| |
ATHOS SIGHED, AND STALKED forward toward the armed man on the bed with the air of someone whose patience had run dry some considerable time ago.
“Stay back.” Athos ignored him. Aramis shimmied backward up the length of the mattress, trying to keep space between them, the shaking pistol still pointed at Athos’ heart. “Don’t... don’t touch me, Athos. Save yourselves. Don’t—” Athos reached forward and relieved Aramis of the weapon, un-cocking it and placing it calmly on the bedside table. Bereft of his final defense, Aramis seemed to collapse in on himself. “Why?” he asked, his voice pained.
“You’re an idiot, Aramis,” said Athos.
“Why do you think?” Porthos said, flopping down onto the bed next to Aramis and tangling a hand in his hair, cradling the back of his skull.
“I seem to recall something about ‘all for one’,” d’Artagnan managed, dropping down to kneel beside the bed.
“I was aiming for ‘one for all’,” Aramis said, sadness infusing his voice.
“With the way your hands were shaking on that pistol, your aim’s evidently not that great right now,” said Porthos.
“Oh, there were pistols involved?” Milady said from the doorway, having returned from her errand. “How wonderful. So sorry I missed it.”
“You, as well, Milady?” Aramis said, defeated. “I would have expected you, at least, to have more sense.”
“Any sense I might have had once upon a time fled long ago,” Milady said. “I put it down to the company I’ve been keeping of late. Nonetheless, I’m not the person you should be worrying about; I’ve survived the plague once, and it holds no further fears for me.”
“Send the others away, then,” Aramis said, desperation in his raspy voice. “Perhaps it is not too late.”
“Aramis, please,” Milady said dismissively. “If a gun in the face wasn’t effective, I doubt my own persuasive powers are up to the task.”
“Sometimes I really do hate the whole lot of you,” Aramis said, slumping back against the headboard. “You know that, right?”
“No, you don’t,” Athos said matter-of-factly. “Now get your shirt off; let’s have a look at you.”
Aramis sighed, and tossed a questioning look at Milady, who raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before; most recently in Blois when someone skewered you on a sword. This disease isn’t big on dignity, so you might as well get used to it.”
“Oh, good,” Aramis said on a sigh, peeling off his loose, linen shirt. “Something else to look forward to.”
D’Artagnan, who had kept mostly silent throughout, forced himself to look at Aramis closely. His complexion was pasty except for two high spots of color on his cheeks, and there was a fine sheen of sweat over his forehead and chest. Angry swellings nestled under the left side of his jaw and his left armpit, and d’Artagnan swallowed. At least he couldn’t see any black spots developing yet on the flesh, though there was a scattering of little red pustules at the junction of Aramis’ neck and shoulder, close to the place where the kitten in M. Rougeux’s barn had scratched him.
“Are you coughing?” Porthos voiced the question no one had wanted to ask. Once a person with buboes started coughing blood, they would be dead by the following morning without fail. D’Artagnan held his breath.
“A bit, but it’s dry—no blood or phlegm,” Aramis replied, and d’Artagnan exhaled quietly. “I’m weak; I feel feverish. My joints hurt, and I have a pounding headache which, I should note, has not been improved by your intrusion. And, of course...” He trailed off, gesturing at his neck and armpit.
“We could send for a doctor,” d’Artagnan said.
“No doctors,” Aramis replied immediately. “If doctors could cure the plague then it wouldn’t have killed two-thirds of France. And I won’t expose the people of Chartres.”
“All right, Aramis—no doctors,” Porthos said. His expression fell as he continued, “It was traveling through Chassant that did this, sure as anything. You could smell the miasma hanging over the place. I knew we should have gone south instead, through Illiers-Combray.”
There was nothing to say to that. As many unpleasant memories as Illiers-Combray held for d’Artagnan, he would have willingly braved them and fought any of Isabella’s troops remaining there, if it meant Aramis would not have fallen ill.
“You might as well make yourself comfortable while we clean and air out the room, Aramis,” said Milady, ever practical. “Can you eat something?”
Aramis shook his head. “I have no appetite.”
“Try to take some watered wine, at least,” Milady urged, and bustled about, mixing a cup for him. Aramis accepted and took a sip or two before setting it aside, next to his discarded pistol.
