Hiraeth
Set in Season 2 after "An Ordinary Man".
Author's Note: Hiraeth is a Welsh word which has no direct translation into English, but carries a sense of loss (of people or a place) and longing, a bit like homesickness tinged with grief or sadness. I was half way through this story when I heard a programme on BBC Radio 4 about hiraeth, and immediately knew it fitted this story, which starts with d'Artagnan's yearning for all the things he has lost. Although to be honest it does quite quickly turn into an extended whump-fest. Just in case the title leads you to have high literary expectations... This is also my first fanfic of any kind but I've read so many fabulous stories, which have kept me sane (I think) since the end of Series 3. I hope I've learned enough to give something back to all of you who have given me so many hours of wistful pleasure.
PS I've just realised that hiraeth also sums up perfectly how I feel about the end of The Musketeers. A yearning for something precious that is lost, indeed!
Chapter1: Riding Out
Something wasn't right, mused Porthos, but he couldn't put his finger on it, and he didn't like the feeling.
It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day; the sun had burned through the early morning mist and was now warming the back of his neck. The countryside to the west of Paris was tranquil, still green and full of... trees, cows and stuff. His childhood in Paris' slum area, the Court of Miracles, had left him vague about the intricacies of the rural landscape, but it smelled and looked good. He loved the anticipation of a new mission and though he always missed his home city after a few days, there was nothing better than riding out of the gates with three of his favourite people in the world – four, if you counted Constance (which he did). There was the added burden of being responsible for the safety of the Queen, but that was his job and, surrounded by his brothers and barely two hours out of Paris on a well-travelled highway, he had no worries about being able to protect her. So what was niggling at him?
Ahead of his current position at the rear of the diamond shape they traditionally used when on escort duty, Porthos had a good view of the rest of their group. Athos and d'Artagnan rode either side of Constance and the Queen. It was decidedly unusual for the Queen to be on horseback rather than in a carriage, but she had been very clear that this expedition was to be low-key and she would remain incognito. So she wore a plain blue dress and a dark blue shawl, although she had drawn the line at riding astride, favouring a side-saddle instead. In deference to the Queen they rode at a steady pace – apart from Aramis who had taken point since leaving the west gate of Paris behind, and regularly ranged far ahead to check the road for any dangers. It all looked organised, normal, just how it should. Yet he still felt unsettled.
Maybe it was the silence, he thought. After a decade in the king's service, it seemed sometimes that he had spent more time away from the bustle of the city streets than he did in Paris, so it wasn't the tranquillity of their surroundings that bothered him. But normally their missions – at least until they ran into trouble, which admittedly seemed to be more often than not – were punctuated with teasing, reminiscing, and the sort of boisterous behaviour that they couldn't get away with when on duty at the palace or when training at the Garrison. So any escape from Paris, except when on the most urgent of missions, was usually a chance for them all to let off steam and definitely, definitely, for some ribbing of Athos who was the perfect target as he always refused to respond.
Today however, was different and Porthos didn't know why. Sure, the presence of Her Royal Highness would put a dampener on most of their usual jokes and pranks, but even so he expected there to be some chatter, a bit of gentle teasing, some enjoyment of the perfect day and anticipation of the journey ahead. But there wasn't.
Aramis was being ridiculously aloof, not catching anyone's eye even when the Queen got her riding boot caught in her skirt when remounting after a brief stop for breakfast; Porthos' own snort of amusement as she struggled to free her foot and nearly toppled backwards off her white mare in the process, was met only with a reproving glare from Athos. Aramis behaved as if he hadn't noticed and it was left to d'Artagnan to go to the Queen's rescue, wrestling briefly with the errant fabric and (after a hasty "excuse me, your Majesty"), putting a polite hand on her back to steady her whilst she found her seat and settled into position. But d'Artagnan had then mounted and moved straight off, without catching anyone's eye or waiting to see if Constance was ready, and Porthos had had to move forward quickly to offer the Queen's new companion a leg-up so she didn't get left behind. What was that about?
As if in answer to his thoughts, d'Artagnan suddenly wheeled his black mare and cantered her back towards Porthos, who greeted him with his usual broad smile. "All right, mate?"
d'Artagnan ignored his greeting and snapped: "Have you checked behind us recently? Because if you're not bothering, maybe I should." And without waiting for an answer, he pushed the mare past Porthos and disappeared, at pace, back around the bend they'd just negotiated.
Nope, thought Porthos as he nudged his horse forward to take d'Artagnan's place next to the Queen, something definitely wasn't right.
