Unsaid (A Lament)
by Michelle
Chapter 1
The air in the garrison felt unusually thick, filled with anxiety and tension. It had been almost two hours since Athos and Aramis had hurriedly left it after getting their horses, desperately trying to reach Minister Treville and their friends Porthos and D’Artagnan in the camp of the Duke of Lorraine. The feeling of imminent danger posed on all three of them was palpable due to the events that immediately unravelled following the King’s untimely death. And there was also the new King, who was only six years old and seized by Grimaud, another captive of Lorraine by now…
“Brujon?”
“Yes, Madame D’Artagnan?” replied the cadet.
“Pick twenty best cadets and tell them to stand by. I’ll pick the best musketeers. If the Captain doesn’t return within half an hour, we will ride out to Lorraine’s camp.”
The young man’s eyes widened in awe.
“You want to attack them?” he asked quietly, pushing aside the pride in how much she trusted his judgment. “They have a whole army…”
Constance absently checked the dagger attached to the back of her waist belt.
“Things have gone too far too quickly. The army is right at the gates of Paris, the King is dead and the new King is certain not to survive him for long if nobody does anything as soon as possible. We can’t afford to lose our best men when the fate of this city and country is at stake. Sitting here and waiting won’t help anyone.”
“Of course, Madame.” Brujon nodded, impressed.
Constance attempted a smile, trying to encourage him. “We will fight this through. We always have.”
He smiled and walked out of the room where the garrison dwellers usually shared their meals. On his way to meet the other cadets, he passed Sylvie. A genuine but understanding smile appeared on his face as he walked by and nodded. The wait was difficult for all of them, but for the women of the garrison, it was deeply personal, as well.
Sylvie smiled back, grateful for any positive moment. Her nerves have been stretched ever since she and Constance were trying to hide the royal child from the sight of the enemies earlier that day. The news of him being captured by Grimaud after they had left him with D’Artagnan was deeply disturbing, and not only because the musketeer had been captured as well.
Despite all her general distrust in the royal institution, Sylvie couldn’t help but feel sorry for the boy who had lost his father so unexpectedly and so young and whose own life was hanging by a thread. Moreover, the few hours she had spent with the new King awakened something else in her more than ever – maternal instincts. He was a boy like any other, needing paternal love and care as all children. The crown predestined for his head didn’t change anything about that fact, and Sylvie knew that if needed, she would have protected him at any cost.
Her mind drifted to Athos again and she closed her eyes.
I should have told him… What if he’ll never get the chance to find out? What if…?
A shiver went down her spine at the thought of the most dreadful image in her head.
Stop it! He survived a war and Grimaud’s attack, he will come back…
She shuddered again and put her arms around herself, trying to hide the signs of her body’s betrayal. Courage had never been a stranger to her but after everything that had happened in the past few months, it was accompanied by something else – fear. Love always comes with fear for those we care about the most, and she had more than Athos to fear for now…
“I know that feeling,” she suddenly heard a voice say behind her.
Only then did she notice that she had walked out into the yard while brooding. Turning around, she saw Constance, looking worried, but with a small smile lingering on her lips. She stood next to her friend, who was looking at the underpass in front of them, waiting for a familiar sight to appear – so far in vain.
“Does it ever get easier?” Sylvie mused.
“No,” answered Constance truthfully, sighing. “The wait is always distressing, the not knowing whether he’ll return or not… But you have to try not to think about it.”
“How?”
“By keeping busy. You have to find some distraction otherwise it will drive you mad.”
The two women looked toward the underpass again, seeing only a couple of cadets walking in and out of the garrison.
“When he went to look for Grimaud, in the state he was in and I didn’t hear about him for a few days, I was as restless as never before,” Sylvie admitted, frowning. “And I didn’t even know yet that…” Her voice suddenly faded as she realised, she had said more than intended to. Too late – Constance was intrigued.
“Didn’t know what?” she asked.
Sylvie closed her eyes and sighed. “That there was… someone else to consider too.”
Her eyes dropped down, then back to her friend’s face, while her hand landed on her tummy.
Constance’s eyes widened and she gasped, smiling widely.
“Sylvie! That’s wonderful!” she exclaimed with joy, immediately followed by horror when remembering the lashes on Sylvie’s back.
“He doesn’t know yet, nobody does,” her friend silenced her hastily but not suppressing a smile.”I’ve only known it for a little while.”
“My God, Sylvie… You were with child while Marcheaux…”
“I’m fine,” the mother-to-be gently interrupted her. “We are fine.”
Madame D’Artagnan frowned and shook her head.
“He was right,” she said then, observing the woman in front of her with more admiration than ever before. The question in Sylvie’s eyes brought back the smile to her face. “Athos. He said there is more life and resilience in you than anyone could imagine.”
Words refused to come. The feeling that washed over Sylvie hearing those words overwhelmed her, bringing water to her eyes. She quickly wiped a single tear from her cheek and smiled widely.
“You must tell him,” Constance insisted gently. “I know he’ll be happy.”
Sylvie was surprised; the truth was, she had no idea how the Captain would take this unexpected news. She didn’t doubt his love for her, knowing he wouldn’t leave her to deal with parenthood alone, but a child meant a dramatic change in both of their lives, and she couldn’t be sure how his position as the Captain could be affected by it.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted silently in defeat, all sorts of emotions playing on her face.
“I don’t want him to feel trapped or…”
“Sylvie…” Constance softly squeezed her forearm, smiling warmly. “He is trapped already – by love.” She raised her eyebrows, her smile changing into a cheeky grin. “And I can assure you, he definitely doesn’t feel bad about that.”
