All Soul's Day
Summary: D'Artagnan learns a hard lesson about limits, expectations, and priorities in his training to be a Musketeer. Sick-fic. Non-Slash. Prequel to "From Bitter Memories to Sweet Havens."
A/N: D'Artagnan in all his stubborn workaholic glory, not taking care of himself, pushing himself past his limits, and receiving a thorough tongue-lashing from Athos, Aramis, Porthos, Essarts, Treville, and even his parents for it. While this story does come from a slash universe, there is no established relationship here between D'Artagnan and Athos other than friendship, since this is still in the early years of D'Artagnan's career, but maybe if you squint hard enough in chapter two there might be some subconscious flirting. Also, the character of Laurent is borrowed with permission from Lonesomethorn who continues to be an awesome beta, writing colleague, and friend! Some characters here might be familiar from my other fic "Lionheart," but they're just borrowed characters. These two series/universes are still completely separate.
Warnings: Lots of deserved fluff ahead, after a brief episode of action/violence, but generally nothing noteworthy in terms of subject matter. Maybe very light hints of slash in chapter two, but if so there will be nothing overtly obvious.
Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.
When he woke in the morning, D'Artagnan instantly knew he was sick, because he had overslept. He always woke before dawn, even when he didn't get enough sleep the night before from a night out at the tavern, or a nightshift with the guard. He groaned into his pillow and was sorely tempted to throw the blanket up over his head to block out the morning rays, and ignore all the aches and pains assaulting him first thing in the morning. But before he could take account of his faculties, a sharp sense of panic jolted him fully awake.
The time.
He was going to be late.
He would have to hurry to make it to the training yard on time. Again. As he leveled himself up into a sitting position he quickly discovered an absence of the strength he had been surviving on the past few weeks, little as it was. Now, his head was pounding. He couldn't breathe through his nose. And the aches…dear God, it hurt to just stay sitting. And the damp feeling of having sweated in his sleep made his skin long for a bath. It was a taxing routine he had gotten used to, waking up with a broken fever, going to bed near delirium with another one. Or perhaps he'd just had the same fever since this sickness dug its roots into him weeks ago. He wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, but from what Aramis had taught him about fevers, when Porthos had been sick last year, they generally ended with a broken one, leaving you drenched and weak.
Well, D'Artagnan thought, I've been feeling weak every morning for as long as I can remember. When will this end?!
If his sickness could be stubborn, then so could he. He set his jaw, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and fought off a wave of dizziness that left him near boneless and unbalanced as he stood to clean and dress, much slower than he'd been able to manage at the beginning of the week.
D'Artagnan knew the cause, even if he didn't want to admit it. His mother had warned him of overexerting himself, reminding him of his father's first few months as a Musketeer and how his stubbornness had spiraled him into a sickness that left him bedridden for months. His father jested of it now, but the near-scathing looks his mother would send him were enough to silence the jokes and broker a change of subject. D'Artagnan wasn't sure what kind of expectations were placed on his father in his youth, or what exactly his father had suffered back then, but if it was anywhere near what he had been experiencing in the past few weeks on top of his duties in the guard then he envied his father's fortitude to last out his body's needs longer than D'Artagnan was managing himself.
Even with his uniform on, D'Artagnan shivered at the cold November morning. What he wouldn't have given to spend another hour in that warm bed! But he was on his own two feet. He could still rise. He could still make it to the stables. He managed to ride his horse to the training yards yesterday without much trouble…other than sheer exhaustion. He would be fine, as long as he could stay in the damned saddle.
D'Artagnan looked at himself in the looking glass. His uniform was clean. If he could only lose the dark bags under his eyes and the paleness of his normally tanner skin from the long years of working in the fields, he might still be able to pull the charade off. He'd known weeks ago that he was starting to come down with something, but he kept pushing himself because he didn't want to disappoint anyone, or himself. He'd worked so hard to get the position he had with the guards, to be so close so soon to achieving that coveted place among the ranks of the Musketeers, to be counted in the company of great men. To jeopardize that now for the sake of a mere cold was simply not an option.
No one else in his unit took a sick day, and the mere idea of cowing to Sergeant Ancel and his condescension had him curling his own lip in disgust. The very last thing he would ever consider doing was giving in to that man's insults and proving his own weakness because of a passing cold. That didn't mean he also didn't feel guilt for keeping his mouth shut. Only a few days ago Monsieur des Essarts had pulled him aside and told him to take a few days off to rest. All because D'Artagnan couldn't hold back a coughing fit any longer. He had burned with embarrassment all the way home, gotten little sleep that night, and dragged himself out of bed for another day to prove him wrong.
