Round 3

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Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3a/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

---

Three: Athos

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The Musketeers prove to be exactly what Athos’ wounded soul needs. He doesn’t think he’ll ever quite heal from his broken bond with Charlotte, or Thomas’ murder, but he learns to bury the pain beneath the outward signs of a loyal solider. Even as he builds a new life for himself he’s comforted by the feeling of solidarity with the other Musketeers. He gradually grows to realize that, while his recruitment was accidental, he fits in here. There’s not a man among them who doesn’t have some ancient pain shadowing his every step. Treville curates his Musketeers carefully. They’re all looking to start over in some way and forget the past.

Treville himself cares for his men as if they’re his own pups. It’s not a comparison Athos makes lightly, nor would he ever speak it aloud: the word pup is loaded, referring as it does to throwbacks. Betas call their offspring children. At least until they’re born. Then the terms proper to the offspring’s sex would have been used, according to the old ways. But a Beta bears children; an Omega carries pups.

And Treville is an Omega. Athos had known that the moment the Captain had made him an offer of a commission. With Charlotte and Thomas still haunting him, Athos had smelled it on the Captain easily. In retrospect that amazes him. Treville takes great care with his scent. And while Athos was convalescing from his long depression in the Captain’s hotel, he’d seen Treville partially disrobed, seen the mating bite low on his shoulder. Alphas and Omegas emit pheromones for many reasons – territorial defense, posturing, to convey information like danger or opportunity to their packmates – but the primary reason, especially in the modern day, is to attract a mate. Once mated, a throwback’s scent diminishes considerably, unless they’re under great stress.

Athos can only conclude that he has an unusually strong sense of smell. Living in the remoteness of la Fère, he’d never had much to compare it to. But here in the city he discovers it to be true. He catches whiffs of other throwbacks that can’t possibly be as obvious to the Betas who surround them. Indeed, the handful of throwbacks he’s identified among the Musketeers also don’t seem to notice each other.

A gift of his bloodline, perhaps. Athos had been taught young that Betan interbreeding causes Alphaic and Omegan traits to be partially repressed. In the past, before the Inquisition, purebreds were the cream of society. Their offspring expressed their sex’s traits more strongly than the pups born from mixed lines that had interbred with Betas. Purebred Alphas are stronger, more commanding, more magnetic. More dominant. Purebred Omegas are faster, defter, quicker-witted. Sharper.

Most importantly in the modern world, a purer bloodline means a milder scent. And, perhaps, a better sense of smell? If so, it would be a self-reinforcing cycle. A pureblood wouldn’t be as attractive to a mongrel if the mongrel couldn’t scent them properly. It would keep the preference of the noble bloodlines for each other, perpetuating their heredity and power.

His nose’s primary value to Athos is the sense of security with which it provides him. Knowing his captain is an Omega who regards the Musketeers as his pack means that Athos has one fewer person from whom he must hide. And he can be assured that the Captain, at least, will not betray him.

It’s not the same thing as having his family alive. But it’s more than he’d ever thought he’d have again.

When Athos finally climbs out of the pit of grief and self-loathing, Treville hands him his commission and assigns him to one of the squads that perpetually keep a spot open for new recruits. It’s a training assignment, the Captain explains. Athos will stay with this group for perhaps half a year, learning the ropes of Muskteering, cutting his teeth on minor assignments like guard duty and policing Paris’ streets. When the Captain judges him ready, Athos will be reassigned to a more permanent squad and given real duties.

Over the next six months, Athos is drilled in everything a Musketeer must know. Lessons range from how to wear and clean his uniform, to how to mount guard, to how to behave in formal situations. Athos absorbs it all, eager for any kind of a distraction from the ruins of his former life.

“A Musketeer is an odd duck in the formal hierarchy,” their squad’s leader, a grizzled veteran named Laflèche, explains. “You’re not noble – no matter what title you might be hiding in your saddlebags – but you hold precedence just behind the nobility, and if there’s danger, your orders will rule. You must be firm without giving offense. The common people will respect you, but not in the same way they defer to the blood. You’ve got to be assertive. When you interact with the merchant classes it’s the worst. The precedence is murky enough that it’s difficult to resolve. You could assert your privileges, but it’s best to be flexible and adapt your approach to each situation.”

Athos learns this firsthand when he takes too haughty a tone with a grocer and gets a basket of rotten apples thrown at his head.