Sylvie didn’t have time to respond because at that moment, the sharp sound of horse hooves resounded in the garrison and both women quickly turned their heads. Relieved, they both gasped happily, seeing Athos, D’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos approach them on their horses. However, their smiles faded quickly when seeing the expression on the men’s faces – defeat, devastation and pain…
“What happened?” Constance was the first to find words, extremely worried now, while the musketeers dismounted their horses, watched by a few cadets who suddenly appeared in the yard.
No reply came; everyone could see the four friends were deeply distraught by something. Did Treville’s plan fail? Was the new King dead?
“Athos?” Sylvie asked when the Captain froze on the spot, still clutching his horse’s reigns in his hands. The brim of his hat was hiding his face but his chest was heaving.
He didn’t dare to look at her, only gathered all his self-control to let go of the horse and turn around, his eyes pinned to the ground. With a few steps he walked past her and everyone else in his way and almost ran up the stairs, disappearing inside the garrison.
Before she could follow him, Aramis finally spoke, with a broken voice, and all eyes were fixed on him.
“The King is safe but…Treville is dead…”
※※※※※
Chapter 2
It felt as if the world stood still, stubbornly refusing to move on as if nothing had happened. Everybody in the garrison yard seemed frozen to their spot, despite feeling the ground shifting beneath their feet, finding it difficult to process the information they had just been given.
Sylvie was the first to move, silently, the shock momentarily numbing her emotions but not her brain. Without uttering a word, she started climbing the stairs to join Athos, disappearing out of sight.
“What?” Constance could barely speak, her eyes still pinned on Aramis. “I mean… How… why?”
Words suddenly seemed like strangers from a foreign country. Nothing made sense at that moment.
Aramis swallowed hard, painstakingly trying to keep it together.
“He was protecting the King and making sure the boy was taken to safety. However, Grimaud made sure Treville wouldn’t follow him.” The flash of hatred in his eyes when speaking their arch-enemy’s name through gritted teeth didn’t go unnoticed by the young woman.
The musketeer didn’t say anything more. He passed the reins of his horse to one of the cadets standing nearby and disappeared inside the garrison with his look set firmly ahead of him, oblivious to everyone around him. Porthos, speechless and devastated, followed him, dragging one foot in front of the other and his head down.
Constance turned to her husband, who still hadn’t moved from his spot. The tears running down his face spoke for him.
“I failed him…,” d’Artagnan whispered, with a haunted look. His wife quickly walked over to him and cupped his face with her hands.
“That’s not true and you know it!” she insisted. “You were alone against Grimaud and his men; no one would have stood a chance in such---”
“I should have!” the musketeer cried out angrily and darted away, entering the garrison building.
Constance ran after him as he took two steps at a time, climbing to their private quarters. He was blinded by anger, with pain and guilt on his heels. As he burst into the bedroom, he hastily detached his sword from his belt and threw it on the ground, with considerable strength. His hands went into his hair as he, frustrated, paced there and back, almost choking on every breath he took as if someone was squeezing his throat.
“I’m…” his wife started when she stood at the door, struggling to find words. “I’m so…”
”This shouldn’t have happened,” d’Artagnan interrupted her, still pacing. “This should not have happened!
”D’Artagnan…”
”I underestimated Grimaud. I should have found a better place to hide with the King. I should have been more prepared…”
”You did what you thought best! We all did,” Constance tried to stop him feeling guilty.
”It wasn’t enough, Constance!” His voice boomed in the room and finally, he stopped pacing, staring at his wife, his whole body vibrating with rage – he was angry with himself, with Grimaud, with the whole world.
”Can’t you see? I have failed him! He and Athos trusted me, and I failed them both, and my mistake cost Treville his life!!”
Constance was lost for words. The sudden heat in the room dried her throat, but her pained gaze spoke for her.
”This is not about you failing,” she said knowingly then. “It’s about you losing someone very dear to your heart… Someone who believed in you and gave you the opportunity to do something special with your life.”
The anger and frustration in d’Artagnan’s features suddenly faded; the fire blazing in his eyes turned to water. His chest started heaving as he scrunched his face and covered it with his hands. His mental strength finally deserted him, and the mask of rage has fallen, exposing the Gascon’s true and raw emotions. Constance took a few steps toward him and slowly pulled him into her arms.
”You have notfailed,” she said while stroking his hair as sobs finally broke free from his chest. “You never failed him. Even the best soldier can’t be perfect all the time. We all make mistakes. Some of us are lucky and can learn our lesson. Others lose their lives. Treville was the first one who would have told you that. He understood that being a musketeer means being prepared to give one’s own life for the greater good if needed. The evil that we all have been fighting against is too great… It was not your fault.”
Her husband continued weeping in her arms, the dam within him shattered to bits. Constance felt something warm running down her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut. The lump in her throat appeared suddenly and almost took her ability to breathe. She hadn’t expected Treville’s demise to hit her so hard, and yet it did; it dealt a heavy blow to her heart…
She had barely stepped away from the altar when her new husband and his comrades had to leave for war with Spain. Over the four years that followed, she had become Madame d’Artagnan, the unofficial leader of the garrison, strong and feisty, both generous and uncompromising, holding the reins on the musketeers’ base tight and becoming the rock, especially for young cadets. However strong and resilient she already had been, she needed all the help she could because almost overnight, Paris had become a hungry, unpredictable and untamed creature, often making even the smallest mistake fatal.
It was Treville who, despite his obligations on the Court, offered her a helping hand and had her back whenever she and the garrison needed it most. He was someone she trusted and respected unconditionally and knew she could count on while d’Artagnan and his friends had been away. In a purely men’s world, Constance was a woman aware of her place and yet unwilling to slumber in the shadows, passively awaiting her destiny.
“Take the reins, Constance; hold them tight, but remember to loosen them up a bit now and then. Only then can you maintain balance and order.”
