our swords, not only would both our souls be doubtlessly lost forever, but mine so much more than yours on account of your being at a serious disadvantage. I meant only to say,’ added Aramis in a flutelike tone, upon perceiving Athos’ face darkened when he heard what was most clearly an insult to his sword fighting abilities, ‘that I do not fight women, invalids and drunkards.’

‘Am I not an invalid, let alone a drunkard, even in a play of words? And at a serious disadvantage too, since you handle bon mots like a born courtier, not a common soldier like myself.’

‘Ah, you sell yourself quite short, dear Athos; I was always of the mind that if you wanted to, you could be quite witty. But fear not, this time we will be both of us but poor ingenues, because I am not going to use my words – or not exactly – but God’s, for Whom there is no match among humankind.’

Athos looked at Aramis with an almost comical expression on his face – of which he was more likely than not completely unaware – and then burts out in a sonorious fit of laughter:

‘Of course you should concede yourself only to God! Ma foi, you were right, I should not drink myself into stupor if I can find such fantastic scenes playing right before my eyes without wine’s help.’

‘You jest and abuse the fact I never respond too harshly to your critique,’ complained Aramis, though without much ire. ‘Would you then place my words higher than those of God?’

‘Naturally,’ responded Athos easily and with a smile upon his lips. ‘For yours always offer comfort or advice – would any man willingly choose harsh lashings of the tongue over a bit of friendliness?’

What he said was clearly an olive branch, meant to placate annoyed Aramis as well as show that despite his recent disappearance Athos was always one and the same, but something in these words struck a chord with a thing set deep in Aramis’ soul, deeper, in fact, than his friendly worrying or no less friendly admonitions.

‘You say there is no friendliness in the words of God?’ asked he finally.

‘None that I can see.’

‘Your eyes are failing you, then.’

‘It well may be,’ agreed Athos in a voice which was supposed to convey indifference, but failed to do so. ‘They have seen too much already.’

He sounded so melancholy that Aramis cast a quick glance his way, but then resumed his own musings:

‘If you read the Scripture with greater care, you would have noticed there were no nights so dark as to not allow a bit of light.’

‘Nor days as bright to not end in a dusk.’

‘Who’s reading a sermon to whom?’

‘The sage to the fool,’ retorted Athos bitterly.

‘The cynic to the hopeful, more like.’

‘Prove me wrong, then!’

‘I shall,’ and with these words, Aramis took out a small, leather-bound book from a pocket on his chest. Athos looked at it without much interest, but saw no title and no ornament embossed in the leather.

Aramis put the book on the table, but did not lose the hold of it, drumming his fingers on the cover.

‘You know why I became I Musketeer,’ said he after a moment. ‘You have persuaded me to become one, after all, and you know the history of my life nearly as well as I now know yours.’ He cast a side-glance at Athos. ‘But in your becoming a big part of my new beginning, you might have forgotten a detail or two from my past – especially since it always amused you rather than was of any interest.’

‘Young men’s lives are all the same,’ shrugged Athos in response. ‘What use to think about them? I promise to look at you with greater care if you live past the age of thirty,’ added he jokingly after a pause.

‘Well, perhaps a little bit of attention would not go amiss tonight. I, at the very least, think about my past life quite often and miss it... as you well know.’

‘And for the life of me, I cannot imagine why.’

‘Because, I suppose, we would all be better off without proper education and enrichement in our spiritual lives?’ asked Aramis, narrowing his eyes dangerously. Athos put up one hand as if to placate him, but in the same time spoke with a certain dose of sneer:

‘Can you not do this while also retaining your freedom? Is something in your way to go and see this notorious friend of yours, the doctor of theology, even this very night? And his niece as well, of course, should she happen to stop by. Tell me, is she as learned as her uncle?’

‘Hypocrite,’ responded Aramis, blushing profusely. ‘All this talk about women – by which I mean no talk at all, just exasperated sighs and ironic smiles whenever Porthos or I said something to that effect – and you were married the whole time.’

A heavy and suffocating silence fell between them both.

‘If you mention her again,’ whispered Athos hoarsely, ‘I think I will kill you.’

The simplicity of this statement stunned Aramis, who remained motionless and silent for a long while, levering his own gaze against that of Athos; but after a moment he leaned forward and said in an equally as conspicuous a tone:

‘I know how to speak in metaphors.’

Athos slammed a fist on the table.

‘That you do! Truly, you wish to enrage me tonight, monsieur.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Then stop mentioning what is not your affair and resume the previous story. If you must.’

‘I do.’ Despite that, he was silent for a moment longer; finally he gathered something within himself and started once more:

‘When I frequented the house of the young lady, whose acquaintance with me was such a nuissance to that officer, I was translating The Lives of Saints for her, and the story I read on that very memorable evening was that of Judith. After what happened I never got back to it – besides, the story was translated to perfection, and I feared if I changed but a word, it would somehow ruin the remembrance of the young lady, which is if not still fresh in my memory, then no less vibrant and lively than it ever was.’

‘No doubt.’

Aramis sighed with impatience:

‘And why should you doubt it? She was friendly, young, pretty and full of joy, and I would like to remember her fondly.’

‘I am not standing in your way,’ responded Athos lackonically again, as if it were his second goal that night – right after drinking himself under the table – to annoy Aramis for good; the latter, however, has also come with a goal in mind and so all the attempts proved futile in the end.

‘But the book the story of Judith is from... that is a different thing.’

And he drummed his fingers on the cover of the little book once again, after which he pushed it towards Athos, who opened it reluctantly, but upon reading the title looked at Aramis in such a wild disbelief  as was never seen on his face:

‘The Holy Scripture? Are you out of your mind?’ Aramis only shrugged in response, but blushed a little bit with pleasure – for if there was one thing that Aramis loved more than his secrets, his studies and his fighting skill, it was his amour-propre, which very rarely went loudly appreciated by Athos, who preferred to give his friends dry quips rather than praises; and such an honest shock had more in common with the latter. ‘Aramis – are you by chance a Huguenot?’

The blush left Aramis’ cheeks entirely.

‘Trust it to you to come to the most idiotic of conclusions, Athos,’ hissed he, angrily yanking the book out of his friend’s grasp.

‘Really? Was Luther not a monk before he became a heretic?’

This finally moved Aramis past the facade he had assumed for the night, but as he furiously stood up, Athos leaned over the table and grabbed his wrist with his own handsome hand, retaining a surprising amount of strength for a man in his state:

‘I see my jokes fall flat today – like most days, I should think. Don’t be angry with me, Aramis! Did I not tell you I am an invalid when it comes to words? I offended you without meaning to.’

His sudden mood swing alarmed Aramis somewhat, because while not that uncommon for Athos when in his inebriated state, there seemed to be a hidden meaning to either his words or his actions, and there was not telling which one.

‘Sit down and finish your story.’ continued Athos with a smile, which was if not apologetical, then at least friendly and inviting. He poured another cup of wine and pushed it towards his friend, who did not take it, only looked at him with still far greater scrutiny. ‘Something which starts with stupidity as common as falling in love with a pretty girl but ends in a heresy is surely a thing to behold.’

‘It is not heresy,’ responded Aramis finally, altough he did not take the cup. ‘It is... a form of prayer, even. A test of my skills both in understanding the Word of God and with the quill, a test to which no poem could compare. The stories offered to us in Latin... if they move me when I hear them in that ancient tongue, would I not be moved far more profoundly if I heard them in my native one?’

‘And would not the niece of the doctor of theology appreciate it all the more? To say nothing of the seamstress from Tours.’

Aramis blushed, which was more likely than not Athos’ goal for the moment, but retained his position:

‘If you must know, I never read that to anybody.’

‘But then you came here to read to me. And – ponder over this, if you will – I am not one of your fair maidens.’

‘Clearly,’ responded Aramis in his most dulcet tone, covering with sweetness the irritation he surely felt. ‘I simply thought you might use my company – and who knows if I am mistaken? I refuse to join your bad habits, but if I am being exposed to them, I see no reason why should I not expose you to some of mine instead.’

And he opened the book on the first page, not looking at Athos anymore, but concentrating on the words:

‘It was the twelfth year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, who ruled over the Assyrians in the great city of Nineveh. At that time Arphaxad was ruling over the Medes in Ecbatana...’

He read in a melodic voice, and soon Athos stopped pretending to listen and truly engrossed himself in the story, which was, after all, a story of royal desires and military conquests – something which interested him greatly in whichever life he was leading. Be it as a seigneur of the land in Berry, or as a soldier in Paris, he could not help but to display his interest in heraldry, etiquette and weaponry – and there was a surprising amount of detail of this kind in Aramis’ text.

‘It is clear you know what you are talking about,’ said Athos in passing, when Aramis stopped for a moment to finally drink from the cup in front of him. ‘A military man may talk about conquests and weapons in disguise of an abbé, as is his will, but the truth will always come out to shine: through the details you are enlisting, or the very words you’re using. Ah, what a sad tale, then, that the second part of that story will be in much worse shape!’

‘How so?’

‘Once you abandon the military camp for the place of a woman’s seduction, I fear your words may fail you, my friend.’

‘Who knows,’ muttered Aramis quite absentmindedly, ‘perhaps I am a man of many talents.’

And he continued to read, going through the story as easily as he would be taking a stroll through the parisian streets, pulling somewhat stunned Athos behind him without further complaints. He manouvered them both through the chapters recalling the defeat of the ancient nations, until at last he brought them to the grieving people of Jerusalem:

‘The Lord heard their cry and saw their distress. The people continued fasting for many days throughout Judea and before the sanctuary of the Lord Almighty in Jerusalem.’

Athos stirred at the mention of this, but said nothing and kept listening ever more intently, as if only at that point in the story he realised it was more than a mere tale of woe, but a meaningful truth conveyed under the guise of one. His attention seemed most extraordinary to Aramis, who read up until the point of welcoming Achior in the city of Bethulia and then finally stopped and put the book down.

‘Why did you stop?’ asked Athos quietly. ‘It is not very late yet.’

‘This is simply not true, for I distinctly remember the bells of Saint-Sulpice striking midnight a good while ago. You may have no duty tomorrow, but I have prior engagements I would like to keep.’

‘The kind of engagements you like to keep most of all is the kind which is kept at midnight, and yet, here you are. Stay some more, my friend.’

Aramis reddened a little, gave him one long glance and at last took a sip of wine from the cup before him.

‘Well,’ said he eventually, ‘only for a while longer.’

He then read on, recounting the tale of the allied armies counseling Holofernes on the best way to attack Israelites and how great a blow was this to Bethulia:

‘The men returned to their posts on the walls and towers of the city, the women and children went back to their homes. Throughout the city they were in great misery.’

And as Aramis read the last words of this chapter, the only candle that was illuminating Athos’ apartment has gone out, filling the room with both darkness and a faint smell of smoke.

‘I think I might be going, then,’ said Aramis after a while, when none of them uttered a word, and he stood up, careful not to knock anything over in the pitch black of his surroundings.

‘Stay.’

Athos’ voice was hoarse and full of something so foreign to him – who was always so composed, to the point of wearing a mask, if a man that noble could be accused of it – that Aramis stopped trying to move past the table and sat again, leaning in the general direction he imagined Athos must be still sitting.

‘What for? I cannot – ‘

‘Stay.’

Aramis shrugged, more by habit than a necesitty, as no one could see him, and sat back in the chair, assuming a frowned face.

‘What is happening with you?’ asked he with scrutiny.

‘Nothing.’

‘And for nothing you intend to keep me here?’

‘Humor me,’ responded Athos, whose voice was slowly regaining its usual timbre.

‘Thank you for your trust, but even I cannot read without a light. The lux mundi might be enough to illuminate souls, but my eyes need something more present.’

‘Stay here,’ murmured Athos grimly, ‘and wait.’

He then proceeded to move past the table to the antechambre, which – judging by the lack of any noise – was a task he managed gracefully and swiftly, coming back with few candles, one of them already lit.

‘Now you have light galore,’ said he to Aramis, spilling the rest of the candles carelssly onto the table and sitting in his previous spot right across from his friend. ‘Read. Please.’

Aramis was surprised – an emotion he did not experience often, and exhibited even more seldom, which was why that time, too, he decided to read rather than expose his own stupefaction with Athos’ strange behavior.

‘If you promise to try and limit yourself to normalcy?’ asked he simply, but did not mind when the only response he got was a non-commital grimace. He then proceeded to introduce Judith, starting with a rather tedious enumaration of her relatives and ancestors; but if he thought that Athos would somehow express his regret over listening to a story that was less than captivating, he’d be met with a disappointement, as Athos remained strangely silent the whole time through and seemed to follow the text with something akin to interest. Therefore, Aramis as well allowed himself to immerse in the story, and so much more easily because his thoughts wandered to the girl from his past, and the officer, and then the great, tumultuous emotions he had felt once upon a time, which has since became either his daily bread, or vanished completely from his soul, which was , perhaps, what allowed him to truly employ all of his talent – which he was not without – when it came the time to read alound Judith’s passionate prayer of deliverance:

‘Their wives you handed over to plunder, and their daughters to captivity, and all the spoils you divided among your favored children, who burned with zeal for you and in their abhorrence of the defilement of their blood called on you for help. O God, my God, hear me also, a widow.’

The following hours were many, and long. Athos kept to himself, as if afraid talking might move Aramis to leaving; or perhaps he was indeed engrossed in the story, which he was, it would appear, following closely. When Aramis read the description of Judith’s beauty and rich attire, he fancied he could see the corner of Athos’ lip move in a smile that was not altogether a smile, but something both mocking and sad:

‘Ah, yes – and how well I remember it!’

But it was when Aramis read the words: ‘The heart of Holofernes was in rapture over her and his passion was aroused. He was burning with the desire to possess her, for he had been biding his time to seduce her from the day he saw her’ that Athos stirred anxiously, no longer simply remembering the affair of his youth, but – seemingly – reliving it, which was a deed so astonishing Aramis nearly stopped reading: but one look at Athos’ paled face made him realize leaving things midway would be a far worse conclusion for the night than proceeding with them, no matter how painful.

It was with this thought in mind that he reached the pivotal part of the story, but was at that point so engrossed in his own translation, which was after all a rare thing of beauty, he no longer paind any attention to his friend, who listened attentively, and who with every passing moment trembled more and more with either rage or delirium, up until the moment Aramis’ melodic voice read out loud the fateful line:

‘Then with all her might she struck his neck twice and cut off his head.’

‘Wait,’ interrupted him Athos, whose voice was hoarse, and face – malignantly contorted.

‘It’s not the end.’

‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Well,’ responded Aramis rather grimly, because he had an inkling as to what could be the topic of such an unexpected nightly confession, ‘speak out.’

Athos took a few moments if not for composing himself – a man such as he could hardly be suspected of ever having his emotions thrown off the course – than to prepare his words accordingly:

‘It was a murder.’

The silence after his statement seemed as if it were a canopy of heavy brocade, draped over both their heads the entire evening, and deciding to fall onto them at the least convenient moment.

‘No.’

‘How would you know? You were not... involved with it.’

Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos:

‘I was there. If you are resigned to implicate yourself in this – which was, by the by, an execution, sanctioned by the Cardinal himself – you also decided to implicate the rest of us all. You may pass no judgement upon yourself which you would not be passing upon us as well.’

‘Therefore you’re argument is empty rhetorics?’

‘A case study in philosophy, more like.’

‘A reply worthy of a Jesuit pupil!’

‘An accusation worthy of an ignoramus!’

They glared at one another over the table.

‘And you’re afraid to compromise your consciense with yet another murder, isn’t that so?’ sneered Athos in a tone of voice which resembled a growl.

‘How could I, if it was an execution?’

‘Do you truly think we had any right to do what we’ve done?’

