Captain Treville himself escorted D'Artagnan to his new room at the Garrison. He stepped in first, gesturing about and looking apologetic. "It's not much, really. But it's your."
"It's more than enough," D'Artagnan replied, gazing about at the bed, small table and single chair that occupied the room. At the foot of the bed was a chest, and a small window would let in the rising sun every morning. It was all he had beside what few possessions he had stuffed into the bag over his shoulder. He was content. Tossing the bag on the bed, D'Artagnan turned to Treville. "Thank you...for letting me prove myself. I started this day with nothing, but now I have the very thing I wanted most." As he spoke, D'Artagnan brushed his fingertips over the fleur de lis on his pauldron. It wasn't the entire truth, but enough of the truth for him to cling to.
"No need to thank me," Treville replied. "You earned your place here. I am very proud of you, son."
D'Artagnan felt a prickle of tears at those words and hastily blinked them away. He wondered if his father would be proud of him today. He wondered if Constance would have been proud or if everything between them had been a lie.
Treville clapped a hand on the Gascon's shoulder, squeezing gently to garner his attention. "Are you all right?" he asked, eyeing D'Artagnan with concern.
"Yes, I'm fine." D'Artagnan was embarrassed to realize he had drifted away into his morose thoughts. "Thank you, for everything," he whispered. "I will do my very best to bring honor to you and this regiment."
"I know you will." Another clap on the shoulder and Treville turned for the door. "I'll see you in the morning." And with that he was gone.
But before D'Artagnan had time to regroup his thoughts and get his bearings, Porthos came barreling through the open doorway. He grabbed D'Artagnan in a bearhug, very nearly crushing the breath out of him as he lifted the young Musketeer off his feet.
It was Athos who came to D'Artagnan's rescue, as he always seemed to be doing. "Put him down before you damage him, Porthos," he ordered.
"He is a bit on the fragile side," Porthos allowed, as he dropped D'Artagnan back onto his feet.
"I'm not fragile!" D'Artagnan scowled at the bigger man. "You're just overgrown is all."
With a hearty laugh, Porthos clapped him on the back which sent the Gascon staggering into the wall. "Whoops! Sorry about that." Only Porthos didn't really look all that sorry. If anything he looked amused.
Aramis grabbed D'Artagnan by the arm, steadying him back on his feet. "Are you all right? Sometimes Porthos doesn't know his own strength." In truth he was a bit worried about D'Artagnan. The boy usually put up a good defense against Porthos' rough horseplay, attempting to give back as good as he got. But now he looked distracted and intrinsically sad.
"I'm fine." D'Artagnan forced a smile as he moved to sit on the bed. "It's just...it's been a long day. I'm a little tired."
"You can't be tired," Porthos protested. "We came to take you out to celebrate. Athos is buying, so it'll be the good wine tonight."
A part of D'Artagnan wanted to go. He wanted to drink and to forget and he knew his friends would help him to do that. But despite his joy at finally becoming a Musketeer, his heart felt heavy. His new commission would allow him to take care of his needs and the job itself would give him no end of satisfaction. The relief he felt at knowing he was no longer penniless and without any sort of home was great. He had a future he could be proud of. Only it felt like an empty future because, until a few hours ago, he had pictured it with Constance by his side. Now instead of happiness, D'Artagnan felt hollow.
But his friends looked so happy for him that D'Artagnan didn't have it in him to bring them down as well. So he plastered a smile on his face as he rose to his feet. "That's sounds like an offer I can't pass up. Lead on, my friends." He would laugh and drink and celebrate with his friends and, for at least a little while, attempt to forget that something inside of him was broken.
So the Musketeers made their way to their favorite tavern. Athos bought several bottles of the best wine available and they made a toast to D'Artagnan. To his credit, the boy tried to join in the merriment, to convince them all that he was happy.
But Athos could see the toll it took on D'Artagnan, to make the effort. So, after they had finished off one bottle, he made excuse for himself and the Gascon. "I'm going to steal D'Artagnan away for a while," he announced.
