Athos

It's something about the carrots, hanging by their leafy heads, frail morning light glistening off the water droplets that fall to the floor. They look so common place, so laughably idyllic and charming. Just hanging there. I reach out for them, the hook swinging back against the worn wood of the fireplace. The stew is running low on taste, and it's high time someone fixed up some ingredients for it. I think I can remember a recipe my mother taught me.

My mother. She'd tell me, constantly, gnarled hands working over the lentils and the cucumbers for the supper's stew, she'd tell me that a person would never get ahead with himself if he didn't know how to take care of himself. A wife, she'd say, and she'd smile, a wife will only teach you many new things, and you'll be grateful for them. But if the wife were to fall ill, hm? What then? She'd smile at me, pounding away at the bread dough as she pushed the lentils into their wooden bowl, and I'd put my chin in my hands, and sit there quietly, drinking her in, drinking in her advice. If the wife were to fall ill, she'd say, you'd have to take care of her,  make sure that she gets back on her two feet.

I get up on my feet, push back at my hair, still tangled from a fretful sleep, reach for a bowl Aramis has placed on the low table by the fireplace. I empty the cold water, soapy and grey, out the window. The pump is behind the far door, the handle rusty and unwilling under my hands. I curse at it. It spews out a bit of water. Just enough. I place the carrots inside inside, run my fingers through the bottom of the bowl, then over my eyes, hoping to shake off some of the sleep still clinging to them.

Now. Let's see if I can remember. The recipe included carrots, that I know. But there was something else... Those little green things that gave it flavour. I would gather the seeds after mother had cracked them open, hold them tight in my fists and take them outside, dig a hole and cover them with moist, dark earth. Making a garden? I'd nod  at her. Oui, mama. A big garden. Peppers. That's what they're called. Big, green peppers. Aramis has none.
 

Aramis

The date is April the twentieth in the year one thousand six hundred and sixty two of our Lord. Dios todo misericordioso perdone todos nuestros pecados. Amen.

Athos has woken up earlier than usual today. He usually sleeps in for a while. An hour, maybe, a bit longer every day. He's getting old. We're all getting old. My neck aches as I rise from where I kneel at the foot of my bed. It must be around six in the morning. I pull my sleeping robes over my head, leave them in a pile on the floor.

As I pull on breeches, shirt, coat, lace it up as best as I can, grab my boots from behind the dresser door, I hear Athos moving around in the kitchen below. He's got a fire going, the flames burning low. God bless his balding head. It's freezing in this place. Porthos' bedroom is silent behind his door as I pass on my way down. Philippe's even, troubled breathing drifts out from behind his. I slow my pace as I walk past it.

From below, I can hear Athos battling down a hum. He stifles a yawn. I crack open the kitchen door and place the boots I have not pulled on yet on a stool. Athos looks up from his place at the cutting board as I come in. He's smiling.

"Aramis," he says. "Good morning. Are you aware that you have no green peppers?"

I pull out a chair, drop on it with a grunt, drag the stool with my boots on it closer. It takes a while to pull one on, the small of my back complaining from the strain. "No," I say. "I was not aware. What are you making, and why does it need green peppers?

I hear him pause in his methodic slices at the carrots I brought in last night. He opens his mouth, takes in a little air, presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth, holds it there. I start to pull on the second boot.

"It's an old recipe," he says at length. "My mother used to make it."

The boot slides in after a few, hearty tugs, my back groaning and shooting thin needles of pain down my arms and chest. I give Athos a long, silent look when I straighten up. He slices away at the carrots, pushing them off the edge of the table and into a bowl placed below. It's a while before he meets my gaze. God, he's smiling like a child. He knows I hate peppers.

"I thought you'd like a change in the stew,  for tonight. Not that you need worry. As I've pointed out, you have no peppers. "
 

Athos

Aramis has never, well, not very often, at least, asked people how they feel. He just knows, sometimes. At other times, he pretends that he knows, and he pats your shoulder and nods his head, murmuring the right set of words, the correct prayer, Dios te salve  and everything will be all right. I've learned to appreciate that, over the years. It makes things easier. He never asked if I would lapse into silence during that first year after my wife died. He never asks now if I fall into a reverie, thinking of Raoul, my son. My son...

Well. He sits across from me quietly now. It's too early in the morning for conversation, and I'm grateful for the time to just slice away at the carrots, contemplating the rising sun as it spreads shimmering, pulsating fingers over the country side. It's a silent, still, grey morning. The kind best spent in bed, warm under the feather down, dreaming in a drowsy half sleep. But I couldn't sleep last night, could not stay in bed this morning.

Philippe. I worry for him, for the haunted look in his eyes, like a wounded animal, little more than a child. He's not a child. He's just a little older than my Raoul was. Still, he looks younger, much younger, than Raoul. The look in his eyes frightens me sometimes. They call out to me, pleading for something, but I can't make out what it is and he has looked away before I can. I wanted a drink of water, he says. I fill out a cup for him, hold it out till I'm sure that both his hands have wrapped securely around it. He drinks like a man perpetually dying of thirst, drops of water trailing down his cheeks and neck as he gulps it down. Here, don't let it trail down into your shirt, I say. He pulls back, afraid. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Do you know what it's like to live so close to a person, day to day, watching their pain eat them up from inside? You think it's so easy, very simple, really, to just reach out and comfort them. Yet, the words never come to your head, they never form on your lips. You feel useless, and old, and foolish. Sighing, you draw away, hope that tomorrow the pain will be less. You place their bowls of stew on the table by their beds and you hope they'll eat. And heal.

Aramis coughs. I have to buy more bread, he says. I nod, push the hair away from my eyes again. He moves away from the table, boots shuffling over the dirt floor. I look down at my pile of chopped carrots. I have enough. More than enough. But chopping calms me. I reach out for a new batch.
 

Aramis

April the  twenty seconth in the year one thousand six hundred and sixty two of our Lord. Ave María, siempre Virgen, ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen.