She did remember, just as she remembered one of the first lessons Treville gave her when she began her life in the garrison. Back then, she was a wife without a husband, a captain without a title, a woman showing strength and perseverance at times when even men often faltered.
“He told me stories about him and my father when they were young,” D’Artagnan broke the silence after his weeping subsided.
Constance pulled back, surprised. “They knew each other?” she asked.
“They grew up in the same village.” Her husband chuckled, wiping away the tears from his face. “Father never mentioned it, and even Treville told me only once we were about to go to war. He probably didn’t want me to think that he would make me a musketeer quicker than I deserved it only because I was his old friend’s son.”
“I guess your father thought the same when he took you with him. You were so young when you came to Paris…” Constance had a dreamy look on her face, remembering the first time she saw the man she married less than two years later.
“Probably. I had a lot of learning to do. Once I truly deserved my place, I guess Treville didn’t see any danger in sharing his memories with me.” He smiled fondly. “It only happened once, that night before we left for the war. Remember? We stayed up really long, longer than we should have because we were to leave in the morning.”
“I do remember,” Constance said, raising her eyebrows, with a smirk. “I couldn’t believe Treville would allow you such an unheard-of breaking of discipline. I also remember that you smelt of wine so much that I thought I was sleeping with a wine barrel by my side.” She smirked. “Although the wine didn’t affect your… bed manners.”
He chuckled, tracing her features with his warm, brown eyes. The late afternoon sun rays penetrating the window turned them into pools of honey.
“None of us knew whether we’d ever return… There was a thrill but also sadness in the air.” There was melancholy in his look. “I felt torn between the pride of fighting for my country and the thought of leaving you here alone. I had no idea what horrors would lie ahead of us and that I would question many things later.”
Constance’s only reply was an empathic smile.
“Aramis had left us too, and I couldn’t help feeling that everything was wrong,” D’Artagnan continued. “That’s when Treville joined me at the table and shared wine and his memories with me. He and my father were truly great friends when they were young.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And I started connecting the pieces together. All those years when my father used to tell me fantastic stories about the musketeers, their bravery, honour and fight for justice, he was---“
“Preparing you for what he thought was your destiny,” Constance finished, smiling.
“We set out to Paris wanting to petition the King, and in the end, I have found my fate in the garrison.” His smile widened before slowly fading again.
“You have never really gotten over it, haven’t you? You haven’t really had the time,” Constance inquired softly.
D’Artagnan’s eyes filled with water again. He knew exactly what she meant – the death of his father.
“It’s been… almost seven years now…” he remarked incredulously, “but no, I don’t think I have.”
The dawning on his face was a confirmation itself. The past years filled with duty, camaraderie, war and marriage had pushed his old and probably deepest wound into the shadow of his mind. It was hidden but never gone, waiting to be cut open again. The sudden loss of the man who had hugely shaped d’Artagnan’s life brought it back to existence. Treville was like a father to him after he had lost his own, the experienced and wise hand guiding him through the winding path of life. There was only one other man remaining now who d’Artagnan held in similar fatherly regard…
“Once all this is over,” Constance continued, “once you end this… terror once and for all, you will have time to think, process and heal. And I will be by your side every step of the way. We all will.”
Her encouraging smile and glistening eyes made him smile.
“You are the finest woman I have ever known,” he said softly.
“You already said that.” Constance smirked.
“A long time ago. It never hurts to say it again, especially when it’s true,” d’Artagnan replied.
Their smiles faded again as they sighed and closed the gap between them. As d’Artagnan rested his cheek against the top of her head, he was brought back in time again – he thought of his first arrival to the garrison, his often exhausting efforts to become a musketeer, to the day when he defeated Martin Labarge and gained his commission from the King himself…
“Well done, d’Artagnan. I’m proud to have you under my command…”
His vision got blurred again so he closed his eyes, stifling another sob. There was one thing he couldn’t suppress, though. It was the image that popped into his head again – the smiling face of a man shaking his hand and officially taking him under his wing as a musketeer, but becoming so much more over the years - a man he for the rest of his life would proudly and fondly think of as one of the most just and honourable men he had ever known.
※※※※※
Chapter 3
Aramis poured himself another full cup of wine. It was only his third, but he drank the first two uncharacteristically quickly and immediately felt the need for more. Porthos was silently regarding him, his mind in turmoil. His first cup was still almost full. Despite always indulging in the taste of wine, he had no wish to touch it today.
They were sitting in Aramis’s room, trying to process the dramatic events they had been through earlier that day. The shocked, confused and pained looks from the cadets and other musketeers they had passed by on their way made them seek solitude even more. However, as they were sitting alone now, the sudden stillness without the constant presence of others, the need to solve any problem or rush to someone’s rescue seemed unnatural and unsettling to them both.
“One more?” Aramis asked listlessly when he glanced at his friend.
”No,” Porthos replied quietly, his look dropping to the cup in his motionless hands.
”As you wish,” Aramis remarked and filled his cup yet again - his fourth within five minutes since they had sat down.
Porthos lifted his eyes again, observing his friend and wondering how much wine he would need to drown whatever he felt at that moment. Drinking to kill pain used to be Athos’s domain, but the Captain had cut down significantly on his wine consumption in recent months.
Aramis rarely gets drunk, that’s why he’ll feel this much more in his head tomorrow…
“Have you ever felt remorse, Porthos?” the man in charge of the wine bottle asked.
His friend knitted his brows. “Seriously? Are we seriously doing this now?”
“Now is all we have, so yes, now,” Aramis replied earnestly.
Porthos sighed and gave in. “Quite a few times. I suppose you have since you’re asking.”
Aramis chuckled. “You’re not only a mighty warrior but also a clever one, my friend,” he remarked, his tongue already loosening up although his words sounded clear. “Yes, guilty as charged.”
