A Moment
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: A collection of brief moments between our musketeers (especially d'Artagnan and Athos), that would otherwise go unnoticed; swallowed up in the hectic parts of a day to perhaps end up in the recesses of memory – tucked away. Chapter Nine: d'Artagnan finds that loyalty and grief are acquainted with all men and discern no allegiance to color of the cloak.
Thank you everyone for reading; following or favorting this story! Your reviews have touched me greatly. I never expected to write anything that would lead to over one hundred reviews. You are wonderful! Thank you! I hope you enjoy chapter nine.
Chapter Nine: Blue and Red
d'Artagnan stood ready – taunt and tense in his purpose. A purpose, he decided that he would not yield from until told otherwise. Leon held fast on the other side of the ornate carriage, and he was glad of the Red Guard's presence.
His red hair, freckles, and flushed face matched the color of his cloak, which no longer garnered competition or resentment between them. He was now, only Leon – a soldier, like him – fighting to protect King and country.
"Hold steady", he called out to his onetime adversary, who now stood with him as his brother in arms. Today – together, they were of one mind; to survive this and see their friends again.
Inside the gold trimmed royal carriage – the sovereign decoy, Monsieur Lamont, chosen for this role due to his uncanny resemblance to the King, sat stiff on the floor below the seats. His borrowed, silken attire now rumpled and soaked with sweat – stuck to his body and made it hard for him to breathe.
The man's eyes were wide with fear, but his jaw clenched with determination – his courage shown in good stead. Alongside him crouched two of the "royal entourage" – their weapons held tight, as they flinched at each retort of distant musket fire.
But they heard d'Artagnan's order, rallied around his leadership and held steady.
They were under siege – and the outlying sounds of fighting – sharp clangs of metal on metal; musket fire and shouts of rage could be heard out beyond their position. They listened, on the edge of reason and could hear the desperate, reverberations of heated battle, which echoed from tree to tree, and reached them in an ebb and flow of turbulence.
d'Artagnan held back his instinct to disregard orders; to run head long into its throng – to find his brothers; and to be by their side. Instead, he repositioned the sword in his hand and waited – waited here with these four men for whatever may come.
So, he rolled the stiffness in his shoulders and gazed up at the mid-day sun, which beat down on them relentlessly. Sweat plastered hair to the sides of his face, neck and forehead –but he dared not lose concentration to swipe it away.
He held his sword strong in one hand and his musket with trigger finger at its place in the other. He knew Leon did the same and trusted the man was as alert as he. They had spoken somewhat to one another during this ordeal – traded brief histories; and together had promised to hold this position – protect the decoy – continue the ruse.
It's what Athos had wanted; and he would obey the order – even though it went against every fiber of his being.
Pandemonium within and beyond the trees had his nerves on edge. Every sharp crack of a musket had his mind conjuring up images of Aramis fallen – every grunt and cry had him thinking of Porthos overtaken, held down by the insurgents. And every clatter of striking metal had his heart dropping to his stomach, with the taste of bile rising up in his throat.
He swallowed hard, pushed down the torrent that rumbled in his gut and held the nausea at bay.
Above all he feared Athos hurt; bloodied; lost – and remembered his vow to him all those months ago, and berated himself for breaking his word.
d'Artagnan shook his head to let loose the cobwebs of that day; remembered Athos' anger toward him, and knew now his reaction for what it was – worry; for he felt it now. He blinked the sweat from his lashes and bore the sting of salt in his eyes; and blinked all the more to clear his vision.
No – he could not think like this. Athos had assured him before he departed – that he would see him again – soon.
He stretched his fingers out to loosen the joints; clasped the hilt tighter; and rearranged his feet for a better stance. So far he, Leon, and the others had fought off several men – who must have broken through their comrades' line of defense.
The skirmish had been sudden; fierce but over in moments. Musket fire from the "decoys" felled some before they could even lift a weapon. He and Leon fought back to back in sync and with a force that displayed their experience in combat; and outmatched their opponents, if not in sheer will, then in tactics. They never had a chance.