As if that was the signal to free the others from their paralysis, they rose and began to divide up the tasks of making the abandoned room livable while Aramis fell into an uncomfortable doze, stirring now and then to curse at them half-heartedly when the banging of furniture being moved or the flap of a rug being shaken out at the open window disturbed him.
By early evening, their surroundings were up to the standards of a group of soldiers, and even of a former comte and comtesse now accustomed to living as such. Aramis woke from an hour’s deep sleep, wracked by chills despite the sultry summer air and the heat radiating from his fevered skin. Porthos hurried to wrap him in a thick blanket and mopped the clammy sweat from his face with a cloth. Milady plied him with a bit more to drink, and after awhile he drifted off again, occasional shivers still chasing themselves through his body.
As the light at the window faded, Athos spoke from the chair he had claimed across the room. “If we’re not to exhaust ourselves, we’ll need to take this in shifts.”
“I’m not tired,” d’Artagnan said immediately, though it would have been more accurate to say that he dreaded the images his mind was sure to supply him with if he were to close his eyes. “You three should get some rest.”
Athos nodded. “Anne and I will take the room next door. Porthos?”
“I’ll sleep in here, on the settle,” he said, pointing to the low, wooden construction in the corner. Had d’Artagnan not known from experience that Porthos was capable of sleeping absolutely anywhere, under any conditions, he would have suggested somewhere more comfortable.
“I want to stay up for a bit and pen a more informative report for de Tréville and the others,” said Milady. “I’ll check whether they found the note I pinned on the door to the main wing, and I might see what state the kitchens in this wing are in, as well.” She rose, and kissed Athos briefly before turning to depart. “I’ll be along in a while.”
When she disappeared through the door, Athos rose as well and crossed to stand with them near the bed. He laid a hand on Porthos' shoulder, and squeezed the back of d’Artagnan’s neck briefly. D’Artagnan looked up at the familiar face of his mentor, marred now with an ugly burn scar under his right eye, a memento of his torture in Illiers-Combray.
“You’ll wake us immediately if you need anything, or if there’s any change,” Athos said, not phrasing it as a question, and d’Artagnan nodded.
He puttered around, lighting a single candle while Athos headed to the room next door and Porthos made himself a nest of blankets on the settle and curled up to sleep. Sitting in the chair by the bed, d’Artagnan allowed himself a twinge of envy as, a few minutes later, the sounds of heavy snoring began to emanate from the corner. He had a feeling it would be a very long time before he himself next slept.
Time crept by like cooling treacle, marked only by the candle’s slow drip. D’Artagnan was startled free of the demons in his mind by a soft moan as Aramis awakened. He leaned across and picked up a rag, dampening it and mopping Aramis’ brow as the sick man blinked into awareness.
“How do you feel?” he asked when Aramis’ eyes settled on him with apparent lucidity.
“About the same, to be perfectly honest. Though I’d like a word or two with the tiny man who keeps driving a dull axe into my skull every few seconds. Help me sit up, please.”
D’Artagnan eased Aramis into a sitting position against the ornate headboard, propping him up with some of the dusty embroidered pillows they’d found earlier in one of the other rooms. He accepted the cup that d’Artagnan handed him, but made a face after a single sip and set it aside. A particularly loud snore came from Porthos’ direction, drawing Aramis’ attention to the sleeping man.
“Taking it in shifts, are you?” he said, his voice weak and hoarse.
“Yes,” d’Artagnan replied simply. “Do you need anything?”
“Distraction would be good,” Aramis said. “I find I am not yet ready to contemplate weighty matters of faith and mortality, so let us speak of something else.”
“What should we talk about?” d’Artagnan asked, since his mind seemed to have seized up like a rusty wagon wheel ever since learning of Aramis’ illness that morning, leaving it stubbornly blank and slow.
“Tell me how things fare with the delightful Constance,” Aramis said.
“I don’t understand her,” d’Artagnan said truthfully.
“You’re a man,” Aramis said, “and a young one at that. Of course you don’t understand her. Did you talk to her as I suggested?”
“Yes, but it didn’t help. I asked her how I had offended her, but she would only insist that I hadn’t offended her at all. When, obviously, I had. Else why would she stiffen and pull away from my touch when I kissed her?”
Milady’s low voice came from the open door, where she had just reappeared from her various self-appointed tasks. “Interesting that you automatically assume her reaction must be all about you.”
