Battlescars Two: Light Up The Dark

Author's note:

The action takes place mostly during the war, but is recounted retrospectively after the events of Season 3.5 "To Play the King", so big references to/spoilers for that episode. I wondered why d'Artagnan had been so determined to help Borel during the prison breakout from the Châtelet, and this is the result.

Warning: this will be a long story and covers some dark themes with stories from the war as the effects continue to be felt after they return, hence the Mature rating, but hopefully there's enough variety to keep it interesting. No spoilers now and I will give warning nearer the time as things get heavy. There's a bit of swearing and occasional blaspheming. I make no further apology for this: I asked the boys for restraint and they did their best, but I am sure a lot worse is said in war, no matter what the century.

Reference is made to both my previous stories but this one stands alone so you don't need to have read the others to follow this one.

A note about timings: France declared war on Spain in 1635 but the BBC series starts in 1630 and they go to war about two years later. So I have kept BBC time and assumed they return at the beginning of series 3 after four years of war, so 1636. The narrative jumps between here and two years into the war ie 1634, BBC time.

As with my previous story, Luck Will Travel, the story and chapter titles all come from the inspirational song "Battlescars" by Paradise Lost.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Musketeers and am grateful to be able to borrow their characters to feed my imagination. Credit to Ellen Taylor, writer of Episode 3.5, from which I quote.


Chapter One: You've had enough

The Garrison, Summer 1636

d'Artagnan sat at the corner table in the garrison courtyard, drinking wine at the end of a long, hot day. It was a familiar scene since the return of most of the Musketeer regiment from the front, and the usual bustle carried on around him – horses being unsaddled and groomed, fed and watered; uniforms shed, weapons cleaned and safely housed; men moving hopefully towards the common room and being shooed out again by Serge. All around him voices called out to each other, teasing and swopping stories about the drama of the day. But in the midst of the bustle, d'Artagnan sat almost motionless, only his fingers moving as they curled restlessly around a pottery goblet, twiddling.

He'd shed his doublet and sat in his shirtsleeves, sharp white against tanned skin that was still covered in the dust of the day's frantic activity to round up the escapees from the Châtelet.

His outer stillness in no way reflected his inner thoughts as he brooded over the events of the day. The dash to the Châtelet on receiving news of the riots that had resulted in a mass prisoner escape, their sheer numbers overwhelming the Red Guard who had been detailed to help. Fistfights in the market place, protecting the Parisian civilians as the desperate convicts grabbed food and hostages. The frenzied search of the refugee camp to where a group of prisoners had fled. Seeing the strangely imposing figure of Borel as he seemed to bow to d'Artagnan across the chaos of women, children and prisoners, mingling in a place they should never have shared.

A muscle in d'Artagnan's jaw jumped as he remembered being drawn in by the intelligence and fragility in the man's gaze before he'd disappeared in the crowd. He'd tracked him down to a parish church nearby, and as he cautiously let the entrance door close behind him, d'Artagnan had been struck by the deep silence within, the richness of incense and waxed wood, the tranquil dust motes dancing in the soft light.

He'd seen the confusion and vulnerability in Borel's expression. He'd seen the tattoo on the back of Borel's wrist that marked him as an army man, and the blank look in his eyes as he tried to remember who he had once been.

The realisation that Borel was beyond help – that his mind had been so twisted by the horrors he'd lived through that his reality was warped, seeing friend and foe alike morphing around him in a dance, the steps of which he no longer knew – came too late to save the lives of the two nuns who d'Artagnan had persuaded to shelter the escapee.

His grip on the goblet tightened convulsively as he remembered racing into the chapel of the convent and seeing the two bodies sprawled out on the floor, pools of blood around their heads like grotesque halos. Borel had murdered them, but it was d'Artagnan who had placed him there instead of returning him to the Chatelet; d'Artagnan who had used his uniform and his charm to convince the nuns to help: d'Artagnan alone who was responsible.

