Disclaimer: The Musketeers are not mine. I'm just borrowing the concepts and characters for a little while.
Spoilers: All the chapters up to and including chapter 14 of Celticgal1041's story, "Unfortunate Mistakes," plus some minor references to her story, "Mistaken Identity."
A/N: When I first read chapter 14, and saw that d'Artagnan's week of punishment was not detailed, I couldn't help but want to know what happened. I hope this story sufficiently fills in the gaps.
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"The days had passed slowly for d'Artagnan, despite the fact that they began before dawn and ended well into the night."
~~~~~~~ Celticgal1041, Chapter 14 of "Unfortunate Mistakes"
"A mistake should be your teacher, not your attacker." ~~~~~ Unknown
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D'Artagnan lifted the arm he had draped over his eyes and laid it down beside him on the bed. From the feel of it, the slight tingling sensation, he thought he actually might have fallen asleep for a time. God knew he needed the sleep and that he couldn't go on in this way indefinitely. At this point, he would be surprised if he was getting more than three or four hours of sleep a night.
He was exhausted. Not just in body, but in mind and soul.
Everything about him and within him screamed for peace, yet there could be none because of his mistakes and the resulting guilt.
The Captain had seen fit – and rightfully so – to give him a week-long punishment for his continued lack of judgment as a Musketeer. He deserved every single second of that punishment and more for what he had done to his fellow Musketeers – and for almost killing one of his closest friends. Poisoning the men, though accidentally, was completely unforgiveable. Almost killing Aramis and setting the man weeks back in his recovery for injuries that he'd had an indirect hand in, was something that would haunt him into eternity.
With so many ill, the regiment had not been able to fulfill their duties to the King, which necessitated the help of the Red Guard, thus adding a healthy dose of shame to his guilt for causing embarrassment to the regiment. His determination to try and set things right by completing the mission Tréville had assigned led to even more mistakes on his part. It mattered not that he'd been ill out on the road and had been ambushed, robbed of all his supplies; he should have returned to Paris instead of continuing on his mission without any means of identifying himself as a Musketeer. It was another mistake, this time brought about by selfish reasons.
At the time, he had been so certain that he should continue on with his mission. It was the same with the sauce he had made. He had been absolutely confident that he could make the dish without any help and that he had accurately remembered his mother's recipe. But he had been so very wrong. His judgment was clearly not to be trusted any longer. His own stubbornness and arrogance had led to his downfall.
Whether it was a faulty memory or over-zealousness to help cheer Aramis up didn't matter. There was no excuse; it was all his fault.
His mistakes had crippled the regiment and ripped apart his friendships to the point they could never be repaired. Aramis might have forgiven him for the initial injuries at the hands of those who had thought him of Spanish origin, but he just couldn't see how there could be any forgiveness for the poisoning.
He knew there was a small chance that Aramis and Porthos might still consider him enough of a friend to be alright with him coming along with them on future missions, but he was almost certain they would have issues trusting him to do his job right. It wasn't too much of a stretch to think that, if that trust was ever to be regained, then it would be quite a long time in coming.
Until that trust was restored, the older men questioning his judgment might cause just enough of a distraction to allow something unrecoverable to happen. D'Artagnan didn't think he could bear it if one of his three once-closest friends died because of him.
Sighing, d'Artagnan felt a slight twinge from his still-healing, bruised ribs. Judged for his many mistakes, he'd been found lacking by the other Musketeers. Wasn't that the basic message he'd received every day since he had begun his punishment? Wasn't that the message that the other three had conveyed by leaving him behind?
Glancing towards his window, he noted a slight lightening to the black of night, that deep blue that indicated the dawn was still at least an hour away.
What day of his punishment was this? His fifth? Sixth? Did it really matter any longer? He was pretty certain which course of action he would choose once his punishment was over.
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The first morning of his punishment went about how he'd expected. He'd reported directly to the stables and began his work long before anyone else had arrived.
Of the tasks that Tréville had assigned him to do throughout each of the next seven days, this was first on the list, which he dared not deviate from. He could no longer afford to trust his own judgment about what to do and when. He would follow Tréville's orders to the letter and hopefully find some small amount of redemption through that.
The first shovelful of muck had him gasping in pain, nearly sending him to his knees on the ground. How could he have forgotten the severely bruised, and probably cracked, ribs he'd received when he had been robbed? It was several long, excruciating minutes until he figured out a way to keep going without sending such severe jolts of pain throughout his body.
He'd been mucking the stalls for a while before he heard a voice from behind him ask what he was doing there. Recognizing the stable boy's voice, d'Artagnan turned and told Jacques that he would be there for the next week on the Captain's orders. Jacques nodded distractedly for a moment before suddenly turning and leaving the stables.
A few minutes later, Jacques had returned to the stables with Marcel, the kitchen boy, in tow. Marcel had been made only slightly ill due to the small by comparison taste he'd had of the sauce. Thankfully, the sickness had not been bad enough to put the boy off his duties for more than a day, though Marcel had still suffered. D'Artagnan had seen the kitchen boy nod and smile in satisfaction before leaving, likely to resume his own duties, while Jacques began his.
Not long after that, a steady stream of Musketeers began to visit the stables for no other reason than to witness the start of his punishment. He kept working as they stared, and it wasn't long before the comments got under way. He kept working as some men began to make unflattering remarks about him personally and his skills as the new stable boy. D'Artagnan kept working through it all without saying one word in retaliation or defense. All through the steady stream of men that came by, he'd had to hide every grimace of pain that his movements sparked in his side.
Once there was a lull in the visits by Musketeers who did not have legitimate business in the stables, Jacques apologized. D'Artagnan had known it wouldn't be long before word had gotten out about what he was doing, so he had easily forgiven the boy.
And it was alright. He couldn't blame Jacques for telling his friend, Marcel, about the just punishment he had received from the Captain, especially when that friend had been one of the ones affected. The pain, the comments, the derision, the rejection – he deserved it all.
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At first the comments were but murmurs, words he could not easily distinguish with all of the noise he was making as he worked. As time went on, the men became bolder and their words louder; loud enough that d'Artagnan could hear everything that they said.
He did his best to ignore what they said, focusing on his tasks and on the ache in his ribs to try and dull the pain the words were causing in his heart. It was really no use though, because the words found ways to worm their way into his mind and soul regardless. Some were about his parentage, while others were about his upbringing. The worst referred to his skills as a Musketeer, and the questioning of why Tréville hadn't asked the King to revoke his commission.
D'Artagnan finished mucking out the stalls and moved on to checking the tack as a steady stream of men came by to witness his punishment. Checking the tack at least gave him a chance to breathe more easily as fixing the few pieces that needed mending didn't put any strain on his healing ribs.
