A/N: Hey everyone. It's been a damn long time since I posted anything. Life, as I'm sure most of you know, has a way of getting in the way of the things we love to do. But I'm doing this ... I'm forcing myself to make time for the things that I love to do. So if anyone is willing to read this know that it is a work in progress with a very fleshed out plan. This story came to be a very long time ago (Back when the Musketeers first ended) and I NEED to finish it. I plan to make sure that there is never more than 2 weeks before another update. Posting here will keep me accountable :D Hope everyone is doing well and I hope ya'll enjoy.
If I Can Dream.
Chapter 1. Call of Duty.
Benoit took in the view in front of him. The road was long and straight for a few more hundred metres at least. The grass on either side of the road was light green, bordering on a faded yellow that spoke of too much sun and not enough rain. The occasional tree stood tall by the side of the road, the leaves still in the dead heat that surrounded them.
It had been hot, unseasonably so. At least that was what he had been told. He wished he had some basis for comparison. He had been told that he knew this road like the back of his hand. He had been told that he was used to the dry summers. He had been told that this place would strike a memory, a feeling, anything to settle his heart. He had been told many things but he still knew so very little.
Benoit shifted in the saddle. His rear was starting to feel numb. He'd been in the saddle for days and the short stop in the town a few miles back had not been much of a respite for his aching muscles. As his horse walked lazily down the well-travelled dirt road, Benoit rolled his shoulders. He sighed in contentment as his neck muscles appreciated the exercise.
"How much further, Papa?"
Benoit glanced to his left and smiled down at the little boy in the wagon beside him. The little boy looked up at him with wide inquisitive brown eyes that were hiding under a mop of dark curly hair.
"It cannot be too much further now, Sebastien." Benoit glanced over the four-year-old's head for confirmation.
"Stop nagging your poor father, Bash. We are very close," Odette told the small child beside her. She glanced up at Benoit and smiled fondly.
Benoit smiled back at her and then looked away. His gaze rested on the turn at the end of the road in the distance. He should know which way they needed to go. He should know whether they needed to follow the road left or right. He should have been able to give his son an answer without having to look to his wife for direction.
"Bash, can you see up ahead of us?" Odette asked. Benoit turned back to his family as his wife was pointing to the turning point in the road coming up. Sebastien nodded, his dark curls bouncing with enthusiasm. "Which way do you think we will have to turn? Shall it be left or right?"
Sebastien glanced at him as if looking for some clue. Benoit desperately wanted to be able to share this with him, to be able to provide some sort of information. But he had none. He shrugged with a smile as if playing part in a game and watched as his child tried to guess the answer to the question.
Sebastien's little arm shot out, pointing to their right. He looked to his mother for approval. "That way!"
Odette laughed, nodding her agreement with the child's assessment. "That's right. Once we turn right here at the end of the road it's only another mile in that direction."
"How long is a mile?" Sebastien asked.
Benoit smiled. That was something he could answer. "It should take us no longer than thirty minutes at the rate we are travelling."
"Thirty minutes?" Sebastien whined.
"We've been travelling for days. I am certain you can last another half of an hour, my child," Odette chuckled.
Sebastien turned to look at him, his eyes beseeching. Benoit had learnt very quickly that this child – his child – had magical powers hidden in the brown depths of his eyes. "Can't we go any faster, Papa?"
Benoit opened his mouth to answer but was cut off by the sound of his wife's stern voice. "Not if you don't want to wake your sister. Come now, it will not kill you to wait a little bit longer."
Benoit glanced over his shoulder to the covered back of the wagon to where he knew his two other children to be. Mathieu and Elouise. It was not his baby daughter that filled his mind but her older brother. Mathieu had been distant with him. Actually distant was probably too tame a word for how the ten-year-old had been. The boy had been hostile, lashing out at his siblings, at his mother but especially at him. Resentment poured from the child in waves and Benoit couldn't help but wonder what he had done to deserve such treatment from his own son.
"Papa?"
Benoit startled out of his thoughts to see two sets of eyes on him. "What?"
"Did you remember something? You seemed lost in thought." Odette, twisted the leather reigns in her hands as she looked at him anxiously.
"No." He wished he could remember something. He wished he could remember anything. Anything at all. But alas his mind was void. Anything before two weeks ago was a complete mystery to him and he hated it. "Sorry."
"Papa, did you even hear what I said?" Sebastien asked exasperatedly.
Benoit chuckled. "Forgive me," he said, placing his hand to his chest. "My mind was elsewhere. What did you say?"
