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Sep. 20th, 2015 05:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
somepoorsoulMass 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.
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.