‘Insofar as a piece of paper, stating we were within our rights, was obtained for that very purpose. Signed by Richelieu himself! Except for that, I concern myself with nothing pertaining to this affair.’

Athos fell silent for a moment, and then leaned back, with paled face and widened eyes – a display of emotions he would, perhaps, never allowed himself if it were not for the inebriated state he was in, nor for the guilt he seemed to be carring.

‘How fortunate for you,’ spat he out at last, as if he were too tired to say anything else.

‘And for you as well – was that not the problem gnawing at your heart for as long as I know you?’

Athos waited for a moment before replying, as if deciding which route to take; but once the choice was made, he stopped at nothing, and for the first time in his life Aramis had a chance to listen to his friends unconstrained stream of thought; something about the hushed and hurried tones of it, something about its conveyed despair or even about its longevity brought forth in his mind the long lectures about the nature of sin, and the grace of confession, a partially – but never fully – forgotten memory from his days in the seminary.

We will not recount here Athos’ long tale, since the readers already know it from the time he shared his past with d’Artagnan. Let it be enough that when he opened his soul to the reluctant Aramis, it was similar in the form – a long diatribe, though with no pretense of framing it as his friend’s past – but somehow fuller in its content, as he no longer felt any need to conceal himself.

When he was finished, he looked at Aramis askance, and percieved him lost in thoughts.

‘Don’t you have some clever, little line to give me?’

‘You can be sure of that,’ responded Aramis rather grimly, ‘but I doubt you’ll like the taste of my medicine.’

‘Ha! I scolded you many times in the past, and you bore it like a gentleman – I give you my word to do the same.’

Aramis made an exasperated gesture, but decided to comply with the request and leaned in a little, so that he faced Athos even better, and their faces were now inches apart:

‘Were there witnesses to your marriage?’

‘What?’

‘Witnesses – more than one. You’d need at least four to sign a marriage certificate – or at least two for the church wedding – and her brother the priest does not count, for he was neither.’

‘What?’

‘And has your family accepted your ludicrous plan before you followed through with it?’

‘That I cannot say. They knew nothing of it, as I kept it... rather quiet, after they voiced their opposition quite vehemently before.’

‘Therefore: you did not have their agreement? To say nothing of her.’

‘Listen, Aramis, what are you getting at?’ narrowed his eyes Athos, as if debating in his head whether it was a good moment to throw his opponent out of the window, or if he should show leniency for a while longer. ‘I’ve told you the story, it’s an unfortunate one, and paints me out to be a fool, even worse than that: a lovelorn fool, and for a woman, no less! Laugh at me if you like, but I see no reason you should meddle in this.’

‘I was not aware stating the obvious was considered meddling, but perhaps things are different in Berry.’

‘And what would this obvious thing be, pray tell?’

‘That you were never married to begin with.’ When Athos did not respond, Aramis continued dryly, ‘The law requires all that are not of age yet to have their parents’ consent for marrying – you were not of age, you had it not, and she had no family, since the false priest was most likely a false brother as well. I see better chance of him being her first bethrothed, to be quite honest with you, my dearest friend. And even if you had obtained the eager and honest support, where are the witnesses? Is there even a marriage ceritificate to begin with? The way I see it, you had a mock marriage performed by a mock priest, to calm her nerves, perhaps –you were within your rights to take her by force, and you did nearly that. You were never her husband, therefore you should not worry about performing an uxorcidio, so to speak. And then, you cannot possibly be worried about killing her twice, since it would be impossible to kill her for the second time over, had she not survived the first attempt on her life. And the second one,’ here he pointed his elegant finger straight into Athos’ face in a manner that seemed accusatory, despite the meaning of his words being to the contrary, ‘was not a murder.’

Athos looked at him stupefied:

‘Are you mocking me?’

‘Not at all – I’m stating the obvious truth that you might be a brute, but not a murderer. I should know,’ added he with a wry smile, ‘since I am one.’

‘What – you couldn’t possibly mean – that is very different, Aramis!’

‘Is it? Well, you didn’t need to train specifically for that – and hanging an unconscious woman seems like a task easier than a duel. But then again, you did not succeed, so who knows,’ shrugged Aramis, and something very cruel glistened from behind his words. Athos perceived it, but he saw the logic – and truth – behind them as well and clinged to it, as to the only source of hope he felt he had.

‘It was a sin,’ insisted he, but without the same resolve.

‘Undoubtedly. But people sin, confess, and go merrily on their way!’

It took him a moment to realise his words had some effect on Athos, but that it was far from a desireable one.

‘What is the matter with you?’ snapped he. ‘Confess and be done with it! This is the only advice I can give.’

‘I cannot.’

‘And why is that? Are you, per chance, a Huguenot?’

His mocking question, which was not intended as anything else than a jest to repay Athos for his earlier tresspassing, caused no effect on his friend’s face, or if it did, it was impossible to see it, because Athos hid his face in his hands and began to weep.

‘Well, not a Huguenote, then, that much is certain,’ muttered Aramis to himself, ‘too much emotion! But what is happening with you, Athos? I’ve seen you kill people every day – you’ve gotten yourself killed almost daily, too – and never have I seen you weep.’

Athos lifted his face and looked Aramis in the eye; he looked terrible and terryfying both:

‘If I were to confess, my penance would be great. For killing my wife, twice! For the unlawful marriage, it would seem. For the lack of remorse I feel, for it is the fear for my soul that speaks through me, not charitable compassion. I’ve been given much in life, and I would have to repay the debt tenfold. To become a hermit, to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, well, you tell me! How much is a thief’s life worth, how much a woman’s? What is the price for taking it? And even if I were able to survive the penance,’ added he quietly and in a more sober voice, ‘would I ever atone?’

And he looked expectantly at Aramis, who listened to him with a face frowned with focus, biting his lip in pondering.

‘I do not have the answer to all your anxieties,’ warned he, once he understood the question was not a rhetorical one, ‘but you are right in general, my friend’

Athos laughed bitterly:

‘Ah, yes! That is all that matters – at the very least I have not lost my wits, however meagre an offering it could be. No; but murderers do not need wit, which resides in the head, and I truly ought to lose mine, for taking another one when I had no right for it! A Holofernes with the head of Judith! This is I, my friend, take a good look!’ and he stood up, presenting himself to Aramis in all of his imposing statue; but drunk that he was, he swayed and nearly fell.

Aramis flinched, but something in Athos’ words finally awoken him to treat the matter at hand more seriously than he had thought.

‘Sit down,’ hissed he, pulling by Athos’ shirt so that the latter fell onto the chair, ‘and stop this nonsense at once. She was no Judith, that precious wife of yours. We are but two of us here, and if you’re Holofornes, what does that make me?’

And he managed to smile at Athos to placate him a little bit, guessing correctly that a man so prone to grievous outbursts might be as well prone to calming down at a slightest chance – and Athos indeed smiled a melancholy smile in return:

‘Will you read to me some more?’ asked he quietly. ‘I think if I were to stay alone another night, I’d shoot myself.’

Aramis made a disgusted face and a sign of cross, but took the book up once again.

‘If you promise to stop with the blasphemies,’ added he severely, which Athos accepted with as much grace, as a man thouroughly done with everything and himself, and also drunk beyond measure could muster.

Aramis then read on, this time, however, not losing sight of the state his friend was in. No matter the poeticism of any given paragraph, he did not give into a temptation of losing himself in it, but kept a watchful eye over Athos, who appeared to him to be half asleep, half mourning. Aramis, not wanting to disturb him, opened the his book at last on its final chapter and, glancing quickly over to the other side of the table, intoned:

“Strike up a song to my God with tambourines,
sing to the Lord with cymbals;
Improvise for Him a new song,
exalt and acclaim His name.
For the Lord is a God who crushes wars;
He sets His encampment among His people;
He delivered me from the hands of my pursuers.”

His singing voice was quiet but sweet and full of passion, like everytime he spoke to someone he admired; but it was also somehow full of persuasion, like he himself was under the hieroglyphical face he assumed in front of others, lowering it only at times, and only to his friends. Singing this song of deliverance, which once again told the whole story of Judith, was apparently one of such moments, and then again, perhaps he did truly believe Athos to be asleep.

“Woe to the nations that rise against my people!
the Lord Almighty will requite them;
in the day of judgment He will punish them:
He will send fire and worms into their flesh,
and they will weep and suffer forever.”

‘If I knew you’d sing to me, perhaps I would have confessed my fears sooner,’ spoke out the latter, whose voice was not so melodic, perhaps, but which at least was no longer subdued and melancholy, but coloured faintly with amusement.

‘Well,’ responded Aramis, closing the book carefully, and with his eyes modestly downcast, ‘perhaps you should have asked. Are you feeling better, my dear?’

‘Better, yes – good I shall never again feel, I think.’

‘You should take my advice and go to confession.’

‘The advice is good, I give you that, but the obstacles are greater still.‘

‘Think about it, at any rate.’

‘Is it your priestly counsel?’

‘The counsel of a friend, which, after all, might be more valuable at times.’

‘Yes, especially when said friend is nearly a priest – even if of the Huguenote sort,’ jested Athos, while Aramis smiled and pushed the book in Athos’ direction.

‘Become a better Christian in the meantime, then, even if of this heretical caste.’

‘Are you giving me your book?’

‘It is but a copy of my notes... And I think in the future you might benefit more from it than I would.’

Athos pushed the book back.

‘It is a beautiful story, and your words do it justice,’ whispered he, ‘but it is still a story of rightful vengeance. But the Lord Almighty thwarted them, by the hand of a female! I would see her face in every word.’

‘Did you – this night?’

‘No, but I suspect it was by the virtue of the words being read by you – et daemones credunt et contremescunt! And a story about a woman...’

Aramis looked at him for a while, but said nothing and evetually shrugged and took the book to hide it back in his pocket.

‘Suit yourself,’ said he, standing up. ‘There are stories and stories, the Scripture is full of them. Perhaps some other one would fit your tastes better.’

And he directed his steps to the door, despite the hour, which was of a weird sort: neither late nor early, but eternally belonging to the realm of couvertness and mystery; all in all, such an hour Aramis was very well accustomed to, but which came as a novelty to Athos.

‘Are you not afraid to be seen going out of my chambers at such an hour?’

‘Athos, you wound me with the suspiscion that I could be afraid of anything at all. I must also admit that I live but a street away, and yet I’ve never known this part of the city to be particularly dangerous,’ smiled Aramis, fitting his hat onto his head so the it framed his face better, because for all that it wass improbable that anybody should actually see him during the short walk needed to move from rue Ferou to rue Servandoni, his vanity was greater than his pragmaticism. ‘And what do you propose? To launch me out through your window, with the hopes of my landing in my own garden, limbs intact?’

‘This could be, all things considered, more honourable way out.’

‘Which things would that be?’

‘Should anyone see you, how would you explain to them what were you doing at another man’s rooms at such an hour?’

‘Pardieu! I would let my sword do the talking. And then, if you, Athos, got used to such accusations, how should us meagre mortals behave? I’ll manage.’

‘Say rather that you’re used to them because you;ve been seen many a time sneaking out of the house of this or that lady,’ muttered Athos snappishly. ‘What do you mean: if I have grown used to accusations of this sort? Who’s been accusing me of what?’

‘If they have not, it bears well for them, and then, perhaps the memory of Charles de Luynes is still too fresh to joke like that about a King’s favourite Musketeer.’

‘Listen, Aramis, rest assured I do not follow your meaning.’

‘It is a good response,’ agreed Aramis in an uncomprehensible manner, ‘altough I must admit, the name ‘Athos’ takes away some of the mystery.’

He looked at Athos, who was still seated behind the table, and still appeared as noble as he always did, but whose expression took on another hue – that of slowly dawning comprehension, despite his words.

‘Do you not understand still?’

‘What are you implying?’

‘What are you trying to imply?’ asked Aramis irritably. ‘The name you took on – you must have been aware – what am I saying, not even aware! You chose it yourself, as a sign, is that not so?’

‘Would I truly declare for the world to know –‘

‘Well, that is what the world believes, at any rate, and if not the world, then at least everyone I’ve ever known who had the good fortune to know you as well. With the illustrious exception of d’Artagnan, of course, but only because I am not convinced he knows what ‘Athos’ is actually referring to.’

‘And you let them believe this about me? I see my friendship is not worth a lot, Aramis.’

‘Let them?,’ asked Aramis, no longer irritated, but bewildered such as could hardly ever be seen on his face. ‘It was perhaps the first information imparted by others on your account the moment conversations would turn into whispers!’

They glared at one another from across the room.

‘And yet... you’ve decided to become my friend?’ asked Athos, somewhat stunnedly.

‘Would you expect me to pass up such an honour? You’re wounding both my sense of friendship and my ambition.’

‘See to it that this ambition is not misguided. I’d hate for my apparent reputation to be an anvilstone –‘

‘Let me occupy myself with my ambition – and give me your hand,’ cut in Aramis taking few rapid steps in the direction of Athos, extending his hand as he spoke.

‘You have it,’ replied Athos, who swayed a little on his feet, but stood up as well and grabbed Aramis slender palm into his own.

The two friends embraced and stood silent for a longer while, and their embrace was only broken out when Athos’ legs finally gave way under him.

‘Will I see you soon at your post?’ asked Aramis naturally, once again occupying himself with the rim of his hat.

‘I cannot promise you tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, but later than that my empty pockets, if not my pride, will force me to come back,’ smiled Athos wearily. 'And offer my utmost apologies to monsieur de Treville.’

‘Only to confirm the excuses Porthos and I have already made in your name, my friend.’

‘I am convinced, my dear Aramis, that you two are the best of men.’

‘And both value you too much to lose you due to such a trifle,’ agreed Aramis easily, altough Athos knew him well enough to guess at once that while the tone of his voice was light, the will behind them was gold of the highest quality.

Chapter Text

Athos lived up to his word and exactly three days later presented himself to monsieur de Tréville, who cursed him up and down in one breath to ask sincerely after his health in another, and not without a reason, for Athos’ face seemed to take on some sickly pallor no one has ever seen on him.

‘He looks as if he’s seen a ghost,’ hissed Prothos worriedly to Aramis. ‘What have you done to him?’

‘We had a conversation.’

‘I doubt your sharp tongue was what he needed.’

‘He’s here, isn’t he? We mustn’t coddle him, simply because he’s Athos!’

‘So you’re no longer afraid he’ll take his own life?’

‘No – most likely.’

‘I bet he would not dare now, even if he wanted to. The lashing must have been a good one!’

‘Want to see for yourself?’

‘I dread to think,’ responded Porthos, taking Aramis by the shoulder and redirecting their steps onto the street, for their fellow comrades started to stop by and listen in on their conversation; for whenever Aramis squabbled with anyone, it was an entertainment in and of itself on the account of his absolute disregard for social niceties, while retaining the most dulcet of tones and most polite words from any dictionary – but whenever he argued with Porthos, who did not hold back on poking fun on personal matters, the entertainment doubled by the minute. ‘Poor Athos! He seems to suffer much more than before.’

‘As if it mattered to me,’ responded Aramis acerbically, but nonetheless he gazed at Athos, some way away from them, who truly seemed to be a shadow of his former self, if shadows could walk and perform guard duties.

‘No, clearly, but it matters to me. I told you to leave him be!’

‘I admire your ability to do nothing when you see your friend is suffering, but I could not hold back on your account, my dear.’

‘And I admire your inability to admit to a mistake, but you’re alone on that one, as I must be going – a certain lady is waiting for me and is I make her wait, she will make me suffer, no doubt worse than Athos.’

‘And what do you expect me to do?’

‘Weren’t you a seminary student? He looks as if you’ve shown him the deepest pits of Hell – show him some of the Paradise instead,’ responded Porthos, laughing only a little bit at the gross joke he could or could not be making. ‘And mend what you’ve ruined! Or else the whole camaraderie with the seamstress from Tours would turn out to be in vain.’