Yes, it was a deliberate defiance of the order he'd been given. And yes, he had also been avoiding Monsieur des Essarts sights since that day. But sacrifice a couple of days of rest for Ancel's slandering of him in his absence to his peers and superiors? D'Artagnan's honor and pride wouldn't let him. He had no choice but to continue on as he had been for the past…three weeks if he was truly honest with himself.
He leaned against the desk as he waited for another coughing fit to pass. When it did he opened his eyes and found the room spinning. He shook his head and groaned at the pain in his throat and chest. He felt like he'd accidentally swallowed broken glass. The slight coppery taste in his mouth reinforced that morose thought, and he briefly allowed himself to give in to his body's wants. He put his head down on his arms on top of the table and closed his eyes.
Moments later he jumped at a hand on his shoulder. Through bleary eyes he looked up and saw Planchet with the same frown he'd been wearing since D'Artagnan first fell ill. "How are you today, master," he asked, quietly—bless the man.
"Fine, Planchet," he said in his newly acquired raspy voice. He cleared his throat and straightened up, carefully schooling his face to hide the discomfort and pain. "Is breakfast ready?"
"You won't like it," Planchet said. "But I made twice as much. You need to eat, master. You're looking thin."
D'Artagnan glared at the servant, but shook his head and stood up slowly. "You know I haven't been able to handle much—"
"All the more reason to let your body rest, m—"
"And who is going to pay to put food on the table for both of us with Athos, Porthos, and Aramis in Geneva?"
"It's not fair to them, after a nearly two-month long mission, to ask them back or depend on them once they do."
"And if any of the masters get a look at you in your current condition they will divide my head in equal parts of unspeakable torture between them, and you will have the sad task of hiring for a new servant!"
"Planchet, you dramatize this situation as if you were a paid actor—"
Black spots danced in his vision and he temporarily lost all bodily sensation and sense of balance. D'Artagnan would have said that the vicious vertigo was the worst, but coming back to himself in Planchet's arms took the cake. He took deep breaths, calmed the worried man and gently pushed out of his support. "I'm fine," he said, making his way to the door.
Planchet followed close behind, but didn't raise a hand after the warning glance D'Artagnan gave him, never mind his own hand, which trailed the wall to his right in case he swayed too far. If he could just make it through this one last day of duty, he would have his day of reprieve before the winter term would commence. Just one more day. Then he could rest. For one day. One day was all he would need. Sergeant Ancel would have his perfect attendance for the term and D'Artagnan could finally allow himself a little bit of rest.
D'Artagnan walked to the training yard with his hat low on his head. Though he doubted anyone would be able to notice him in the cold rain, he wasn't about to take any chances. He took a few seconds once he reached the barracks office to shake off the rain and breathe, but as soon as he stepped foot in the door, Ancel was after him like a bloodhound.
"Gascon! You're late!"
"By two minutes," D'Artagnan said, shaking his hat as well. It pained him to admit he was late, but also did not have the energy to bother hiding it either. It had taken him twice as long to get his horse out of the stables this morning and he'd nearly fallen from his steed when they crossed one of the main bridges. A trader with a cart swerved right into him when his horse spooked and D'Artagnan was ashamed to say he lost his temper with the man after he pulled himself back onto his seat. Though he felt justified at the time, for fear of being thrown into the river below, he still had yet to get the poor man's fallen face out of his mind. He would have to find out the man's name later and properly apologize—
"Are you listening to me?! Oh, it just figures," Ancel hissed as he leaned in close. "That of all my recruits it has to be you to threaten to tarnish our perfect record for the term with your tardiness."
D'Artagnan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "You seem so dead set on it for yourself, Monsieur. I'm sure this would not be the first time a lateness was overlooked."
Ancel glared at him. "You'd dare to insinuate I should lie for your sake?"
"The unit's, if that is your true concern. If anyone cares to ask, I was late two seconds by your clock and you generously allowed me time to respite from the rain before exercises."
Ancel scoffed. "Blind as well—As you can see," he said with an exasperated wave of his arm. "Or not in your case, the training fields are disgraced mud holes. You have guard watch today at my discretion and no one else's. Don't open that fool mouth of yours if you value your position, are we clear?"
