Genevieve Banet (@GenevieveBanet), garrison cook has worked hard to make something special for her favourite musketeer…Athos. She dreams of him noticing her as a woman not just as the cook. She constantly seeks his approval. For Christmas she has decided to do something very special for him and from the sugar beets and canes she has spent many an hour perfecting this magnificent piece of sugar craft. She has burnt many a finger, leaving tiny scars and used all her time in the perfection of this gift. Just in the hope that he will acknowledge her-that’s all she wants-for she knows as a lowly cook she can never be as grand as @Exquisite_ Wren, the gentle woman he loves. But perhaps, her dream will come true and the man will smile upon her and make her happy.

Just one smile, Athos, that’s all she wants.

She leaves his gift with a simple tag saying: To Athos, a very special Musketeer.

She is happy with it…done to perfection for the perfect Musketeer.

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I return to garrison, furious with the attempt of humiliation by Cardinal Richelieu, immediately grabbing the brandy bottle and pouring a drink. The day has not gone well, so quickly snaps back another, followed by another. Oh, how I hate this time of year with the pretence of happiness and friendship.

I see the gift on the table and give it a briefest of glances. Recognises it’s from that hapless cook whose time should be spent on perfecting her culinary skills instead of trying to poison us with wild and adventurous dishes. Snaps back another drink and settles down to await any emergencies of the night as I have volunteered for duty tonight, Christmas Eve. Puts feet on the table and in doing so the beautifully crafted token falls crashing to the floor… observed by the now devastated Genevieve.

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Ten minutes to ten at night and this Christmas Eve hangs heavy with the monotony of mundane military duty. My only comfort, yes that beautiful brandy which I don’t waste on any glasses but drink to excess from the bottle. I sit in my chair and slowly drift off to sleep by the warmth of the crackling fire. Emergencies can wait, nothing ever happens on Christmas Eve.

I wake with a start as Aramis pushes my shoulder, laughing in his rakish manner.

“Is this the way to spend Christmas Eve, alone with some brandy? Why I’m sure you remember times when the laughter rang out on these evenings. Come on Athos tell me of some.”

Annoyed to have the warmth of my deep slumber disturbed I furrow my brows into their usual scowl.

“What’s there to tell Aramis? I was happy once and I’m not now.”

Succinct and to the point!

I take the neck of the bottle and offer some to Aramis before swigging back to coat my rasping throat with its warmth.

“Its good stuff you know…and even if it wasn’t it’s better than recalling memories long lost”

Aramis grabs the bottle after me imbibes and wipes the drips from his moustache with his hand as replies,

“Not bad…and I’m sure not all your memories are bad of Christmas Eve.”

His own eyes gleam as his memories come flooding back, of stolen kisses under mistletoe , of handfuls of willing female flesh begging for his touch, of aching manly needs so easily sated on nights like these.

My mouth twitches nervously into smile

“I have had my fair share of good memories…but a gentleman never tells”

I drink some more as I recall my cousin Jacqui teasing me with playful kisses on the cheek as she then romped after my brother Thomas and how one year Thomas got a servant girl to delve her hand into my breeches as a dare.  We all used to run and laugh around the house with adolescent teasing in mind and yes one year I did kiss a servant girl and thanked her for not placing her hand that year on what would have responded more readily this time.

Yes there were years of Christmas Eve’s fun, frolics and laughter all were good heart-warming memories: but why hurt yourself with memories of the past. They just make the present more difficult to handle.

Because of course there was her…Anne de Brueil, my wife…

My life has never been the same since.

I take swig of the brandy and before drifting off to another deep slumber I hear Aramis say.

“Think of Genevieve and the work that has gone into her gift. Would it hurt you so much to say thank you and put a smile on her face?”

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Ten minutes to eleven and Aramis is nudging me again

“Wake up Athos and let’s drink to the future.”

His ever happy radiant eyes, dance with mischief and dangling the bottle so temptingly in front of me.

“You have us now and think of the fun we will have in the future. Comrades in Arms!”

This time he hands me the bottle and I drink to our future but as I do his eyes cloud over. Yet he continues his merry japes.

“France is secure with its new dauphin, you have found love again. We have a new friend in D’Artagnan and of course Porthos will always keep us amused. Yes, we have a lot to look forward to”

Yet I see in his eyes the truth that I also feel. The emptiness of love for him, forbidden: and for me, love ever tainted.

