"To welcome you to the regiment now feels pointless," Tréville said. "After all you have already done with us and for us, you are hardly new to the musketeers. But welcome to being a musketeer in rank as well as in your heart. May you continue to fight bravely and do your duty to France with honour."
"May you continue to get us into trouble!" Porthos raised a bottle of wine.
Aramis punched him in the arm. "And get us out of it, you oaf."
The musketeers laughed. His fellow musketeers. It felt as new and unusual has the pauldron upon his shoulder to call them that, even in his head. He was a musketeer. A real, proper musketeer.
Tréville rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress a smile.
"Congratulations on receiving your commission, d'Artagnan." He raised his cup with his uninjured arm. "I won't spoil the festivities with a long speech. You deserve this night. Here's to our newest musketeer."
"One for all," Porthos shouted.
"And all for one," everyone answered, their voices echoing in the courtyard and dissolving into cheers as cups and bottles clinked and were swiftly drained.
Athos was the first to hug him, then Aramis mussed his hair and Porthos thumped him on the back so hard that d'Artagnan stumbled a step forward. Everyone laughed and cheered and he was hugged and patted and shoved and squeezed by every single man in the garrison, musketeer or not. Old Serge smelled of onions and roasted meat, Jacques the stable boy of fresh hay and everyone else of that mix of gun powder, leather, and steel that always screamed musketeers to d'Artagnan.
This was it, his new world, his life.
His greatest ambition was finally fulfilled. D'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers! Yes! He whooped with joy.
Bernard and Porthos lifted him up on their shoulders and paraded him around the garrison like a prince. He felt like one, looking down at everyone, all those men who'd made this possible.
"Long live d'Artagnan," Athos shouted. Athos. D'Artagnan flushed. He looked over the heads of the crowd, back to where Athos was leaning against a wooden post. Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement and gave him a small smile over the rim of his cup. For Athos that was pretty exuberant so d'Artagnan beamed right back at him.
"Long live d'Artagnan!" All those many, many voices. All those wonderful men.
"Three times three," Aramis shouted. "Hip hip—"
"Hooray!"
D'Artagnan laughed as Bernard and Porthos threw him in the air like a child and caught him again, only to throw him even higher on the second hooray. Everyone was laughing now. It was so good, such a relief after all the intense training and the competition.
On the third hooray, d'Artagnan felt like he was flying, up, up, up into the starry Paris sky. He was on top of the world, the city spread out at his feet, his whole life ahead of him, his destiny—
He landed in a pile of hay.
He sank into the soft, fragrant hay, got it in his mouth and nose and eyes and spluttered as he tried to get out. He paddled around like he was trying to swim, attempting to get to his feet. Finally, he succeeded and pushed himself up, spitting dried grass and probably all sorts of creepy crawlies as well.
Everyone was roaring with laughter, first and foremost Porthos and Bernard who had clearly planned this. Porthos had tears streaming down his face and Bernard was gasping for air so much Porthos had to prop him up.
D'Artagnan tried to look dignified as he brushed hay from his hair. No chance. Athos might have managed, but not him. So he settled for laughing along with everyone else. Aramis sauntered over and brushed a bit of dirt from his pauldron. Heavens, yes, he had to mind his pauldron now. D'Artagnan craned his neck to try and see if there'd been any damage done but couldn't see much in the dim light.
"Don't break him," Aramis said. "I'm way too drunk already to stitch him back together tonight."
Everyone laughed and d'Artagnan gratefully took the proffered bottle to rinse his mouth and gather some more liquid courage. He laughed and drank and chatted with everyone, sometimes drifting back to his friends and sometimes away from them. There were so many people to thank, so many people to celebrate with. This was the best day of his life.
Apart from, well…
No. He shook his head. None of that now.
Porthos beat someone at cards and there were the usual accusations of cheating and it all dissolved into a wrestling match which was obviously just as much of a foregone conclusion. Still, a circle of excited spectators formed around the contestants and for the first time that night, d'Artagnan wasn't the centre of attention.
He took a deep breath and picked another blade of grass out of his hair. His eyes met the captain's. Tréville was leaning back in a chair, taking it all in. He smiled fondly and d'Artagnan walked over to him.