Bile flooded the back of his throat as he realised it could have been Constance lying with her throat slit, if he'd gone with his first impulse to seek help from his wife. She would have helped, he knew, but he hadn't known if she was back from helping Aramis to search for the locksmith's wife, and he couldn't risk bringing Borel to the garrison without clearing it with Athos first.

Had it been arrogance, that made him think he knew best? That he could help this victim of the war with his wounded mind? Whatever his motivation, two nuns were dead, along with a palace guard, and the Queen had been taken hostage: had come within seconds of being killed! Aramis had saved her, pulling her away from Borel's pistol, but his action – his closeness, her look of appreciation for his heroism – had only fuelled the King's anger.

And he, d'Artagnan, had pulled the trigger to end the life of a man whose soul had been starved of love and hope for so long that his mind had crashed and burned months before.

A shadow fell across his face as someone blocked the evening sun's warmth and he looked up, startled, as Athos slid into the seat opposite him.

Wordlessly d'Artagnan passed the bottle over to his Captain and stared into his goblet, waiting for Athos to bawl him out for being so stupid. So irresponsible. It didn't matter that Borel had suffered at the Siege of Salas, or that Porthos thought that he, d'Artagnan, had done the right thing in trying to help Borel. He knew Athos would be completely within his rights to sanction him heavily for his part in the day's disasters.

But Athos simply sat, without speaking, and when d'Artagnan looked up he saw only compassion and acceptance in his calm gaze.

His mentor's serene regard seemed to unblock something inside, and all the frustrations of the day welled up inside him as he spoke without plan or preamble.

"I shot a sick and desperate man today."

His voice was low and thick with emotion. The silence curled between them as Athos waited patiently, knowing d'Artagnan had more he needed to say, but d'Artagnan was emotionally drained and while a hundred words sizzled in his brain, he couldn't seem to catch any long enough to speak them.

In the end he sighed, and spoke bitterly. "Why do I feel like I'm fighting on the wrong side?"

He didn't know he was going to say it but as soon as the words landed heavily in the space between them, he knew it was what he'd been feeling all day since seeing the desperate, starving Châtelet convicts fighting over loaves of bread in the market, and the confused intelligence in Borel's eyes.

No.

Not all day. Longer than that, he realised: much, much longer.

So many things had happened in the war, so much ... wrongness. So many times he'd followed orders knowing they didn't make sense, wondering why he was fighting against men who were the same as him, on the orders of a distant king who let his own people starve while he moved men around on a map of his kingdom, machinating for glory to act as his legacy.

d'Artagnan wasn't interested in glory or politics. He just wanted to help people who were frightened and hungry. That's why he and his father had come to Paris in the first place, after all, yet somehow he'd ended up serving the very man they'd come to petition because of the effect of his penurious taxes on their countrymen. So much had happened since then that d'Artagnan could no longer remember the sequence of decisions that had led him here, to this moment, feeling this anguish over the death of a convict and his victims. He just knew it didn't feel right: nothing felt right any more.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the look on Athos' face as d'Artagnan's words sunk in. He didn't know how long they had sat there in silence, but suddenly Athos pushed himself roughly from the bench and almost ran from the courtyard, ignoring d'Artagnan when he called to ask where he was going.

d'Artagnan's words had struck a chord for Athos, who had been struggling with the same thought but in a different context, as he tried to reconcile his growing feelings for Sylvie with the knowledge that her politics were very different from his. Her words, her passionate beliefs in the fight for equality for women and freedom from poverty, sat well with his own innate sense of justice and the value of every man, but clashed violently with his oath to the King. A clash which, increasingly, gave him sleepless nights. So when d'Artagnan expressed his own turmoil, something crystallised for Athos and he knew, with blinding clarity and a beautiful simplicity, where he really wanted to be right then.

d'Artagnan watched him go with a sense of resignation and something else that felt a little like envy, then took another sip from his cup, and wondered when he might find the energy to move.

Next morning, 5am

Constance woke early. She always had, since childhood. Sister to three older brothers, from a young age she'd been responsible for providing them with breakfast and chivvying them off to school and jobs on time, while her mother worked her various jobs – seamstress, washer-woman, and sometime cook to a landless compte in Faubourg Saint-Germain, one of Paris' posher districts. Constance had often accompanied her mother to the "big houses" to help, something which had helped her deal confidently with affairs at the palace when she became the Queen's confidante.

