A/N: Happy Spring everyone! I'm happy to be back with another story which builds off of events that occurred in episode 2.06. I've taken some liberties with the episode and have used some of what happened up to that point while ignoring other details. The story diverges after this episode before dovetailing with the end of season 2 so there will be spoilers. I hope you enjoy!
It was the sound of raised voices that pulled Treville from his office, bringing him instead to stand on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, shivering slightly in the coolness of early spring. While most of the snow had begun to melt, there were still spots that hovered in shade where the piles of white clung determinedly, refusing to lose their grip until the warmer temperatures overcame them in several weeks' time. It had been a long and harsh winter, the snowfalls they'd endured making travel difficult and he was aware of the fact that many in Paris, and especially in the surrounding farms and villages, had not survived its cruelty.
His attention was drawn to the men below who, despite the frigid temperatures, were gathered around the table. Treville frowned at their body language and the tone of their words, all indications that things were uneasy between them. It had been like this for several months now, slowly overwhelming the seemingly unbreakable bonds that had made the inseparables his best men, their loyalty to one another renowned and indestructible. At first, the disagreements were minor in nature, easily forgiven and forgotten and not unusual among men who spent as much time together as these four did. Then he began to notice the widening cracks among them, their taunts possessing a razor sharp edge that meant to cut instead of tease; the way in which their playful nudges and claps on the back took on more force, bruising not only the muscle and skin but the men's spirits, pushing them further away from one another, where previously they had been drawn closer.
He'd believed initially that things would blow over as they usually did, having been completely unable to fathom any act that could drive a wedge between these men and yet, months later, he was witnessing with his own eyes how deeply divided these men had become, seldom able to be in one another's company without some argument or another springing forth. As he observed the men with a critical eye, he noted the distance between Athos and Aramis, the two physically separated from each other, even though they were on the same side of the table. Aramis was speaking and, while there was a smile on his face, his eyes were dark and flat, belying whatever he was saying. The Spaniard reached forward, crossing the space between the two men to briefly clasp Athos' shoulder and Treville could have sworn he saw the older man flinch, a momentary flash of something crossing his features before his usual, stoic mask could reassert itself.
The months since Milady's return to Paris had been incredibly difficult for Athos, the man confused by her apparent attempts to live as a law abiding citizen warring with what Athos knew of her past. It was painful, really, watching the man continuously remain on his guard as he waited for each new day to bring the treachery he was anticipating, while at the same time, struggling with the feelings he still held for her. It was true, Treville mused, love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and Athos precariously walked the fine edge between the two every day.
Treville had hoped that his brothers' presence would be enough to keep Athos grounded and sane, but had seen him return to his previous coping methods, often shocked at how ill and hung over the man appeared the following day. Sadly, Athos at his worst was still a finer soldier than many others in the regiment and, while Treville abhorred it, the reality was that until Athos' ability to perform his duties was impeded, he had no grounds to intervene. As a result, the once well-groomed Musketeer, who's noble bearing shone through even when dressed as a soldier, had devolved into a shell of his former self, his hair and beard too long and unruly, his face sallow and gaunt, a reflection of his body's poor treatment.
As sullen and moody as Athos had become, Aramis was his exact opposite, seemingly trying harder to adopt an air of optimism in the face of his brother's despair. His voice was louder, his laughter more raucous, his gestures more flamboyant and his stories more outlandish; in truth, he seemed a ridiculous parody of his former self. d'Artagnan was willing to play along, his life, at least from an outsider's perspective, seeming ideal now that he'd reconciled with Madame Bonacieux, but he could see the lines of tension in the young man's face and neck, his shoulders taut as bowstrings, ready to snap.
The Gascon had found brotherhood among the Musketeers and more – perhaps a replacement father figure in Athos – and Treville knew that the boy did not understand nor approve of his mentor's self-destructive behaviours. In earlier days, d'Artagnan had remained at Athos' side, drinking and commiserating with him and ensuring he made it home, but as time had drifted on, the Gascon's patience had waned and he'd become openly critical, even disgusted, when it came to his mentor's drinking and late nights. Athos had never believed he deserved d'Artagnan's love and respect, but it was apparent that the loss of both weighed heavily on his shoulders and widened the fissures that had appeared between them. Treville knew that the young man seldom joined his brothers after hours, choosing to spend his time with his lady love instead, although, to be fair, none of them seemed to spend much time together outside of their duties any more.