When he started checking the condition of the horses, some of the men present loudly objected to him touching their mounts, saying that they didn't want the animals suffering due to any mistakes in their care. Had the Musketeers forgotten his background? That some thought he had a way with horses?
He had been taking care of the animals to one degree or another all of his life, and none of them had ever come to any harm. Had they forgotten that, as a recruit, he had helped out with the horses on occasion and had only ever done right by them? It was as if his mistakes had wiped from existence the memories of everything he had ever done which had benefitted his fellow Musketeers.
Jacques had to assure the men that he would keep an eye on his actions with the horses, and promised that d'Artagnan would have no hand in feeding any of the animals.
By then, the bell for the morning meal had tolled, and d'Artagnan was finally left in peace once more. He didn't dare join the men for breakfast, wanting to enjoy the relative quiet for a few moments, and not wanting to endure any more comments or rejection by the others for the time just before muster.
Once they were alone, Jacques began feeding the horses housed in the stables, leaving d'Artagnan's own mount for him to care for. He wondered why the stable boy had not gone to breakfast, but recalled that he'd never seen him there before. His curiosity was sated not long before muster when Marcel arrived with two plates of food, and the two boys went off to the side of the stables to eat together. They completely ignored him, but he didn't mind. He was content to spend time caring for his horse.
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By the time he was finished in the stables, it was time for the men to gather for the morning muster. D'Artagnan stood at the very back of the group and still the men gave him a wide berth, which only emphasized his feelings of rejection and loneliness, making him miss Porthos, Aramis, and Athos all the more.
Captain Tréville formally announced the full extent of his punishment, garnering a mix of responses from completely satisfied to outrage at there not being more to it. When the part about him being assigned to help Serge in the kitchen was announced, the Captain immediately silenced all protests. D'Artagnan endured the comments and surreptitious looks as stoically as possible, though on the inside, his emotions were already in tatters.
D'Artagnan had only ever wanted to belong, to have a family, and now he felt he was no longer wanted by anyone, including those men he still felt the highest regard for. Athos had completely given up on him, and he assumed that Aramis and Porthos would soon do so as well. He was alone again, and wasn't sure he could make it through to the other side this time, especially with no one to come alongside him as Porthos, Aramis, and Athos had done after his father had been murdered.
This time, it seemed there would be no one to help him find his footing. Athos hadn't wanted him to come along on their mission, and neither of the other two had even bothered to look for him to say their farewells. He really didn't need a clearer message. He had lost his family all over again. How many times could he endure a pain such as that?
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Immediately after muster was over, d'Artagnan reported directly to Aubert, an older man almost a head shorter than him. Aubert had been a soldier in the regular army for a long time before he joined the Musketeer regiment. He was known as being a fair-minded man, but d'Artagnan had no way of knowing if that would change in his case. Just like he hadn't known Jacques's friend Marcel had been affected by his mistake, there was no way for him to know if any of Aubert's close friends had been made ill.
D'Artagnan mentally shrugged. It didn't matter how Aubert treated him during his punishment week because he deserved whatever was doled out to him. If the older man took the opportunity to get a little revenge, d'Artagnan decided that he wouldn't lodge a complaint.
Despite feeling that he had lost his friends, he couldn't help but hold onto the misplaced belief that serving his punishment to the best of his abilities, and without any complaint, might serve to begin to build a bridge towards forgiveness from them. They would never consider trusting him again if they found out he had not taken his new, yet temporary, duties seriously, and he vowed to never give Captain Tréville cause to further reprimand him.
Though Aubert took the tack of treating him like the rawest of recruits and as if he had never before touched a sword, the Musketeer was surprisingly fair in his conduct. Despite how it felt to be treated like that, there seemed to be no malicious intent, only a desire to see him learn from his mistakes. He couldn't help but feel humiliated at times, but accepted the fact that he needed retraining. If he had learned the ways of being a soldier of the Musketeer regiment correctly the first time, then Tréville wouldn't have required him to go through remedial training now.
Obviously, somewhere along the way, he had turned his back on almost everything he had been taught since he'd become a Musketeer recruit. It didn't matter if, from a young age, he'd learned sword craft from his soldier father whenever the man had time to teach him. Nor did it matter that Athos, the best swordsman in the regiment, had helped to hone that skill. Or that he'd improved his aim under Aramis's tutelage. It also didn't make a difference that he'd become better at hand-to-hand fighting through practice with Porthos.
Somewhere along the line, he'd managed to push all that knowledge aside and thought he knew best how to function as a Musketeer. As a result, his fellow brothers-in-arms had suffered.
Aubert said nothing to him; instead, the man lifted a hand and gestured for him to follow along behind. Once they were alone in the armory, Aubert spent a long time lecturing him on everything he had recently done wrong. First though, he was given a warning that anything and everything said and done during their time together was subject to testing the following day. The lecture was long and detailed, encompassing topics such as the importance of being aware of his surroundings at all times, when to abort a mission, and the absolute necessity of keeping the Captain informed when a mission's parameters were greatly altered – such as being robbed of his pauldron, the only way to be identified as a Musketeer.
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After the extensive lecture, Aubert ordered him to clean all of the weapons along one wall of the armory. The task acted as a reminder that he'd lost his own weapons when he'd been robbed. Confined to the garrison, not having his weapons was of no consequence, since he would not need them to serve out his punishment. Unfortunately, he could not afford to commission new ones right away, and would have to borrow some from the armory until he could.
It wasn't until he was riding back towards Paris from Châteaudun that he felt the impact of the loss of his weapons. The absence of the weight of his sword and dagger around his waist, along with the loss of the comforting weight of the pauldron he'd worn on his shoulder, had been in great contrast to the substantial increase of guilt and burden upon his mind. He should have fought harder against his assailants. It had been yet another mistake.
Criticisms on his methods of cleaning were free-flowing, but he took the remarks in stride and adjusted his routine to include the new instructions. He had learned some tricks on how to keep his weapons clean from Porthos, Aramis, and Athos, but wondered if he hadn't been cutting corners from what they had taught him. Was that why Aubert had to correct him on something that should be so ingrained into his memory that he should no longer have to think about the process?
It was another thing to add to the growing list of his inadequacies and mistakes. For that seemed all he could do now – make mistakes. He apparently was incapable of doing much of anything correctly.
How had he not noticed this before? Why hadn't his friends confronted him before what had happened to Aramis? Had they been waiting for the right time, and were going to list his numerous faults when they returned from that mission?
As he continued to clean weapons, trying to get Aubert's suggestions down just right, d'Artagnan wondered what other faults he would discover about his abilities – or the apparent lack thereof.
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Once Aubert deemed his efforts up to the standards of the Musketeers, d'Artagnan was given a short break before he was to report to the practice yard.
