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There’s an explosion.
And suddenly his mind is numb. All the thoughts flee his mind in an instant and he can’t force them back.
He doesn’t know what happened - he doesn’t know what he should do.
But for some reason his body is moving forward. His body seems to understand what happened before his mind even processed it. The only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat and a low ringing noise and somewhere in the back of his mind a single word echoes.
His breathing speeds up and he can’t control it. Can’t control his heartbeat. Can’t control his mind. Can’t control where his legs are taking him. He is confused and lost.
Step after step, he’s getting closer.
Closer to what?
He doesn’t know.
He keeps going, trusting his body, because doesn’t know what else to do.
Then he stops.
Someone stops him, with a hand on his shoulder. And suddenly he snaps out of it.
He can hear his friends telling him to stop. Begging him to stop.
Saying it will be okay.
And then he sees it - what he was headed towards.
A church. Now a pile of rubble.
And that one word echoing in his mind - a name.
He was the one saying it.
“Anne.”
Of course. He remembers it all. A group of rebels threatening to blow up the church. Evacuating the said church. And Milady. Helping them once again.
“No…”
He doesn’t even realize he said it out loud until he feels Porthos drag him back once again.
“No.”
He tries again as images of Anne crushed by stones flashes in his mind.
“Athos it’s too dangerous.” D’Artagnan says, joining Porthos in trying to hold him back.
He almost falls to the ground as he pushes his friends off. “No. No…” he whispers to himself, realizing what the explosion meant.
Five years, that’s how long he spent thinking she was dead.
He couldn’t do it again.
He doesn’t stop the loud scream that escapes his mouth. “Anne!”
Last time he couldn’t watch her die, so he rode away; this time the choice was taken away from him.
“Anne!” This time it’s even louder, and he can feel his throat burn. “Anne!”
He hears D’Artagnan whisper something that sounds like “It’s too late.”
He doesn’t care. “Anne!” he yells again, getting closer to what used to be the entrance arc. Two of the walls collapsed completely, and the rest was one small breeze away from joining the pile of stones and dust.
His hands shake as he tries to move the smaller stones. Anyone with the smallest bit of sense would know it was useless at best, and dangerous at worst. But he couldn’t think. Not when it came to Milady.
“No… No…” he continues whispering, mostly to himself.
Not Anne.
She doesn’t get to die like this.
He remembers all the times he almost killed her himself.
But he had always known he never could do it. And if he ever did, he would then kill himself.
He shakes his head trying to think of how he let this happen. “Anne…” he mumbles her name again, thinking of all the times he had failed to protect her.
Porthos drags him away once again, and holds him up as Athos’ legs seem to crumble beneath him. His breathing is uneven and his dart from one side to the other as he looks over his friends. Constance and Sylvie are there as well, looking terrified.
He sees the confusion on some faces. They don’t know who Anne is, and if some have figured out it is Milady, they don’t understand his reaction to her death.
“Athos… It’s too late.” Aramis says quietly.
And Athos considers asking him what he would have done if the Queen was there under the rubble. Instead he punches him.
Porthos is frustrated by now as he has to restrain him once again, Aramis takes a few steps back seemingly understanding the message, and D’Artagnan is angry for some reason as he steps in front of Aramis. “Athos this won’t bring her back.”
“She can’t die like this!” he says, trying to be firm, but it comes out more like a sob. “Not Anne.”
Porthos pulls him further back, “So you want to die with her?! You already know we won’t let you.” And Athos knows he’s referring to the five years he spent trying to drown his memories in wine while his friends had to make sure he wouldn’t actually die or get himself killed in some pointless duel.
His gaze falls to the ground as he tries not to look at the people around him. His family. They were all safe. All except Milady. He closes his eyes and whispers “It is what I deserve.” which earns him a good shake from Porthos who is now standing in front of him. “I understand the sentiment brother, but she sacrificed her life to help us, and I won’t let you throw it out the window like this.”
Athos only steps away. He knows that what Porthos said is right, but his heart is in shards, a pile of rubble - just like this God forsaken church. Without Porthos he finds himself on his knees, incapable of standing upright.
Aramis steps closer and sits by his side. “Athos…” he says quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder, “We have to report to Treville.”
He only shakes his head. “She is dead. Once again…”
Aramis tries again, “Athos…”
“What?!” Athos snaps back, glaring at Aramis. He knows his friend is right, but he can’t move. “You know how much I lo… You know what she meant to me.”