Treville's eyes drifted to Porthos who stood on the other side of the table, watching and listening but apparently disinterested in the banter was currently taking place between Athos and Aramis. Porthos had become obsessed with the idea of finding his father and Aramis had supported him for a time, but with Treville's denial of any knowledge, his leads had dried up quickly and the Spaniard had soon lost interest, his own mind occupied elsewhere. The large man resented both Treville and Aramis for their refusal to help, seeing their decisions as an act of betrayal, and nothing that either of them did was able to change his mind. Porthos had turned to the seedier taverns in town to chase away the ghosts of his past, cheating almost brazenly in the card games he sought out and engaging in brawls on an almost nightly basis, seemingly uncaring what happened to him. In the past, the other three would have stopped his destructive behaviour, but now, all they did was sigh and shrug their shoulders, not lifting a hand to change things, nor even trying to dissuade the man from his evening pursuits.
Athos' voice reached Treville's ears and it was apparent that the man had said something in response to Aramis' earlier prodding. Aramis' face clouded at the older man's words and he visibly drew back from his friend, obviously not liking what had been said. The frown on Treville's face deepened as he watched, d'Artagnan and Porthos sitting indifferently and obviously with no intention of interceding, while Athos looked almost satisfied by the look of hurt that now graced the Spaniard's face. It was astonishing that these four men, who had once held such love for each other, had allowed their hearts to harden, callousness replacing affection, compassion supplanted by contempt. If anyone had suggested such a possibility, he would have called them daft, these four willing to die for one another, spilling blood many times over in defense of the others.
Now they were broken, shadows of their former selves, and merely surviving as they sleepwalked through each day to the next. They reminded Treville of men in a three-legged race, unable to find their balance with one another, jostling and hurting their friends as they battled to deal with their individual burdens. Where there had been a finely-tuned group of soldiers, fitting together as well as the most intricate timepiece, now sat a group of shattered men, each still playing a part but no longer complementing the others. Treville knew that the discord between them had begun to affect their duties as well, and had considered separating them on future missions, fearful that their disdain for each other would bring about injury or death. It had not happened yet, he reminded himself gratefully, but his concern grew with each report he received of their quarreling, and with each awkward stare their fellow Musketeers threw their way at the mocking and hurtful behaviours that had now become the norm in their interactions. He cared for all the men in his command, but with these four, his feelings were almost paternal in nature. As a result, the current situation had him experiencing feelings of guilt and sorrow at watching his "family" falling apart.
Drawing a deep breath of cool air into his lungs, Treville knew the time had come to act and he could no longer ignore the strife that existed between the men. He needed them for a mission and it could not be compromised because of their infighting. Decision made, he called to them, four faces turning to look in his direction almost at once. "My office, now," he ordered gruffly, retreating inside, the cold settling into his bones not just due to the temperature outside, but because of the orders he would now need to deliver.
The heavy footfalls outside announced the men's arrival and Treville steadied himself, sitting down at his desk and clasping his hands together where they lay on the polished oak. The four filed in and stood loosely at attention, giving the Captain an opportunity to examine them up close. As he'd suspected, Athos' eyes crinkled against the headache that was no doubt throbbing within the confines of his skull, proof of another night spent drowning himself in an effort to escape the world. Porthos stood with his back ramrod straight, broad chest and shoulders almost thrust forwards in contempt at the man who sat in front of him. Aramis' posture was more relaxed as it always was, lips quirking politely but the appearance of pleasantness not dispelling the coldness of his eyes. d'Artagnan stood as he nearly always did, thumbs hooked in his belt, feet firmly planted, but his expression had matured, the naiveté of youth gone and Treville could see the creases that furrowed his brow, a clear sign that he was troubled and had been for some time.
Clearing his throat, Treville began, "You'll be leaving tomorrow for Le Havre where you're to deliver a package to an English envoy. Due to the somewhat sensitive nature of this delivery, there will be two groups travelling, one of which will act as a decoy for the other." He could see Athos' eyebrow lift at his statement as Porthos leaned forward incrementally, his curiosity momentarily overcoming his resentment.
"What makes this delivery so special?" Athos asked, already recognizing the unusual nature of the orders they were receiving.
Looking down at this hands for a second, Treville almost considered keeping the information to himself, but decided they had the right to know why they would be risking their lives. "It is from the King to his sister, Henrietta Marie." He saw understanding dawn on Athos' face, while the others still waited for more. "His sister is married to the King of England and sentiments have, as of late, been decidedly anti-English."
Aramis tipped his head in understanding as he countered, "Why isn't this package going through the usual couriers? Surely, they would be far better equipped than us to ensure its safe arrival."
