Summary: A convalescing General Defois watches...and comes to a decision. Outsiders perspective on our boys set after 2: 01
This is my first ever fic...like ever!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers, but if any of the boys want to come live at my house they will be made very welcome : )
May God Have Mercy
Defois felt the pull of pain in his back. The feeling of weakness was not as all-encompassing as it had been the last few weeks, but he knew in his heart he would never be truly well again. The bullet he had taken during the escape would eventually claim him, but for now, the infection had passed. The Surgeon had permitted him out of bed for short times each day. He found himself sitting in the garrison, usually on the balcony outside Treville's office. The sights and sounds of the men practicing with swords and muskets, the smell of the horses, and the camaraderie that attended men who lived, laughed, fought and died together, so much a part of the man he once was. He spent time with Treville, enjoying the rare opportunity to catch up with his old friend and brother in arms. When the Captain was busy with his duties, he would sit and watch, a blanket wrapped round his shoulders at Lucy, and the physician's insistence, though he realised it was Lucy's orders he dared not disobey, rather than the Doctor's.
So for the past few weeks he had been watching and learning about the men, especially the four he owed his freedom...especially the one they call Porthos. Belgar's son. The thought caused his heart to chill with shame. He meant what he had said to Treville. He wanted to tell the boy. Meet his Maker with a clearer conscience, if such a thing was possible for him. But he had listened to Treville's insistence that he consider it further. The Captain's belief that the knowledge could destroy the very young man he felt such culpability over. So General Defois watched.
The warmth and depth of feeling between the four men was clearly apparent to anyone observing for more than a few minutes. The silent communication, the banter, teasing, slaps on backs, arms on shoulders. The easy movements of men at home in each other's company...of family...of brothers . They were a fascinating study.
Athos, the taciturn leader. He reminded Defois a little of Treville. His natural leadership rarely requiring a raised voice, when a simple look or raised eyebrow could stop a raw recruit in his tracks, or seemingly convey volumes to his closest friends. The aristocratic baring still evident beneath the somewhat scruffy hair and beard. Despite seeming at an initial glance to be cold and aloof, his warmth was clear to anyone who chose to look deeper. Defois had been a great General, not only because of his ability to strategise, but also his skill at reading the men in his command, identifying skills and strengths that others did not recognise. He noted that Athos had a dry wit, around his friends. His amusement, and sometimes exasperation, demonstrated in a slight raise of one corner of his mouth. It was clear his closest friends rejoiced in the sight suggesting that he hadn't always been happy or content. Then there was the pride he showed in his friends. Again so subtle only a very careful observer could tell. But his friends, especially the youngest, sought this out.
D'Artagnan, the fire, the bluster, the eagerness of youth. He practically bounced around the courtyard, especially when it came to an opportunity to spar and train. But when the fencing practice started his skill and ability to focus came to the four. He and Athos were clearly the best swordsmen in the platoon, although Defois recognised the influence of their varied personalities on the way they fought. Athos, control and calm, D'Artagnan, passion and exuberance. It was clear that of all the musketeers, it was Athos quiet praise the boy sought more than anyone else's - even more than Treville's thought the General with some amusement. This was the boy who had turned Lucy's head - Defois recognised the signs. It worried him, not that the boy was not a worthy man - if anything his willingness to shoot Defois actually raised him in the General's esteem, demonstrating a commitment to his duty and his country, even when forced to commit a necessary brutality. Defois hadn't missed the way the boy's hand shook though, this was no cold-blooded killer.
No, the reason for his concern for Lucy was rather that he didn't want to see his dear sister as a soldier's wife. Especially a soldier who's bravery and sense of honour meant his likelihood of seeing old age was slim. The way he had jumped on the rope to save his Lucy, without even a thought of the drop to certain death below, had proved his resolute courage, and lack of self preservation! Defois hoped his sister's infatuation would be short lived. He knew she would soon be forced to grieve her brother, but he couldn't bear the thought of her having to lose her husband to duty and battle.
Then there was the dashing Aramis. He found himself glad Lucy had not fallen for him - truly a big brother's nightmare! He lit up around any females that came to the garrison, and his reputation among his fellow soldiers, as a guaranteed triumph with the female population, was legendary. Yet again Defois saw more than the dashing, handsome charmer. His kindness, care and skill when the General had been wounded was fresh in his memory. In many ways he probably owed his life to Aramis's swift and diligent care after the shooting. Then there was the obvious concern he showed for his brothers. When D'Artagnan appeared to be developing a cough he had mixed some herbs for him and watched to ensure it did not seem to be anything more serious. Despite the light hearted and seemingly glib comments, Defois noticed a pain underneath the dashing surface. Moments when he was clearly troubled. His closest friends even commented on it from time to time, especially Porthos. He and Aramis clearly had a deep friendship and trust. They conveyed whole conversations in just a look. He had overheard Porthos tell Aramis he knew something was bothering him, and gently encouraged him to share. When Aramis made a joke Porthos had simply looked at him silently, saying something with his gaze that Defois could not interpret, then he squeezed Aramis's shoulder and walked away.
And Pothos. There were expressions, and movements, where Defois could so clearly see Belgard. The height for starters, he had always loomed over him and Treville. The booming laugh as well, though he seldom heard it from Belgard after they had abandoned the boy and his Mother to fend for themselves on the harsh streets of Paris.
Porthos was a force of nature, a human hurricane, powerful, fast, deadly. Yet at the same time there was a joy and life in him that Defois could hardly believe to exist in one who had endured such hardships. The fierceness in his eyes as he dispatched enemies, gave way to warmth and gentleness as he looked on his brothers, or when his natural kindness showed in dealing with Serge or the stable boy, or as he passed some coins to an elderly beggar at the gates of the garrison. His pride in his place as a musketeer was unmistakable. These men were his family and he would stand between them and hell, defending them with his last breath. His infectious smile, and easy humour brought joy to his friends. He was a man any parent would be proud of, but Belgard had turned his back on this remarkable man, and their actions, Treville's, Belgard's and his own had robbed Porthos's mother of the opportunity to feel it.
Once again the shame crushed him. Defois had served his country with pride and integrity, but his actions towards Porthos...they were without honour, unworthy of a soldier...unworthy of a man. Porthos deserved to know the truth. He had to know. Treville was wrong. Defois knew what he must do, and may God have mercy on his soul.
Note: Well there it is. My first ever fic. I would really value any constructive criticism, as I genuinely have no idea what I'm doing!
I have an idea for a second chapter to this which I might attempt. But in the mean time thanks for reading.