Chapter Text
Treville walked out of his office onto the balcony and leaned over. He rested his forearms on the two indentations he and other captains before him had worn smooth. He looked out onto what he could see of the city. Paris seemed to glow under the light of the summer solstice moon. Everything looked calm, smelled calm, the air even tasted calm; however, he was not calm. He forced his body to be still ... to appear for all the world as a soldier taking a much needed break. Yet. Yet. He had avoided looking directly at the moon, but he knew he must look now. He slowly turned his face skyward.
A red ring glowed around the full face of the moon--blood on the moon. Something evil was afoot and death, violent death, would surely follow. He growled softly, said a quick prayer to Hecate for protection for those he loved and himself, and turned back toward his office.
Once inside, he glanced around at the sparse surroundings. Against one wall was a single cot. His blue cloak fanned out in the shape of a crescent moon draped over the mattress. A large old oak desk sat in the middle of the room. An organized pile of papers demanding his attention placed dead center along side his writing implements and ink. Impatiently, he shoved them aside almost spilling the ink.
“Well, that won’t do,” he spoke to himself softly, wryly. He pulled his athame from his sash. He studied the tool as he again said a quick prayer to Hecate. The silver blade on his athame reflected beams of light around the room just as the onyx of the handle seemed to absorb the candle glow. He rolled the blade letting his thumbs trace the torch to honor Hecate’s mother, Asteria, goddess of the shining star. This was fashioned into the black handle on one side and a Y to represent a crossroads in time was carved into the other side. A moonstone set dead center in the Y served to remind him of where he must be to look at the past, the present, and the future. This athame had been in the Treville family for centuries even before the Christ when the women in his family served the gods as seers at Delphi, as high priestesses in the temples of Athens, and as healers in Corinth. The men in his family served as well always as soldiers, protectors, guardians.
He used the tip of the athame to tap a small drawer located on the left side of his desk. The empty drawer slid out. Treville tapped it again and the drawer revealed a white stone bowl the size of his hand, a small mirror the silver wavy with age, a ball made of clear crystal, and a folded piece of indigo velvet. He opened the velvet onto his desk smoothing the creases out as he went and then waved the athame slowly over the ball, mirror, and bowl. The knife vibrated in his hand as he held it over the bowl.
“So, water scrying, it is,” he murmured as he carefully placed the bowl onto the velvet and said another prayer. This time for peace and protection of this sacred space while he scried. Treville was pleased. Water scrying as one of the first forms of divination his mother shared with him so many years ago. To small to balance in a chair, he sat on her lap as she taught him the symbols and omens he might encounter.
Treville moved to lock his door and retrieve the pitcher of rainwater he kept on his windowsill. He returned to his desk and tapped the pitcher with the blade tip blessing the water and clearing the space by way of sound vibration. The high-pitched peal helped him to clear his head as well.
In order for the scry to work, he must place himself into a light trance. He poured some of the water into the bowl and tapped the pitcher again. Treville closed his eyes and focused on the chime. He counted to nine, took a slow breath in and tapped the pitcher again. He exhaled and repeated nine times--nine taps, nine chimes, nine breaths in, and nine breaths out.
“Hecate, I have dedicated my life to you. I fear for the actions being taken this night. You sent the omen moon to me so that I might serve you. Please show me what I need to see.” He peered into the water watching it ripple, then churn, then still.
The first image blurry and bloody slowly emerged. Not blood just red. The cardinal. “No surprise there,” he frowned.
Richelieu dissolved into the King. Louis’ frightened yet resolute expression then dissolved into that of a man with dirty blond hair and a hungry look in his eyes. “Who are you?”
The stranger’s face faded into an image of a room lit by candle light. Black candles, he said still speaking aloud, “This does not bode well.”
The image remained but seemed to move within the room. Treville noticed a tall table. He willed the image to move closer. The men stood around the altar. The cardinal read from the book in an odd language that sounded like a bastardized latin of sorts. The words hurt Treville’s ears, and he grimaced as he forced himself to study what he was seeing. The stranger held his own athame. The silver flickered in the candlelight as blood dripped from the tip. Something squalled on the table. It was being held down by a woman Treville did know, “Milady.”
“Oh, Hecate ...” he mumbled. He could feel the goddesses anger moving through his body in waves. His heart clenched as if refusing to take one more beat. As the goddess of childbirth and the health of children, Treville knew this blood sacrifice would appall her just as it did him. “I will avenge this babe, I so swear.” He felt a burn as if someone was taking a quill pen and marking an ‘x’ into his once-again beating heart. It seemed his goddess would hold him to his vow.
The image changed to a clock; the hands spinning backwards. “They are attempting to alter time ... the past.”
An old brass lamp badly in need of cleaning came into view. “A djinn--wishes, but whose?”
And then, the garrison itself opened up before him. “The Musketeers?” He again willed the image to sweep the grounds finally settling on the table located just below his office. His eyes drawn to the four men sitting there as if posed for a painting--until they began to move.
To the left and leaning toward the table was a man dressed in his musketeer leathers; his blue cape swept over one shoulder. He cut a fine figure. His body trim and muscular. His clothes clean and his beard neat. Treville recognized this handsome soldier as Aramis. Aramis placed a hand on a large man’s shoulder.
Porthos turned to Aramis. His face strong and smiling as he looked up at his brother. Aramis nodded his head toward the man seated next to Porthos. Porthos turned and grinned at d’Artagnan. The youngest Musketeer dressed in his still somewhat new looking uniform was staring up at Athos, trained on his face. Athos, looking a bit more dusty than the others and a tad hungover, mirrored Aramis on the right of the table leaning in to show d’Artagnan his main dagger. “Why this image?” Treville asked the empty room.
Then the image flickered, and Treville heard the sounds of battle. Metal clashed and horses neighed as officers ordered men to their deaths. He smelled blood and infection and rot. Treville understood these sounds and aromas were for him. The worst sounds he could think of. Sounds to tell him the bad thing was coming. The odors to tell him it was already too late. A new image appeared in the bowl.
The garrison again. The same table. But, the men, his men, “No ... No” he gasped.