The afternoon sun is hot on my back as I ride back from town. The horse is as old as I feel, and I had to stop several times on my way back. The sun and its blasted rays aside, though, it has ben a beautiful day. The smell of an early harvest drifts in the breeze, the voices of the labourers on the fields lifting in song. I can't help but catch the lyrics of one song as I pass. The melody is crude, and so are the lyrics, but it serves its purpose: and as the king is mighty, lofty in his greed, I toil away at my barley, and harvest my wheat. I smile to myself. I feel a comfortable bubbling in my heart, a swelling and a quickening in childish excitement as I pass them by, discontent, poised for revolution. Or so I hope.

Porthos greets me at the gate. "Aramis. Oh, Aramis! Where have you been, hm? It's well past three in the afternoon."

I dismount and fling my saddlebags at him. He catches them easily, cracks them open and peers inside. I see him pout from the corner of my eye as I pass by him and into the house. Dinner is cooking over the fire, the thick smell of potatoes and broth hanging over the stillness. Athos sits by the window, looking out at the road, shoulders sagging under his coat, looking tired. He smiles as I come in.

"Aramis," he says, as he always does. Porthos' voice drowns out his plaintive welcome.

"You miserable excuse for a priest!" he bellows, saddlebags gripped in one hand. "What is this?! Cheese? Oh, good, very nice. Bread? Butter? Oui, oui. Very good. Can't have one without the other. But no wine?! Aramis, no wine?! How do you think we'll survive, eh?" He pauses, holds up one of the saddlebags. "On cheese?"

I take the bags from him. Athos takes the one with the cheese from me, battling down a laugh. He busies himself slicing off a piece, which he bites into to keep from talking. Porthos paces around the room, waving his arms, cursing at me, hollering, pleading. I watch him make a fool of himself as I place the bread and butter in the pantry. He demands that Athos demand wine. Athos shrugs, looks lost and comical as he flings a gaze my way. I don't say a word. Why should I? Porthos will tire himself out sooner or later.

Ah. There it is. He storms out and slams the door, the rafters ringing above our heads. Silence hangs between us for a moment, accentuated by Porthos' angry stomps towards the fields. I hear Athos cough down a laugh. He moves closer to me as if afraid Porthos might burst in again at any moment. His movements are more carefree than anything I've seen since the news of Raoul's death reached him. He looks down at me, his expression not that of a complete understanding, but not of a total ignorance either.

"You really didn't buy any wine?"

I smile. "Of course I did. I hid it under the saddle. Last time I let Porthos at it this early, all five bottles lasted us only a good half hour."

Athos nods his head slowly, gazing out towards the direction Porthos has taken. "Ah," he says. "I wondered why I never saw a drop of that infamous rose he kept praising so highly. Do you think he'll search the saddles?"

"I don't think the thought will occur to him, in the state he's in."

I hear Athos chuckle. He moves towards the kettle hanging over the fire. The smell of boiling potatoes fills the room as he lifts the cover to stir the broth. He dips his spoon in, tastes a bit, eyes closed, brows knit together in careful consideration. He replaces the cover on the kettle.

"Needs a few more minutes."

I gaze at him for a while. He leans against the stone supports of the fire place, the light from the fire reflected in his eyes. "The servants here can cook for us, you know," I say. "You don't have to do it."

He remains silent a long while, his fingers rising to play with the buttons of his coat. I bend down, pick up my mug from beside the fire. We keep a small jug of brandy close to the hearth; warm. I gulp down a cup, return my gaze to Athos. The minutes crawl by slowly between us, suspended in the gurgles of the kettle, the drifting aroma of the cooking broth. His eyes hold the flickering of the flames, debating whether or not to say anything, or maybe just savouring the easy silence between us. He speaks at length, his gaze still on the fire.

"We kept the servants for a long time, in my family. Still, my mother loved to cook for us. She never made anything fancy, mind you. But she'd tell me how to... how to make a few things, that maybe I'd like to cook for my... my wife. If she ever became s-sick, you know?" He sighs, looks up at me. "Well. After my mother left me, I cooked for my wife. When she... When she left me too, I cooked for Raoul. And Raoul, he--"

"Enough."

I stand up, place a hand on his shoulder, squeeze. He closes his eyes, drawing in a shaky breath. I can feel him struggling to battle down tears, to hold himself steady. His eyes open slowly. He's calmer, the tears unshed. His hand rises to lie over my own, squeeze it in turn.

"Yes. Well," he says. "Enough talk, or I'll overcook this. Do you want to call Porthos in, or should I?"

I rub at my chin and pretend to think about it. Athos chuckles.

"Right. I'll call him. You go fetch Philippe."
 

Athos

It looks like a dream. The sky is bluer than I ever remember it to be, the clouds drifting by in idle patterns. A light breeze plays with my hair. I think for a moment that I should tie it back. It's getting in my eyes, light brown strands untouched by grey. I don't think to be perplexed by that, the thought simply never crosses my mind, I'm more concerned for how I will manage to tie it back without letting go of the small, fragile hand clasped in my own. I smile down at the willowy young body it belongs to.

Look. Look over there, the little boy says, my little boy, my Raoul, smiling as he points up at the sky. It's a horse, he says. Yes. Yes, it's a horse. A big, white stallion. Think you could catch it? He nods in excitement, eyes bright, and I release his hand, kiss the top of his head, pushing him gently towards his goal. Go, go get it, Raoul. I'll be waiting here for you. He laughs as he runs, skips away, calling back to me, you'll see, I'll catch it, papa. I smile as wave him on his way.

My garden waits for me behind the house. I wanted to keep it for the beauty of the flowers at first. She loved the flowers, and my enthusiasm for it made her laugh. But when she left me, I dedicated my strengths to growing vegetables. I failed, at first. I'm no gardener, even less of a farmer. Raoul would gurgle to himself in the little makeshift sling I had fashioned for him by the window. Don't laugh, I'd grumble, stooped over seeds and earth that refused to give way as easily as the books promised. According to page four, paragraph ten, there should be twenty paces between each seed... Twenty paces, huh? God. Raoul, where did I put my ruler...?

