Disclaimer: I do not own Albert the Fifth Musketeer or the characters.
Notes: A week ago, it was my late mother's birthday, and I found myself wanting to write a fic for it. Because my fandom-focus for fanfiction lately has been mostly centered on Albert the Fifth Musketeer, I decided to make this a little fic about some of Albert's memories of his own mother.
Philbert's name is canon. Everything else included is head-canon. This is set two weeks after Albert became a Musketeer, three days following the mission written in my fic You Didn't Let Us Down. Some of the ideas for the flashbacks came from previous fics of mine: Like Boys In The Snow, Floral Friend and Smile!. I hope you enjoy.
He stood by the old, iron gates of the cemetery in his home village. He'd come a long way, and for a special reason. He fixed his hat neatly and straightened his tabbard, which had become a bit ruffled during his ride from Paris.
"Sir, may I please speak with you?"
Monsieur de Treville, the Captain of the King's Musketeers looked from his paperwork and saw his smallest but smartest Musketeer standing by the open door. "Of course, Albert, come on in."
He did so, head held high, but anxiety in his eyes. He'd never thought he'd have to make such a request so soon after becoming a Musketeer. The fifth Musketeer, in fact, as there were already the Three Musketeers plus one. He approached the desk. "Sir, I feel this request may be a bit selfish, but...I was wondering if I could please have a week of leave."
"So soon? This is a surprise! Why are you making such a request?"
"Because it is approaching Maman's birthday, and I have never missed a year following her passing. I wish to visit her resting place on that day, but it will take me a couple of days to get home, and a couple to come back to Paris."
"It is a bit soon after enlisting into the squad...but I can see how important this is to you. Very well. What week are you requesting to leave?"
"Next week, Sir. Her birthday is on Tuesday."
"Very well. On Sunday, your leave begins."
"Thank you very much, Sir." Gratitude replaced the anxiety immediately.
"Be sure to give her my regards."
He pushed open the gates, hearing the loud creak they made as they were forced to move. He'd grown adapted to the noise, so it no longer bothered him. He then took his first step down the familiar path.
"Gentlemen, I am going to be away all of next week," he informed his comrades.
"Next week? How come? And why so soon?" D'Artagnan asked.
"You're not still feeling despair over the mission three days ago, are you?" Aramis added.
"No, it is not that. I am returning home for a day, but it takes me a couple to go there and a couple to return," Albert explained. "I have never missed a year beside Maman on her birthday, and when I requested of the Captain for my leave, he allowed it. I do understand that this is too soon following my enlistment."
"It's for your mother, huh? What's she like?" Porthos questioned.
"She's a lovely lady, she was always there for me. She did tend to be a bit overprotective, but I understand that it's just how she shows that she loves me." He didn't want to tell them just yet that his mother had passed on long ago.
He continued to slowly, carefully, walk up the dirt path that would lead him to where he wanted to go. As he made his way, his thoughts started to carry to those days of his youth when she was still there.
It was snowing outside, the first snowfall that Albert was old enough to recognise. "Look, Maman, it's snowing!"
The woman smiled warmly, enough to contend with the cold weather permeating all of France. "Yes, so it is, my dear."
"Can I go play in it?"
"Hmm...I don't really know..."
Philbert approached the mother and son. "It's quite alright, mon amour. He's old enough to go outside for a little while."
The four-year-old nodded enthusiatically, his blond hair waving with the motions. "Oui, Maman, Papa is right! I'm a big boy now!"
The woman giggled. Ever since he'd been able to talk, she'd noticed one of his favourite things to say was that he was a big boy. She wouldn't have been surprised if those were his first words. "Alright, alright. But, you must stay nice and warm, it won't do for you to get sick." She moved away from the window and went to find Albert's warm winter clothing.
Philbert chuckled and put a hand on his son's head. "This will be your first time in the snow. Are you excited?"
"Oui, Papa! I'm excited! I get to play in snow!"
The woman returned to see him jumping up and down in excitement. "Okay, Albert, stand still so I can put these on you."
He did stop with the jumping, but he was pouting slightly when he saw just what his mother brought out. It was a very thick jacket and very thick pants that she'd made herself. He hated wearing that outfit because he could hardly move in it.
"Now now, don't give me that look. I said you could go outside and play in the snow, but only if you dressed up nice and warm."
"Dear, I'm afraid he doesn't like that outfit. You saw what he was like when you put him in a similar outfit when he was younger," Philbert commented.
The woman sighed. "I know, but this is so he won't get sick."
The little blond boy watched as his parents started to have a discussion about what to do to ensure Albert would be comfortable yet warm at the same time. In the end, it was decided he could forgo the extra-thick pair of pants, still wear that jacket, and come inside when it started getting too cold.
"Will you do that?"
"Oui, Maman!" He was satisfied with the outcome. At least he was able to walk through the snow instead of waddling.
He chuckled to himself as he gazed at the sky. If anybody had seen that, they would've wondered why he was smiling when coming to show respects to a deceased loved one. But, nobody was there, and it allowed him more time to think of some memories of his dear mother.
She was sitting on a chair with him on her lap, a book in hand. "Now then, what story shall I read to you today?"
He wasn't able to talk yet, so he just pointed at a picture. He recognised it as his favourite story.
