#athinon

The vast cavern of the Louvre, usually a sanctuary of quiet reverence for Ninon, felt particularly overwhelming that morning. She'd spent weeks dreaming of this space, this position, the custodianship of so much human history. Now, standing on the threshold of that dream, her stomach fluttered with a nervous excitement.

Claire, her new assistant, a whirlwind of efficiency with a crisp, clipped tone, was already navigating the labyrinth of Ninon's impending day. "Good morning, Dr de Larroque," Claire began, her voice a low hum against the distant echoes of the museum. "Your schedule for today is as follows..."

Ninon, still taking in the scent of old paper and polished wood, nodded, trying to absorb the details.

"First, you have a meeting with Dr Charles Vallon. Egyptologist from the British Museum."

Ninon's brow furrowed. "Right. That should have been tomorrow," she said, a slight edge of confusion in her voice. She'd specifically blocked out tomorrow for this meeting, having earmarked today for initial acclimatization. Claire offered a small, apologetic smile. "He is waiting now - because he has to fly out to Egypt tomorrow."

The urgency in Claire's explanation cut through Ninon's slight disorientation. "Ah. Of course. Well, that changes things. All right. Uhm - show him in." Ninon smoothed down her skirt, a sudden surge of professionalism pushing aside her lingering awe.

Claire stood, her movements economical, and disappeared through the heavy oak door. A moment later, she reappeared, her posture signaling the arrival of her charge.

A man followed her in, tall and broad-shouldered, short dark hair and eyes that seemed to hold a perpetual glint of curiosity. He carried himself with an easy confidence. He offered a polite, "Good morning, Dr de Larroque," his voice resonating with a deep timbre.

Ninon rose from her desk, intending to offer a formal greeting, but as he stepped fully into the light, her breath hitched. Her eyes widened, and for a long moment, she could only stare, a single, disbelieving word escaping her lips. "Porthos?"

The man blinked, a faint smile touching his lips. "Excuse me?" he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Ninon felt a flush creep up her neck. She quickly recovered, forcing a smile that felt unnervingly brittle. "Uhm - you just reminded me of someone," she stammered, waving a dismissive hand. "Nevermind. Nice to meet you, Dr Vallon. Please, sit down."

As Charles Vallon settled into the chair opposite her desk, Ninon's mind reeled. Porthos. The name, the face, the sheer, undeniable presence of the man before her... it was an echo, a phantom limb of memory from a time she dared not dwell on too deeply. The man she had met the day before, the one who had materialized so unexpectedly in the dimly lit halls of the museum, was not a figment of her imagination after all. But this man, this distinguished Egyptologist from the British Museum, was unequivocally not the swashbuckling Musketeer she had encountered in the dusty taverns of 17th-century Paris. This was a modern man, a scholar.

Yet, the resemblance was uncanny. The same powerful build, the same robust laugh that she could almost hear echoing in her mind. It was as if time had folded in on itself, bringing a familiar spirit into a new, unexpected form.

Their conversation began smoothly, focusing on the details of the Egypt project, the potential for collaboration, the shared passion for ancient wonders. Ninon found herself listening intently, her professional facade firmly in place, though a part of her remained hyper-aware of the man before her, the lingering ghost of a past life. She asked about his research, his discoveries, his particular fascination with the Ptolemaic period. He spoke with an infectious enthusiasm, his eyes alight with the thrill of uncovering secrets buried for millennia.

As the discussion delved deeper into the intricacies of ancient lineage and the movement of peoples across continents, a question, seemingly out of the blue to Charles, but born from a deep, unsettling curiosity within Ninon, surfaced.

"Dr Vallon," she began, leaning forward slightly, her gaze fixed on his. "Your family name... Vallon. It's not a common name in England, is it? Do you by any chance have... ancestors from France?"

Charles Vallon's eyes met hers, and for a fleeting second, Ninon thought she saw a flicker of something akin to surprise, or perhaps just polite acknowledgment, in their depths. He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that momentarily erased the phantom musings from her mind.

"Indeed," he confirmed, his voice steady. "I do. My family has roots in the Loire Valley, dating back centuries."

■

The polished oak of the Académie d'Armes de France gleamed under Athos' gaze, a testament to centuries of dedication. He ran a gloved hand over the smooth surface of a dueling sabre, its weight familiar, almost an extension of himself. The certificate, bearing the proud crest of the Académie and the inscription “Maîtres d’Armes,” felt weighty in his inside coat pocket, not with paper, but with the culmination of a journey he'd only embarked upon at Ninon's gentle urging. Leisure was a concept that could grow stale, he very much agreed with her.

The test had been a rigorous affair, a dance of steel and wit that tested not just physical prowess, but the very soul of swordsmanship. He'd moved with a fluidity that belied his centuries, each parry precise, each riposte an echo of battles fought and won when France was a very different land. The examiners, heads of the fencing world in Paris of 2027, had been awestruck. They spoke of a grace, a mastery, a fundamental understanding of the art that transcended modern techniques. He'd simply smiled, a private, knowing smile, and accepted their accolades. To reveal the truth, that he had once ridden with the King's Musketeers, that he had sparred with men whose names were now etched in history books, was impossible. The secret was his alone to carry, a phantom burden from a bygone era.