And with that being said, he left Aramis in the state of exasperation.

‘Where is Porthos going?’ asked Athos, coming up to him. ‘To see his foreign princess?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘On the contrary.’

‘How so?’

‘If she is no longer supposed to pass for a princess of any kind in our eyes, the matter must be serious.’

‘How unfortunate indeed.’

‘He told me most solemnly to try and mend your sour mood.’

‘You’re absolved,’ waved a hand Athos. ‘Go and see your – who is she supposed to pass for in our eyes? Your cousin, or  –‘

‘How very amusing,’ drawled Aramis out through his teeth. ‘Sadly, I promised Porthos to nurse you back to your usual, gloomy self, and I like my head resting upon my shoulders intact.’

‘Was he that cross with you?’

‘Or simply more than usually.’

‘Come by in the evening, then,’ smiled Athos almost imperceptibly. ‘It would be a shame to lose your head – since you’re actually making use of it sometimes.’

When Aramis came by in the evening, a little later, than he had planned, perhaps, he found Athos seated in the same spot as before, and in much the same setting, that is, in front of a bottle of wine, which  amounted to a tedious sight, as he relayed to his friend at once.

‘I never said anything about making use of my head,’ bristled Athos, whose mood managed to skew towards his usual melancholic anger, as it did most nights, ‘but if you know of better ways to amuse yourself at night than this, be my guest. Oh, to Hell with you! You’re incorrigible,’ added he with annoyance, when Aramis laughed upon hearing him.

‘Don’t worry, I didn’t have anything quite as daring in mind.’

‘Or you did, but she managed to let go of you sufficiently early, so that you still had some time to see me after?’

‘You’re wounding me with suspiscions this visit was not my priority.’

‘Why have you come so late, then?’

‘I was thinking about something,’ responded Aramis slowly. ‘Deliberating over what to tell you.’

‘I don’t need another sermon from you.’

‘You never got one in the first place.’

‘And let us leave it at that.’

‘But you had no objections to the story I read to you, did you?’

Athos’ face changed somehow, but it was hard to tell in what particular way:

‘No.’

‘And so I thought... it’s not the only part of the Scripture I translated.’

‘Of course not,’ snorted Athos. ‘Ah, let’s hear it, then.’

But this time, he was surprised to see that Aramis did not move and even seemed to be apprehensive about doing anything at all.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Just promise me you won’t take too unkindly to this,’ muttered Aramis at last, reaching for what was clearly another book of his’, his time bound not in black, but in burgundy leather. ‘Or that if you do, you’ll tell me to stop at once, and – well, in short, we won’t have to mention it again.’

‘What book the Hell is it?’

‘Promise me first.’

‘You know, Aramis, I’m beginning to think you truly have broken ties with the Church and became a follower of Luther.’

‘Promise me.’

‘You have my word,’ said Athos finally, intrigued more than he cared to admit. ‘But what is it?’

‘The Song of Songs,’ responded Aramis, and when it became clear the title meant nothing to Athos, he amended: ‘The Song of Solomon?’

‘The name sounds familiar, but I could not tell you even the general idea of what does the book contain. Why, is something the matter with it?’

Aramis blushed:

‘One could definitely argue something of the sort.’

And before Athos had any chance of interrogating him any further, he intoned:

‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth — for your love is more delightful than wine.’

But he scarcely got further than the first verse, before he had to stop to send a look of scrutiny towards Athos, who was choking on his wine:

‘One could expect you to know better than to joke about the Scripture.’

‘I am most serious, my dear Athos,’ responded Aramis quietly. ‘And most dilligent in my translations, even if you like to make fun of my Latin.’

‘There is no way –‘

‘You know what? I think you have all these preconceived notions on what is and is not the word of God, you forget to let yourself live it, at times.’

‘Is that what you are here to show me?’

‘It’s the way I understand kindness between friends – between friends, and not this other kind, which, as you tried to convince me, you have no taste for. Don’t be uneasy! These are important words, but just – words. They won’t taint you. Unless you truly would rather I did not read them out?’

The last question was asked in such an even voice it became clear at once the neutrality was one that needed to be masterfully crafted; and it was precisely this kind of tactfulness, which Aramis excelled at, that convinced Athos to be won over.

‘After all,’ said he with a shrug, ‘I have not listened to Mass in a long time; perhaps this will save my soul one day.’

And he let Aramis read the entirety of the first chapter with no further interruptions; but once that was done, and Aramis declared he truly must be going soon, he asked him a question which was clearly gnawing at him, but which he nonetheless tried to pose with as much nonchalance as he could muster:

‘Why this book?’

Aramis shrugged non-comittally:

‘Admittedly, there are others, but something has drawn me to it, and I have been translating it for a rather long time. But it needs it perhaps more than any other book...’

‘It?’

‘Time. Polish. Reflection.’

Athos pondered over something against his will, and without realising it he even stopped drinking to think about the Bible and its intricacies:

‘That means you needed proper reflection yet before. To choose the proper text, and stick with it...’

‘Yes’ replied Aramis, eyes downcast.

‘Six years ago, you said?’

‘Quite.’

‘You’ve entered the Musketeers six years ago. Something about arms, pain and violence convinced you to write about love? Ha – I dare say you’re madder than I have thought.’

‘What a charming compliment.’

‘It was not one’ assured him Athos, still thinking intensely. Suddenly, he said, ‘You’ve met me only a little earlier than that.’

‘You are a good chronologist.’

‘Surely there’s no connection.’

‘Shall I tell you something?’ asked Aramis suddenly.

‘If you please.’

‘I am quite bored with this conversation.’

‘You are very free to go. I need no company.’

‘Do you feel better, at any rate? Or should I expect Porthos to dispose me of my head tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I can say nothing of Porthos; still, it would be a pity. You can tell him that.’

‘How so?’

‘Are there no more chapters left?’

‘Certainly, seven more.’

‘Tell him to give you a week at least,’ smiled Athos. ‘Or else I’ll never learn the rest of this story.’

The next day Athos resembled his old self, which reassured Porthos, but aroused suspiscions in Aramis, who took great pride in knowing details from the lives of others more intimately than they themselves knew them, but who was always in great pains when it came to trying to decipher Athos; he would have liked to know that the confusion seemed to be mutual, for Athos never quite knew what to make of Aramis when he was by himself. Which is why, when Aramis stopped by rue Férou in the evening, each eyed the other one in a manner that was almost distrustful, despite nothing whatsoever having changed in their mutual friendship.

Aramis read the chapter, which was short and sort of uneventuful, so much so that it seemed futile to even discuss it; and yet, he seemed reluctant to go, as did Athos, to let go of him.

‘Explain to me on thing,’ started he, to elongate the time spent together.

‘Certainly, if I’m able.’

‘Why is this even in the Bible? It does not seem – fitting – or particularly Christian-like – oh, to Hell with it! I don’t understand it at all.’

‘Which is the greatest testimony that it needs to be there; God is a mystery, and all the is divine is one as well.’

‘Some answers you provide! I do not understand far gretater number of things, despite being quite thoroughly educated. It does not mean they are divine.’

‘Oh, on the contrary – it seems to be a through and through miracle to be as well-educated as I always thought you to be, and yet, so simple-minded. Listen to these words: do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.’

Athos waited for a while, but understood nothing still.

‘Look at Porthos,’ said Aramis, sitting more comfrotably and tapping specific words in the text with his finger, for all that Athos could not even see them clearly from the distance he was sitting at, ‘who waited and bade his time, and now his, oh, let’s call her ‘the princess’ still, she is widowed I gather and he’s about to marry very soon.’

‘He told you that?’

‘Not yet; no doubt he’s worried for you.’

The silence after this statement felt to Athos as if it pierced him and applied a balm to his heart all at once.

‘But not for you?’

‘He’s been your friend for longer, and then... I’ll eventually go back to the seminary, won’t I?’

‘Will you? I see you are not as worried for me as Porthos,’ smiled Athos, even though this time his heart felt only the piercing, and none of the healing.

‘You know... The Song of Songs is love poetry between two individuals, that much is certain, but it describes God’s love towards His children all the same; it is all that, at once. I listen to these words and imagine it must be our mother Church calling out for me, since I took leave of her so freely, and nearly without permission. Unless I heard a stronger calling for something else, why would I not come back? Laugh all you want at me: but you had your family, and mine left me when I was still a child. Going back there seems dreadful to you, but to me... it’s simply another step to take. Listen!’

And without more in the way of a warning, Aramis, who by then was fully overtaken with some emotion Athos did not recognise, began to read the next chapter:

‘All night long on my bed I looked for the one my heart loves; I looked for him but did not find him. I will get up now and go about the city, through its streets and squares; I will search for the one my heart loves. So I looked for him but did not find him.’

‘How come that is really in the Bible?’ asked Athos suddenly from his corner of the room. ‘It does not sound even remotely...’

‘Chaste?’

‘Hopeful.’

‘Ah’ Aramis put down his book and looked straight at Athos for the first time since coming over. ‘It all depends on whether or not this man is found at the end. And, perhaps, on something else as well...’

‘Judging by the thickness of the book, he is found indeed’ observed Athos, ‘unless the tune changes into a funerary hymn in about a page or so. What is that other thing, then?’

‘He is being looked for. Something not all of us are lucky enough to experience.’

Athos nodded silently and sank deeper into his chair, a clear sign for Aramis to continue; a wish which the latter granted at once. It was no earlier then when he came by the words ‘do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires’ repeated for the second time, that he stopped.

‘Do you understand now? He is being looked for, and cared for, but that is... not yet love. It will be that, one day, perhaps, just not yet. They both have to wait and see.’

‘Do people really need the Scipture for such an advice?’

Aramis shot him a faintly amused look:

‘Apparently – you rushed your desires, and see where it got you. Who knows what would have happened if you listened to your family and waited.’

Athos shot him a look in response, and it was not amused at all, but menacing.

‘I loved her.’

‘Of course; if I find that hard to believe, it’s because I would never attempt to kill the person I loved.’

‘Your cousin, is it? Your cousin, who calls the queen her sister? Yes, I cannot see the reason why would you be so stupid as to get rid of her in particular,’ responded Athos mercilessly. ‘You have always been eating at everybody’s table, for as long as I knew you. You love the luxury of such a liaison too much to ever pass up on it.’

‘Is that so?’

‘If I respond right now: isn’t it? – what would that even change? We could continue this conversation until sundown, but all this will not alter the fact you wax poetics about love when all you know in this regard is servitude, an exchange of your talents - I can imagine you're such a skillful young man, my dear - for protection and money. You could never commit to loving someone if you did not see a gain in it for yourself.’

‘Such as you did with that woman? She was so loved by you, it seems, you knew nothing about her and let yourself be played for a fool! You did not try to hang her on that tree, but your own hurt pride. You’ve gained something, too, and how greatly: you feel absolved to drown your sorrows away, all the while you could still be of use to others, who truly love you.’

Athos stood up with fire in his eyes, which caused Aramis to stand up as well.

‘Get out.’

‘Gladly.’

But as he rushed furiously out the doors, he forgot his book, which fell down the table and stayed there for a few days, before Grimaud brought it to Athos’ attention. By that time, neither Athos nor Aramis were especially cordial with each other, despite Porthos’ most earnest attempt at reconcilliating them; even d’Artagnan, oblivious to whatever was passing on between his friends as he was, began to pick up on it.

It was a whole week later then, that when Aramis came home to his apartment on rue Servandoni one evening, he scarcely had the time to remove his hat, when Bazin announced Athos to him, who was then let in immediately, though with much surprise. He entered, carrying the leather-bound book in his right hand, like a peace offering, and looked questioningly at Aramis.

‘They say that when the queen wants to warn someone close to her of an imminent danger, she sends this person a prayer book bound in green velvet,’ observed Aramis, not moving from where he sat and not inviting Athos to sit either.

‘If the code is so well-known, I’m suprised her enemies had not ransacked every bookbinder’s shop in the country.’

‘No, it is still a secret. If I’m relaying it to you, it’s because I trust you not to dispose of it, especially to an unwanted pair of ears.’

‘You overestimate me – how could I measure who’s worthy of such trust and who is not? I’m suprised you consider yourself enough at liberty to relay it to me, though not surpsied you should know of secrets of this caliber.’

‘Ah, my task is so much easier than yours, my poor Athos,’ smiled Aramis modestly. ‘I have told it to you, and there was never any need to measure your character, which is well known.’

‘Not even after what I told you last time?’

‘Not even after that.’

‘At any rathe, this is yours,’ said Athos finally, indicating the book with his chin. He looked as apologetic, as he ever did, which was not much, but which did not go unnoticed by Aramis, who made a gesture to his friend to sit down.

‘Did you read it?’

‘No; I found I have no taste for it when it’s not done in your voice.’

‘That’s a high compliment... and a wish?’

‘A plea, even, if you like.’

‘For my continuous visits?’

‘And for your forgiveness.’

‘You have it,’ said Aramis easily, trying to supress the look of worry crawling into his features. It was not usual for Athos to ask for forgiveness of any kind, let alone after what Aramis considered, when all was said and done, rather a minor misunderstanding than an argument. ‘I spoke too freely of your misfortune.’

‘And I offended you - as if I could forget what is agreed between you, Porthos, and me! I should not have spoken that way about...’

‘My cousin?’

‘What is she to me? But about your relationship with her; about you. I passed judgement upon you, and I should not have done so. Will you forgive me?’

‘I already have.’

‘You are very magnanimous,’ observed Atos with a wane smile, which was getting warmer the longer he looked at Aramis.

‘Ah, that is because you ask for it so seldom.’

‘I’m not sure it’s a compliment.’

‘As a future priest, I must agree. I’m afraid it’s a sad testimony to my influence over you.’

‘On the contrary: I thought about sending the book to you through Grimaud, or even of simply throwing it out my window with sufficient force – it would land in your garden alright, though I was afraid the rain or morning dew would put it to ruin, and what would you do to me then? Injure me in a painful way, most likely. But then I thought about what you told me... the man in the story is being looked for, and, eventually, I presume, found.’

‘Yes,’ said Aramis very quietly. ‘He is.’

‘And so I thought I should not hide from one of my best friends, but to go out – and look for him – and find him.’

The true meaning of these words was very visible on both of their faces, but because neither Athos nor Aramis looked at each other in that moment, it was soon gone, and none was aware of it.

‘Will you read to me the rest of the chapter? As a means of educating your flock, of course.’

Aramis agreed easily, and read the third chapter from the beginning, as it was not long. This time, when he reached the words about love, Athos moved and looked at Aramis as if he searched something in the latter’s face, but all the he found, was the beauty which always resided in these features. Athos was a handsome man himself, but never paid any attention to his looks, not even as a lord in Berry; with Aramis, however, it was impossible not to pay attention to him, especially when he seemed to be illuminated from within by the words he read out loud.

‘Look on King Solomon wearing a crown, the crown with which his mother crowned him on the day of his wedding, the day his heart rejoiced...Well?’ asked he finally, once the chapter was finished. ‘Are you thouroughly educated now?’

‘We will have to send Porthos off in style,’ observed Athos, lost deeply in thoughts.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘Nothing sad about it: his heart, too, will rejoice and we can only pray his future wife is not a trecherous criminal in disguise.’

‘I’d be suprised if she were, to be quite honest with you. I think criminals tend to stay off of Porthos’ course, out of fear.’

‘He’d be very easy to take an advantege of by a woman.’

‘In that case, his nearly bethrothed is the one who could be complaining, I believe,’ snorted Aramis. ‘Porthos is a tremendous man, but a very doubtful chevalier.’

Athos looked at him half-reproachfully and stood up to leave.

‘Tomorrow, I will speak with Porthos and ask him to make his plans known to us,’ said he easily enough, though his heart squeezed painfully. ‘I may come by later, and discuss with you, if you wish.’