Treville gave a small nod of agreement, "Normally, you'd be correct, however recent attempts have encountered difficulties and failed."
"What kind of difficulties?" Porthos asked, his keen senses already tuned to what the Captain hadn't yet shared.
Breathing deeply, Treville explained, "Yours will be the third attempted delivery." d'Artagnan's eyes widened at the news while Porthos let out a low whistle. "Both previous attempts ended in failure with lives lost on both sides. The King grows impatient and has demanded that the package get through this time."
"Why not send the Red Guards?" Athos asked, "They're far better suited to the task of running errands."
The comment was borderline disrespectful and Treville gave Athos a hard glare before admitting, "The Red Guards have already tried and failed. For that reason, this will be a joint mission between ourselves and the Red Guard, with each contributing men to the effort." Already the men seemed ready to protest, Aramis' stance hardening as Porthos drew a breath to voice his protest. "This is not negotiable. We need the numbers and I have too many men away for us to handle this ourselves. Look," he took a steadying breath and lowered his voice, "I know there is no love lost between us, but we must make this work somehow. In the King's eyes, you are all his soldiers to command and it is his decision that this will be a cooperative effort between our two regiments."
He could see that the men were clearly still uneasy, but also sensed that they would carry out their orders. Of course, that could still change when he told them the rest. He had no choice but to divide the group, placing two Musketeers with three Red Guards, per the King's orders. The question was how to separate them. Athos and Aramis seemed at odds for some reason, and d'Artagnan clearly and vocally disapproved of his mentor's behaviour, causing the older man to withdraw further into himself. Matching Athos with either of them might mean an opportunity for them to clear the air or it could spell disaster, igniting flames where there were currently only smoldering embers. Similarly, Aramis and Porthos were at odds and might benefit from some time together, or their forced companionship could be the final push they needed to come to blows.
Seeing that the men were still waiting for him to finish, he decided, "Athos, you and Porthos will be in one group while d'Artagnan and Aramis will be in the other. You'll each be paired with three Red Guards, which should give you enough strength to repel any forces you encounter along the way. You have the rest of the day to prepare yourselves," Treville finished. "Report here in the morning to receive your final orders."
The men nodded, their faces telegraphing their dissatisfaction with the upcoming mission, but also the fact that they were resigned to carry out their orders. When they'd departed and the door had closed, Treville let out a sigh of relief, somewhat surprised at his reaction since he usually felt worry for his men when he sent them out. Scrubbing a hand across his face he promised himself – when the men returned, this situation would have to be dealt with, regardless of the outcome; no matter what, none of them could not continue on in this fashion.
The four descended the stairs to the courtyard, each lost in their own thoughts about the Captain's orders and mentally preparing a list of what would need to be accomplished before they departed Paris. Normally, the process of preparing for a mission was one that involved conversation and the delegation of duties by Athos; in this instance, the men simply separated, each moving in a different direction, to take care of his own needs. From an outsider's perspective it might seem that the men were simply in tune with one another, knowing implicitly each person's role in their foursome, moving without need for discussion to attend to their duties before coming together again with all tasks accomplished. The reality, however, was vastly different, the men having fallen into a routine of caring only for themselves, where before they would have placed the needs of their brothers first. It was another painful reminder of how far removed they were from their former title of inseparables.
d'Artagnan hesitated in the courtyard for a moment, considering speaking with his friends and offering to take care of their horses' needs, but his hesitation cost him and the opportunity slipped from his grasp as the others moved away to make their own arrangements. The Gascon sighed sadly, not wanting his distress to show on his face but the continued discord between them wearing on him. He was uncertain how it had begun, but knew that he hated every second of what they had become – distant, unfeeling, withdrawn.
He moved to the stable, intending to check the condition of his tack, picking up a brush instead and applying it to his horse's flank, losing himself in his memories as he worked. He could still recall how he'd been drawn to the camaraderie of the Musketeers, the loyalty and friendship a commission offered too tantalizing to resist. It had been the reason he'd worked so diligently in his training, accompanying his friends into dangerous situations, despite the fact that he'd been only a raw recruit. These men had offered him a chance to belong and be part of something larger than himself, the satisfaction he gained from serving at their sides more intoxicating than anything he'd ever experienced.
Their early days had been filled with adventure and brotherhood and, even when circumstances conspired against them, the solidarity he shared with the Musketeers had buoyed him as it had the others. For a time it seemed that nothing could defeat them, the Musketeers' motto proving true as each time they overcame whatever lay in their path, each man's strength redoubled when surrounded by their brothers.