“Next time, duck,” Laflèche advises unsympathetically, dabbing at the bleeding cut on Athos’ forehead. “And you might try saying please.”

His second squad member Havet is about Athos’ age in years, though he seems older from years of living hard, both before and after he became a Musketeer. He’s one of those souls blessed with eternal good cheer, though, and a bit of a dandy. Athos won’t have to worry about his uniform or equipment ever failing to pass muster after Havet is through with him.

“The other regiments all peacock shamelessly whenever they have the chance, because they may never get another one,” Havet says, teaching an uncharacteristically clumsy Athos how to wield needle and thread for the first time. “Whereas we appear regularly at court and guard the King and his household. Of course they’re jealous! Who wouldn’t be? And some of them, especially the Red Guards, are just looking for an excuse to prove that we’re not up to the task. The uniform may not seem like it matters, but they’ll argue that sloppy dress means a sloppy attitude and we can’t be trusted with the safety of the King.”

It’s a variation of an old argument his sire had used to make about nobility. Your clothes reflect your station, he’d taught the young Olivier. Even if someone has never met you, they’ll see from your dress and your bearing that you deserve respect. That’s the hardest part. The rest is just keeping respect, which is much easier.

It makes it easier for Athos to swallow the lessons in stitchery, though he’s still annoyed when too many finger-pricks give him trouble at swordfighting the next day.

Havet has a shadow in the form of his final squad member, Brasseur, another new recruit who’s barely old enough to shave. Brasseur looks nothing like Thomas, but it doesn’t matter; any male youth will remind Athos of his odem for years to come. It helps somewhat that Brasseur isn’t shy or retiring, like Thomas. He’s an eager young man, bursting with excitement and dying to make his mark on the world. He’s imprinted on Havet for whatever reason, and the other Musketeer has his hands full with him. Athos wonders sometimes why Laflèche doesn’t step in and help detach Brasseur from Havet. What will the young man do when their novitiate is up?

“The two of them will probably move out together,” Laflèche says when Athos wonders this aloud after sword practice one day. Swords are one area of being a Musketeer where Athos requires little additional practice, so he and Laflèche have ended early, and are sitting on a bench in the practice yard watching Havet and Brasseur go another few rounds. The youth is from a farm out west and lacks the formal training with sword and musket that Olivier had received from puppyhood.

“I thought Havet was stuck on novice training duty until the Captain wasn’t mad at him anymore,” Athos says, remembering the various tall tales about Havet’s alleged misdeeds that the Musketeer himself had told over the various evenings of Athos’ novitiate. The more wine Havet drank the taller the tales became, and Athos still isn’t sure exactly what he’d done to earn his Capitan’s ire. Especially because, if Laflèche was to be believed, Havet had always been something of a scamp.

Laflèche just smiles. “Sometimes teaching goes both ways,” he says. “Brasseur’s been good for Havet. Steadied him down a lot. The Captain put Havet down here because he needed a break and a reality check. Looks to me like he’s got both.”

Athos nods, somewhat dubiously. In the yard, Brasseur scores a touch on Havet and the other Musketeer collapses dramatically, rolling around in the mud – unusually, without a care for his uniform – and bemoaning his imminent death in florid tones. If this is Havet being steady, Athos thinks it’s no wonder the Captain had to send him down to novice duty for a while.

“Gentlemen,” the Captain’s voice says behind them in greeting. Both Athos and Laflèche move to stand and salute, but Treville waves them off and joins them on the bench. Together they watch as Havet’s antics take a sudden turn towards dirty tricks. He swipes Brasseur’s legs out from under him in a move worthy of the battlefield. Thankfully both swords have been kicked out of the way already, and the lesson degenerates into a wrestling match fairly quickly.

“What do you think?” Treville asks Laflèche, amused.

Laflèche watches the two scamps tolerantly. “They’ll do,” he says, voice belying his fondness.

“And Athos?” the Captain goes on, as if Athos isn’t right there listening to every word they say.

Laflèche glances at the Musketeer novice sitting next to him. “More than,” he says with quiet confidence.

The Captain smiles. Then he shouts, “Hey, you two! Inspection!”

Havet and Brasseur spring to their feet and into parade position so quickly Athos almost can’t believe they were rolling in the mud moments ago. Treville stands as well and prowls around them, scowling broadly to hide the way his lips keep twitching.

“Absolutely disgraceful,” the Captain proclaims. “Are you Musketeers, or Red Guards?”

