I'm back! and nervous/happy to be posting my second story. It's true what they say: the second one is harder than the first. I've been sitting on this for a while, hoping it will magically improve when I'm not looking at it, but it's my birthday today so I've decided to stop procrastinating and get on with it, by way of marking the day.
Like many of you, I wanted to explore the Musketeers' war experiences – those four years were covered in just a few minutes at the start of Season 3, yet they all came back changed men.
Confession: I saw the dusty battlefield when Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan faced the Spanish in episode 3.1, and assumed they were fighting somewhere near or in Spain. History is not my strong point! By the time I realised my error later in season 3, this story had already lodged itself in my mental map and although I tried to move the action to the Belgian border it wouldn't budge. So I apologise to everyone who likes their Musketeers stories historically correct but here it is, AU in location but hopefully still plausible.
The story and chapter titles all come from the incredible song "Battlescars" by Paradise Fears which I discovered when watching a YouTube compilation uploaded by BraveMusketeer97 (thanks for introducing me to this music!). I listened to it while I was training for a long-distance charity walk and it really helped me keep going when everything was hurting, so it's helped to shape this story. Check it out – the Youtube compilation and the song are both awesome!
The astute amongst you might have spotted the words "Part One" in the title. Yes, it does imply a sequel and I have it in my head, so I hope to wrestle it onto the page in due course. Reviews, encouragement, feedback and suggestions will all help, more than you know!
Battlescars Part One
LUCK WILL TRAVEL
Warning: this chapter includes the death of an OC equine character. It's implied only, and comes right at the end of this first chapter if you want to avoid it.
Chapter 1: Anthem for the homesick
Run!
Just keep running. Don't stop, keep going.
Lungs burning, sides heaving, sweat stinging your eyes. Throat parched, craving water.
Eyes straining through the darkness, legs trembling with effort.
Footsore, exhausted, desperate ... but you just keep running through the night.
Your brother needs you.
Spanish border, 11 pm
Fouchard was fed up. They'd been short-handed for weeks after the "redeployment" of half of their men to General Marche's battalion, ten leagues to the north. The remaining 30-odd Musketeers were stuck in a temporary camp awaiting further orders, but that didn't mean they were resting. Far from it. They were tasked with escorting supply missions through the 'no go' zone which was the quickest route to the front. And escorting visiting Very Important Officers to and from the front. And daily reconnaissance missions. Camp maintenance – repairing torn canvas, poles and pegs, securing water supplies, hunting to bolster food stocks, and the constant drudge of finding enough firewood to keep their cooking and water purifying fires going. Running messages for the Captain. Duty in the mess tent and infirmary. All the usual Musketeer work – training, working with the horses, cleaning weapons, repairing kit. Oh, and of course, guard duty.
Which is why he found himself tramping up and down an invisible line on the south west perimeter of their makeshift camp of tents, shelters and stores, trying not to trip over the thorny scrub bushes that dominated the landscape here, and rueing the thin soles of his boots that he'd intended to have repaired before leaving Paris, but had not had time. He and another dozen young recruits had been rushed down here a few weeks ago to bolster the regimental numbers when the General sent for reinforcements, and he'd naively assumed they would be based near a town where he could get them resoled.
A pebble had worked its way through a split in the leather and settled under his big toe. Zut! Looking around he spotted a tree stump and headed over, resting his musket against a birch sapling and lowered himself with a grunt of sheer bad humour.
Boot off and stone evicted, he wriggled his toes and peered up at the sky. Faint moonlight backlit the wispy clouds; there would be no rain today. He wasn't sure if that was a blessing or not. Sleeping under canvas in the rain was cold and miserable, as was slogging through inches of sloppy mud as feet, hooves and wheels churned up the soil. In spite of his short time at the front he'd experienced both on the slog through France to get here. But so close to Spain in late spring this land had baked for weeks in high daytime temperatures, and he was fed up with the dust that every step stirred, clogging nostrils and working its way into the skin so no amount of washing left his skin feeling clean; not that there was much water to spare for washing ... What was that?
