He stood there and looked at the three still forms in their beds in the infirmary, their masks finally lowered in their unconscious states. Treville looked at his men – three of his best – and frowned. There was something wrong in the stillness. The absence of the warm grin of his brawler, the mischievous gleam in the eyes of his marksman and the arched eyebrow of his swordsman was eerie. The entire garrison seemed dulled somehow – maybe due to the lack of their normally garrulous banter ringing from their usual table at the base of the stairs that led to his office. It was unsettling.
A blow to the head, a gunshot wound and the stab of a blade had levelled his musketeers – the results of a calamitous battle where his men were outnumbered by nearly five-to-one yet still came out the victors. It was a bloody scene that Treville and his other musketeers arrived at. Aramis had been on his knees, frantically trying to stem the blood flowing from the musket wound in Athos' side, heedless of his own injury which was soaking through the side of his doublet, draining his own energy drastically. Porthos sat dazed a few feet off, his doublet torn and his knuckles bruised and bloody, his head held in his hands, eyes squeezed tight.
Despite the gore of the scene, Treville's attention was drawn to the paling Gascon at his side. The young man had only arrived at the garrison a few weeks ago and had quickly and easily aligned himself to the men now laying among the blood and carnage of the field. He had been sent ahead to protect the package, complete their mission and summon Treville for reinforcements.
He stood pale and frightened as he looked at the three older soldiers. Aramis gave a curt instruction to a fellow musketeer as he finished tying off the stitches to Athos' wound. They were all shocked when he collapsed promptly after issuing this command, into the arms of D'Artagnan who sprang forward as the sixth sense that seemed to warn these men when another was in danger took over. The young Gascon clutched the medic to his chest and tore his own shirt to finally staunch the blood still flowing from the wound to the medic's side.
It was a rough scene – one that Treville had wished was less common than it seemed to be. Between the intrigues of the Cardinal, roving groups of bandits plaguing the countryside and the seemingly constant threat of Spanish aggression, his men seemed to be continually targeted and batted back and forth in their service to the crown, these three men more than most.
Treville washed a hand down his face, returning his focus to the infirmary and away from the memories of the scene of that battlefield. He was grateful; grateful that they had survived; grateful that they were home; grateful that they were resting. He was grateful for the vulnerability they showed now in their beaten and unconscious states, stripped of the masks that each man wore for the public, usually only allowing for the men housed within the beds next to them to see beyond the show they performed for the outside world. These three men trusted only each other with their true thoughts, fears, and desires – with their true selves. Just these three…and maybe one more.
His eyes fell upon Porthos, hands and head bandaged, though he seemed to be sleeping comfortably. This giant of a man used his size as a shield, using a seemingly fierce and gruff demeanour to hide the breadth and depth of his sensitive and warm heart. The harshness of his upbringing had formed Porthos into the dangerous and protective weapon he was. Treville did not pity the man who dared hurt one of his brothers when Porthos was around.
Next to him lay Aramis. Porthos' dearest friend. Treville couldn't help but grin as he reflected on the friendship that caused him more personal amusement and consternation than if he had had sons of his own. His eyes travelled over the dark hair and pale features of his marksman. Treville had never married, never had children, but having commanded Aramis for most of his life, he couldn't deny that something akin to fatherly affection defined their relationship. Perhaps that was why Aramis got away with and was brazen enough to Speak his mind – even when not necessarily appropriate.
A cold trickle crept up his back as he looked at the Spaniard lying in the bed between his brothers, his complexion still grey-tinged from the loss of blood. It felt like not long ago that Aramis was in this same bed recovering from the massacre of Savoy, his two brothers pulling him back from the brink of his despair and nursing him back into the gregarious man he was. Aramis' charm and jovial nature were almost as legendary as his excellence with a rifle, pistol, harquebus or musket. Aramis was reckless, only when necessary and in a calculated way, Treville knew the man would argue. There was nothing that Aramis would not do for his brothers. He often applied his charm to gain information or to belie the fierce warrior that lay behind the man's unfathomably dark eyes. He hid his own injuries, put others before himself and leapt fearlessly into danger to save others. To the rest of the world Aramis was a soldier, a charmer, a lothario, but those who knew him best knew and loved him for the true depths of his character, his mercy, his wisdom and his heart that he only truly offered to a few despite what appearances would suggest.
Treville's gaze travelled from Aramis to where Athos lay asleep next to him. It was difficult to see Athos' face without the intensity of his bright blue gaze looking out at him. Secretive, surly and stoic, it was Athos' mask that was the most difficult to penetrate. Raised in a stern noble household, Athos had grown up learning to hide his emotions, to artisanally craft this mask of indifference that was necessary in order to survive courtly society.
