Author's Note: Set after season 3. Does not follow canon for that season. For the Fete des Mousquetaires forum June challenge of Regrets. As always, own nothing. Just having fun.
Gently, he placed his trembling hand on the dark skinned chest confirming that it was still imperceptibly rising and falling with life. His somber eyes glistened with unshed moisture and he was forced to gaze away to maintain his crumbling composure. Turning his focus skyward, he studied the azure surface which was nearly devoid of clouds. It was a typical summer day with the promise of hot temperatures to come. Had his devastated heart been dictating today's weather, it would be cold, rainy, and utterly miserable. Death was stealing over his best friend and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to halt its progression. All his knowledge, skills, and ability couldn't stop the inevitable from occurring.
His bereaved green eyes shifted back to the dying body laying next to him on the ground. With a stifled moan, he moved his hand onto the dark skinned shoulder, hoping his familiar touch would bring some measure of comfort to the recipient. It was hard for him to accept this was finally happening, especially after all they had survived together. Realistically, he knew this day would come, however, many times he had been absolutely certain he would die first or perhaps death would take them in a simultaneous fashion.
When they were at war, he had expected they would perish together on the bloody battlefield, defending their King and Country, as had so many other good French soldiers. They had taken bullets for each other, as well as sword thrusts, and yet had managed to survive the cruel years spent at war with the Spanish. They had watched those around them, comrades, brothers in arms, die, which made their hearts grow hard and their brains numb to the destruction wrought by the events of war. Then they had been recalled to Paris, where they received a greater shock and it made them wonder for what they had been fighting. The Paris they returned to was not the Paris they had left.
Through it all, however, they always had each other. During times of great duress, the swordsman had used that strong shoulder to lean on and even occasionally cry on, but never once had his actions been judged by its owner. Patience, kindness, and understanding were what he had been freely given, often when he knew he wasn't deserving of them.
At his compassionate touch, the dark brown eyes, which had been nearly closed, struggled to open a bit wider. He shifted his position, slightly, to make sure he could be seen by his dying friend. The eyes came to rest upon him and a calmness descended within their inky depths, as if things were better simply because he knew his friend was at his side.
"We survived many times when we had no right. And yet here is where it finally ends."
Athos wasn't surprised that he didn't get a reply, though he could tell his friend was listening so he continued to reminisce.
"Do you recall the time we leapt off the cliff together into the river below? I didn't think we would live to tell that tale. Or when we rushed into that burning building to save d'Artagnan? I believe you took to the boy faster than the rest of us. You always were a good judge of a man's true character. You two developed a bond, especially during the war."
A solitary tear trickled down Athos' bearded cheek as he thought back over all the years they had spent in each other's company. He was so lost in the past that he didn't hear Aramis approaching him from behind. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, Athos instinctively reached for his weapons.
"Relax, Athos. It's only me. Is he..." Aramis found he couldn't bring himself to finish his sentence.
Athos gave a quick head shake to indicate that there was still breath in the body of their large friend.
Aramis dropped to his knees in the grass by Athos, gazing morosely upon the body. "I still remember the first time we met." A small smile played about his lips. "The brut knocked me flat on my ass."
"He was always good to have at your side in a fight," Athos commiserated as he watched the chest falter in its movement before valiantly rising once more.
Aramis, the medic, solemnly watched for a few moments then said softly, "I'm afraid it won't be long now." Raising his head, he scanned the horizon. "I hope d'Artagnan makes it before..."
Even as he spoke, d'Artagnan appeared over the hill, hurrying in their direction. Spotting the kneeling men, he sprinted the last hundred yards, then dropped to the ground next to the prone figure. "Is he..."
Athos ran a distressed hand over his face before answering. "Alive... Barely."
Nodding, the farm-boy-turned-musketeer reached down and gently placed his own hand on the dark skin. "Goodbye, old friend. I will always remember what you've taught me."
The dark eyes slid closed and the chest faltered then lay still. Upon seeing that death had come, Athos' head dropped to his chest, his long dark hair blanketing his anguished face. Aramis placed one arm around each of his remaining brothers in sympathy and pulled them into a tight hug. The three clung to each other in their sorrow as the spirit departed the dead body, leaving behind an empty shell. Aramis felt a few drops of moisture on the side of his arm and he compassionately squeezed Athos' shoulder to let the man know it was alright to express his grief.