"Very," he managed to say before breaking off into a coughing fit. He clamped his jaw shut and kept the worst of it in, despite the pain in his chest. Shortly after he straightened up and looked Ancel in the eye. "What district have I been assigned?"
D'Artagnan moved to put on his hat again, but Ancel grabbed it from him and thrust it into his chest for emphasis. "You would do well to remember that I am the one who stands in your way. My say is what matters to Monsieur des Essarts and Monsieur de Treville. And if I think you're not up to it, you don't advance, boy. Everyone here has hurts they deal with day in and day out. You are not special. So use that manhood of yours and get through it. There's no one else to take your place today and work needs to be done."
D'Artagnan glared and spoke through his teeth. "Did I complain, Monsieur?"
D'Artagnan made a grab for his hat, but Ancel tossed it to the ground by the door. "This is what it means to grow up and be a man, to be a Musketeer. Sacrifice. And if you can't take it, then walk. You wouldn't be the first."
He could feel his anger rising up in him like a flame left too close to a pile of gunpowder. "The only place I will walk to is my duty, Monsieur. What district have I been assigned?"
Ancel stared at him for a long while before rolling his eyes. "The south bridge, where you won't contaminate anyone else with that sickness of yours. Report back when your relief comes and do not make me wait past four o'clock or you'll be written up."
Ancel stormed out of the barracks and D'Artagnan couldn't be happier his superior had gone, because his patience had worn so thin he was truly worried of disgracing himself further by punching the man in the nose. Never mind swords or duels, he felt angry and strung out enough to resort to how the boys settled things out in the country; with their bare hands.
D'Artagnan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The pain of his headache seemed to have tripled within a matter of seconds thanks to Ancel. Maybe a drink of water would calm it down…
Laurent came through the doorway so quickly it caught D'Artagnan off his guard and his balance. The boy shook the rain off his coat and turned to D'Artagnan with a pleasantly surprised and flushed face. "D'Artagnan, I didn't expect to see you here today."
"No?"
"You looked sick the last time I saw you."
"Just a cold," D'Artagnan replied, clearing his throat as gently as he could to avoid coughing again.
Laurent, however, didn't look convinced. He narrowed his eyes at D'Artagnan but changed the subject as he handed him his hat. "Sergeant Ancel said I'm patrolling with you today. We should hurry, before any of the older recruits come by to check on us. I know a shortcut, which will get us there in half the time." Laurent frowned. "Are you certain you're all right?"
"I'm fine," he said, walking away and shoving the hat on his head.
Laurent kept up with D'Artagnan without much difficulty. "You're very pale. You're not still sick, are you?—"
"I'm not sick," D'Artagnan snapped. He stopped to lean against the wall and felt shame well up in him faster than when it did after his outburst to the trader less than an hour ago. "I'm sorry, Laurent. I have no excuse for that."
"You look exhausted," Laurent whispered to him, as a group of loud recruits walked by.
He sighed and coughed into his arm, thanking God it didn't turn into a nasty long fit he had been prone to the past several days. "I feel it."
"Then why are you here? Go home! I can handle the patrol by myself."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "You know Ancel. If I ruin his record for perfect attendance for the unit he'll never let me forget it."
"Your health is more important than some stupid promotion!"
"If you can convince him of that then you deserve a promotion yourself. I just need to make it through this one day and then I can rest before the winter term starts—"
"But that's only the day after tomorrow…"
D'Artagnan held his hand out and silenced any further thoughts. "Help me through this one last day? I promise, as soon as we're done I'll go straight home."
Laurent looked like he wanted to refuse outright, but after a long pause nodded. D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief and headed back to the stables. When they had both mounted and prepared themselves for a long cold and wet day, Laurent grabbed him by the arm by the doorway. "If you get any worse, then the deal is off. If it's the sergeant you're worried about, Ancel can…well…shove it where the sun refuses to shine and that's that."
D'Artagnan chuckled and quickly turned his face into his arm again for a short bout of coughing. "You're learning too much from Jacques!"
Laurent rolled his eyes. "His language is ten times worse than mine will ever be. But I mean it, D'Artagnan!"
D'Artagnan waved Laurent off as they both headed out to their dreary and long patrol. Laurent had almost called the whole thing off around noontime when D'Artagnan stumbled head first into a wall by accident, but the boy had stayed on his own two stubborn feet and also managed a convincing glare that said I'm fine. Convincing or not Laurent still shook his head and walked closer to him until they made it through the spice market. At the end of their day both boys were exhausted, one almost to the point of collapsing.