‘Wouldn’t want to put you through the trouble,’ replied Aramis, pocketing the book. ‘No doubt you will finish late, as you always do when you’re with Porthos.’

‘Care to join us?’

‘Not particularly. I’ll speak with him myself, and – well, it may be nothing yet for some time.’

Athos stood in the same spot, as if unable or unwilling to move:

‘I hope you’re right, but I fear it’s but one of many changes.’

The main change was that: on the next day, the king decided to visit La Rochelle again, and the four Musketeers were among the ones coming with him. Each travelled weighed down by his own anxieties or reveries, and so, they made for a poor excuse of a company, especially Athos, whose humour was marked not only by silent musings, but by bitterness as well. They sticked together, and conversed with each other a lot, because La Rochelle brought back the painful memories from not so long ago, and it was even with some sort of relief they met with le comte Rochefort  on their way to Surgéres. What followed, was easy to foresee: d’Artagnan conversed with the cardinal, and managed to outwit Richelieu in a way which would have made him prouder if he were not still crying over madame Bonacieux. The commission for the new lieutenant of the Musketeers nerly burned a whole in his pocket, and he tried to dispose of it to each of his friends in turn, and each turned him down in a way that was particular to him only, but also in a way which invited no discussions. They didn’t speak of it among themselves – it was as if the matter of the commission did not exist to them, and d’Artagnan even began to think he hallucinated the whole thing, or perhaps was indeed executed by the order of his eminence and managed to enter a Purgatory in which he would be continuously offered a higher rank, only for the commission to disappear each next morning. He was eager, then to come back to Paris and talk to monsieur de Tréville about it, and set on it as soon as was possible, leaving his three friends behind.

Therefore, when Aramis came to see Athos that evening, he seemed not much like his usual self. Instead of sneaking in quietly (a habit, Athos thought bitterly, which he must have picked up from the company of his esteemed cousin; whoever she truly was, she was, after all, one of these personages one did not visit in the broad daylight, but under the cover of night and particularly unrevealing cloak, and not on account of any shame but, perhaps, too great an honour she was doing to the lowly visitor), he entered the room in few rapid steps and threw his cloak and hat on the floor, before sinking into a chair with an exasperated sigh. His head fell back and he looked to the ceiling, as if he expected the secrets of the Universe to be revealed to him on there, or if he hoped, perhaps, that since the Earth failed to swallow him whole on his way to Athos, the Heavens should open up now and send an Angel of the Lord to relieve him from the burden of his life. A sentiment one could understand very well, Athos thought with faint amusement.

‘Good to see you too,’ said he instead, which earned him not much more than an irritated grunt. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Back in Surgéres d’Artagnan has asked me to become a lieutenant of the regiment.’

‘That is not particularly surprising, is it?’

‘Of course he has asked you too,’ mutered Aramis, at last positioning himself a little taller and looked almost hopefully at Athos. ‘What have you told him?’

‘Same thing as you did.’

‘And how do you know what I told him?’ asked Aramis suspisciously, narrowing his eyes.

‘He came to me twice, the second being after you both have refused him.’

‘Of course he did.’

‘Did you think he would not?’

‘I suppose not,’ responded Aramis at last, shrugging. ‘But to have come to you twice confirms my suspiscions he is not entirely sane in the head.’

‘How so?’ laughed Athos.

‘Some lieutenant he’ll make! If he cannot even think for himself without your help.’

‘And yours, too. Quite often, as it happens. But to rely on one’s friends is a sign of prudence.’

Aramis made some partially supressed noise and waved his hand, as if trying to dismiss the subject.

‘There are worse things than to rely on one’s friends,’ agreed he finally, ‘but this is not all I am dreading with regards to his upcoming promotion.’

‘You’re dreading it?’

‘And why not? Do you realize I now have no choice but to give up my sword and go to the seminary?’

Athos was sure he managed to miss few steps in Aramis’ line of thought, which happened often and by now he knew better than to expect to be explained the whole width and breadth of his friend’s meandering reason, but right this moment the gap bordered on logical fallacy.

‘I thought this was always your plan,’ he contended himself with saying carefully. ‘Though I fail to see why d’Artagnan’s sudden good fortune speeds the process anyhow.’

‘Do you now? Maybe you’re too drunk to notice,’ muttered Aramis, and quite unfairly, too, for Athos has not even opened the bottle in front of him. ‘Let me tell you, and then summon Grimaud to pack your saddle bags, I guess you’ll want to flee too.’

‘Well, now I’m positively fascinated.’

‘Don’t you realize as a lieutenant he will learn our true names?’

Athos pondered over it for a while.

‘You’re right,’ admitted he at last. ‘Though I did not think about it.’ Upon hearing it, Aramis supressed another sound, this time dangerously close to sneer. ‘Not all of us are fugitives from the law, forced to take on a nom de guerre in order to conceal our identities.’

‘I was pardoned.’

‘I was there, damn you. Besides, both Porthos and I know your name already, what’s wrong with d’Artagnan learning it, too?’

‘Nothing, I suppose. But don’t you care he’ll learn yours?’

Athos fell silent once more to give sufficient thought to answering.

‘No,’ said he at last. ‘Not anymore.’

To his surprise, Aramis sent him a look such as Archangel Michael must surely send the beast he’s grappling with: it was not hatred – closer to righteous indignation – though it seemed to be able to cast his enemies into flames just the same. Quite a long time passed before he stopped trying to burn a hole through Athos’ soul with his glowing eyes, and even more before he spoke up again:

‘He’ll know your name. And I won’t.’

Athos shrugged:

‘Nothing I can do to prevent him from knowing, short of ambushing him in an alley and slicing his throat.’

This emitted a small chuckle from Aramis at last.

‘And even then it’s not certain you would succeed.’

‘My name would die with me: the goal’s met.’

‘When I spoke to Porthos about it, he admonished me by saying it’s my fault for not killing this officer in my past under a false name.’

‘It would have been a handy foresight,’ agreed Athos with a smile, ‘but then again, we would probably never have made your acquaintance.’

‘Porthos said the same thing. He also advised me to become a travelling monk, if I’m so keen on preserving my anonymity.’

‘What faults can you even see with his plan? It seems to be perfect.’

‘Perfect for you, perhaps,’ muttered Aramis, who was nonetheless almost thouroughly placated at that point. ‘That would suit you.’

‘Can you really picture me as that?’

‘A hermit, more like. You could pick another monikier, something even more evocative than the one you’re using now.’

Athos snorted and that seemed to draw Aramis out of his shell at last.

‘Do you want me to read on?’ asked he, standing up and picking the carelessly tossed coat and hat from the floor. ‘I think we abandoned it so long ago, you must have been either vary impatient to come back, or secretly relieved I am no longer tormenting you with it’

‘Let us settle on impatience.’

‘This chapter might be... not your favourite,’ warned Aramis, sitting down again and taking the book from the pocket on his chest.

‘I was not aware a good Christian is allowed to have favourites when it comes to the Word of God.’

‘Well, God had His favourites from the very beginning. He has also commanded us not to kill one another, but then allowed for Musketeer regiment to be created and here we are: just look at us! Killing one another to gain our daily bread – and not complaining in the slightest. I think you won’t be smitten for favouring one phrase from among His words over another.’

Athos thought for a moment and saw no fault within this logic.

‘And why would I not like it?’ asked he, sitting comfortably and preparing himself mentally for one of Aramis’ more passionate outbursts, which happened to him quite often if he was asked about theological matters; but not this time, it seemed, for Aramis simply blushed, which, of course, emitted no sound.

‘It praises the female form at lenght,’ said he finally, ‘which – I presume – will not sit quite that well with you.’

‘I was married,’ reminded him Athos, altough his countenance darkened considerably and a frown apeared on his brow. ‘I appreciated the female form just as honestly – if not just as passionately, which was never in my nature – as you, as I am lead to believe. It is not the form that I am objecting to, but the spirit which I find faulty: weak-willed and yet strong enough to commit malice. Women are, after all, daughters of Eve.’

‘We are all poor, banished children of Eve,’ reminded him Aramis very sternly. ‘And we are all children of Mary, too, if somewhat erroneous at times. Your judgement is unjust, my dear friend.’

‘I was proven right once in my life and that was enough.’

‘I wish you’d be proven wrong if just once, too,’ muttered Aramis in response, opening the book with an expression on his face which Athos was unable to describe, as it was something between wistfulness, amusement and resolve. As all the other candles has long since died down and the faint light of the only remaining one was not enough to illuminate Aramis’ face, Athos had to satisfied himself with guessing what his friend might be thinking.

‘And why is that?’ asked he finally.

‘You must have noticed you and I have varying opinions on most subjects. Your being proven wrong, would prove me right – and there’s nothing I like more in the world.’

‘Spoken like a true Jesuit debater.’

‘Why not: Dominican inquisitor, while you’re at it?’

‘Oh, Aramis, I think you’re overselling my knowledge on religious orders.’

‘Well, no matter, you would not care about it either way.’

‘What shall you become?’

Aramis sent him a strange look before responding.

‘A Lazarist,’ replied he finally, burying his face in the book. ‘Which I find to be a very noble calling.’

‘Certainly.’

‘You wouldn’t care even if I told you I plan on becoming a beggar monk preaching the end of times.’

‘Simply because I would not believe you.’

‘Oh? And perhaps you do not believe me even now?’ asked Aramis, in whose voice nonchalance mingled with offence. ‘But you shall see for yourself.’

‘And I mourn your decision ever day. Do I have to listen to this nonsense? I thought you were going to read me the book, whose context, by-the-by, does not become a monk.’

Aramis muttered something no doubt offensive in response, but then got to reading with such a verve Athos very nearly wished he had not started at all, for it was indeed quite pictoresque, to the point of feeling scandalized on behalf he knew not whom; but surely it was not what he had in mind when he thought about the Holy Scripture, or rather, not what he had in mind until now, for he was sure he would no longer be able to pass by a church without recollecting this particular evening, and Aramis, whose sweet, melodic voice served as a music to the most vivid imagery. If Athos were still married, he thought suddenly, he would be, perhaps, reading this book to his wife, crudely translating the Latin for her – but he was with Aramis instead, and still preferred it to any other scenario. Quite shaken by that sudden realisation, Athos gripped tightly the neck of the wine bottle infron of him and began drinking.

‘Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread everywhere. Let my beloved come into his garden and taste its choice fruits...’ Aramis’ voice brought him back from his reverie, and it was only by the subtle change of intonation Athos understood the chapter has come to en end. He felt as if his consciousness has driven off in the meantime, because he could not repeat the words of the story, and only had a general idea of how was it relevant to anything at all.

‘Is that why you have rented an apartment with a garden?’ asked he in a whisper, as if afraid to put to ruin that something which the song has elevated in his mind.

‘I like solitude; but I also like simply not being disturbed. The garden is for my benefit, as much any any other who might be using my hospitality, from time to time. However, I doubt my modest lodgings can compare to whatever the books is describing: I am but a poor imitation of the man from the song.’

‘If you say this about yourself, what is left for the rest of us?’

‘The duke of Buckingham was a true prince among men, even if he was an Englishman: worthy, noble, with a royal air and favoured by the queen... he was one of the few who could be compared against such a description, not me.’

‘Yes, but the duke is dead – and then, Aramis, you could be nearly mistaken for him.’

Aramis blushed.          

‘The source of many of our troubles.’

‘And the source of the help as well. From the woman who could be nearly mistaken for the queen.’

‘D’Artagnan said something to that effect to me,’ responded Aramis, as if this remark awoke something in him. ‘He called me ‘our invisible protector’. Ha, it was her, not me. I doubt I would have been of much help, had it not been for...’ his voice trailed off, and he visibly made a strong inward effort to hold his tongue and not to say too much.

‘He was right about you: you’re clever, and well-connected, it would seem. You were more help to him than either Porthos or me... even if you don’t like it.’

‘Speaking of that,’ said Aramis suddenly, and his eyes flashed. ‘You were very quick to offer him our assistance when the cardinal summoned him.’

‘How so? The whole escapade from before was for my sake much more so than for his’, as it turns out.’

‘And precisely  because of that you could have been arrested, tried for murder and killed.’

‘What a charming prospect,’ muttered Athos under his breath, and his tone of voice did not betray if that was an attempt at humour, dark as it was, or an earnest desire. Aramis looked at him from above the pages of his book, trying to decipher this very thing for a while, causing Athos to throw up his hands in irritation at the long last:

‘What now?’

‘You speak too freely about the possibility of dying,’ observed Aramis, no longer looking directly at him, but not focusing on the book either. He seemed to appear disinterested in the matter, which betrayed at once how close he held it to his heart.

‘You should be glad I do, at times,’ retorted Athos sarcastically. ‘Marion de Lorme and Richelieu? Whom did I do it for, if not for you?’

‘Nonsense. You did it for him.’

‘Ha! That is funny, do they teach you to speak like this to your parishioners?’

‘They taught me to speak the truth, and the truth is you did it so that d’Artagnan could freely pursue... oh, well, all that. We don’t have to talk about it.’

‘No, no, let us talk about it right now, if you so desire. You think I speak too freely of dying?’

‘Of killing yourself.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Of a mortal sin.’

‘Hmmm!’

‘You will never free itself from anything, if you end up in the deepest pit of Hell simply because you’re too brazen and proud to face life,’ snapped Aramis finally, closing his book with a decisive gesture.

‘Ah, we’ve finally reached sophisms! Good, good, it was getting all too truthful around here.’

‘How is that a sophism?’

‘Let me see,’ Athos drew forth his right hand. ‘Firstly, you have no idea what I am able to free myself from, having done no such thing yourself. I, at the very least, can tell you with all the certainty my wife is dead now and as good as forgotten, or almost, whereas your cousin... do I even need to say it? You’re probably on your way to see her right now, you hypocrite, to recite the same damn verses. Secondly, I am, on the contrary, living and facing life right this moment. You cannot simply declare me unable to do that which I am currently doing solely because the manner and form I have chosen are not to your liking. And thirdly, pride is a characteristic of my race and therefore not my fault, but my nature.’

Aramis narrowed his eyes at Athos, but said nothing and leaned over his book once again, to the greatest outward indifference of his friend, who resumed drinking, but nonetheless kept casting furtive glances at the young Musketeer.

‘You’re not going to defend yourself?’ asked he at last in an impatient tone.

‘And to be accused of another philosophical heresy? No, thank you very much,’ responded Aramis from above his book, for just as Athos was unable to give up on drink that night, he was unable to abandon that which he had set to do. ‘Besides, you are... not wrong. About my cousin.’

‘What about her?’ asked Athos bitterly.

‘Well, for once, she is very much alive.’

‘One does not need to be a sage to conclude as much.’

‘No, one does not,’ agreed Aramis but right afterwards smiled so sweetly it almost rendered Athos unable to take offence at this thinly veiled jab. ‘Altough, of course, I don’t know why should you care. She’s not your wife.’

If he expected a response would be hard to tell; suffice to say, all the response Athos gave him was to take another drink in almost too ostensible a way, as if to underline just how little the life or death, or the matrimonial status of the very elusive and mysterious Marie Michon mattered to him. Whatever the reason for his boorish attitude, it seemed to be understood by Aramis, who nodded as if to himself, stood up and gathered about to leave, gaining him no more than a passing glance from his friend; as he was brushing past Athos to reach the door, he leaned over him and said very quietly and pointedly:

‘But she is not my wife, either. And wherever I am going tonight, I can promise you that: I am not reading my translations lightly.’

Athos held his gaze for a moment:

‘I did it for you. Can’t allow you to die on a mission for d’Artagnan of all people.’

Aramis’ honest laugh was all the response he was given, but – just as it happened the other way around – there seemed to be no need to say anything more, for it was understood perfectly in its brevity and mute eloquence both.

