"I hate flies," grumbled Porthos. The large Musketeer swats at a fly landing on his sweaty neck. "Damn things," he growls. "I hate flies!"
"You may have mentioned that once or twice already," teased d'Artagnan.
"I hate this bloomin' heat," continued Porthos. "Standing here doin' nothin' but swatting flies in the hot sun. What's not to love about bein' on guard duty, eh?" His words dripped with sarcasm.
"I'm bored," Aramis sighed.
"I could faint, 'at will give ya' somethin' to do," Porthos smirked at Aramis.
"Give me something to do?" Aramis questioned.
"Aye, you'll have to take me inside where it's nice 'n cool," he nudged Aramis. "We could get somethin' to drink. . . relax."
"And what about us?" d'Artagnan huffed, looking across Porthos and Aramis to Athos on the far end.
"Gentlemen," Athos warned. "Quiet," he ordered, shaking his head.
"Gentlemen?" Aramis repeated, tipping his head to the side. "Well, so polite. . ."
"My feet hurt," d'Artagnan complained, ignoring Athos' earlier warning.
"Your feet hurt?" asked Aramis with concern. "What's wrong?"
"I think I have a rock in my boot," d'Artagnan winced, shaking his right foot to dislodge the rock.
"Now, there's your excuse to go inside too," Porthos snickered.
"I'm tired," Aramis stifled a yawn. He wiped at the sweat running into his eyes, blinking hard.
"Oh, enough!" Athos interjected, sourly. "I'm growing weary of standing in this incessant heat listening to your childish conversation."
"Childish?" Aramis feigned insult. "My, aren't we short-tempered and grouchy today."
"I am hot, sweating profusely, tired, hungry and thirsty; all the while being subjected to interminable commentary," Athos glowered.
"So. . .?"
"So," Athos continued drily, "if that makes me short-tempered and grouchy then, yes, I agree with you. "Just let me endure this misery in peace and quiet."
The surprise of Athos' unusual lamenting momentarily shushed the Musketeers. They stood quietly watching as the king played his lawn game, paille-maille.
"I'm starving," Porthos finally broke the silence.
The comment elicited soft giggles from Aramis and d'Artagnan, each chancing a sideways glance at the grouchy Musketeer.
"There goes the peace and quiet," Athos muttered.
"Rubbish," Porthos countered. "Standing under the scorching sun quietly wallowing in our misery. . . rubbish," Porthos grumbled. "Talkin' makes it tolerable. We got nothin' else to do as we wallow in our misery."
Athos said nothing, but absently rubbed at his temples, his eyes closed.
"What's the matter?" Aramis watched Athos closely, his brow creased with worry.
"You are all giving me a headache," he said flatly.
"I would give you something for the headache but I don't have anything with me out here," Aramis shrugged.
"Ah, now there's Athos' excuse to go inside." Porthos smiled from ear to ear. "Now we each have an excuse to go inside and ge' ou' of this miserable heat." His smile faded slowly into a frown as he thought about how they would pull this off.
"We'll all just leave our post and slip inside the palace without the king—or the captain—noticing, huh?" D'Artagnan bantered.
"Maybe if we slipped away one at a time they won't notice, eh?" Porthos winked.
"I go first," Aramis called out.
"Hey, who says you get to go first?" D'Artagnan frowned, leaning his head forward around Porthos' large frame.
"A moment's peace. . . it's all I ask," Athos drawled.
"Eh, you had your moment's peace, a few minutes ago," Porthos nodded. "It was short-lived but. . ."
". . . but a moment could be one minute or five. You didn't specify how long to be quiet," Aramis deadpanned as he stared straight ahead, trying hard not to smile.
Stifled snickering emanated from both Porthos and d'Artagnan.
"Someone, please, shoot me and put me out of my misery," Athos muttered to himself.
"I can arrange that," Aramis cracked, unable to hide the smile any longer.
Snickers turned into full-blown giggles from three-fourths of the brothers.
"What is going on over here?" the captain whispered gruffly.
"Captain, if we have to stand here simmering under the hot sun much longer while the king plays his lawn games. . ." Athos stopped himself short, remembering his place while on duty.
"Gentlemen, I understand it is hot," said Captain Tréville. "If the game continues much longer, I will send for replacements so you can get a break. How long has it been since you have had any water?"
"Hours, Captain," Aramis answered with an irked tone.