Athos noticed the exchange – of course he did, he noticed everything. But he didn't react, focussed as he was on Aramis' stiff silhouette as the marksman cantered ahead to the next bend. A flare of his nostrils was the only visible sign of the irritation he was feeling with his normally steadfast and amicable brother. Surely that man would be the death of him one of these days! He loved him dearly but his passionate Latin blood had led him into so much trouble over the years, all of which was eclipsed by his latest indiscretion. Indiscretion? Such a trivial word for the greatest crime of all: treason. He still struggled to comprehend what had possessed Aramis, in the middle of the danger surrounding them as they sheltered the Queen at the convent, to ... he could hardly say the words even in his head. The morning after, when he found the pair entwined in the narrow bed of the nun's cell, his rage had threatened to engulf him and he had barely been able to speak the accusation through his gritted teeth, sure that if he opened his mouth properly he would scream the words so loudly the whole convent would have heard. Now he couldn't vocalise them even in his head. What had he been thinking?
It actually astonished Athos how angry he still felt, even now – nearly a year later, with the outcome of that illicit passion safely baptised and tucked up in his nursery back at the Palace. But it was obvious that one, rash act still dominated Aramis' thoughts, and Athos worried daily that he would eventually give himself away by an unguarded glance, a smile or just by standing too close. Aramis had years of practice at disguising his liaisons, many with married women, but his position as a King's musketeer placed him virtually daily in the presence of the Queen – and under the eyes of the King, the couriers and of course Rochefort. Not only was that tough on Aramis – although he would never admit it, so desperate was he to snatch every possible moment in the Queen's presence, every fleeting glimpse of his son – but it gave Athos a seemingly permanent headache as he juggled rotas and duties, trying to keep Aramis safe from temptation and discovery.
This mission, timely though it was after the anxieties of the last weeks when the king had disappeared from their care and had to be rescued, along with d'Artagnan, from the slavers, was fraught with danger. Athos was determined to keep Aramis safe from temptation which would leave Porthos and d'Artagnan – both currently unaware of Aramis' astonishing lapse of judgement and control – subject to the same charges of treason that the Queen, as well as Aramis and Athos would face if the act was discovered. Hence Aramis' current position at the head of their ensemble, where he couldn't be caught gazing longingly at the Queen.
Not that Aramis would thank him for his concern. In fact, Athos was pretty sure Aramis was gathering himself into a major sulk. So what should be a simple mission – escorting the Queen to a rendezvous barely a day's ride from Paris, to meet up with a young female cousin who was stopping off at St Malo en route to England – looked as if it would demand every ounce of patience in Athos' command. And that was without worrying about d'Artagnan who seemed to have lost all his exuberance and optimism since being captured with the king by the slavers. D'Artagnan seemed to have taken the king's criticism to heart although he refused to talk about it and changed the subject, or simply walked away, if any of them brought it up. Sighing, Athos turned his attention back to the two most important people in their group – the Queen, and Constance who was now her constant companion and most trusted friend – and tuned back into their conversation.
Another hour down the road, and several stunningly boring conversations later (to Athos, at least – the two ladies seemed quite enthralled by the story of the lady Marguerite's affair with an unknown man which was doing the rounds of the palace, and almost as excited by their discussion of a new English brocade which Constance's husband had presented to the Queen with sketches of a ceremonial gown he was urging her to commission from him), Athos fell with relief on Porthos' hint about the midday sun and how nice it would be to enjoy a little refreshment, and started looking around for a suitable spot. Just then Aramis cantered back from another scouting foray, to announce that there was a small lake ahead which would make a good resting spot. Glancing back, Athos noted that d'Artagnan was ranging slightly north of the road but within earshot, so he gave him a whistle and moved their group onto the grass following Aramis' directions.
In a few hundred yards they emerged from the deep woodland which characterised the Forêt du Perche area, onto the promised lakeside, and the men moved seamlessly into their well-rehearsed routine. Athos sent Aramis to scout fully around the lake, checking for any habitations or signs of unwelcome activity in their environs. Porthos and d'Artagnan dismounted and Porthos helped the ladies to the ground and towards a convenient fallen log which promised a reasonably comfortable seat with a view of the water, while d'Artagnan took all four horses to the lake to drink, then tethered them in the shade of the trees. Athos remained on horseback, hand hovering near his pistol, until Aramis returned to report that all was well. By this time Porthos had unloaded their travelling provisions from the saddlebags (always his favourite duty) and had found a tree stump on which to lay out bread, cooked meats and cheese. Within minutes Athos had set water to heat on a small fire and everyone was gathered around to eat.
An hour later found the group reluctantly rising to repack provisions and remount. It had been a pleasant meal and Aramis in particular had risen to the occasion, moving into full charm mode to entertain the ladies, ably assisted by Porthos who had a wealth of tavern tales to draw on. Athos felt more relaxed than he had been all day, sensing that Aramis was determined to behave professionally and honourably around the Queen. But d'Artagnan still worried him. The young musketeer had remained uncharacteristically silent, eating little and speaking only when directly addressed. He had risen as soon as his repast was over, busying himself again with the horses and finding endless small jobs to do – picking out their hooves, making a twist of grass to rub down the horses' sweaty flanks, wiping dust from their eyes with a scrap of cloth dug from his pocket. As soon as they were mounted he rode off, saying over his shoulder that he would take point and not waiting for approval from Athos.