“Musketeers, sir!” the two bark.

“Seems to me that our uniforms are supposed to be blue, Musketeer Havet,” Treville says. “Yours looks awfully brown to me.”

Havet looks dismayed. “Yes, sir,” he says dismally. “It won’t happen again, sir.”

“Hmm. See that it doesn’t,” Treville says, backing away and finally giving them the wave to relax position. “Your new squad will be expecting you to look your best.”

“New squad?” Brasseur stutters. He glances sideways at Havet.

“You’ve been a novice long enough, young one,” Treville says to him. “And this one’s been stuck on training long enough.” That’s to Havet.

“Yes sir,” Havet says. Neither look terribly happy.

Treville pulls out a single piece of paper from his doublet. “Your new assignment,” he says, extending it to a point about halfway between the two Musketeers.

Havet and Brasseur share a quick look. “Sir?” Havet says tentatively. “Which of our assignments is that, sir?”

Treville gives him a look of exaggerated surprise. “Did you really expect me to write it out twice?” he says incredulously. “Waste pen and ink like that, with our budget as short as it is? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Musketeer, but you two are just going to have to share the same set of orders this time. This is a regiment in the King’s army, not a noble estate; we all have to make these little sacrifices sometimes.”

Brasseur breaks into a wide smile.

“Yes, sir,” Havet says, much more happily this time.

“Well, well. Isn’t someone going to take this from me?” Treville demands. He’s doing an admirable job of keeping his own amusement out of his voice, but it’s there in the way his lips keep twitching.

“Yes sir!” Brasseur says at once, taking the orders. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well, well,” Treville says again. He turns slightly and pulls out another piece of paper, extending it to Athos. “And here’s yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” Athos says, taking the orders. He turns the paper over once in his hand, then tucks it away to open later.

It’s odd. He’d been ready to end his novitiate, more than ready, but he finds himself hesitant nonetheless. It’s like starting over all over again.

“As for you,” Treville says to Laflèche, “I’ve got another two coming up from their families’ farms in the next month. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Laflèche sighs, adopting a put-upon air. “I suppose if I could make Musketeers out of this lot, sir, I can make Musketeers out of just about anyone,” he says, mock-serious.

“Oi,” Havet laughs. Athos knows that laugh. If the Captain hadn’t been standing right there, Laflèche would have found himself in the mud just then.

Or possibly not. When Laflèche wants to, he has any of them pinned in seconds, without turning a hair. But he lets them get away with it every now and again regardless; he says it wouldn’t do to thump them all the time.

“Get out of here,” Treville says, laughing. “All of you. Take the rest of the evening and do whatever you like. Tomorrow you start your new duties.”

“Yes, sir,” they all say, and this time everyone’s smiling.

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3b/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

That night Athos and Brasseur buy the wine and thank their elder squad members for their help in teaching them the ropes of soldiering. Athos spends five minutes out of every ten wondering what his new squad’s assignments will be. His novitiate has been valuable, but nervousness aside, he’s ready for something a little more challenging than guard duty.

“Good luck,” Havet says, toasting Athos with his wineglass. It’s a fine Anjou. A little much for a novice Musketeer, but Olivier’s father had been meticulous about contingency planning. Athos’ lines of funding hadn’t died with Charlotte and Thomas. “May you cover yourself in glory, eh?”

“Thank you,” Athos says as seriously as he can, five cups in. It’s easier than it probably ought to be. Wine doesn’t make him merry, as it does for Havet. If anything it has the opposite effect.

“Time for you to get some rest,” Laflèche suggests to Havet.

“Aye, aye,” Havet says agreeably. He hauls himself to his feet, then pauses, blinking at the floor. Brasseur is sprawled there, snoring gently, his third cup of wine having proven too much for him. Havet could just step over the young Musketeer to leave, but it doesn’t seem to occur to him.

Laflèche sighs. “Here, now, Athos, lend a hand,” he instructs. Together they heave Brasseur up and drape him over Havet’s shoulder. “You take him home, now,” Laflèche tells Havet. “Make sure nothing happens to him, all right? He’ll have a deuce of a headache when he wakes.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Havet promises with exaggerated solemnity. He winks.

Laflèche watches them go, then sits back down. Athos pushes the rest of the wine bottle over to him. He’s probably had enough tonight.