A faint sound reached him from the hill to his left which shielded the river that marking the border between French and Spanish territory. Merde! He shot to his feet, forgetting he only had one boot on, reached for his musket, trod on something sharp with his stockinged foot and barely suppressed a yelp of pain. Hopping on one leg he fumbled to prime his musket and scan the horizon at the same time.
There! Against the starlit sky he could see a fast-moving figure cresting the hill and start down the trail towards camp. Quickly he looked around, hoping to see Merjean, his fellow guard, but he was out of sight on the far side of camp. He dare not call him for fear of giving warning to the intruder, who was now skidding and sliding at high speed down the steep trail.
Fouchard raised his musket and picked a spot about thirty paces away where the path turned straight towards him, which should give him a few seconds to aim and get a shot off. Trying to control the his trembling muscles he squinted, waiting for the dark figure to come into his line of fire. Nearly there... nearly...
"Don't shoot!" The words were gasped out in French, followed by an unidentifiable curse as the figure slipped, arms wind-milling to keep his balance.
Fouchard closed one eye and his finger tightened on the trigger. He wasn't about to fall for that one. Lots of Spaniards could speak French, and they'd been warned to challenge anyone who didn't give the current password. Speaking of which... Hastily he cleared his throat and called out in a voice that only quavered a little bit: "Password! Or I shoot!"
"Dammit, I can't remember the bloody password!" the figure called as he skidded to an abrupt halt twenty feet away, looking wildly around to locate the source of the challenge.
Fouchard found himself hesitating. The man's French was very good for a Spaniard. And surely an invader would approach more quietly? "Name?" he growled out, trying to sound menacing and hoping the intruder wasn't holding a pistol in the hand he couldn't see. The man was close enough now to be able to see Fouchard where he stood in the shadow of the skinny saplings.
Sure enough, the man's head snapped around and he turned to face Fouchard directly. "Fouchard, is that you?" He broke into a run again and Fouchard panicked, calling out "Stop or I'll shoot!"
"It's me, you idiot – d'Artagnan! Where's the Captain?"
He ran straight up to Fouchard, pushed the musket barrel gently to one side and peered at Fouchard. "Fouchard? The Captain?" he prompted.
Adrenaline drained out of the young Musketeer's limbs and his musket drooped as he let out a sigh of relief. He didn't like to think how close he'd just come to shooting one of the Inseparables!
He realised d'Artagnan was still waiting for an answer. "In his tent, I suppose. What's happened – where have you...?" but d'Artagnan had taken off at a run again, leaving Fouchard with his mouth open and his musket trailing at his side.
Suddenly he realised it would not look good if d'Artagnan woke the Captain unaccompanied: the Captain might think he'd got by the guard without challenge. Although actually, waking the Captain for any reason wasn't exactly a fun experience. Deciding it would be absolutely fine to let d'Artagnan go first, he sped up just enough to arrive at the Captain's tent safely behind the tall Musketeer. He opened his mouth to advise caution: the Captain had been in a foul mood for days, trying to divide his time between this camp and the men based with the General's battalion. When he was here, he was quick tempered (in that softly-spoken, icy tone that everyone feared more than a bellow), and he would pounce on anyone who he thought was not pulling his weight. But he'd dithered about warning d'Artagnan for a split second too long. d'Artagnan didn't even slow, just shoved the tent flap aside with his shoulder as he barrelled inside, calling out Athos' name as he entered.
Fouchard knew better than to follow, contenting himself with staying outside in case he needed to prove he'd not been caught off guard, and waited for the inevitable explosion from Athos at being disturbed so rudely at this time of night. He strained his ears but heard only d'Artagnan's panting, the creak of leather, then... What was that? Sounded like a backslap. There was a moment's silence from inside, then the Captain's voice called out: "Fouchard! Fetch Etienne. And water. And something to eat. Move!" Fouchard jumped. How did the Captain know he was there? He could swear the man had eyes that could see through anything. Quickly he moved off as instructed – only then realising that he still wore just one boot.
