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Apr. 11th, 2015 03:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
afineseamstressHe doesn't intend to look this time.
Even with Porthos' newfound fortune, the idea of children seems insurmountable from the legal side, and Aramis has dragged himself to the library yet again in an attempt to make sense of things. He sees the crowd around the orb as is usual, but Aramis ignores it, instead devouring one woman's private struggle made paperbook.
It must be an hour later when Aramis finally resurfaces, and when he looks, the people milling about the orb are gone. Aramis rubs at scratchy eyes and rises, intent on shelving his book for another when a familiar voice catches his ears.
He hasn't heard it in ages. It is strange to think he ever wished to, that he could have spent years waiting to hear it again, when all Aramis wants now is to let the man rest. But the dead come to Darrow, he knows it. On the train or on the streets, more than one who should have passed this life long ago still walks among them, and today one calls to him from a tiny orb.
Aramis turns, watching the scene despite himself. Porthos is older, but not by much, alone when he meets Marsac on the streets. It is amicable enough, given how things could have been. No shots are fired, and when they part, Aramis knows each go in search of him. He frowns, and as if by wishing it, sees the days move forward. He is alone with Marsac now, seated at a cafe to speak, and Marsac understands, his eyes on Aramis' wedding ring. Things are different here - Aramis and Porthos and even Athos may be together. It is not like it was at home.
Not for the first time, Aramis thinks that he's received something more than he deserves, something that Marsac could have had, too, should have had, but he was always a beat too slow. He turns from the orb, but not before the scene shifts again.
This time Marsac is wild. His dark blue eyes seem to burn, fury and jealousy that Aramis hates himself for understanding, even as he watches a version of himself lift his hands, putting his body between the tiny girl on the changing table and Marsac's gun.
Aramis closes his eyes, and he doesn't open them again until he's passed beyond the book stacks, blind to anything but a sudden wish for home when he pushes through the library doors and into the cool spring air outside.
Even with Porthos' newfound fortune, the idea of children seems insurmountable from the legal side, and Aramis has dragged himself to the library yet again in an attempt to make sense of things. He sees the crowd around the orb as is usual, but Aramis ignores it, instead devouring one woman's private struggle made paperbook.
It must be an hour later when Aramis finally resurfaces, and when he looks, the people milling about the orb are gone. Aramis rubs at scratchy eyes and rises, intent on shelving his book for another when a familiar voice catches his ears.
He hasn't heard it in ages. It is strange to think he ever wished to, that he could have spent years waiting to hear it again, when all Aramis wants now is to let the man rest. But the dead come to Darrow, he knows it. On the train or on the streets, more than one who should have passed this life long ago still walks among them, and today one calls to him from a tiny orb.
Aramis turns, watching the scene despite himself. Porthos is older, but not by much, alone when he meets Marsac on the streets. It is amicable enough, given how things could have been. No shots are fired, and when they part, Aramis knows each go in search of him. He frowns, and as if by wishing it, sees the days move forward. He is alone with Marsac now, seated at a cafe to speak, and Marsac understands, his eyes on Aramis' wedding ring. Things are different here - Aramis and Porthos and even Athos may be together. It is not like it was at home.
Not for the first time, Aramis thinks that he's received something more than he deserves, something that Marsac could have had, too, should have had, but he was always a beat too slow. He turns from the orb, but not before the scene shifts again.
This time Marsac is wild. His dark blue eyes seem to burn, fury and jealousy that Aramis hates himself for understanding, even as he watches a version of himself lift his hands, putting his body between the tiny girl on the changing table and Marsac's gun.
Aramis closes his eyes, and he doesn't open them again until he's passed beyond the book stacks, blind to anything but a sudden wish for home when he pushes through the library doors and into the cool spring air outside.
