Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.

Chapter One: d'Artagnan

d'Artagnan woke with a start and there at his side lay his wife. The warm feel of her at his hip settled his racing heart and slowly the disjointed remnants of his dream seeped back into the dark corners of this place, and waited there for another time. They were patient his dreams, and would only creep out to envelope him when his defenses were low.

Always at his happiest, they would find a way to startle him back in time to those terrible, dangerous killing fields. What he would give to lay such horrors to rest.

But for now, he was safe. Here in his quarters; in bed with his Constance – puffs of air from her soft lips, caressing his shoulder. The tremors in his hands lessened as he pushed wayward auburn curls behind an ear and kissed her forehead.

Holding her close, he sighed shakily and rubbed a hand over his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. Concentrating hard to even out his breathing, he repeated to himself with quiet determination, "I am home. I am home.", until he was certain the room would not morph into the sickening stench of battle.

He felt Constance absentmindedly squeeze his arm, and little by little his body relaxed with relief.

Swallowing with resignation, he knew he was a mess. Ever closer she nestled and breathed out words of comfort he could not understand; but her voice grounded him to this moment and so one more time he pressed the point with renewed vigor, "I am home."

It was a marvel to him that she still loved him; for he was not the boy who rode off to war four years ago. Deep down she must sense it. She must know that the d'Artagnan she married was lost somewhere out among the crimsoned fields.

His positive nature, a casualty of war; buried beneath mounds of sorrow.

He could feel it. Everything about him was different; nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new. Only memories of his father, mother, Lupiac – meeting his brothers; falling in love – reminded him of who he used to be.

When he had left Constance here four years ago, his face was round with youth. His heart was full of passion and enthusiasm for life and his love for her knew no bounds. The war had seemed to him an adventure – a challenge to be concurred - much like the challenge of finding his father's killer; gaining his commission or attaining Athos' respect and Constance's love. All of which had been secured with confidence and clarity.

Only he had not concurred war. Instead it had altered him.

Now, instead of soft - his face was chiseled; his body hard with muscle; his eyes wide open with the truth of life rather than the wonders of what lay ahead in the future. Whereas before he was reckless in judgement – now he was fearless. Death, for all her arguments of darkness and permanence, held no sway over his pronouncements.

Four years ago he was content to follow; now he chomped at the bit to lead. He supposed he had grown up and now at twenty-five was a man reinvented.

He rubbed Constance's shoulder and felt her snuggle in closer and reach to capture his waist. He could feel the strength in her arms; and wished they could remain here – just this way; side by side forever.

How lucky he was to have returned and be whole of body and mind. Athos had promised to see him back to his wife and here he was.

But what must she think of him now? She must wonder - who was this man who lay with her; worked with her; loved her – but did not understand himself; and feared once she learned of his deeds would turn him away. Whose regrets weighed on him daily, and followed him into his dreams; then waited in the shadows ready to pounce.

Slowly with practiced stealth, he untangled himself from her embrace and sat on the side of the bed peering into the darkness where the dead by his hands leered out at him, and asked ….why? Most recently innocent nuns who had done nothing but to do him a favor – shared that dark space with the fallen enemy and condemned him.

It was his fault they were dead. Kind hearted women of God – murdered because he wished to be that boy again, who believed there was good in all men – especially in those whose lives had been ravished by war.

It could have been him succumbed to a fevered, twisted brain; lost in fantasy, relating to voices harbored in the mind. But he had been fortunate. Athos and Porthos looked out for him; protected him – shielded him as much as was possible and loved him. If not for their guidance – he would have lost his way long ago.

Covering his mouth to keep from crying out, he berated himself for the selfish act. He should have followed orders; kept in mind the hard lessons learned in war – seen that the man was insane; for deep down, knew it was so. But he had wanted so badly to be himself again – compassionate, sympathetic – show concern for a man who had done his part, fought for king and country.

He had wanted to be that d'Artagnan - the boy Constance had fallen in love with.

Looking down at his hands, he could feel the slight tremors of anxiety and held them tightly together – hoping to keep the shakes at bay. His thoughts whirled with the many regrets of his life. That his father was murdered because of him; that he was the catalyst whereby Bonacieux lost his life and with his last breath cursed his love for Constance.

That men who believed in the cause of Spain as he of France died horribly by his hand. And now, three innocent women, because of him, choked to death in their own pool of blood because he failed to embrace the new him. His Queen, next to be harmed in the domino effect of his decisions.

And to have killed a troubled man, not of sound mind - to right the wrong was making him sick.

He peered to the floor and wished a black hole would appear and swallow him up before he was eaten alive by his mistakes; tortured by them to the brink of despair.

Slight, warm fingers traced down his spine and he turned to see his wife gazing at him through half-cast sleepy eyes. Her hand moved to pause above an old injury at his rib, and she leaned over to press her lips there. "Do not fret so husband", she murmured – her voice husky and deep.

"I love you... always."

So he let loose the death grip of his hands, and turned to wholly face her; the moonlight streaming through their window casting a surreal glow. He took in the sight of her upturned face; serious in her fierce declaration - and believed her. She then lifted the sheets to invite him back to her side. He slid down beneath the cool coverlet; and as she covered them both – her arms pulled him in and she whispered softly in his ear, "Rest."

And so he placed his head at her neck; felt her fingers stroke his hair – closed his eyes; let go and drifted down into a peaceful sleep. Where instead of death he dreamed of her; instead of cannon fire he heard the laughter of anticipated children. Here in her arms – he could see the future. An optimistic future – one he would dream of now and hoped the brightness of it would lay his horrors to rest.

Yes – he would dream of this; and for tonight at least – put his regrets behind him.

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this! Please let me know what you think. This piece is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires March challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.

Next chapter: Athos