It survived, whether it was by the grace of God or by some innate gardening skill I was not aware of, but it survived. Here. You see? I have a little patch of cucumbers, and here are the tomatoes, carrots to the left, a few eggplants, although they never last very long. The soil, probably. But here are the lentils, a bit of parsley. A-and the peppers. The green peppers.  I don't think I should've planted all of those together, no. They turned out pretty nice, though, for an amateur with a one year old boy as an assistant.

Raoul's coming back now, pouting. The horse, he says. The horse melted away. I reach out to wrap my arms around him, smooth his hair, soothe out his childish indignance.  I kiss his forehead and he draws away, older, taller, his eyes muted. I always lose them, Father. Why? I find that I can't say anything. My hands hang limply over his shoulders, picking out a few lose threads from his uniform. Y-you'll have to let me mend this uniform for you, Raoul. It looks a little worn. He thins his lips, moving away from my arms. My hands twitch, pleading to hold him close again. I can't let him go.

The uniform won't matter anymore, Father, he says. I look away. His voice is beginning to fade away. He seems little more than a pale, weak light at the corner of my eye. I had no garden. There was no house. Where was it we lived? In a church, hiding somewhere? I can't remember.  I place my hands over my eyes. Raoul. Raoul, if you can hear me, I swear to God, I swear, if I could've done anything, anything to save you, I would have.  I would have. Raoul... Raoul... Please, say something. Raoul...
 

Aramis

April the  twenty third in the year one thousand six hundred and sixty two of our Lord. Padre nuestro... no nos dejes caer en tentación y líbranos de todo mal. Amen.

I count out the few beads remaining, shift in my seat, and resume my prayers. From the corner of my eye, I can see Athos, hair pulled back into a ponytail as he works his way through a pile of potatoes. I have warned him against preparing any more potato broth. He promised this day's meal would be completely different. I'm not sure yet if I should trust him or not, but he doesn't seem to be cutting them up like he did for the broth.

He pauses in his work, lifting his head to gaze at me. I can feel his eyes on me as I roll the rosary beads along my fingers, counting out each Ave María, ignoring him as I ignore Porthos. It's easier to ignore Porthos. Athos has an unsettling way of looking at you, as if he's debating whether or not you exist, or if he's imagining you, as if you were at fault with him somehow. I don't think he realizes this.

"What do you pray for, Aramis?"

I pause in my prayer. The question comes softly, coloured by a genuine, almost childlike curiosity. An uncomfortable feeling crawls down my spine, lodges momentarily in my throat. My lips move, forming no words. Thoughts, answers, stir up in my mind. For our safety, for a good life, for happiness. None of it makes any sense. He's looking at me, his expression frank, but expectant. I sigh, lowering my hands.

"Athos, you know me. I pray because... Because I pray. There is nothing I pray for. It's just... words. Words to repeat because it gives me comfort to repeat them." I turn to hold his gaze. "Is that enough for you, is that a good enough reason to pray?"

He cocks his head to the side, apparently lost in thought, his eyes still holding mine. At length, he turns his attention back to the potato in his hand, half peeled. He doesn't say anything. Just sits there, peeling away, the sound of knife against the potato's skin hanging, magnified, between us. The skin scatters down over his lap and onto the floor. Words hang in my lips, unformed, not daring to form. I don't understand him, I find that I don't want to. I finger my beads, turn my gaze towards the crucifix at the far wall again, picking up where I left off, almost mechanically.

"Aramis..."

I turn my head sharply, beads striking against my hands.  "Athos. Could I pray...?"

I can see my action startles him. He shakes his head, apologizing without saying a word, whatever he was going to say dying away in a stammer. He starts to peel away faster at his potato, finishes it, picks up a new one. He pushes away at a stray hair. I sigh.

"Look, Athos. It's all right. What were you going to ask that you won't  let me pray in peace?"

He looks down at his feet. "I-I didn't mean to interrupt your praying, Aramis. I was going to tell you something... I forgot what it was. It's nothing. "

Before I realize what I've done, I snort. I can't remember if it came before or after I turned towards the crucifix again, lifting my beads to resume my prayers. "You're becoming as bad as Porthos. I don't see why the both of you have to be so damn miserable all the time. So many good things to live for, God damn it."

I hear him draw in a sharp breath. His voice is no longer soft when he speaks. Or maybe it's softer. I can't tell. I can't make out what he's saying. His words are fuelled by an anger I want no part in. It's the anger of having nothing to do with your time, of having too much time to think, to let the thoughts feed on your brain. I think I tell him again to let me pray in peace. My voice sounds like a growl, till I can't be sure of what I'm saying. Then  a hand wraps around the fabric of my shirt, twisting me around, roughly,  till all I can see are Athos' eyes, dilated and hard.

"You pray for nothing," he's saying. His words seem like a jumble to me. He realizes this, tightens his hold on my shirt and shakes me, the force of his actions shuddering through my body. I reach up to pry away his hands, his hold tightens.

"No. No," he says. "Listen to me. Listen, I said. I asked... I asked what you pray for, and you're right, you're right, Aramis, I do know you. I know you pray for nothing. Why should you have anything to pray for? You never care about anything."

I twist in his grasp, hold his gaze.  "What is this all about, Athos?" I whisper.  "Is this about Philippe?"

His lips draw back from his teeth. "Don't you talk about Philippe.  Don't you talk about that boy. Do you know, have you even paused to think about what you're doing to that boy, what you're asking of him? But no, no...  this isn't about Philippe."

"Then what...? Your wife? Raoul? They're dead, Athos. You were over that, when I asked you to help me get Philippe out  from that damn Bastille. Why are you thinking about them now?  You know as well as I that no amount of snivelling is going to bring either of them back. Now, pull yourself together, man."

His grip on my shirt lessens, the hardened expression on his face melting away as he looks down at me. He seems to age before my eyes. Just as his rage gives him youth, defeat gathers age around him. He lets go of my shirt, his hand sliding away as if it were too heavy for him. I watch him stumble away from me, one hand rising to cover his eyes. I straighten my shirt, clasping the tiny gold crucifix around my neck against my palms, feeling the cold metal bite into my skin.

Athos stumbles towards the door, leans against it, shoulders sagging, hand resting over the handle. "Don't touch the potatoes, please," he says. "I want to finish them myself. I have to do something with my hands."