He looked down to the man bleeding out at his feet – which he had run through with his sword - a fatal thrust to the gut. In the throes of death the man had called out for his mother; let out his last breath in a soft sigh – and stared off into nothing.
d'Artagnan had stepped back from him, blood now on his hands; tunic and blue cloak. He breathed hard with exertion – not prepared for his youthful features and wondered who he was – what had led him to betray his King and had his friends met a similar fate?
But that was early on. So now, the four of them stood their ground and listened to the echo of fighting with trepidation; as the sounds continued to resonate around them.
Only hours ago – their detail; one of three decoys for the King's entourage – had fallen under surveillance, and then attack. It was just as they had planned. The eight man regiment of Red Guard and Musketeers assigned to be the lure, traveled on the road back to Paris from the summit in Ars-en-Re'. They had been targeted so that the King could follow another route safely home.
Aramis had scouted from behind, and brought word that they were being followed. The bait and switch had worked. The attack by armed, disgruntled French citizens had come gradually, with much shouting of repressed freedoms – hatred of their government and stray musket fire.
Athos ordered he and Leon to ride ahead with the carriage and find a defensible location to engage the enemy – as the others followed from the rear.
They had done so, and found just the place with water at their backs. Quickly closing ranks to hear instructions – Athos and Roland, of the Guard dispensed orders at a rapid pace – and before he knew it Aramis, Porthos and two Red Guards had mounted, and then raced on horseback for the trees; dust and rock swirling in their wake.
Athos stood then before him – reins held tight in his hand to control his dancing horse – his lips pressed firm. d'Artagnan eagerly stepped to him, prepared to follow. He had thought to ride with him – have his back.
He moved to gather his own horse tethered at the rear of the carriage, anticipated being at his side.
But Athos gripped his arm to stay him. "You and Leon will remain here and protect Monsieur Lamont." Roland nodded his agreement and mounted his prancing horse to await Athos – spinning in circles; his body tense with the need to get moving. Leon locked eyes with his commander in assent.
d'Artagnan stood still and rigid – looked down at the hand on his arm, protest already formed in his mind – on his tongue – ready to argue; but instead he pulled free from Athos grasp and reached for the reins of his horse.
He would not hear it. Monsieur Lamont was not the sovereign – the two men who accompanied – were not the royal party. He would not let him go without him.
Through the trees he could hear metal meeting metal, and knew Aramis and Porthos were already engaged. His heart pounded in his chest in time with the groans and shouts of pain. d'Artagnan turned and behind him, Monsieur Lamont and the "party" hunkered down to the floor of the carriage; and drew their muskets. Leon unsheathed his sword in expectation of battle.
He turned back to his friend with indecision. He had vowed not to forfeit his life – had pledged himself to stand by him in battle and see no harm come to him. So far, in his brief stint as a true musketeer he had done this. Would Athos deny him this now, when he was needed most?
He looked around for some answer; some sign that would tell him what to do – the sky, the trees, to the ground – but found none; and with resignation knew that Athos was right. They must continue the deception at all cost. The King must get back to Paris. He took in a shuddered breath. Was it the King for Athos then?
Athos reached for his neck and brought him close. "Do this", he whispered intently – his eyes soft with affection. He gazed then to Leon also and pierced them both with steady regard. "Do not leave your post until we return."
He cupped d'Artagnan's cheek, and then squeezed his neck quickly. "Soon" – he reiterated.
d'Artagnan grabbed hold of his wrist; nodded back and when Athos released him, unsheathed his sword and watched as he mounted up and rode away – his blue cloak flapping alongside red, as he and Roland disappeared beyond the trees.
This moment of realization for d'Artagnan sort of took on a life of its own, and is a little longer than I thought it would be. I hope to post the second half of this moment next week. Still – I hope you enjoyed it. Please review and let me know what you think! Your comments mean the world!