He took another gulp of his wine. Then his eyes became distant as if he was looking at the past and not at what was right in front of him.
“I have felt a few in my lifetime as well, and they all found a quiet, private place in my heart where they will live until the day the Lord asks me to return home,” he continued less cheerfully now.
“I don’t think you should drink anymore,” Porthos remarked, pushing the almost empty wine bottle to the side of the table. “These philosophical talks of yours are never a good sign. You are rubbish at it.”
Aramis laughed. “Oh, Porthos!” he exclaimed theatrically. “What would I ever do without you?”
“You didn’t seem to wonder about that when you had decided to abandon us and become a priest,” came the dry reply.
Aramis raised his eyebrows. “That hurt.”
“You deserved it.”
They fell silent for a while, each cradling their wine cup, each lost in their own thoughts. Time was ticking away; the shadows on the walls kept growing longer; the air was getting thicker despite the open window; the only sound heard was the occasional snorting of the horses in the yard outside. In all its rush and endless activity, the world stood still for once indeed.
“I made him angry,” Aramis said quietly, just as the silence between them seemed to have stretched forever.
Porthos lifted his dark eyes. “Who?”
“Treville, at our last private meeting before the King died.” Aramis’s voice was suddenly very quiet and coloured with shame.
“Why?”
A heavy sigh preceded the answer. “He scolded me for distributing the secret correspondence between the Queen and her brother. He said a soldier should never play a politician.”
“And he was right, as you have found out yourself,” Porthos replied without thinking.
Aramis ran his hand through his hair in an act of sudden despair.
“I’m sorry,” Porthos apologised, seeing he was being unnecessarily harsh with his friend. “I didn’t mean---“
“Whether I agree or not is beside the point here. That’s not why I mentioned it.”
“So what is the point?” Porthos wanted to know.
“The point is, my last private words to him before he died made him angry with me, do you understand?!” Aramis cried with anger. “I never got the chance to apologise… “
His last words faded into the emptiness around them.
Porthos finally understood; he took a sip of his wine and sighed.
“Remember the time when I thought Treville knew something about who my father was and was holding it back?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well… You know I didn’t make it easy on him either. I didn’t even want to shake his hand when he thanked me for saving his life in a fight. I knew I had hurt him but in my pride and stubbornness, I refused to step back. I behaved terribly towards him for a while, and yet he never changed his attitude about me, never stopped treating me justly and kindly, never turned his back on me. That’s the man he was; when he fully trusted someone and cared about them, he never pushed them away, no matter how tense it might have been between them at times. He knew I cared about him and respected him very much and that I just wanted to find out the truth.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. Aramis kept staring down into his cup, his eyes unmoving.
“My point is,” Porthos continued. “Treville might have got angry on impulse, but I’m sure he knew you didn’t want to hurt him, that you just didn’t understand the real weight of the responsibility on his shoulders and what consequences your secret actions might have had. All you wanted was to help keep peace in the country.”
Aramis lifted his head to cast a painful look at his friend, who went on.
“He didn’t want to be the Minister; we all knew it. The problem was he didn’t have a choice. With things being as serious as they have been, with traitors left and right, constantly attempting to get rid of the King and Queen, he knew the country needed someone truly loyal to the Crown to look after it. Someone with military experience but also diplomatic and calm manners, who could deal with anyone and make the most of it in the interest of France without looking only for his own profit. He had become a politician out of necessity, but he was a soldier, protecting his King and country, and remained one in his heart until the moment he died.”
Aramis sighed and buried his head in his hands for a long while. When he finally raised it again, his face was streaked with tears.
“I hope God will forgive me one day for misjudging him,” he said quietly, shaken, swiftly wiping the tears away. “I don’t know if I ever will.”
Porthos reached over the table and put his gloved hand on his shoulder before he spoke.
“There are others who should be asking for forgiveness, Aramis, but not you. Good intentions and righteous heart don’t need one.”
Unexpectedly, his friend laughed through tears.
“Who did you say was the philosopher here?” he teased. “I thought I heard Athos speaking.”
Porthos snorted and poked him playfully in the chest. “Behave, or I’ll draw my sword.”
His hand inadvertently landed on the guard of his sword. His smile faded, and his eyes fell on the weapon hanging from his belt he had only parted with in his sleep, and even then having it within reach. He remembered the day when Treville gave his prized sword to him before he had left for war. It felt like passing on a family heirloom…
The musketeer’s eyes started burning. This caught him by surprise; still, he didn’t fight it. The tears that found their way to escape were unavoidable, expressing the grief that he had kept inside since the moment Treville entrusted him with the new King to carry him away to safety. The look in the Minister’s eyes at their hasty parting spoke clearly – Treville knew they would never see each other again. At that moment, Porthos knew it as well, even though his heart was willing it not to be true. Torn between his emotions and duty, the musketeer rode off, saving the new ruler of France, at the cost of losing one of its greatest protectors, something that would weigh heavily on his heart for the rest of his life.
His fingers gently squeezed the sword handle, mentally checking it was by his side as if the spirit of his one-time owner was too. No, Treville would never be gone, not for the man who became an orphan barely having learned to walk, who fought his way through to become one of the best and most respected musketeers in the King’s guard and who fearlessly defended his country in the most brutal battles of the war with Spain. Treville would never die, as long as his legacy lived in those who loved and respected him the most.
“We are soldiers,” Aramis broke the silence, more composed now, mirroring the same words to his then-Captain years ago. “We follow our orders no matter where they lead. Even to death.”
Porthos looked up and nodded. “Soldiers.”
The two friends lifted their cups, clinked and emptied them to the last drop.
※※※※※
Chapter 4
Sylvie reached the Captain’s lodgings in no time but once standing at the open door, she stopped, hesitating.