The door closes behind him slowly, swinging for a while before it settles. I gaze at it for a while, hearing Athos shuffle as he makes his way upstairs. Bending down, I pick up my rosary beads from where they fell. I count them out slowly, running them through my fingers. Slowly, I bring my gaze up to the crucifix on the far wall, pick up where I'd left off, almost mechanically.
 

Athos

A chair. We need a chair, an empty one. We'll place it... here. Right here. I will sit before it, and it will hear me out. It won't say anything, it won't stop me from talking, because it's just a chair. Just an empty, wooden chair. God, I need to... I need to tie my hair back, yes. And get some wine. But you just stay there, and hear me out. I... I would offer you some wine, but you're a chair and so you can't drink. I'll do the drinking for both of us. Just listen. Are you listening?

It was a long time ago. Things were different back then. I was different. I couldn't do anything other than what I did.  I married her. Not my wife, not Raoul's mother. The other one, the... God, she was beautiful. She was... I can't even find the words to tell you. And she was so beautiful. So what could I do? Shame her, and shame myself? No. I had to marry her, don't you see? We... we had the ceremony in this huge church, with the stained windows rising up, up and lost in the darkness above. Can you see them? They have pictures of the Virgin Mary, with these little golden angels filtering around her. And the sun is coming down to rest on my wife's hair, and I'm kissing her and just holding her tight, because I'm so happy.  So damn happy.

I think I need another glass of wine. There. Just pour, pour and drink. I sneaked this out of Aramis' bedroom. Porthos can't look there. But, you see, I climbed in through the window. Not a hard thing to do. I don't think Aramis thought someone would go that far. And I don't drink much. Just a little sometimes. Is... is this room getting a little hot? Maybe I should open a window. Let me finish what I have to say, though.

She... She liked to hunt, sometimes, if the weather wasn't too hot or too cold, and if she had reason to be happy. Or if she had something on her mind. I think that was it. There was something about her that day, something I couldn't grasp, hold to me, drag out into the light, just look at her and try not to worry her. We'll just go for a short ride, she says. We have that young, new fox; we can follow her around for a while. Wouldn't that be nice? Very nice, I say. I think that's what I say. It doesn't matter, because I'm already on my horse and she's riding behind me. She's laughing, dark hair streaming out behind her. I call out to her, see her turn the horse. The fox went through here, she says, spurs her horse onward.

I... I can't remember how it was that I found her. I think I hear her cry out, or maybe I just sensed something. It hangs over me, chilling me. Before I realize what I'm doing, I've spurred my horse in the direction she took. It's a nightmare in there. I can't see anything but branches striking out at me, the sun though the trees blinding me. Something has taken a hold of my heart. Here. Right here. Squeezing tight, tighter, till I can feel the blood rush from my face. I find her on the floor, one hand grasping at her neck. She can't breathe, and she flails on the floor as if dying. What else could I do but rush towards her? I was in love with her. All I wanted was for her to live, to be all right. Hang on. It's my voice speaking. I've pulled out my knife, and I'm cutting away at her dress. She has to breathe. Just give her a chance to breathe...

I'll take another drink of wine now. It... it becomes a jumble in my mind now. It's nothing I can make out clearly. But let me take a drink. Like this, just tip back, finish it all up, wipe my mouth, let's not worry about the sleeve. She was branded. And, God, this sounds exactly like when I told D'Artagnan. I was drunk then, let me get drunk now. You see... Do you know what branding means...? A little fleur de lis, just like this? On her shoulder. I'm looking at it, just looking at it, till I can't see anything. A thief. That's what it means. That's what it meant to me. A thief. A fugitive. In my house. And... And, God, why should I care? Why am I looking at it as if it hurt? She's my wife. My wife. And I'm holding her in my arms, feeling numb. She's not moving. She's fainted.

She's not heavy. I lift her up easily. My mind is a blank, a... a total silence, just echoing inside of me. I take the hem of her dress between my hands, and I rip. Her head is resting against my shoulder, and I start to climb a tree, any tree. Just pull her behind me, skirt waving in the wind, her feet dangling. It takes me a while. She's not heavy, as I said, but her dress is just volumes of fabric. I rip off a few more pieces before I have her cradled to me, pressed against the tree trunk. I have to crush her to me as I tie the strip I have taken from her dress around her neck. Like... like this. You have to make sure it doesn't knot, but that it slides easily, open and closed. My hands are shaking, only a little bit. I can't seem to tie the end correctly, and she's slipping. I reach out for her shoulder, pull her close again. I hold her very close, face buried into her hair. It smells like jasmine, a heavy, tingling scent. I become lost in it; pull back.

My... my arms wrap tightly around her. It's not a high jump, just edge off from the branch. I look up at the sky. Do you see, the sky, from this window? It was bluer than that, clear, with not a single cloud. God himself ordered that day. And I... I jumped, took one step and felt the weight of my body drag me down, drag her down. Her body is light in my arms, her hair tangling in my arms. Then she jerks, just convulses underneath me. It's like... like a shiver ran through me. I feel it in the back of my head. A sickening little sound, like a branch splitting, but not... not quite like that. It stays with me, even after I've hit the floor, the jolt shooting flames up my spine.

She's above me. Swaying gently to and fro. Just to and fro. Like... like this. Back and forth, back and forth. So slowly. I can't... I can't remember what I was thinking. I must have been thinking something, anything. I just lie there, looking up at her, feeling numb again. That's when I realize that I've been crying the whole time.
 

Aramis

April the twenty eighth in the year one thousand six hundred and sixty two of our Lord. O piadosa, o clemente, o bellísima Virgen María, a ti rogamos, los desterrados hijos de Eva, a ti clamamos, gimiendo y llorando en este valle de lágrimas. Amen.

The water is cool against my hands as I dip them into the bowl, soaking up a cloth I wring then place over Athos' forehead. He doesn't make a sound, lips barely moving as he looks at me in silence. He's pale, too pale, his breath coming in haggard little gasps, his hands lying motionless over the covers I've pulled up to his chin. I press my palm against his forehead, his neck, looking, hoping for any sign of a lowering temperature. I find none. Athos thins his lips.