"Can I ride with you? On your horse? Please?" Sebastien pleaded.
Benoit looked to Odette for permission like he had the last couple of weeks since waking up with no idea of who he was and where he was. Before Odette could once again remind him that he was their father and could therefore make decisions, Benoit moved the horse closer to the moving wagon and then dropped the reigns. "Come on," he said as he reached down and pulled the waiting child up onto the horse.
"Be careful," Odette warned.
"We'll be fine," Benoit assured her with an added wink for good measure.
"Can we go faster?" Sebastien asked.
"Sure."
"Not too fast," Odette followed up with, a warning to her tone.
Benoit made sure the boy was situated safely in front of him, his small body pressed against his front. He wrapped one arm around Sebastien's small torso and leaned forward, the reigns tightly held in his free hand.
"Are you ready?" Benoit whispered.
Sebastien nodded and Benoit could just picture the excited grin on his face. "Hold on tight then." With a shout and a kick with his heels his horse jolted forward into a gallop. Sebastien cried out at the sudden movement and then laughed in delight as they moved further and further away from the wagon carrying their family.
A wild smile spread across Benoit's face as they sped up towards the end of the main road. The excited shrieks coming from his son as they moved, wind hitting their faces, was something that felt right. Nothing much had since he'd woken up from his accident. Nothing had felt right or natural. But this. Spending time with his children, enjoying their laughter. That is something that he felt deep in his bones. It was a call of duty. He wanted this. It must be true. It was the one thing that kept the fear of the unknown away.
Benoit pulled on the reigns a little, slowing the horses speed to a more leisurely gait. He didn't want to get too far ahead from the rest of the family. It felt good though. Just riding, no expectant eyes on him waiting for him to remember something. If he were completely honest with himself, he wouldn't have minded riding like this all day. His muscles and tired body would probably protest but mentally it was invigorating.
All good things, however, must come to an end. He wasn't sure where he had heard that before but he knew it to be true as a farmhouse could be spotted in the distance. He pulled on the reigns tighter to slowly bring his horse to a stop.
"Woah…" he called gently to the horse as it whinnied and stamped its feet on the dirt below them. "Good girl," he praised.
"Why are we stopping, Papa?" Sebastien asked. The mass of brown curls bounced as he attempted to twist in the saddle to look behind him at Benoit.
Benoit stared at the house in the distance. It didn't look familiar. It didn't bring any feelings of nostalgia to his mind or heart. Instead he felt apprehension like none of this was right. He stared hard at the building a short distance away. From a distance it looked like an old house, fence railings looked to be in a shambles. It appeared that no-one had lived there in some time. If he had lived here as a child, he could not remember it.
"Papa?" Sebastien called him again. "Papa, are you even listening to me?"
Benoit glanced down at the child and couldn't help the grin that formed at his exasperated expression. He'd learnt very quickly that the child had very little patience. He supposed that might be normal for a child of four. But then he remembered he actually didn't know much about children … or at least he didn't remember what children were really like. Benoit chuckled. "I am listening to you. We cannot just leave your mother behind."
"But they are catching up now. See?" Sebastien pointed to the wagon trailing dust in the distance. Odette had picked up speed.
Benoit squinted in an attempt to see better and found that she was no longer seated alone. Mathieu was seated on the bench seat beside her. Benoit didn't need to see any closer to know that the boy would be wearing his usual scowl. It had been a permanent fixture on the boy's face since Benoit had woken up from his accident.
"Can we go now? Can we beat them there? Please?" Sebastien's voice had gone from questioning to pleading all within the space of a few seconds. His pleading eyes were like a secret weapon that Benoit had quickly learnt were extremely dangerous. "Pleaaasee?" Sebastien added, drawing the word out as long as possible.
"Okay, okay. Hold on tight like you did before," Benoit instructed, waiting for the boy to wrap his small fingers around the horse's mane. "You ready?" he asked.
"Yes!" Sebastien squealed as Benoit once again set the horse in motion, leaving a trail of dust behind them.
xXx
"Get up!" Porthos growled.
The new recruit looked up at him from where he had landed on the hard ground. His hand reached up to caress his reddening jaw. The boy looked stunned and for a moment nothing like the cocky, arrogant image he'd been displaying for the last few months. Beaufort had come to them in a string of new recruits the King had ordered for the regiment. He'd showed immense potential as a soldier. His ability to fight was scary for a recruit so young. But along with his talent came a massive attitude.