"Enjoying yourself?" Tréville asked.
D'Artagnan nodded. "How are you holding up?"
Tréville smiled. "I've been well taken care of. Nothing that would keep me from enjoying your night."
"I could get you a cushion," d'Artagnan suggested, then immediately called himself an idiot. This was the captain after all and not the queen.
Tréville chuckled and shook his head. "I assure you, it's nothing I haven't dealt with a dozen times before."
"Maybe Aramis could get you…" D'Artagnan trailed off. Why did he always have to keep digging once he'd found himself a hole? Like Athos said, he needed to stop and think more.
"Let him enjoy the festivities," Tréville said, nodding towards Aramis who was now throwing knives at their shooting targets. Because… reasons. There were always some nebulous reasons for what Aramis did. Best not to question him when he was throwing knives already.
D'Artagnan made to sit down next to Tréville on a bench, but the captain waved him away.
"You don't need to stay here with an old man," he said.
"You're not old, captain."
Tréville chuckled. "But I dare say you can find more entertaining company tonight. Go and be with the others. You've earned this. You've made me very proud, son."
He turned to Serge then to have his cup refilled and started talking to the old cook. For a moment, d'Artagnan just stood there. You've made me very proud, son. God, he'd give everything for those words. He'd made Captain Tréville proud. The Captain Tréville. His captain. His…
He weaved his way through the others. Everyone clapped his shoulders and patted his back, congratulating him left, right, and centre. If he'd drunk with everyone who wanted to drink with him, Porthos would have had to carry him to his bed before midnight.
He pushed through the crowd to where Aramis was now facing away from the targets and throwing his main gauche over his shoulder. Still hitting bullseye, of course. Porthos spun him around a few times. Everyone cheered when Aramis stumbled into Porthos' arms like a swooning maiden before being set back onto his feet. All for show, the old liar. He hit the target just the same.
You've made me very proud, son.
His father used to say that back when… before… his parents were always proud of him. They'd be so proud now, if they knew. His father would… He looked back towards the captain who was quietly observing the shenanigans. His father would sit there with Tréville and they'd be sharing old tales from the war and from Gascony and they'd… he shook himself. This was pointless. His father wasn't here. He had to trust that he knew, up there in heaven. That he'd seen everything and that he was proud of him in some way or another. Like Tréville was. Because every father would be proud of his son becoming a musketeer and receiving his commission from the king.
He ran his fingers along the edge of his pauldron. The leather was stiff and new. His father would have loved to see that. It must have cost them a fortune to have it made. It was beautiful, his very own pauldron. And his father would be so proud, so happy. He'd love to touch it and admire the workmanship. And his mother… She'd love this, too, of course. She would… He imagined hugging her. She'd smell a bit like Serge, of cooking. Maybe of her famous stew.
Gascony pig stew. The best stew in the world. They didn't have pork like that in Paris, nowhere close. He had tried. He had tried to explain to Serge and he'd tried to find it in the taverns around town, but it was never quite right. He'd once spent an entire day trying to find the best stew in Paris with Porthos. No chance. There was something about the spices, about the tenderness of the meat... His mother's cooking was so much better than the abominations that passed for pig stew around Paris.
He missed that stew.
He missed his maman.
Oh wasn't he a brave musketeer, missing his maman... He sighed and traced the fleur de lis on his pauldron with his fingers. He was a soldier now. He had to stop acting like a boy.
Constance was a bit like— No, he wasn't thinking about her.
She would be so happy… Did she even know? Athos must have told her. He looked for Athos, but… no, he wouldn't pester Athos with questions about… about his former landlord's wife. Yes. That. No point. It wasn't like he… He was fine. He was a musketeer now, not just a little farm boy anymore.
Maybe Aramis had spoken to her. She liked Aramis, even though she always slapped him. And Aramis liked her. Aramis liked her a lot. But then again, Aramis liked everyone. And everyone liked Aramis. He was never alone. Always the soul of all festivities. Even when they were d'Artagnan's festivities. Because currently Aramis was doing whatever he was doing in the middle of a throng of men and d'Artagnan was standing next to that big pile of hay he had become so intimately familiar with earlier.