"Aramis," he murmurs, the sound barely audible. "I'm so sorry. I don't know why..."

I place a hand over his, watch the words die away on his lips as he closes his eyes, head falling further back into his pillow. I watch him for a while, pale and tired as he allows himself to fall into a sleep which I know offers no comfort. I toy with the thought that maybe I should say something, but no words come. All I want to do is grip his shoulders and shake him till the fever leaves him, till he returns to his senses, till the thoughts of Raoul and his dead wife and all his demons leave him and me in peace. I bend down to pick up the water bowl. The door to his room closes silently behind me.

"Well?"

I hand Porthos the bowl, running a hand through my hair, the other rising to wrap around my silver crucifix. The feel of the cool metal against my skin calms me somewhat. Porthos is looking at me in silence, eyebrows knitting together in a mixture of worry, apprehension, and frank curiosity.

"The fever hasn't gone down yet," I say. "If anything, it's getting worse."

Porthos' lips thin, his gaze turning towards Athos' bedroom door. The worry in his eyes is beginning to spill out into his stance, the very way he stands, uncertain, as if deciding whether he wants to stand or fold under his fears. I can see that standing is beginning to wear him down, and I turn my head away, unwilling to watch. I walk down the stairs leading towards the kitchen, drawing my robes tighter around me as a cold draft blows down the hallway. "You should close those damned windows in the entry hall, Porthos," I call back to him, my voice tired and hollow. "These God forsaken drafts are going to be the end of every one of us."

I don't hear what Porthos answers, if he answers at all. I hear him move away, the water in the bowl splashing against its sides. The door to Athos' room cracks open, then closes again as I enter the kitchen. Everything is just as Athos left it on the first day he complained of chills in a room with a full fire blazing. He leaves me in charge of the stew, claiming that maybe he just needs to rest for a while, that maybe the early spring drafts, which have never affected him before, are beginning to affect him now in his old age. He never comes down to breakfast the next day. I climb to his room to find him, half dressed, one hand resting over his forehead, pale, breath shallow, eyes staring up at the ceiling. He turns his head as I approach, the effort costing him visibly much. He tries to laugh, lips merely drawing back over his teeth.

"My God, Aramis," he says, his voice hoarse, "I hit my head this morning. I swear, I was just going to bend down to pull on my boots, you see?" His hand rises, flutters once in a weak attempt at gesturing towards his closet, falls back down. "I just bent down, and then I couldn't get up. I think I fell. I really can't remember, but I must have pulled myself onto the bed somehow..."

I move to his side quickly, place my hand against his forehead, feel the fever, see it clearly in his eyes. He's still smiling, reaching out to wrap his cold fingers around my own. Every nerve in my body tells me to pull away my hand, but I stand perfectly still, allowing him to kiss it before he closes his eyes, the smile fading as he turns his head away.

"God, I'm so tired," he murmurs. I grunt as I lift him up, his body heavier than I expected, head resting against my arm as he allows me to sit him up, pull back the covers from underneath him. It takes a while before I've pulled off his coat and pants, placed him under the covers, pulled them up around him. I can feel his eyes on me through half-closed lids, taking in my every move. He doesn't say a word, merely watches, eyebrows knitting together, debating whether I exist or not again.

"Aramis," he says. I sit at the edge of his bed. He gazes at me in silence for a while. His eyes move away from me, rest on a corner of the far wall. "Did you think I was cruel?"

I frown, not understanding. Athos smiles, the movement a pale ghost hovering at the corners of his mouth. He turns his gaze towards me again. "My wife. Did you think I was cruel?"

My frown deepens. "Milady de Winter?" He nods, lips thin, eyes narrowing. I stand, move away from his bed and towards the door. I stand there, one hand resting over the handle, thoughts forming and breaking apart in my head, for a long time. The silence grows and stretches out between us, the emptiness beating alongside my heart. I turn the handle.

"Athos, you have a high fever. I don't know what may have caused it, but I will bring you some medicine as soon as I can prepare it. Porthos will bring up your breakfast."

He doesn't say anything as I step out. When I look back, he is gazing up at far corner of the ceiling, hands clasped over the covers. I close the door slowly behind me, not willing to decipher what his silence might mean.

I stand in the kitchen now, one hand still clasped around my crucifix, the other hovering in uncertainty. The tomatoes and lentils he had been preparing for his next supper lie on bowls set beneath the window. I bend down, pick up one of the bowls. I find a knife hung up beside the fireplace, take it down, pull a stool close to the table. I place a tomato before me, hold it steady, and slice it in half. It parts easily, the cool juice running down my fingers. I try not to think about anything as I slice it into thin halves, just run my knife through it and push the halves away, reach for the next one, and run my knife through it as well.
 

Athos

Aramis places a thick blanket around my shoulders. Outside, through the kitchen window, I can see the branches waving from the trees. I raise a hand to salute them, feel Aramis press a cup into it. Peering down at it I can see the lumpy, white liquid that is my medicine. It smells tired, like a senile old man fading away in his corner. I hear Aramis telling me to drink it up and try not to spill it over myself. I hold the cup in my hands, offer Aramis a limp little smile I don't even feel and watch him till he leaves the room. The door swings to a close behind him. I pour the medicine down the garbage chute, watch it as it crawls down the chute's wall, thick and white and nothing I want to drink.

It took me a long time, you know, till I finally convinced Aramis to let me come down to the kitchen. I missed my work, I told him, not doing anything would kill me. He wasn't pleased with the decision he took, but he did allow me to come down from my room. I pulled up a stool under the window and peeled my potatoes and chopped my tomatoes on the first day. I have done little else since. But it's fine that way. If I stop working with my hands, I start thinking and the sweat starts to break out again till I can't breathe. So I shuffle across the kitchen, cooking and coughing, trying to keep busy.

Today I want to do something different. There are no more potatoes to peel. I would tend to the Jesuit's garden, but the work tires me out too much. My fever comes and goes. Aramis can't explain it. Some days I can walk around the garden or even down the house's gravel path, but most days I find that I don't even want to get out of bed. I'll lie there all day, the sweat trickling down my neck, eyes staring out into nothing. It hurt, once, that Aramis seemed to be annoyed at me and my weakness, but I don't think I mind all that much anymore. I want to be alone. I want to take a walk.