Stepping out into the crisp Parisian air, a modern marvel of electric scooters and sleek automobiles whizzing past, Athos pulled his smartphone from the inner pocket of his meticulously tailored coat. He found Ninon's contact and initiated the call, his voice, still deep and resonant, carrying a note of quiet triumph.

"Ninon," he said, the familiar French lilt present, though with a subtle accent that even modern phonetics couldn't quite erase. "It is done. I am… a Maître."

A delighted gasp, bright and clear, came through the line. "Athos! Oh, mon amour, I knew you would. They are all singing your praises, I hear. Such skill, they say, such an… anachronism of grace!" She laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. "I am so very happy for you. It is good that you have this, this anchor in the present."

Athos chuckled softly. "An anchor, perhaps. Or a reminder of what was. But it is done, as you wished." He paused, the bustling sounds of the street a stark contrast to the quiet satisfaction blooming within him. "And you, my dear? You sounded… as if you had something else to share."

There was a beat of silence on Ninon's end, a subtle shift in her tone that made a familiar prickle of apprehension run down Athos' spine. It was a sensation he hadn't felt since facing down a duel with a particularly ruthless cardinal's guard.

"Yes, Athos," Ninon said, her voice now hushed, almost conspiratorial. "Something quite… extraordinary." She took a breath. "The other day, when you thought you saw a… a ghost near the Louvre? You didn't, my dear. It wasn't Porthos himself, of course. But it was… a descendant of him. Dr Charles Vallon. An Egyptologist."

"Pregnant?" Ninon had echoed, the word feeling alien on her tongue. Impossible! She was meticulous about the pill.

The GP had offered a gentle explanation. "You had the flu recently, Madame de Larroque. And you used acetaminophen to manage the fever. Unfortunately, that medication can reduce the effectiveness of the pill."

Ninon had exhaled, a slow, shaky release of breath. Relief, surprisingly, washed over her first. She was happy about the baby. Truly happy. But then, a subtle tremor of apprehension followed. How would Athos react?

He had been… distant, lately. For the past month or so, a quietness had settled over him, a shadow that even the warmth of their shared apartment couldn't dispel. The jarring reality of his life in 2026, a temporal leap that had once seemed an adventure, was now a heavy weight. He missed his fellow Musketeers with a ferocity that pierced Ninon’s heart. Even the unexpected financial security, a consequence of Aramis’ ingenious, albeit complex, scheme with the Sienna bank, which had rendered him wealthier than he’d ever been in the 17th century, seemed to offer him no solace. If anything, the newfound ease only amplified his internal struggle.

He hated this feeling, this melancholy that clung to him. He had confessed to her sometimes, in quiet late-night whispers, his voice laced with frustration. He loved Ninon, she knew that with a certainty that transcended time and circumstance. She was his present, his future, the only constant in this bewildering new world. But the past, the ghosts of his brothers-in-arms, still held him in a powerful, sorrowful grip.

And Ninon couldn't help but wonder how this unexpected pregnancy, this tangible tie to a future he hadn't planned for, would land in the heart of a man grappling with the echoes of a glorious, irretrievable past.

She inhaled inwardly and propped herself up. Her delicate fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The skin was cool beneath her touch. He turned his head, his gaze, usually so sharp and piercing, was softened by a weariness she knew all too well. Ninon leaned in and kissed him, a kiss filled with tenderness, a love that was all consuming. When she pulled back, her eyes, usually sparkling with a playful light, now held a depth of emotion he hadn’t seen before, a mixture of apprehension and incandescent joy.

"I have something to tell you," she whispered, her voice a little rough, a little trembling.

Athos felt a familiar knot of apprehension tighten in his chest. Her eyes, usually so full of playful mischief and sharp wit, now held a depth of feeling that both intrigued and concerned him. "What is it?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, a touch of worry tinging his tone.

There was no other way to tell him but blurt it straight out. "We are going to have a baby."

The words, heavy and blunt, struck Athos like musket balls, each one leaving him reeling in their wake.

His eyes widened. He looked back at her, then sat up in the bed abruptly, the sheets rustling around him. There was something akin to disbelief, a profound confusion etched onto his handsome features. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally, a soft, incredulous sound escaped him. "A child?" he muttered, the word foreign, almost alien.

"Yes," Ninon breathed, her own eyes starting to water, the dam of her emotions threatening to break. The joy, the fear, the sheer overwhelming wonder of it all was etched on her face.

He looked at her again, truly looked. He saw the flush on her cheeks, the slight tremor of her lips, the profound emotion radiating from her. And then, something shifted. The heavy curtain of his grief, the relentless shadows of his past, began to recede, pushed back by a force he hadn't anticipated. A raw, unexpected smile spread across his face, wide and genuine. His own emotions began to swirl, a cascade of feelings he hadn't known he possessed.

Without a word, he reached out, his hands gently framing her face. He drew her closer, and then, with a tenderness that came from the very core of his being, he kissed her. It wasn't a kiss of passion, nor of comfort, but something far more profound. It was a kiss of awakening, a silent promise, a bridge between the sorrow of the past and the breathtaking, hopeful unknown of their future. The moon seemed to shimmer more brightly sprawling its magic over them.