Tribute

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Brotherhood; love; devotion to cause…but gratitude – as Brujon learns is the highest tribute of all. This is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' November theme of 'Gratitude'.

When he left home a year ago, excited with the prospect of a new way of life; everything he had ever hoped for - seemed so simple, clear and within reach.

Back then, there was nothing he couldn't overcome; no challenge he was not able to meet head on. At nineteen, he believed that nothing could stop him from fulfilling his dreams. No amount of persuasion would deter him. Toiling away his life on another man's land was no longer an option. He would make his own way; and prove himself worthy.

Trista – his beautiful, lovely, raven haired Trista had wept when he announced his intention. She clung to his shirt and soaked it through. "You do not love me", she hiccuped between painfully shuddered breaths; as long held prospects of marriage, home and family disintegrated before her very eyes. Her hopes, longings and aspirations – set aside as if yesterday's wash.

Deftly he circumvented her heartfelt arguments to have him stay. Her devotion to him, her wish to live by his side always – her dreams of children and a home of their own, were swept tenderly aside by his kisses. Kisses he expertly deposited in the palms of her hands; upon her damp eye lids; then her lips, seguing into breathless promises that he would return a better man - and begged that she wait for him; have faith in him and let him go.

His speech complete – Trista had untangled from his embrace; turned away, and whispered a pained, sorrowful, "Goodbye". The finality of the moment had escaped him then – so sure he was of the future.

Sitting here, stoically now beside his friend; afraid to close his eyes….he recalled his departure from home. How on that early Sunday morning, with the sun just rising above the trees – his mother hugged him to her with ferocious strength. When she pulled away to search his face; her calloused hands smoothed hair from his forehead; grabbed his cheeks and then held firm his shoulders, as if committing the sight of him to memory.

Her grip was so tight it hurt and bruised his flesh.

Her smile, a rare occurrence; ghosted over trembling lips. And when she finally let him go; gruffly stated in her matter of fact way, "I love you son", and pushed him gently toward the door.

Behind her sat his father by the hearth; forlorn, still – hands fisted; his face frozen hard with grief, pain and disappointment. Moments before his final words to, "Go then….leave" - pierced his heart; for he loved his father dearly. A man with many talents – but not much luck; who had taught him to shoot straight; track game with stealth and perseverance; to be afraid of no man, and when given a job…..to do it well.

His parents were good people – and he was grateful. Grateful for all they had given him; taught him and moreover loved him.

But here….in this place – he could not be happy.

And as he rushed down the lane to meet his best friend – who waved frantically for him to hurry along – his father's heartache; his mother's fears; Trista's anguish, all disappeared; to be replaced with the anticipation of a future bright with adventure; honor and glory.

His little brothers, Adair, Leo and Giles, ran alongside him- adolescent, gangly arms and legs swinging wild to keep up; yelling out over one another's voices and pounding feet for him to write; to come back from his adventure with gifts; to not forget them. And just as he reached the dusty road, the youngest of them, Marius; still only a child – called to him, tears falling hard as only the very young do mourn, and pleaded, "Do not leave Brujon – do not go!"

So, he had stopped in his tracks; lifted the boy into his arms, considered his stricken face and brushed away his tears. As Marius' arms wrapped around his neck, he could feel the others at his sides; and his back breathing hard, holding on to his coat, his waist, and his arms. When Marius whimpered, he frowned and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

"But I will be back little brother", he chuckled – the worries of the world a far and distant thing - and kissed his cheek. Peering down at the others, he bellowed with unmitigated joy, "And when I return, I will be a musketeer!"

Setting Marius down, he then shoved them lovingly away and with humor implored, "Now back home with you lot", and turned to greet Clairmont, who waited impatiently at his side. And as he turned away from his home, his parents, and his brothers – he could hear their boyish voices shouting from over his shoulder, "Goodbye….. Goodbye Brujon! Goodbye!"

Then Clairmont clapped his back, and led them east along the road. "Let us be on our way to Paris!" he exclaimed.

Squeezing Clairmont's hand now, as he lay so still – his wheezing harsh and labored – he thought on how together they had journeyed to Paris. Most of the way on foot – and on the backs of carts offered in kindness by travelers along the way.

It had been rough going, with little food; only the clothes on their backs and just a few coins between them. They had been tired, hungry and weary – but filled with determination to make their way to the famed musketeer garrison in Paris. As the war with Spain raged on, the call for recruits had reached all the way to their tiny village of Lens. And they, with the stamina and naivety of youth, made haste to answer it.

Pulled from his musings of that hard trek filled with swollen feet, odd jobs and memorable people; he could feel Clairmont watching him closely– so squeezed his hand again and smiled. Leaning closer he murmured, "Do you remember how hard the journey was to get here; and how much fun we had?"

Clairmont nodded stiffly, his body racked with pain; his skin red, raw and on fire. "Yes", he rasped, and swallowed hard. "Yes".

"What about", he sniggered, "that acting troupe who took us in with that funny little dog who danced on hind legs and yipped at our heels?"

Clairmont's eyes twinkled beneath his prevailing distress; and nodded in remembrance.

"And how, when we finally got here, Madame d'Artagnan met us at the gate, and thought us lost waifs in need of food?"

Clairmont nodded again, and gasped in pain, "We were hungry"; and together they laughed. For the moment forgetting how Clairmont suffered with burns over half his body; how the garrison had been all but destroyed; how their dreams seemed to be crumbling and out of reach. How the prospects of a new way of life seemed to be ending before it could even begin.

