#arithanas

More shuffling and then the sweet relief of a cold glass of the neck of a virgin bottle in his grasp, waiting to be devoured.  Athos pulled the cork from the neck with his own teeth, his laughter echoing back from the damp walls of the cellar.

“Good.  Now find me some more of that sausage.  And don’t even try blaming it on the rats if there is none left, for bereft food we’ll have to leave here, and I, for one, am in no hurry to behold your physiognomy in the cursed light of day.”

Something thick and meaty was thrust into his opposite hand and he sniffed it, savoring the peppery aroma of the delightfully stuffed intestine.  

“Are you still hovering, Grimaud?”

Silence.  The oppressive silence of a judgmental domestic.

“How much did you have to drink?” Athos suddenly laughed.  The hands were back, tracing letters into the exposed skin of his forearm.  “What is MANY?” He laughed again, an unexpected gulp of happiness, followed by a flurry of uncontrollable giggles. “You’re a dolt,” he snapped, grasping his servant by the wrist. “How are you wounds?” The wrist decidedly... shrugged in his grasp.  “Well let me see... feel... what have you.  This is ridiculous.”

The rustling of clothes as the poor kid sank down next to him and then his hands being pulled forward, only to land in a clump of heavily oiled hair.

“Great news is that you appear to still have a head,” Athos stated, letting his delicate fingers trace over the bumps and scrapes of the assaulted servant’s scalp.  “Although I cannot attest as to the presence of a brain.”  The head nodded beneath his fingers.  “Are you certain, Grimaud?  Surely, if you truly had a brain, why would remain in my service?”  Another giggle escaped him and Athos hastened to wash it down with several deep gulps of the innkeeper’s best wine.

A hand, tentatively poking him in the center of the chest.

“What?”

Another poke.

“I?  Yes... I.” He took another drink.  “What of it?” A grunt of frustration escaped the domestic’s throat.  “Oh speak already!  You ever-present growth on the miserable ass of my life.”

“You, Monsieur, are why I remain,” Grimaud spoke, his voice piercing Athos like a rapier to the heart, so unaccustomed he’d become to the sound of it.

“You’re an imbecile,” he retorted immediately.  Taking another bite of the sausage, Athos let a quiet sigh escape into the darkness.  “Thank you,” he added, quietly.  Then he extended his hand and pulled Grimaud to the ground at his side, until his could wrap his arm all the way around the wiry frame.   “Go to sleep,” he half-pleaded.  “I’m sure I’m much more tolerable in your dreams.”