I push myself up from the seat with difficulty. The world spins around me for a while, taking my breath. I cover my eyes, feel my body sway, searching for a place to rest. I ignore it, take a few steps forward, pulling my blanket closer about me. I know I can make it to the door. It hurts, God, it hurts to just take a step today, but I know I can make it. I don't want to spend another minute inside this house. And the door is just in front of me... right there... just a couple of steps away. Almost within reach. Almost... one more step. There.

The sun is too bright. A heady scent hangs in the air. Smoke from brush fires. The Jesuits who pass by our house occasionally come talking about the wild fires spreading throughout the countryside. The heat is too great. The worst summer in years. I only feel cold. A shiver runs through me and I have to crouch down, teeth shattering. For a moment, I consider going back to the house. I almost turn, reach out for the door handle... But no. I don't want to be Aramis' invalid old man anymore. Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I make my way slowly down the gravel path. It leads down into a grove of sycamores. I think they're sycamores. I can't be sure in this light. It blurs everything.

Do you know that feeling, when you're sick or tired or just not feeling right, and you can't feel the world around you, or the ground below you? You'll walk for a short while, and you'll have no idea where you are or how you got there... but you don't stumble or fall. You just keep walking. One foot in front of the other till your mind goes numb and you start thinking too much, or not at all. I don't know. But I can't feel anything anymore but the cold inside of me. My hands are numb. I... I need to lie down...

Father. I hear it. I know I do. My head snaps up, forms rushing into precarious focus, fading away again as disorientation sinks in. My head throbs. I put a hand to my forehead. I can still hear that voice. Raoul's, my son's voice. I reach out a hand to steady myself, try to move my head in the direction it's coming from. I hear myself call out, where are you? I hear him again, just ahead of me. There's a clearing beyond the trees, he must be there. He must be there. I know you think he can't be there, but he is. I can hear him.

I don't feel the ground below me as I stumble out into the clearing. All I can hear is his voice, mingling with my own. Raoul... Where are you? I'm here father where here. I can't make out the words anymore, all I want is to reach him. I look around me. All I see is green, shifting and swallowing itself. I rub my eyes, try to focus on it. It should be grass, but it feels like a wall, solid. I could touch it if I reach out. It unnerves, and it's starting to get colder. The blanket is useless. I can feel the shills raking through me and I can't breathe. Oh God, I can't breathe. I've got t-to loosen my coat, but, damn it, it won't come loose! Damn knot in the damn string. Raoul, come help your father. He can't breathe.

And it's not Raoul who places warm fingers against my own and strives to untangle my coat's strings. It's her. Just as she was before she died, before the pregnancy. I hear myself sob, the sound rushing through my chest and making me shiver. I feel her arms trying to wrap around me and I struggle to free myself from her grasp. I want to look at her. I raise my hands, place them against her cheeks. I find it hard to keep myself steady. My teeth shatter, and I try to form words as I look into her eyes. Hazel eyes, soft and warm, shadowed by curly bangs. God it's been so long since I've touched her hair. My hand reaches out, fingers a lock beside her ear. She cut it, when she came to live with me. I remember that. I liked it short. She smiles.

I can see it's taking her some effort to pull me into her lap. I try to smile and settle myself down as best as I can. Her arms are still around me, warm and so close. I kiss them, the movement costing me much more than I know it should. I think I murmur something to her, about being cold. She sounds surprised as she tells me it's so hot here. But it's not hot at all, honey, it's so cold. God, I can't feel my hands even, they're so numb. She smiles, takes my hands in hers. Here, let me warm them up. I sigh and close my eyes. The pressure of her fingers against mine is soothing. It feels strange. It's been so long since she's held me. And I've wanted to hold her for so long...

Her hands move away from mine, trailing up the strings and buttons of my coat. A shiver runs through me and I reach out to put my arms over hers, hold her close. Keep away the cold. But her hands move away from mine. They travel up to my neck. It doesn't feel right. I open my eyes, my mouth forming words I can't remember. They die in my throat. It's not her anymore. I feel a shiver run through me and I turn away from the face looking down at mine. The same face I saw dangle above me, the same face I sent away into the darkness to die a second death. I struggle to get away from her, feel my body as a limp weight below me. Her hands press down on my chest and sparks shoot out behind my eyes.  I try to pull away at that first instant, but find that I lack the strength... find that I lack the will...

I can't feel anything after a while. In the back of my head I know something is terribly wrong, that I should be running away. But I just lie there, limp, the weight of her fingers sinking into my chest. My breaths escape in gasps, my voice lost. I can feel an emptiness behind me, as if I were suspended on air. Images begin to form before my eyes, twisting and growing out of themselves till I can't be certain what is real or not. Faces come and go in the darkness. I can't feel the pressure in my chest anymore. I can't feel anything, I can only lie still, spent, helpless to stop the torrent of visions. Hands reach out towards me, only to torn into bodies and legs and faces and eyes.

Raoul at the edge of the stairs Raoul looking at me in silence his mother looking up form a bed covered in her own blood god she looks so happy my wife calling out to me from her horse as she rides up ahead the fox will get away and her body dangling in the breeze the empty bottom of a beer stein D'Artagnan peering at me from across the table a murder that's all it was and then it's dark again and I'm standing at the edge of a riverbank and my wife is lying at the other bank beheaded only then I hear the splash of water and I know her executioner has thrown her body in but her executioner is really standing at my side of the riverbank looking into the water as the moon reflects back his face my face my god my face cold and impassive and feeling nothing but a growing relief to be free and a murderer who has lost everything I see Raoul's  body on the field soaked in blood eyes staring at emptiness I should have stopped him I never should have married her I couldn't stop the blood from flowing and she died three days later wasted away terrified of death and knowing she would never see her son grow up and I can't say anything but I hold out my hand and I can feel a voice welling up in my throat it was all my fault I killed all of them all of them and my mouth opens and the pressure in my chest is going to explode scattering shards of darkness into my brain taking my breath with it till my heart will cease to beat...  and I don't know what's on the other side and I'm scared oh god so scared...