"Alright, let me see what I can do," Tréville frowned. "In the meantime, keep it down over here." The captain walked away, hiding the smile spreading across his face.
"You just couldn't keep quiet, could you?" Athos scolded Aramis, forgetting to keep his own voice down.
"Why are you yelling at me? Aramis asked, incredulous. "Porthos started it!"
"This is going to be a long day," Athos groaned.
"It is no wonder the king's decoy and our brothers were killed," said one of two passing Red Guardsmen. "These Musketeers don't take their jobs seriously; everything is fun and games to them."
"What did you say," growled Porthos as he turned to face the guards.
"You got six of our brothers killed that day. . . Musketeers." The guard spoke their title with an insulting sneer.
"We got six guards killed?" Aramis repeated, flabbergasted.
"Why, you. . ." Porthos stepped toward the guards ready to tear into them.
"Enough of this!" yelled Captain Tréville in a commanding tone. "You guards, go back to your assigned post, now!" The captain ordered the men tersely.
"Gentlemen," the captain turned his attention to his four Musketeers. "I have replacements here to relieve you for the remainder of the day," the captain said pointedly. "You will return to the garrison with me."
The four exchanged worried glances, following in step behind the captain.
"Cap'n," Porthos broke the uneasy silence. "We didn't start that argument back there wit' the guards."
"I know that, Porthos," the captain stopped to face his men. "Those two guards, in particular, have gotten into scuffles with my Musketeers before, but this is the last time. I will be speaking to the king about having them removed as soon as possible."
"Okay, so why do we have to go back to the garrison?" Aramis hesitated, questioningly.
"I'm not upset, if that is what concerns you men," the captain assured them. "Relax gentlemen, I have a mission for the four of you. You will be leaving for Reims in the morning."
Musketeer Garrison:
"The king and queen will be entertaining guests all this week," began the captain. "I assume you prefer not to be assigned to any further guard detail," Tréville paused, waiting.
"Yes, Captain," the four Musketeers agreed, nodding.
"Thought as much," the captain nodded. "I am sending the four of you on a three, maybe four, day mission to Reims. You will be delivering an important letter from the king to the archbishop at thePalais du Tau, where you will deliver the letter. He will be expecting you," the captain stated directly.
"That doesn't sound difficult," Athos surmised. "How important is this letter, Captain? Is it covert?" Athos voiced the group's underlying worry.
"No, gentlemen, this is a routine business correspondence," the captain said, sensing their hesitation. "The letter is nothing dangerous-but it is important to the archbishop—so it is imperative the letter reach him safely. You will remain vigilant at all times, of course."
"We can handle 'at, Cap'n." Porthos looked to the others for support.
The other Musketeers nodded quietly.
"The letter is sealed and will remain as such until the archbishop himself opens it." Captain Tréville handed the sealed letter to Athos with a silent be careful conveyed through a silent glance. "Are we clear, gentlemen?"
"Yes sir," answered Athos and the others together.
"You will leave at first light. Dismissed," the captain concluded.
Later That Night
The candlelight brightened their corner of the large mess hall. The Musketeers lounged lazily on benches around their favorite table, plates of unfinished food pushed to the side. The men helped themselves to the bottles of wine and four cups that Serge provided much to their delight, especially Athos and Porthos.
No one spoke during dinner, each lost in private thoughts of the brief confrontation with the Red Guards—and the memories it conjured up.
"What those guards said back there at the palace was not true," Aramis finally said, breaking the tense silence. He stared into his cup, remembering the events of that near-fatal mission to Orléans. He wanted to push the horrible memories far away, far out of his mind.
They had done so well at not looking back—not even speaking about the mission—after Athos had recovered from his near-fatal illness. It was easier to pretend it never happened, moving on with life and work as usual, than to bring up bad memories in casual conversation.
Now, one comment has caused the buried memories to come flooding back. The dam that once held the grisly remembrances safely stored away may be too far broken to hold back the oncoming flood.
"It was nobody's fault anyone was hurt or killed. . . nobody's but those damn raiders!" Porthos slammed his cup to the table, sloshing the contents.
"They forget, we were almost killed too," d'Artagnan whispered. His dark eyes were visibly haunted by the images passing through his mind.
"There is no point in having this conversation," Athos said dully, his tone flat. "It matters not what those guards said; they were looking for a fight and you fell for it. Nothing said will ever change what happened."
"We all knew eventually this subject would come up," d'Artagnan spoke candidly. "We can't ignore it forever—we need to face it sometime."
