Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people. Carl Jung

Prologue

The night was dark, but here, between the tall narrow buildings, the heat of the day still lingered. Here,where no breeze penetrated to blow away the stench, where filth festered and bubbled beneath the summer sun. The glowing orb which delivered light and hope everywhere else, simply baked and boiled this part of the city like a living hell.

Athos strode through the darker, seedier part of town. Nobody in their right mind – unless that mind was bent upon ill-doing – would be seen in these dark, suffocating streets. Several people looked his way. His pauldron, so desperately and bravely earned, now blazed like a beacon, declaring quite clearly that he was very much in the wrong part of town. A few weeks ago, nobody would have given him a second glance. As Aesop had said in one of his fables, be careful what you wish for, lest it come true. He might have added changing your life forever – but he had avoided the depressing details of such choices.

Athos' reverie was disturbed by a sudden female chuckle, a low throaty voice drifted from a darkened doorway, emanating from a shadowy outline against the candle glow of a filthy cell. 'Ooh my 'andsome, we don't get many like you round 'ere. Why don't you let me cheer you up? You look right miserable.' Athos looked toward the voice, but whatever the girl saw made her cringe back inside the room, drawing the curtain firmly between them.

Filth and rags lay upon the slimy cobbles. Whether there was more to them than merely discarded clothing, was anyone's guess – nobody stopped to check, nobody cared. A bright light suddenly illuminated the narrow passage before the Musketeer. There was a loud roar of laughter and a figure flew from an open doorway, bounced once upon the floor, then lay still in a tangle of limbs. Athos stepped over him and put his arm out against the rough wood, planting his hand firmly in the centre to prevent it from being slammed in his face.

As he entered the secluded tavern, the heat and smell almost overpowered him; the mixture of unwashed bodies and alcohol was so thick Athos wanted to bat it away with his hand. As he moved into the crowded bar, nobody took much notice; not like in the beginning – their reactions had been markedly different then. The sight of a Musketeer entering the den of thieves had caused a sudden hush amongst the regulars, but now he was just another drunk who sat in the darkness and brooded over his wine until the sun began to rise.

Athos took his drink to a table at the rear. Two men were already sitting there, but when they saw Athos approach they stood and moved to another table. The swordsman was not even aware he had cast a glower in their direction, but the men had not survived this long without being able to read a rival's mood; they knew the signs of a man longing for a good excuse to fight, and moving was definitely the better option.

Here in the dim recess of the inn, Athos shut out the noise and laughter, as he downed his tumbler in one go and poured another. Placing it upon the table he stared at the dark liquid. The rich aroma of vinegar wine assaulted his nostrils – it was almost undrinkable, but after a couple of bottles he would no longer care.

As he stared confusedly into the empty cup, he tried to remember when he had drained it, but as he noted the two bottles upon the table, and a third in his hand, he realised he couldn't remember them either. It was what he did remember that bothered him the most, and somehow no amount of wine could change that; it just lessened the pain a little, but then the guilt flowed through him and he was back where he had begun – in purgatory.

He tried to shift the fog from his brain and remember why he was here. He was a Musketeer, the King had granted him his commission, and Louis had personally thanked him, in front of a full court, for his services to France. Treville had pinned the pauldron upon Athos' shoulder himself, as proud as any father would have been, and Aramis and Porthos could not have grinned any wider if they had tried. So why was he so miserable? Why was he not content with his lot? Could he not settle and put the past behind him, or was his future as much to blame?

The truth was, he was mired in the past, shackled to a former life he could not escape. Had he seriously believed that a commission in the regiment would somehow fill the cold void inside his soul and provide his life with a new meaning? If he had, then no wonder he was miserable. He had been a fool – his commission felt like a millstone around his neck. Perhaps his father had been right; perhaps he was a coward, afraid to lead his people, afraid to serve his King. Perhaps he should have remained a drunken sword for hire, no obligation, without commitment or expectation.

He should have moved on by now, should be concentrating on working with the men who mistakenly thought he was a man worth believing in, men who relied upon his opinion and company. Men he loathed to disappoint.

Yet every night for the last few weeks, he had turned that moment over in his mind again and again. It was like a recurring nightmare; no matter what he was doing, or what he was thinking about, it pushed its way between his thoughts like a self-centred, persistent child. When he heard the words, he felt the physical pain, felt the parting as keenly as any blade, and just as he had done that night, he did nothing.

Athos had been there before and he had survived, but he had never thought to endure it a second time; never expected to experience the ultimate destruction of his heart, watching as it was torn, still beating, from his chest, withering before his very eyes. But he had, and now he was that man once more. But this time there was no miracle to raise him from the depths of his own depravity – in fact that miracle was back at the garrison, probably blaspheming his name.

Still those damn words endured, endlessly echoing in his tortured mind, whether awake or otherwise.

...You do know I...

I what? I hate you? I will never return? I wish I had never met you? She could have meant to say any of those things, but he knew what she had tried to say, just as he knew why she would not utter the words, not ever again. But he could still hear them inside his head, he could still see her lips moving and feel her breath against his ear. He had heard the words even though she had been silent. You do know I love you.

He was trapped in a perpetual loop; he had had but one chance to break the spell he was under. He had tried, had done what he thought he had wanted, had needed to absolve himself of his sins – but it had not been enough. In the end, he was what he was, a failure, a failed brother, husband, son, and finally friend – they just did not realise it yet.

He poured another glass and closed his eyes as he hovered ever closer toward oblivion, completely unaware of beady eyes watching him drain every drop.