"I can walk you home," Laurent offered as they exited the training yard stables for the main house.
"No," D'Artagnan sighed. "I'll be fine."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's the truth."
"Can you even see straight?"
"…maybe."
Laurent groaned and D'Artagnan tried to pay him no mind to focus on their last task of reporting in before the end of their shift. The halls were empty save for them because of the holiday. Nearly everyone had already left for evening masses, and it figured that Ancel would purposefully give them the late shift. D'Artagnan wouldn't have even been surprised if Ancel had left already himself, passing his duties off onto another recruit to finish for the day. Everyone knew Ancel came from a strictly Catholic family, but only a few of the recruits truly knew how their sergeant cared for his faith.
D'Artagnan stopped to cough into his arm yet again and took a moment to straighten up. Laurent patiently waited for him with a sorry look, but D'Artagnan paid it no mind. Some movement out of the corner of his eye made him look back. An older man stood against the wall behind a pillar, watching the other end of the hall with sharp eyes. The face lay nowhere in his memory, so he turned to Laurent and spoke low so they wouldn't be overheard.
"Laurent," D'Artagnan whispered. "Who is that man?"
Laurent frowned. "I don't know. I don't think I've ever seen him before."
"If he's no Musketeer or Guardsman, then who is he? Most of the men are gone by now."
"Could be a visitor," he said shrugging, and urging D'Artagnan along. "Someone's friend perhaps. There's still a few of us around. Come on, one last check-in and then you and I can both go home."
D'Artagnan sighed and followed Laurent, but looked back over his shoulder, frowning in confusion and then stopping again. As the stranger moved from his place against the wall, his dark cloak billowed out softly behind him, revealing weather-worn clothes that had seen better days and practically no personal items on his person to identify who he was or who he may have been with. For some small reason, he simply couldn't reconcile with himself the presence of this stranger. "Why is he going that way? Only Monsieur des Essarts and Monsieur de Treville's offices are down that hall—"
"D'Artagnan, I'm sure he's—"
Then he caught sight of a handle and a barrel that didn't shine under the proud care of any soldier. D'Artagnan felt his blood turn cold as his sluggish mind still quickly registered what he had just seen. "He's carrying a gun," he breathed softly.
Laurent's eyes went as wide as an owl's. "What?"
"He's carrying a gun," he hissed, before turning on his heel and going after the stranger, leaving Laurent stunned for half a moment before he too fell in step behind D'Artagnan.
"How did he…No, we should get the remainder of the guard. We shouldn't—"
"Go then," D'Artagnan said. "There's no time."
"But you can't just!—"
"Monsieur," D'Artagnan called to the stranger's back. "I believe you may have lost your way. Might I be of some assistance? Monsieur? Stop!"
The stranger, who had kept walking and ignoring D'Artagnan, suddenly stopped and whipped around, his gun out and aimed directly at both boys. D'Artagnan didn't think. It was instinct alone that made him sprint towards the man to take him off guard. All he could think of was getting the weapon away from the intruder. He saw panic on the man's face for a split second before he heard the crack of a gunshot. The shot luckily went wide and missed both D'Artagnan and Laurent-something D'Artagnan only knew from hearing something break further down the hallway. He ran into the man less than a second later and knocked him off his feet, the gun sliding several feet away across the marble floor. D'Artagnan only had a second to turn back and see Laurent standing there eyes still wide with a newly dropped jaw.
"Get the guard," D'Artagnan managed to shout, before the man threw him off and made a dive for the fallen weapon.
He heard Laurent running away, leaving him alone for the moment with the infuriated intruder, but hopefully not for long. He doubted he'd be able to overpower him on a good day from the brute force he was using. All he needed to do in the meanwhile was bide some time.
D'Artagnan grabbed the man's foot and wrenched him back, getting to his own feet and drawing his sword halfway before the intruder jumped up and ran him into a wall. The back of D'Artagnan's head bounced off it with a resounding thud and the force of the blow stunned him for a second too long. The man pulled D'Artagnan's sword free and tried to stab him with it, but the boy turned his body to the side at the last second. He trapped the man's wrist underneath his own and stayed low as Athos had taught him. He landed one punch to the stomach himself before the intruder growled above him, dropped his sword, and landed a vicious punch in return.