Since the war with Spain, she'd taken on more and more of the day-to-day running of the Garrison, using all the skills she'd needed to run a home, just on a bigger scale. In the absence of the experienced musketeers, and with Tréville working long hours at the Palace as Minister for War, the young recruits had needed someone to keep them in line and most of them had accepted her role as "mother of the garrison" readily. She'd had trouble from some recruits, especially those of noble birth who objected to being bossed around by a woman – and one of low-birth at that – but Tréville's firm backing, and her close association with the Queen, soon squashed all but the most stubborn of them, and Tréville made sure that those who still disputed her role soon found themselves sent away, war or no war.

So for four years she'd risen at dawn, getting to market early enough to secure the best food for the garrison. She'd helped Serge in the kitchen and made sure the recruits were turned out smartly for muster at 8am when Tréville arrived from the Palace to give the day's orders. She'd patched them up after their training accidents, listened sympathetically to those who were homesick, and made sure their laundry was done and their rooms kept tidy. When food got scarce she'd taken over part of the training grounds behind the garrison and put the recruits to work digging it to grow vegetables. In short, she'd been invaluable during the absence of the Musketeers, and the main reason Tréville had been able to spend so much time at the Palace in his new role as First Minister.

When d'Artagnan and the others had returned from the war at last, she'd been overjoyed. It had been so hard dealing with the absence not just of her husband but of the other three who were nearly as dear to her. Letters between her and d'Artagnan had been frequent at first, full of declarations of love and longing as befitted their newly-wed status. But gradually it became harder for either of them to find words to describe their current lives without worrying the other. d'Artagnan's letters had become sporadic, with sometimes months going by before she heard from him, and then only in the blandest of terms. She'd tried not to worry, knowing that Tréville would keep her informed of any important developments in the area where they were posted. But she'd sensed d'Artagnan had withheld many details from her in his letters, and still did even now he'd returned.

The reunion with her husband of four years, after just four nights spent together since their wedding, had been everything she had dreamed of ever since he'd left for the front. But after that first reunion and their night of desperate, hungry love-making, d'Artagnan had often been strangely distant from her. If she initiated things, he would always respond but sometimes it felt to her that he was holding himself back, pleasing her but reluctant to fully open himself to her.

At first she dismissed it, seeing in his eyes something of the exhaustion he felt after so long at war. His body had always been lean and strong, but these days he was nothing but rigid muscle. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his frame, and sometimes it felt like his character had also lost its softness. He wasn't hard, as such, but she had been surprised by some of his attitudes - for example when Sophie's father died in his arms in the Châtelet. d'Artagnan of all people should have understood how devastating that would be to Sophie but he seemed to shrug it off, and it was Constance who spent hours listening to Sophie talking about her father.

d'Artagnan had also failed to return at night, more than once. Again, she tried not to worry, knowing that he would usually be with Porthos or Aramis, but she could see that the relationship between the three of them was strained since they'd returned. Porthos had found it hard to accept Aramis' reasons for not accompanying them to the front and Aramis struggled with his guilt about the same. Sometimes when she expected them to be together she would find one or the other on their own in the garrison; and sometimes d'Artagnan had not been in the garrison at all.

She stretched, shivering at the direction of her thoughts as much as because of the cool pre-dawn air. Last night they'd started to make love but d'Artagnan had rolled away from her before things had got very far. He'd never done that before and she couldn't disguise her confusion and hurt. He'd seen it in her eyes, and apologised, but had offered no explanation and she had not pushed him.

They'd talked over dinner about the events of the day but he'd been taciturn, and she could see in his eyes that there was more to the death of the convict than he'd told her. She could also see how upset he was at the death of the two nuns, but he didn't explain how Borel came to be at the convent so she was confused about the depth of his distress over people he didn't know.

She sighed. He was her husband, and he was troubled. It was her job to help him with whatever disturbed his sleep and threatened their intimacy.

