Never and Always

Chapter 1

And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment.
(…)
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from.
- (T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding)

He's still not sure whether he would have gone with her or not, if the captain hadn't taken the choice out of his hands. Cowardly as it was, he couldn't decide - had thought to go to the crossroads to see her and to talk with her and let the heart he's only just on speaking terms with again decide. The notion was more than a little mad, but news of the impending war with Spain had spared him a choice, and by the time he'd galloped out to the crossroads, all that remained of her was a single glove that he'd tucked into his belt before turning back to Paris.

In the tense days that follow, the glove remains there, and his fingers stray to brush the delicate fabric more than once. It's a sentimental act, probably makes him look a damnable fool, but no one says anything. Porthos and d'Artagnan shoot sympathetic glances his way when they think he's not looking; Treville raises a brow in wordless question but doesn't push. Athos just shrugs and goes about his work and tries not to think of her.

During the days it's easy, when he's usually too busy for more than fleeting thoughts, here and gone as the next demand arises. Nights vary: sometimes he's too exhausted to do more than collapse onto his bed, but others he can't sleep, sits and thinks of might-have-beens until they nearly drive him mad. Her absence is an ache he can't stop prodding, and the most bitter part is that she no doubt thinks the worst of him for not even showing up to say goodbye - for abandoning her again.

It would be too easy, on those darkest nights, to crawl into the bottle again as he had those many years ago, but he refuses to let that happen. Duty was not enough in his youth and it is not enough now, but he has family to consider, brothers he would be letting down - and if he cannot stand without her, then it would mean the niggling fear that they will only destroy each other someday is true. He believed it once, but it's a fate he will no longer accept.

Days blur even without the wine, in the chaos of preparation. Treville keeps him busy, almost as if he's afraid Athos will fall apart without the tasks, and Athos understands the sentiment behind the gesture and doesn't protest. He appreciates what the older man is trying to do … and when he's completely honest with himself, he can admit that keeping busy does help.

Treville also makes it clear Athos is his second in all but name, leaving him in command of the garrison as he is called to court more and more frequently. As such, it's no surprise to hear someone calling for him from across the courtyard - one of the gate guards, he thinks. "What?" he hollers; he and Porthos are in the middle of shifting a heavy crate and it's not exactly a task to be set aside easily.

"Messenger!" the cadet yells back. Athos glances over at the other man as they wrestle the crate into place; Porthos just shrugs and tips his head in the direction of the gate. It's not as if there's much choice but to answer.

He's not sure what he expects as they round the building to cross the yard - doesn't really expect much of anything, when messengers have been coming and going at all hours in this frenzy of activity. But whatever he might have anticipated, to see his wife dismounting just inside the courtyard certainly isn't it.

Her back is to him as she rummages through her saddlebags. Beside him, Porthos makes a soft sound, more curious than disapproving. "Want me to handle this?" he offers, and there's no reproach in the words.

The gesture warms him more than he'll fully admit, but he shakes his head. "I think I must," he says, a ragged exhalation.

The big man gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He reaches up, covers the hand briefly with his own in tacit gratitude before moving towards the gate again.

She turns at his approach, and there's an oilcloth case in her hands and a grimly businesslike expression on her face, though it softens briefly as their eyes lock. His throat is suddenly tight, so much that he can barely force the single syllable of her name out.

Her answering smile is sharp and fond all at once. "I have information here, fresh from Le Havre." She flourishes the packet before adding, more quietly, "It seems I've developed an inexplicable fondness for the Musketeers in these past few weeks. I should hate to see you killed."

~ x ~

Inside Treville's office, she lounges back against the windowsill, closing her eyes and trying to relax. The ride from Le Havre hadn't been easy, especially not when she didn't know if anyone would come after her, but it had mattered that she get here in time.

Part of her still wishes she'd had the sense not to turn around - that she'd gone on to England as she'd planned. There had been more truth than she'd wanted to admit in their last conversation: she is tired of who she's become, of intrigues and schemes and murders just to keep her head above the water. She's known in the shadowy underworld of France, by name and reputation, but in England she could have found a new home and a new name and a new start.