Heated glares followed him around the garrison as did murmurs of conversation. Pretending he did not notice, d'Artagnan quickly visited the latrine, enduring comments made about him even while he was in there. On the way back, he grabbed an apple and forced himself to eat it, knowing he wouldn't last the day without at least something in his stomach.
He caught up with Aubert just as the older man was entering the practice yard, and felt the eyes of all the other nearby men following their progress. Their eyes shone with curiosity, which was mixed with the now all-too-familiar look of disdain, and knew that he would soon have an audience for whatever punishment Aubert was going to impose upon him next.
After the audience he'd had in the stables and had glimpsed outside the armory during Aubert's lecture, humiliation and him were already old, dear friends at this point. It didn't much matter to him any longer that any of the other Musketeers would witness what happened to him next.
At the farthest corner of the yard, Aubert stopped and handed him a training sword. The older man then announced that he would be observing d'Artagnan as he demonstrated the basics of sword training, where each stance and step would be evaluated and corrected as needed. Hearing a few sniggers of laughter at that pronouncement, d'Artagnan was tempted to protest, but he dared not say a word, and simply nodded his head in understanding of what was required of him. When Aubert called out "en garde," d'Artagnan suddenly felt like he was ten years old again as he unsheathed his borrowed sword and got into position.
He remembered back to his tenth birthday when his father had produced a training sword as his gift that year. It had been completely utilitarian in looks, but was sturdy enough for a beginner of his size. D'Artagnan had never cared what it had looked like; all he had cared about at the time was that he was finally going to be learning sword craft from his father. Due to the planting and harvesting cycles of the farm, his father would only have time to teach him in earnest during the winter months, and that for the most part, he would be practicing anything he learned on his own. He didn't mind that he would have to hone his skills on his own, because finally, the stories he'd heard from his father's and grandfather's days in the regular army would be coming to life for him.
Aubert was treating him as almost a complete novice to the sword, and he was surprised that he hadn't yet been told which end of it was the more dangerous one. To the background music of snickers and the outright laughter of those who had followed along to watch the spectacle, d'Artagnan was made to repeatedly get into "en garde" position. Every few repetitions, Aubert would correct his stance in some way. His shoulder, feet, and elbow were adjusted to be just right though they were barely moved more than the thickness of his blade.
He was wrong, he could feel more humiliated than he'd already felt, since the day had dawned. The more Aubert corrected him, the bolder the snide remarks got and the laughter increased in volume, which only served to increase his humiliation and consequently increase the number of mistakes which had to be corrected. The vicious cycle continued on and on until d'Artagnan felt the confidence he'd once had in his skills as a swordsman melt away from him as if a warm sun had come out after a snowy night.
After the hours he'd already had to withstand of their degradation, ignoring the other Musketeers no longer worked. Normally, he was able to endure with good grace hours of good-natured ribbing from his fellows, but this was far beyond that and well into the territory of mean-spirited. The fact that he was exhausted and in pain, both body and mind, only made the situation that much worse.
It wasn't long before his stance was more wrong than it was right, and his eyes began to fill with tears due to his frustration with himself and the pain he was feeling. He managed to blink them back, not allowing anyone to see his pain, and did his best to keep up the blank expression he'd decided to adopt.
He was not only humiliated but ashamed as well. He felt as if he were letting both his father and Athos down by failing at this most basic of stances. Because he was letting the taunts get to him, d'Artagnan was having difficulties preventing his heart from overriding his head, something Athos on occasion still needed to remind him keep in check. Yet more mistakes to add to his long list.
Trying to avenge his father, he had come to Paris and survived fights with full Musketeers and Red Guards and thought he had some skill with a blade. Later, when Athos had begun mentoring him, he'd learned just how lucky he'd been in those fights. He'd had the raw talent, but had needed it to be refined, and that's what Athos had done for him.
Those teachings had helped him defeat Labarge and earn his commission, but somehow in the intervening months, he had become complacent, slipped back into old, bad habits, and God only knew what else. Otherwise, he had no explanation for how badly he was doing at this most basic of moves. Athos and his father did not deserve the stain upon their skills and reputations as swordsmen due to his most recent of failures.
Eventually, he became so frustrated with himself that his co-ordination also began to suffer, which only amused his audience all the more. Without warning, Aubert suddenly called a halt and faced the crowd that had gathered.
As Aubert began to speak, d'Artagnan turned away from them all in order to regain some semblance of control, and to attempt to put back together some of the shreds of his confidence that he could still find within himself. He also prayed that any censure of his abilities did not reflect back upon Athos as a mentor; it was all d'Artagnan's fault for being a poor student.
When Aubert ordered him to begin again, he noticed that the crowd that had once been gathered was gone. D'Artagnan had been so focused on himself that he'd missed what the older man had said to get the others to leave. He met Aubert's eyes and saw that there was no malice in them. In fact, he saw a good amount of regret in them.
Regret? Why? He deserved no less than the treatment he'd received thus far.
Aubert called for "en garde" again and again until finally the older Musketeer deemed his stance was being done properly.
From there they moved onto the basics of advancing and retreating. Aubert made minor corrections every step of the way, and d'Artagnan just did his best to do the moves correctly. Not long after, Aubert called a halt for the day. D'Artagnan had been so focused on getting things right, on no longer disappointing his father and Athos, that he had not noticed how late it was getting. Aubert shoved a water skin at him and ordered d'Artagnan to drink as the older man explained the purpose of the lectures and return to basics.
The man's purpose had not been humiliation, and not a reflection of his skills as a swordsman, but to remind him that there was more to being a Musketeer than his recent mistakes. Aubert was well aware that d'Artagnan knew everything that they had reviewed that day, but the older man believed concentrating on the fundamentals for the week would help him forget his mistakes so he could start fresh when he went on his next mission. D'Artagnan nodded in understanding, but in the privacy of his mind, he could only think on how he'd failed Athos yet again.
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When Aubert dismissed him for the day, d'Artagnan headed straight towards the kitchen, not daring to tarry lest he bring himself under the unwanted scrutiny of the Captain. To his shame, he did the cowardly thing and avoided going through the main door of the mess to get there. Instead, wanting to avoid any Musketeers who had already gathered in the main room, he went in through the back door that directly accessed the kitchen.
There was a limited amount of time before Serge had to begin prepping the evening meal, and that time was spent lecturing him on nutmeg and the proper amount to use in any given dish which required the spice. When he was shown the appropriate amount of nutmeg on a small plate and saw how much less was called for compared to what he had used, d'Artagnan suddenly felt lightheaded and nearly fell out of the chair he'd been sitting in when the ground rose up and tried to grab him.
When he had come back to himself, he had been embarrassed to realize that Serge was keeping him from falling even while remarking upon how pale he had become. D'Artagnan was absolutely certain that if he'd had anything in his stomach at that point, then it would already have come back up, embarrassing himself even more than he'd already done. Serge forced him to drink a small measure of brandy, making sure he was feeling better before the man put him to work helping to prepare the evening meal.