Five hours previously: 6 pm, somewhere north-east of Zaragoza, Spain
d'Artagnan was fed up with looking at Porthos' back. And the back of the scruffy brown mare he rode, "borrowed" many leagues back when they'd needed to change mounts again. They'd left their previous horses – also "borrowed" – in a field, and hoped the farmer would not be too disappointed with his end of the unwanted deal. The mare Porthos rode was sturdy and willing but she was skinny and her tail was rubbed raw at the top – sweet-itch, he suspected – and it annoyed him that it hadn't been treated. Horses were as important here, for transport and farming, as in France, and he'd seen some spectacular Andalusian herds in pastures as they travelled through the lower lands around Zaragoza. But the everyday farm horses were often scrawny, rough-coated beasts, and even though he had first-hand experience of how tough a struggling farmer's life could be, he hated to see any animal being neglected.
The dust from the horses' hooves rose up, clogging the air and coating his face, hands, even his tongue with a fine, gritty powder. It made his nose itch and scratched at his eyes, which only made him more irritable. He wasn't too happy about riding by daylight either, but Porthos was determined to get to the border before dawn, or they'd have to lay low for another day before getting "home". If you could call their temporary camp home.
It was now only an hour until dark and their shadows were already lengthening: skinny, long-legged ghost horses preceded them around every bend in the mountain track they followed. But they were still vulnerable to being spotted by one of the Spanish patrols in this border area. He swore under his breath as his mare stumbled on the uneven ground of the pathetic goat trail they found themselves on as they worked their way around this cursed mountainside, risking a no-doubt fatal plunge down the steep rocky slope down to the ravine on his right. This bloody country!
He knew he was being unreasonably grumpy. The scenery was stunning, and they had both initially found it inspiring. Porthos particularly had enthused about it with unusual lyricism for the normally prosaic soldier, remarking that it looked like a giant's playground. d'Artagnan could see what he meant: the landscape was exaggeratedly huge in design. Steep, tree-clad mountainsides were topped with bare granite outcrops which glowed pink in the late evening sun, swooping down to deeply shadowed gorges and ravines with crumbling sides and dotted with fallen boulders, more often than not hiding streams of clear, freezing cold clear water which tumbled and foamed their way importantly between the massive slabs of granite.
There was a smattering of hamlets clinging to clefts in the lower foothills, and occasional abandoned fortresses and stone turrets silently guarded the valleys. These offered the best pathways but they also hosted the richest soils with fields of crops picked out with stone walls, animal enclosures and shelters – which meant people. So they had avoided crossing or skirting the more populated lowlands wherever possible.
Now, on the return journey, they were both fed up with constantly checking the map, craning their necks to find an elusive pathway between two mountain folds, picking their way along uneven slopes and across boulder-strewn streambeds. They were saddle-sore, short on sleep, low on rations, their skin itched with the ingrained dirt of a long journey, and d'Artagnan, for one, couldn't wait to see the welcoming sight of their own tented village and the promise of a hot meal and a soft palliasse to sleep on. He was tired: bone-tired; drained; exhausted; shattered; saddle-weary. In short, he'd had enough.
Although, if he was honest, life on the frontline hadn't been too bad, so far. More waiting around than he'd expected, and a lot less action. No grand battles yet, no standing on the front line facing the enemy down. It had almost been an anticlimax as his initial heightened trepidation had slowly faded in the face of the mind-numbing reality of life behind the battle lines.
As the Musketeer regiment had travelled south toward the Spanish border on the trek from Paris, he'd been aware of a growing sense of nervous anticipation, almost excitement, which he knew – from looking at the seasoned faces of the older Musketeers around him – was probably misplaced. He guessed they were exaggerating the atrocities of war (the older soldiers had all taken turns around the nightly campfires to recount their stories from previous battles and skirmishes and he could tell that much of it was vastly enhanced by nostalgia). Even so he was eager with anticipation, ready to test his mettle on a true battlefield and full of determination to be the best, to show no fear, to keep going no matter how tough the conditions of war; to prove himself.
But what he hadn't been prepared for – hadn't even thought about – was the sheer boredom of sitting for days and weeks on an inactive border, waiting for orders to engage.