"Right now, it's time to get some rest. We rise early with a long day's ride ahead." Athos emptied his cup with one last gulp of wine. "A good night's sleep is what we need. . . not gratuitous conversation." Athos rose from the bench, leaving his brothers staring after him with surprise and sadness.
The three remaining Musketeers arrived in the barracks to find their leader already bunked down, his face covered with his hat. It was obvious to the three latecomers that bedtime conversation was not welcome in the room tonight. They each slipped into their bunks and quietly closed their eyes—their minds swirling with memories emerging free from a shallow grave.
The Musketeers were jolted awake by a scream, "get away, don't come near us! Stay back, damn you!"
"What the hell?" Athos mumbled as he sat up, looking in Porthos' direction.
"Porthos?" d'Artagnan called.
Aramis got up to check on his friend but stubbed his toes on the bed frame in the scant light of the quarter moon. "Ah, damn," he cursed under his breath.
"One. . . two. . ."
"What?" Aramis asked, gently shaking the shoulder of Porthos. The Musketeer didn't want to startle the sleeping man, obviously caught in the grip of a terrifying nightmare. "Porthos, wake up, brother—you're having a bad dream. It's just a bad dream," he whispered, stroking the curled hair.
Porthos awoke and quickly scrambled up against the wall, his eyes wide with terror.
"Porthos, it's me. It's 'Mis—it's alright. You were having a bad dream. It's over—you're safe."
"Is he alright?" Athos called, sitting on the edge of the bunk watching his friend with concern.
"Yes. . . I'm fine," Porthos grumbled after a moment.
"Here, lay down," Aramis ordered gently.
Porthos crawled back to his place on the bunk and lay down without protest, Aramis quietly took his place right beside him. The consoling Musketeer turned to face his trembling friend, "it's okay," he whispered. He draped his arm across Porthos' chest in silent comfort, "I'm here now."
They both closed their eyes and went to sleep.
Athos lay back down on his bunk, smiling softly at the shadowy figures sleeping soundly on the bunk a few feet away. Closing his eyes, Athos fell into a restful sleep, not moving until he was woken in the morning by the captain for the day's mission.
"I'm not so sure anymore that we got the better end of this deal," Aramis spoke after a long silence on the dusty road.
"Grrr," Porthos gave a throaty growl. "I know we didn't. At least at the palace we got breaks to go inside to cool dow' a bit."
"Yeah, all we have out here is heat, boredom, and even more flies." d'Artagnan swatted irritably at an annoying fly buzzing around his ear. "And sweaty, smelly horses," the young Gascon continued grumbling.
"I thought all of you hated guard duty?" Athos said lightly, the smile evident in his tone.
"Remind me of this trip the next time I complain abou' guard duty," Porthos muttered.
Athos chuckled softly, wearing a smile as he watched his grouchy friend.
Aramis inwardly smiled as he watched Athos smiling at Porthos. The screams of last night's nightmare were long forgotten in the heat and dust of the long, tiring journey.
"I'm bored." Aramis remarked jovially, quite pleased with himself as he got another round of playful and entertaining banter going.
"We're going to need to bed down for the night somewhere," Athos remarked. "It doesn't appear there are any villages close by so we'll just have to bivouac out here."
"The cool evening air will feel good compared to this unbearably hot day," Aramis replied.
"I need a bath," Porthos grumbled.
"Yeah, no kidding," d'Artagnan muttered.
"What are ya tryin' to say, whelp?" Porthos narrowed his eyes, glowering at the Gascon.
"I meant. . . I didn't. . . I wasn't trying. . ." d'Artagnan stumbled and stuttered, his eyes wide.
"Ah-ha-ha," Porthos laughed heartily, doubling over in the saddle. "I got you, lad. I knew what ya meant."
"Aha, aha," d'Artagnan mocked. He rolled his eyes and shook his head after a quick glance at the still-laughing Musketeer.
"Hell, I could use a bath and something to wring out all of this sweat in my clothes," Aramis murmured. "I'm looking for the next stream to dip in—fully clothed—I can wash myself and my clothes at the same time."
"Hey, there's your stream, Aramis!" d'Artagnan called out, glancing over his shoulder to his friend behind him.
"Well, what do you know," Aramis smiled, letting out a satisfied huff of air.
"You do have the innate knack. . ." Athos shook his head. "We'll bivouac here tonight, away from the road in those trees." Athos pointed to a wooded area near the stream.