Such a small amount compared to what he had used in the béchamel sauce he'd made to tempt Aramis's appetite. He had tasted the sauce multiple times and had never realized that he was adding too much nutmeg. Serge explained that the flavors in the sauce may not have yet properly integrated when he had last tasted it, thus making him think the sauce could use more of the spice. Having made yet another mistake by not tasting the sauce again, he'd not noticed that it had been over-spiced. His mistake and ignorance had helped him avoid being poisoned and doomed his brother Musketeers to days of illness.
Though he had avoided the effects of the nutmeg, he had still suffered some similar effects. His worry over Aramis's deterioration had made him nauseated and had severely dimmed his appetite. Even after Aramis had begun to recover, his appetite had remained mostly elusive. It had been many days since he'd enjoyed the taste of food or had eaten a full meal.
Even now, he felt the betrayal of his appetite, coupled with his body's inability to get a full night's sleep, was a well-deserved punishment for what he'd done. He deserved all of it and much more, because his ignorance, his prideful certainty that he knew what to do, had led to a mistake which seemed to be costing him everything in his life that he cared about. It mattered little that his losses now included his appetite and his rest.
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Serge, likely fearing a backlash at the idea of him helping out in the kitchen, though it was by the captain's orders, had him simply observe what the cook was doing as he made the evening meal.
Hands behind his back, he watched Serge intently and listened as the man explained his method of cooking. Occasionally, he was asked to fetch something the older man needed, but essentially he was made to observe. The kitchen boy, Marcel, glared at him every time their eyes happened to meet.
The real test had come when the bell for the evening meal had tolled, and his presence in the kitchen reminded the Musketeers yet again of what he'd done by mistake. They loudly objected, using colorful language about him being allowed anywhere near the food. Serge, with Marcel as witness, had assured the men that d'Artagnan had only observed and had not touched anything that directly went into the stew that had been prepared.
D'Artagnan understood that the men in no way trusted him to be near their food after what had happened the last time, but he felt bad for Serge who'd had to defend his presence regardless of Tréville's orders that it was part of his punishment. The older man didn't deserve the animosity that had been thrown in his direction because of him. He wanted to defend Serge, but in the end, he'd taken the coward's way out once again and kept silent, since his word currently meant less than nothing.
He attempted to let the words to wash over him when they were directed at Serge, but to no avail. Regardless of whether or not they were directed at him, they penetrated the façade of indifference that he'd adopted, adding even more damage to his psyche.
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That first day, Serge kept him in the kitchen only long enough for the men to begin eating. Uncaring that they could be overheard, some of the men began talking about d'Artagnan amongst themselves. Some argued that the punishment he had received had not been enough compared to what so many had been through, and suggested that he should have been flogged as well.
Several men, who he knew had been more greatly affected by the overdose of nutmeg, thought his commission should have been revoked. They cited his failed mission as proof enough of his incompetence as a Musketeer, saying the gaining of it in the first place had been a fluke, and forgetting that he had fought to protect Tréville and the regiment's honor by defeating a man nearly twice his size in girth.
Part of the talk had also centered on how Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had left on a mission without them even campaigning for d'Artagnan to accompany them, reminding him of Athos's rejection. Several had noticed that d'Artagnan had not been sought out before the three had left, suggesting that they no longer wished to work with him and even hinting that he had never really been accepted by them in the first place.
Every word cut through him like a knife, with each wound left to freely bleed until he thought he wouldn't be able to take it any longer. Shortly after those comments, Serge had dismissed him for the evening, and he left without bothering to get any of the stew for himself. He was no longer welcome, so he left for his room, taking an apple on his way out in case he happened to get hungry. He didn't think that likely given the way his stomach was so twisted in knots. If he were to put anything in, it surely wouldn't stay there for long.
When he got back to his room, he tossed the apple onto his bed and paced the short length of his room back and forth for a long time. His head was a jumbled mess from the long day of punishment, more so from what the men added through their disdain and comments, than the actual work itself.
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His few precious hours of sleep that night were filled with a familiar, nightmarish dreamscape.
His friends were ambushed by a group that outnumbered them to the point where it was obvious the three best Musketeers of the regiment would have a difficult time coming out the victors.
One by one they fell to the greater numbers.
The first to fall was Porthos, followed by Aramis, and finally Athos. All of them were in unnatural positions with large pools of blood spreading out from their bodies. There was nothing he could do to help them. He tried to get there on time, tried to save them, but nothing helped, and he was too late to prevent his friends from dying. His mistakes had cost them their lives.
When he awoke, he noticed he was sitting straight up in bed, his heart beating wildly, and his breathing erratic. It was a while before his body and mind calmed to a level that was relatively normal.
From the nightmare images going around and around in his head, he was pretty certain that he wouldn't be getting any more sleep that night. Not that he got that much sleep overall recently. This nightmare was much worse than the others he'd been having, and it had felt like he'd barely put his head down on his pillow before that dream had invaded and conquered his mind.
He lit a candle and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, a slight shiver briefly overtaking him due to the cool night air hitting his bare shoulders. Sighing heavily, he grabbed the shirt lying across the end of his bed and put it on, standing as he tugged it down over his torso.
Without making the conscious decision to do so, he began to pace his room, something that had become a habit for him. Fleetingly, the idea that he might soon wear a hole through the floorboards passed through his mind.
In his despair at being so completely rejected by Athos, d'Artagnan hadn't bothered to find out the particulars of the mission his one-time friends had been sent on. He had simply not cared, other than wishing them well on the journey and success for their mission. However, after the nightmare he'd just had, he could do nothing but care and needed to know the details of it for the sake of his sanity.
D'Artagnan immediately knew that he wouldn't be able to bring himself to ask Tréville. Since the Captain had informed him of his punishment, he'd taken to avoiding the man whenever possible. He planned to get through the week without giving the older man cause to revoke his commission. Bothering the Captain for information that he didn't really need to know seemed akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull. Beyond being seen at muster, d'Artagnan figured that if he did all of his required duties, then there would be no reason for them to have to interact. He was certain that Tréville was tired of hearing about him and would welcome the reprieve.
The thought that he would ask one of the other Musketeers was a non-starter. Everyone at the garrison basically hated him, and none talked to him unless necessary or to insult him. He briefly considered asking Aubert, but though the man had been reasonable in his treatment of him, d'Artagnan doubted the older Musketeer would be forthcoming with the information he sought. It was for the best that they spoke only when necessary, and he did not provoke Aubert into being less than reasonable for the reminder of time they were assigned to work together.
