AN/ A lot of angst in this chapter... but in the next chapter we will come to the moment you've all be waiting for!
Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers
Chapter Ten
August
D'Artagnan was barely aware. He wasn't living. He wasn't even surviving. He merely existed… a hollowed out shell of skin and bone lost in the bowels of the Keep.
With time, even Ramiro had lost interest. The war had moved so far forward that there was no valuable information for him to give, but even brutal Spaniards don't murder their prisoners of war, so he was left alone in the dark, and fed and watered just enough to keep him breathing.
His leg had never properly mended. Half-healed, the shattered bones and knitted painfully and incorrectly, and the throbbing pain from his left limb was his only constant companion… he'd been without decent nourishment for so long that he was no longer plagued by hunger pangs. In the back of his mind, somewhere deep within its recesses, this concerned him, but he didn't have the energy to think that hard, nor to move.
He had devolved into a catatonic state, the only way his brain could handle the complete and utter isolation and unending imprisonment without meaningful contact. Occasionally his thoughts would drift to Constance, to his brothers and he felt such an overwhelming feeling of loss and regret that he had to shut that part of consciousness off too.
All he wanted was for this to end, and he didn't care how.
/\/\/\/\
Etienne rode into camp feeling as if he was coming home, even if he was in the middle of Spanish territory. Truth be told, he'd spent longer in Paris than he'd needed, to recover from his injuries, but Treville had asked him to train up the next round of volunteers before returning to the front. It was an arduous task, but he'd done it dutifully and well, and now he was simply pleased to be back with his brothers at the front.
He was greeted with smiles, greetings, and handshakes as he first dispatched of his horse with the squire at the stables and then went off in search of the Captain.
The place was crowded. As the campaign got deeper into Spanish territory, the men felt less scattered as they had in the earlier days of their march over the border, and Etienne gained comfort from the proximity of so many people.
Finally locating the tent he was after, he shouted out and waited for an affirmative reply. Ducking inside he found Athos sitting at his desk with Aramis and Porthos sitting nearby. The marksman was cleaning his weapons. Porthos appeared to be waking from a light doze. It felt somewhat comforting and familiar to see the Inseparables going about their business together, but there was a marked absence and Etienne winced ever so slightly in remembrance of the brother they had all lost.
"Etienne!" Aramis proclaimed from where he sat. He placed his weapon down and stepped forward to grip the fellow musketeer's hand, with Porthos following suit a few moments later.
"I trust you are in good health?" Athos asked, as he, too stood. A small smile graced his lips at the return of his fellow soldier, although it was obvious that with Etienne came the painful reminder of their loss of d'Artagnan… and Etienne knew he wasn't go make the conversation any easier.
"I'm completely recovered," Etienne replied with a smile. "A clean bill of health was given by the doctors at home."
Aramis looked as if he wanted to ask more about his recovery, but stayed his queries.
"You have news?" Athos asked.
"Yes," Etienne retrieved a pile of letters and files bound together by some rough twine. "These are from Treville. Orders and the like. He put them into my hands the day I departed Paris."
"Much thanks," Athos said as he took the papers and placed them on his desk.
There was a momentary lull in the room.
"There is another letter I have for you Athos, and some news to accompany it," Etienne said hesitantly.
"Yes?"
Etienne paused, palming the letter with sweaty hands.
"Constance asked if I would deliver this to you," he finally said, holding the letter out.
Athos stared at the paper, uncomprehending for a short moment, and then reached out and took it.
"I don't know anything of its contents," Etienne added. "But there is some… good and sorrowful news to deliver also."
Athos didn't speak, but merely looked up at Etienne and waited.
"What is it Etienne?" Aramis asked into the dreaded quiet.
"I left Paris about three weeks ago." Etienne said slowly. "So I saw them before I left, when she gave me the letter."
"Them?" Athos asked hoarsely.
Etienne winced a little.
"Constance and the babe," Etienne replied. "He's about a month old… well two now, I guess. She named him Charles, after his father."
The silence rang loudly within the tent.
Athos felt as if he's been punched. Aramis sat down with a heavy thud as the news finally reached him. They felt the grief come back afresh.
"Did he now?" Porthos asked. "I… he never said anything. Did he know he was to be a father?"
Etienne shook his head to which Athos turned and made to kick the leg of his chair, only to miss.
"As I understand it, Constance had intended to send him a letter once she was sure that there would be no early complications," Etienne explained sadly. "Unfortunately, the bad news arrived before that point in time arrived."
"He never knew he was a father," Aramis whispered quietly. It was strange. Out of the three of them, Aramis had coped the most easily following the loss of d'Artagnan, even if it was because he was mediating between the two fools he called his friends, but the idea of d'Artagnan never knowing of his child hurt him more deeply than he ever could have imagined… opening old wounds of his grief for his friend, but also the pain shared over his own illegitimate child.
Porthos seemed to realise the ramifications the news bore for Aramis, because he moved to place a sturdy hand on his brother's shoulder.
"We will drink a toast," Athos announced. "And then I will review the letters and papers in private."
Porthos looked as if he wished to protest at this last piece of news, but didn't say anything.
Athos pulled out four cups and poured a liberal dose of dark liquid into each one. He passed them around the group and each soldier gripped his solidly.
"To d'Artagnan," Etienne prompted.
"To Constance and Charles," Aramis added.
There was a lull before Athos lifted his cup.
"To Etienne's good health and return," he said. Etienne looked surprised, but saw that the words were genuinely meant.
Porthos looked to the floor and then up at each one of his fellow musketeers.
"To brothers," he finally said.
/\/\/\/\
That evening Athos drank irresponsibly for the first time since they had lost d'Artagnan. Constance's letter was nothing but gracious and forgiving. It seemed she understood his decision more than even he did.
Athos emptied the bottle and sank down into a drink-fuelled stupor. Constance forgave him. Aramis did. Even Porthos, who had kept his silence for so long had forgiven him… But Athos, for all his performance made in the company of his brothers, was yet to forgive himself.