The other Musketeer doesn’t take the offering. He just studies Athos, squinting in the dim light of the tavern. “You’re a smart young thing,” he says suddenly. “Very smart.”

“I am as God made me,” Athos murmurs philosophically.

“Exactly.” Laflèche points a finger at him. “That’s exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. It sounds like you’re answering me, but you’re actually saying something completely different, something you don’t think I’ll understand.”

Athos blinks warily, straightening in his seat and trying to will the wine from his veins. How much has Laflèche had to drink? Athos would’ve said the older Musketeer had been matching them all cup for cup – excepting Brasseur, who’d passed out early – but Laflèche sounds far too sober for that.

“Your father should have taught you better,” Laflèche mutters to himself. Drunk as Athos is, he can’t suppress his flinch at the word father. And Laflèche sees it. Because, Athos is beginning to realize, he’s been watching for it.

“Well, listen to me, then, boy,” Laflèche says, deliberately using another Betan word to reinforce his point. “You’re about to go into the big wide world. Oh, don’t give me that look. Surely you’ve figured out by now that you haven’t spend the last six months with this squad because the Captain hadn’t anywhere better to put you.”

“He said a novitiate would do me good,” Athos says cautiously.

“He didn’t just mean it for soldiering,” Laflèche says.

“Ah.” Athos contemplates the still half-full bottle of wine. Perhaps he was wrong before. Perhaps he’s not drunk enough for this conversation.

Laflèche sees the line of his gaze and moves the bottle away completely. “That’s one thing,” he says. “You drink too much.”

“It helps me sleep,” Athos says. It should be another of his evasions. But his eyes flick up at the wrong moment, and suddenly he’s remembering all of his nightmares at once. The perennial ones of the sterilization tools laid out at Mass, the older ones of his parents’ death, and the still-new ones of Thomas’ body and Charlotte’s gruesome fate. Athos hadn’t seen what kind of death his mate had been given, but his imagination has obligingly conjured up some images for him to see when he closes his eyes at night.

Laflèche’s face softens. “We’ve all lost something to them,” he says quietly. “We can’t let it rule us. As soon as we do, they win.”

Athos has nothing to say to that. To him, it sounds like just another empty proverb.

The other Musketeer sighs. “You’re about to go out on your own,” he repeats. “Up until now you’ve been protected. God willing, you will remain protected. The Musketeers look out for their own. The Captain, now. He’s doing God’s work. You can always count on the Captain. You know that, eh?”

“Yes,” Athos agrees. He knows he can count on Treville.

“Good. That’s good. And now what I want you to know is: you can always count on me, too. All right? If you ever need anything, and I do mean anything, you come straight to me.”

Athos stiffens. Even through the wine, Laflèche’s words ring a very peculiar bell.

“You’re one of them,” he says in astonishment. “You’re with the Underground.”

“Keep your voice down,” Laflèche admonishes. He glances around the tavern. No one’s heard; the place is too noisy for a stray word to be audible from a distance. The older Musketeer probably chose this place for that reason. Still, he’s cautious.

And rightly so.

Every throwback pup knows of the Underground, even though many, at least those of noble birth, never have any direct contact with it. It exists in every country, Athos has heard, though more effectively in some than others. A network of throwbacks who help and look out for reach other. They work to divert Inquisition attention, rescue pups from sterilization, and teach them to pass as Betas. In extreme situations, it’s said that they knew secret ways to smuggle throwbacks out of the country, though in most cases escaping is even more dangerous than staying behind.

The lower-class pups benefit from the Underground’s existence the most. Village midwives are much more likely to hand over a pup at birth to the Inquisition for sterilization, confinement or death. In that area, as in so many others, the pups of the merchant and noble classes are more fortunate; their families can afford private midwives, like the ones who’d helped Athos’ carrier whelp he and Thomas. Some noble lines have loyal Beta midwives and caregivers whose lines had been with them since before the Inquisition, and who have stayed loyal despite the Church’s new heresy.

“I’m going to show you something,” Laflèche says. He glances deliberately downward, drawing Athos’ own gaze. Hidden beneath the overhang of their table, where it crowds against the wall, Laflèche is showing Athos his empty palm.

A quick flick of his wrist, and suddenly he’s holding a small chit, about the size of a coin. Unlike a coin, it’s a dull, matte black – some kind of metal? – and is bisected with a red line.

Another flick, and it’s gone.