Truth be told he wasn’t even sure himself what she meant to him. He loved her, he was sure of that, but with everything that happened between them, he didn’t know how to explain who she was to him. He only knew that he would kill for her, and he would let her kill him if it meant he would die in her arms.
“No. We don’t know what she meant to you. Just a fortnight ago you were ready to strangle her,” D’Artagnan tells him, exasperation clear on his face. “And now… Apparently not.”
She was his wife, and he has hated her for so long he could no longer differentiate love and hate. He wanted her out of his life. He wanted her dead. But she was his. His to love. His to kill. Just as he was hers.
But he couldn’t say that out loud. They would never understand. Especially not Sylvie.
“It is not your concern - what happens between us.” he says as he gets up to his feet. “I cared for her, and that is all you have to know.”
“Why is it that the only time you show an ounce of care is when I am in mortal danger?”
Athos turns around so fast his eyesight blurs.
He thinks it’s a hallucination.
It must be.
He turns around to look at his friends, expecting to see confusion on their faces, instead they’re looking in the direction of where the church used to stand, looking concerned.
He turns back to where the voice came from.
And there she stands.
Covered in dust and blood.
But her lips are pulled into a smirk.
She steps carefully around the stones, slightly limping and holding onto her side.
But she’s alive.
And once again, his body acts before his mind can even begin to realize what is happening. He darts to her side so quickly he almost stumbles over the rubble under his feet. Crushing into her, sending them both to the ground, he pulls her into his arms as hard as he can. He only releases his hold on her when he remembers she is injured.
Still not quite sure it’s not a hallucination, he grabs her chin and looks her in the eyes, looking for something. He’s not sure for what, but he knows luck has never been on his side, so why should it be today?
As he cradles her body in his arms he can’t stop himself from pressing his lips against her forehead as she grabs onto his arm, pulling herself closer. “How?” he whispers against her skin, before pulling away to look her in the eyes.
She smiles slyly, “The crypts. One of the tunnels leads to the gardens.”
“God damn you Anne.” He huffs quietly under his breath, once again pulling her closer, burying his face in her hair. By now everyone is standing around them. Aramis kneels beside, slightly pushing Athos away, trying to get a good look at her injuries.
Athos moves away but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Afraid that she will slip away somewhere somehow, and that this miracle is nothing more than a cruel joke.
“I thought you were dead.” he whispers as he presses a soft kiss to her hand. She only rolls her eyes, as though she hadn’t just crawled out from under a wrecked building. Running her fingers over his bruised knuckles, from the blow he delivered to Aramis’ jaw, she looks down coyly and whispers “And miss the opportunity to die in your arms?”
Something in his mind snaps. He grabs her jaw, forcing her to look at him. “I thought you were dead, again.” Her gaze becomes serious for a second, and he hopes she understood the implications of his words. He wants her to understand what he felt, and that it was not a game.
Aramis pushes him away with a glare, silently telling him to let him work.
Milady seems amused as she looks away from him and quietly mumbles “Doesn’t it all just remind you of Pinon…”
He knows what she is doing. She is making light of the situation, trying to provoke him, trying to make it all seem normal. He realizes she was also scared, and is hiding it all with her playful demeanor. Taking a deep breath he takes her hand once again and watches as Aramis cleans all the dust from the scratches on her arms and shoulders.
Athos ignores the looks he’s getting from D’Artagnan, he knows what the young man is thinking, he’s made it quite clear what he thinks of Anne, and their relationship, if it could even be called that.
He also ignores Sylvie, for he knows she is not a fool and will see this situation for what it is. And he is not prepared to see the betrayal on her face, for he knows he is the one to blame, and she deserved better.
He turned to Porthos. “I need you to inform Treville of what happened, the rest are to return to the Garrison,” he said, finally getting his thoughts in order. “And I need three men here, to keep those with too much curiosity away.”
Porthos simply nodded, turned around and pushed the others away, knowing it would allow Aramis to concentrate better while also giving Athos and Milady some privacy.
Athos tried to savor this moment, the feeling of her hand in his, for he knows the moment she recovers from today's ordeal she won’t let him near. He still hasn’t apologized for trying to strangle her, and even if Treville minimized their interactions, he knew they couldn’t go on like this, ignoring each other, only throwing snide remarks at each other and exchanging cold stares. And this moment proved that despite what he told himself, he cared.
