A/N: A fluffy bit written for the February Fete des Mousquetaires competition "Retrospection." I was inspired by the unusually warm days and the clear nights. My dog and I wrote this story during our evening walks. The sky was dazzling.
They were losing the last of the sunlight. Athos, on point, strained to keep his horse to the narrow path leading across the desolate fields. The flat, low light of the setting sun cast long deep shadows, giving everything a blue-grey cast and making it difficult to tell a shadow from a rut in the road. He was hunched forward on his mount, carefully picking their way. The slight jingle of tack and the soft footfalls of the other horses were the only sounds disturbing the descending twilight. Athos was fairly certain they had lost their pursuers around mid-day, but still, it was prudent to put as much distance between them and Forbach as possible.
The mission had been successful in that they had met the German envoy on the border as planned. Safely tucked in a secret pocket of Athos's doublet were the promissory notes that would help fund France's military deployment near the border of Spain. What had been less successful was their return trip. They were set on by mercenaries just beyond the outskirts of town and the the following days had been a series of skirmishes and frantic escapes to make their way out of the volatile region of Lorraine. The Duke of Lorraine was no friend to the crown and would like nothing better than to intercept the communications between Germany and France. But the dogged two-day pursuit was not just a happenstance. The mercenaries had been lying in wait. The musketeers' mission had been secret - known only to the King, Treville and Rochefort and a small handful of trusted aides. Somewhere there had to be a spy in Louis's court.
Athos sighed and leaned further forward, trying to find a more comfortable position to ease his bruised ribs. Despite the ache in his shoulders, it was better than the sharp pain that outlined every breath if he sat straight. Athos was weary as he squinted tired eyes over the darkening landscape pushing himself in order to keep them all safe. Their horses plodded on, Athos turning in his mind again and again the circumstances of their mission and speculating on who the spy might be.
He swayed in the saddle, catching himself with a jerk when he felt his chin drop to his chest. He shook his head to clear it. He was tired.
"Athos!" he heard from behind him. He pulled up his horse and gave him a slight turn. Aramis was stopped on his mount several paces back.
"We need to stop," Aramis's breathy , hushed baritone carried easily through the quiet fields.
"I'm fine," Athos answered, forcing himself to straighten in the saddle, "We still have some daylight. We should make use of it."
"But I am not fine, mon ami," Aramis said, wincing.
Athos kicked up his mount and quickly closed the short distance between him and Aramis. Aramis had taken a deep slash across the side the day before, and it registered in Athos's tired mind that the marksman was leaning to the left, almost draped over the neck of his horse. They had cleaned, stitched and bandaged the wound, but hours of riding could not have done his friend any favors. Even in the waning light Athos could see Aramis's face was pale, and by the marksman's ragged breathing, he was obviously in pain. Athos put a comforting hand to Aramis's shoulder but looked past him to Porthos and D'Artagnan.
Porthos and his horse were plodding slowly behind, still moving toward where he and Aramis were stopped. The big man had one arm in a sling to keep it stable against his body, but the injury to his shoulder was not serious. More troubling was D'Artagnan, who Athos could not see, but knew was mounted behind Porthos. D'Artagnan's horse had been struck in the skirmish that morning and had thrown his rider solidly into a copse of trees. D'Artagnan had been out cold when they got to him and they had bundled him up onto Porthos's horse before he had even regained consciousness. In the late afternoon, when Athos had finally felt they had lost the last of the mercenaries tracking them, they had stopped to tend their wounds. It was certain that D'Artagnan was concussed, but he had been coherent and was able to ride behind Porthos so as not to trouble the other musketeer's arm.
Porthos reined up his horse behind Aramis. "Why we stoppin' here?"
"How are you," Athos asked, ignoring the larger man's question and nodding toward his arm.
"Ready to get off this horse," Porthos muttered, "All this stumbling in the dark ain't helpin'."
Athos ignored Porthos's backhanded statement about what he thought they ought to be doing, "The boy?" he asked.
"Fell asleep a while back," Porthos replied, "He's hurtin'."
"I'm fine," came a muffled response from behind Porthos. Porthos's derisive snort indicated he hardly agreed with D'Artagnan's assessment.