Porthos was more than happy to rid the boy of this attitude. He was more than happy to teach the little whelp what it really took to become a Musketeer. He was more than happy to beat some bloody sense into the bastard. They didn't have time for people that didn't deserve to be there. They didn't have time for distractions.
Porthos circled him once more. "I said get up!"
Beaufort rubbed his jaw once more before locking eyes with Porthos. He growled something under his breath that Porthos couldn't catch and then pushed himself to his feet. The young man rolled his shoulders as he too began to circle his opponent. "That was a cheap shot, Porthos."
Porthos rolled his eyes as he slowly moved in conjunction with the recruit, not allowing him to get too close. "You need'ta learn that not all fights are won by bein' respectable."
Beaufort looked around at the crowd of Musketeers who had stopped what they were doing to watch the training unfold. The recruit looked back to him, cocking his head to the side as he got himself back into a fighting stance. "I thought the Musketeers fought with honour? Where is your honour?"
Porthos launched forward without warning and landed a punch against the boy's nose. The crunch of cartilage could be heard causing many of the spectators to wince in sympathy. Porthos stood back as blood released from his opponent's nose, quickly staining his white shirt.
Beaufort grabbed for his nose, the red liquid continued to rain down over his fingers as he growled in pain and frustrating. "You brute! I think you broke my nose!"
Porthos shrugged. "It'll heal. Keep up. If you want to survive in a real fight you can't cry the moment a little blood is spilt! Come at me!" Porthos demanded, his voice rising in frustration. He beckoned the boy to attack, motioning him with his hands. "Move it!" he yelled when Beaufort didn't move fast enough.
Beaufort dropped the hand covering his nose and growled. His eyes blazed in anger seconds before he flew at Porthos, lashing out with a punch to the larger man's face. Porthos pulled back, feeling the boy's fist just barely graze his face. Beaufort recovered from the miss quickly, following up with a swing from his left fist. Porthos knocked it aside and surged forward, lifting his knee and ramming it into Beaufort's midsection. The recruit doubled over as the air left his lungs.
Porthos smiled in victory just before he found himself being shoved back by Beaufort's shoulder slamming into his stomach. Musketeers scattered as Porthos back hit a wooden post, the force of his weight cracking the wood slightly. He grunted with the impact, pain lancing up through his muscles. He growled instantly latching onto the loose-fitting white shirt Beaufort was wearing and pulled the younger man towards him, moving slightly so the boy's head would connect with the same wooden pole his back had just been introduced to.
Beaufort slid to the slide, allowing his body to slump to the ground as he held his head in his hands.
Breathing a little heavier than before, Porthos forced his body to stand up straighter. The abused muscles in his back hurt a little more than he expected from his introduction to the pole. He stretched, rotating his shoulders to work the kinks out of his back. He lifted his gaze to the men hovering around him.
"What're you lookin' at?" Porthos growled, daring any of his fellow soldiers to question his training methods. Porthos huffed. He didn't have time for their disappointed or confused stares. Porthos turned around and stalked past a couple of muttering Musketeers, pushing them aside when they didn't move fast enough. "Get back to work, the lot of you!" He shouted as he stormed off in the opposite direction of the crowd that had formed.
Porthos found himself in the stables. The stable boy – Jacques – took one look at him and scampered away like Porthos was likely to rip him in two for simply daring to breathe in his presence. Porthos was glad. He didn't want company right now. He didn't want the cautious glances sent in his way or the so called words of wisdom from well-doers. What he wanted he couldn't have, not unless he went against Treville's direct orders.
There was a soft nickering from the stalls to his right. His horse had moved to the front of the stall with his head over the bottom door. The horse seemed to be looking at him and if Porthos wasn't mistaken the animal almost seemed concerned at the anger radiating from him. He bobbed his head up and down as if calling Porthos over. He obliged, slowly approaching his stead with an open hand. He gently placed his large hand on the long nose of his horse. "Hey there…" Porthos greeted softly.
The horse nickered again and pushed up against his hand. Porthos found himself smiling slightly as his horse attempted to nuzzle. Porthos stroked the top of the horse's nose before reaching up with his right hand to rest against the animal's strong neck. The horse nudged him again and Porthos stood back and quickly found that the feed bucket was at his feet. He reached down to collect some and then brought his hand up to his horse's mouth. "Ahh… so that's what you wanted," Porthos surmised with an amused grin.
Another dark head appeared from the stall next to his, the large dark brown eyes met his and Porthos felt his heart constrict. He gave his horse one last pat before he collected some more grain and moved over to the neighbouring stall.
