Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere

The night is damp and chilly for May, but that has not stopped the university’s young revelers from stumbling about in drunken celebration, even past midnight. Athos only ever comes this far north to visit the stables, and it is strange to be here so late at night, amongst the older, more scattered houses, stuffed full of students nine months out of the year. Outside the university, neighborhoods fall away to countryside fairly quickly; it is no surprise that so many could so easily go missing.

Athos has spoken little during their late-night trek to the edge of campus, thoughts focused, as best he can, on the task at hand. Is he glad that Porthos agreed to come along, or nervous? He still trusts Porthos with his life, and always will, but he fears that the man has been guilted or coerced into this venture. Believing what he does (knowing what he does), why would he follow Athos anywhere?

But they are here now. Athos leans against a lamppost that leaves him half-illuminated. Celebrants are now stumbling home in ones and twos, and fewer of them seem out and about. If the vampires intend to strike tonight, it will likely be soon, now that most students have gone home, leaving the more foolish (and the more drunk) to venture into the darkness alone and vulnerable. He glances at Aramis, their "bait" for the night, and then, briefly, meets Porthos' gaze. “Still up for this?" he asks them both.

The morning after his night of uncharacteristic brawling, Athos awakens with his body aching. Dragging himself upright and placing his bare feet on the floor, he makes the mistake of glancing in the mirror: a green-purple bruise blooms on his jaw, and another near his temple. Surely, under his shirt and the bandages Aramis had woven around his chest, his torso must look even worse. Athos groans and carefully presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. Perhaps if he sits here long enough, the morning will disappear.

No luck.

Very little will make this morning more bearable, but coffee just might help. Slowly, Athos dresses and makes his way downstairs. The lower apartment is uncharacteristically quiet, for he is not the only who had needed to recover after a late night. Aramis had kindly sat up with him for some time, and Porthos…well, Athos isn’t sure what Porthos did after they stalked away from each other in the arena.

Athos winces, and this time it is not due to his bruising. Somehow, he will have to mend whatever broke between in a confrontation that had very quickly gotten out of hand.

But first he needs coffee.

For two weeks, Athos has been chasing a ghost.

He has caught glimpses, of course, and more than glimpses. This creature that wears his brother’s face appears in the dark of night to taunt him and remind him of the horrors his failings have set loose upon the world. Each night, despite himself, he goes searching - for more abuse, and more pain, and another desperate glimpse of Thomas’ face, even twisted in agony.

You are the monster, Thomas’ cold eyes, as blue as Athos’ own, seem to say every time they do find each other on this hellish Darrow’s ashy, abandoned streets. You are the reason I stand before you thus, a creature of blood and hate. You should have protected me, and instead you brought a deadly Jezebel into our house, and abandoned your family, and brought pain to every person you have known since.

Even when Aramis and Porthos stand by his side, the truth of that silent accusation lodges his way into his heart each time he catches sight of Thomas’ ghostly form.

Now, night has fallen again on this dark Darrow, and the same force, the same need that has drawn Athos to the streets each night draws him to the Bramford’s roof. Leaving Porthos and Aramis to sleep in what is left of their apartment - after much argument, he had finally convinced them to rest for a few hours at least - he takes the stairs to the very top, and there, looks over Darrow’s eerie skyline. His heart pounds and his expression is tight with expectation - though for what, he does not know.

Above him, not a star is visible in the sky. Below, no light shines.

Then, somewhere behind him, Athos hears a sudden sound that interrupts the ghostly silence.

Mass has been finished for hours by the time Athos darkens the door of the church - but his late arrival is by design. He has crossed this threshold only half a dozen times since coming to Darrow, always at its quietest time in late afternoon, and he never stays long. Aramis carries the contradictory heart of a devout soldier with ease, like some crusader of old, but Athos has never felt comfortable in churches, not even in these rare times when he seeks them out in hope of finding solace.