Porthos looked tired but Athos knew the man could keep to the saddle longer yet if needed. He was less certain about D'Artagnan while beside him Aramis shifted uncomfortably and exhaled between clenched teeth. They were far from whole. With the moon deep on the wane there would be little light to help them and they were likely to lame a horse if they kept on in the dark. Athos decided it was a bigger risk to keep going than to stop for the night.
"I'll look for a place to make camp," Athos told Porthos, giving him a small nod of acknowledgment. Porthos nodded back, yes, he was good to keep moving until suitable shelter was found. Athos spun his horse forward again and reached to take Aramis's reins from his right hand. The marksman didn't protest, but gave Athos a bewildered look. "Just concentrate on not falling off," Athos deadpanned and he pulled the reins over the horse's neck so that he could lead Aramis's mount behind his own.
There was not much in the way of natural shelter in the rolling fields they rode through, but as they made their way down a slight slope, Athos could see the outline of a structure etched in black against a deep azure sky. Athos veered from the narrow track they'd been following and led them across the fields toward the cottage.
As he grew closer, he realized it was abandoned. It was a simple stone structure, not very large with an overgrown garden and fallen fence surrounding it. A cistern was in the front and Athos hoped that meant fresh water. It looked undisturbed, but Athos stopped them a little ways off so he could dismount and investigate further. He approached cautiously and quietly, hand on the rapier at his belt. The wooden door swung loosely on its hinges and opened with a shrill creak. If anyone had been inside, they would have know they had visitors, but nothing other than a flutter of wings from a bird taking flight disturbed the quiet of the twilight. Athos stepped in the door and evaluated the ruined cottage.
It was just four simple walls with only the single door he had entered from with a window set beside it. Opposite was another window, and stone fireplace to the left. The interior was mostly empty, with some discarded furniture lying among the grasses that had started to take hold as nature reclaimed the space. There were thatch and branches on the floor, and Athos looked up to see the sky, stars just beginning to shine in the early night. Most of the roof had collapsed, but as it was a clear and warm evening, it would not matter to the musketeers. The walls would give them some protection in the unlikely event the mercenaries still pursued them. It was ideal.
Athos made his way back to his comrades.
"We'll camp here," he announced.
"Best thing I've heard all day," Porthos declared, then shifted slightly in the saddle to look behind him at D'Artagnan, "Wake up, cub," he teased, "We're home."
"Not sleeping," came the distinctly sleepy reply.
"Sure," Porthos answered, using his uninjured arm to grab the hand D'Artagnan had wrapped around his waist, "Let's get you down." D'Artagnan didn't complain, but took the offered hand and dismounted, immediately swaying on his feet. If not for Porthos's strong grip he would have been in the dirt. D'Artagnan steadied himself and then released Porthos's hand, stepping slightly away from the horse so Porthos himself could dismount.
Athos for his part had moved to Aramis's side. The marksman had remained slumped forward on the neck of his mount and Athos hoped he was just exhausted and not suffering further from his wound.
"Aramis," the swordsman said gently, placing one hand on his friend's shoulder and giving a slight shake while he put the other to his back in case the man startled and started to slide from the horse.
Aramis raised his head at Athos's voice, blinking sleep from his eyes as he took in his surroundings. "I see you found us an inn," he said, the sarcasm clear.
"Nothing but the best for you, friend," Athos quipped, then patted the man on the shoulder, encouraging him to dismount. Aramis forgoed his typically athletic dismount to slide, not ungracefully, down the side of his horse and into Athos's steadying grip. Athos immediately shifted to get a shoulder under Aramis's arm to take some of his weight.
"I can walk," Aramis huffed.
"Indulge me," Athos's tone was light, but he had true concern for his friend's well being. He knew their ride today had been hardest on him. They made their way into the cottage and Athos let Aramis down near the stone hearth. "I'll get our gear, then we'll check on your side," he said. Athos winced as he straightened, arm wrapping reflexively around his torso.
"Then we'll check on your side," Aramis tossed back, raising a brow to enquire as to Athos's physical state.
"No further damage than what was already done, I assure you," Athos said, "but I'll admit I'm as happy as the rest of you to be off that horse ."
Porthos made his way into the cottage, a collection of saddle bags in his hands and his arm out of the sling.
"What are you doing?" Athos asked, taking up the bags from Porthos's injured arm.