"What?" Porthos exclaimed, surprised etched on his face. "We've just begun to celebrate, and there's a beautiful serving wench who's been eyeing D'Artagnan since we walked in." He winked at D'Artagnan as he pointed in the direction of the saucy blond woman. Who was, indeeded, eyeing the Gascon lasciviously.
"Idiot!" Aramis hissed, slugging Porthos in the shoulder, for he had not missed the way D'Artagnan had gone pale at the big Musketeer's words about the serving girl. The boy looked as if he'd been punched in the gut, and Aramis knew that look and that reaction and it explained so much. D'Artagnan was suffering a broken heart and Aramis could guess who he was pining for. Madame Bonacieux. Falling in love with a married woman almost always ended in heart ache.
Porthos looked confused and instinctively he lifted a fist to slug Aramis back, but then it clicked when he saw D'Artagnan's face. He dropped his arm and stumbled over what to say. "Um...yeah...you should go with Athos and enjoy the night air, or something."
Athos smirked, enjoying Porthos' struggle. However, he didn't respond he just took D'Artagnan by the arm and guided him out of the Tavern. Once outside they fell into step and walked for a ways in comfortable silence. After a time, Athos broke the silence. "I'm proud of you," he said softly.
"You are?" D'Artagnan was startled by the praise, but pleased. He just hadn't expected it.
"You controlled your emotions as I instructed, and in doing so you were able to defeat LaBarge," Athos replied, watching for a reaction out of the corner of his eye.
D'Artagnan wasn't sure what to say so he let silence fall between them for a moment, before blurting out a question that had been worrying at him all night. "Have you ever achieved that which you've always wanted only to find that it didn't make you as...happy...as you thought it would? Or...should?"
Athos stopped walking, reaching out to pull D'Artagnan to a stop. "Exactly what are you asking me?"
"I don't know." D'Artagnan sighed and realized he wasn't explaining himself and that he couldn't really without telling Athos about himself and Constance, which he didn't want to do. Which he had no right to do. "Forget I said anything."
"You became a Musketeer today," Athos interjected, pulling D'Artagnan back when he tried to walk away. "I know you're proud of that."
D'Artagnan nodded. "I am. More than I can say."
Athos smiled, understanding in his eyes. "But there is something else, something that has is interfering with your ability to enjoy your achievement."
"Yes." D'Artagnan was relieved that Athos understood.
"Do you wish to talk about it?" Athos interjected. He knew that LaBarge had burned down D'Artagnan's home, but that was because of Treville. The boy hadn't said a word to any of them. Maybe he needed to get his anger off his chest. Although what Athos saw on D'Artagnan's face and glimmering in the brown eyes was a great, aching, sadness.
D'Artagnan stepped away from Athos for a moment, a part of him wanting to run and run until he was too tired to take another step. Till exhaustion dragged him into darkness and oblivion. But another part of him wanted to share everything he was feeling. He had so much respect for the older Musketeer, and he knew that Athos understood pain. Maybe he could explain to him how to deal with it. Then again, maybe he would simply think D'Artagnan was nothing more than a silly boy and unworthy of being a Musketeer.
Which left him faltering in the middle of the street. Until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, grounding him and giving him the courage to speak the truth. "There's always been this fire in me," he said softly, hesitantly. But a squeeze to his shoulder and D'Artagnan was able to continue. "My Father used to tell me he could see the glow of it in my eyes." Blinking back tears, D'Artagnan confessed. "I miss him terribly, and I wonder if he would be proud."
"He would," Athos replied, with certainty.
"I'm not sure why," D'Artagnan countered, anger rippling over him and drying any tears. "I'm the reason he's dead. I wanted him to stop at the Inn. If I had listened to him and kept going to Paris, he'd still be alive."
Athos gripped D'Artagnan by the shoulders, shaking him hard, hoping he could force some sense into him. "The only person responsible for your father's death is Gaudeau. You are not to blame for that. Not in any way. Do you hear me?"
D'Artagnan pulled away, walking over to a nearby cart and leaning against it. He felt weary to his bones and heavy with sadness and guilt. "I hear your words and my head tells me to listen, but my heart won't allow it."
