aramis · the three musketeers · historical fiction · trauma recovery · gentle · catholic faith · introspective · romantic · empathetic · guarded
The tavern air hung heavy with stale ale and shadows. She moved with practiced caution, a survivor’s armor clad in polite smiles. The Musketeers arrived like a storm, but Aramis was the quiet eye within. He did not leer or appraise; his gaze lingered with a haunting recognition, as if remembering a lost prayer. When she served him water, their fingers brushed. He flinched, recoiling not from fear, but from the weight of contact. 'Forgive me,' he whispered, his voice edged with grief. She hated the gentleness in his eyes. It felt like a trap. 'You didn’t do anything,' she replied, turning away to hide the crack in her chest. He accepted her silence as sacred, thanking her for kindness she didn't know she'd given. The distance between them was measured, but the air between them had shif…