#treville

He drinks himself to sleep that night, his face buried in the pillow as he clasps that sketch you created, the awful one of a wildflower in a Spanish field to his heart.

When he awakens he thinks of the last time you were together, the brightness in your eyes, the smile that made his heart beat just a little faster. The tears, they leak down his cheeks because a part of his soul has been ripped right out of his body and there is nothing that can ever fill the space that you've left.

For days he refuses to leave his chambers. In the mornings Athos brings him food, wine and correspondence. When he returns the bowl is untouched but the bottle empty and his Captain has returned to his bed.

“She would not want this.” Athos tells the other man’s back.

His own nerves are raw, grating. It was him that found your charred corpse amongst the ruins of that house, that identified the necklace you always wore, the battered scrap of gold Treville had given you before you were married. It had been all he could afford on an soldier’s salary, the only way he knew to express his love for you.

“It’s like she didn’t even exist.” Treville whispers to the wall he’s facing. “She left no trace in this world.”

“Our memories.” Athos says, his speech stilted. “We still have her in our hearts, our thoughts. We must take comfort in that.”

“I take comfort in nothing anymore.” Treville tells the bricks. “This world... there is nothing for me.”

“Captain…”

“Leave me to my grief.” He says forcefully.

“No,” Athos says fiercely. “She would never forgive me if I left you to this fate, she would expect me to haul you outside throw a pail of water on you, she would say… she would say you stunk like a donkey and she would be right.”

He still doesn’t leave his chambers.

“I fear that this has broken him.” He tells Porthos and Aramis later that evening. “I think he will follow her to the grave.”

It’s late that night that the sound of hooves resonates through the garrison. Treville is standing on the balcony, half drunk as the rider hurtles through the gate before drawing to a halt beneath him.

“State your business.” He thunders as they slip from the horse and they pause tilting their head up towards him before they draw back the hood.

“Jean Treville.” You chide. “Is that anyway to speak to your wife?”

He forgets himself then, about the secrecy, the decorum, the propriety. He’s down the stairs in an instant, holding you, kissing you. He doesn’t realise that his cheeks are wet not until you reach up and brush the salt from them.

“I don’t understand.” He whispers, his hands shaking as he clasps your face between them.

“Come my love.” You say, your fingers interlacing with his as you guide him back towards the stairs. “I’ll explain inside.”

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