D’Artagnan and Aramis both looked to the doorway, startled.
“What else would it be about?” d’Artagnan asked, genuinely puzzled.
”Pfft.” Milady made a small sound of disdain. “She has almost certainly been forced in the past. She was married at the age of fourteen to a man nearly thirty years her senior; it’s quite possible that being taken forcibly is the only way she’s ever known.”
D’Artagnan felt his heart, which had received too many shocks already today, begin to pound against his ribcage in the ensuing dead silence.
“Sorry,” Milady said, not sounding particularly sorry, “I’m sure this was meant to be a private conversation, but I heard voices as I was returning to the other room. Then, I heard what the voices were saying and decided that I had best step in and clarify matters before d’Artagnan pined himself into a permanent stupor.”
D’Artagnan realized that his mouth had been hanging open and closed it, just as Porthos let out another stertorous snore from the corner.
“That would explain quite a bit, to be sure,” Aramis said, sounding sad.
“But... they were married,” d’Artagnan said. “Why would he hurt her? He was supposed to care for her. Protect her.”
“You and Constance are surprisingly well-matched in terms of your innocence regarding the way the world works,” Milady said, and d’Artagnan bristled—how could she speak of innocence when he had buried his entire family—when Constance had buried a husband and an infant child? But she continued, “Picture it, though. A child bride with next to no idea what to expect on her wedding night... a husband eager to claim his young, attractive prize. The first time can be painful; she protests—tries to pull away. He ignores her pleas or, at best, tells her to be still and it will get better.”
D’Artagnan felt anger and nausea rising in equal measure as he pictured the scene.
“Because the first time was painful and frightening,” Milady continues, “the girl assumes that it will always be that way, and her fears become largely self-fulfilling. The husband, meanwhile, cares little as long as she submits to what he sees as her duty.”
“I would kill any man who treated Constance in such a way,” d’Artagnan said, finding it hard to force the words past the thick lump in his throat.
“He’s already dead,” Milady said, sounding impatient. “What good does your posturing do her now?”
“Well, what then?” he snapped, barely remembering to keep his voice down as Porthos slumbered on across the room.
“D’Artagnan.” Aramis' rough, weak voice cut across his frustration. “Milady only means that a woman who has been hurt by men in the past may not appreciate another man whose thoughts turn immediately to violence whenever his passions are aroused.”
D’Artagnan subsided, forcing himself to think through their words. Seeing the sense in them. “I think I understand,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry for raising my voice, Milady—you’re perfectly correct that it is foolish to threaten a dead man.”
Milady waved his apology aside with a curt gesture, and d’Artagnan got a sudden sense that she would prefer to be having nearly any other conversation than this one.
“I appreciate you’re bringing the matter to my attention and helping me comprehend the situation more clearly,” d’Artagnan said. “Only... how do you know so much about it?”
“I talked to Constance about her background,” Milady said. “More importantly, I listened to what she said in return. You might try that, if you wish to have any sort of future with her. Particularly the listening part.”
“I will,” d’Artagnan said, still trying to fit this new information into the landscape of his interactions with Constance. “What I meant though, is how you know so much about the way a woman reacts. You’ve never been—”
He cut himself off, seeing Aramis wince out of the corner of his eye at the same time his mind caught up to his mouth, and what he was implying. Milady’s expression had been cold before, but now it might as well have been cut from solid marble. “Forgive me,” he hurried to say. “I shouldn’t have—”
“I understand that my sordid past has recently been laid bare in my absence for your curiosity and delectation,” she interrupted in a voice like winter wind. “Perhaps you did not think to ask yourself afterwards what reason my parents might have had for sending me off to a nunnery at the age of sixteen. Goodnight, gentlemen.”
Without waiting for them to speak, Milady turned and retired to her husband’s bed in the room next door, leaving d’Artagnan feeling as if he’d just been struck across the cheek. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands and scrubbing at it. Aramis’ shaky hand landed on his right forearm a moment later.
“That will require an apology,” said the older man. “Not tonight, but promise me you will not leave it too long.”
“Yes. Of course.” D’Artagnan gave his face a final rough swipe, thinking of the passionate, fearless woman who had just left the room. “But... Milady?”
“Milady’s past is her own,” Aramis said, his tone harder than d’Artagnan was used to hearing it. “Though of late one would hardly know it. You would do better to concentrate on her advice regarding Constance, which was sound and true.”
