Hello!
I've not published a Musketeer story before so this is a first for me :)
This is for the Fete des Mousquetaires competition for the prompt word 'sacrifice' hence the title :)
I hope you enjoy :)
The smell of gunpowder and blood colours every hasty breath that he pushes in through his nose. Sweat coats his hands as he reaches for the pistol at his belt and he pulls in a deep breath, closing his eyes. The bunker he slid into moments ago is digging into his back as warm liquid pools around his feet from the wound that he is sure is somewhere near his ankle, but he can't worry about that now.
The Spanish are getting closer. Closer to him, to Paris, to Constance.
He misses her. They were married just before the war. Sometimes he wishes that he could go back to before. Before the blood and the death and the horrors. He sees them every time he closes his eyes. The Spanish tore through every village they came across, robbing, burning and killing. He remembers the stories of the torn bodies at Limoux, hearing of the terror of Frenchmen as they ran, just to be slaughtered, but it's not just that. He wishes that he could have turned back before they reached the cursed inn where his father died, wishes that they could just have stayed in Gascony.
"That was close."
"Too close."
He hears the thuds of two bodies dropping down next to him, and two voices that he knows he would recognise in the depths of Hell. From what he can tell, Porthos' voice is on his right, so the weight on his left must be Athos.
"They're gettin' closer, Athos."
He finally opens his eyes, and it's just what he thought. Porthos is knelt facing the other way, peering over the walls of the bunker, and Athos is the weight leaning into his left side.
"I can see that. You're injured?"
Porthos shoots a bewildered glance just past his left shoulder, so he guesses the question was directed at him. He clears his throat.
"It's nothing, just grazed."
"You are standing in a pool."
"It's nothing, Athos."
A shot rings out and flies just over the bunker.
"We should probably do something about that."
He turns to Athos, as Porthos hums his assent. When he turns to Porthos once more, Porthos has his arm outstretched.
Athos lays his hand upon Porthos'.
D'Artagnan lays his hand on last.
There is a momentary pause, and all three know what the others are thinking of. Who they are thinking of. He can tell that Athos and Porthos still think of him. It's become less obvious, but he knows. It's always there, in the musket Porthos packed, in the extra blanket that they take turns using, in the extra meal that he sometimes deals out when they are graced with a lull in the fighting. Not that any of them ever acknowledge it.
"All for one,"
"And one for all."
He senses Athos, and watches Porthos, draw their pistols. He looks to his right and left.
"Do you ever wish this hadn't happened?"
Athos looks at him, confused, "The war?"
"Everything." He pretends he can't hear how his voice breaks on the word, and suddenly, Athos' hand is on the side of his face. His blue eyes pierce into d'Artagnan's brown ones.
"Never."
"Athos, we need to move or we'll be overrun." Porthos' voice cuts through the haze in his mind.
He draws strength from his brothers' voices, and suddenly, he knows. He wishes he could regret the sacrifices that he made to get this far, but, looking at his brothers around him, he knows that he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
"You comin', d'Art?"
"D'Artagnan?"
He draws both pistols, waiting to fire.
"Ready."
I hope you liked it :) Please R&R!