Aramis shot him a questioning look, but Athos simply lifted a brow in the facial shrug at which he excelled, so Aramis dropped back to take rear guard leaving Porthos and Athos again to accompany the women.
The rest of the afternoon was uneventful, and they arrived at their destination – an inn Athos knew from previous journeys in the area, near the village of La Loupe – as dusk was falling. The innkeeper came out to greet them and point out the stables to the right of his sturdy dwelling; d'Artagnan immediately volunteered to take and settle the horses, ignoring the innkeeper's offer of his own stable boy to tend to them. Athos smiled tolerantly – d'Artagnan was fastidious about the care of his own mare, and never liked leaving her to a stranger – and moved the rest of the group swiftly inside to the welcome warmth of the main room now that the evening clouds were gathering.
Over supper, d'Artagnan found he had so many thoughts whirling through his mind that sometimes it felt as if his head would burst open like an over-ripe tomato. As long as he was busy he could focus on whatever task was at hand, but as soon as his body stopped moving his thoughts stampeded back into the forefront of his mind and made it impossible to function normally. He was trying really hard to keep everything under control – any lapse in concentration could be disastrous if harm were to come to the queen, Constance or his fellow musketeers – but he wasn't optimistic about his ability to mask his turmoil. Something that was confirmed as soon as he lifted his gaze from the bowl of stew he was currently prodding at listlessly with his spoon, and caught Athos' calm grey eyes regarding him piercingly across the inn table.
"Something wrong with your food, d'Artagnan?" prompted Athos eventually, once it was clear to him that d'Artagnan wasn't going to say anything. He stifled a grin as Porthos perked up, no doubt hoping to claim his leftovers.
All other conversation around the table halted as eyes turned first to Athos then to d'Artagnan, who was now flushing slightly at being the sudden focus of everyone's interest.
"No, no it's ... lovely", he stuttered slightly and quickly scooped a spoonful into his mouth to prove his words. Finding himself about to add an "mmm" noise, as a mother might to convince a recalcitrant child to eat up, he suppressed a chuckle at the randomness of his inner thoughts. Sadly the chuckle seemed to be warring with the mouthful of stew and before he knew it he was bent double, coughing and choking as Aramis pounded enthusiastically on his back. "Stop, for God's sake man!" he managed to splutter crossly, trying to catch his breath. Porthos pulled Aramis off him, laughing silently to himself, and the Queen politely handed d'Artagnan her own glass of water, much to his embarrassment.
If two of their party were disappointed that the ladies disappeared directly into their room after the meal, neither d'Artagnan nor Aramis showed it overtly. Porthos entertained the other guests in the common room with some card tricks – choosing not to enter into a game proper, as he had to share the night with them and preferred not to have to deal with angry punters claiming he had cheated (as if!) – while the others sat quietly by the fire, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts.
Before long Athos was organising shifts with him and Aramis taking first watch, as was often the custom. Porthos had long trained himself to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, the Court of Miracles having taught him that safe sleeping places were rare and a moment of security had to be enjoyed to the full wherever possible. And d'Artagnan: well, he was young, and supposedly pure of heart, and normally fell asleep within minutes.
Tonight though, sleep didn't come to him easily, not helped by Porthos snoring at full volume on the other bed. When the threatened rain began to drum its fingers noisily across the inn roof, he gave up.
Stepping quietly out of the room he stopped on the landing to pull on his boots and give Aramis the ghost of a smile, then ran noiselessly down the stairs to the common room below. Athos looked up enquiringly as d'Artagnan appeared. "Everything okay?"
"Um... just thought I'd check on the horses. Sounds like it's going to thunder." He moved swiftly to the outside door and gathered up his travelling cloak from a hook beside it. Athos rose, putting down the cup of wine he'd been nursing, and followed d'Artagnan out into the stormy night. Hurrying across the yard they both fell into the barn dripping wet after only a few moments in the rain. "Bloody weather!" swore d'Artagnan, shaking his head grumpily and looking around the barn. Most of the horses were dozing or munching on hay, although Athos' stallion was flinging his head into the air and stamping restlessly. Athos moved to calm him whilst d'Artagnan went from stall to stall, checking all the occupants automatically regardless of who they belonged to. Athos watched him, one hand resting on his stallion's neck, and waited.
After several long minutes where the only sound was the stamping of feet and the rustling of straw, Athos said softly "Feel free to tell me what's bothering you." d'Artagnan paused beside his own mare, running his hand down her legs to check for heat, then heaved a sigh and muttered something that sounded a little like "I'm sorry." Athos waited a bit more, quieting his horse when a distant roll of thunder rolled into the darkened barn. When it became apparent that d'Artagnan wasn't going to add anything, Athos stirred himself. "What are you sorry for?"