Aramis stitched a couple cuts near her shoulder blade, and all Athos could think about was how she kept running into danger in her dresses that were at best fit for travel. Her arms, the better part of her chest and back, and neck, completely exposed. Aramis cut the excess thread and turned to Athos, “We need to get back to the Garrison where I can look at her ribs, I have a feeling at least two are broken.”
He quickly nodded and moved closer to Milady to pick her up, making sure not to touch the numerous cuts on her skin, but also trying to hold her as close as possible, still not prepared to let her go.
Her face was so close to his he could feel her every breath against his cheek, and suddenly his mind was elsewhere - Pinon. Carrying her to the bed, or just the desk, whichever happened to be closer.
The whirlwind of emotions seems to have ended, the thrill of finding Anne alive was wearing off, and other emotions were slowly creeping in. As he walked back to where their horses were he wanted to say something, break the silence, but he didn’t dare open his mouth in fear of what might come out.
“You’ll ride with Aramis,” he said sternly, dropping his gaze as he placed his hat on his head. “I’ll ride ahead and see how the others are.”
In truth he just needed some space. He couldn’t think clearly, and as much as he wanted to pull Milady close, he needed his mind to be in order, and the proximity of sharing a horse would only worsen the situation.
He rode away as fast as he could before Aramis or Anne could protest. He had to clear his mind, calm his racing heart, and speak with Sylvie. Preferably in that specific order.
The Garrison was quiet when he rode in, D’Artagnan was sitting, no doubt waiting for him, by the tables. He jumped off his horse passing the reins to one of the cadets currently on stable duty, and strode towards his friend.
“Where is Aramis?” D’Artagnan asks, as Athos sits down.
Taking his hat off Athos ran his hands through his hair and dropped his head into his hands. “He and Milady will be here shortly.” Looking up and around he asked “Where is Sylvie?”
D’Artagnan looked at him strangely but answered. “She is helping Constance in the infirmary.”
Athos nodded, took a deep breath and stood up. He knew what he had to do.
“Did you tell her anything?” He asks as he looks to where D’artagnan is sitting. The younger man only shakes his head and looks at the ground. Athos is thankful for that - a chance to tell Sylvie the truth himself. Even if that is the last thing he wanted to do, especially after a day like that.
Slowly walking through the hallways of the Garrison, he thinks about what he could possibly say. Sylvie saw everything with her own eyes; his breakdown, and then the way he held onto Milady. Perhaps she didn’t know or understand who Milady was, but he didn’t doubt that his pathetic display of lack of self control was a clear demonstration of where his heart truly lay.
When he reaches the infirmary, the door is opened, Sylvie and Constance are sitting on opposite cots and talking in hushed tones. Constance is the first to notice his presence as she lifts her head and stops mid sentence. Sylvie notices him as well. And both women seem to know why he is there.
Constance thins her lips into a sad smile and softly pats Sylvie’s shoulder before standing up and leaving the room. Sylvie looks down at the floor, most likely not knowing what to start with. He doesn’t know either. Should he start with who Milady is or what she means to him?
He sits down where Constance sat before and waits for Sylvie to lift her gaze. Doing this would be easier if she pretended he wasn’t there, but Sylvie deserved more than that, and he deserved the discomfort for his lack of truthfulness.
It took a few moments, but she finally looked up at him. “Why are you here Athos?”
He holds his composure, and forces himself to look her in the eyes. “Because you deserve to hear the truth,” he says quietly. “From me.”
She nods softly and then asks him “And I didn’t deserve it earlier? Perhaps a month ago?”
He feels the anger and hurt in her voice, and hates himself for being the root of it. But it’s too late to change anything. He thought he made his choice - chose Sylvie, but convincing himself of something did not make it real. He should have known that no matter what, his body and mind and heart belonged to Anne.
“I should have told you who she was earlier, I know,” he whispers, his nails digging into the skin of his palms.
“Then why didn’t you?” she asks, her eyes becoming red and watery. And he fights the urge to wipe the tears away, but he can’t.
“Because I thought I didn’t care about her. I thought I moved on.” he tells her honestly.
A tear rolls down her cheek and she looks away. “So what happened with her? D’Artagnan said you wanted to kill her.”