When I come to Aramis tells me he heard me scream, and that's how they  found me. I don't want to say anything to him. My hands look white and thin as they rest over  the covers. I pull the curtains at my window close. The light is too bright. I can feel Aramis looking at me and I turn my face away. I want to be alone, I say. Aramis leaves in silence, his foot steps dying away slowly. Outside my window I can see nothing. My sight is blinded by tears.
 

Aramis

June the eighth in the year of our Lord one thousand six hundred and sixty two.  Alcanzadme que en los asaltos del infierno recurra a Vos, diciendo:  María ayudadme... no permitáis que pierda a mi Dios. Amen.

"Up you come. That's it. Just like that. Here, lean on my arm. Can you manage that?"

Athos waves away my words with his free hand, a tired smile playing across his lips. His body rests heavily against my own, but I can see he's lost a lot of weight. He doesn't say a word as I lead him down stairs, his hand feeling his way along the walls. For a moment I worry that perhaps the fever has done something to his eyesight, but at the stairs' landing he points outside the hall window. He wants me to look at a blue heron perched on a fence. I turn my face away after I look in obedience to his request, thankful that he can't see the expression on my face. The relief.

I have little else to feel relieved about. Athos' condition has improved only  somewhat.  Some days he will limp down from his bedroom to have supper with Porthos and me, other days, and these more often than not, he will remain in his room, gazing out the window in silence. Oblivious to everyone and everything around him. Lying in his bed, grey hair spread over his pillow, eyes sunk into their sockets, the sweat still glistening on his skin, he looks close to death. I can't bear to look at him, so I leave him alone. It's what he wishes. I can't do anything more for him

Now I lead him down into the kitchen, one hand closed tightly over his elbow, supporting him without letting him know that I do so. I lead him to his chair. He grunts as he sits down, pulling his blankets closer about him. He looks lost. He darts a few looks around the kitchen, taking in the disarray his absence has brought to it. I turn away from him to prepare his medicine. I don't need the other priests to prepare it for me anymore. It's become second nature to me. I pound the ingredients into a clay bowl, mixing them with water till I've recreated the white, thick medicine I know Athos hates and does not drink unless I watch him.

"Doesn't Porthos know how to use a broom... a cleaning rag, even?" I hear Athos murmur, gazing around him. I know he doesn't expect any answer. I hand him his medicine, ignore his frown. Arms folded across my chest, I wait for him to drink it. I can't help smiling as I watch him gulp it down. I can see his lips form a curse as he hands the cup back to me in one brusque movement. I rinse the cup out and place it to dry by the window sill. Athos looks at me in silence, hunched into himself. He's debating whether or not I exist again, debating whether the whole room exists, holding everything in a gaze that doesn't see.

"Your fever is not coming down, Athos," I tell him, pulling up a stool close to him. I don't look at him, directing my words instead to the flat of my palms. "I'm afraid I can't allow you to leave your room anymore. This will be the last day. This is not good for you. You need complete bed rest if you want to recover."

The words die away in my lips. Athos is looking straight at me. The look in his eyes makes me uncomfortable. It's like a dull, quiet emptiness. There is nothing behind them, no warmth, no coldness, nothing. I draw in a sharp breath. He doesn't seem to notice that my hands have began to shake. I don't want to notice it myself. I gaze down at them, long, pale fingers lying over my robes. Aristocrat's hands, smooth and manicured. They clench into fists and I raise my gaze to meet that of Athos'. His eyes are still dull, still impassive. I get up.

I should leave him. I should just leave him to shiver and cough and pity himself. There's nothing I can do. I can only give him the medicine, help him down the stairs. I can't reach into him and pull out the shadows I see around his face. Damn it. I can't do anything. I can't even pray. Not now. Not when I'm praying for something. The words seem hollow, meaningless. They mean too much to me. He means to much to me, and the thoughts and fears that plague my mind hurt me. I have sacrificed too much to become the man I am: logical, composed, strong. If I allow myself to fall under the weight he's placed on my shoulders, I could lose both of us...

"Aramis..."

I turn my head, not looking at him, merely acknowledging his words. I feel him hesitate for a moment. "Am I a terrible man, Aramis?" he asks at length. He speaks softly, defeat creeping into his words. When I turn to look at him I find him slumped forward, grey hair cascading into his eyes, shoulders sagging. I want to reach out and place a hand over those shoulders, but my fists clench by my sides. When I speak my voice is low, measured.

"No. You are not. You have made hard choices in your past, and life has not been... kind to you, but I don't think that you are a terrible man, Athos. If anything, you are the best one among us."

I hear him chuckle under his breath, a derisive, tired sound. "The best...?" he murmurs. He looks up at me. His eyes are no longer dull, but sharp and narrowed. A wounded wolf cornered by a careless hunter. The silence between us hangs heavy in the air. Unaware that I do so, my fingers curl around the crucifix hanging around my neck. I find myself taking one step backwards. Athos darts his gaze around the room, his voice steady and low as he speaks.

"You know, when I made the decision to marry... to marry Raoul's mother, at first all I could think about was how lovely she was... you know? We were happy. When she learned she was pregnant, we behaved like two complete idiots... We just... I mean, we just had all these clothes made, and a little cradle for the back room and she'd pace the room at night, one hand placed over her belly. Just walking back and forth. We'd talk about so many things during the night... I didn't want to believe that she had died... when Raoul was born. But Raoul brought me so much happiness... He made me realize how much I had taken for granted and... and...  Well. He was a beautiful boy. Maybe he didn't teach me anything, no. But he was so... so beautiful, Aramis... he..."

His voice quivers. I look away. I don't want to see his tears. He can't go on for a while, merely sits there, letting the tears flow while I stand beside him. At length, he draws in a breath.

"But Raoul died... and I couldn't stop thinking about her... about Milady. I... I killed her, Aramis." He raises his hands, holding them up limply. "These hands killed my wife... and these hands couldn't save the woman I loved... the son she gave me... my Raoul. These hands could only wring themselves and peel potatoes. Peel potatoes. They can't bring back Raoul. They can't bring back Raoul! Nothing can bring any of them back from where I sent them!"