Later, Aramis returned from the stream dripping wet, carrying his boots, outer cloak, and weapons belt.
"You feel better now?" Porthos asked with a laugh.
"Yes. . . except for one small matter," Aramis crinkled his face with realization.
"What's that, Aramis?" d'Artagnan asked.
"Now I have to sleep in wet clothes," he frowned.
Athos was awakened by the sound of snapping twigs. He immediately grabbed his harquebus and pointed it in the direction of the noise.
"Sorry, Athos," Porthos whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you—was tryin' to be quiet.
"Where are you going?" Aramis inquired tiredly, sitting up after hearing the commotion.
"I couldn't sleep," Porthos grumbled. "I was just goin' over there to sit by the stream," he pointed.
"I'll sit with you," Aramis said, getting up to follow his friend to the stream. "Go back to sleep," he stopped beside Athos. "I'll sit with Porthos for a while."
Athos nodded his understanding and watched after them with concern until his friends disappeared into the dark.
D'Artagnan glanced a worried look at Athos. "Is he okay?"
"Yes, Porthos is okay—he has Aramis with him."
D'Artagnan lay back down saying nothing further. The deep concern the young Gascon had for Porthos and his state of mind was growing larger by the day. He feared that one day the dam would break.
Aramis quietly sat on a large tree trunk next to Porthos, smiling as he stared at the river. Neither Musketeer spoke a word but sat listening to the gentle babbling of the stream. The soothing sound of the water visibly calmed the large Musketeer. Aramis watched as the soft moonlight highlighted the lines of worry slowly disappearing from Porthos' face.
"You want to talk about it?" Aramis asked, finally breaking the silence.
"Nah, nothin' to talk about."
"Ah, don't give me that, Porthos." Aramis shook his head, disappointed. He was not going to allow his friend to shut him out.
"I can't sleep—that's all," Porthos lied.
"How long have you had these dreams?" Aramis cut to the chase.
Porthos sat quietly for a long spell, lost in deep, personal thought. "I had bad dreams right after. . . after we go' back from the château," Porthos admitted softly. "But they stopped and I haven't had one since, until. . ."
". . . until last night." Aramis surmised, figuring out correctly the cause of the nightmares.
"Aye, those guards at the palace seemed to have unburied some bad memories. I though' I was done wit' this. Now, I'm afraid to go to sleep."
"What do you see in your dreams?" Aramis asked softly. "Talk to me."
Porthos shook his head, his jaw set hard.
"Porthos? How can you push me away when you were always there to help me deal with my own nightmares?"
"It's not the same," Porthos downplayed the severity of his own nightmares. "It's not like Savoy."
"Do you think no one noticed when you were having those bad dreams after we got back from Chamarande?" Aramis asked.
Porthos glanced quizzically at Aramis.
"You don't think we noticed the dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep? You don't think we noticed you became very irritable that week or two—losing your temper at the drop of a hat and snapping at everyone?" Aramis remembered, shaking his head.
Porthos remained quiet, staring at the stream.
"The captain, Athos, d'Artagnan, me—we were all worried about you. They wanted me to talk to you—and I was going to—but then you snapped back to your normal, jovial self." Aramis admitted. "I thought it was just residual effects from the mission; that perhaps you had worked it all out. We all thought you were fine. Now I know that we were wrong."
The darkness was shattered by the terrified scream of Porthos, causing everyone to sit bolt upright where they lay.
"Athos, where are you?" Porthos called out in his dream. "Answer me, dammit!"
Athos quickly crawled to Porthos' side, "I'm here, Porthos."
"I see the blood. . . no! Please, God," Porthos whimpered. "Let him be alive."
"Porthos, it's me," Athos said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am alive. I am right here," he gently placed his hand on Porthos' shoulder. He took the large hand in his own and gave it a firm squeeze.
"I have to get 'im out o' here."
"Porthos, it's Aramis," he whispered near his friend's ear. "You're dreaming again. Athos is right here with us—he's okay. You saved him, remember?"
"I need shelter. . . I can't see!" Porthos writhed in his sleep, his head tossing from side to side in quick motions. "Four. . . I only see four! Where is the other one? Where did he go?"
"Athos, we need to do something," d'Artagnan yelled. "He's starting to panic!"
"Porthos, wake up! It's 'Mis. . . come on, brother, wake up!" Aramis grabbed Porthos by both shoulders.
