The smell of sweat filled his nostrils. It was not a smell he was accustomed to. It had been years since he had been in so much action as to work up a good sweat. His mouth gasped for air and he slowed down, his legs tired of the weight of his body. It had been years since he could walk and run as he pleased. Years. He stopped completely, catching his breath, and closed his eyes. The darkness he found there was comfortable, even more comfortable than the hot sun that washed his face and the sweat that ran through his limbs. In his mind, it was cold again, dark again, lonely again, as it had been for so many years.

He opened his eyes suddenly, a small gasp escaping his body. He stood silent, feeling his body shake, the sudden shill rushing through his heart. This same feeling had possessed him more than once this week, and he didn't like it. He shook his head, hoping to send it away. It scared him. He wanted to scream all of a sudden, wanted to let his body fall and let out such horrid screams until his limbs would not move anymore.

"Philippe?"

The young man gasped, his head jerking away from the vicious thoughts that threatened to drive it insane. He blinked as he realized the man walking a few feet before him had just called him. The man turned around, expecting the young man to rush to his side, with a confused look. Wild, yellow hair fell over his shoulders and his face was red, even under the huge, brimmed hat he wore.

"What is keeping you?" Porthos asked, coming up to the young man. "We are almost there."

Philippe didn't wish to let his friend see into his soul. He knew the three men that watched over him could see even through the most concealed darkness, into the souls of every man. Sometimes, this was a blessing, others a curse. He shook his head, forcing the image of the darkness away from his mind and stared into the flushed face of the tall musketeer. Porthos' eyebrows were knitted together in a serious frown.

"I needed to catch my breath, monsieur," Philippe said. "Forgive me."

"We need to eat," Porthos said. "We have been away from the house for too long. You look tired, and I look hungry."

Philippe nodded, glad that the giant seemed not to notice the shadows in his eyes. He rubbed the side of his face, thankful that Porthos had began to talk again and he followed the giant down the path that lead to the house. He walked faster, looking at his feet, hardly listening to the rambling musketeer. Porthos moved quickly through the grass, talking about the great food the maids would have made, describing the delicious plates of meat and bread that no doubly waited for their arrival. Philippe noticed a dim smoke escape the small chimney on the side of the house and saw one of the workers petting one of the stable horses. The house lay nestled in the middle of the grass and greenery like a huge brown tree. So perfectly peaceful and serene, quiet and forgiving.

The young man slowed down, his eyes closing against their will. His lips parted slightly. He was aware of the sun beating on his back, of the birds on their homes in the trees, of the huge man that had continued on his way back to the house, talking about the sort of food he wished would be given him. A breeze moved his hair, and he opened his eyes. The house washed over his senses, its stillness and homeliness caressing his skin. Philippe wanted to scream again, just let his body roll into the yellowish grass and scream.

He wanted to go back to the smooth darkness and the loneliness.

The huge musketeer slammed the door open, letting his laughter ring inside the home. Voices greeted him and he was glad to see a good meal cooking in the fire, as the smell of fresh bread came to his nostrils. He found no one in the kitchen, but was aware of various maids in the back rooms, cooking as well, he hoped. He saw the resent work of one of the Jesuits and smiled to himself. He loved hiding and keeping secrets from the king, if it would all be this much fun. He removed his hat and gloves and tossed them on a chair, letting the rustic smell of the walls wash over him.

It had been two days since Aramis had left, the Jesuit having had to rush away to Paris. Porthos wondered why he had left in such a hurry, but the bishop would not tell him anything. Secret and sneaky, such were not qualities for a man of The Faith, Porthos thought as he sat down on one of the wooden seats. Yet, such where the ways of Aramis. He had never questioned those.

A pile of white cloths lay in a bundle on one of the chairs by the fire. The giant smiled, drinking from one of the full cups on the table. Athos' mending, he thought, and heard himself snicker. Athos always kept himself busy, even if it were in some very strange manners. A few of the clothes he had already sown lay hanging on the back of one of the taller chairs by the window, their gentle sleeves hanging limply. The small needle gleamed from under the grey fabric and he could almost see the man's delicate fingers working, moving slowly. He wondered if Athos had risen from his bed or if he was still up in his room. He half expected to hear the voice of his friend or the violin he fancied to play, even if he, Porthos thought with a smile, could not play at all. No such sounds emerged from Athos's room. The house was silent save for the echoes of the voices of the distant workers, going over the house devotions.

