A/N: this one is for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition February prompt, please check the forum for details. Thank you KarriNeves for managing the competition. I'm finding these prompts an amazing source to experiment with my writing :)
Disclaimer: I own nothing recognizable here, nor making any money.
Happy reading!
Fear is a taste that you will never forget, can never forget. It is the taste of bread soured too close to spoiling, dry and lumping in your mouth as you try to swallow it down. It is the hint of staleness in the water Maman had finally relented to allow you to drink because she can't get a cleaner one; it is the bile when you throw up that night again and again and again. It is the salt of your tears when Maman throws up too, when she curls around you under the tattered shawl and does not wake up in the morning; it is the dry taste of Parisian air that morning and the taste of those tears falling anew – a bitter ever present layer in your mouth – a taste of vulnerability – the taste of true fear.
You stare at the campfire the men had set ablaze; it is one of many dotting the clearing. As eager as everyone is to finally return home the horses need rest, the men need it too if they can snatch it from the night. The pot of stew bubbles above the fire; taunts that vicious beast of hunger in your belly and even though you know you have a share in it, have never been denied it for years now; the fear still lingers at the back of your throat. Fills your mouth until you swallow it back as the men around you settle in groups, their quiet conversations and muffled teasing makes that layer of fear on your tongue thicken, makes it cling to the roof of your mouth – even with these loyal brave men at your side you can taste the loneliness.
Fear is a noise that will never be silenced around you, will always echo out from the years long vanished. It is the clipped squeak of father's boots coming down the hallway; it is his tone when he talks to you, the staff, your mother, the tone that is steeped in rigid arrogance you never could learn. It is the sound of wooden swords clanging in the garden, the thwack of disarming, the thump of your little brother landing on his rear and the snort that escapes you because you didn't known, couldn't know then how fragile the bonds of kinship are. It is the snap of those earliest links and the sweet words that had pulled them taut enough to split – her whispers tickling in your ear, laughter and promises and hushed confessions of love reverberating to your core.
You step back when the horse bobs its head and huffs to get your attention again. Tracing the straps one last time before getting back onto the road you pat the animal with your other hand, and listen to Sylvie's voice mingle with high pitched squeals. The pith-pith-pith of small boots in mud is your only warning before chubby arms wrap around your legs, prompt you to turn and pick up your son, his excited babble plucking your fear back into rhythm. Making it beat in tune to the thrum of your heart that cannot possibly hold all the love you feel for this small person in your arms – and the din of past connections that never held firm swells around your, makes you wonder if this too will not hold the test of time – reminds you of the bonds you had left behind to forge new ones and you realize this is the voice of loneliness.
Fear is a smell that never clears away, an undercurrent in your every inhale. It is the stuffy air in your home, heavy with sickness and limp with defeat as your mother breathes her last. It is the scent of flowers that disappears from your house after her; the smell of horses and hay where you went to seek solace and found your father crying his heart out in there. It is the pungent breath of the tax collectors when they pin you to a wall, for that is the moment you fight back and it is your father who will pay for the cost of your temper; will seek to petition to the king after. It is the muddy stench of rain that mixes with your father's blood and the stink of revenge that dwells in its wake. It is the reek of doubt that you cover with fervor, the whiff of a shaky confidence that you coat with brashness – it is the burnt smell of wood on the nights you watch the fire burn and wonder over all the decisions you have made – the trace of hesitancy in the air about you that you never let the world get a hint of.
You cross your arms and lean back against the wall, watch your Musketeers check those who pass through this gate of the city. Having divided them into groups for each of the entrances to Paris, having divided them further into shifts, you need to keep your men vigilant, sharp to respond to any threat. Because this time the threat had come too close to the throne, had somehow found its way past the patrols you've set and reached the king you've sworn to protect. You can still smell the flare of the Minister's pistol as he had shot over your shoulder and you scrunch your nose at the stench of blood in a place where it shouldn't have spilled, from the man it shouldn't have spilled from and before the young royal eyes that shouldn't have witnessed it. As the fruit cart lurches past you and the Musketeers turn to the next supplier of the night you push away from the wall – the traces of foreboding had faded from the reports that arrive from the palace, there was the scent of quiet inquiry there instead, a suggestion of the recovering Minister's wish to see you since you cannot make yourself face this failure – and this it occurs to you is what loneliness smells like.
