I don't own these characters.
I've seen d'Artagnan cry before. He cries at night when he thinks nobody's listening. He cries when he's injured and too proud to admit it. He cries when he thinks of his father. But I've never seen like this before. Sobbing, drinking, fighting, start again. The humour's left his eyes, the smile's left his face. His passion for his job has gone. He has trouble getting up in the morning. I don't blame him. His friend, his brother, died. Porthos. It's so strange to think that man doesn't exist anymore. He doesn't walk around the streets, doesn't go to sleep or fight or live anymore. And all it took was a finger on a trigger. He seemed to have a presence about him, something reassuring. He'd take my hand and assure me d'Artagnan was fine, and I believed him. He'd never let anything happen to him. He'd keep him safe. When I heard about his death it didn't sink in. Only at night did I cry. I cried for him and I cried for Aramis, I cried for Athos and I cried for d'Artagnan. I cried for the orphans who's eyes lit up when they see him coming, asking for another story. I cried for Treville, and I cried for France. Then I dried my eyes and made breakfast and gave it to d'Artagnan, making sure he eats it all. I should have got to know Porthos better, I shouldn't have let him go unnoticed. But now it's too late.
D'Artagnan will heal some day, but he'll never be the same. There's no guarantee he'll survive the next mission. If they could kill Porthos, strong, brave Porthos, what make d'Artagnan so different. And I spend every moment with him like it's our last. His death made me realise, stopped me hiding in the shadows. D'Artagnan still has the nightmares, I hear him screaming in his sleep. He will heal eventually, he will cover the pain. I don't know how he will, but he will. I'll never forget him though, and the lesson he taught me.