Porthos turned, his movements slow, as the door was opened again, and saw Philippe wonder into the room. He heard a small, ragged breath escape the boy as he closed the door behind him. Philippe didn't say a word and walked towards the stairs, not even looking at the cooking pans by the fire nor at the man in the room. He bowed his head, hoping a few strands of his hair covered his eyes so the giant would not see the hollowness he felt in them. Porthos watched him walk upstairs, the boy's feet making little noise, and stood silent by the crackling fire. He put the cup back on the table, running a finger over its rim. He had seen the darkness in the boy's soul.

The bed groaned softly under his weight, the bed posts creaking loudly as if in pain. The young man rolled over, letting his hands hang from the side of the mattress and let his legs hang limply on the bottom of the bed. Each time he moved, he heard the groan of the wood. He closed his eyes tightly, listening to the sound. He didn't like the feeling that threatened to come over him, he longed to be free again, to run downstairs and join the musketeer by the fire. He wished he would ask him for another tale, hoping to be delighted by the sound of the carefree giant whose laughter and joy filled him with life. He wanted to rise from this old bed and return to the fields, explore as he should, learn as he must, wait until Aramis would return.

The walls of the ceiling were a dark grey, small cracks running parallel across the stones. Huge wooden seems cornered the walls, sturdy and strong enough to hold the entire house. Solid wooden columns emerged from the walls, like titans holding the stone roof up on their shoulders. Philippe followed those columns with his eyes, their blue darkening. Three columns and a forth in the farthest corner, by the window. He rolled his head sideways, his lips moving without making a sound, and stared at the smoothness of that forth column. The fingers in his hand gripped one of the covers under his body.

Those are the rooms of your mother. Philippe's eyes widened softly, as Athos' voice echoed in his mind. He looked up at the grey ceiling again, feeling the echo touch his skull. A dark image moved on that ceiling, as his vision shifted into the hands of the gentle Athos, his delicate fingers touching each room in the model castle. Philippe held his breath as the vision became clearer, the memory returning to him like a whiplash. The servants quarters, the royal chambers, the room of the lady Christine, the banquet halls. Philippe's lips moved silently. Those are the rooms of your mother.

The ceiling vision faded slowly, leaving him as fast as it had come. A soft breeze moved the rustic window curtains on his right, caressing the column next to it gently. His mother. Philippe had never seen his mother. The young man's eyes followed the lazy flutter of the curtains, forcing himself not to think. A rosy hand touched those curtains, soft and smooth, like a rose bud. Long, lavish hair floated with the sway of the rustic fabric, and a sweet smile shaped the eyes of the woman who smiled at the young man from within the crystal morning light. The vision's head moved sideways, her smile widening slowly in maternal understanding. Philippe's hand reached out for the vision of his mother and it quavered slightly. He drew the hand back, not wishing the gentle queen to disappear. She lowered her head sadly, her contours already becoming the window curtains again. The young man had never seen his real mother, his vision could not possibly resemble her true beauty. Yet, already all sorts of images had haunted his dreams, all of them the fair, lovely queen he believed his mother to be. They came to him in his dream as this one had come to his window.

He ran his hands over his head, combing his hair backwards, feeling his skin brush against the bed covers. The fabric of the mattress met his bare hands and he stopped, letting it brush against them. Philippe didn't wish to think, he wanted to forget, to force his body to rise from bed and descend to the fireplace where Porthos sat, probably eating alone. He frowned, his features twisted in silent pain, and struggled to rise to a sitting position. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs touching the board floor, his hands on his lap. He pushed away the thin covers around his hips,  and ran his fingers over the fabric of his shirt.