"He had a good life. Hard, but good," Aramis whispered as he glanced fondly at the deceased.
They remained kneeling, in mourning, alongside the inert form for a while before Aramis subtly felt Athos pulling away. The marksman dropped his arm from Athos' shoulder to let his brother escape. The stoic swordsman would only accept solace, even from his family, for a brief time. Surreptitiously, Athos swiped the back of his hand across his eyes before looking down at the dead body once more.
d'Artagnan decided it was fitting to continue the eulogy Aramis had begun. "He was brave. Dedicated. Loyal. Never shrank from his duty no matter how challenging or dangerous."
"He had what most men long for... a purpose in life, good friends, a legacy. And he died, peacefully, surrounded by the people who loved him. We should all be as fortunate," Aramis solemnly stated, before offering a silent prayer to his God. He raised his ever-present cross to his lips and reverently kissed it.
"Amen to that," Porthos declared fervently as he joined his three kneeling brothers. He placed the items he was carrying on the ground before taking in the lifeless body in the grass. "I'm sorry, Athos. I know how much he meant to you."
Athos gave him a quick nod to indicate he heard and appreciated the sentiment.
None of the musketeers were surprised when Porthos' voice took on a tear-choked-edge. Strangers looked at the street fighter's physicality and equated that with insensitivity. But his friends knew out of all of them, he was the most sympathetic to the pain of others. Porthos lowered himself onto the grass, kneeling beside his lamenting brothers.
Aramis shifted so he could place a comforting hand on Porthos' shoulder too. The marksman believed that the man's sentimentality was due to the manner in which he was raised. Porthos had seen the cruelties of life from an early age, but instead of that making him hard and bitter, it had made him compassionate towards his fellow man.
After clearing his throat, Porthos asked quietly, "Where would you like us to bury him, Athos?"
The grieving musketeer raised his eyes, scanned their surroundings, and eventually gestured towards a section of the meadow about hundred yards from a small grove of trees. "There."
"Aye. That looks peaceful enough." The largest of the musketeers rose, scooped up the shovels he'd placed on the ground, and trudged over to the indicated area. Aramis also stood and walked away with Porthos leaving their youngest and their eldest still kneeling alongside the body.
d'Artagnan glanced from the inert form to that of his once and former mentor. "He had a good life. You always did right by him."
Athos pondered that statement as he halting climbed to his feet. Had he done right by his friend? He wasn't so sure. More than once he had placed him in jeopardy, asked the impossible of him, and he always managed to deliver. He was a friend that stuck with him through the good and the bad. Stubborn and pigheaded at times to be sure, but probably no more than Athos himself. He hadn't complained, well not too much, and always eagerly met the day... ready, willing, able to tackle whatever was required. They had spent countless long hours together, mostly in silence since neither of them was a conversationalist, and it had suited them. And now it was over.
"I'm going to go help...with the grave." d'Artagnan gave Athos a sympathetic pat on the back before striding across the grass towards where Aramis and Porthos were working.
Athos stood alone for a few more minutes with his friend, before slowly moving to join his brothers. Picking up the last remaining shovel, he shuffled to the upper, right quadrant of the requiem rectangle that had been sketched on the ground with the toe of a boot, and began to dig. The manual labor was a strangely soothing counterpart to his desolation. Attacking the dirt with a vengeance, he used the repetitive motion to numb the pain that had engulfed his heart.
The sun beat down unmercifully on the four men as they went about laborious task of digging the grave. When the plot was about halfway excavated, Porthos stopped to rest, leaning against his shovel and scanning the blue sky. "I wonder if he had any regrets."
Being slightly past midday, the sun was sweltering and they all were soaked in sweat. Aramis was more than happy to take a break too. Dropping his shovel, he climbed out of the grave, turned, and sat on its' edge, feet dangling in the hole. "Regrets are strange things. Often, what we regret, brings about change that fulfills our destiny."
Porthos let his own shovel fall in the dirt and moved to settle on the far side of the grave, across from where Aramis perched. He adopted the same pose with his feet dangling in the semi-dug pit. "Too deep for me."