Clairmont moaned and the present rushed back as a tidal wave, tormenting him with a crescendo of agony. "Do not make me laugh", he begged as his ragged breathing began to even out.

Brujon startled with worry; sat hastily in the nearby chair – never letting go of his hand. "I'm sorry Clairmont. I am sorry for many things; most of all for dragging you here with me."; and bowed his head to hide his shame. For it was he who dreamt of glorious battle; he who wished to have the pauldron settled on his shoulder; and to be called musketeer.

All their lives, Clairmont had listened; practiced; and believed…..no, basked - in his dream – eager to follow and, "keep you out of trouble", he had laughed.

How grateful he was to have such a friend, who believed in him; trusted him; loved him. But at what cost? If he had stayed home, he would be well and whole. Perhaps even married by now – content and happy. Instead – because of him, he lay here in terrible pain. Maybe even near…

He pressed closer to his brother and prayed – no, not that.

So they silently regarded one another; contemplating their shared past of home, dreams and what should have been. The makeshift infirmary full of wounded musketeers carried the groans of pain, near death and fear – causing Clairmont to quiver, a sliver of dread trickling down his spine. So to drown out the misery surrounding them and his own fears - asked, "Did we win Brujon?"

Moving ever closer and grabbing for Clairmont's wrist he confirmed with certainty, "We won."

Clairmont smiled, eyes softening with emotion, and declared with burgeoning strength, "Then we'll get to wear the uniforms."

"One day brother", Brujon vowed. And together they intoned in one voice, "one day".

After many hours of running errands; seeing to the injured; and tending to Clairmont's every need, Brujon sat exhaustedly down in the chair by his friend's side, bone tired.

When his eyes began to feel heavy and close on their own accord, he sat up briskly and swiped away the tears of weariness collecting there. If he could rest for just one moment; let his limbs relax; his mind go blank – to forget the horrors of fire; death and Clairmont's pain.

But what if he closed his eyes and….?

Then at his side, Clairmont coughed to garner his attention; and leaning over to check the wet linens on his heated skin asked, "How do you feel?"

In a voice surprisingly forceful and strong Clairmont considered, and answered honestly, "Much better actually. I don't feel a thing"; and grinned up at Brujon with a measure of his old, confident self. Smiling happily, Brujon practically chirped, "That would be the draught for pain Aramis has given you. I'm glad you are feeling better."

Slowly lowering himself back down into his chair – he yawned, stretched his arms out over his head and legs before him, feeling the muscles pull, and bones pop. Cracking his neck he messaged his shoulders and let out a weighty sigh.

Voice etched with worry, Clairmont beseeched, "You should rest brother. Find a cot. Lay your head down, even if it's just for a little while."

Brujon eyed his brother with suspicion, "As should you… rest I mean."

"Tell you what. We will both rest", Clairmont bargained and winked with mirth – sensing Brujon's stubborn streak about to rear its head.

Brujon studied his friend with a raised eyebrow, for on many occasions Clairmont had tricked him into closing his eyes first – to find him hours later – watching over him in sleep.

"But before we rest, there is something I have to say to you. Things I must say in case….."

Suddenly frightened; with his heart hammering like thunder through his chest, Brujon stood with haste. Searching the room for an empty cot he sputtered quickly, "Things I will not hear because you are feeling stronger and nothing is going to happen."

And as he moved away to push an empty cot closer to Clairmont's side, he felt his friend's gaze bore into him and rattle his soul; but would not relent and look his way. Determined to keep the unthinkable at bay, for if he did not think it, it would not be true. So instead sprawled wearily atop his cot and whispered, "Good night brother, I will see you in the morning."

When finally he drifted down into sleep, he dreamed of the two of them, as small boys; running carefree in the wide grassy fields of Lens; climbing trees, imagining under the stars, in the ink of night – how wonderful life in Paris must be. So real was his dream, that he could feel Clairmont beside him, shoulder to shoulder – laughing as he pointed up to the sprinkling of light, imparting with awe, "It will be magnificent!"

But in the morning, Clairmont was gone. Lost to him; never to laugh, celebrate, weep or dream with him again.

Now standing over his grave – the pauldron he so cherished on his shoulder – he spoke softly with gravity and gratitude, "See Clairmont – the uniform", and knelt in the freshly tilled dirt to show him properly.

Unexpectedly, a hand lay on his shoulder and pressed firmly with care. When he gazed up, there stood General Du Vallon – strong, quiet, a giant among men; who had granted him his commission and set his life on a new course.

Standing slowly to his feet he lamented, "I did not let him speak. I did not tell him what was in my heart. How grateful I was that he called me friend."

Porthos looked down at the still fresh mound of earth, then stared out at the hundreds of markers demarcating where musketeers laid here to rest, and thought of the many buried out in nameless fields – never to be retrieved to lay here with their brothers.

"You have told him now Brujon – for I believe he is watching and listening at this very moment."

Turning him then toward the waiting horses and entourage readied to engage the Spanish, he announced, "Come – let us ride. We go now in hopes to end this war for our brothers, families and for France. Their sacrifice – a debt of gratitude we owe a thousand times over."

Brujon nodded curtly and followed his General in haste, eager to prove himself and show his worth. And as he mounted up; stole a final glance back; and whispered quietly….. "thank you" before placing heel to flank, and surging forward to meet the future.

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think; as your reviews are most appreciated. This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' November theme of "Gratitude". If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.