“I will. You’re right,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s just a lot to think about.”
Aramis softened. “Then it’s as well you appear to have plenty of time on your hands. You have a good think, and I’ll try to rest again. Only a few minutes awake, and I already feel as though I’ve climbed two leagues up the side of a mountain.”
D’Artagnan covered Aramis’ hand with his own and squeezed it. “You do that. The others will thrash me from here to Sunday if they find I’ve tired you out.”
The sick man laid back and tried to find a comfortable position with his aches and pains. When he settled, d’Artagnan wrung the rag out once more and draped it over his forehead and eyes to cool the fever. He slumped in the chair, wondering how his mind could possibly contain all the worries currently whirling up a maelstrom within.
He was still sitting there several hours later when faint light from the window began to overtake the flame from the guttering candle on the table, and Porthos awoke with a groan and a stretch of creaking joints.
“Is it morning?” Porthos asked. “You should have woken me earlier.”
“I wasn’t tired,” d’Artagnan replied, though in reality his eyes itched and burned with fatigue.
“How’s Aramis?” said Porthos, rising to cross to the bed.
“Sleeping,” d’Artagnan said. “He woke occasionally through the night, but seemed about the same as yesterday.”
“And I might still be sleeping if it weren’t for you two louts,” Aramis rasped, rolling over with a groan to lie on his side.
“How do you feel this morning?” Porthos asked, ignoring the insult.
“I appear to have added stomach cramps to my already impressive array of symptoms,” Aramis said, curling around the affected area in obvious discomfort.
D’Artagnan vacated the chair so Porthos could sit in it and reach a hand out to feel Aramis’ forehead. “You haven’t eaten and you’ve barely drunk anything in more than a day,” Porthos said, failing to completely hide his worry at the new development. “Maybe that would help?”
“The thought is utterly repulsive at the moment, mon ami,” said Aramis. “Perhaps later. For now, just sit with me and talk. Better yet, tell me a story, so I will not be expected to keep up my half of the conversation.”
“Sure,” Porthos said. “I can do that. D’Artagnan, you probably haven’t heard the one about how I first met de Tréville, have you?”
D’Artagnan shook his head, eager for anything that might distract him from the nauseating worry and dread swirling in his stomach.
“Well, I was in the regular army at the time,” Porthos began. “The musketeer regiment had just been commissioned by the King, and de Tréville was visiting some of the other commanders to recruit from their ranks. I think he wanted to get some seasoned soldiers on the rolls, to balance out all of the second and third sons of noblemen who didn’t know a musket barrel from their own arses.
“Anyway, the evening before, I’d taken a bet against this bloke called Duchesne that I never should have agreed to. So there I was in only my braies, with my right arm tied behind my back, taking wrestling challenges from all comers when this very stern, very proper officer comes marching up...”
* * *
The hours crept by, and d’Artagnan continued to ignore all suggestions that he get some sleep. Athos and Milady had arrived earlier, carrying a letter from de Tréville that had been attached to a basket of food left outside the door between the main wing and the south wing. They crowded around as Milady read it aloud, and even Aramis seemed to rouse himself from his aches and shivering to hear the latest news from outside their narrow little slice of the world.
The news appeared to be that there was no news. The siege continued; supplies were holding so far, though shortages of some less common goods would no doubt start soon. The walls of Chartres still stymied Isabella’s forces, who could not approach across the narrow bridges without being picked off at the city guards’ leisure. Isabella might well be able to lay hands on more effective weapons now that her troops knew what they were facing, but moving large siege engines across country and into position would take time.
The letter ended with well-wishes from Her Majesty, Constance, and de Tréville, along with a request that they write regular notes in return to share their own news.
Porthos made a grab for the basket, which contained an assortment of simple food along with a cloth bag full of chicken bones for stock. “I’ll head down to the kitchen and see what I can make of this,” he said. “Milady, how’s the water from the old well behind the stables?”
“A bit cloudy, but not too bad,” said Milady, who had used the abandoned well the previous night rather than risk meeting someone unexpectedly at the main well. “Do you have any messages that you’d like me to include in our reply?”
“Tell them thanks for the chicken carcass and that everyone will be fine,” Porthos said firmly, and left to start a pot of stock simmering downstairs.