Before I can react, he has leapt to his feet, reached out to fling down the baskets placed beneath the window. The potatoes lie scattered at his feet, crushed beneath his feet. He doesn't notice. With a cry, rising like a howl from his throat, he draws his hand across the dinner table. Cups and plates crash to the floor, shards flying, pulverized beneath his feet as he makes his way around the room, knocking down anything he can reach. Like a child. He picks up a chair, flings it away. It smashes into the far wall, knocking over the crucifix. It clatters to the ground, shivering with each blow Athos aims at the table. He seems possessed. I edge away from him, looking for any crack in his fury, any sign of fatigue. I can see the sweat in his face,  the rage in his eyes. Closing my eyes,  I take a deep breath, reach out for him.

He's hard to hold on to. For a moment, it seems hopeless. My arms wrap around his shoulders, but I can feel him lift me up the ground, trying to shake me off, screaming incoherent words. I can feel the room spinning away from underneath me, the sweat running down Athos' back . I grit my teeth, bringing my lips close to his ear as I tighten my hold. I'm not sure if he hears me, I can't remember what I say. They have no effect at first. He merely strives to shrug me off, a string of jumbled words coming out of his mouth. I dig my fingers into his skin, plant my feet firmly into the ground, keeping him crouched, hopefully disoriented from his rage and climbing fever. I feel his muscles begin to go lax beneath my arms. He releases a breath, tries again to shake me off. This time, I let him.

"Athos," I pant. "Enough. You are not well. You are making yourself sick. Do you understand me? If you don't stop, you could kill yourself. Enough. For the love of God, Athos."

I watch him as he stands with his back to me, shoulders rising and falling sharply with every breath he draws. Slowly, he straightens up. One hands rises to tuck his hair behind his ear. He takes a few, careful steps around the room, mouth working but forming no words, stewing over something I can't understand. A caged wolf now. He looks up at me as he paces, hand rising once again to tuck away his hair. He stops beside the window. I follow his gaze to the vegetables he scattered to the floor. I hear him sigh.

"I want to do more than just work with my hands, Aramis... I need to work for something, for someone... Once, I could have worked for D'Artag... D'Artagnan. But not now. I... I need to know that I can be useful to someone, Aramis."

I bend down to pick up the crucifix he knocked down in his anger, hold it close to my chest. I have no words for him. There's nothing I can say. I watch him pick up his baskets and scoop up any potato he can save. He coughs, his fever finally laying claim to his energies. I make my way across the room, careful not to step on any of his vegetables. I stand next to him, words forming and dying away in my head. My hand hovers his shoulder for a moment. Slowly, I place it over his shoulder.

Athos doesn't say anything. He coughs. And clasps his hand over my own.
 

Athos

The broth simmers to itself in the pot. I can't think of anything else I can add to it. Picking up my spoon, I take a careful sip. Nothing seems to be wrong. With a sigh, I set down the spoon, rubbing my hands over my pants.

After four days of complete bed rest, Aramis has pronounced me well enough to come down into the kitchen again. I'm forbidden from stepping out of the house, but I don't mind. The Jesuits have planted a new patch of green peppers and lentils for me, with a few rows of eggplant for good measure. No one bothers me in the kitchen while I cook, and I'm grateful to them. Sometimes I still lapse into long silences, the world around me falling out of focus as I sit in my corner. I can't remember much of the logic or the order of what I think about after I come to myself, but the lapses will leave me quiet and withdrawn. I go to my room then, or force myself to sweep the room. I find sweeping relaxes me. I'm getting older than I thought...

I hear a pair of shy footsteps at the door, and I raise my head. A quiet voice calls out my name. Philippe. He comes into the room slowly, arms folded behind his back. I greet him with a smile, hope to God it doesn't look as tired as I feel. Philippe smiles in return, the gesture strangely soothing to me. He tells me Porthos ran into some trouble during their walk that day, wasps, he says, and so Porthos had sent him back to the house for the remainder of the afternoon. I tell him about the herbs Aramis keeps in the cabinet, some which might smooth out wasp stings.

I watch Philippe rummage through the cabinet as I stir my broth. He's skinny, too skinny. His hair is not as healthy as... Well, not as healthy as the other's. But he's graceful, without realizing it. He curses under his breath as he knocks over a bottle of smelling salts, the pungent aroma making him sneeze. I smile. He seems so carefree for a moment. Not a scared young man... not a prisoner. He finally locates the herbs I told him about, murmuring the child-like found it I'm apt to many times. He lifts the bottle so that I may see he's found it and turns to leave. He hesitates at the door.

Athos, he says. I can see worry begin to coalesce behind his eyes, and I raise a hand to hush him. Dipping my spoon into the broth, I hold it out for him. He looks at me in puzzlement for a moment before the shadow of a smile plays across his lips.

I'm not sure if this is turning out right, I say. Would you mind if I asked that you...? He nods, takes the spoon from me. He closes his eyes briefly as he tastes, brows knitting together in thought. I can tell he likes it even before he tells me. I smile. It's the green peppers, I tell him, and the carrots. I don't think he understands, but he's happy as he turns to leave the room. He kisses my cheek before stepping out. I lay my hand over it after he leaves, watching as the door he goes out through sways slowly back and forth. A warm feeling is stealing over my heart. Very warm. For a moment, it feels as if I have a family of my own again. Or maybe it's something different. I can't place my finger on it.

I don't think it matters.
 

I finally finished this. For a while, I thought I never would, and that I'd lose the original inspiration. Ah, thank the Heavens for public libraries that stock copies of the Dangerous Liaisons soundtrack. And thank Heaven for Louann Miller. Without her good criticism, interesting and stimulating conversations on Iron Mask in general and Athos in particular,  and support, I probably would have abandoned this story. Thank you, Louann.  This one's for you.
 
 

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© April -May, 1998 Team Bonet. The Man in the Iron Mask is © 1998 United Pictures and Randall Wallace. The characters Athos, Aramis, Porthos, Milady de Winter, Raoul, and Philippe are © 1840 Alexandre Dumas and all of those who helped him. Thank you so much for taking the time to read.