Aramis knew his friend was referring to his previous statement, not the grave. "Think of something you regret. Then ask yourself did it actually bring about an event that was life altering in a good way."
d'Artagnan, after seeing that most of his brothers were taking a break, let his own shovel slide from his dirty hands and moved over to join them, popping up onto the edge near Porthos.
"Still confused."
The Gascon thought he understood where the marksman was headed. "It's like this, Porthos. I will regret to the end of my life, the day my father died." Pausing, he let his eyes drift to where the dead body lay in the distance, awaiting interment. "But, if that event had never occurred, I would have never met you three, or Constance, nor become a musketeer. Do I regret my father's death? Every single day. However, would I want to give up what it brought about? Never."
"God has a plan for us all. Sometimes we are forced to discover it the hard way."
Porthos snorted at Aramis' religious views on life. "Not sure about that, but I think I get what you are driving at. In my case, I regret my actions towards Treville in regards to my father. The way I treated the Captain, turning my back on him when I found my 'real' father. But in the end, I came to realize that Captain Treville was more my father than anyone. My real father was an opportunist, caring only for his own wants and desires. I spent half my life immortalizing a man who turned out to be an ass. You, my brothers and Treville, were all the family I ever needed."
Aramis rolled his shoulders to stretch the muscles, taut from shoveling. "I, too, have regrets, but the one that haunts me is my dalliance with the Queen. Yet, it also brought me a great blessing, my son. While I know I can never claim him, he always will be in my heart. When the Queen made me his protector, after the King's death, she gave me a gift of untold value, a role in his life. A chance to watch him grow and to be a father to him in a small way. And for that I'm thankful."
d'Artagnan smiled wistfully. "Children are wonderful. Constance and I weren't sure we wanted a family, given the state France was in when we returned from the war. But it happened, two blessed miracles, and I wouldn't have it any other way."
While Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan were philosophizing on the nature of regrets, Athos had doggedly kept digging the grave. Aramis glanced at his brothers, then over at the sweating Athos.
"Athos. Take a break. You're exhausting yourself."
The swordsman momentarily stopped, mopped a sleeve across his glistening brow then glanced up at his brothers sitting on the edge of the half-dug grave. He had no intention of stopping. He was fatiguing himself purposely, to help numb the grief washing over his body in waves.
"What do you think of Aramis' philosophy that regret can lead one to find the right path in life?" d'Artagnan queried him, hoping he could get him to rest for a few minutes while he answered.
Athos stood very still, thinking about the myriad of regrets that were the fabric of his life. He regretted not being the son his parents needed him to be. He regretted not being able to protect Thomas. He regretted not taking better care of the people of Pinon. He regretted marrying Milady, not ensuring she was dead when he had her hanged, and then later, not being strong enough to resist her charms, even though he knew she was evil. He regretted the decisions that he made during the war that got people killed. He regretted that when his and Ninon path's had crossed once more, after the war, he'd let her walk away, again. At times, he thought his life was one big regret.
"I think he is wrong," Athos declared flatly as he turned away and began shoveling once more.
"Well it won't be the first time we have disagreed on something," Aramis replied in a non-confrontational manner. "I can tell you one thing. I will never regret that God gave me three brothers who are dearer to me than life."
After a chorus of agreement from all but Athos, who remained obsessively focused on his task, the three men dropped back into the grave. They each clapped Athos on the shoulder in a show of solidarity, which he grudgingly acknowledged before they began shoveling once more.
When the plot was finally large and deep enough, Athos sent d'Artagnan to fetch a tarp from the nearby barn. When the Gascon returned, they carefully wrapped it around the deceased, then used it to transport the body to the freshly dug grave site. As circumspectly as possible, they lowered the form into the hole, then stood on the edge of the grave peering into its depressing depths.
"I know you aren't a big believer in God, but I think a small prayer is in order." Aramis grew quiet for a few minutes as he tried to come up with an appropriate verse. Finally, he settled on a few stanzas from Psalms.
"Your unfailing love, O Lord, is as vast as the heavens; your faithfulness reaches beyond the clouds. Your righteousness is like the mighty mountains, your justice like the ocean depths. You care for people and animals alike, O Lord. How precious is your unfailing love, O God! All humanity finds shelter in the shadow of your wings. Amen."