Athos takes a deep breath and looks away as well. “We were together for less than a year. That was 10 years ago. For 5 years I thought she was dead, then she returned.” He shakes his head remembering the blur that those five years were, a drunken haze. “We reconciled. Even though she worked for the Cardinal and wanted me dead.”
“Why?” Sylvie asked, confused.
Athos didn’t dare meet her eyes as he continued. “Because I chose to let her die.”
Sylvie stares at him confused. And Athos knows it’s not the full truth, but Sylvie would not even let him finish the story if he told her what had actually happened all those years ago.
“When the war started she left France, and I was sent to fight with Spain. I thought that would be the end of it. Except she returned, and our initial meeting did not end well.” He shakes his head, trying to hate himself for only giving her a vague version of what happened, excluding the cruelty and violence that were the very essence of his relationship with his wife.
Yes, wife. Another small detail that he now had to reveal.
Sylvie seems to think his words over. “So why did you want her dead?”
“I didn’t. Not really. I was angry, but I could never kill her.” he tells her, looking back at her. “I would rather die for her.” And kill for her.
“All that for a woman you spent a few months with?” Sylvie asks suspiciously. And he knows how it looks from the outside. Like an obsession. And perhaps it is exactly that.
Athos shakes his head slightly. “We weren’t together. We were married.”
Sylvie’s eyes widened and then narrowed in anger. “So she is your wife of more than ten years. What does that make me Athos?”
He closed his eyes and dropped his head. “I am sorry. Truly.”
As more tears dropped from Sylvie’s eyes, he got up and left, before she could ask more questions. He wanted to be honest with Sylvie, but he could barely be honest with himself, and he’d rather not answer her questions because whatever answers she got would at best be half truths.
He could never explain what Anne was to him. He could never explain how much he hated Anne, and how much he hated himself for loving her, while simultaneously being incapable of living without her.
He told Sylvie that he would kill for Anne. He would kill anyone who lay a hand on her. And that included himself.
As he left the room, he saw Aramis carrying Anne into one of the rooms. Their eyes crossed, and Aramis tilted his head to the side, silently telling him to come over. Thankful for a distraction from the conversation with Sylvie he followed Aramis.
Anne was sitting on a cot when he walked in and closed the door. Aramis was digging through one of the cabinets no doubt looking for bandages that would soon be needed for the no doubt broken ribs under Milady’s dress. He sat on the bed, where Anne’s legs were and took his doublet off.
Anne raised an eyebrow and then looked away from him. “As far as I’m aware it’s the patient that gets to undress.”
Athos glares at her even though he knows she will not see it. He is grateful that she is feeling well enough to joke around, but he isn’t sure he is quite in the mood for her frolicsome behavior.
Aramis has his jaw clenched as he turns around and tries hard to keep his mouth shut, most likely knowing his own commentary would only prompt Milady to continue with the constant inappropriate-in-the-situation comments.
“As ill timed as your words are Milady, I will have to take the corset off to look at the ribs.” Aramis says, looking anywhere but at Athos. Yes the situation was every bit awkward, but her injuries had to be treated, and Athos understood that. He just hoped Milady would for once stop provoking him.
Unsurprisingly, Milady couldn’t untie her own corset, and Athos was the one charged with doing that. Which only seemed to amuse Milady endlessly, and Athos was sure that Aramis would later find a time to joke about this.
Milady was given a blanket to cover herself as Aramis looked at her bruised side that had already turned purple. “Does it hurt when you breathe?” Aramis asked, carefully pressing his fingers against her ribs. Athos kept still, practically holding his breath.
“Not particularly.” she answered quietly.
Aramis then looked at her face. “Then I doubt they are broken. Most likely simply got winded”
Milady rolls her eyes before staring at him and asking “Then what was all this for?”
Aramis huffed loudly. “I had to be sure. But you didn’t scream when I probed your ribs, neither are they deformed, and neither are you having difficulty breathing.” He took the bandages and stood up. “I’ll leave you two.”
Surprisingly Milady’s ribs weren’t broken. That thought alone allowed Athos to worry less. As the door behind Aramis closed, he let out a heavy breath and looked back at Milady who also seemed relaxed knowing the chances of an internal bleeding were lower than they thought.
They sat in silence, looking at each other, waiting for the other to say something. For once it was a peaceful silence, but they couldn’t sit here forever. Athos would no doubt be summoned by Treville in the next hour, and Milady would perhaps get a few days of rest before being charged with hunting down the men that blew up the church.