This understanding was reached mutually, it would seem, because from this point onward Aramis and Athos grew closer than before; it was likewise possible than in anticipation of Porthos’ nearly approaching departure, they understood the importance of staying friends in the face of Fate and its ideas. The understanding was reached to Porthos’ greatest relief, because for all that he wanted to begin his new life, he feared that in doing so he would ruin both of his friends, which was a thought he could not stand – which he then communicated to each in turn. D’Artagnan – busy with trying to compose his life around the new fact that he was indeed appointent a lieutenancy – faded somehow to the background of their lives and they felt that for the next few days they were again the Three Inseparables, but prepared to become just – Two.

With that being understood, and with Porthos spending more and more time at the house of the woman who, in mysterious circumstances managed to change her societal position from a princess to a notary’s widow (but who, at the very least, turned out to be much richer than many princesses of that time), Athos and Aramis were left on their own for quite many evenings. It was not different that time, when Aramis once again visited Athos. The scenario became almost routine at that point, so much so that Athos began to anticipate the company more than his drunken solitude, and without acknowledging it himself, drank less on his own free will; he also instructed Grimaud to put another peg in the wall, so that Aramis did not need to trash his cloak and hat about whenever he came. They did not always read The Song of Songs together, and it was due to an unspoken fear between them – the book consisted of eight short chapters, and 4 of them were already behind them.

‘I really have to go,’ said Aramis the last time he visited, when the book lied on the table between them for the whole night, but nether of them made any move to even open it. He made no movement to stand up, but looked at Athos thoughtfully, ‘I have prior arragements.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘Why should I not? I thought you would be glad for being left alone, at any rate.’

Athos looked around, trying to find what could prompt this after all scathing remark from his friend; but the only thing out of the ordinary was Aramis’ coat and hat, hung on the new peg in a wall – and that, too, was becoming more of a norm as of late.

‘How so?’

It was now Aramis’ turn to widen his eyes.

‘Don’t you always say you like to spend your nights alone?’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘What a beautiful testament to our years long friendship,’ snorted Aramis. ‘But even if you can find it in yourself to break habits out of sudden, I cannot break a promise I have made.’

And he stood up to reach for the cloak.

‘Why don’t you make me some promises then, too?’

‘I thought my coming here was already a promise. A vow, even,’ responded Aramis so naturally, as if it were the clearest thing of all. ‘And since we’re not through with the book yet...’

‘But once we will be?’

Aramis lingered near the doorways, for far too long to answer the question as simple as it was on its surface.

‘I have spent a lot of time thinking about this one,’ said he finally. ‘And the one thing I know without a doubt is that it is mysterious, beautiful and heavier in meaning, perhaps, than what it appears at first glance. Therefore it would be futile to talk about it without having read it in its entirety. Each chapter will reveal something to you and may change... your entire way of unerstanding. Or pose questions you did not think about before.’

‘It already has.’

‘Have some patience.’

‘How much of it? If you have no intention of actually reading it –‘

‘Fine,’ cut him off Aramis, a little sharply. ‘On your own head be it. Tomorrow, then!’

And now tomorrow came, and Athos anticipated the evening in a way which even few days ago would have seemed improbable to him.

‘Let’s hear it,’ said he the moment Aramis sat down behind his table and took out the book. ‘If your plan was to delay the reading for so long I’ve started to ask you for it, it worked.’

‘Do you ever think,’ asked Aramis carefully, thought he dutifully leafed through the pages, looking for the beginning of the fifth chapter, ‘that it is hard for me to read as well, as for you to listen to it?’

‘It is not hard for me... oh, well, not anymore. And no, I doubt your vanity allows you to feel uncomfortable under any circumstances. People like you, my dear Aramis, are at home everywhere, or so I’ve been partial to believe.’

‘That’s a high compliment if I’ve ever heard one. And tonight, you may hear one or two in return.’

And he began to read; at first Athos did not understand his strange preamble. The chapter followed closely the previous one, and spoke of the woman’s suffering, when she was separated from her beloved. He could hardly imagine himself in her place, because the more he looked inwardly into his own state of being, the more and more he became certain, that the suffering he thought he would have felt for the rest of his life, dimished greatly in the past month; and that he felt at home here, in rue Férou, with Aramis sitting by his table, the way he had never felt before, not even in his previous life.

‘How is your beloved better than others, most beautiful of women? How is your beloved better than others, that you so charge us?’ read Aramis softly, and the question took Athos out from his musing. He glanced at his friend and at that moment, so too Aramis looked at him – and smiled.

What followed was a litany of descriptions and adjectives no less wild, poetic and exotic of the ones which were used to describe the woman just a chapter before, but now it was different. Whenever Athos thought about women, if he thought about them at all, all he had to impart was either contempt or an unwilling comparison to the one known as Milady de Winter, and it was no different when he listened to Aramis’ poetry. But this time, the description was about a man, and so, Athos could not help but to make another comparison altogether – and by the look of it, so did Aramis.

‘My beloved is radiant and ruddy, outstanding among ten thousand. His head is purest gold; his hair is wavy and black as a raven,’ said he slowly, glancing at Athos. ‘His eyes are like doves by the water streams, washed in milk, mounted like jewels.’

‘How come you know these words by heart?’ whispered Athos hoarsely, looking likewise at Aramis’ radiant face, black hair, and luminuous eyes.

‘I spent a lot of time over them.’

‘Do you know the whole of it?’

‘No; simply some parts. The ones which caught my attention in the most intense way. The ones, which I would like to recite to myself even if I were dying alone on a battlefield.’

‘Aramis... you would never die alone.’

‘No?’

‘If you were on a battlefield, would I not be there as well?’

Aramis laughed in a voice which seemed to be filled with relief of some kind.

‘True,’ said he finally. ‘You would be there as well. Thank you, my friend.’

And he resumed reading, no longer gazing at Athos; not until the last line, where he looked at him again when the words ‘This is my beloved, this is my friend’ were uttered at the very last.

‘Now you see, I believe, why I was in no particular rush to read it,’ said he after a moment’s silence, when neither of them so much as moved a finger, in fear of breaking some spell that befell them both. ‘These words I keep very close to my heart. I was reluctant to part with them.’

‘You simply shared them.’

‘Not quite true... from now on, I will never be able to go back to this chapter – to none of the chapters I’ve read to you, truth be told – and not wander in my memory to this exact moment.’

‘If you don’t want,’ offered Athos, albeit rather reluctantly, ‘we could stop here.’

‘Who said I think of it as a detoriation? On the contrary: it is an improvement, but it is... quite violent. I feel as if someone touched my eyes and I saw the world for the first time in my life.’

‘It doesn’t sound particularly violent.’

‘Oh, it does. I feel like my old eyes had to be forcibly removed before opening the new ones. Do you feel nothing of the sort?’

And Aramis looked very pervadingly at Athos, who moved uncomfortably.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ asked he finally.

‘To show you what I had in mind: precisely that,’ responded Aramis easily, just as his gaze softened momentarily. ‘Man is a violent animal, even when he uses no force, and no deception.’

‘And a woman?’ asked Athos bitterly, unable to stop himself.

‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Aramis, and his gaze for a moment took the same strange, unyielding quality from before. ‘I can only speak of men, that is of myself.’

Once he was gone that night, Athos could barely wait for the next day to be over. It was not a simple investment in a story: unlike the Book of Judith, this one was not captivating in terms of what occured in it, or with memorable personages, and the language, while beautiful, and a a true testament to Aramis’ uncanny poetic abilities, was repetitive and not at all something which someone like Athos could fully appreciate. But that night, before he fell asleep, he too whispered under his breath: His head is purest gold; his hair is wavy and black as a raven. His eyes are like doves by the water streams, washed in milk, mounted like jewels. He remembered nothing more from the passage, and felt that he understood even less, much less than what there truly was to be comprehended.

But the next day, Aramis did not come in the evening, but much earlier, and brought Porthos with himself. It was to be one of the very last days that their friend was meant to spend in Paris, so neither Athos nor Aramis complained, but both felt glad to have at their disposal one more day the likes of which once upon a time their lives consisted of – their simpler lives, from before Armentières, and from before d’Artagnan, which sentiment Aramis  felt bold enough to speak out loud.

Athos looked at him reproachfully, while Porthos laughed loudly:

‘Would you bar his way if he tried to come in?’

‘Let us jus say I am very glad his new duties keep him occupied.’

‘Ahh,’ Porthos leaned forward and ruffled Aramis’ hair in the same gesture he used to do very often when they but began their acquaintanceship, and Aramis was scarcely ninteen years of age. ‘Never took you for a sentimental man.’

‘I’m not,’ hissed Aramis, wriggling from under his friend’s heavy hand. ‘Which is why I would do this for you. And besides, can sentimentality not come from the least expected places?’

‘Truly, he’s ready to take on the priest’s frock, don’t you think?’ asked Porthos, turning to Athos, who smiled in response, though his heart squeezed. ‘Such a clever little line! Where are you getting them from?’

‘My own head, obviously.’

‘You can be sure I will miss this brilliant head of yours, then. Ah! How will you two get on once I’m gone?’

 ‘We’ve been getting along splendidly recently, and I see no reason why it should not continue.’

‘Oh? What have you been doing? Have you been preachig at Athos? I observed he has improved greatly.’

‘You are not far from the truth,’ smiled Aramis lightly. Athos, who have been drinking in silent satisfaction, smiled at the memory of the previous evening, which did not escape Porthos’ attention.

‘You have!’ exclaimed he in the greatest surprise. ‘You know, Aramis, for such a spiritual hardship I think his eminence should make you a bishop already. But, I have to say, I find that hard to believe.’

‘Then listen, and listen well. Perhaps you too will improve – a last time effort, for which I expect your future wife will be immensely grateful to me.’

And Aramis took out from his pocket the book, which he now had the habit of carrying with himself at all times.  The passage he read was not one Athos has heard before; it was a lovely short text, which Porthos enjoyed, in fact, and made a point to say so to Aramis.

‘And you truly have been reading it to Athos of all people?’ asked he suddenly, though still good naturedly.

‘Yes.’

Porthos took a doubtful look at Athos, who shrugged.

‘Hmm,’ said he, turning back to Aramis, who made nothing of it and continued:

‘Who is this that looks forth like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, terrible as an army with banners?’

‘Terrible as an army with banners...’ repeated Porthos under his breath, as Athos stirred involuntarily upon listening to the strange phrase. ‘I’ll say!’ and he rose to his feet. ‘Come, Aramis.’

Aramis looked up from his book and blinked twice, as if he either had to adjust his eyes from vellum to the clear air, or if he could not comprehend what he heard.

‘Are you leaving?’ asked he.

‘Precisely. And you are leaving with me.’

Aramis narrowed his eyes at him.

‘I’m in the middle of something. Where are you going, anyway?’

‘To play tennis, and that is something which cannot be very well done alone.’

‘Neither can be reading to someone.’

‘You will make do. As if you didn’t have half these verses memorized! You can recite them to me on the way.’

‘Is it permissible that I don’t?’ muttered Aramis, still not moving from his chair, but nonetheless lowering the book onto the table.

‘Yes, and so much the better – we have something else to discuss.’

‘And what would that be, pray tell?’

‘Why, tennis of course.’

‘But I have no wish to leave –‘ began Aramis, while Athos cut in:

‘Yes, let’s go. It would be better to stretch out.’

‘You don’t even play.’

‘No, but I enjoy watching you two, it is very entertaining.’

‘You,’ interrupted him Porthos, ‘are staying here. Aramis and I are leaving.’

Athos looked at him in surprise, followed by no less bemused Aramis; it seemed only Porthos was perfectly at ease in the situation and he smiled at each of his friends in turn.

‘You doubtlessly have something else to do.’

‘Since you’re taking away my lector, I suppose I will have to come up with something.’

‘Perfect’ said Porthos and left, pulling Aramis after himself, which made the latter huff in exasperation, but Porthos’ sudden resolve seemed to be such a mystery, he followed without much complaining.

His book, however, still lay on the table, quite forgotten, and it caught Athos’ eye as he rose to lock the door after his friends.

‘Terrible like an army with banners’ repeated he slowly, tracing the edge of the paper and mindlessly trying to decipher the words, turned upside down from where he stood. He wanted to sit down and read them, but even more than that, he wanted to sit in the same spot he has been sitting in for the past many evenings, and listen to Aramis’ voice; he wanted to think about something, which he yet had no grasp of, but it was too hard to come to the right conclusions by himself, not to mention in a slightly drunken state. He carefully closed the book and pushed it away from himself, so as not to be tempted by it. He then took to drinking, coming to a conclusion that if he was only a little too drunk to form a coherent thought of his own, he could, perhaps, benefit from indulging himself yet more – at least in another aspect of life.

In the evening, Aramis sneaked back into the room. He look slightly flustered, and shot a quick glance at Athos.

‘Are you drinking again?’ asked he reproachfully.

‘Never stopped,’ assured him Athos, who woke up from the half-slumber. ‘Did you come back for your book?’

‘Yes, don’t worry, I’ll be on my way.’

‘Am I throwing you out?’

‘No, but you’re asleep. I will come tomorrow, if you like.’

‘And what if I wanted you to stay tonight?’

Aramis blushed, or perhaps it only looked like this in the flickering light of the candles.

‘Did you?’

‘Why don’t you finish what you started?’ asked Athos, sitting a little taller and indicating the book in a short gesture. ‘You stopped so abruptly... I don’t know what Porthos was thinking when he stormed out with you so suddenly.’

Aramis looked as if he delibarated over a response, but eventually he only reached out for the book and said nothing for a longer while. When he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed changed in some way, but Athos could not put his finger on what constituted it:

‘Don’t be cross with Porthos. He needed to speak with me.’

‘But not with me?’

‘Yes. With me alone.’

‘Keep your secrets,’ responded Athos grimly, trying to hide his disappointment; trying and failing, it would seem, for Aramis smiled at him out of sudden and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘What now?’

‘Nothing. But as I said: don’t be cross with Porthos. And also: conceal your wounds, if you have any.’

‘Is that from the Bible?’

‘No.’ Aramis sat down, still looking straight at Athos, whose unfocused eyes tried to decipher why the other’s gaze looks so soft that night. It was as if Aramis understood something Athos did not – which was most likely true – and felt in part joy, in part compassion for his less brilliant friend. If it were anyone else, Athos might have even haphazardly called this expression ‘tenderness’, ‘It is something I once told d’Artagnan.’

‘You give good advice to d’Artagnan? That’s a first.’

‘I doubt he listened.’

‘He wears his heart on his sleeve,’ agreed Athos, and one corner oh his mouth twitched in a wry grimace. ‘Poor fool!’

‘And you are not – therefore, you take my advice. You know how to conceal your wounds sufficiently well, of that there could be no discussion. But try to conceal your joys, too, my dear Athos.’

‘Why?’

‘Do you want me to read on?’ asked Aramis, evading the question.

‘If you please.’

‘It is very late – lie down on the bed, and I will.’

It was very late; Athos listened. With one majestic movement he stood up from the chair, took off his doublet, which fell to the ground, and then lowered himself onto the bed, all under the inexplicably softly gaze of Aramis, who picked up reading from the moment Porthos broke it off; and as there was very little text left in the sixth chapter, moved swiftly to the seventh.

Athos listened to him with his eyes half-closed, letting the words wash over him.

‘May the wine go straight to my beloved, flowing gently over lips and teeth,’ read Aramis, smiling lightly. He stood up and put out the candle, letting the room be filled with delicae smell of smoke. ‘Sleep now, my friend. I will come back tomorrow.’

Before he could go, however, Athos’ voice stopped him:

‘What is driving you to do that? My drunkeness? Or your pity?’

‘Ambition,’ whispered Aramis, putting a hand on Athos’ shoulder, pulling a blanket over his friend, ‘and devotion.’

‘To God?’

‘To you.’