Hmn. Maybe in the morning light things would be better. She turned towards his side of the bed, a wicked smile creeping onto her lips as she contemplated just how she might wake him... then she shot up in dismay at seeing his side empty.

Where was he? She checked the window: it was barely light outside. She hadn't heard him get up or sensed his absence, so she knew it must be quite a time since he'd been missing. Her stomach lurched with anxiety, even though it wasn't the first time she'd woken alone. Usually he was already in the stables or helping Serge prepare the morning bread, and she'd put his early waking down to their erratic sleeping patterns during the war. This morning was the first time she'd admitted that something more might be going on in that stubborn Gascon head of his.

Dressing swiftly, she hurried outside. The courtyard was still deserted – unsurprising at this hour. When she looked in the mess room Serge was already there, sitting nursing a cup of something hot, and growling instructions at Nicolas, a young musketeer taking his turn at kitchen duty. She watched the lad's ham-fisted attempts to knead dough for a moment, then, catching Serge's shake of the head at her mute enquiry, she nodded her thanks and headed towards the stables. Inside she paused for a moment to enjoy the warm smell of hay, horse and manure, and the sound of contented munching. So he had been here then – the horses had been given hay, and water, and it was too early for Jacques the stable-lad. She found Nuit's stall and was greeted with a soft whicker from the gentle mare. Yes, this was d'Artagnan's work: his horse was groomed and her stall had already been mucked out.

Outside the sky was lighter now and the first rays of sun were creeping over the roof as she crossed the courtyard again, heading for the training ground, a large grassy paddock surrounded by the warm sandstone walls of the garrison and its neighbouring buildings. On this southern side, closest to the garrison, lay her beds of root vegetables and several rows of fruit trees, and on the far side stood the training targets and empty weapon racks. If he wasn't here she didn't know where else to look, unless he'd returned to their rooms whilst she was in the stables or with Serge ... No. He was here.

She stopped in the archway separating the garrison from the training ground beyond, catching her breath at the sight before her.

In the centre of the field, d'Artagnan was silhouetted against a silky dawn mist that caressed his swirling body, lunging and pivoting in a graceful solitary dance as he went through his forms. She watched, riveted, as his lithe figure manoeuvred endlessly. He had rolled his sleeves up and she could see his muscular forearms, criss-crossed with the tracks of scars from a hundred fights, and the sweat running down his face.

Unless he was on a mission, or wounded, d'Artagnan was diligent in practising the drills that all swordsmen used to practice their fighting strokes, strengthen their muscles and build up stamina. Even if he was training the recruits he still made time beforehand to run through his own exercises. But she'd never seen him look so intense. Or so exhausted: he must have been out here for an hour or more – well before dawn.

Even as she watched, a furrow creasing her brow, he made a final lunge, straightened, saluted his imaginary opponent and sheathed his sword. It a wrap-up so rapid and practiced that she didn't realised he was finishing until it was too late and he'd already turned and was striding towards her, head down. For a split second she dithered, wondering if she could slip back into the courtyard before he noticed her, but then it was too late and he'd looked up.

For a moment his stride faltered, as if he'd been caught out, then he came towards her with an odd look on his face. Guilt? Or maybe embarrassment. She moved to meet him, a welcome smile teasing her lips, then stopped dead in shock as he strode straight past her without stopping.

"d'Artagnan? d'Artagnan, wait!" She called after him, hating the note of desperate entreaty in her voice as she hurried after him. "I wanted to... d'Artagnan!"

He stopped so suddenly that she almost bumped into his back. "What? What did you want, Constance?" He spoke without turning, his voice sounding taut and controlled.

"I... " she trailed off, not even sure what she wanted to say. She just wanted to make things right between them but she hadn't expected him to sound so hostile. She didn't even understand where things were going wrong, or why, but she hated it. She tried again. "I just want to understand what's wrong, d'Artagnan. I just – I want my husband back!"

She saw his back stiffen at her words, and then he strode off again without a word. She sagged back against a wall, watching him disappear into the stables, and wondered what she had said that was so wrong.


