Chapter 42 | No, That One Is German

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Elena's P.O.V.

To lay in bed sore and in pain felt like a routine now. Four weeks have I been living in a cell, and now I'm living out my third week on a bed. Yeah, I'm not even surprised at how habitual it feels like.

However, despite the ache that choked me every now and then, I was actually feeling much better.

My wounds were healing and my bruises were fading. It was the sign that I have been waiting for, for a long time: recovery.

Both my physical health and sanity.

"That's ridiculous," Ethan spoke from the chair next to my bed, holding the plate of cherries for the both of us. "How could no one suspect the creepy uncle? It's obvious that he did it."

A smile spilled from my lips, warming my face with amusement. "Well, first of all: they're lions. Second of all: it's a children's story - it's supposed to be somewhat unrealistic."

The prince shook his head, disagreeing quietly. "I'm just saying, if my uncle was lusting for power and my father had been killed by a bunch of wildebeests, I would definitively have started an investigation rather than running away."

"Ethan," he stopped his rant when I called his name, and I spoke as slowly and unambiguous as I could. "It's a children's story."

He rolled his eyes before muttering a silent comment, "Doesn't seem like it."

I had to laugh, the scene was becoming too comical. "Remind me to tell you about the sequel later."

His orbs widened, and his hand suddenly dropped the cherries on the bed, "There's a sequel?"

Meanwhile, I was laughing at his dazed expression, the door suddenly opened slowly to reveal the four Musketeers.

"I hope we are not interrupting anything," D'Artagnan was the first to enter, walking deep into the room so his friends could have some space.

Aramis crossed his arms and gave me a side glance, "Oh, we certainly did interrupt something - your betrayal to be precise." So abruptly, he took the plate of cherries that was resting on my bed, almost stuffing it into my face. "How dare you to eat cherries without me? I thought we were friends, Éliane. But I guess not, traître."

"He called you a traitor by the way," Ethan whispered into my ear, translating the obvious word.

A sigh of annoyance was blown out of my nose, and my shoulders followed suit as they went up before they fell. I gazed all four in one picture, feeling how the perplex was growing. "Has something happened, or are you guys just standing there trying to be statues?"

D'Artagnan chuckled, finding my comment amusing, "No, nothing has happened, Elena."

But then Athos stepped forward, "However, we are leaving now."

My heart fell at that answer, and the disheartened weight killed the warm joy, "Oh."

Porthos offered me a small smile, "This is, unfortunately, where our paths part in different ways. Believe me, it is as difficult for you as it is for us - except for Aramis, he is having the worst time coping with this segregation."

Suddenly, a sniff entered the room, "Excusez-moi, I think I got something in my eye." The blonde Musketeer rubbed his orbs, which was quickly followed by a deep cough.

I smiled, albeit it wasn't the kind that was lit with happiness. "Oh, come here, you bite molle."

Aramis did not miss a beat to hug me as laughter grew around us. The gleam was born either by my awful French pronunciation or by the fact that I just called my friend a 'soft prick'. Or both I presume.

"You might not sound like a French person, but you sure know the insults like a Frenchman," D'Artagnan commented, summoning a louder gleam.

Athos stepped forward, picking up my hand to dress it around something heavy and cold. Though I had not seen the object, the touch of it was too familiar and fresh to be dead.

The Musketeer handed me my nightmare: Captain Claes' dagger.

His hazel eyes kept me from dropping the weapon, holding the grip on my hand to stagnate my shaking. "There is a proverb in French; fear and restlessness kill more than do illnesses," Athos whispered carefully so only I could hear. "Remember that, Elena, because fear only makes the wolf bigger than he really is."

Perhaps I hadn't sold my lies to everyone after all.

I froze at the cold touch, feeling how the dagger burned in my hand with raw memories. "Is that a French proverb as well?"

"No, that one is German."

Another round of laughter filled the room, and it triggered a warmth of relief. Terror seemed to ghost away, leaving me and my thoughts alone.

"Here," Aramis quickly replaced the weapon in my hand with a piece of paper. "I have written the script for our break up."

Bewildered glances were painted on everyone's faces, giving the concentrated Musketeer a weird look.

"You what?" I broke the ice.

"That is not your line, keep yourself to the script, Éliane or else I will ask Prince Ethan to take over for you."

A chuckle escaped my lips and I shook my head in an amused disbelief. Clearing my throat from gleams, I went along with his wishes. "My dear, Aramis, I fear this is the end of our liason," the look on everyone's faces seemed to be a mix of hilarity and tired sighs. "Don't translate anything, I don't want to know."

Aramis ignored my break of reality and continued on. "Ma loute, I have a long journey ahead of me, and must bid your company farewell," he suddenly threw a rose out of nowhere on my bed, speaking with a dramatic accent. "Take this rose, Éliane, the symbol of our amour. It has been like a treaty; it lasted while it lasted."

Porthos rolled his eyes, annoyed at the drama our friend was causing. Ethan, on the other hand, just sat in his chair and watched with a smile on his lips.

"I thank thee for the beautiful rose with a- yeah, no, I'm not going to do that," I broke the character, giving Aramis a strict look that showed my refusal.

D'Artagnan's face scrunched up in curiosity, "What did he- Aramis, are you serious?" His brown eyes filtered with irritation when he read the end, holding the paper so it began to wrinkle.

Porthos looked over D'Artagnan's shoulder to read the unfinished line, which was quickly followed by an explosion of a deep laughter. With a knavish smile on his lips, his eyes met the blue orbs to his friend, "The only kiss you will receive, is a peck from your mother."

Whereas the blonde-haired Musketeer rolled his eyes, the rest of us burst out in laughter, feeling how our stomachs twisted in amusement.

That's how our last time together ended: a warm gleam that hugged our hearts and ensured safety after the hell we had been through. It is without any doubt that I would miss them deeply, but I also know that my hope to see them again lies with my profoundly buried hankering.

One day, we will see each other again, and when we do, we will continue where we left off. After all, memories are the threads that hold together the work of a friendship.

Besides, I did not just befriend the well-known Musketeers only for them to leave me forever.

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