Much May Be Said |
Rating: PG Pairing:René d'Aramis de Vannes/Olivier d'Athos de la Fère Summary: In which one weary traveller is called upon to aid another. Notes: For ElDiablito_SF for Yuletide 2010, and heavily skewed towards book-verse rather than movie-verse. Disclaimer: The 3 Musketeers remains the creation of Alexandre Dumas, and have never been mine. |
* * * While much may be said of inns, innkeepers and their ilk, there is no doubting the relief they bring to men who have travelled long and hard. The lone traveller who crested the hill, without horse or servant, was near to overcome by the feeling. His travelling clothes were of good quality but had been long used. A sword hung from his belt and there was an ease of movement in his feet that spoke of years of swordplay. His wrist was swathed in a cravat that had been made to act the part of bandage. His injuries were few but had bled copiously, stopping just as the inn came into his sight. He staggered, then recovered. His eyes were set upon the inn as each step brought it closer. He was near enough to see when the front door of the inn opened and a scrawny boy appeared. The boy quivered in the doorway a moment before speeding towards the approaching man. The man paused a moment, his able hand alighting on his sword hilt. Seeing this, the boy slowed to a more moderate pace as he drew close. The boy attempted to remove his hat but knocked it clear from his head instead. He scrambled to pick it up from the dirt before addressing the man.
"Forgive me, sir," said the boy, cringing as if a blow was about to land. "But might you be Monsieur D'Artagnan?"
The boy received no reply.
Peter guided the man down the road to the inn and through the front door. The man watched carefully about him, sharp as an eagle. There were few customers in the inn but more than a handful of servants, righting overthrown chairs and tables. They had the wide-eyed look of those who have witnessed an extraordinary sight and have yet to fully remember their accustomed routine. A harassed looking innkeeper, traces of wine soaked through his ample shirt, rounded on the pair with a fierce expression as they appeared.
The cellar door was not bolted from the outside but rather bowed out from the inside, as if a heavy weight had been placed against it.
"Athos, my friend," called the man outside, his voice betrayed his weariness. "Surely you could find a better place to rest than the cellar. Your belly may be full but the rest of you will be chilled, I'd wager."
There was a shuffling and shifting from the other side of the door. Aramis put a hand against the wall to steady himself, breathing carefully as he waited for Athos to clear the door. The shuffling sound ceased but the door remained firmly sealed. The door swung forward at Aramis' insistence and he stepped forward into the room. Four stone steps led down to the cellar floor, where a lantern sat as a lone guardian burned low. Aramis could see the heavy barrels of the innkeepers wines, both fine as liquid gold and so rough and coarse that it laid the strongest men low for a week.
Aramis strode down the steps to where the lantern sat. It cast a pale light through the cellar. The air was cool and quiet. What could be seen of the cellar was crowded with row upon row of barrels, stretching into the darkness. Aramis seized the lantern and shone the light around him. The light revealed that Athos was sat to the side of the entrance, resting between two barrels. Aramis settled himself down in front of Athos, leaning on the same two barrels.
"Aramis," he said, his eyes closing as if in prayer.
"Trust in me, dear fellow," said Aramis, as he raised his hand to lay it against Athos' cheek. "I believe we succeeded in our efforts to distract our enemies long enough for D'Artagnan and Porthos to reach their destination. The King's mission has been completed, and our enemies no longer have reason to pursue us. All that is left is for us to rest." They sat together, each soothing the weariness of the other. While much may be said of love between men, there is no doubting the solace and comfort that two weary travellers can share. The End |