He came back the next day indeed, and it was as if nothing has hapened, even though Athos could not help but wonder what did Porthos want from Aramis. This thought, however, was soon extinguished from his mind, because thinking about Porthos brough forth other thoughts: of the no doubt painful farewell that was approaching them fast, and thinking about Aramis brought something else still, which he both wanted to ponder over, and to evade at all cost. Because of that, and becuase of the physical state he was in, Athos was in sour mood for the whole day. His hungover was worse than usually, and despite the cold wheather outised, he opened all the windows in the room while waiting for Aramis, trying to make himself feel better with the cool wind.

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Aramis with scrutiny the moment he set foot in the apartment on rue Férou, since it was not hard to spot something was, indeed, the matter with his friend.

‘Nothing.’

‘You know, I pride myself on being a litle bit more perceptive than that. Are you that worried about Porthos?’

‘Must everything in my life revolve around you two? Nothing is the matter, and I do not remember inviting myself into your confession box.’

‘Of course you don’t – with a hungover such as yours?’

Athos shot Aramis a menacing look, but was unable to be offended with him for too long, because for all that Aramis always got easily on his nerves, he was likewise appreciated by both of his friends for his sense of humor – even if he went a little too far at times.

‘But if that’s the way you feel, perhaps I should simply leave you be tonight?

‘Oh, do what you like!’ snapped Athos. ‘But you may stay, if you wish.’

‘You’re too kind,’ came a sarcastic reply, but Aramis indeed sat down and opened the book, and opened it – as Athos noticed at once in yet another wave of annoyance – precariously close to the end. ‘However, I think this will be worth your while: If only you were to me like a brother, who was nursed at my mother’s breasts! Then, if I found you outside, I would kiss you, and no one would despise me.’

He looked with satisfaction as Athos yet again choked on something under the influence of his words.

‘Well? Are you feeling slightly more alive?’ asked he in a flute-like tone.

‘You know, my friend, I sometimes wonder if you know what you are doing.’

‘Always, my dear Athos. Do you?’ And without waiting for the reply, Aramis pressed on. ‘Place me like a seal on your heart, like a seal on your arm; for love is as strong as death, jealousy is as severe as Sheol; its flames are flames of fire like a mighty flame.’

‘I dare say’ interrupted him Athos, though he was not sure what was it that caused him to try and aggravate Aramis so much that night, ‘it needs some more polish still. Flames like a mighty flame?’

‘I am not allowed to change anything’ bristled Aramis under his breath, he as well becoming visibly annoyed. ‘These are the words of God.’

‘Well, these are your words.’

‘Whatever you say. Shall I go on?’

‘Wait! Explain to me one thing, monsieur l’abbé.’

‘What now?’

‘Like a seal on the heart, you said. Or on an arm, or both, as it were. What does that even mean?’

Aramis put the book down and looked at Athos very calmly and – were it possible to use eyesight in such a manner – quietly.

‘The way I see it’ began he slowly, ‘the love is under the seal. It is being protected.’

‘But’ protested Athos, ‘if you put something under a seal, no one can see it.’

‘Do they need to? Does love need to be seen in order to be felt?’

‘Felt by the one whose heart it was put on, perhaps. I imagine it would be. But no one else, not even by the one who had put it there.’

‘Yes’ agreed Aramis softly. ‘Love requires trust, it would appear.’

‘It does not seem to be feasible. Such a world, I mean. Love being expressed in the quietest way possible, barely visible if at all, weak.’

Aramis smiled barely perceptibly, but smiled nonetheless and angered Athos by having done so.

‘Why, am I commiting some blasphemy by saying that? This love is weak – all love is – and you need better verses.’

‘Imagine an important letter’ began Aramis in an even softer voice. ‘Would it be sealed?’

‘Obviously.’

‘So that no one can see its content?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Because this content is so important – so powerful – the mere knowledge of it equals power.’

‘Yes.’

‘The one who had sent the letter possesses this knowledge and therefore he is powerful. But the other one? The one to whom it was sent? He is the only one allowed to break the seal freely. And, more often than not, already possesses at least a tinge of knowledge of what this content might be.’

‘I would say’ responded Athos, after a moemnt’s deliberation, ‘he is even more powerful; he was given the letter, but he was also given trust to use it wisely.’

‘The sender had the power of entrusting it. They are equals.’

Silence befell both of them, with Athos pondering over what he heard, and Aramis still regarding him in the same calm manner.

‘Why would it not be opened in front of everyone?’ asked Athos suddenly, yet quietly. ‘Yes, it is powerful but does it have to be secret?’

‘It is no mere love’ said Aramis in response, frownig a litle bit. ‘It is God’s love, or it wouldn’t have been in the Scripture. And God truly is... like flames of the mighty flame’ smiled he at last. ‘He would burn the eyes of those who dared to look at Him, or His love. It is not secrecy – not really – it is a necessary precaution.’

‘Is God then cruel? Or just cowardly?’

‘He’s wise. Not everyone is running like a stream of boiling water, my dear.’

‘So what you wanted to say is: He is cold, like you?’

Aramis smiled a little.

‘If that is how you see me,’ responded he easily, which caused Athos to fell silent and stay like that until the very end of the very last chapter.

‘It is done,’ said Aramis somewhat solemnly, closing the book very delicately, as if it were made of glass, not vellum. ‘And now, I must be going.’

‘You cannot be serious.’

‘A moment ago, you scarcely wanted me to be here, now you don’t want to let me go?’

‘You cannot simply –‘

‘I will come in few days’ time.’

‘Was it not the last chapter?’

‘It was.’

‘Why then?’

‘I would like to have a word with you.’

‘Speak out.’

‘Soon.’

‘Why not now?’

‘I want us to be equals,’ replied Aramis enigmatically, handing the book to Athos. ‘Read this in the meantime, if you want. Think about it. And try to understand. Goodnight, my friend.’

He escaped quickly, leaving behind a stunned Athos, still with the book in his hand.

He did read the book that night, twice, until sunrise. Some words seemed to him to take on some new meaning, while others faded and composed a background, which took more and more life with every minute he passed on wondering about the meaning of it all. Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. Place me like a seal on your heart, like a seal on your arm. All night long on my bed I looked for the one my heart loves. His mouth is sweetness itself; he is altogether lovely. This is my beloved, this is my friend. Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. The words seemed to whirl in Athos’ mind and suddenly he understood what this feeling reminded him of: the first evening when he met Charlotte Backson. Struck by the sudden realisation, he closed the book decisively and scarcely fought the desire to toss it into the fire.

Aramis came back the next evening, but he was accompanied by Porthos. It was the latter’s last evening with them, which he announced quite proudly, and there was no way to talk oneself out of it.

‘And tonight, your usual excuses won’t work, my dear,’ warned Porthos Aramis, pouring him a generous glass of wine. The whole company sat in Athos’ lodgings, because he was always assumed the be the most drunk one at the end of the night, and no one looked forward particularly fondly to carrying him to rue Fèrou, had they gathered someplace else, but the wine and food was provided by Porthos, whose fortune has quite changed in the recent weeks. ‘Tonight, you must drink with me! Drink and be merry!’

Athos half-expected a scathing reply to such a bold statement, but to his surprise Aramis shrugged and drank the whole glass at once.

‘If this is the only way to get you out of here,’ responded he to Porthos, but his eyes showed the true depth of his friendship.

They passed the time splendidly, Athos more than he has expected it, especially under the unforeseen circumstances. His mood improved: he managed to forget Charlotte Backson; he managed to forget Aramis’ poetry; he nearly managed to forget Porthos would probably never drink him under the table again, and if he was not succesful on that particular score, it was only because he had Porthos, sitting in front of him for the whole time, whose voice reverberated in his ears, his heavy hand clasping Athos shoulder time and time again. The amusement continued into the late nightly hours, though just with the two of them – Aramis, wholly unaccustomed to drinking, managed to fell asleep much earlier, and did not even wake up when his two friends rather unceremoniously tossed him onto Athos’ bed. The two friends talked for a long time: of nothing serious, perhaps, but of a great deal of enjoable things, especially their youthful memories from the times it was just the two of them in the Musketeers service, and then – turning to take a look at the sleeping Aramis – of the time they made his acquaintance.

‘He’s treating you well enough?’ asked Porthos suddenly at the end of their merriment, after a longer while of silence and Athos was not sure if he misheard or if that was a genuine question posed to him; after all, Porthos sat at some distance and was not looking at his interlocutor, but at the sleeping Aramis, sprawled on the bed.

‘What kind of a question is that? He’s my friend – and you know him.’

‘Not as well, though. And I wasn’t really asking about his friendship –’

‘What is that about?’ hissed Athos, feeling some sort of annoyance and anger rising in him; not as much as it usually was, but enough to sound threatning. ‘Are you also getting at this stupid story about my nom de guerre, is that it?’

‘Oh, the nom de guerre does not help – or helps a great deal, whichever way you’re looking at it – but I never needed it to –’

‘I am not discussing this with you’ decided Athos, interrupting Porthos and trying as he might to sober up some more.

‘Yes, it’s probably safer that way’ agreed Porthos with a shrug, but just as he said it, he turned to look Athos in the eye. ‘So does he treat you well enough? It is a simple question, my friend.’

Athos sat dumbfounded for a moment, but then the words flew out of his mouth on their own volition:

‘You know him yourself. He’s a high-and-mighty bastard who’s good with a sword and, apparently, composing poetic verses. Conceited as Narcissus, as you are fond of saying. He’d lend you money if you needed it, though Hell if I know how he makes that much with what few hours he puts into the service. He’ll make a fine priest one day, crafty, sly and charming, like the lot of them.’ After a small pause, he added in a quieter and altogether calmer voice: ‘And he truly has a gift for theology, or whatever you wish to call it. These past few weeks he’s been... reading to me, as you know. Explaining things I did not understand. Explaining them in a way I finally understood.’

‘Yes’ nodded Porthos softly. ‘He’s very clever, our Aramis, and that is part of the reason I asked. Does he treat you well enough? You should know I do not intend to leave until you answer me, so you might as well.’

Athos gritted his teeth, but his thoughts once more proved to be volatile like birds when he was not quite sober enough to catch them, and they flew in different directions at once, one of them – many of them – into the direction that Porthos has provided.

‘And why haven’t you asked him a question like this?’ bristled he, instead of answering, as his anger won this time over pondering. ‘You think that just because he’s clever he would... somehow... I don’t even know what you’re asking me about!’

‘As a matter of fact, I did ask him’ responded Porthos easily, leaning back in his chair and looking at Athos only half jokingly. ‘His reaction was a bit more gracious.’

‘Oh? Well, thank Heavens for such small mercies.’

‘So much so I did not object to his continuing coming over to you, should he have the wish for it.’

Suddenly, Porthos’ voice sounded a lot less bantering, but a lot more firm.

‘Did you honestly think I would do something to Aramis? And what, exactly?’

‘Well, you are known for beating your servant – not just known to us, but generally speaking. You are taller than him, and I dare say stronger. Also elder, and probably the only person in the whole world he feels any kind of respect for.’

Porthos’ answer was delivered in such a firm, almost scathing tone, Athos simply looked at him for a longer while, unable to speak.

‘You thought I would.. force mys... I shan’t even say it. You are drunk.’

‘No, you are’ pointed out Porthos, with an even sharper edge to his voice. ‘Habitually so. When you grow enraged and end up defenestrating people who wronged you, or whom you thought to have wronged you. And with your inflated sense of self importance, who even knows what could offend you? I dread to think. You are, on the whole, a very dangerous person, my friend.’

‘Does Aramis think so too?’ smiled Athos condescendingly, only to be silenced by Porthos’ severe gaze:

‘All you need to know is that we talked and after the impression I got from him I would be loathe to be proven wrong.’

They sat in an increasingly uncomfrotable silence for a few minutes.

‘But you’re not simply worried for him’ muttered Athos at last. ‘Or you wouldn’t have asked me the same question.’

‘No,’ responded Porthos softly again, with a small smile creeping into his voice. ‘I’m not simply worried for him.’

‘What could he even do to me?’ asked Athos sarcastically. ‘Since he is, as you put it, younger, mild-mannered, shorter by a good amount and all that.’

‘He’s cleverer, and infinitely more vengeful.’

‘I think not’ sneered Athos, ‘I murdered my wife. Twice.’

‘And he killed a man whose murder he trained for for a year. Over a trifle. When he was still a seminary student. And a year, mind you, is a very long time to ponder over one duel, but a very short time to learn how to fight with a sword. He is just as dangerous as you are – if not more.’

The reality of this statement hung heavily in the air.

‘And, likewise, I would be loathe if something happened to either of you’ continued Porthos, and his gaze rested rather worriedly over Athos’ face.

‘You would not have the reason to do so’ muttered finally the latter in response. ‘Not from me.’

‘Beacause you take so kindly to people breaking your...’ muttered Porthos worriedly under his breath, but stopping mid-sentence once he spotted Athos’ haughty gaze.

‘Besides, Aramis is not my servant. I have no use for one more – and friends I treat as such.’

‘That is rather heartening news.’

‘It is, isn’t it’ responded Athos, still quietly, as if speaking any louder could wake Aramis up. ‘And rather surprising, I find.’

Porthos looked at him for a moment with a smile, and later stood up and yawned; the amount of noise he made would have woken up anybody else, but Aramis did not even stir.

‘I’m going home’ said he, touching lightly Athos’s shoulder and beginning to look around for his previously discarded baldric, weaponry and hat.

‘I thought you did not intend to leave until I answer your riddiculous question?’ snorted Athos, standing up as well.

‘How lucky am I that you did it at last’ responded Porthos, not unkindly; Athos wanted to prostest, but for some reason thought better of it and resorted to asking simply:

‘Will you need a hand in carrying him downstairs?’

‘I think he may stay here, don’t you?’ Porthos looked at Aramis, who did not move at all during their conversation and still occupied the entirety of Athos’ bed. ‘Such a peaceful scene. Would be a shame to disrupt it.’

‘Hmm.’

Porthos smiled and patted Athos’s hand:

‘It truly would be. Goodnight, my friend.’

‘I fail to see how good can it be, since my bed is rather thouroughly occupied.’

‘Nothing a clever man could not solve’ joked Porthos. ‘And since there is at least one clever man here –’

Athos cursed under his breath and closed the door, rather unceremoniously, right into Porthos’ smiling face. He then walked over to the bed for a moment, but eventually sighed and settled in the chair in the corner of the room, knowing without a doubt he would not be waking Aramis up. Fearing he would fall asleep as well, he stood once more and opened all the windows in the room, in hopes that the cool midnight wind would help him stay awake.

His gaze caught onto the book, which he placed on the windowsill a day prior. He took it and opened it at a random pag; the whole content was well known to him by then, and yet he felt as if he discovered something new every time he looked at the pages. Aramis’ handwriting was in and of itself a work of art, too – no doubt a fruit of many years of labour in the seminary. He leafed through the pages, looking for nothing in particular, but admiring the clean lines of the black letters against the white vellum.

‘Are you reading it once more?’ he heard a voice which was faintly colored with amusement and definitely still groggy with sleep, and his heart almost skipped a beat, because as he was accustomed to living alone, and as Grimaud was silent as a grave, the only occasion upon which he would be hearing a voice like that – and this voice in particular – was away on a campaign. ‘You look as if you've seen a ghost,’ continued the voice with merryment prevailing in its tone.

Athos closed the book and pushed it away.

‘For a moment I felt as if I were again at war,’ said he in a surprising moment of candor, because the feeling was not gone yet.

‘Because I spoke?’ asked Aramis, no longer able to suppress a smile, audible in the way he spoke. ‘That sounds like an affront, but I shall forgive you, because you do seem as if you were at war these days.’

‘Are you training for the confessional, by chance? Trying to make me speak of what you know I have no desire?’