"Well they have to get in here somehow," he said defensively.
"Go sit next to him," Athos said, tipping his head toward Aramis, "and don't move." Porthos looked confused, and Aramis let out a laugh.
"He's feeling protective today," Aramis called to his friend, "Indulge him," he added, echoing Athos's words from earlier. "Besides, I want to see how your shoulder is faring."
"Fine," Porthos said, shoving the remainder of the bags into Athos's arms, "but you better go fetch D'Artagnan then. He might fall into the well." Porthos chuckled as he pushed past Athos to plop himself down beside the marksman. Athos deposited the bags near the door and marched out to find their youngest.
D'Artagnan was not by the well but had tied their horses to the hitch out front and was working on loosening their tack for the night. Athos moved beside him, taking up the girth strap of the next horse.
"How's your head?" he asked.
"I'm fine," D'Artagnan replied with a small smile.
"That's not what I asked," Athos persisted.
D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand over the back of his neck, "My head is throbbing but not nearly so much as my posterior from sitting on the back of Porthos's horse all day." The statement raised the corners of Athos's lips into a slight smile. "Do you really think there is still a chance we are being pursued?"
"There is always a chance," Athos replied, "or that some other trouble will find us. But no, I think we have well and truly lost them."
"You pushed us hard today," it was a statement, but Athos could hear the question in the young musketeer's voice.
"Experience told me that those mercenaries would eventually give up if we made it difficult enough for them. It would take too much gold to keep them motivated if we proved to be frustrating quarry," Athos explained, "And instinct said we were better off pushing ourselves hard while we could in hopes of resting well later. "
"Despite the aches," D'Artagnan smiled, "I'm grateful for your experience and instinct.
"Go inside," Athos said, "I'll finish here." D'Artagnan gave him a grateful smile and made his way into the cottage with no protest. Athos watched him go, satisfied to see him steady on his feet despite the blow to the head. He finished with the horses, then examined the well. Luck was on their side as the bucket was still on the crank. It took an effort to get it in motion but the bucket traveled down until it stopped with a splash in the water. Athos pulled it up, grateful for the smell of clean water as he pulled the bucket to sit on the edge of the cistern. He dipped in a hand and brought some to his mouth, relishing the crisp, fresh taste.
Athos leaned a moment beside the bucket, looking up at the night sky that was slowly filling with stars. For some reason, for the better part of their long ride today, Athos's mind had been on his father.
It had been his first hunt. They were after stag, but the dogs had flushed a wild boar. Dangerous prey for a small hunting party to face, and even more so when the Comte's 12-year-old son was along. The beast wounded two men, a third broke his ankle getting thrown from his horse. Athos had been terrified but his aim remained true. But the arrow didn't stop the boar. It charged him and he froze, seeing death in its snarling mouth. And then his father was there between them, peppering the beast with two more arrows, then drawing his long knives to meet the charge. Athos forgot to breathe as his father danced with the boar.
Then it was over, and his father stood panting, covered in blood, the animal dead at his feet. Athos watched him, fear giving way to awe. His father had been to him as a knight in one of the stories he read. Honorable, brave, strong and saving them all from the beast. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to grow into a man like that.
They spent the night camped in the woods. His father tended to his wounded men, while Athos did the chores of the camp. He built the fire, managed the horses, and cooked the meal. It was a reversal of their usual roles as Athos usually waited quietly while someone set up his bedroll and fed him a meal. But his father said his duty as Comte was to care for the men by his side. So Athos helped with the tasks, feeling he served a higher purpose that day as he fulfilled his family responsibility. His father had been proud, had told his men at the campfire that night that Athos would grow to a fine man and that would carry on the family name with bravery and honor.
Athos dipped a hand back into the bucket and splashed some water on his face. He wasn't sure why he was caught in the grip of this memory, but it would not recede. He felt an overwhelming sadness as the litany of his failures stacked up against the image of the man his father had hoped he would be. He had failed on this mission to keep his brothers safe, had perhaps even hurt them more with his choice to ride into the edge of night. What would his father say of him now?
Athos risked a small fire in the fireplace. The moonless night was not likely to reveal the smoke and the meager light was easily blocked by the boarded up windows. They had a cold supper from their provisions, but with the well water they could at least brew tea to help with the aches and pains.