He stopped in his pacing when the obvious answer jumped in to his mind – Serge. The cook had been one of a handful of people in the garrison to still treat him with any amount of kindness. Perhaps the older man would tell him what he wanted to know. With that problem off his mind for the moment, he sat heavily down upon the side of his bed, elbows on his knees and hands hanging limp between them. He sighed and bowed his head in exhaustion. Now he just needed to figure out a good time to ask Serge what he wanted to know.
He sighed again and lifted his head to look out his window. Noticing the color of the sky, he stood and prepared to go and start another day of his week of punishment in the stables.
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As with the day before, d'Artagnan began it by mucking out the stables. Jacques had not yet arrived, and for a brief moment he wished he could take his horse and ride out of the garrison to greet the rising sun. But it was not meant to be; he could not even leave the garrison to exercise his horse, and hoped that those assigned to take out the reserve horses for exercise would also take his to be let out to run for a time. Surely his horse would not be punished for something he had done?
Unlike the previous day, the number of Musketeers who came to keep him company and share their opinions of him was far fewer. Apparently, the novelty had worn off even if their sentiments had not changed. The men that did drop by made sure he hadn't forgotten exactly what was thought about him.
When he finished mucking out the stalls, he turned his attention to the tack, immediately noticing that there were many more pieces needing repair compared to the day before. When he more closely examined the first piece to determine what repairs it needed, he noticed that it had been tampered with. He'd seen enough of Aramis's stitching and had done enough repairs of his own over the years, to know the difference between what had been torn due to natural wear and tear and what had been cut on purpose.
His shoulders slumped. Depending on the amount of repairs needed on the rest of the tack, repairing it might take longer that he had time for given his other punishments. He still had to check the horses and care for his own before he was to meet Aubert. Perhaps he could focus on the tack and feed his horse if Jacques still would not do it. Then later, after Serge dismissed him for the day, he could come back and finish his work with the horses. All of the horses had been in excellent condition the day before and no Musketeers had returned from any missions, so conceivably this task could wait until later.
It was a risk to deviate from the schedule the Captain had set, but he couldn't see that he had another choice. As long as he completed all of his assigned tasks each day, that was all that mattered, wasn't it?
D'Artagnan considered reporting the problem to Tréville, and showing him the purposely sabotaged items, but he had already promised himself that he wouldn't complain. Besides, what would he achieve by complaining? He deserved the extra work, and did not need any more animosity directed towards him. He would do his duty as assigned, regardless of outside interference by the rest of the Musketeers or how long it took him to get everything done. He wasn't getting very much sleep, so this extra work might exhaust him enough to finally allow him some rest at night.
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When he reported to Aubert, the older man quizzed d'Artagnan on the previous day's lecture given to him in the armory. Though he had passed with flying colors, he'd felt no satisfaction from it. He'd then received another, detailed lecture and demonstration on how to prepare for a mission, including how to respond if it went wrong when part of a group or alone as he'd been when he'd been attacked.
He should have gone back after he'd been robbed, but his recent illness out on the road coupled with his worry over Aramis, his rejection by his friends, and his shame for his mistakes, had apparently rendered him incapable of making that most obvious and logical of decisions. There had also been a very small part of him that had wanted to avoid facing the brothers-in-arms he had unintentionally harmed so soon after he'd left the garrison.
Regardless, he should have buried anything to do with his own needs and wants and thought only of his duty as a Musketeer. He should have realized his ability to do the mission he had been assigned had been compromised, but for whatever reason he had not. If he remained a Musketeer, then he would never make that same mistake again. In the future, only duty would come before his fellow Musketeers; his needs and wants would come last from then on.
After that day's lecture, Aubert had him again working on basic sword forms, repeating the exercises from the previous day before adding crossovers and lunges. Eventually he moved on to more and more difficult stances and steps, including defensive positions. He accepted correction with gratitude and ignored any praise that came his way.
Instead, he took the praise as confirmation that he had not completely destroyed the reputations of those who had taught him the sword. For what were his skills but a reflection of his teachers, pale though that reflection was.
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Serge interrupted d'Artagnan's time with Aubert to request his help in the kitchen. It was an hour or so earlier than he'd arrived at the kitchen the day before, but Aubert readily acquiesced, reminding d'Artagnan that they would have to make up the time at some point.
D'Artagnan followed Serge to a wagon waiting outside the mess hall, which seemed to be full of foodstuffs meant for the garrison. He was ordered to help Marcel unload the wagon, while the older man mumbled delightedly about how d'Artagnan would allow his "rusty, creaky bones" a partial reprieve from the chore.
Hearing those words, d'Artagnan insisted that Serge desist from helping unload the goods and instead direct him and Marcel to where things should be stored. The older man had been kind to him from the beginning, and it felt good to repay Serge in this small way. Due to Marcel being inordinately, and likely purposely slow, d'Artagnan ended up unloading the majority of the cargo by himself, the heavier bundles causing the pain in his side to flare up multiple times. Because of Marcel's slothfulness, he must have made fifty trips up and down the garrison's root cellar steps.
He'd gained an audience pretty quickly, and while his back was turned, he overheard one of the men comment that someone needed to make sure that d'Artagnan didn't ruin the food before it could be used or have another chance to poison it somehow. Other comments centered on how good he was at unloading the wagon, and that perhaps he was better suited to that work rather than being a Musketeer.
The words were like arrows shot with pinpoint accuracy, hitting their target in the bull's eye. The fleeting good feeling that he'd had for knowing he had spared Serge some joint pain quickly evaporated.
After the wagon was unloaded, Serge gave him and Marcel first pick at the fresh fruit as a reward, letting them take a break long enough to eat it. Though the apple he'd chosen was as juicy as it was crunchy, he found he could not enjoy it. He was on punishment duty and did not deserve the treat he had been given. It was only because it seemed a part of the routine that he had started eating the apple in the first place. Though he loved apples, and was aware that he hadn't eaten much in the past day, d'Artagnan still had to practically choke every single bite down his throat.
Once their little break was over, Serge had him observe how he planned out meals using the goods that had just been delivered. The previous night, when he'd decided to ask Serge where his friends had been sent on their mission, d'Artagnan hadn't expected the answer to almost literally drop into his lap.
Apparently, Captain Tréville kept Serge informed of which teams were out on mission and approximate times when they would be returning. Whenever possible, Serge took it upon himself to fix meals the returning teams enjoyed the most.
D'Artagnan's eyebrows lifted in amazement at the thoughtfulness of the older man as well as just how much Serge knew about the men and their comings and goings. He'd always wondered about the coincidence of one of their favorite dishes upon their return from missions and now he knew it wasn't one.
It wasn't long before d'Artagnan knew exactly where his friends had gone and when they were due back. He also learned that Serge was going to make one of Porthos's favorite meals as the previous time it had been Athos's turn.