“Anyone else?” Milady asked.
Athos shook his head, and Aramis croaked, “Tell them I’m not dead yet, but between my head and my stomach it’s starting to sound like an increasingly restful option,” from the bed.
D’Artagnan winced, his mind not currently in a place where he could appreciate the gallows humor. Drawn by the small movement, Milady’s eyes rested on him for a moment, her expression still cold after his faux pas of the previous evening. When he didn’t speak, she swept through the door, letter in hand. Complete silence descended on the room.
After a few moments spent wrestling with his tired and embarrassed thoughts, d’Artagnan excused himself from the other two. “I’ve thought of a message for the letter after all,” he said.
The door to Athos’ and Milady’s room was open, and inside, Milady was settling down at the desk in the corner with a sheet of paper and a quill. D’Artagnan knocked lightly on the door frame and her wary gaze jerked to the entryway.
“Yes?” she said.
“May I speak with you privately for a moment?” d’Artagnan asked.
Milady let the silence hang for a moment or two before she put down the quill, rose from her chair, and said, “Come in and close the door.”
He entered and pulled the door shut behind him, clearing his throat.
“Go on, then,” Milady said impatiently.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “Two, in fact.”
“Yes, you do,” she replied. “So good of you to notice.”
“I should not have stayed to listen when the Captain confronted Athos about your past,” he said, “and I should not have spoken before I thought last night.”
“No, you should not have,” Milady said. “I will pardon you for the second slight, because I know that you aren’t dealing with Aramis’ illness nearly so well as you would have us believe, and I think that you would not have said such a thing if you had your wits about you.”
“I hope that’s true,” d’Artagnan said.
“As for the first, it will take longer for me to forgive, as I told the others when they came to me afterward to apologize.”
D’Artagnan felt even worse, if that was possible, upon hearing that he was the last who had thought to seek Milady’s forgiveness for impinging upon her privacy when she was not present to defend herself. However, he was also here for a second purpose, and even in his raw, exhausted state he would not allow himself to falter.
“I understand your position,” he said. “Would it be crass of me, at this juncture, to humbly request a favor of you?”
“Yes. Very,” Milady said without hesitation. “But don’t let that stop you.”
“It’s not for me. At least, not directly. If we survive to leave this place and return to the others, I intend to speak with Constance. Properly, I mean. If she desires it, may I suggest that she seek your counsel about her experiences with her husband? If I may once again be crass, you have found love and fulfillment with Athos, despite the cruelties visited upon you in your youth. Perhaps she can find that sort of happiness as well.”
Milady looked troubled, and sat back down in the chair by the desk rather abruptly. D’Artagnan, surprised, took a step toward her but stopped when she waved him off with one hand.
“You’re a good person, d’Artagnan,” she said, looking up at him, “though still quite a young and impetuous one. I’m going to speak to you frankly, because as you point out, there’s quite a good chance that we will not all be leaving these rooms alive.” She paused, dropping eye contact to stare at the window instead. “When I look at Constance, I see the road I might have taken—flinching from physical touch; letting the past define the present. Giving power to the person who hurt me.”
“Constance is stronger than you think,” d’Artagnan said, unable to hold his tongue.
“She is,” Milady agreed easily, and met his eyes again. “After I was raped, I vowed that I would learn the ways of physical pleasure, and take as much of it for myself as I could. The priest that helped me escape the convent was a pervert and a criminal, but he was not cruel. I learned what I could from him, both how to give and take pleasure, and how to defend myself. But where Constance built up walls around her body to try to protect herself, I built up walls around my soul. Cynicism. Detachment. Resentment. Had I not found Olivier, my life would have been a sad and unfulfilled one, indeed.”
“Then I am very glad that you did find each other,” d’Artagnan said sincerely.
“If Constance wishes to speak with me, she may. I have kept her at arm’s length because she is an uncomfortable reminder to me of what might have been; however, that is neither her fault, nor yours. We are all of us damaged in one way or another, but if I can help you and Constance be happy together, then I will.”
“Thank you—” d’Artagnan began.
“Don’t make a fuss over it,” Milady interrupted. “Now, would you like me to write her a note or not?”
“Yes,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Please tell her that I miss her and look forward to seeing and speaking with her.”
“I will,” said Milady. “Now go get some rest... or, failing that, at least go bother the others instead of me, so I can get this done.”