The afternoon is warm and Athos welcomes the comforting coolness found within the stone walls. As has previously been the case when he comes here, he drifts to the small chapel dedicated to Saint Sebastian, and there leaves his coins in exchange for a candle. And then he sits, and is his wont, wonders what the hell he’s doing here.

When deep in melancholy, Athos reaches for the bottle. When restless energy seems likely to drive him mad, he throws himself into his work, or riding, or the sword. Today, the fear that has been quietly gnawing at his insides has reached his heart - not a fear of anything real, of death, or injury, or enemies, but fear of failure. Fear of his heart. Fear that he will ruin the dreams Aramis and Porthos pursue, fear that he will never find something to fill his emptiness. Fear that he is too weak for anything but misery. Athos does not believe that God listens to him, and yet he bows his head, and resting his elbows on his knees, sends his own sort of prayer up, as thin and uncertain as the wisp of smoke from his candle. Please, lend me strength. For their sake, if not my own. For Aramis and Porthos, and this child they madly want to bring into this world.

In a few moments, he will be fine. In a few moments, he will feel like an idiot for giving into this temptation and coming to this cool, calm place he does not deserve to mar with his presence. But for now, he tries to gather what scraps of peace he can.

Athos holds it together - stoic, straight-backed, calm - until he can do so no longer. And when he falls, he falls hard.

D’Artagnan is gone. Aramis is miserable. Porthos has had enough (has had enough of him, the self-pitying part of his mind supplies) and gone into hiding. And in Athos’ pocket, kept next to his heart, is the formal letter that names him captain of the king’s musketeers. It is hope, and progress, and recognition dangled just out of reach, and it makes the darkness of these difficult days thicker and colder.

Drink softens the sting, but only a little. And yet that does not stop him from trying to drink himself into forgetting. The single, cheap bottle of brandy they keep in the darkened bar is terrible stuff that makes the eyes water and the throat sting, but he orders glass after glass, until self-pity retreats behind a haze, and the bartender tells him that maybe he should go home.

But Athos does not want to go home. Porthos is not at home, and he would only add to Aramis’ misery tonight.

He ends up sitting on a bench in Petros Park, elbows leaning wearily on his knees. Periodically, he takes a drink from his flask - an automatic gesture now, and not one that gives him any comfort. He must go home, or Aramis will worry. But he cannot bring his limbs to carry him there.

Athos awakens in a weary haze of memories. Though the clock tells him it is mid-morning, he feels simultaneously like he has slept for days and not at all. A few moments pass before he realizes why he cannot shake the sights as senses of his childhood - the smell of forget-me-nots, Catherine’s bright red hair (he has not even thought of her for ages), Thomas’ boyish laughter. Then he remembers, and he exhaustedly presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

He is tempted to remain abed until someone comes looking, but that would only delay his shame, and anyway, Athos is too honorable. He dresses slowly in garments that once again seem familiar as he tries to piece together the last few days, memories coming to him as though being relayed by someone else. Sheepishly, he misses the body and heart of his youth; he had been frightened and shy, world-weary too soon, but free and unfettered in a way he has not felt in some time.

Unfettered, perhaps, but also a fool. He has matters to explain, and hearts to mend.

When Athos carefully comes downstairs, his eyes are red-rimmed, and though he has tried to put himself back together, he knows he must still appear out-of-sorts. He can already smell coffee, thank goodness. But whether or not Aramis and Porthos will welcome his company is something he has yet to discover.

Olivier’s night is filled with strange dreams that he cannot understand.

He sees himself as a soldier, though one in a uniform he does not recognize, fighting on battlefields he has never seen, and in Parisian alleys down which he has never trod. He wields a sword, and uses it with grace and efficiency, blood pounding in his temples and nerves singing in a way that makes him giddy. He is never alone, either; he can always feel the comforting presence of some unknown and beloved comrades beside him, and without seeing their faces or knowing who they might be, he knows that they make each victory all the sweeter.