He was briefly amused at how easily he had found out what he'd wanted to know. All too quickly, that feeling went away as he was reminded of the likelihood he would never again enjoy his friends' favorite meals with them since they no longer wanted him along on missions.
The rest of his time was spent much like the previous evening, observing the making of the evening meal. Afterwards, Serge ordered him to help Marcel clean up the kitchen, including washing all of the dinner plates, pots, and pans. As the newest recruit amongst his friends, he'd often been assigned the task while out on the road.
It was another reminder of what he thought would never be again.
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It had become apparent very early on that spending time in any of the common areas was a bad idea. Everywhere he went, he was treated with barely constrained contempt, the questioning of whether or not his mistake was truly a mistake. The words that many of the Musketeers were spouting completely baffled him. How could anyone think he would do something so vile after he had served so faithfully from the very beginning and had worked so diligently to gain his commission?
Perhaps his actions to uncover Cardinal Richelieu's treason were still too fresh in the Musketeers' minds, making the men question his motives and loyalties. Perhaps the idea that he would betray and kill Athos had gained purchase in their heads, and had consequently made the idea that he would harm a brother on purpose via poison all that much easier to believe.
With so much negativity being aimed at him, returning to his quarters for the night had been his only option once Serge dismissed him. He didn't even linger long enough to have his share of the evening meal, only taking a few bites to satisfy Serge that he'd eaten and to prove that it was not poisoned. Besides, he hadn't eaten much before the food had settled like a weight at the bottom of his stomach, making him lose what little appetite he'd had in the first place.
However, once he'd retired to bed, d'Artagnan found he could not fall asleep. It seemed to not matter in the least how utterly exhausted he felt or how weary he was in mind and body, he simply could not relax enough to sleep. His body screamed for rest, but his mind would not quiet itself enough to allow it.
He tried to blank his mind, think about happier times when he was a boy, but nothing could quiet the voices going around and around in his head. They were but faint, whispering echoes of everything derogatory that he had heard all day as he endured harassment by the men, yet the words were an endless loop in his head nearly every moment since he'd first heard them. It was at night, when he was alone, that those echoes were their loudest.
And each and every word was true. He'd even begun to believe things he had once considered false. Every word had sunk in and began to change his thinking. Before the constant symphony of negative voices, he had decided to endure the punishment without complaint and show Athos that he could once again be trusted. Now, he was beginning to wonder if giving up his commission might not be the better path for him to travel upon. His farm was gone and he didn't have many other skills, but he would find a way to get by.
Once upon a time, he'd thought he'd had a purpose and a home with the Musketeers, but his mistakes had destroyed his home. He no longer had anyone at the garrison who cared for him beyond the usual courtesies that went along with being a soldier. What he needed to figure out was if he had lost his purpose as well. Once he knew the answer to that question, he would know if he should resign from the Musketeers. Athos, he was certain, no longer wanted him around, though he couldn't help the feeling that the older man would be angry with whatever decision he made.
D'Artagnan had no idea what he would do with his life if he were to resign from the Musketeers. His old life was a pile of ashes on land that the Crown had taken to pay off the tax debt his family had owed. Due to his numerous mistakes, his new life was up in flames, soon to become ashes blowing upon the wind. And unlike the mythical Phoenix bird that his mother had once told him about, he didn't think he could rise up and be reborn from those ashes.
Most assuredly, he could not remain in Paris because of the constant likelihood of running into someone he knew out on the streets, including Constance who had already also forsaken him. There was nothing and no one to go back to in Lupiac. He had no family that remained in the village. There was a cousin he could seek out, who lived farther south in Gascony, but they hadn't been very close since they were children, and he didn't think he would be welcomed back, especially after never sending word once he'd decided to stay in Paris.
Perhaps he could try his luck in one of the colonies…
He shook his head to dislodge the train of thought his mind had become trapped upon. Until he made his final decision, it was just a waste of time to think on his future.
The only future that currently mattered was serving out the remaining days of his punishment.
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The remaining days of his punishment mostly blended together because he was trapped in a routine forged by orders from Captain Tréville.
Each day was like the one before.
His work in the stables primarily differed by what the other Musketeers had done to sabotage his work for the day. This led to the only other real break to the monotony. Whatever had been vandalized, had to be fixed, and depending on what had been done, the time it took to put things right again varied.
Sometimes, all it took was a quick fix, such as replacing the broken handle of a pitchfork or shovel. Other times, when the tack had been purposefully dirtied beyond normal use, it took longer for him to finish his work.
More than once after being dismissed for the night by Serge, d'Artagnan would have to go back to the stables to complete work he didn't have time to do that morning.
Despite having to sometimes leave work undone, the Captain never called him out on it. The trouble-making Musketeers could have reported his dereliction of duty, but instead seemed content to see him have to work all the harder to get his assigned duties done for the day.
Due to these efforts, d'Artagnan had to work well into the night, further decreasing the amount of hours he could've potentially slept. Not that it mattered; he and sleep had, for the most part, also parted ways.
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If his time in the stables was fairly monotonous, then his time with Aubert followed along a seemingly set script. Each day he would be briefly quizzed on the training and lectures of the previous days before he would have to endure some kind of remedial training.
The day he was led towards where the targets for shooting practice were kept, he groaned inwardly and prayed he wouldn't damage Aramis's reputation as a marksman. No one could come close to that man's skill, but Aramis had helped to greatly improve his aim and speed at reloading. However, if he had backslid so much in his ability with a sword, how much had he regressed in his ability with a pistol and musket?
It went about as well as he had expected – which was not well at all.
Each night he had stayed awake going over and over his mistakes, as well as the things that Aubert's lectures had covered. Because he couldn't sleep, it seemed a good use of his time.
However, the lack of sleep coupled with his reduced appetite had taken a toll. His aim was off, and his reloading speed was slower than ever. All of the progress he had gained under Aramis's tutelage was apparently gone.
It didn't take much thought to guess that it would be the same for Porthos's tutelage once the time came to go over hand-to-hand combat. Porthos had taught him valuable moves to help with his technique, including how to use what was on hand to fight opponents when he was disarmed. Given how much of a stickler Aubert was for the rules, none of what he'd learned from his friend would be of help.
He just hoped that he could protect his still-recovering ribs from acquiring more damage. He'd grown accustomed to the lingering remnants of pain to the point where he could ignore it the majority of the time. Only moving precisely the wrong way still made him remember it existed.
Though Aubert had scattered the crowd that had come to witness his punishment on that first day, it didn't stop the men from watching from a greater distance every other day. Nor did it stop them from pointing at him and laughing when he made one of his many mistakes. Though he could not hear them, knowing they were there and having an idea of what they were saying only continued to eat away at his confidence. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever be able to piece it completely back together again once his punishment had ended.
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His time in the kitchen with Serge also followed a pretty predictable pattern.