Athos stood behind the table, looking out of the window. She couldn’t see his face, as he was standing with his back to her, but his absolute physical stillness spoke about the exact opposite playing out in his mind. Sylvie made a few slow steps forward, closing the door quietly behind her. She had been living in the garrison for only a short while, but she knew how much its former Captain had meant to each of its inhabitants. Athos didn’t speak a lot about him but from the little he had shared with her and her own experience, she understood there had been more than just a professional relationship connecting the two men. There was mutual respect, loyalty and warm friendship.
Sylvie watched Athos for a long beat, giving him time. He knew she was there even without turning his head.
“I know that nothing I say can change it,” Sylvie eventually said, getting no response. “You don’t have to talk about it, but if you want to, I’m here.”
She leaned against the nearby wall, watching him in silence. Yes, she knew his pain. Having lost her father not long ago, she knew that someone’s supporting presence meant so much more than words of consolation. Athos was such a presence for her when her father died, even though he had barely known her back then. Yet the few words from him meant more than anything else to her, because they were heartfelt and genuine, spoken exactly when she needed it most. Whatever his choice was now, she would accept it. However, as the passing, quiet minutes stretched, Sylvie thought her attention was probably misplaced; Athos was, after all, a man of few words, especially in dramatic situations.
“If you wish to be alone, I’ll leave you,” she remarked gently and turned to leave.
“Your father loved you, didn’t he?” Athos finally spoke, his soft voice colourless.
Sylvie stopped and turned back to him; he was still looking out of the window.
“Yes, he did,” she answered, with a bittersweet smile on her lips.
“I never knew father’s love when I was growing up,” Athos stated. “Ever since I was a child, my brother had been the pride of the family, the exemplary son. I was usually ‘Olivier, the younger one’.”
There was no trace of bitterness or anger in his voice, merely melancholy that Sylvie was already familiar with. However, it was the first time he had mentioned his real name. Glad he decided to open up, she slowly walked to stand beside him. That’s when she first saw his face – paler and looking older than ever as if it were years and not just a mere couple of hours when she had seen him last. His usually deeply expressive blue eyes were distant. Less than a week ago, he stood at the exact spot at the window, telling her the tragic story of his ill-fated love for the current Milady de Winter. However, today, she saw sadness that seemed much deeper, much more profound.
“Thomas was always the favourite, the stronger, cleverer and bolder one,” Athos remembered. “But I loved him anyway… He could be rough with the servants, but he never treated me unkindly. So I ignored his flaws, the nasty rumours about him, even when Anne claimed he…” He paused, lowering his eyes for a moment.” I think he took pity on me, seeing I would never step out of his shadow... Like our father, I didn’t want to see the real him. He adored his first-born, and I believed it was my duty to love him too, despite always being only the second in the line… Maybe that’s why my father never paid much attention to me. Until I changed his idea of getting me married to a young woman of his choice and decided to get engaged to Anne.”
A deep sigh tore from his throat. He finally turned his head to look at Sylvie, who was listening to him intently, her facial expression revealing compassion – no pity though, for she knew the Captain was not a man expecting any.
“I suppose he was disappointed,” Sylvie remarked neutrally.
Athos snorted. “Outraged is a more appropriate word,” he said, regarding her briefly, momentarily thinking how easily he could have fallen into a life he would have hated, and missed meeting the special woman by his side.
“He threatened to disinherit me, take away my title and privileges. I didn’t care,” he admitted genuinely. “I never cared much for all those things anyway. Ironically, my father died before I even proposed to Anne. He never got to see me marry her and Thomas marry the young woman my father had chosen for me.” He knitted his brows, his look distant again. “I can’t remember if we ever had a heartfelt, genuine father and son conversation in my life.”
Sylvie felt a lump in her throat. In her own life, she was blessed with both loving parents, even if for a short time, and despite worlds between her and Athos in social class terms, she was so much richer than the Captain, that it almost made her feel guilty.
Her hand reached for his hand, and he willingly closed their hold, glad for the physical connection, slowly losing his strength to keep his emotions inside. His eyes glistened.
“I never knew fatherly love,” he continued when he lifted her eyes to her face again. “Until I came here… to become a musketeer…”
That simple statement expressed everything. Athos’s eyes filled with tears at last, as he took a few deep, shaky breaths, trying to steady himself – in vain. His hand covered his face in the last attempt to hide the pain that had hit him with brutal force. He felt Sylvie’s arms gently wrapping around him, a gesture which always brought him pleasure, joy or consolation, but this time, he was unable to feel anything but something resembling a knife being twisted in his heart; grief completely took over where strength and resilience roamed before. Either way, Athos let himself be cradled, letting his strained sobs disappear in Sylvie’s dense, long curls, grasping at her with all his remaining strength.
She didn’t speak, only her body did, expressing everything she felt he needed to know. Sylvie felt her heart breaking yet again for the man in her arms, and, surprisingly to her, also for the man who loved his country so much that he sacrificed his life for it. She remembered the first time she had seen Treville during the events at Christophe’s tavern. His relentless efforts to prevent further violence and protect the veterans from the Red Guard left a deep impression on her. Her eyes started burning, and she couldn’t fight the sensation, just as she couldn’t fight off another memory that came to her at that moment. It had happened only three days earlier but left an everlasting mark on her mind and soul…
×
She had just awakened from a brief, restless sleep. Her back pain was still proving a challenge; not even a day had passed since her flogging. She attempted to push herself up to sit but gave up immediately, falling back on her chest as she had barely any strength.
“Don’t push yourself too hard. You need more rest,” a calming, soft-spoken voice said beside her.
Laboriously, Sylvie managed to turn her head to the side where the voice came from and she opened her mouth involuntarily at the sight of the man sitting by the bed, calmly watching her.