Milady was the first to move. She held the blanket with one hand, making sure it stayed in place, while she reached for her corset with the other. Athos almost felt awkward watching her, wondering why she bothered with modesty, when she never had before, especially not with him.
“Help me tie it. And I’ll be out of here.” she said, almost sounding annoyed as she turned away from him. Dropping the blanket she placed the corset against her chest, and looked back at him as though to ask why he was taking so long.
He moved closer to her. “You seem to be in a hurry.” Slowly treading the strings through the corset he leaned closer to her, his mouth a breath away from her ear.
She seemed to freeze. “And you seem to have forgotten what happened the last time I overstayed my welcome here in the Garrison.” she said, her tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and pain.
And all he wanted to do was press her into his chest and promise he didn’t mean to hurt her. Except he did. He wanted to promise he would never lay a hand on her. Except something told him he wouldn’t be able to keep this promise, just like every other promise he made to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, continuing to tie the corset, still slowly, knowing she couldn’t leave until he was done.
“You’re sorry?” she asked in disbelief. First she huffs, then chuckles quietly. “You didn’t seem very sorry. Until you thought I was dead.”
And he knows it to be the truth.
“Yes. Death does seem to change one’s perspective on things.” He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to apologize for something so unforgivable.
She hums quietly. “Yes, I'm well acquaintanced with that fact.” And he knows she’s referring to what she told him five years ago, when he and his brothers faked his death in an attempt to expose her and the cardinal’s plot. How the world seems to diminish, life seems pointless, and the heart empty.
Moving her hair to the side, his gaze is caught by the two cuts that had to be stitched up. Just above her left shoulder blade. Athos isn’t sure what made him do it, but he leaned down and softly pressed his lips to the skin just below. Then he moved along her shoulder and down her arm, leaving a kiss over every little scratch.
Perhaps it was an apology for what happened today, perhaps a reminder that he almost lost her today - he isn’t sure, and neither does he really care, because she stays there.
As he gets to her wrist, he kisses her knuckles, letting his lips linger against her skin for a good few seconds. Letting her hand fall back into her lap, he goes back to lacing her corset, hoping she understood.
He was sorry. And he was afraid of losing her. And he would do anything for her. She was his, and he was hers. And even if it was her supposed death that opened his eyes to the truth, he needed her and wanted her. And no matter how much he hated her, he loved her.
She doesn’t say a word as he ties a small bow at the top of the corset with the leftover string. He lets his hands fall to his sides, waiting for her to get up and leave, perhaps throw a few colorful words at him. And he knows he would beg her to stay.
Instead she turns her head slightly to him, just so that he can see her lips pull into a smirk. “Untie it.”
It takes him a moment to realize what she implied. “What? he asks, baffled by her demand.
She just sits still. Waiting for him to do what she asked. He isn’t sure what game she is playing but he does as told. The silence makes him consider he simply laced it wrong the first time, and she was simply playing him, now knowing exactly he feels.
As the corset loosened around her body he moved his hands away, waiting for her to say something, further instruction or maybe just some snide remark. But she keeps her silence. He knows she wants something, whether it is to hurt him or have her way with him on this tiny infirmary cot, he doesn’t know.
She stands up. Turns around. Let’s the corset fall to her feet.
So the later option it is.
Of course he’d rather it be somewhere else, preferably where the doors actually lock, and the bed doesn’t squeak, but he doesn’t complain.
He lets her untie the skirts, letting them join the corset on the floor, because as much as he wants to throw her onto the bed, or even just drag her onto the floor, he lets her do as she pleases, because he doesn’t care that he has duties to attend to. He cares, but not as much as he cares about her.
Anne pushes him backwards, forcing him to lie down as she climbs over him. Pulling her closer, minding the bruises, he drops his hands to her hips as she runs her fingers through his hair and then down his cheek. She drops her head, their lips almost touching as she whispers “Perhaps I should die more often…”
For some reason he finds himself smiling when she finally kisses him. Rolling them over so that she is on her back, he trails kisses down to her neck and collarbone. “You don’t get to die.” he tells her, his lips getting lower, reaching her bruised ribs.
“No… I’m yours to kill.” she mumbles quietly.
“And I’m yours to love.” he whispers between small kisses to her hip bone.
Anne only chuckles, and Athos knows that she understood him.