Then the Dauphin was born and things began to shift, the relationship between Athos and Aramis becoming strained, but still intact. d'Artagnan could sense that there was something more between them, but neither man had ever volunteered any information and it was clear that neither would welcome questions from the other two men. Porthos had instinctively reacted to the tension that appeared, gravitating to the Spaniard's side as he had often in the past, ready to listen and support him as was inherent in the large man's nature. Surprisingly, he'd been soundly rebuffed and the hurt on Porthos' face was worse than that of any wound he'd ever suffered in battle, d'Artagnan still able to recall clearly how the man had seemingly diminished in size right before his eyes at Aramis' curt words.
Next came Porthos' need to learn about his father, denied a family from his youngest years, now grasping at the barest of information and convinced that Treville kept the secret he so desperately sought. While the large Musketeer had put on a brave face, the Captain's refusal to help severed another strand of the web of loyalty that bound the men together, the act seen as a betrayal by a man who Porthos had not only followed and defended, but respected and loved.
He'd turned to Aramis for help in the Captain's stead and the Spaniard had made a half-hearted attempt, withdrawing his assistance after only a short time, stating that the task was impossible, but clearly consumed by his own concerns. When Porthos had joined the Musketeers, Aramis had been the first man to accept him, seeing a talented soldier and loyal comrade, where others only saw the colour of his skin. That his first true friend would now turn away from him, not once, but twice, broke something in the larger man and he'd pulled away from them since, possibly shielding himself from the others in an effort to avoid any future disappointment and pain.
The cause of Athos' pain was also obvious, his drinking and moodiness escalating shortly after Milady's return to Paris, the situation exacerbated by her relationship with the King, essentially making Athos her cuckold husband. For a time, all three of them had tried to help, making sure that he didn't drink alone, managing to temper the amounts he consumed, and carrying him back to his rooms on those nights when his demons overwhelmed him. Slowly, as the rift appeared between him and Aramis, the latter left the older man in the hands of his friends until, eventually, d'Artagnan was the only one left at his mentor's side.
At first, the Gascon didn't mind taking care of Athos, understanding the deep hurt that his friend was nursing and seeing his role as a privilege of the friendship that had grown between them; but, when Constance reaffirmed her feelings for him, he could not help but want to spend every spare moment at her side and had reluctantly followed in his friends' footsteps, abandoning the man to wallow alone in his drink. To his shame, it had taken several days before he even realized how much his decision had hurt Athos, the man lashing out at him by speaking against his relationship with a married woman. Rather than empathizing with his friend's plight, d'Artagnan contributed to the discord between them by attacking Athos' drinking, at one point resorting to calling him a worthless drunk who would likely get them all killed.
Wincing as he recalled his harsh words, d'Artagnan wished he could say that he was blameless in all that had transpired but knew that was far from the truth. In addition to his own quarrels with Athos, he'd done nothing to try and ease relations between the other men, nor had he offered his help to Porthos, even though he knew firsthand the pain of losing one's family. In recent weeks he'd wondered frequently if there was still time to change things; time to step in, speak with his friends, and find a way that they could heal the wounds each had inflicted upon the others. But then his courage would flag and he remained silent, becoming just as withdrawn as the others or forcing a casualness that was no longer the case, replaced long ago with awkward conversation and strained periods of silence that had the men departing each other's company as soon as they were able.
Now, it seemed that others had noticed how fractured their group was as well, the Captain splitting their foursome which was something d'Artagnan was certain would never have happened in the past. Additionally, none of them had argued against Treville's orders, more upset at the fact that they'd be working with Red Guards than the fact that they'd be unable to protect their brothers' backs.
As d'Artagnan considered all that had happened, he realized that they stood at a crossroads. They had no choice but to move along one of the paths presented to them, but the question was which one they would choose. Would they fight to return to the kinship they once shared, putting aside pride and hurt feelings in order to forgive the others and put things behind them? Or, would they continue on their path of destruction, facing the world together but alone, eventually drifting apart permanently until the only thing uniting them was the uniforms they wore?
Letting his head fall against his horse's neck, d'Artagnan closed his eyes, hand still holding the brush he'd been using where it rested on the animal's flank. His heart told him that he was not yet ready to lose these men, regardless of the happiness he'd found with Constance. Her love filled an important void in his life, but it would never replace all he gained from his brothers' acceptance. Inhaling deeply, d'Artagnan came to his decision – they could not continue this way and he would fight to make things right between them.