He dreams of other things, too: making love to a woman with dark hair and gypsy eyes, and stranger still, an unknown city with buildings that rise into the heavens and carriages that zoom past, bottomless sorrow without source.

He wakes with a start in an unfamiliar room.

As Olivier blinks away the fog of sleep and unsettling dreams, both more vivid and more confusing than any he has experienced in his sixteen years, the room comes into focus, lighted by morning sun filtering through heavy curtains. It is small and under-furnished, though a desk sits in one corner and a wardrobe in the other. Carefully, he places his feet upon a cool wooden floor and pads over to the former; there are notes and lists in a hand that looks strangely like his father’s, books with unfamiliar titles, a few empty bottles of wine. With heart beating and eyes wide, he looks around for something, anything, that could hint at where he might be, for he is no longer in his bedroom, or at La Fere, or anywhere near it. Olivier knows that in his gut.

His eyes fall on the sword resting in the corner.

It’s beautiful. Even in his youth and inexperience, Olivier can see that. Still careful, still silent (perhaps there are captors, perhaps they might wake), he creeps towards it and lifts it from the sheath. The weapon is heavier than any his fencing master has ever allowed him to wield, thoroughly meant for the single purpose of killing as disabling other men. Just holding it, even in his nightshirt, he is struck by equal parts terror and power, and with a shaky certainty: he is the son of the Comte de la Fere, and a boy no longer. No matter how strange and frightening these circumstances seem, he must find a way out of him. He must confront whatever brigands have brought him to this mysterious place.

He finds the wardrobe full of clothes - another strange discovery. With some difficulty, he is able to discover what he needs: trousers, and doublet, and a a leather jacket well-worn and well-cared for. Everything hangs a little loose on him, but it fits, after a fashion. Once dressed, Olivier hefts the sword in his hand and ventures out of the room.

The outer room is empty of people as well, but he catches voices from below, and creeps to a stairway leading downward. There he stills, for a moment terrified of what he might find. Thieves? Spies? Some old family enemy? Pirates? No, he must not let his imagination run away with him. He must confront those who have taken him away from his home and demand they return him. No one insults La Fere in this manner.

Olivier keeps silent until he reaches the floor below, and there, he lifts his chin as well as his sword. “Who are you and where have you taken me?” he asks in a voice he wishes desperately were steadier. “I demand to know."

The stables sit far enough away from Kagura that Athos has no choice but to call for one of those damned metal wagons to take them there. Its driver dispatches them at horrifying speed across the countryside, but the result when they step out onto the chilly grounds, still far enough from the city proper that they can imagine they are free of Darrow’s grasp, is certainly well worth the horrendous journey. The stables themselves lay a short distance away, the grounds and fields in between dusted in snow and largely empty. The cold, certainly, has kept equine and man alike inside, but after a day as wondrous as this has been, surely none of these men mind a little chill.

Athos has told Aramis and Porthos as little as possible about where he takes them, or why, and he offers no further explanation now as he approaches the gate and ushers them through. “Just this way,” he says, gesturing up the barn towards the path, as inscrutable as ever.

For the first time since he moved into the apartment above Aramis and Porthos, Athos’ television is on.

No, Athos has not entirely avoided the most ubiquitous form of modern entertainment, for his friends have coaxed him into watching all sorts of ridiculous tales on the flickering screen in the lower apartment. Some, he might even - quite grudgingly - admit to having enjoyed. But he has steered clear of the dull black box in his own rooms, and whatever mysteries it contained.

The blame for its return to life now can be laid squarely on the cat. What the damn creature had done, Athos has no idea, but he had emerged from his bedroom to find lights and noise brightening the apartment, and the feline standing innocently in the center of the room. No amount of shooing or coaxing had moved the cat or turned off the television, and Athos had finally given up, settling on the sofa with a book and proceeding to pretend that those flickering lights aren’t distracting him in the least.

The cat, on the other hand, comfortably curled in Athos’ lap, seems quite pleased with the entire situation.