“You?” she asked incredulously, her voice strained.
“I’m not going to disturb you; Athos will be back soon,” Treville said quietly. “I only came to see how you were and to… apologise.”
A mild haze still clouded Sylvie’s sight, but her mind suddenly seemed very clear.
“What for?”
Treville briefly lowered his eyes, but she didn’t miss the flash of guilt in them.
“The King… For all his trust in me ever since he was a child, I find it quite difficult to break through his stubbornness lately. I tried to explain to him the pamphlet was not of your doing; Athos tried too, but Louis would have none of it.”
Sylvie’s mouth felt suddenly dry and she swallowed hard. The Minister’s unexpected but sincere apology touched her, as did the remark about Athos. To have someone go to such lengths on her behalf was something she hadn’t experienced for some time. She was used to looking after herself and fighting her own battles, especially since the death of her father, but she had to admit this new knowledge caused a ripple of warmth in her chest.
“The King is blind to… many things…” she heard her weak, unusually deep voice say and sighed, still watching him intently from her awkward lying position. “You’ve tried… Thank you.”
There was a moment of silence when Treville regarded the young woman curiously. Then a smile crept onto his face.
“I heard you were very brave,” he said, and his smile faded a little as he imagined her standing at the whipping post for a crime she had not committed.
“More defiant… than brave,” she replied, and Treville chuckled.
“Defiance and bravery go hand in hand in every battle for a good cause,” he said. “Either way, I’m…glad it didn’t get too far.”
“Not more than me,” Sylvie couldn’t resist the tease, bringing an amused smile to the Minister’s face again. At first, he was mainly curious about the woman who had enchanted the Captain of the Musketeers like no other woman in years. However, the more he spoke to her, the more he liked her honesty and the unique charm radiating from her. There was a sense of real strength and courage about her.
There were questions Sylvie wanted to ask but she lacked the energy to do so. Despite this being the first proper conversation the refugee and the Minister ever had, she felt surprisingly comfortable in his presence and, acknowledging his obvious intelligence and empathy, now fully understood why he was so popular with everyone in the garrison. She noticed he had turned pensive.
“I always thought a Captain could only work to his maximal potential when focusing only on his duties,” Treville pondered. “I believed any distraction could prove fatal in a decisive moment.” He paused.
“What has changed… your mind?” Sylvie asked with some effort.
Treville sighed before answering, her intelligence making him smile.
“Plain and simple, I was wrong. Athos had been lonely since the day I met him; he didn’t have an easy life, which I knew nothing about at first, but he has always fulfilled orders, although I know he hasn’t agreed with all of them. Loyalty is a virtue that not many hold sacred in these times, but if there has been one man I could always rely on, it’s Athos, and that has never changed. He didn’t want to be a Captain, but I didn’t give him a choice… I thought he was the best for the position and as always, he obeyed my order. He has earned genuine respect; his musketeers would follow him to Hell if needed, just as he would do the same for them. Athos always puts others first, being the last to leave any battle.” He paused for another sigh. “Love can sometimes be a hindrance but also a great driving force. The point is, Athos has had his share of ugliness and tragedy in his life. A man shouldn’t have to live alone, whatever his calling. That’s why he deserves better.”
Sylvie almost forgot about her pain, completely absorbed in Treville’s words.
“We may not know each other much,” the Minister continued softly after he leaned closer to her, “but I know Athos, and I think I understand now how much and why you are so important to him.”
For this compliment, she could find no reply, only a little smile.
“Athos will need you, Sylvie,” Treville said, stating the inevitable. “He will need the help of everyone he can get, but especially you. Be his driving force, the light in his darkness, the one thing that will make him fight even harder, and not just now in these sad times we are living… Give him what he deserves, what you both deserve. Always.”
Something warm and wet ran down Sylvie’s cheek, and she knew it wasn’t pain that had caused the solitary tear to escape. She nodded, gladly promising the Minister what he asked her for.
Treville smiled warmly, taking in her moved expression. There was an unexpected gleam in his eyes.
“He will make a great father,” he said.
Sylvie almost choked. How could he…? No, it wasn’t possible.
“Both of you will be parents that any child could be proud of and lucky to have.”
Before Sylvie could reply, Treville covered her hand with his and squeezed it lightly. Then he stood up and with one last smile, he left her alone – speechless and deep in thought.
×
“Everything I know, everything I am as a musketeer and a man today is because of him,” Athos said quietly as they lay in each other’s arms in bed. The cup of wine Sylvie poured him earlier was left untouched on the bedside table. There were days when Athos would drink to forget. That night, he didn’t drink - to remember.
Sylvie thought before replying, although she couldn’t suppress a sad smile.
“He was a great man then,” she said, her smile fading. “And we both owe him.”
They remained silent for a while, each contemplating life, loss and everything that had crossed their paths. How many good men would still have to lose their lives before people understood that there was a way to live a decent and fulfilled life without killing each other?
“I have never seen the Queen so distraught,” Athos said. “She had just lost her husband, but the shock and remorse on her face when I told her was something I will never forget.”
“Maybe she was afraid she has no more support in the court,” Sylvie pondered.
Athos sighed, stroking her arm absently.
“She told me their last words were anything but friendly; they parted on bad terms. She felt betrayed by the King making him Regent and was very angry about Treville keeping her son away from her after the King died. She didn’t want to understand it was for the boy’s protection so that France wouldn’t be in danger of losing the royal heir.”
“That’s understandable, she’s a mother,” Sylvie remarked.
“Yes, but she’s also a Queen. Her duty will always be to the country first, above her personal duties and feelings. In all the years she has been on the throne, this was probably the hardest lesson she had to learn, and the way it happened… she will regret it for the rest of her life.”