He would be made to help with tasks such as replenishing the pile of fuel meant for the kitchen's cooking fire. Then, he would be made to observe Serge as the retired Musketeer prepared the evening meal.
Due to the unrelenting comments from his fellow Musketeers, Serge determined it best that he not have a direct hand in making any of the food to be served. Instead, he fetched and carried ingredients, got out bowls or plates for the men to eat off of, and broke the bread up into ready-to-eat chunks.
Once the men were all served, Serge took time to eat and made sure he and Marcel also had a meal. D'Artagnan's appetite had mostly forsaken him, but he still managed to eat enough to satisfy the older man. Besides, he knew he wouldn't be able to get through his long days of punishment without eating something.
After their meal, Serge would have him working with Marcel to clean up and set up a few things for the next morning. Serge left for the evening once they got started cleaning, mumbling as he left about how it was nice to have a little extra free time for a change.
It was on third night that Marcel, once Serge had retired for the evening, left for the latrine and never returned. He would have worried for the boy had the younger man not smirked as he'd left. With a shrug, d'Artagnan finished all of the remaining work on his own.
He soon learned that the kitchen boy leaving for the night without permission was not a one-time incident. It was only a matter of minutes after Serge departed each night that Marcel would disappear, leaving all of the cleaning for him to do alone. Though not explicitly said, the action was clearly done out of spite, in revenge for the slight case of poisoning the boy had received for saving a large spoonful of the sauce for himself.
Though the boy had not been as sick as the majority of those afflicted in the garrison, Marcel was more than happy to join the others in adding a little more punishment onto what the Captain had given to him. Determined to see his week out with no complaints against his efforts or against others who were sabotaging his efforts, d'Artagnan had been keeping his mouth shut about all the little incidents which clearly indicated how much he was now hated amongst the Musketeers. As with the extra work he'd been left, d'Artagnan said nothing, and simply got it done.
Marcel leaving his usual duties incomplete, and with the insinuation that d'Artagnan should finish them by himself, was just the latest in the revenge by a thousand cuts that was being waged against him.
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As he got dressed, his mind wandered to think back on his days of punishment, which only served to make it more difficult for d'Artagnan to start the day. His dread at what extra work he would find had only increased as the time had passed.
He wished he could remember how many more days he had left of his punishment. Two? One? Did it really matter any longer?
He had been edging ever closer to a decision about his future, and was growing ever more certain as to which of the two paths laid out before him that he would take.
When he started work in the stables, he moved on automatic hardly having to think about what he was doing. He also never gave a second thought to the fact that the half-full barrel of manure and soiled straw he'd cleaned up the day before had been purposely dumped over and spread around the empty stall closest to it. D'Artagnan simply cleaned up the extra mess as if he'd been expecting it to be there all along.
And he had been expecting it. Except for the first day, there had been extra work related to his assigned duties that he'd had to complete. Clearly, the ones who had it out for him were running out of ideas if they were resorting to this latest bit of sabotage to his work.
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When he reported to Aubert, d'Artagnan received a shock when the older man told him that, as it was his last day on assignment with him, they would be reviewing everything they had been doing the previous six days.
Last day?
No, it couldn't be. He still had…
D'Artagnan shook his head to dispel the cobwebs that had apparently gathered in his mind.
Today was his last day of punishment. Aubert wouldn't tell him a falsehood like that. The man was too honorable to deceive him in such a way after being so fair and reasonable the rest of the time they'd been assigned together.
And yet he still couldn't believe it.
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His hours with Aubert went by in a blur.
He was quizzed on the many lectures the older Musketeer had given him throughout the week, and never answered incorrectly despite still not truly believing that he would be off punishment the next day and allowed to leave the garrison again. A week without being able to ride his horse and go where he wished had left him feeling more and more trapped as the days had gone by.
How could he have missed the fact that it was his last day?
There was an answer creeping at the edges of his mind, but he ruthlessly pushed it back as far away he could to examine later that night. First, he had to finish his time with Aubert and spend his last duty time in the kitchen.
Aubert had him demonstrating his skill at swords, shooting, and hand-to-hand fighting as well as having him gear up for a theoretical three-day mission. In every discipline, Aubert complimented him on some aspect of his skill. D'Artagnan nodded in acknowledgment, but didn't believe he deserved any praise – only censure. He should never have deviated from what he'd been taught in the first place. The fact that he could demonstrate to Aubert what he should've learned months and years ago meant almost nothing to him.
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Serge also remarked upon the fact that this was his last day being assigned to the kitchen. He jokingly said that he would miss the extra help with getting the work done, and that having d'Artagnan there was like having two additional helpers.
D'Artagnan didn't know what to say to that. He'd always felt like he was constantly in the way and always disrupting the retired Musketeer's ability to get things done in a timely fashion because Serge had to take time out to teach d'Artagnan about cooking.
Truth be told, he had learned a lot about how this part of the garrison was run. Keeping the Musketeers fed required a lot of attention to detail, and he admired how good Serge was at his job.
He learned a lot despite only being allowed to observe and not touch anything that directly went into the meal being prepared. Every time Serge let him do more than observe or fetch-and-carry, word got out and he was told to stop what he was doing. It seemed the men were just as paranoid with him being near the food as on the first day of his punishment.
At the end of the night, Serge remained in the room while he and Marcel cleaned up. The older man, in a roundabout way, quizzed him on things he had learned that week while serving in the kitchen. Serge was pleased that d'Artagnan had picked up so much information, while d'Artagnan was simply pleased that Marcel had to stay and help clean for a change.
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Because he managed to finish cleaning up the mess he was left in the stables that morning, and had Marcel helping him in the kitchen that evening, d'Artagnan managed to make it back to his room fairly early that last night of his punishment.
Alone in his room, he could let his carefully erected masks fall. He no longer had to pretend that the remarks didn't get to him or that he was beyond exhausted and sick at heart.
Most of all, he no longer had to fake being well-rested and in optimum health.
Alone in his room, he was a tired, lonely young man who greatly missed the three men he once called his friends and teammates.
He took off his doublet, carefully not looking at the place where his pauldron had once been, and sat on the edge of his bed as if he were a marionette who'd had his strings cut. Expending some of the precious little energy he had remaining, d'Artagnan took off his boots and lay back on his bed.
From too much experience, he knew that sleep would be a long time coming, if it ever did. Hopefully, the trend that he got at least a few hours of rest before the dawn came would continue.
Closing his eyes, his thoughts drifted back over what had happened during his week of punishment.
D'Artagnan had started the week expecting the men to act in part the way that they had. He had expected – wanted – the disdain and deserved the comments about his abilities as a Musketeer. What he had not anticipated was the sheer amount of negative comments and the sabotage to his work.