He should look after his horse.
The noise was muffled as soon as he stepped into the stables. It was dark and he stood still for a moment to let his eyes adjust. They said Gascons could see at night like cats, but there were limits to these abilities. And it was good to just stand there. The air was warm and full of smells that weren't too different from the stables at home. They'd had all sorts of animals back on the farm, not just horses. But he'd always loved horses.
Désirée nuzzled at him and he stroked her neck in apology for not bringing her any treats. Athos' Roger sidled up next to him as if he just so happened to pass by on a casual stroll around the neighbourhood. Like his owner, Roger was far above begging for treats.
D'Artagnan buried his hands in his mare's mane and leaned against her shoulder. It felt good to have her close. Outside he could hear voices rising and falling, but in here he didn't have to worry about that. He could just stand quietly and think.
His father had picked Désirée for him. He'd been good with horses. They'd gone to the horse market at Tarbes to find a draught horse for the farm. He'd still been on his trusty black-and-white pony back then, but slowly his legs were growing so long he was afraid he'd soon be able to go for a ride and a walk at the same time.
His mare snorted softly when he put his arms around her neck. She'd come all the way from Lupiac with him. She'd been there when… She'd been there when he first came to Paris, as well. She'd always been there. He'd lost everything else on the journey, but she was still there. His last reminder of Lupiac in Gascony, of his father.
He breathed deeply and leaned into her warmth.
It was almost like a hug.
Almost as warm as his maman.
Ugh.
He was not hiding in the stables crying for his maman. Definitely not during his commission celebration. He was really, really not doing that.
It was only…
It was a really, really long way to Lupiac. He was very, very far from home.
Usually, it didn't feel it, but today…
You've made me very proud, son.
He tried to hear the words in his papa's voice.
You've made me very proud, son.
It helped that the captain's accent was similar, though his had been dulled by decades in Paris until he sounded more like Athos and the other fancy pants at court.
You've made me very proud, son.
His papa would have said that. He always said that. I'm proud of you, Charlot. Even when all he'd done was complete a sword drill. Always proud of him. What would he say if he saw him now? A king's musketeer and all…
"D'Artagnan?" The door opened and Tréville stepped in. "Are you in here?"
"Yes." D'Artagnan faked a cough to cover up how shaky that one syllable had come out. God damn it, not in front of the captain.
Tréville walked straight towards him without even hesitating. Good to know that the special Gascony powers didn't dim after so many years in the capital.
D'Artagnan stood up straight, but kept a hand on his horse's neck.
Tréville stroked her nose.
"She's a wonderful horse. And makes a good addition to the stables." He rubbed the neck of Athos' Roger. "Jacques tells me she's getting on very well with this fine gentleman."
"She's pretty easy-going."
Then all was silent and d'Artagnan, for once, had no idea what to say. His father had always said he could talk the ears off a donkey. Well, it didn't feel like it now. Try as he might, he couldn't think of anything to say.
"Thank you," Tréville finally said. "For today, but also for the past few months. It's you who's been the greatest addition to the garrison."
"Umm."
Brilliant, he imagined he could hear Athos say, as eloquent and erudite as ever.
"You saved Athos' life as soon as you arrived," Tréville continued.
"After I tried to kill him." That did seem a necessary addition. It wasn't like he'd planned on saving Athos from the firing squad because… well… he soon learned that he'd been all wrong about him.
"You've been there for him ever since. And Porthos and Aramis, too."
Well, after doubting that Porthos was not actually a murderer and some pretty rocky patches with Aramis, too.
"They've been good friends," d'Artagnan said. "It's an honour to serve with them."
"It's an honour to have you here with us."
D'Artagnan hoped Tréville couldn't see how much he was squirming at that praise.
"Thanks for having me," he said. "Letting me tag along for so long."
Tréville shook his head. "That was more their decision than mine. Those pesky inseparables have a habit of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. Not that there was anything to forgive in that instance. I'm very glad you found us."
Found them to kill Athos for murdering his father. Ended up nearly getting Athos killed, no thanks to his own skill.
"I'm glad they kept me."