* * *
By the time the light began to fade that evening, Porthos had returned with a hearty vegetable soup for them to eat and a light broth for the reluctant Aramis.
“You’ve got to eat something,” Porthos pleaded. “It’s been two days.”
Aramis relented, but twenty minutes later he was vomiting up everything he’d managed to consume, and then some.
“Mother of God,” he cursed when the retching finally subsided, leaning against Athos and clutching his aching stomach.
D’Artagnan sat very quietly a few feet away, his mouth hidden behind a clenched fist, remembering. It was going to get even worse soon... it was going to get so much worse and he didn’t know if he could do it all again. He was so tired he could barely remain upright, and it was all becoming too much. Porthos glanced at him, and his gaze caught and narrowed.
“D’Artagnan,” said the big man, “You need to go rest now. You’ve been awake for a day and a half. Get out of here for a bit; go take a nap in Athos and Milady’s room.”
“I’m all right,” d’Artagnan said quickly.
Athos glared at him from where he was easing Aramis back down onto his side on the bed. “D’Artagnan. Go. Sleep. Now. Or I’ll knock you out myself and you’ll sleep that way instead.”
“Bedside manner, Athos,” Aramis chided weakly. “Please.”
“He’s not in bed,” Athos growled, pinning d’Artagnan with a blatantly threatening look. “Yet.”
D’Artagnan rose and slunk from the room without a word, defeated.
The room next door had been cleaned and aired, but it was far too quiet. He sat on the bed, sinking down slightly into the soft mattress. Perhaps he could merely sit here and rest his eyes for a couple of hours before returning to the others, he thought as he leaned back against the sturdy headboard. That wouldn’t be too bad.
As long as he didn’t sleep...
Some unknown amount of time later, he heard noises coming from the other room—wet coughing, and the sound of a woman’s low voice. Alarmed, he struggled up from the bed, feeling strangely heavy and disconnected. Forcing his limbs to carry him, he crossed to the door and dragged it open. The hallway seemed to have grown in length, but he stumbled forward to the next room and grabbed the doorframe to steady himself as he took in the sight within.
Aramis lay limp and still on the bed in a puddle of his own vomit. Porthos was bent over him, rocking silently back and forth with his back to the doorway. Across the room, Athos began coughing again, hunching forward in pain as he spat into a white linen handkerchief. When he straightened, d’Artagnan could see the stain on the cloth, scarlet in the candlelight.
Unable to make a sound, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew to Milady, standing a few steps in front of her husband with a pistol clutched in each hand.
“Do it. Do it now,” Athos rasped, and she raised the pistol in her left hand, shooting him through the heart.
“No!” d’Artagnan cried as Athos crumpled to the floor without a sound.
Milady turned to look at him. “I told you my life would have been nothing without Olivier,” she said, and raised the barrel of the second pistol to her lips, taking the cold metal into her mouth. Blood sprayed as she pulled the trigger, and d’Artagnan fell to his knees on the unforgiving marble even as her body hit the floor.
“Porthos—“ the entreaty should have been a cry, but was barely a whisper as it passed d’Artagnan’s lips.
The familiar figure by the bed coughed, shoulders shaking. When it turned, however, it was not Porthos, but d’Artagnan’s father who looked over at him with rivulets of frothy blood trailing down his chin to stain the front of his shirt.
“Is this how you care for your friends, Charles?” his father asked. “No wonder you can’t save anyone you care about.”
D’Artagnan jerked awake, gasping as if he had been running for his life. The darkness surrounding him was impenetrable and he flailed, falling off the mattress and onto the floor where he sat clutching the cool wooden bed frame, heart pounding, clammy sweat trickling down his forehead.
It wasn’t real... it wasn’t real... it wasn’t real...
But it was real—parts of it, at least. Aramis was sick. Aramis was almost certainly going to die. Porthos was at grave risk, and just because Athos and Milady had survived the plague at La Fére didn’t mean they would survive it a second time. Maybe he would die this time, too. That would surely be better than...
He should go check on the others. He tried to listen for any noises in the next room, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, his breath wheezing, shallow and fast. He should go check... but what if he found part of his dream? Aramis fading, or even dead; the others succumbing to the sickness. In his present state he would shatter like spun glass. He needed to calm down first. He needed...