D'Artagnan couldn't help but bend over from the pain, losing his hold on the man and receiving another blow to the back. It knocked him to his knees, but before the man could escape, D'Artagnan grabbed his legs and pulled them out from under him. The intruder fell down in a dazed heap, probably from hitting his own head. Taking advantage of those few precious seconds, D'Artagnan tried to manhandle him onto his stomach to restrain him. But all too soon the man was jerking to get free, somehow jumping and rolling over onto his back, trapping D'Artagnan beneath him. On reflex, D'Artagnan wrapped his arms around the man's waist and refused to let go.
What in God's good name was taking them so long?!
His chest was on fire, but the adrenaline running through his blood kept him from blacking out. Because if he had given in to his body screaming for him to stop, he would have missed the man yanking a dagger free from his waist and turning to drive it into his right side. D'Artagnan blocked it with his elbow, but no sooner had be done that did the man reach up with the same arm, knife abandoned, and elbowed him in the head.
Someone shouted in pain. It was probably him but he was so dizzy by this point he was fighting a losing battle with not just the opponent but himself. He reached out, but suddenly the man wasn't there, finally slipping from his grasp. D'Artagnan groaned, turning over onto his stomach and forcing himself onto his hands and knees, but found a pleasant surprise when he pulled his heavy head up. Laurent had one foot on the discarded pistol and D'Artagnan's sword in the assassin's furious face a few feet away. Behind Laurent was the reserve guard, full of unlucky recruits like himself who were assigned late shifts on the holiday.
D'Artagnan sat back on his knees and tried to catch his breath, relief making him dizzier than the exertion.
But the stranger wasn't so easily cowed. He sprung forward, diving past Laurent's sword and lunging to the back of the group where Monsieur des Essarts and Monsieur de Treville were hurrying toward. The boys however caught the man and held fast, manhandling him back onto his knees and searching him for additional weapons. The man shouted in Italian and from his place on the floor D'Artagnan thought Monsieur de Treville saw a ghost for how shocked he looked.
"Monsieur," Laurent said, picking up the pistol and approaching Monsieur des Essarts. "He got past the gate with this."
Essarts stepped toward the fuming Italian with a dark look of anger. "How in the thrice-damned hell did that happen?"
"I don't know," Laurent said. "D'Artagnan spotted him and then he shot at us."
"Il barone avrà la testa per il vostro tradimento, figlio di un maiale. Io non sono l'ultimo!" (The baron will have your head for your treachery, you son of a pig. I am not the last!)
Essarts looked back at Treville and a heavy pause ensued, broken only by the shuffling of the boys trying to keep the man under their control. Treville stepped toward Essarts and whispered something to him. Essarts broke his eye contact with the Italian and whipped his head toward the captain of the musketeers. "An assassin," he whispered.
"It would seem so," Treville replied.
"Which one?"
Treville shook his head in response to Monsieur des Essarts question. The captain of the guard then crossed to the Italian and grabbed him by the collar. "Who sent you," he hissed. "Who?"
The man spit on Essarts and after a tense pause, Essarts punched the man across the face, muttering curses under his breath. "Lock him up!"
The boys were happy to comply and dragged the man's unconscious body down the hall. Laurent crossed over to D'Artagnan and D'Artagnan took his sword back with a grateful nod. Once he sheathed it he reluctantly accepted Laurent's hand up, but as soon as he tried to stand up the floor lurched at an odd angle and he found himself in Laurent's arms bent over and coughing up a storm. He tried to get his feet under him and he tried to stop coughing, but he could do neither. Next thing he knew he was on his hands and knees gasping for breath between coughs. Someone's hand was on his back, but he couldn't tell who it was.
"Was he injured?"
"He's been sick, Monsieur—"
"I told that boy to stay home!"
The floor beneath him started to spin.
"Laurent," D'Artagnan tried to say, but it just came out as a high-pitched hacking, which tore something in the back of his sore throat.
Then there was blood in his mouth, blood on the floor, shouting, and the cool and slick floor beneath his face. His heart beat like a horse running at full speed. Fear and panic tore at him from the inside as a sense of wrongness settled in his gut. His ears were roaring and the last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was a whirl of light and colors.
A/N: The Italian translation came from Google translate, but I'm also trying to learn a little bit of it myself too. One word at a time XP. I meant to get this posted within the last couple of days, but this monster kept growing. One more chapter. Hopefully I can get it in before semester two hits me. I meant to get more updates in as well, and I may still be able to do that, but we'll see.