An hour later the courtyard was a different place, as the musketeers gathered for breakfast before morning muster. Constance had stood, frozen in place, until she saw d'Artagnan emerge on Nuit and take off through the archway at a fast canter, then she'd sighed, and headed slowly towards the kitchen to help Serge prepare breakfast. Now she bustled around dumping platters of bread and honey on the tables, pouring drinks, cuffing Fabien across the back of his head when he complained that his mead was cold, and chiding Henri who turned up in a rush without his weapons.

In the middle of the activity Aramis and Porthos strolled towards their usual table, walking in step and chatting amiably, the discord that sometimes flared between them nowhere in sight on this fine summer's morning. As they sat, both looked around automatically for d'Artagnan, but seeing Constance Aramis waved her over.

Scowling slightly, Constance swept up a couple of empty plates en route and stalked across to the pair. "Yes?" she snapped. Aramis blinked at her tone and Porthos, who looked to be nursing a minor hangover, looked up in surprise.

Aramis didn't waste words. "What's wrong, Constance? You look out of sorts this morning."

"What's wrong is that I'm busy, and I don't have time to be summoned to wait on you like a... like a... "

"A waitress?" supplied Porthos, helpfully, reaching across the table to pick up a cup in the hopes that it might contain liquid, then yelping as Constance slapped his hand away.

Aramis chuckled, remembering a time when it was he who Constance seemed to delight in slapping, then shut up hastily as she swung round to glare at him. He hurried to explain himself, keeping a wary eye on her hands. "I was hoping you could enlighten us as to d'Artagnan's whereabouts, since I don't yet see him in the courtyard and muster is barely fifteen minutes away." He smiled his most charming smile, which faded as her glare intensified.

"I have no idea, and less inclination to find out," she snapped, then turned and swept off leaving the two men staring blankly at each other.

"This is not good," Aramis said slowly.

"Nah, not good at all. I'll go and get it, save time," said Porthos, looking worried and pushing himself off the bench with a grunt.

Aramis looked even blanker. "Go and get... what?" he asked.

"Breakfast, o' course! Can't do muster without something inside me." Porthos gave Aramis a scandalised look and headed determinedly towards the kitchen.

Aramis chuckled again. Things might not be perfect between them yet, but you couldn't help but love Porthos with a hangover. Then his grin faded as he remembered Constance's words, and he hastened to his feet. He had to find out what was going on between the pair of them; he had a feeling they were going to need some help. A lot of help.


Aramis caught up with Constance just as she turned into the doorway in the corner of the courtyard which led to their quarters. She heard the courtyard door creak as she hitched her skirts to head up the stone steps to their room, and turned so quickly she almost stumbled. Even in the dim interior there was no mistaking the look of disappointment that flashed across her features. She looked away quickly, resting a hand on the wall and looking down at her feet.

"What do you want? I've already told you, I don't know where he is."

Aramis hesitated, aware he was about to cross a line and that they had little time to talk before morning muster. But she sounded forlorn, and he was worried about d'Artagnan, so he braced himself and dived in.

"Will you tell me what's wrong between you?" he asked, gently.

"Nothing is wrong!" she snapped, turning to head up the stairs, but there was a wobble in her voice. Aramis moved to the bottom of the stairs and crossed his arms, propping a shoulder on the wall and crocking a foot on the first stair as he watched her walk slowly up.

"Then why are you crying?" His voice was soft and full of concern.

"I'm not crying...!" Her steps slowed until she stood motionless, her head bowed. Aramis waited, patiently. She wasn't one for tears, this Constance that they all admired so much; she was feisty and quick-witted, fearless and tough, good-natured and loving. d'Artagnan had been besotted with her since they'd first met. She was clearly the perfect match for him, and once they'd finally overcome all the obstacles in their way they should have been the perfect couple. Would have been, surely, if the war with Spain had not been announced on the very day of their marriage.

Quite apart from the fact that he could see d'Artagnan struggling with his demons since returning from the battlefront a few weeks earlier, seeing Constance so lost and unhappy seemed just wrong, and he was determined to help if he could.