Aramis had been pleased with Porthos's shoulder, the inflammation around the abused join was going down. He had Porthos wrap Athos's ribs while he checked on D'Artagnan. The cut itself was shallow, but the knot on his head was troubling. But other than a headache and a touch of nausea, D'Artagnan had no complaints. He still managed to eat a little bit. It was lucky he had such a thick head. Aramis himself seemed much improved just from getting off the horse and being able to lie in a more comfortable position. Athos had checked on his stitching and it had held up through the day, although cleaning and re-bandaging it had left Aramis again panting through the pain.
Fed, warm and comfortable, the four of them lay side by side on their backs, feet stretched toward the fire, seeking an elusive sleep. Above them through the hole in the roof the sky was a blaze of starlight bright enough to cast a steel-blue glow over the features of the four men.
"Bothers me that there are always more of 'em out here than in Paris," Porthos said quietly, "Feel like they're watchin' me."
D'Artagnan, to the big man's left, let out a laugh, "I think the stars have better to do than follow you around."
"I find them comforting," Aramis said from the other side of Porthos, "like angels set to protect us."
"More like spy and report back," Porthos challenged.
"If you didn't cheat at cards, it would not trouble you," Aramis countered.
"Stars aren't watching," D'Artagnan mused, "they just . . . are. They are like clouds or sunsets. They are just nature. We have only to enjoy them."
"What do you think, Athos?" Aramis asked of the swordsman pressed comfortably along his right side, "You know something of stars, do you not."
"When I was a boy, and I traveled with my father, he would tell me the stories of the stars," Athos answered, "Ancient people thought the stars held messages. The Greeks and Romans found the faces of their Gods and legends in the patterns of the stars."
"Patterns?" Porthos sounded dubious, "They're just scattered up there like a handful of shiny pebbles thrown in the street."
"Don't you know about constellations?" D'Artagnan was surprised.
"About what?" Porthos asked.
"Constellations," D'Artagnan repeated, "They are patterns in the stars that help you recognize directions and time of year. How do you not know this?" D'Artagnan seemed genuinely shocked. Aramis responded before Porthos could.
"D'Artagnan, Porthos was raised in a city," he explained, "There is little need to know the north star when you are navigating the streets of Paris."
"Oh, hadn't thought about that," D'Artagnan answered, "But you've been a soldier for a long time now. How do you find your way at night?"
"I just follow one of them," Porthos quipped, waving a hand toward Aramis and Athos. D'Artagnan laughed lightly at the comment. The four men lay quietly again, each lost in their own thoughts as they settled down to sleep.
"Porthos, you need to know about constellations," D'Artagnan blurted out, breaking the silence that had descended on them, "What if we get separated or are wounded and can't tell you the way in the night?" Porthos grunted something that might have been go to sleep, but instead, D'Artagnan sat up. Clearly the constellation issue was bothering him. Athos sighed knowing well enough that they would not get any sleep until the young man was satisfied he had done all he could to fix this perceived gap in Porthos's knowledge.
"There is a constellation for you in the sky," D'Artagnan said, trying another tactic and pointing up with his finger, " It's the biggest one of all and you can use it to find other ones. It's not that hard. Look there. See that line of stars?"
"Where?" Porthos said flatly, his tone implying that he was going along just to get the boy to stop talking.
"Here, right here," D'Artagnan replied, squirming closer to Porthos and settling back down on his back so that they lay shoulder to shoulder. Porthos followed carefully to where D'Artagnan was pointing. "See that bright one, and then the ones that trail after it? They make a curved line of stars that connects to those four there, like a box."
"Yeah, yeah, I see that," Porthos said, the smile evident in his voice in spite of himself, "So that's a constellation?"
"Yes, that's part of Ursa Major, the big bear. That's its tail. If there was ever a constellation for you, it's that one," D'Artagnan sounded pleased with himself for having taught Porthos to find a pattern in the stars. "If you can find that, you can follow the tail to Ursa Minor, the little bear, and the North star. See, right there."
"I see it!" Porthos exclaimed as he followed D'Artagnan's pointing finger. "It's the same thing, just smaller."
"Well the bright star in the end of the tail, that's the North Star. If you follow that, you are heading north," D'Artagnan explained, "That will help you if you get lost at night."