That made him sound like some mongrel dog that had strayed into the garrison. Oh they'd like that image. He'd had a dog once, back home. Scrawny little thing, runt of the litter and no good with the sheep, but they'd grown up together, roamed the fields and gotten in trouble more times than he could count.
Tréville's hand weighed heavy on his shoulder. "They're not keeping you around out of pity," he said. "They've adopted you as one of their own. In all their years together, I have never seen them take to anyone like that. You're the exception, son."
Son. The word stung.
"I'm not your son." D'Artagnan shrugged off the captain's hand.
God damn it, why was he behaving like that? He'd just been commissioned into this man's regiment and he was giving him lip.
Tréville took a step back.
"I have no sons," he said. "And I never will. My mistress is France and all she has given me is brilliant young men like you. Forgive an old fool for feeling paternal towards you."
"I'm sorry."
"No reason." Tréville put his hand back on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "My choice of words was preposterous. I understand that this notion carries a lot of meaning for you, especially today."
D'Artagnan sighed and started to braid Désirée's mane just for something to do. Tréville leaned back against a post with a groan, making it clear he wouldn't leave without a resolution.
D'Artagnan tried to last more than a few seconds, but the silence quickly became unbearable.
"I think he'd be proud," he said. "My papa."
"I cannot presume to speak for him," Tréville said. "But you have made such an impression, on me, on my best men, on everyone in the regiment, as well as on the royal court and everyone else you have come in touch with. I could not imagine anyone not being proud of your achievements."
"Unless I act before I think."
Tréville huffed out a laugh. "Athos will beat that out of you yet. And even if he doesn't… it has worked fairly well for Aramis so far."
"Papa used to say that, too." So many times. And no matter how many times he'd promised, he'd never really listened. "He taught me how to do things right. It's not his fault that I…"
"He's taught you well. And your unpredictability is an asset, too. It has already saved your new brothers more than once."
D'Artagnan smiled at the memories. All the times Athos had chided him, but also moments like the fire at Pinon when he had clung to him in desperation and had told him things none of the others had known.
"You'll get there," Tréville said. "We're all here to support you. You have not only won a commission. You have gained a family. This isn't an easy life you have chosen, but you know hard work already, so this is not new. But whatever this life will bring, you will never face it alone. We've got you, Charlot."
Charlot. Little Charles. He hadn't heard that name since… since that day in the rain. Everyone here called him by his family name. Nobody back home had. He'd been Charlot, d'Artagnan's son.
The door closed behind Tréville and he was left with his thoughts. D'Artagnan. He'd started to think of himself as that. At first to make himself seem older and more important and well… he'd been here to avenge his father, to uphold the family name. A few months on, everyone called him that. How many in the regiment even knew his name was Charles? Athos, Porthos, Aramis—Olivier, Isaac, and René, that was. They knew. Tit for tat around some campfire or some tavern table, that's how he'd traded his name for theirs. Nobody called them by theirs either.
It was like that for many musketeers. Some had past lives they wanted to forget, like Athos with his fancy family name. Porthos freely admitted that he'd made up a name when he joined the army simply because they'd asked him for a family name and he'd never needed one before. Aramis was the only one whose first name was common knowledge. Apparently, there'd been a few spurned lovers showing up at the garrison crying for René. Pretty funny considering he was the one who'd actually invented a name to hide from some things in his past. Athos, Porthos, Aramis. They had proper hero names. D'Artagnan… it didn't quite fit. But it fit him. At least he was carrying on the family name. And for that, he decided, his papa would probably be pretty proud of him.
The door was thrown open again and swept in on a wave of noise was Aramis, the handsome Réne, sauntering into the stables like he owned the place.
"Private audience with the captain, eh?" He walked straight past d'Artagnan to his own mare, a horse d'Artagnan's father would have called spirited and who Porthos called something more appropriate for a female dog than a female horse.
"Oh yes, my lovely, I've missed you, too," Aramis said in reply to her nickering. He fed her half an apple and held out the other half to d'Artagnan. "Be quick about it or she'll raise hell."
She would. If anyone beat Aramis at dramatics, it was his horse.
"He really should be resting with that wound, you know," Aramis said over the chomping of the horses' teeth.
