Comte Olivier d'Athos de la Fere (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
somepoorsoul) wrote2015-08-01 10:19 pm
somepoorsoul) wrote2015-08-01 10:19 pm
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[mid-July]
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.
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.