"Hey girl…" Porthos greeted, he lifted his grain filled hand offering the feed to the Friesian. The normally temperamental horse was uncharacteristically calm as it ate the grain from his hand. "Where is 'e, girl?" He asked. He moved his head back quickly as the horse answered with a whinny and a head-bob that was more reminiscent of its usual spirited nature. "I know, I know," Porthos cooed as he reached up to place his hand on the horse's nose. "I miss 'im too."
"We all do."
Porthos glanced to his right, finding Athos leaning against the entrance to the stables. His arms were folded across his chest and his face looked devoid of any one particular emotion. The older man had adopted a casual stance and for some reason that stoked the fire that had been burning in Porthos' heart.
"Wouldn't know it to look at ya," he remarked, standing away from his friend's horse to give his full attention to Athos who simply raised an eyebrow. "Come to give me an earful?"
Athos stood straight, moving away from the stable doors. "Over what?" he asked as he moved further into the room.
"Don't play innocent with me, Athos. I know ya better than that. Beaufort got what he deserved." The little shit deserved a lesson in respect and humility and Porthos had been only too happy to oblige.
Athos nodded, tucking his hands into the belt around his waist as he moved over to the stall housing the black Friesian. "The boy is definitely feeling sorry for himself."
Athos leaned back against the wooden wall of the stall, one foot back against the wall. Again it was an infuriating casual stance that made Porthos' anger hit the surface.
"Good! Maybe 'e won't die next time 'e's in a real battle."
"Somehow I doubt your spectacular training session had much to do with teaching the lad a lesson. You're right, My friend. I do know you."
"Your point?" Porthos challenged.
"Beaufort may be an arrogant git, but it's not his fault," Athos cut straight to the point. That annoyingly truthful point. Athos had never been one to beat around the bush and right now was no different.
"You think I don't know that?" Porthos snapped.
"It's not my fault either," Athos pointed out. His words were stated calmly but Athos eyes betrayed him. There was something hiding in the blue depths. Guilt or regret, one or the other. Or maybe both. Porthos knew the feeling well … too well. "Trust …"
Porthos growled, interrupting Athos next words. "We should be out there looking for 'im, Athos!"
"We did and we found nothing. At all," Athos stated, his calm giving way to frustration at the common argument between them. "Eventually Treville had to call us back."
"For what?" Porthos asked, his tone incredulous. "So we could baby sit a childish king or a bunch of new recruits?" It was a stupid question. They were Musketeers and their duty was to their King.
"We have our duty," Athos sighed.
Porthos wanted to roll his eyes or punch something. "Our duty is to our brother." His duty was to their King but in his heart he could not lay his duty to his friend to rest. It weighed on his heart every waking hour and plagued his dreams.
"I agree with that, Porthos." Athos ran a hand down his face as his tone suddenly became more defeated than Porthos could ever remember hearing him. Athos met his gaze with a steady stare. "What would you have me do? There was no sign of him anywhere."
"We should have kept looking." Coming back to Paris without their missing comrade had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It went against every beat of his heart. But Athos had been right. They had searched high and low and had found nothing. Not even a hint of their friend. Porthos had been ready to bash heads together and tear the town apart. How could a Musketeer just disappear of the face of the earth? "King or not, we should've kept lookin'."
"Treville hasn't abandoned the search, Porthos. He has feelers out there. I promise you that we will never give up the search. I could never give up."
Porthos met Athos' tired eyes and felt some of his ire leave. It was not Athos' fault. The older man was hurting just as much as they all were. As Athos had told him earlier, it was not his fault and Porthos knew that it was not Beaufort's fault. Porthos felt himself deflate a little. "Dammit, I have some apologies to make."
Athos cleared the couple of feet between them and pressed a hand to Porthos' shoulder. "We will find him; I promise …"
"Athos!" The shout preceded the heavy footfalls. "Porthos!"
Athos broke away from them and followed Porthos gaze to the stable entry. d'Artagnan skidded to a stop just inside the stable. His young face was full of hope and excitement, causing Porthos to take a couple of steps forward. "What is it?" he asked.
d'Artagnan took a large intake of breath, recovering from what had obviously been a mad dash from who knew where. Swallowing hard, d'Artagnan finally spoke. "It's Captain Treville. He has news about Aramis!"
TBC...
A/N: If anyone is still interested in my work or the musketeers and actually read this, I hope you enjoyed. I hope you're intrigued and I hope you'll be back at the next chapter. Thanks for coming by. See you soon :)