Athos hid behind his quick wit, and sarcasm. His aloofness and indifference could infuriate, but worst of all was when Athos added a layer of intoxication to his already multi-tiered shroud when he was feeling most vulnerable. It was hard going at the beginning. Athos thwarted off any friendly advances with his alcoholism, apparent coldness and sharp tongue, but Aramis was persistent. Night after night the marksman had walked an inebriated Athos back to his quarters. Porthos was less receptive at first – perhaps apprehensive is the more appropriate word. Or protective – of himself and his brother. In any case, it was Aramis who convinced Porthos that Athos was worth saving, was worth the effort. Try as he might want to maintain his distance from these two strangers, it was not long, and fairly miraculous when Athos finally let the men in – when they first witnessed the depth of the emotions that sometimes managed to force their way past the walls of those ice-blue eyes. They learned of and loved his humour, his wisdom and his compassion. A sparkle in the glacial eyes and quirk to the lips of the swordsman was a victory to the brothers who appreciated the subtle nuances of the man's emotions – if they managed a small laugh it was cause for celebration.
Treville once more ran a hand down his face. They were safe now, he reminded himself, and they were healing.
The door creaked open behind him and the young Gascon entered the room carrying a stack of bowls and pot of broth for when these men awoke. Treville offered the lad a small smile over his shoulder as he set the tray on the table. D'Artagnan offered him a small apologetic smile.
"I grabbed you a bowl, sir. I thought you might be hungry…" he said earnestly.
Treville nodded at the lad and offered him another smile. He looked at the Gascon as he stood nervously in the infirmary, just at the edges of the others' beds. Worry and a nervous energy were apparent on his face as his gaze travelled from one prone soldier to the next. It was clear he wanted to help somehow, but his youth and inexperience made it clear that he was out of his depth.
"Take a seat D'Artagnan. They are resting. There is nothing more you can do for them. They'll be glad to see you when they wake," Treville said.
D'Artagnan wilted slightly but was grateful to receive instruction.
He bit his lip, his brow creased. Treville took the seat next to him and they both breathed deeply, appreciating the peace and calm of the infirmary, its white walls and its sleeping occupants.
"What's bothering you, D'Artagnan?" Treville asked. D'Artagnan flinched slightly at the question from his captain.
A flurry of emotions passed across the young man's face. Everyone had been surprised by D'Artagnan's acceptance into the ranks of Les Inseparables – the name the other musketeers affectionately gave Athos, Aramis and Porthos. Though their acquaintance was still relatively short, D'Artagnan had seemed to fill a void within this brotherhood that they had not realized was there. They protected D'Artagnan as their de facto younger brother. He saw their relationships growing and strengthening daily and knew that the young Gascon was one of the intimate few that truly knew these men – their true selves.
That is unless this recent altercation aborted the young man's desire for what could be an excellent career as a musketeer...
"D'Artagnan," Treville said again, pushing the young man to speak.
"I'm sorry sir, this is my fault. I shouldn't have left them. I let them down," he said.
Treville frowned at the raw guilt and pain on his face.
"You did nothing of the sort," he said to the young man. "You completed your mission fulfilling your duty to the crown and were able to lead us to their whereabouts in time to help. You did not let them down. You did them the service they would have expected of a musketeer."
Light filled the lad's expression but dimmed instantly as his eyes flickered back to the dormant figures.
"I just wish they'd wake up," he said earnestly, "It's too quiet."
Treville once again looked at the young man whose anxiety for these men - his brothers - was written openly and unabashedly across his young handsome face, eyes narrowed, brow creased as he worried his bottom lip. Treville grimaced. How raw and open were the emotions of the young man! In his heart Treville prayed that life in Paris would not beat this honesty from the young Gascon, that somehow he would be spared the need to perform in a mask in order to survive in this strange land.
He glanced once again at the men he knew were his best but would never admit it out loud. They would protect D'Artagnan in the masquerade of life in the city. They would shelter the young man and allow him his youth and heart as long as they were able.
"They will be fine D'Artagnan. They have to be. Musketeers don't die easily," he said as he rose and left the infirmary.
D'Artagnan gazed after the Captain. Were those last words meant to comfort him or the captain himself? The sense of pride and love that clung to the words was unmistakeable. For the first time, D'Artagnan saw Treville's own mask slip as he fretted over his wounded soldiers. He turned back to look at the sleeping forms of Athos, Porthos and Aramis with a new fire in his eyes. One day, he promised himself, he would prove himself worthy to serve under this captain of men and join the brotherhood of the heroes he saw before him. One day, he too would be worthy to wear the costume of a Musketeer.