Another long pause, another roll of thunder. "I can't... I'm not... I haven't been..." He trailed off, sounding miserable. Athos pursed his lips, feeling a bit lost. Then decided, since d'Artagnan clearly wanted to talk, but couldn't work out where to start, he – great talker that he was, of course! – would have to start things off. Clearing his throat and feeling distinctly out of his depths, he pitched his voice over the rising racket of the rain and wind.
"So, Aramis thinks it's to do with Constance. You're still in love with her, and seeing her virtually every day at the Palace is making it harder for you to get over her." Athos hated talking about anyone's feelings, but somehow reporting what someone else thought made it slightly easier to voice. It was hard to make out d'Artagnan's features in the gloom, but he could see the hunch of his shoulders as he braced himself, and the way he dropped his head slightly told Athos his words had hit their mark. But Athos was pretty sure there was more to it than simple unrequited love – though when was that ever simple? – so he pressed on. "Porthos on the other hand, remembered that this week is the second anniversary of your father's death." He paused, then added softly: "He's right, isn't he; and this time last year..."
d'Artagnan broke in: "This time last year I was accepting my commission from the King and helping to best Cardinal Richelieu. I didn't have much time to think about anything then."
"Indeed."
Another long silence. Athos had hoped that naming the cause of d'Artagnan's melancholy would allow him to talk more freely but apparently not. Athos grimaced, realising his fear that there was more to it might be accurate. Only to be pre-empted by d'Artagnan's low voice: "And you... did you have a theory too?" Taking a deep breath, Athos prepared to step delicately onto the metaphorical minefield again.
"I wondered..." (wishing for a cup of decent red wine in his hand right now) "... whether your experiences with the King might have left you..." (How to phrase this without offending him if his interpretation wasn't correct?) "... might still be playing on your mind." (Perfect. Nice and cryptic, he should have been a diplomat.) In good light a careful observer might have noticed a fractional twitch of his lips at this thought, but it was fleeting.
There was another long silence, and Athos was steeling himself to speak again, though he had no idea what to add, when to his relief d'Artagnan finally joined the conversation.
"It's the first time I've really spoken to him, you know? At first I couldn't believe it – shackled to the King! It was ... an impossible situation for both of us. And I couldn't be myself, I couldn't risk fighting or standing up to them too much because I was responsible for him." Athos' lips definitely twitched at this. d'Artagnan, of all people, would have found this the hardest part.
D'Artagnan's stumbling words now gathered speed, tumbling over themselves in his vehemence: "Only when Pepin fell and no one else stepped forward, I couldn't leave him to die, so I had to... and the King was furious that I was looking after someone else... but he ended up helping, Athos, he helped carry a poor black man! By the time we reached the holding camp that night it was as if... as if we weren't King and subject anymore but just two men; we were... tired, and scared, and hungry, and we needed each other. And he told me stuff, about his childhood and his father, and we talked, properly talked. A bit anyway. And I understood him better, I even liked him! Admired him, he was awesome in the gun fight Athos, you should have seen him. And then he... he... argh!" His intense, inarticulate ending showed his frustration.
"And then he belittled you at Court by asking you to kill Bruno Le Maitre?" Athos trod carefully.
"Not belittled!"
"Insulted?"
"No!" d'Artagnan virtually stamped his foot in his frustration at his inability to explain himself properly, and his mare flung her head up, startled. "No," he continued more quietly, gentling her then moving towards where Athos leaned on a post calmly regarding his young protégée, "No, it wasn't about me. It was more that... he'd just gone back to being the spoilt, cosseted, demanding, childish..."
"Steady," admonished Athos, stopping d'Artagnan before he could finish his treasonous sentiment. That way trouble waited for a Musketeer, even in a storm where no other ears could hear. D'Artagnan had the grace to look slightly ashamed – but then his expression hardened again and he continued in a low, fierce voice. "I had learned to admire him, and was open with him, and he simply showed that he had understood nothing. Nothing! And then he said we had disappointed him, again. And I knew he meant me. I had disappointed him. And I can't decide whether to be angry with him for treating us like ... like chess pieces he just moves around, and commands to kill on a whim... or whether to feel ashamed because I disappointed my King. And either way..." he trailed off, and Athos found himself holding his breath. He had a feeling he knew what was coming. He waited, regarding d'Artagnan steadily with his calm blue gaze. D'Artagnan stirred the straw around with his booted toe, and finally sighed, and finished in a rush: "Either way, I'm not sure if I'm cut out to be a Musketeer, if that's who we are supposed to be."
Disclaimer: this is a work of fan fiction based on the characters developed and owned by the BBC series. No copyright infringement for financial gain.