Fear is the touch that always lingers, leaves wounds and scars under your skin that will never fade. It is the grainy doorpost under your hand when the man strangled Maman's friend, the pinch of fingers on your arm when you are dragged away after. It is the silk of Maman's dress in your grasp as you beg her to come with you, and the sting of her palm on your cheek when you refuse to leave her behind. The bump of the carriage wheels as she disappears from view, the tug on your scalp when you demand to return and the burning in your eyes time and again when her face threatens to fade from your memory. It is the throbbing in your back that seeks to tame you and the gash across your forehead that announces you never will. It is the pain of frayed ends each time the chance of a family is torn from your grasp – and all that remains is the slickness of Isabel's' blood on your hands, the scratch of Adele's tomb stone the bite of manacles Rochefort ordered around your wrists.
You shift in the chair and the stitches pull in your side, the remnant of the latest attempt on the king's life. And fear trails down your spine, soft as snow and just as cold; the touch of death that ghosts over your skin, mocking, teasing; never claiming your life but always of those around you. It breathes down the back of your neck and traces gooseflesh on your arm, digging deeper, cutting sharper, clawing and scratching until the inked tip lifts from the paper and your hand stills; the phantom weight of your pistol settles in it and with it the memory of the recent shots you've fired within these palace walls. The warmth of Marsac' last words prickles over your skin – a reminder of all that you have survived, have stubbornly fought through and all that you still have to lose – brother in arms distant in both time and lieues and even in responsibilities – and sitting in your room at the palace, in the light of the single candle on your desk you know this is what loneliness feels like.
Fear is seeing the pain in your best friend's eyes and knowing you're the reason it's there. So you order the men to make haste, ride on to the head of the company and set them at an even canter. Refuse to add another night to this journey because you need to see your wife and daughter, you need to meet your friend's gaze and see your world become whole again.
Fear is seeing the gun in your hand pointed at one of your oldest friends and realizing how far you've fallen apart. Your arm tightens around the small body tucked before you in the saddle and you tell the guard at the palace gates who you are. Wait impatiently until you are allowed through and resist the urge to coax your horse into a gallop when you see the figure dismounting at the foot of the Palace stairs; and the woman and her daughter as they step out of the carriage behind him.
Fear is seeing the men you consider your brother's walking away and knowing the shelter they provided is no longer there. That is why you leave the refuge of your wife's arms and despite the weariness in your bones you ride to the palace, the need to see at least one of them is too strong to let you rest. But as you approach the marble steps you nearly rear your horse onto its haunches in the hurry to bring it to a stop, dismount even as the animal trots to settle; but you don't look away from the men standing there.
Fear is seeing your closest friends again and finding that you don't know them anymore. That is why your hands feel cold and your gut coils tight after hearing the news of many arrivals. Your arm presses against the thread holding your side together as you push your chair away from the desk, ignore the protest of your wound and reach for the door of your chambers. Pull them open just as someone pushes from the other side and suddenly there they are.
Fear is nothing when you feel the arms around you locked in a four-way embrace.
Fear is nothing when you taste the brackish lump at the back of your throat that you will deny ever having.
Fear is nothing when you hear the choked off laugh that is partly a sob of relief.
Fear is nothing when you can smell leather, gunpowder, and steel again.
Fear is nothing when you see the dear faces of the men you call brothers.
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Fear is everything that makes you hold on to each other tighter than you'd thought possible and it is nothing when you stand thus.
END