Athos let go of the hand he had been holding to position himself more at Porthos' waist –to help hold him down, but not soon enough.
With lightning speed, Porthos sat up, punching Aramis square on the jaw, knocking him flat on his back. Athos and d'Artagnan jumped into motion, each restraining an arm to prevent Porthos from further harming the downed Musketeer.
"Porthos, wake up!" Athos yelled, no longer trying to be gentle. "We're not in Torfou anymore—you got us out. Wake up, damn you!"
"Athos?" Porthos tugged, trying to get out of the firm grip of Athos' hands. "Wha' happ'nd? 'Mis?"
"Yeah, I'm alright." Aramis answered, rubbing his sore jaw. "Good thing I've got a strong jaw," he chuckled. "This isn't the first time I've been knocked flat."
"Did I. . .?" Porthos stopped short, his eyes wide with disbelief as he watched Aramis still lying on the ground rubbing his jaw. "Did I do that?"
"You were dreaming again," Athos said, concerned. "You were calling out for me. Porthos, I do not know all that took place in the forest when you came to find me—but you did find me. You got us both out of there. I'm alive because of you."
Athos' eyes suddenly seemed to bore right through Porthos as an image of that dark, stormy night flashed through his mind.
"Athos?" D'Artagnan watched his mentor with concern as Athos seemed frozen, locked in a memory of the forest. Just as quickly, however, the image was gone. The Musketeer lieutenant blinked then looked to Porthos for answers.
"What do you remember?" Porthos asked.
"I remember there were four raiders. . . they were all around me." Athos whispered softly, his eyes cast downward. "I didn't see the fifth man—he must have been behind me."
Fear of unknown and unspoken accounts of that night still clouded Athos' memory. Only Porthos knew exactly what happened that night in Torfou. Only Porthos could fill in the missing pieces of the scattered images-seemingly from a lifetime ago.
It was a night that could slip into oblivion and every Musketeer would be the better for it.
"Porthos, what happened that night?" d'Artagnan asked, trying to get his friend to offload the memories weighing on his mind. Terrifying memories that Porthos relived in his dreams; they kept him awake at night and haunted him to his very core.
"I don' wan' to talk about it." Porthos got up and started to walk away.
Aramis caught his friend by the elbow. "Porthos, you don't have to endure this alone; we are trying to help you. We are trying to understand what is haunting you, but we can't help you if you refuse to let us in."
"I jus' need to be alone for a while." Porthos set his jaw hard.
"Porthos, trust me, the nightmares will never go away so long as you keep them bottled up inside," Aramis pleaded once last time.
Porthos pulled away from Aramis' grip and walked away. The tormented man buried his dreams deep inside the darkest corners of his mind, but they would certainly come out again another night.
Aramis called after him, "Porthos, we can't help you if we don't know what happened that night."
Porthos ignored the attempts to pull the events of that night out of him. He just wasn't ready emotionally to reveal the horrors he endured that fateful night. If only he could simply wash the slate clean, forgetting that night ever happened. Forgetting the bodies that lay in the dark, illuminated by flashes of light; bodies he feared would be missing the next time the light flashed. It was a raw fear that he was not yet ready to face. Not with his friends. Not with himself.
"Do you know what happened that night that has him so terrified?" d'Artagnan asked Athos.
Athos shook his head quietly. "No, all I remember is just images—broken pieces of a picture I cannot put together. Whatever happened after I was shot is something only Porthos can reveal," Athos stated darkly.
"One day, the memories will come out in force—with all its anguish. We had better brace ourselves against the torrent of rage and fear that may come with exposing the events of that night in the forest," Athos warned grimly.
"And when that happens, we are the only hope Porthos will have in getting past the nightmares," Aramis stated with a sense of foreboding. "Believe me, it's easy to combust in your own personal hell and drown in your own custom-made sea of despair and guilt."
Aramis looked to the spot where Porthos sat beside the stream, knowing full well the inner turmoil his friend was experiencing with these nightmares. Though he wanted to help, Aramis knew he couldn't press the issue without risking complete withdrawal of his friend.
Aramis' heart broke for his brother, Porthos. . . and he softly cried himself to sleep.
A/N:
Paille-maille is an early form of croquet and was played on lawns in the 16th and 17th centuries.
Palais du Tau was the luxurious "home" of the sitting Archbishop of Reims, France. The oldest part of the original building—the chapel-dates back to 1207!