"You will never stop missing your Father, D'Artagnan," Athos replied, moving to follow him. "But it will get easier to remember him without sadness. In time, his memory will bring you great comfort."
"When?" D'Artagnan demanded, rounding on Athos with all the anger and pain in his heart and soul flashing in his eyes. "Ten years? Twenty? I love him so much!" *I love her the same* he wanted to shout, as the image of Constance danced in his head. Every memory of her, every moment they had shared was like a knife stabbing into his heart, twisting love and pain into a knot of pure agony deep inside him. The severity of it made his body falter, buckling his legs and sending D'Artagnan to his knees in the dirt. He closed his eyes against bitter tears as he whispered fiercely, "That fire that burned inside me is gone now! There's nothing left inside me but cold, gray ash. I have nothing left and a part of me wishes I could simply drift away until there's nothing left."
It chilled Athos to hear D'Artagnan's words. To feel his heartache. He knew what it was to be empty inside. To ache with such pain and bitterness that he wished to disappear. Only for him he didn't deserve oblivion. He deserved to suffer. But not D'Artagnan. He was too young and too full of life and of love yet to behold to suffer so. He dropped to his knees beside the young Musketeer and gathered him into his arms. He felt D'Artagnan fight against his hold for a moment, only to finally give in and sag against him. Feeling the way the slender body trembled, Athos pulled him in tighter, wishing he could give of D'Artagnan his own strength. "You are stronger than you know," he whispered into the dark hair.
D'Artagnan shook his head, feeling ashamed of his weakness yet too tired to even make his apologies. "You don't know me, Athos." If he did, if he had even a bit of a clue, he would no doubt do all he could to send him back to Gascony. And maybe that's where he belonged. Maybe this day was not a dream come true but a cruel joke and a nightmare about to consume him. Feeling the Pauldron on his shoulder did nothing to reassure D'Artagnan that it was real.
"I do know you," Athos insisted, then he almost laughed because it would no doubt amuse the boy to learn just how alike they really were. Only D'Artagnan would be a greater Musketeer and a far better person than Athos ever was or ever would be. His life would be filled with incredible adventures and filled with love and laughter, of that Athos was certain. He just had no clue how to convince the boy of the truth of it. Still holding D'Artagnan secure in his embrace, Athos stated, "You have suffered great highs and lows in the past few days. You have lost so much, yet you have gained your dream. It's overwhelming you." Easing back, but not letting go of the boy, Athos pulled them both upright. "I'll take you home now and you will sleep, and come morning you will awake to the sun and you will feel that fire burning brightly."
"Rubbish," D'Artagnan replied, unknowingly doing a perfect imitation of Porthos.
Athos chuckled, knowing that the boy was in no condition to see the humor of the moment. But he was young and just as his body healed quickly from wounds, so would his heart and soul. It was the greatest gift of youth. A gift that Athos himself had tossed aside carelessly. He would not allow D'Artagnan to do the same. "Let's go," he ordered, wrapping an arm around the slender waist and drawing the boy forward.
D'Artagnan let himself be led, focusing only on putting one heavy foot in front of the other. He was surprised at how quickly they reached his room. He felt lethargic and cold and unutterably weary to the point where he didn't protest when Athos helped him disrobe down to his shirtsleeves and breeches. He curled up on his bed when Athos pushed him down, but he didn't close his eyes.
"Sleep," Athos beseeched him.
"Will you tell me about your brother?" D'Artagnan queried, perhaps being brave enough to ask because he was too tired to filter his words.
Athos had gone still as stone at the request, only to find himself settling in the only chair in the room and gathering his thoughts. To speak of Thomas was painful, but it was time to honor his brother's memory. If he expected D'Artagnan to gather himself together, pick himself up and move forward, than he could do no less than lead by example. "He was a bit of a hothead. Full of passion and craving adventure. Not an ounce of self-preservation to be had though." As he spoke, Athos watched D'Artagnan's face and he was pleased to see a wistful smile on the younger man's face.
It was dawn and Athos' voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but at last D'Artagnan let himself rest. The fire inside him was a glowing ember not a flame, but he was no longer drifting into ash.
THE END