“Did you see?” Laflèche asks, returning to his wine as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

“Yes,” Athos says slowly. “But… surely that’s not what I think it is?”

“And why not?”

Athos keeps his voice down and resists the urge to glance around; too many wary looks and the innkeeper will suspect they’re up to something illegal, though he probably would be surprised to discover what. “Surely it would be dangerous for the members of a secret group to all carry an identifying token. Supposing the token were compromised, or the person carrying the token were captured with it on them?”

Laflèche laughs. Genuine, unrestrained mirth. “Oh, you young ones,” he says in amusement. “What could a token betray that our bodies don’t already?”

Athos feels his cheeks burn. Of course. Being discovered as a throwback is already a crime punishable with sterilization, torture and death. Possessing a token linked to the Underground would do no more than tell their oppressors that the Underground still exists. A fact of which they are no doubt perfectly aware already.

“But if the Church knows about the token, they could make copies,” he persists despite his embarrassment. “Then they could infiltrate your ranks.”

“They already do infiltrate our ranks,” Laflèche says matter-of-factly. “They’d do so whatever countermeasures we tried. The trick is making sure they don’t climb the ranks. Enemies in our outer circles are like rats fleeing plague; you can’t kill them all, and you’re safer if you can keep your eye on them.”

“I see,” Athos says, still smarting.

Laflèche sighs. “Pup, I can’t promise you that everyone carrying the token is on your side,” he says gently. “It’s an indicator. One among many. We don’t hand them out to just everyone; someone has to prove themselves, advance within the Underground first. Could spies manage it? Probably. Many of them? If so, we’d be done for already, and we’re still here. So use the knowledge carefully, but don’t dismiss it based on fear. In every throwback’s life a time will come when you have to decide who to trust. And I promise you, it won’t be an easy choice. I’m just trying to give you as many tools as possible for identifying your true allies.”

Athos nods again. Then something else occurs to him. “What about…” Athos’ voice trails off as he gives in and glances around the tavern in his turn. “The other?”

“What other?” Laflèche frowns.

“The other organization?” Athos ducks his head. “The violent one?”

Laflèche’s eyes widen. “You mean the Resistance?” he murmurs, voice barely audible.

Athos nods. The Resistance is even more of a legend than the Underground, and even harder to find evidence of. If the rumors are to be believed, they’re a militant branch of the Underground, whose members are working towards the eventual overthrow of the Inquisition. Violently if necessary.

The older Musketeer shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and sighing. “You’ve been listening to too many idealists,” he says, voice thick with regret. “Oh, hell, I can’t blame you. When I was your age I thought the Resistance might really exist too. It’s a nice thought. That someone might be out there getting ready to swoop in and save you, that all you had to do was just hold on long enough and change would come…”

Laflèche trails off. He reaches for his wine glass and sips from it, seeming to be lost in his own memories for a moment. Then he shakes it off and refocuses on Athos. “The Resistance is a story to make throwback pups sleep better at night,” he says, quiet and resigned. “If there ever were one, they were destroyed long ago. The only way change is going to come is if we make it ourselves. So that’s my advice to you, young one. Fight for change in whatever way you can. Don’t be afraid. There may not be any Resistance, but that doesn’t mean you’re alone. If you’re truly in danger, come to me, or go to the Captain. The Underground will get you out.”

“I understand,” Athos says. After a moment he adds, “Thank you.”

“Good,” Laflèche says. “Then there’s just one other thing I have to tell you. A warning. Probably it doesn’t need saying, but it’s important, so I’ll say it anyway. You watch out for the Cardinal.”

Athos freezes. The slow slide of ice down his spine is in harsh counterpoint to the sweat that suddenly breaks out on his forehead.

Cardinal Richelieu is the head of the Church in France. He’s of no little consequence in Rome, either. That’s enough by itself to strike fear into the hearts of throwbacks. But Richelieu doesn’t do as many other Cardinal-Ministers do elsewhere in Europe, and pass the administration of their countries’ Inquisition off to their aides and Bishops. Richelieu oversees it personally. To devastating effect.

No throwback can think of the Cardinal without a spike of terror going through their heart. The stories of his passion for hunting are legendary. Where most of the nobility prefers to chase after stags and rabbits, Richelieu hunts throwbacks. The hunting grounds on his family’s estates are legendary. Reports vary as to how many throwbacks the Cardinal has personally killed, but the lowest estimate is still in the dozens. The high guess is well into the hundreds. And it’s no secret that Richelieu’s thirst for their people’s blood remains unquenched.