Even then, he had assumed that the high levels of disparagement and shunning would decrease throughout the week once the men had had their fun and revenge at his expense, but that had not been the case. It was true that there had been times he sensed that the men had grown tired of getting revenge and tormenting him, but then someone – he never could tell who, or if it was just one man – would rile the men back up.
It never ended. For seven days and nights, the torment had continued, only letting up when he was in the privacy of his own room.
Even on this final day of his punishment, it was as if those seven days had not gone by, if the vehemence in the commentary expressed against him was to be believed. Apparently, serving his time to the best of his ability, while not complaining about any revenge, had done nothing to redeem him in the eyes of his fellow Musketeers. If anything, this last night only reinforced the thought he had ruthlessly pushed back to the farthest reaches of his mind earlier in the day.
He was no longer wanted and should resign his commission.
For, if the rest of the Musketeers considered him unworthy of redemption for his mistakes, then surely Aramis, Porthos, or Athos would feel the same.
The smallest speck of hope remaining that those amongst whom he had once found acceptance would welcome him back again had fled. He had finally accepted the fact that Athos no longer wanted him around.
D'Artagnan had once believed that he could remain a Musketeer and could request to be reassigned, but this past week showed him that would not be possible. He had been rejected by all of the Musketeers.
The path, which he had so firmly believed led to the Musketeer regiment, was no longer traversable and he would no longer attempt to trespass upon it.
He had wondered if he still had a purpose – that of serving King and Country – and found that he did. He still felt called to serve, but was now convinced that he was no longer meant to do so as a King's Musketeer. A new path, a new way to serve his country, would have to be found.
D'Artagnan sighed.
He thought making the decision to resign his commission would provide some relief and take some of the weight that had been pressing down upon him from off his shoulders, but he was wrong. If anything, that weight had only increased. It was only the reason behind it that had changed.
For now that he had made the decision, the next step was to inform Captain Tréville of it. Porthos, Aramis, and Athos were due back in less than a day. He could tell the Captain of his decision first thing in the morning before muster and leave immediately after, never to see the men he'd once thought of as brothers again.
It was tempting, more than he thought it ever would be, but that was the coward's path, and he refused to go down it. It was bad enough that he was reviled amongst the men and was no longer adept at being a Musketeer; he refused to put a black mark upon his honor as well.
He wanted to apologize to Athos and inform him and the others first before notifying Tréville. After all they had been through together, it was only fitting for that to be the case regardless of how things had gone so very wrong between them at the end.
When the three older men returned to the garrison and had had a chance to recover a bit from their mission, d'Artagnan would approach and give them what they surely would consider excellent news. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if he wasn't saving them from asking Tréville to have him reassigned or his commission revoked.
D'Artagnan let out another long and weary sigh.
In less than 24 hours, he would no longer be a Musketeer, and he already felt adrift and rudderless.
Perhaps he could join the regular army and serve honorably as his father had once done. His skills may not be up to par for the Musketeers, but certainly he wasn't completely incompetent as a soldier. If Tréville still retained any goodwill towards him or felt he had served out his punishment honorably, then the Captain might be willing to give him a letter of recommendation for a regiment that was assigned outside of Paris. As long as his ruined reputation did not follow him, then he just might be able to start afresh and not make the same mistakes.
Though his future was at least partly planned out, d'Artagnan still felt great trepidation for what it might actually hold for him. For he had learned that the plans he made often came to nothing as was the case with Constance.
Despite being shunned by everyone, he still loved being a Musketeer, but his many mistakes had made it impossible for him to continue as one. Confronting his three former teammates would be difficult, but just as he got through his week of punishment, so he would get through that as well. He no longer had any doubts about what needed to be done.
He took a deep breath and slowly released it and attempted to clear his mind of all thought and emotion, praying that sleep would not remain elusive for yet another night.
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Sleep hadn't come as easily as he had hoped it would.
His mind would not quit reminding him of all of the torment he had endured during his week of punishment, nor would it let him forget the rejection he had experienced by his friends before then.
His dreams during the night had become a strange mix of all of the days and weeks following the discovery that Aramis was being burned alive at the stake. He awoke several times feeling panicked and confused, unable to get back to sleep right away.
When he awoke for the final time just before dawn, he felt a single tear making its solitary path down the side of his face. No matter how hard he tried as he got dressed, d'Artagnan could not remember what he had dreamed that would have him reacting in such a way. Whatever the dream had been about, it had left behind a vague sense of melancholy that lingered for a time.
He would have thought that the knowledge that this was his final day as a Musketeer, that this was yet another ending of a another era of his young life, would leave him feeling depressed, but all he felt was resignation and numbness.
When he stepped into the courtyard, he saw the table that Aramis, Porthos, and Athos had once welcomed him at with wide open arms. He found himself drawn to it as a moth to flame despite no longer being deserving of even thinking about sitting there.
He approached it slowly, as if he were about to trod upon holy ground, and winced at the blasphemous thought. When he was close enough, he gently laid his hand flat upon the surface, almost expecting to be yelled at for daring to touch it in the first place.
Running his hand over the rough surface, he found himself sitting down before he had even known what he was doing. A flood of memories connected to his friends, and all of the times they had sat together at the table, rushed through his mind. All at once he was filled with the joy and camaraderie he had been missing for so long amongst his one-time friends. Then, just as suddenly, those good feelings were gone as his new reality snapped back into place within his mind.
His fingers lightly brushed over the first nick that he had ever put into the table's surface once he had become a recruit. Even if the three older men he once shared duty and adventure with forgot him, then at least this little part of him would remain. It would be a memento that signified how he had once thought himself worthy to be a Musketeer.
Suddenly, a voice from above called his name, interrupting his memories of both the good times and the bad that he had experienced with the Musketeers since his father had died.
When he looked up, Captain Tréville indicated with a wave of his hand that he was to come upstairs to talk. He acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head and for the last time stood up from the table which his friends had long ago claimed as their own. He had trespassed upon the place long enough and would not dare to sit there again.
D'Artagnan was not surprised that the Captain would want to speak to him now that he had completed his punishment. The older man likely wanted his report of the week and to convey the relevant portions of Aubert and Serge's reports to him.
When he reached the Captain, he was surprised that he was not further beckoned into Tréville's office. What his commanding officer said next was the last thing he had expected the older man to say.
"I don't believe there's any reason for alarm, but I wanted to let you know that Athos and the others are not yet back. Since you are no longer confined to the garrison, I'd like you to ride out to meet them and accompany them back."
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The end.
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A/N: All quotes from Unfortunate Mistakes were used with permission from Celticgal1041. Many thanks to her for allowing me to write this spin-off and for proofing it too! Remaining mistakes are my fault.
My thanks also go to Yorokobi Asahi for the help with the sword fighting terminology.
Thanks for reading!