We both raise our bottle in a damp squib of a salutation

“The future!”

I swig back a gulp and think of the future…and an emptiness caught up in the misery of the past.  I see children growing up, not knowing their fathers, wives never seeing their husbands. I see love unfilled and all I see is sorrow. I see a lonely Genevieve still seeking approval and hiding her hurt.

This future is not so good.

“Why so sad?” Aramis asks of me

“As musketeers our futures are set on the path of duty, Aramis…there is no happy ending for us”

“Does it have to be that way?” He questions himself and well as me. “We have seen happiness and fun in the past, why can we not feel that again? What is there to stop us?”

His questions nag at both our souls.And it is this question that sinks into my dreams as I sleep again, brandy warm, emotions cold.

Try as he may I know Aramis’s optimism is but a front; he too is hurting, but his hurt manifests itself so differently to me.

You see him laugh, you see him flirt but rarely do you see him love.

I may not laugh I may not flirt but when I love; I love with all my heart.

So it is with a melancholy for the future I drift back into the warmth of sleep.

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Ten minutes to midnight and a knock on the door to awaken my slumbers once more. Aramis stands proud and dazzling like the peacock he is.

“Come on Athos, let’s go to Mass” he pulls his gloves to better the fit and raises his chin.

“What’s the matter? Did you think I’d leave you alone at Christmas?” his smile radiates again.

“Three visits in one night…I am honoured” I reply as I gather my hat.

“Three?” He looks surprised, “Who else has been calling on you?”

I give him one of my sceptical looks the ones I give when he annoys me most. Especially as he now broken my sleep three times with his Christmas memories of past and future.

He places a hand on my arm and laughs I’ve just left one of the most beautiful women in Paris…and just in time before her husband returned home. He brings his fingers up to kiss them and throws the kiss to the air….

“She’s had her present three times tonight! “

I throw him a puzzled look and walk with him to Mass.

In the chill of the night the cloaked ladies dance their way to Mass giggling and whispering of earlier fun in the tavern, of kisses stolen and promises given. All except one who walks languidly alone at the back… Genevieve Banet, the garrison cook. The one who I had so tirelessly worked to present me with her exquisite token and I had so carelessly destroyed but a few hours ago.  My eyes follow as her dainty feet step carefully through the muddy cobbles, her head down her shoulders slumped. There was no joy to her movement, no vitality in face…just joyless movement.

She looks over to us as Aramis gives an exuberant wave of his hand. Her eyes then fall on mine and she buries her head back into her disconsolate walk.

I call out and hasten my pace to catch her.

She lifts her skirts and tries to scurry faster, trying to avoid me. Her heart broken by the handsome man, the Musketeer that had seemed so perfect but had so disregarded her token for him. She feels humiliation and hurt this Christmas from the one bright spark in her own loveless, monotonous life.

Catching her arm I halt her progress and turn her around. Her dark sanguine eyes peer up into mine and a solitary tear trickles down her face. My leathered thumb brushes the tear from her cheek as I stutter out my unusual gratitude for her gift. A feint, false smile flickers across her face as she turns to go giving her polite bob of a servant’s lowliness.

“No wait!”

Overwhelmed by guilt of my earlier action, consumed by memories of Christmas past and concerned for Christmas future and still holding her arm, I pull her back into the protection of my arms, wrapping them around her delicate frame.  In a move of powerful intention I press my lips on hers and move against hers in tenderness and affection. At first her lips freeze against mine, but unperturbed I continue this lingering kiss until her lips surrender to mine and she melts within the security of my arms. Pulling away I whisper with guilt ridden tones,

“Thank you for my gift. It was beautiful but I have a confession to make…”

She stops me before I can say any more by placing a finger to my lips and through a broken smile…

“I know,” she whispers, “and you can destroy a thousand more and I’ll never be as happy as I feel right now but do one thing for me Monsieur Athos… say my name… you have never said my name …and I want to hear my name on your lips, just once in my life. Just once I want to hear your smooth deep, velvety voice say my name…”

The night is silent and dark, only the shuffling of feet of worshippers heading for Midnight Mass can be heard…

“…Merry Christmas, Genevieve!  I hope all your dreams come true…”