Sylvie turned her head to see his face. It was still pale, his cheekbones more pronounced than usual, his eyes red, filled with sadness. All the years of carrying his private burdens alone were written in his features, making him look more mature than his age way too early, but nothing like the loss he had suffered today. Today, his heart broke in a way it hadn’t before, for he lost someone who was no relation to him legally, but was in every way something he had never had – a father.
“When is the funeral?” she asked softly, her hand resting in his on his chest.
“In four days, after the King had been laid to rest. It will be a stately one,” Athos replied, admiring the darkening ceiling above them as the shadows on the walls grew longer. “If there had ever been a man who deserved one, it’s Treville, and the Queen knows it. She asked me, Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan to carry his coffin. It’s the last honour we can do him.” He swallowed a lump in his throat.
“I will be there,” Sylvie stated after a beat, making him look at her. “Outside the cathedral,” she added, knowing she would never be let inside on such a special occasion. “I want to pay my respects.”
The Captain observed her with curiosity but admiration as well, before she spoke more.
“And to be there… with you.”
She knew he understood. From now on, there were bound together by more than just words and love, wherever the path would lead them. Sylvie recalled her conversation with the late Minister and realised, he had understood it too. It was the last gift he had given Athos, the son he never had – his blessing.
Athos didn’t reply, only kissed her forehead and hid her slender, violence-tested body in his arms. He knew that even darker days were ahead of them, threatening not only Paris but the whole of France. However, he was too tired to worry about it right then. His vision got blurry, and his mind started drifting away. Exhausted by grief, he was grateful for Sylvie’s nearness, wishing for nothing more but sleep, knowing he needed to recover his strength. This loss would take some time to heal from.
He also knew that although today was hard, tomorrow would be even harder – their greatest enemy was still out there.
※※※※※
Chapter 5
He spurred his horse again and again, in a desperate attempt to make him run faster. Time was of the essence; three lives depended on it, and he wasn’t sure which prospect terrified him more – losing the new King, D’Artagnan or Treville, possibly all three of them…
He didn’t spare a glance at Aramis, racing on his horse against time as well, but he knew they were praying for the same thing.
“We’re almost there!” Aramis shouted as they spotted the old mansion appearing behind the alley of trees they were galloping through.
At the same time, they heard the sounds they feared the most, and a deadly shiver went down Athos’s spine – it was the sound of gunshots…
“No,” he whispered, still believing in the best.
Then he saw it, as suddenly as the horse beneath him shot out from behind a tree into the open – Treville fighting off one man after another, his legs unsteady but his will to fight until the bitter end unwavering. Athos’s heart was racing as he hastily descended from his horse and grabbed his shotgun, Aramis doing the same.
He fired once, drawing his sword right after. And then his heart almost stopped when he saw Grimaud aim at Treville, the expression on his face rock-hard and ruthless. Athos’s eyes widened in horror as he ran as fast as he could towards him, and shouted a single word, a desperate and heart-wrenching call for mercy, begging like never before.
“Noooo!!!”
A gunshot sound pierced his ears…
※
“No!!!”
Athos shot up on the bed, breathing heavily. He felt a gentle, soothing touch on his back. He groaned painfully and buried his face in his hands, feeling the beads of sweat under his fingers.
“It takes time to get used to it,” Sylvie said softly after a moment.
He tried to steady his breathing, exhaling loudly. This can’t be true, it just can’t be true…
Once his brain took over from his emotions, acceptance replaced the initial disbelief, and he dropped his hands into his lap.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he whispered.
“You don’t need to apologise,” Sylvie replied, still drawing circles on his back.
Athos turned to see a sad smile on her face. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, searching for peace that, apart from a few brief moments, had been eluding him for months. He knew he wouldn’t find it until Grimaud was dead and buried. The sudden thought of revenge gave him enough energy to face another day.
“I need to get ready. It’s going to be a long day,” he whispered again, kissed her temple and got up to get dressed.
Sylvie watched him putting on pieces of his uniform with routine, assured movements. The broken man from the past few days was still there, his eyes still clouded with melancholy. A mild frown settled on his face – a shield against the crushing reality. However, there was also a warrior, and warriors don’t give up. They suffer but endure, fall but get up again, and Athos’s body language showed clear signs of resilience and resolve.
This warrior was ready for his next battle.
※※※
“I’m surprised Grimaud hasn’t attacked yet,” D’Artagnan remarked while he was getting his horse ready.
“He’s waiting for the best opportunity,” Aramis replied, putting his pistols in the holders on his horse’s saddle.
“When will he get a better one? He missed one at the King’s funeral, and Treville…” The remaining words died on the Gascon’s tongue.
Aramis sighed and patted his horse. “Grimaud is no regular villain. Marcheaux is a spineless show-off, but Grimaud wants to be sure of a certain kill. He is a master of surprise, doing something that no one would expect. Besides, he loves setting traps. With Marcheaux being his loyal dog now, you can bet he’ll come up with something special.”
D’Artagnan gritted his teeth. As much as he hated the mere thought of Grimaud, his animosity toward the former Captain of the disbanded Red Guard had reached an unprecedented level in recent weeks, and his greatest wish was to send him to Hell with his own hands.
“We need to be extra vigilant at the funeral,” he said, trying to sound calm. “They might not wish to miss this chance.”
Aramis nodded and turned away from his horse, seeing Porthos walking toward them. His facial expression was austere, unchanged since Treville’s death. At his heels was Constance, passing D’Artagnan his pistol.
“You forgot this,” she said, understanding fully the reason for the musketeer’s unusual negligence.
Her husband took it hastily. “Thanks,” he replied quietly, then looking at his wife, suddenly not knowing what to say.
Constance’s sad smile spoke of the understanding between them, as her hand stroked his cheek before pulling back again.
“See you in the cathedral,” she added before stepping back from him.