“I heard,” Athos says, and has to stop and swallow. There’s one story in particular, about the Cardinal, that gets whispered about the most. And yet it’s also the one where the details change the most in each telling. Athos has always used that as an excuse to justify telling himself that it’s not true. That not even the feared and hated Cardinal Richelieu would be so evil.

But he doesn’t live in the wilds of la Fère anymore. He lives in Paris. He’s a Musketeer. The Musketeers are the sworn enemies of the Cardinal and his guards. One day Athos is going to find himself in conflict with them. And that means he has to know. He has to know what he’s protecting himself from.

Laflèche nods slowly. “You’re referring to the story about his brother,” the older Musketeer says.

“Is it true?”

“I’m not a youth,” Laflèche says, seemingly apropos of nothing. His eyes are sharp on Athos, though, not distracted, so Athos pays attention. “I’ve been in the King’s service, one way or another, for thirty years. I remember when the Musketeers were first founded. That was right about the time the current Richelieu became Cardinal.”

Athos reaches for his wineglass and takes another swallow, quickly. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

“Before that, the current Cardinal’s older brother held the position,” Laflèche says. Then he taps the table significantly. “I say brother, but that’s not right.”

Odem. So the story is true. Athos stares down at his wineglass, too sick to drink again, wishing he’d never asked.

“His name was Alfonse,” Laflèche says. “Not that I knew him personally. But I attended his consecration, and they said his full name right out in the Basilica. So I remember. I don’t think hardly anyone remembers his name anymore. Just another one of Richelieu’s many victims.”

“Stop,” Athos begs.

“You asked,” Laflèche says inflexibly. “And you were right to ask. Someone has to remember. Or else all the dead just become drops in a river, indistinguishable.”

He pauses. Athos keeps his eyes down and doesn’t protest further.

“There’s not much to tell,” Laflèche says at last, seemingly taking pity on Athos. “The old Cardinal, Alfonse, went and got himself pregnant. Pupped, as they used to say for Omegas.”

Athos is familiar with the distinction. Betas got pregnant; Omegas were pupped. His sire had made the difference very clear to the young Olivier when Cara had first conceived Thomas. Sirrah had hated the growing use of Betan terminology to describe Omegan reproduction. He’d always insisted on the strictest precision in Olivier’s speech.

Laflèche is going on. “Somehow or other the current Cardinal found out. Exposed his odem and demanded the right of killing Alfonse himself. The King granted it – well, really, the Queen Regent did; our King wasn’t yet of age. Dunno that he’d’ve done any different, though. God bless his Majesty, but I’ve never heard of him saying no to Richelieu.” Laflèche falls silent for a moment, staring now at the whorls of the table.

“So Richelieu killed him?” Athos says lowly. “His own odem?”

“Hunted him down like a dog on their own family’s estates,” Laflèche says grimly. “They brought the body back and displayed it outside the gates of the Palais-Cardinal for a week. It was so mutilated it didn’t look like Alfonse anymore. Couldn’t even tell if it was Alpha or Omega. That’s what the Cardinal reduced his own odem to. Just a slab of meat.”

Fill: Ye Heirs of Glory 3c/? [Athos/d'Art, Porthos/Aramis. Dystopian A/B/O, full warnings in part 1]

[kyele]

Athos bows his head. He crosses himself out of sheer reflex.

He can feel Laflèche watching him. “You still believe?” he asks, sounding sad.

“Shouldn’t I?” Athos says, quietly. “Why should I let them take anything else away from me?”

“Good for you,” Laflèche says after a moment. “Hold on to that belief, if you can. Not many of us do. But maybe it’ll help you.”

Athos doesn’t answer. After a moment Laflèche sighs and pushes back his chair.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you after all,” Laflèche muses. “But I’m getting old now, and I don’t think somehow I’ll ever get any younger. I thought someone else ought to remember. And you’re the first one to actually ask.”

“I’ll remember,” Athos says quietly. “You’re right. Someone should.”

He feels a warm hand on his shoulder for a moment, Laflèche’s grip tight and firm. Then the other man goes off to bed, leaving Athos alone with the rest of the wine bottle.

He reaches out for it, then stops. Maybe Laflèche’s right. Maybe he should stop.

He’ll stop soon, Athos tells himself. But tonight, he doesn’t want to have nightmares.