"Alright then." She turned to the page and started to read.
As he listened intently to the story, he would keep looking up at his mother. Her voice was so soothing. He smiled and opened his mouth. "Mama."
She paused in her reading. "Did you just say something, Albert?"
"Mama," he repeated.
Tears filled her eyes as she regarded her son, finding it difficult to believe what she just heard. As it finally registered in her mind, some tears of joy slipped down as she dropped the book, rose from her seat with her son still in her arms, and hurried to tell her husband just what had happened.
He cocked his head curiously. Why was his mother crying? Did he do something to make her sad? He didn't like making her sad, he liked seeing his mother smile. Seeing her cry made him want to cry too, he'd been that way since he was first born.
"Philbert! He spoke! Albert just said his first word!"
The man paused in pruning a bush and turned to his wife and son. "Are you quite serious?"
"I am! Listen!" She looked to her son, a smile on her face. "Albert, can you say Mama?"
Seeing her smile again brought a wide one to his lips as he loudly and proudly said it again and again, anything to make his mother happy.
"Can you say Papa?" Philbert then asked.
He looked to him and cocked his head curiously. "Mama."
"No no, not Mama...Papa."
He cocked his head to the other side, thinking how to say what his father wanted him to say.
The woman smiled patiently. "I'm sure he will in time, dear. But, this is remarkable, his very first word."
The child continued to repeat that word over and over again, a wide smile on his face.
"Or at least, that's how Papa told me it was, but it was so long ago, I really can't say I recall the true story." The joy from the memories started to change to a more sombre feeling as he found he was nearing his intended destination.
"Papa, what's wrong with Maman?" the seven-year-old asked.
"I'm afraid she's very sick, Albert," Philbert responded sadly.
"She will get better, right?"
He didn't know how to answer such a difficult question. If he said yes, he'd be lying. If he said no, he'd be dashing any hopes the child had. Instead, he just shook his head and whispered, "I do not know."
The boy frowned. "Can I see her?"
"Of course. It will do her some good to see her son."
"Okay." He entered the bedroom, and was shocked at just how pale and weak his mother appeared. "Maman..."
She opened her eyes and smiled slightly. "Ahh, there's ma petit Albert."
He approached the bed slowly and quietly. "Are you sick?"
"Yes, I am afraid I do not feel well."
He'd known for a couple of years that his mother's health wasn't all that great, he'd noticed her often taking naps when he was five years old. "Will you get better?"
"I don't know. I'm trying to."
"Okay." He held her hand. "I'll give you some strength."
"Merci, ma petit Albert." She closed her eyes and relaxed. "Tell me something."
"What would you like to hear?"
"Anything. As I understand, you and Andre went out to play again this afternoon. It's good that you have such a good friend. What did you two do today?"
"We went to visit that field of flowers that he showed me two years ago, the flowers are so pretty, Maman! When you get better, you'll have to see them too!"
"Yes, I believe I will."
"And then, we tried to see if we could find different flowers. Andre really likes flowers, Maman, he's growing his own garden near Madam le Notre's."
"Is that so?"
"Oui, and it looks pretty! There are so many different flowers! But, he says it's not as beautiful as that field."
"Why does he say that?"
"He says that Madam le Notre taught him that no other garden is as lovely as nature itself."
"That does sound like true words."
He continued talking to her, her responses becoming less-frequent. After a while, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Rest well, Maman." He left her to her slumber knowing that she needed it.
It continued like that for a week, as did a habit that Albert had developed of suddenly going into his parents' bedroom and climbing into their bed. But, that one night, Philbert had told Albert that no matter what, he was not to leave his own bedroom.
That had the boy in a worried state. He always felt better sleeping with his parents throughout this difficult time because he could feel his mother's warmth. He knew he shouldn't disobey his father's words, but he found he couldn't sleep. He climbed out of bed, left his bedroom and made his way to his parents' bedroom. He opened the door and froze as he saw his father crying. Never, in all of his life, had he ever seen his father cry like that. Something was wrong. He dashed into the room, right to his mother's side and took hold of her hand. She was cold. "Maman, wake up! Papa's crying! You need to wake up and tell him you're okay!"
Philbert looked to his son. He pulled him into an embrace.
"Papa, we have to wake Maman!"
"She won't wake up, my son."
"She won't? But, what if I tell her more stories?"
He shook his head and tightened his grip. "She's gone now. She died."
"Died...?" He knew what death was, had known for a few years. His mother had taught him what the meaning of death was. He knew it meant that she would never be coming back. "But, Maman said she would try to get better...so she could see the field of flowers...and..."
Philbert shook with his own sobs, his heart-wrenching cries drowning out the quieter sobs the child released as it finally hit him that his mother had passed away.
He looked to the sky again, the smile long gone. That was one of the most difficult times in my life. I couldn't even find it in myself to smile for five whole years following that night. I couldn't stop crying.
He finally arrived at his destination. He set down the bouquet of flowers that he'd picked from that same field he'd visited often with his childhood friend. "Joyeaux anniversaire, Maman," he whispered as he knelt by her resting place. He then began to tell her of his first couple of weeks as a Musketeer, knowing in his heart that she was listening from a distant place, and was proud of him for growing into a fine young adult.