Porthos and d'Artagnan added their own amens and Aramis swore he saw Athos silently mouthing the benediction too. Afterwards, they began the onerous task of refilling the hole with the dirt they had so arduously removed. When it was finally completed, the sun was close to setting. A large rectangular patch of naked earth was the only remaining evidence of what had occurred this day.
"After a bit, the grass will grow back. Fitting, if you ask me," Porthos declared as he and d'Artagnan gathered the shovels to carry them back to the barn from whence they came.
As the four musketeers started slowly trudging towards the distant structure, their path brought them close to a paddock. The group of horses inside it amiably wandered over to the fence to see the humans. The musketeers stopped, leaned against the wooden railings, and watched as the curious horses approached.
"His progeny?" d'Artagnan asked as he reached out to stroke the velvety nose of the black yearling who had stuck his head over the top rail.
"Yes. They used him for breeding after I retired him to this farm. The stallion I recently acquired was one of his first foals." Athos reached out and absentminded stroked the face of the horse nearest to him, a fine looking filly with spirit in her eyes. Though they buried Roger today, a piece of him lived on in his children. After a few minutes, Athos sighed, turned, and walked away, his brothers habitually moving in step alongside as they had so many times in the past.
"Roger was a great horse, even if you saddled him with that horrible name. However, he managed to rise above it. He was a splendid animal and great companion. One of the finest in the regiment. Loyal as any musketeer to King and Country. Just like his owner."
Athos appeared to blush under Aramis' unsolicited praise.
"And like his owner, he could be pigheaded and disagreeable at times. However, he was all the more charming for it," d'Artagnan added with a twinkle in his eye.
The rest of the walk back to the barn was conducted in companionable silence. They had been a team for enough years that it was not in the least bit awkward. Once the shovels were returned to their proper place, Athos turned to face his brothers. "I appreciate you taking the time to come here today. It wasn't necessary."
"Even after all these years, you still have trouble with the concept of all for one and one for all," Porthos scolded lightly. "We will always be here for you, as you will be for us."
Athos had the good graces to look abashed before he continued. "Thank you, then, for helping me bury Roger. It made the task...easier."
"That's what brothers are for," Aramis assured him.
The four musketeers began heading to where they had staked their horses earlier in the day.
"That's his son, right? That magnificent black stallion you are riding. What did you end up naming him?" Aramis glanced sideways at Athos. "I don't recall you saying. Surely you were able to come up with something better than Roger."
Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan looked expectantly at Athos, waiting for his answer.
The one word, staccato reply, caused the other three men to gasp and their jaws dropped open. "Floyd."
"Surely you jest, Athos," Aramis pleaded, his voice tinged with horror.
Porthos nodded vigorously in agreement. "That's down right cruel that is,"
"You could have asked us. We would have been happy to help you find a more suitable name. Floyd is so...so...inappropriate for a horse."
Porthos nodded his head to show he was in total agreement with Aramis' statement.
"He is Athos' horse. If Athos feels that Floyd is the right name, then Floyd it is." d'Artagnan made his statement with such finality that it ended the conversation.
Muttering, Porthos and Aramis walked off towards their own, reasonably, named mounts. The youngest and eldest musketeer waited a few beats before heading towards their own horses. As they drew next to Athos' stallion, d'Artagnan quietly pitched his voice so the others couldn't hear. "Did you really name him Floyd?"
A hint of a smirk turned up the corners of Athos lips. "No, I did not."
The Gascon let out a sigh of pure relief. "I have to admit, Athos, that I'm relieved. Floyd is a terrible name for a horse. So what did you really name him?"
"Roger."
d'Artagnan stopped stroking the horse's muscular neck to stare over at his owner. "Really?"
Athos gave one of his elegant shrugs. "It seemed...easier... since I kept calling him Roger by mistake."
d'Artagnan smiled at the pragmatic nature of the man that had taught him so much in life. "So are you going to tell them? That his name isn't Floyd."
"No, and I'll have no regrets."
THE END
Author's Note: Ok, I had no intentions of entering this month as I am trying (OMG still) to finish another tale. But this crept onto my iPad thanks to an overly long and boring car trip. Sticking with the theme, I'm not sure if I have regrets that I wrote it. As always, would love to hear your thoughts and comments.