‘Perhaps,’ replied Aramis enigmatically. ‘But I hope to find more reciprocal parishioners.’

‘Don’t worry, I won't be one of them. Nor will I visit your confession box.’

‘Who knows what will happen,’ muttered Aramis, the amusement gone now and something else - which after all these years Athos knew signaled a frown on his friend’s face - appearing in its stead.

‘Oh, by all means: if I will be dying on the battlefield and you’ll hapen to stop by, I’ll ask you for the last rites, don’t be uneasy. I would not let my soul go to peril like so.’

‘Good.’ Aramis sat up on the bed and looked at his friend in a mysterious way. ‘Can we talk now?’

‘Is now the time?’

‘I think so.’

‘Speak out.’

‘I don’t have much to tell,’ warned Aramis, getting off of the bed and sitting once more by the table, perfectly across from Athos. The candle, which stood close to him, illuminated his face with its soft light. ‘I wanted to ask you... what you thought of the Song of Songs.’

‘It was beautiful.’

‘That much I know myself,’ smiled Aramis modestly. ‘Altough, thank you. But my question is rather... what do you think? Not of its form – I tried my best, but men are faulty. What did you think about the words?’

Athos thought for a long moment. He knew what he wanted to say, but still was not sure if that was what Aramis was asking him about, lesser yet, if that was what he wanted to hear.

‘Perhaps it would be better if we spoke some other time,’ muttered he finally, even though in his heart he was not certain it was the right thing to do.

Aramis got up and fastened his belt, put on the hat and the cloak. His movements as always somewhat elongated but precise, and Athos felt he was losing himself in looking at his friend, which was why he decided to suddenly speak up when Aramis was almost reaching for the doorknob:

‘When you said it was a short book, I expected something... more similar to the story of Judith, I think. A parable on the grandeur and grace of God’s love, relayed through sufficiently cryptic means. Not something  so... evocative.’

Aramis looked at Athos for a moment longer than it should take him to respond, as if he was measuring his answer:

‘You should not focus on the words at all,’ said he slowly at last, taking his eyes off of Athos, and finally closing the book in an almost absurdly careful movement. ‘There could be no words at all – focus on what is beneath them. It happens sometimes that men can only speak through silences.’

‘If they truly could, my taciturnity would make me the best conversationist of us all.’

‘Perhaps you are that,’ shrugged Aramis, sitting down again and leaning against the back of the chair, so that only his long, beautiful, white palms and the book they were holding remained in the soft circle of the candlelight. ‘And who’s to say what was understood through your silence? It well may be you’ll never know.’

‘What a sad prospect.’

‘Be silent more eloquently, then.’

‘Through your tried means of evocative, long gazes, nearly supressed sighs and speaking in parables?’

‘It depends,’ shrugged Aramis once more; Athos could not tell, but felt that he was being looked right at. ‘What have you understood through that?’

Athos shifted in his chair, set on dismissing the question through some jest or other, but it was too late for that, and he was too frustrated to care; or even to notice when this border was crossed, for since when was he humoring Aramis’ no doubt mocking, philosophical questions in the middle of the night?

‘That you are full of secrets,’ said he finally, trying to find the best of words to convey exactly what was on his mind, and no more than that; it proved to be a difficult task, for he was not yet quite sure where this particular border ran. ‘Though you pretend to be nothing but.’

‘That is an easy answer – and an answer of a coward,’ replied Aramis coldly, to Athos’ greatest surprise.

‘Are you calling me a coward?’

‘Unless I can call you a blind deaf-mute.’

They stared at one another over the table.

‘Fine,’ decided Athos at last. His throat was parched. ‘Have it your way.’

‘And which way would that be?’

‘I think it would be the one leading to Mount Athos,’ whispered Athos hoarsely. He half expected a ready answer to what he percieved to be perhaps the most difficult words of his life, but Aramis remained silent for a very long moment, so long it began to hurt Athos in some unexlicable way he had not felt before. He no longer felt the chill coming in through the open window, and instead felt as if he were thrown into a fiery furnace, if not straight into the innermost circle of Hell.

‘It is uncomfortable, you do realize, to sit opposite someone who has my life and death in the palm of his hand, but chooses not to weigh them,’ said he finally, when the silence became unbearable.

‘And it is likewise a strange sensation to sit here and have them in my hands,’ repeated Aramis very seriously. ‘I will be forced to make the decision, you say? Why should it be me? This is your life and possibly your death we are talking about. You choose.’

‘I am placing them like a seal upon your arm,’ retorted Athos firmly, for this very line had been prepared in the back of his mind for a long time. For days now he considered himself branded by these words in the same way that unfortunate woman – as he thought about her from time to time – was by her fleur-de-lys.

Aramis smiled very wanly, but smiled nonetheless:

‘I hate choosing.’

‘And don’t I know it.’

‘Forcing me is possibly not the best opening... an experienced swordmaster like yourself should realise at least that much, I think.’

‘Perhaps. But it is what it is. You knew my character before you started... you had to expect something of that sort.’

‘Not in my wildest dreams did I expect anything like that,’ responded Aramis, loosing  bit of the aura of seriousness about him. He then stood up and began to look for his things, but did so in such an undecided, clumsy way it was clear he was but covering for his true emotions.

‘You’re leaving?’ asked Athos incredulously, standing up as well. Aramis turned to him, hat in hand:

‘Did you think I would have an answer ready to deliver?’

‘Yes! Pardieu, how hard could it be?’

‘You think rather highly of yourself,’ observed Aramis with some sort of smugness in his voice, which infuriated Athos, though he knew not why exactly; he was well accustomed to Aramis’ whimsical manners and did not mind them, but it was the suspension in the moment of time that drove him mad.

‘Why should I not? You set your eyes only on that which is far beyond your reach.’

‘In my defense, I do get it, most of the time.’

‘Yes, and you have it now. It’s yours, if you want it.’

They remained in silence for a moment longer, looking at each other with two very different pairs of eyes. While Athos pleaded with Aramis, Aramis seemed to plead with himself, as if he saw too many facets of the situation which to his friend looked very straightforward – if rather unheard of – and as if he could not decide between them: each had its advantages and disadvantages; but Aramis, unlike Athos, was not one to gamble.

‘I will come back tomorrow,’ said he finally and tried to pass by Athos on his way out, but was stopped by a sudden hand on his shoulder and forcefully put in place.

‘Now.’

Aramis took a long, good look at Athos, assessing him from head to toe, and then finally at the hand clasped painfully over his shoulder.

‘If I say something – anything – now, it may not be to your liking,’ warned he.

‘Neither may I like your answers tomorrow. But by tomorrow, I may not like the question – the offer – that I have put in place.’

‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have asked, then.’

‘It is what it is.’

Aramis sighed and tried to wriggle his shoulder from under Athos’ clasp.

‘I’m not telling you anything until you’ve let me go,’ hissed he finally, resulting in a momentary release. He then walked over to the table and took a seat.

‘Weapons off, I should think,’ muttered he to Athos, putting his hat on the table and beginning to unclasp his belt. ‘I’m not risking your running me through because you’ve taken offense to something I say.’

‘Fair enough,’ Athos looked around the room, trying to locate his own sword and once that was done, he took the blade and broke it over his knee to Aramis’ greatest astonishment.

‘Thank you. Altough there is no need for such grandiose acts of good will,’ jested he, relaxing his posture a bit and only then did it become visible just how tensely he carried himself for the past few moments. ‘And I’m not doing the same thing, because I will still have to go back to rue Servandoni. But, in honour of your trust...’ he threw his own sword to the floor by the door, where it fell with a clatter.

‘This is not the only thing I’ve done tonight to show that I trusted you.’

‘No.’

‘Some response would be in order.’

‘What do you expect me to tell you? That I would like to take that road you talked about – together?’ He looked at Athos with scrutiny, and upon seeing the frowned, cold expression on the latter’s face, he added very quietly and wistfully, ‘Because that goes without saying.’

‘Is that why it will never be said? A rather sad prospect.’

‘But the most truthful one. I don’t think you realise how much weight it carries.’

‘If that is the conclusion you’ve reached after thinking about it sufficiently, it is a poor testament to the quality of your education.’

 ‘And if you’ve never even considered it, it’s an even worse testimony of your wits and mental capabilities.’

‘We could –‘

‘We could – what?’

‘I want to show you something,’ Athos stood up and directed his steps to the small chest from under his bed, the one he kept all his papers and treasures in. ‘It came to me recently. Well, not so recently, but I wanted nothing to do with this.’ He took some document out and gave it back to suspiscious Aramis, who took it, read it, read it once again and then finally looked at Athos with a rather astonished expression on his face.

‘Is that the same –‘

‘No! Upon my soul, I would have never gone back to the same house. And if I did not know she was dead and gone for good, no longer haunting me, I would have never gone back to the same part of the country if I could help it. But, as it stands...’

‘That is quite a litany of titles: the comte de la Fère. The vicomte of Bragelonne. You would be very powerful.’

‘Not as much as I used to be, but yes.’

‘Rich, I assume?’

‘Richer than I am now. But not as rich as I could be – if you were to go with me.’

Aramis smiled wearily:

‘It is a beautiful dream. No, let me speak!’ added he sharply, when Athos opened his mouth to say something. ‘A beautiful dream – for you.’

‘And you, if you were to go with me.’

‘And what would I do in Blois? Or wherever. Be your courtesan?’

The silence that fell between them was the kind of silence one can almost hear after receiving a sufficiently powerful blow to the head, and just as nauseating. Athos paled, but Aramis continued with merciless meticulousness:

‘A companion without a title, without my own money, without any influence I could have except for the one held above you – for a time, perhaps. And when that time runs out? There would be no sacred vow to bind us together, no promises except for the ones made in the heat of the moment, in the time of youthful foolishness. But eventually, I would turn into a nuissance. And, Athos, forgive my saying so, but the recent history – as well as the more ancient one – shows me well enough the risk I run if I were to be a nuissance to you.’

Athos’ hand made an involuntary movement to where the hilt of his rapier usually was, and it was with an honest relief that he did not find it in its usual place.

‘We are friends! How can you –‘

‘I want us to part friends, too!’ snapped Aramis irritably. ‘Not to die in a ditch somewhere.’

‘I can make a vow to you.’

‘You made a vow to your wife.’

‘You are not –‘

‘Exactly.’

They stared at one another furiously, and finally Aramis was the first one to lean back; when he spoke, it was in his most natural tone of voice:

‘So you see it is almost impossible.’

‘So far I fail to see this certain aspect of the situation,’ responded Athos in a colorless voice. ‘The impossbility, be it real or perceived, seems to reign.’

‘What do you expect? You’re a passionate gambler and see a chance where I might not.’

‘Oh? And is that not because you are an unfulfilled seminarian, missing the feeling of a cilice on your body?’

‘The point stands: I don’t think it would be a good idea.’

Athos found himself laughing at the statement provided by Aramis, and it came as a surprise to both of them – the laugh was guttural and terryfying, something truly so dark it did not sound even remotely human.

‘Thank you for the beautiful journey,’ drawled he out at last through his gritted teeth. ‘You were in need of an audience for your translations, I presume? Or perhaps simply played a joke on me? Well played indeed!’

‘I wasn’t joking,’ responded Aramis seriously, but with something seething right under the surface in his voice as well.

‘Torturing me, then? Because, my dear friend, I cannot imagine why else would you make me sit through hours on end of this book and made me believe in the divine nature of affection, if it was not yours to impart.’

Aramis stood up in a brisque movement and for one moment he seemed to Athos as terrifying, as the waves of Red Sea must have seemed to Moses when they carried their whole mass Heavenwards; but instead of directing his steps to the door, he turned to the still open window and stopped with his face hidden from Athos for a moment.

‘Come here,’ said he finally, without turning back. When Athos did not move at all, and only eyed his friend suspisciously, still in awe of him, he added with a tinge of impatience, ‘I am not going to throw you out of this window, if that’s what you’re worried about... it was always your preferred modus operandi, not mine.’

And as if to underline his benevolent intentions, he closed carefully the window pane; the chilled glass was immediately covered with a layer of steam. Athos finally stood up as well, and came over to Aramis, standing a few paces away.

‘Come closer,’ hissed the latter even more impatiently, grabbing Athos’ collar and pulling him so that they stood face to face, ‘and look.’

And with his delicate, white finger, Aramis wrote on the steamed glass the three words Athos was waiting to hear; but upon seeing them like that, he likewise understood why he would never hear them spoken out loud. Meanwhile, Aramis looked intently into Athos’ face; but when he reached out to smudge the still well visible writing, his wrist was grabbed again, altough in a much more gentle way than previosuly.

‘Let it stay,’ whispered Athos. ‘It will disappear all too soon either way.’

They stood for a moment longer, until the letters did disappear, leaving no trace of them ever being there; but for all he cared, Athos knew they were carved into his very flesh, and put like a seal over his heart – never to be broken and brought to light, but always to be carried within, remembered and cherished.

It was he, then, who left first his post by the window; feeling his legs may give way he sat down, waiting to be joined in what would no longer resemble a war, but what – as they both knew well – would be far from a peace treaty.

‘Almost impossible, you said?’ started he.

‘As you can see.’

‘Tell me you see a way out,’ whispered Athos pleadingly. ‘However impossible it my seem, however hard, I will do it.’

‘Oh, it’s not hard... for you.’

‘How then?’

Aramis, who did not sit down again, looked out and into the darkness behind the glass, which must have rendered it impossible he could see anything at all – save, perhaps, for the shaky mirror image of Athos sitting by the table and illuminated by the candle.

‘All you have to do, is to say you want it – more than the other thing I can offer you.’

Athos looked at him uncomprehendingly:

‘What other thing?’

‘Forgiveness for sin.’

‘That’s... absurd.’

‘Is it? I can see you’re being tortured by what has happened and you said it yourself: should you confess, your penance would be great, too great to bear, perhaps, for someone as proud as you.  But I can offer you a confession without judgement, a repetance without sufffering, an eternal freedom for your soul.’

‘How?’ asked Athos immediately and without thinking. If he could see Aramis’ face, he would have noticed how some creases around his eyes and lips deepened upon hearing this honest want.

‘I had to go back to the seminary sooner or later – now seems like a perfect opportunity. Who would want to stay in service their whole life? And then I will have the power to forgive sins away; I can think of no gift better suited for you. What will you choose? An eternal freedom? Or few years of happiness tinged with the underlying suffering?’

There was another silence between them, deeper and more suffocating even that the one from just an hour earlier.

‘Would you really do it, Aramis?’

‘I do not have a habit of offering what I would not be willing to give. Which, by the way, applies to my reading to you as well.’

‘There is nothing I could ever do to repay you.’

‘No,’ agreed Aramis laconically.

‘How do you do it?’ demanded Athos, desperately trying to buy himself more time before pronouncing the decision he already has made. ‘I have always known you to be a true friend, but that goes beyond –’

‘I just told you. That’s how.’

They fell into another silent moment, until finaly Aramis made a gesture of impatience and turned around:

‘Say the damn words already! Your silence told me what you prefer, but for the love of all that is holy, bring yourself to say it!’

‘I want to be freed. Her blood cries out to the Lord, and it is my name she utters,’ whispered Athos finally.  He scarcely did not dare to look at Aramis, but when he managed to do it, he was surprised to see that nothing has changed – it was still the same Aramis he’s known for years who stood now in front of him, with his face composed, and only slightly paler than before. ‘Will you hate me for it?’

To his surprise, Aramis shook his head gently:

‘No.’

‘I will do what I can to –’

‘Ah, do you think I would be leaving so much behind? To serve under d’Artagnan is dreary – to spend my entire youth with no meaningful occupation even more so – and I was always destined for the cloth, one way or another... As for Blois,’ added he in a quieter voice, ‘I shared my opinion with you.’

‘And you would get bored in the countryside either way.’