It was the middle of the night. The stable would be deserted; he wouldn’t be putting anyone at risk. He could visit his father’s pony, lean against the sagging back for a few minutes. Bury his face in the shaggy mane and breathe in the familiar smell until his chest unlocked and his lungs started working properly. Just a short visit to get himself under control, and then he would check on the others. Only a few minutes, and he would be back without anyone knowing he’d left. Even if he dragged a little bit of the miasma of sickness with him to the stables, it was a big, airy building and it would disperse long before anyone else arrived. It would be all right.
He rose on shaky legs and opened the door silently. Trying without success to keep his breathing measured and slow, he walked quietly down the hallway and descended the back staircase, clutching the banister to steady himself. The large door at the rear of the wing creaked slightly as he opened it just enough to slip through, and he paused, trying to pull in some of the humid night air against the constriction in his chest, hoping to clear his lungs.
The stables were set across the grounds, no great distance from the south wing. D’Artagnan headed for the darker blur of the long, low building against the cloudy night sky. He could not rely on the cat o’ nine tails any longer, but this would do instead, he told himself. This would be enough. It had to be. He would visit his old gelding and reconnect with the memory of his father as he had been in life, kind and loving—not the angry specter from his dream.
He entered the building, letting the low noises of animals breathing and rustling their hay and bedding wash over him, and felt his distress begin to ease. His gelding was near the north end of the row of stalls, stabled next to the broom-tailed mare. He lit one of the lanterns hanging near the entrance and picked it up, carrying it down the alleyway to hang on a hook near his horses’ stalls.
His attention was drawn by the broom-tailed mare’s nervous snorting. Concerned that she was suffering from colic or had perhaps tangled herself in her rope somehow, he moved forward to check on her. His pony was apparently lying down, since he couldn’t see the animal’s back over the door. Not surprising; the old gelding often seemed to be sleeping when d’Artagnan came to see him these last few weeks.
The mare, on the other hand, was up. She was not tangled, and rather than stamping her feet and snapping at her flanks as if her belly hurt, her attention was focused on the low wall that separated her stall from the pony’s—ears pricked, nostrils flared, and snorting out soft, distressed breaths.
Brow furrowing, d’Artagnan moved to the gelding’s stall and looked in. The pony was, in fact, lying down—legs curled underneath his body, but... wrong. Too still. Head jammed awkwardly against the front wall. No slow rise and fall of breathing.
Peaceful, but not asleep. The peace of a soul fled from an aged body.
D’Artagnan pulled in a single sharp breath. Another. His mind began to make sense of the scene before him, almost against his will.
He couldn’t...
No. He...
No.
The world went soft and gray at the edges. It jerked back into focus for an instant as his back hit with the wall behind him, only to fade again. Time passed in a long, shapeless blur. With a flash of awareness he realized he was in the tack room, his hand on one of the whips hanging from a rack on the wall. Awareness fled once more.
Outside. Gray pre-dawn light was streaking the eastern sky. A voice. Female. High-pitched. Nearby.
“D’Artagnan? D’Artagnan! What is it? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
He ran. Left the voice behind.
North wing. No. No... south wing. But... the others. They would stop him if they found out.
Far end. Downstairs. Room... empty. Door... closed. Click of a lock.
Gray blankness. How long? Cold flagstones under his knees. Painful. Unyielding. Shirt off. Whip in hand. Quickly, quickly.
Noise at the door. Voices. Knocking.
This whip was different from his old one. One tail; thin, braided leather. Balance—strange in his hand.
The knocking became pounding. Voices. Shouting.
He grasped the whip handle, ready to swing. So, so ready.
The door crashed open. Porthos and Athos charged in.
“I’m getting real tired of having to kick open locked doors, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said. “Just so you know.”
“Put the whip down.” Athos, this time. “Whatever has upset you, this isn’t the way.”
“Leave me alone.” Was that his voice? Something was wrong with it, if so—it sounded more like an animal growling. The gray fog was threatening to lift, leaving him at the mercy of cold, sharp reality.
He raised the whip again, and Athos strode forward. D’Artagnan stumbled to his feet in response. Tried to back away, but his body was clumsy and slow, and Athos was in front of him, reaching for the whip. D’Artagnan jerked it away in desperation, and took a wild swing at Athos’ jaw with his left fist.