She stood motionless for a moment longer, then suddenly sank gracelessly to the ground, turning so she could settle on the steps half way up, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her chin on her hands. She didn't look at him but he could see the glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. He waited again, and breathed an internal sigh of relief when she started to speak.

"He's so different." Her voice was so quiet that Aramis had to strain to hear her words. "When he first came home it was just wonderful to have him back!" The warmth in her voice as she remembered his homecoming was unmistakeable, but her smile faded quickly as she continued. "I thought... I had worried, all the time he was away, that he would be different, that it wouldn't be the same between us but that first night... it was better, Aramis! Oh, I know he'd changed, he looked – taller! And older. More confident somehow. He had new scars everywhere..." Her voice trailed off, remembering how she'd traced their lines in the dark, that first night together, exploring his new body with her fingers. "But it felt as if no time had passed, and I was so happy!"

"And then?" prompted Aramis, shifting from the wall and coming up to sit on the steps, not too close, but close enough so he could hear her better. He carefully didn't look at her, knowing such intimacy would be hard enough without seeing his reactions.

"He's been ... distant." Her words came slowly, as if it were the first time she'd put her thoughts into words. "Sometimes he's lovely, and funny and kind just as he always was. But sometimes – increasingly so – he just sits and stares into the fire in the evening. He doesn't sleep, or not for long anyway, just a couple of hours some nights. He has dreams, he sweats and tosses, then he wakes, or I wake him because he sounds so distressed. He won't tell me what he dreamed. Usually he says it's nothing, he's just getting used to being back, and he gets up and goes to the stables or just... disappears. He doesn't explain; he's just silent. Out there" – she waved a hand at the courtyard – "he's fine; he jokes with you and trains the cadets and all of the youngsters look up to him – and half the veterans too, I've seen them – but in here... in here he's not the same as the man I married!"

Aramis winced and she shot him a look.

"I'm sorry, Aramis. I shouldn't be telling you all this."

"On the contrary, I'm glad you have. You need to talk to someone and I would prefer it was me rather than d'Artagnan while your emotions are running high... What?" She'd stiffened as he spoke, and he glanced at her, concerned.

"I have talked to d'Artagnan. Or rather tried to, this morning. He was up well before dawn and by the time I found him he'd fed and watered all the horses and was training – but when he finished, he just ignored me. And I tried to explain my worries, that he wasn't the same man I married, but he just..." She broke off as Aramis hissed in an audible breath at her words.

"You actually told him that?" he asked, urgently.

"Yes – why not? I needed him to understand how different he is, and how scared I am." She faltered as Aramis surged to his feet, heading straight down the stairs before remembering his manners and turning back to offer her his hand. She took it and rose, smoothing her skirts distractedly, waiting for his answer.

"That's the one thing of which he was most afraid. Oh, dearest Constance! That's the one thing he never wanted to hear from you!" Leaving her frozen on the steps, he hurried down and disappeared into the hubbub of the courtyard.


I am so stoked to be posting this story at last – it's been brewing in my head for a long time! But I am also very nervous about it. It's turning out different from my others, which were more of an adventurous whump-romp (is that a thing?). This one will be longer and mostly darker, and I'm nervous about reactions. So if you like it, please, please don't be silent, because I would really welcome the reassurance of feedback. If I don't enjoy a story I prefer not to review rather than to say something negative, so to me silence sounds like indifference at best, or dislike at worst. So if you can, please take a moment to tell me what you think. Right, end of plea. I will update regularly so the next chapter will be up in a couple of days. Thanks for reading!

PS Sorry if you're looking for chapter 2 - I got in a muddle trying to repost the story as it didn't appear in the list of stories at all the first time. Having accidentally posted the same chapter twice, hence the "chapter 2 alert some of you may have received" it still doesn't show up so I've had to delete it and repost (Pallysdeeks, Greenlips, thanks for reviewing and sorry your reviews will have disappeared!). Fingers crossed no more glitches and I promise the second chapter will be up soon for real. I am going to lie down in a darkened room now. xx