He should leave, run away, far to a place where he could not be found ever again. He looked down at his feet, at the small shape of his fingers, clean and white after years of being enfolded in grime. He could not run away. The three men that had brought him to  this house counted on him, trusted him, wished the best for him. He lowered his head. He did not know what was the best for him, could not possibly know. He had never seen the world, never known its life until they freed him. He looked out at the fields the stretched away where him and Porthos had been walking a few hours ago. The grass moved in the gentle wind, caressed like a baby by its mother. Philippe breathed louder, his chest heaving like a wounded animal.

His breath quickened, its gentle sound becoming a harsh rattle in his lungs. He felt it lap at the back of his teeth as he bent down and tore off his left boot. He watched his hands, staring at them as if they were enemies. They removed his right boot, tossing it to the distant corner. They reached up to his waist, running fiercely up to his chest. They undid his vest, tearing it away from his shoulders and untied the white strings that held his shirt in place. The young man closed his eyes and rung the shirt over his head, and let it drop into the floor next to the wooden, groaning bed. His long hair fell over his naked back and the cold, boarded floor touched his bare feet. He rose from the bed, listening to his breath drown out the painful moans of its wooden legs.

The box was enormous, wooden with joints of iron that folded into each other and were held together with rusty nails. Philippe stared at the box, following the old silver metal as it wrapped itself protectively over the wood. He walked closer to it, his footsteps silent. It lay almost hidden in the corner of the room, near the windows and their curtains, nestled between the forth column and two chests covered by cloths. Beside it stood  a single slab of glass, a mirror, whose surface was almost ruined with dust and rust.

Philippe's hands touched the top of the box, his body falling next to it as if he were exhausted. He closed his eyes, feeling his mind move ever faster, threatening to drive him insane. To scream again. He could feel the maddened scream build in his throat, his gentle blue eyes taken over by the fear again. His mouth gasped for air as he turned away from the box, not daring to open its lid. He dragged his body slowly, feeling his bare chest heave madly and reached out for the mirror. His small hand pulled at it, shifting its huge glass surface closer to him. His thin, dry lips moved silently as his fingers forced the glass to turn towards him. Wide eyes stared at him, blue and deep, hollow in their sockets, scared and frightened. He felt his chest seize to move as he stared at his reflection, at the slender, kneeling young man the mirror revealed to him. Philippe's hand ran upwards over the dusty glass, clearing the surface, as he drew closer. Thin and scared, his long, brown hair a mess over his bare shoulders. The young man's breath came in short gasps as he ran his fingers, feeling the dust cover them, over his reflected features.

He flung the lid away from the box, his hands working fast, possessed by grief. He heard his moans come like those of a dog and he reached down into the box, taking the single object that lay inside its secrecy. Eyes wide, air rushing too fast from his nostrils, mouth quivering, he took the iron mask, his fingers feeling the metal cut into his skin. The face in the mirror rose its head, eyes wide, as Philippe dragged his naked body closer to the mirror, his hands and legs shaking. He heard his breath grow louder as he put the heavy iron mask over his head again, his hands working quickly, bringing the bolts and metals close to each other as they had been for six years. Philippe moaned, his body quivering sideways as he desperately closed the hideous mask over his head. The mirror shook slightly.

His heart stopped.

A small, sweaty hand, one of its fingers painted with brown rust, touched the glass. Philippe's lips parted slowly, his breath still, his mind quiet. From within the hollow darkness of the mask, imprisoned in its metal, his blue eyes looked at him. He brought his hand closer to his head and ran his fingers over the crude iron, touching the bolts and imperfections.

Slowly, he rose from the boarded floor, pulling one of the old, crumpled cloths that lay beside him. He staggered sideways, feeling his body weakened, felt his limbs quaver beneath him as the fear left him. The curtains fluttered over him, touching his half nakedness, his long hair. His mask. He reached out and touched the window, drawing closer to it. The curtains glided over his body, but he did not feel this. He did not feel anything anymore, just the smooth calmness that rushed over his tired body, taking the fear away. Taking the fear away.

He rose his hands, pulling the crumpled cloth over his body, and closed his eyes. The soft, morning breeze from the grass fields caressed him with its gentle kiss.
 

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© Team Bonet April 9, 1998 © 1998 United Artists. Unauthorized copiers will be prosecuted by Federal law. Please, ask for permission.