Porthos checked the readiness of his horse, for about the fourth time that morning. Although the air was chilly, since winter was knocking on the door, he felt inexplicably hot in his leather uniform. He had spent an almost sleepless night, which only added to the tension he felt in his body and mind in equal measures. Finally, he was satisfied with his horse, turned to his friends and spoke for the first time that morning.
“Where’s Athos?” he asked.
No answer came, though, because the man in question just appeared in sight, slowly descending the steps to the yard, with Sylvie silently shadowing him. All eyes, the musketeers and cadets alike, watched their Captain, the man who had throughout the years become more than just their leader – he was a man they truly looked up to.
Aramis nodded silently as their eyes met.
“Everyone is ready, Captain,” Brujon said quietly. “The final group of musketeers is prepared to stand guard in the cathedral before the service.”
“Thank you, Brujon,” Athos said softly, acknowledging once again the quiet but always reliable actions of the young cadet.
“We better get going. The Queen wants to pray at his coffin before the funeral. She’ll need us there,” he remarked to his three friends before speaking to the other musketeers and cadets. “The rest of you know what you are doing.”
The wheels were set in motion; a quiet mounting of horses followed by the clanking sound of the horse hooves filled the yard. Aramis and Porthos were just leaving the garrison when the Captain noticed D’Artagnan struggling with his reins, trying to adjust them. His patience was wearing thin as Constance helplessly watched him, with compassion.
“For God’s sake!” he cried in exasperation.
Athos walked calmly over to him, wordlessly took the reins from his hands and did the job for him. Then he looked at his still so young friend, seeing the barely contained pain on his face. He put his hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder and smiled. It was a small gesture but more effective than any words, and his wise eyes gave the Gascon the assurance he needed. He exhaled loudly and managed a small smile in return, nodding. He mounted his horse and followed Aramis and Porthos, waiting outside the garrison.
Athos sighed and turned to see Sylvie, watching him, seeing so much more behind the calm exterior of the man she loved with all the heart. He walked toward her, took her hands and leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. For a brief, precious moment, he was allowed to stop being the Captain and be just himself.
“I’ll be there,” Sylvie said quietly.
He didn’t reply, only squeezed her hands and took a few more deep breaths as if drawing strength from her.
“The men look up to you. You can’t let them down… We all have our duty, Athos…”
The voice from his memory washed over him like a tide. He pulled back, looking into her eyes, and she saw everything written on his face. On this, for what Athos realised was the hardest day of his life, it was more than just strength he would need.
“I know,” Sylvie whispered.
She kissed his hands before dropping them down again. “Go… They need you.”
The Captain’s look lingered on her for a beat longer before he slowly released her hands and walked to his horse. He mounted it and was about to move when Sylvie’s voice stopped him.
“He loved you, very much…”
He looked back at her, puzzled, but teared up anyway. The question in his eyes made Sylvie smile.
“Later,” she said.
Defying the new jolt of pain in his heart, Athos smiled at her and rode out of the garrison, leaving Sylvie standing alone – not seeing how she wiped a stray tear from her cheek.
※※※
The Palace was still very different than just a few days ago. The usual buzz of daily activities and cheerful demeanour of the courtiers was replaced by whispering or complete silence, only the quiet sound of shuffling feet or opening and closing of doors breaking it. It had been five days since King Louis XIII passed away, and in an unprecedented run of events, France’s First Minister and Regent died on the same day. The mood was sombre, with uncertainty and tension hanging in the air.
Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D’Artagnan rode into the Louvre together, and walked right up to the Queen’s quarters, already expected.
“Your Majesty,” Athos said, and all four bowed.
The Queen was sitting at the window, dressed all in black, a delicate, black lace veil covering her hair. Her hands were holding a rosary. She was still young but felt as if she had been sitting on the throne forever. Her looks were a paradox – in her double mourning, she looked fragile and majestic at the same time, like a Phoenix that had just burnt into ashes but was slowly regaining its beautiful shape. At the sound of the Captain’s voice, she turned her head and smiled warmly.
“My musketeers,” she said quietly, regarding them, her eyes briefly stopping at Aramis, their eyes locking for a pained moment of longing.
Her bright blue eyes looked tired and her complexion was paler than usual, but the sight of her most loyal friends brought her a visible relief. She stood up, walking over to them.
“I know how difficult today is for you,” she said, her voice soft and filled with compassion. “Treville had left his mark on all of us, on the whole country. He was always a dear and most loyal friend, even if we might not have realised it at times…” She paused, blinking several times, swallowing unshed tears. “We will always be in his debt.”
The musketeers watched her in silence, fighting with all their strength to hold still and stay composed for the sake of their sovereign and their own dignity. Nevertheless, they shared a common understanding: for one moment in time, there was no social class wall parting them. They were men and a woman, united by one thing – grief for someone dear to their hearts.
“My friends,” the Queen whispered, smiling, voicing their own thoughts.
In an unexpected move but resolved, she outstretched her gloved hand toward them, her palm turned down.
“All for one,” she whispered and looked at each of them in turn.
Athos was the first to overcome the shock and with a small, knowing smile, he placed his hand over the Queen’s. He glanced at his comrades, who nodded and mirrored his move.
“One for all,” Aramis added quietly, smiling.
The tension in the air lifted momentarily, reminding them of the ever-present light even in the darkness. For one fleeting moment, the heartfelt smile on the Queen’s face brought back a spark of life they all had been missing for days.
After their hands separated again, the Queen took a deep breath and spoke with a slightly upturned head, in a dignified tone, worthy of her status.
“Shall we?”
The musketeers stepped aside to let her pass, and then quietly followed her like shadows covering her back as they all walked out into reality once more.
to the strength with which a man is endowed."
- Alexandre Dumas: The Man In The Iron Mask -