They had seen a bit of action when they'd been ordered to move further south after the rest of their force was sent to join General Marche's men, but mostly the skirmishes with small incursions of Spanish soldiers had felt little different from any of his encounters with bandits and mercenaries over his two years with the Musketeers.
Which is why he and Porthos had jumped at the chance to escort a high-level Spanish diplomat to and from a top secret meeting with the Commander-in-Chief of the French army, the Marquis de Aunchy, when Athos asked for volunteers. Anything was better than another long night on guard duty followed by trying to sleep in the airless tent he shared with five other young Musketeers, then a spell on water-carrying or wood-chopping duty before supper. He had even found himself thinking wistfully about Palace guard duty, which had at least held the promise of some court intrigue or a new Louis tantrum to laugh about. Discretely, of course.
Porthos was just as bored and frustrated at the lack of action, if better at hiding it than d'Artagnan. So the pair of them had volunteered with such alacrity that Athos had almost laughed – almost. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.
They had spent two weeks criss-crossing the mountainous southern border region, moving by night and lying low during the day, until they were within sniffing distance of France again. Their daylight resting places were usually too hot and uncomfortable to do more than doze - like today's: a thorn bush on a steep, stony slope stinking of goat shit – and in any case one of them would always be on watch, meaning they were both now worn out and their bodies ached for some decent rest. Not helped by the fact that his current mount, taken from a valley farm that morning, was clearly not used to rough terrain and frequently stumbled, which kept d'Artagnan tense in the saddle and longing for his own mare, Nuit, who was hopefully still safe in the French camp awaiting his return.
The stolen mare caught her foot again and lurched, nearly sending d'Artagnan head-first over her shoulder. Only his quick reactions, and a life-time's experience on horseback, enabled him to clamp his legs around the horse's sides, grab a hand-full of mane and haul his centre of gravity back to the vertical. Immediately he noticed the horse was now lame. Cursing, he whistled to Porthos and slung a leg over the front of the saddle, dismounting smoothly, automatically drawing his pistol and checking around as he landed. He couldn't see any immediate danger but the shadows were deepening and just because there was nothing visible didn't mean they weren't being observed.
He ran a practised hand down the back of the mare's foreleg, feeling for the puffiness or warmth that might indicate a muscle sprain. Nothing. He glanced over his shoulder – to see Porthos disappearing around the next bend in the path, apparently oblivious to the fact that he had stopped. He whistled again but didn't dare call out, so could only watch helplessly as Porthos disappeared from view behind a shoulder of steep mountainside.
Cursing quietly, he persuaded the horse to lift its foot and immediately saw the problem: a large stone had wedged itself between her shoe and the sensitive frog of the hoof. He swopped his pistol for his main gauche and expertly flipped the stone out. In the gloom he couldn't tell if there was bruising to the foot, so he led the horse a few paces then remounted, satisfied the mare was now putting equal weight on that leg. He urged her into a reluctant trot and headed for the bend to catch up with Porthos.
As he rounded the rocky shoulder, slowing to a walk again to pick a careful way between the stones littering the pathway just here, he appreciated two things quickly. Firstly, it was no wonder that Porthos hadn't heard his whistle: this section of path was crumbling after a rock slide and he would have been concentrating on finding a safe way through the treacherous terrain.
Secondly, a safe pathway had just become completely irrelevant. d'Artagnan was drawing his arquebus and kicking his mount into a reluctant trot even as his eyes took in the sight of Porthos, feet planted square on the ground, his horse whinnying and shying away from flashing swords as four or five Spanish soldiers attacked.
d'Artagnan aimed at the nearest back and pulled the trigger, seeing the man tumble to the ground. In one fluid movement he discarded his arquebus and drew his rapier as the nearest horseman swung round to face the new challenge. Before his tired brain had time to register the sound of a second shot, however, his horse had stumbled again. This time he had no chance to stay mounted, as the poor animal crashed to her knees and plunged over the side of the ravine, taking d'Artagnan with her.
Author's Note: Oh, yeah... probably should have warned of the (literal) cliffie... Now, be nice - remember it's my birthday!