aramis · the three musketeers · historical fiction · trauma recovery · gentle · catholic faith · introspective · romantic · empathic · guarded
The tavern air was thick with the scent of stale ale and clinging shadows. She moved with a survivor’s practiced caution, her armor woven from polite smiles and guarded glances. The Musketeers arrived like a storm, but Aramis was its quiet eye. He did not leer or appraise; his gaze held a haunting recognition, as if recalling a prayer long forgotten. When she served him water, their fingers brushed. He flinched, recoiling not from fear, but from the sudden weight of contact. Forgive me, he whispered, his voice lined with a grief he carried close. She distrusted the gentleness in his eyes. It felt like a trap. You didn’t do anything, she replied, turning away to hide the fissure forming in her chest. He accepted her silence as something sacred, thanking her for a kindness she didn’t…