The Twenty
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Meer hours after discovering the horrific events of Savoy – Captain Treville makes an anguished decision steeped in hopeless despondency. This is an entry for the Fete de Mousquetaires February challenge, with the theme of "despair".
This theme for me was quite dark; however it struck a chord – and so to warn you - Treville's thoughts here reflect deep, despondent despair.
Treville found it hard to think.
His mind was fuzzy with incomprehensible grief; and stringing coherent words and conscious thought together was beyond him. He stood with stoic stillness in his usual place, on the balcony – looking over the yard; and could not fathom it – twenty lost.
Twenty lost souls – to what?
He strained and searched for them below, but could find no trace of them; and wondered where they could have disappeared to. On the trip here – they had walked steadily beside his mount – quiet; rhythmic – with no complaint. He had admired their restraint. To haunt him with such peace was undeserved.
He rubbed at his forehead with trembling fingers to try and ease the tension at his temples, but there was no relief. His mind whirled within the agony of twenty good men gone – not to war against a true enemy. Not to a skirmish to defend land or strategic position. Not for duty – God or country.
He swiped his hand over his face – drained of all energy, and felt the weight of his complicity heavy on his shoulders – and in his heart. What had he done?
He would never forgive himself – never; and if his part in this were to be discovered – what then?
He felt his knees give way and so leaned heavily on the railing; and continued his vigil. Hours ago he had returned from the horrific sight of Savoy- had climbed these stairs – made it to this point, looked out to see them; and had not moved since. It was as if his mind had gone numb – useless; unable to command his body to take another step.
In his wake – beyond bleary vision – he did not see the familiar particulars of home - the stables; the practice areas; the wooden tables, the hardened dust or hanging icicles and cloudless grey skies. Instead – before him lay the twenty. Their eyes open to heaven, bodies broken; stained – cold; frozen – blue. All laid out for them to find – as if sleeping; until upon further closer, inspection found them rigid – faces stricken, immobile with terror; their blue cloaks stiff with ice.
Their fate would forever haunt him – their blood – crimson on white snow.
He shook his head – overcome with the weary recognition that their blood was on his hands; and would stain him for the rest of his life.
He stared down now into those palms, and could sense the wetness of that stain. He scrubbed his hands against his pants legs and knew though invisible to the naked eye, it would never wash away. From this day forward – the redness of it would stay gathered at his nails and flow within the creases of his life line – etched there to remind him of his sin.
Where was he to go to separate himself from this devastation?
Soon cart loads of dead soldiers would enter the garrison gates - cart loads of good men – who left here just days ago on a seemingly, innocuous training mission. They had left here in high spirits – laughing, teasing one another; pleased in each other's company. They had been happy – jovial; upbeat men – full of life and love for the musketeers.
He had been proud of them, loved them, honored to call them brothers – and wished himself laid out beside them now – on their way home.
He breathed in and the pain of it caught at his rib. He reached there for it – beneath his sternum and wanted to rip the oppressive ache from his chest before it brought him low.
Treville looked to the sky and begged God to look after his twenty. The twenty he sent to their deaths – thinking they would be back to Paris on the morrow – back to their lives; families, brothers – when he knew otherwise.
He pierced his gaze again to the yard – now empty of life – only harboring the ghosts of the twenty gone and the grief of those left here to wait for their bodies.
What was he to do? How was he to live with this? What was to become of these musketeers left behind? How was the regiment to survive?
Should not his duty be to now join them on the other side - to beg for their forgiveness? Or to endure whatever punishment they deemed fit? He would linger always in purgatory if that was what it took. To be at their mercy – their beck and call – to roam without purpose for eternity.
He closed his eyes and felt for the firearm at his side. The cool, hardness of the musket called to him, and formed a decision at the edges of his despair. He would bury them – find the one missing and bring home the lone survivor – bring Aramis home and then perhaps answer the call and find some peace at their side.
When he opened his eyes – there they all stood – apparitions, floating in and out of formation below him. Their blank stares looked to him – waiting for instruction – what duty to perform today; their swords and muskets at the ready.
His throat constricted – eyes stung with tears that would not fall. He wanted to scream down to them – order them to leave the yard; go and find solace with God. He grabbed for his throat to speak – but no sound would come – only choked torment that made him cough and gasp for air.
How could he get through to them – to make them go; leave his side and this place they once called home? He would follow once things were arranged and sorted out. They need not wait for him here.
Suddenly, the spirits turned from him and faced the gate – two columns of ten – lined up to greet themselves returned. He followed their gazes – and ever so slowly the carts creaked over frozen dirt and made their way in.
Roland, LaRoache, Armand, Tulane – each atop a cart – faces ashen; lips pressed in thin lines – backs bowed with misery and heartache as they with steady hands controlled their horses, so that their gaits were smooth, and the ride unhurried. The final journey home – free of bumps and ruts in the road.
Treville watched the solemn procession; his heart riddled with anxiety. What was he to say to their wives – mothers – children? How could he explain this? This death undeserved – this a crime – his and the Cardinal's to bear.
Roland raised a gloved hand, called for a halt – pulled on the reins and looked up to him for what was next.
What next… what next...what next?
The remainder of his musketeers rode in on horseback, wrapped in woolen blue – puffs of condensation drifting about running noses; stood to attention and waited as well. The dead – the living – all looking to him to give an order; to explain – to give some semblance of strength he lacked – to help them move forward.
And then there was Porthos – atop his mount – with Aramis held tight in his arms – limp, bloody – but alive; he, their lone survivor – engulfed in Porthos' gentle embrace – oblivious to the death and misery of the moment; but who would always be marred by his decisions – and once found out, would hate him for it and rightly seek recompense.
As if on cue, the grayness lifted – his twenty gravitated toward Porthos' mount and his charge – his living closed ranks alongside them, and he cleared his throat to address his men.
And when he opened his mouth to speak – he marveled at the clear, unwavering tone of his tenor – the brace in his knees – the straightness of his back. The words spoken were a mystery to him; they flowed from him – a cadence of solemn comfort; sympathy and hoarse regret. He knew not from whence they came.
When he finished, surveyed his men; and saw musketeer faces wet with tears – their shoulders shuddered with silent weeping – throats convulsed to keep down sobs – he wondered what he could have said.
He looked to his right as a hand fell upon his shoulder and there Athos stood – a well of sorrow – deep beyond measure; urging him in a silent plea to go – rest; he would follow through.
Something wet caressed his lips, gave him pause; and the warm salty taste there was his undoing.
When he opened his eyes to consider the darkness around him – one candle illuminating the silent; white specters at his bedside – he had no memory of lying down on his pallet; of removing his coat or his boots. Over the wails of death, he could hear noise and movement out in the garrison – beyond his door, and knew what remained of his men readied the twenty for their final rest.
He could feel his breathing become ragged and uneven, looked to the ceiling and willed himself to take control of his faculties. The apparitions ceased their cries and looked to him concerned as if worried for his well-being. He deliberately evened out his breaths, slowed his heart rate and nodded to them with purpose.
"All is well", he assured them, and pinched the bridge of his nose to center his thoughts.
He would do this – lead his remaining men through this despair – get them back on their feet – see Aramis recovered and then he would rest with his twenty.
Decision made - he sat himself up – reached for his boots and made for the door; his twenty, now silent – filing out behind him.
Thanks so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this entry to the Fete de Mousquetaires February challenge. Please let me know what you think! If you would like to participate, please go the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete de Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter. Thank you.