They both laughed, and altough it was a bit strained on both ends, it was likewise honest.

‘Yes,’ agreed Aramis finally, stepping away from the windowsill at last, and collecting his discarded belongings. ‘Altough I do not look forward into going back where I came from – Paris is much more agreeable with me, but if not Paris, well then, there are other places one could find something to employ oneself in without losing one’s sanity.’

‘Which will be my case?’

‘In your case, you can only improve,’ joked Aramis, putting on his hat. ‘But as for myself...’

And he finally directed his steps to the door, clasping his hand over Athos’ shoulder on his way out.

‘And at the very least,’ added he, lingering in the doorway, ‘now I know your name.’

Two days later, Porthos married the notary’s widow, madame Coquenard, in the church of Saint-Nicolas-des Champs. All his friends, as well as the better portion of the Musketeers’ regiment, came to send him off, but doubtful any of them felt as proud – and as sad – as Athos and Aramis. These two met beforehand, to walk to the church together, as it was on the other side of the Seine, and as they both felt the need to speak to one another after the strange happenstances of the previous night. But, as it happened, they found it impossible to talk – it seemed they had too much to communicate if they could speak openly and freely, but not enough if they had to put up appearances. They spent the entire walk in complete silence, then, each lost in thoughts; however, if they could gaze into each others’ minds, they would find, with no particular surprise, that the other’s reveries mirrored his own.

They were maybe twenty or thirty paces away from the church, when they spotted d’Artagnan waiting for them by the front gate, but instead of getting on faster, they slowed their steps. No matter: the young Gascon noticed them, too, and waved a hand, urging them to hurry, as the bells were beggining to sing; and when they did not react, he shrugged, and came inside without them. Once they reached the door, however, Athos took some of the holy water and gave it to Aramis, who brushed his fingers againts his friend’s hand.

They entered together just as the music began to play, and sat by d’Artagnan. Porthos and his newly acquiared fortune did not spare any expense, no matter how absurd it would have seemed in any other circumstances, the ceremony then was long, loud and filled with luxury which did not really become a former Musketeer – nor a notary’s widow. It was, all in all, much more fitting to the image of the foreign princess, cultivated so carefully and for so long by Porthos. D’Artagnan, who was never too much interested in the matters of the church, looked about him with a certain dose of appreciation for the pomp and splendor, as did most of the guests.

Suddenly, when everybody’s attention was occupied in one way or another, Aramis leaned closer to Athos and with his voice dropped a little bit – rendering it impossible that anybody could hear them, and causing Athos to think distractedly and quite without any connection with anything else whatsoever that his companion would make an apt courtier – he whispered:

‘I can promise you one thing: I will not tell you when I’ll be about to leave. You will never know.’

‘And that is supposed to be a good thing?’ asked Athos uncomprehendingly.

‘Yes. Not knowing the day you will not dread it,’ responded Aramis in what was supposed to be, Athos thought, a consoling voice but souned almost conciliatorily. ‘You will not stop me, either,’ added he again but solely to himself this time.

‘I will write to you,’ offered Athos, but Aramis shook his head without sparing him even a glance.

‘Don’t you dare. Whatever you must think of my fortitude, that is not it.’

‘How else will you know where to find me, then?’

‘You will be here, of course,’ responded Aramis, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; for him, who has conjured this whole plan so that no one would be able to put it to ruin, it probably was.

‘It may take you years.’

‘You martyr,’ hissed Aramis, finally looking Athos in the eye. ‘May it take a hundred, and you will be here, do you hear me? If you so much as lift a finger and I will have turned my life around  for nothing, I will find you anyway, but this time for an altogether different purpose.’ His voice sent a shiver down Athos’ spine.

‘I’ve heard you. I wasn’t going anywhere anyway.’

‘Few years with d’Artagnan for a lieutenant...,’ muttered Aramis, in whom still the pale and decisive fury ornamented the face far better than any amount of almond paste ever could. ‘I dare say, you won’t get bored.’

‘Bored? Never. Killed? More likely than before.’

‘As I said: don’t you dare.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Athos after a heartbeat, likewise lowering his voice, and likewise leaning closer to Aramis, so that there was scarcely any space between them. ‘I charge you – if you find my beloved, what will you tell him? Tell him I am faint with love.’

Aramis smiled at that, altough the smile was weary at the edges and showed signs of becoming sarcastic later in life:

‘I think he knows.’

The Epilogue: More Precious Than Rubies

In the year 1633, a man living in a solitary apartment at rue Férou recieved a letter, brought to him by a messanger and delivered straight to his hands, foregoing any intermediaries. The content of the letter will forever remain a mystery, but it must have been important, for the instructions from the man to his servant seemed to be as follows: to pack everything, settle any debts with the landlord and shopkeepers, and to set as soon as possible to ride down south. While the servant busied himself with these tasks, the man wrote a certain document, whose content is likewise unknown to us, but which could be suspected, for it was then presented to captain de Treville of the king’s Musketeers. The man had no previous appointment with the captain, but he appeared to be so esteemed by him, he was let in immediately. What they talked about, can only be concluded in that way: the man entered the captain’s chambers dressed in a Musketeer’s tunic, but emerged from therein half an hour later without it.

It would be futile, then, to speculate about whom the man had been, and the only important thing that remained was: he was now named the count de la Fere, of one of the greatest noble houses in France, entering upon the road which was his’ by birthright much more so than the simple life of service.

The count had several leters to write and a certain visit to make before leaving Paris – this visit, too, shall be veiled in mystery; let it be enough to know that it was with one of the lieutenants of his now former regiment that he wished to speak with, and that after this conversation he left in a mood which – had it not been for the strange solemnity he appeared to take on ever since the arrivale of his letter – would have surely left him bitter. As for the lieutenant’s mood, the testimony for it should be the fact he avowed in his heart to cease all friendly ties with the count for at least ten years and, as far as we were able to asses it, kept his word; altough he did regret it much sooner, his stubborness did not allow him to have broken such a vehement vow.

The count de la Fére, despite his own dissatisfaction, set to ride as soon as possible. Seeing as his servant was indeed a man well accustomed to his master’s wishes, everything that belonged to him was already packed and on its way south – everything but a small chest, which the count then packed into his saddle bags; but when he rode, he rode not to the south, but to the east.

It was still early when he started, and he reached his destination – which as not so far after all, and the count de la Fére was an excellent rider – on the early evening of the same day. He took a room in the only inn in the village he had reached, and left certain instructions with the innkeeper, therefore it must come off as no surprise that a mere hour or two later, another traveler was brought into the count’s room.

They stood facing each other, seemingly unsure how to proceed. The count was the first to break the silence, with voice so filled with different emotions it would be futile to try and guess which of these was truly in possession of his conduct at the moment:

‘What should I call you?,’ whispered he. ‘‘Aramis’? It seems almost blasphemous, given the circumstances.’

‘Not to mention juvenile,’ agreed the other man, inclining his head slightly, while a singular smile tugged at his lips. ‘And so does ‘Athos’, come to think of it.’

‘As of today, the nom de guerre is dead.’

‘I’m glad to see you wasted no time coming here,’ said the man previously called Aramis, but who was now known as l’abbé René d’Herblay. ‘I feared I’d have to wait for a week at least, and I’m in a rush.’

‘I would never,’ said the count with a surprising solemnity in his voice. ‘I could hardly wait to see you again.’

‘And have you truly left the –‘

‘Yes.’

‘I’m impressed,’ said l’abbé d’Herblay, sitting down on the only available chair in the room, leaving the count to stand in front of him, like a penitent or a supplicant. ‘To be quite honest, I was not sure you would come at all.’

‘You thought I drank myself to death?’

‘Something of the sort. Or simply... changed your mind.’

‘Never,’ repeated the count equally as solemnly as before, but with uneasiness creeping into his voice. ‘How may I take your letter, then? Was it written in earnest?’

‘My offer still stands.’

‘Then let me confess my sins to you,’ said the count and kneeled on the ground. ‘I’ve grown weary of carrying them with me.’

He did confess that evening, because even though he belonged to the proudest race a man can belong to, so too kings and popes crumble to dust when faced with the power of God. L’abbé listened to him without interruptions, and when he eventually pronounced the sacred phrase, he spoke evenly, without a trace of emotion in it.

‘Is it done?,’ asked the count in a stiffened voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And now, let me say a Mass. I’ve brought everything with me – I don’t trust you not to commit some other calamity before you have a chance to visit a church.’ And he busied himself with preparing the ornate vessels and books on a simple table; for the whole time, as well as for the time of the Mass, the count remained kneeling on the floor; he did not have to stay like that for long, for l’abbé, despite in possession of a beautiful singing voice, was clearly not one to dwell on religious ceremonies and rushed past it with speed worthy of the most vehement of atheists.

‘It is done now,’ said he with satisfaction after the whole thing was over. He glanced at the the count over his shoulder and added much more softly, ‘You can stand up now.’

‘Are you truly in rush to get back to – where are you going back to, anyway?’ asked the count, standing up and sitting on the bed for the lack of another chair, which he provisionally left for his friend.

‘Do you think I should tell you?’

‘I see no reason why not.’

‘Et si scandalizaverit te manus tua abscide illam... and so on. I think you benefitted from my abscence these past few years, and who knows? Perhaps I did as well.’

‘Did you?’ asked the count, smiling wryly in a way which brought forth in the mind not the count – a personage entirely unknown to l’abbé – but Athos.

‘Perhaps. But, as for your first question... I am, as it happens, truly in a hurry; you would not believe what a different world has opened its doors to me the moment it should have, by all accounts, closed them to me forever. Why do they put the youngest sons in the seminaries? It should be the other way around.’

‘Why did your parents put you there, then?’

‘Oh, I am my family’s only son.’

‘A handy foresight.’

‘No doubt.’

‘You won’t tell me where it is you’re going?’

L’abbé stopped for a moment and deliberated.

‘You know where I’ll be staying, Aramis’ added Athos with annoyance, slipping in the moniker from their youths without realizing it.

‘Let us make use of that,’ decided Aramis, who noticed the slip-up but paid no mind to correcting Athos; and if his friend had any idea of what self-important, and yet more secretive a person Aramis has become in the meantime, he would have been able to appreciate all the more the leniency hidden in this decision. ‘I will write to you.’

‘Will you really? I must say, I’ve grown so used to your abscence I’m anxious to let you go on so weak a promise. Tell me where can I reach you to demand satisfaction should this promise prove to be futile, at least.’

‘You know, I think I liked you more as Athos,’ joked Aramis, scribbling something on a piece of paper he seemed to procured miraculously. ‘You were less demanding.’

‘As if you were not.’

‘Must be the age, then, but forget I said that; I have very little desire to grow old. Here – if you want to know where I’ll be staying for the time being.’

‘Saint-Pierre de Montmartre?’ asked Athous increduolousy, deciphering the name. ‘Paris?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Just as I’m making my way down south?’

‘Do you want to tell my general now’s not the good time? We met halfway – and, my dear friend, we will meet again. Blois is not yet a tomb. By-the-by,’ added he wryly, ‘I thought that I should pay my respects to d’Artagnan. Will he be very happy to see me, what do you think?’

Aramis was in such a peculiarly jocular mood, Athos figured out it must have been at least partially superficial – and was about to find an offence in that, before he understood that it was, most likely, for his own sake. Unlike Aramis, he has always been prone to mood swings, and while he appeared stoic on the outisde, inside he resembled a great fire, warming those around him many a time, but devouring himself – and others –  on other occassions. This time, however, he let go of the grudge before it had a chance of being formed and gestured for Aramis to stop for a moment whatever he was doing; and Aramis, either because he saw the urgency hidden in the gesture, or by the power of habit, listened to him at once.

‘I believe you will write,’ said Athos solemnly, foregoing answering the question he was asked, ‘and I understand you must go where your road leads you... You are clever, too, to go to Paris just as this is the last place on Earth I’d like to see again; though it seemes to me that if you wanted me to, I’d go with you anywhere... even to see d’Artagnan. But – there’s something I wanted to give you – and then, I think I’ll spend the night here and start my way to Bragelonne tomorrow.’

And he picked up the chest he brought with himself, opened it, and took out of it a small object, wrapped in silk, which he then placed atop Aramis’ palm.

Upon unwrapping, Aramis saw it was a cross, a gift befitting his new life better than any other; but it was no ordinary cross, either, for it was made of diamonds and strung on a string of pearls. The jewel was exquisite and indicated not only wealth, but good taste of the one who requested it to be made, but upon further inspection it became apparent it was refashioned out of stones that were previously used elsewhere. But even with this in mind, Aramis – who has always been a conneisseur of beauty – realized it was a piece of art.

‘Does Bragelonne bring you so great a profit?’ asked he, stunnedly. ‘Or have you sold it already?’

‘No – and no,’ responded Athos, smiling and taking the cross into his own hand for a moment. ‘I had it made specifically for you... out of the jewelery that once belonged to my wife.’

And he hung the string of pearls on Aramis’ neck, covering with his palm the cross, which rested on Aramis’ chest. Neither of them uttered a word for a long while, when finally Aramis coverd Athos’ hand with his own. The mask he usually had assumed on his face dropped sligtly, and Athos was finally able to behold the Aramis of old, and not the respectable l’abbé his friend has become in the meantime.

‘Pretiosior est cunctis opibus et omnia quae desiderantur huic non valent conparar,’ whispered Athos, smiling sadly at the irony of the situation. ‘But while it does not compare, it may still adorn. And make you remember me fondly, whatever has passed between us.’

‘Do you think I could ever remeber you any other way? My dear friend, you were always the best of us all and knowing you was an honour one could only aspire to – and one that, I hope, is still mine to claim.’

‘I’m sure you’re sneering, Aramis. As for me, I had this cross made for you not long after you disappeared – and wanted to throw it into Seine at least twenty times since. There were times I would have preferred to forget you, so as not to curse your name.’

 ‘I doubt I would ever be able to forget you, no matter how hard I tried.’

‘And you don’t curse.’

‘Oh, if the occassion calls for it...’

‘But will you try to forget me?’

‘For nothing in the world.’

‘Will you write then?’

‘I have much to tell you,’ with that, Aramis turned around and  got back to packing the last of the liturgical vessels he had taken out. ‘How about you?’

‘Is there any other answer than: yes, I have much to tell you too? Not seeing each other was very mutual.’

‘Anything in particular?’

‘You know, Aramis, I think you’re asking a general question, whereas in your mind you’ve already composed a more pointed one.’

‘Who knows,’ shrugged Aramis, who nonetheless seemed to be rather satisfied with the turn the conversation took. ‘I suppose I will really go to see d’Artagnan in Paris.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘What do you think, will he try to run me through with his sword?’

Athos grimaced and shrugged as well:

‘Who knows what d’Artagnan is thinking. Why, did you think he blessed me with this particular privilege?’

Aramis muttered something intelligible in lieu of a response.

‘He did not.’

‘Athos,’ said Aramis, looking straight at him. ‘You’re free now – well, you were free then, too. I hold you to no promise whatsoever. There is no promise, nothing! If I cannot stop myself from poking a little fun at you – ah, well, allow me that little indiscretion, for the sake of our friendship. You’ve confessed your sins to me, and all that you have not said is, therefore, not a sin, and I am in no position to ask for explanations.’

‘No, but I may offer freely, if I feel like it,’ responded Athos, seriously. ‘And if I did not speak of – of whatever or whoever you thought I would – that is because there was nothing to speak of. Do you believe me?’

‘I believe you have never said a lie,’ said Aramis carefully, as if only in responding out loud could he convey what he truly wanted to say. ‘And I know your words are a comfort to me.’

‘You’ve given me eternal peace for my soul – you may always turn to me if you need respite.’

‘Who knows?’ smiled Aramis, again taking on some of the mysteriousness which was always his’ to claim, ‘I may hold you to that.’