"And those are always there?" Porthos asked.
"Well, the bears are, yes," D'Artagnan answered, "Those constellations are always there. Others move as the heavens turn and you can only see them at certain times of the year."
"I can't believe I never saw that before," Porthos mused still looking up at the patterns he could now clearly see, "How did you learn this?"
"My father," D'Artagnan answered, "He taught me. We spent many nights out under the stars when we traveled to market. He said I was the little bear, always chasing the north star in my tail."
"And you know about this too," Porthos turned his head toward Aramis.
"Well, yes, I know a few," the marksman answered, "My mother taught me some of the star signs, but she had different names. The one D'Artagnan says is part of the Big Bear, my mother said was called The Plough."
"I like the bears better," Porthos offered, "I can be the big one, and D'Artagnan, you are the cub," Porthos gave a snort, having amused himself with his observation, "What's one for Aramis?"
"My mother loved the Swan," Aramis said, pointing up toward another quadrant of the sky, "Look for the cross of stars, with the very bright one at the center. Can you see it?"
"There, look," D'Artagnan pointed for Porthos, "The middle is the Cross, then see there, where it stretches, that is the Swan. That's another good one for finding where you are."
"My mother liked to think I would fly off like the swan, but that the cross would lead me home," Aramis said.
"For Aramis, I prefer The Pleiades," Athos chimed in, "that bright cluster low in the sky."
"Where?" Porthos asked, and again followed D'Artagnan's pointing finger. "Why's that one for Aramis?"
"The Pleiades are known as The Seven Sisters," Athos answered dryly, "What better to hold Aramis's attention?" The men laughed.
"So your father taught you the stars too?" Porthos asked.
"Well, yes, in a way," Athos answered, "I learned mostly from books. He had charts of the stars just as he had maps of France. My tutor instructed me. I had to memorize Ptolemy's 48 constellations. It was part of the proper education of a nobleman."
"Did you ever look at the stars with your father," Aramis asked softly.
"Yes," Athos said, a smile that no one could see playing at his lips, "He would quiz me. I had to know the constellations, the major stars and the myths that told their stories."
"That doesn't seem fun," Porthos said.
"It wasn't," Athos replied, "But at least I know them."
"What constellation is yours then, Athos?" Aramis asked, "Did your father ever give you one?"
"No," Athos said, "He was far too serious for that."
"Well, we shall have to fix that," Aramis said laying a friendly hand on Athos's chest, "Let's see . . . which one is for you?"
"It's obvious," D'Artagnan chimed in, "Athos is Orion."
Athos snorted, but Aramis gave him a playful thump to the chest, "Of course you're Orion! D'Artagnan, show Porthos."
"That's the easiest of all to find," D'Artagnan said, "Look straight up, right above us. See the line of three stars in a row? That's the belt of Orion." Porthos pointed up to the sky and D'Artagnan nodded, "Yes! Right there. Now the belt is hemmed by four stars that make a rectangle. That is Orion's shoulders and knees. And see trailing down there, those three little stars in a line? That is his sword."
"He's right above us," Porthos said, "Is he always there?"
"Yes," Aramis answered, "Orion is always overhead. He's a fierce warrior and hunter. I like to think that he watches over us. No better constellation for Athos." Porthos had to agree, and had D'Artagnan continued to point out the other parts of the great warrior in the sky.
"You humble me," Athos murmured lowly, pitched just for Aramis to hear, "I am a soldier like any other."
"Like no other, mon ami," Aramis whispered back, "You have spent the last three days leading us from danger, protecting us with your sword, and watching over our wounds. Where lesser men would falter, you push us to be our best. Your loyalty to us shows in the care you just gave each of us today. It was a mistake on your father's part to teach you the stars without seeing you in them."
Athos let Aramis's words wash over him. He tried to see himself through Aramis's eyes but he knew his own clouded judgment would not let him. Still, his companion's observations were comforting. He may not be everything, or even anything, his father had wanted, but he knew his duty to his men, just as his father had taught him. Perhaps for this he could be proud. Athos placed a hand over Aramis's, still lying on his chest.
"Thank you, brother," he whispered, "It's my privilege then, to be written in your stars."
- fin -