And within weeks, she'd almost certainly have been bored out of her wits.

'Perhaps I was never made for quiet things,' she thinks, a little sadly. There are times she wishes she was, most often remembering those hazy golden days when they had been young and foolish and very much in love, but the more she thinks of it the more she realises her lies would eventually have shattered, with or without Thomas' actions.

She opens her eyes again to find her husband watching her from across the room. His expression is guarded, wary, and she can't entirely blame him when he'd no doubt finally thought himself rid of her.

"I would have come," he says, abruptly enough to baffle her for a moment, "to talk, at least, but - this happened. I did, when I could, but you were already gone."

Oh. Oh. Her heart stutters in her chest; she looks out the window rather than at him, blinking against the sudden unexpected sting. "You were late." The words are sharper than she intended, but she won't apologise.

"I know." Neither, it seems, will he. It's always been one of their problems.

Silence. Then, "Why did you come back?"

She studies the courtyard below rather than giving him an immediate answer - in part because she's not altogether sure herself. It hadn't been any one thing, after all, but a combination of many, a realisation that had her moving almost without thought after an overheard conversation at a dockside inn. But she can't explain something she's yet to make sense of, and so when she finally turns back it's with a shrug. "Why would I want to miss all the excitement?" It's not a lie; it just happens to be the barest fraction of the truth.

From the way Athos looks at her, it's clear he's unconvinced. "You've never done anything that didn't benefit you," he counters.

That stings, even if she can see why he'd believe it. It's usually true. "Maybe I've reevaluated how I define benefit."

Easier to keep her voice light, mocking both of them, but those sharp blue eyes study her in a way that makes her think he knows there's more. He doesn't push, though, just nods at the case still tucked in her arms - too valuable, even now, to set aside - and changes the subject. "That must be important."

She smiles, because she'll be damned if she won't take pride in her work. "Reports from agents that will never get to Vargas." Thanks to a courier with pockets full of stones, rolled into the water and under one of the wharfs. It should be weeks before anyone finds him, days at best before it's realised he's missing. "Names. Sources that can be used even if they don't speak." At least one of them will, though. Everyone has a weakness.

"And your price?"

The wary question makes her think too vividly of the tavern and the words he'd breathed in horror. He doesn't - can't - understand what it means to be a woman alone in the world. She has too much pride to accept charity, but she has no intentions of ever being the whore again, whether it be on the street or in a palace. Other than her body, she has only her skills to sell, and while those have led her down a single path in the past, there's no reason she can't turn them other ways.

She'd had time to think, on the road to Le Havre and even on her hurried return, and has realised that for all her words she can never be the woman she'd masqueraded as when she'd met Athos. But there are parts of that young Anne, bride of the new count, that she can still reclaim; maybe those are the first steps to figuring out who she can become - who she can truly be, without the influence of another's hold over her or the desperate need to survive. She doubts she'll ever have a better chance.

And so she smiles, though it's a little strained, and pushes away from the window to join him at the table. "For this?" she asks, putting the satchel down between them. "Nothing. But you'll make better use of it if I'm involved. You know that. So does Treville." No sense in false modesty when they both know full well the Musketeers are soldiers and not spies.

Athos' brows lift slightly, an expression of mild disbelief. "For the sake of France?" The words echo that same conversation.

Fortunately, Treville's return spares her the need for a reply.

Endnotes: I hate titles. I hate titles so much. You have no idea how much I hate coming up with titles, especially for unfinished pieces. This one, and the initial quotes, are from T. S. Eliot's Little Gidding, part of Four Quartets.

This started out as an attempt to address an "Athos on his knees" prompt on Tumblr that ended up somewhere else. But I like it, so I'll keep going, and maybe eventually I can comply with the prompt.

Not sure how long it'll be or how often I'll post; it's been a while since I put up something longer than a one-shot, and I have only the vaguest sense of where I'm heading at this point. Oops? In the meantime, you can find me over on Tumblr (as myalchod) flailing around over characters being uncooperative and the other stories I'm simultaneously wrangling.