"I offered to get him a pillow."
Aramis snorted. "Bet he took that well."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes at him and continued to braid Désirée's mane.
"Is she the reason you're hiding here, the lovely Madame Bonacieux?" Aramis asked.
D'Artagnan bit his tongue. The lovely Madame Bonacieux was the very last person he wanted to think about.
"She told me I had no business thinking about her," he said. "So I don't."
Aramis nodded. "Then you're doing better with that than I usually do. I always need to distract myself." He gestured towards the door. "Come on out, everyone's there to make you think of other things."
"I just need a moment."
"Oh will you stop it!" Aramis' words startled d'Artagnan. He hadn't meant… oh… Joseph, Porthos' gelding, was trying to extract something from Aramis' pocket with his tongue.
"Your slobber, all over my uniform. Again," Aramis chided and pushed the horse's head away to fish out a dry piece of bread. "There you go, you insatiable monster."
He said it in that same fond tone he used with Porthos. Both easily motivated by food, he'd told d'Artagnan once. Incredibly useful at times.
Aramis hummed thoughtfully. "Can take a man funny, the commission. You should have seen Porthos. I think he cried for a week."
"There's nothing to cry about," d'Artagnan said, trying to channel Athos' most dismissive tone.
"I don't know." Aramis shrugged. Great. That hadn't worked. "The end of your life as a gentleman farmer, maybe?"
The end. Because it was, wasn't it? He knew musketeers could retire, in theory. In practice… Would he really go back to planting crops and tilling fields? Put himself back at the mercy of draughts and pests and thunderstorms? After having a taste of this, a life that he could shape for himself, what appeal did Lupiac hold?
D'Artagnan kicked the straw at his feet. Great. Like this day hadn't been big enough already.
"Have you written to your mother?" Aramis asked.
"And tell her what? That she's lost me as well?"
He hadn't meant to snap, but… What did Aramis think he would write?
"You are old enough to lead your own life. And I'm sure she'd be happy to hear about this." Aramis tugged at one of the stiff leather straps that kept d'Artagnan's pauldron in place. "Let her know how well you're doing."
"And what if she's not happy? What if she hates it? Not everyone can be as perfect as your family."
The saintly d'Herblay family. Oh yes, they all heard plenty about them. The gorgeous sisters, the smartest brother, the kindest father, and oh his mother had to be the Mother Mary in disguise.
Aramis chuckled. "They were pretty disappointed with this. Prayed for an abbé for a son and ended up with a soldier boy. Not quite what they had in mind."
"But you always say…"
"…what I want you to believe. And don't get me wrong, they're happy for me now. Worried to no end, of course, but I think they like that I've found my place. And that it's a place far from home."
"Why'd they be happy about that?" Because his mother wouldn't be. At first, he'd had the excuse of revenge, of avenging his father's death. And then… she would indulge him for a while. She always had. Let him have his fun, let him explore. She'd understand. But now… now he was making a life for himself in Paris. There had been no reason for him to stay here, but there'd been much less of a reason to go back home. But she wouldn't want to hear that. It would be personal. She wasn't enough of a reason for him to return. He had France for a mistress now and a new family in his brothers in arms. She would hate that.
"Cause I've stopped getting into trouble," Aramis said.
"Uh huh."
Tréville's grey hairs probably disagreed.
"It's a good story around town. The son that's gone off to fight in the wars, to serve the king. I'm telling you, everyone's quite relieved I finally did something right."
D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Sure. Because Aramis didn't always do everything right. "Bet you would have returned if your father had died."
Aramis sighed. "I didn't even return when I was all but dead myself. My brother came to collect me, Antoine, you know, after Savoy. I could barely speak, but I refused to come along. Refused to leave the garrison."
"You weren't in your right mind." D'Artagnan shook his head. He hadn't been there, of course, but he understood enough to know that.
"I wasn't," Aramis agreed. "But I wouldn't change that decision now. No matter what happened. My place is here."
"But you love them."
"Yes."
"And they love you."
"Yes."
"Then why don't you want to go back even if… you know…?"
Aramis stroked his mare's neck until she snorted impatiently and stepped away from him. "You're no help," he chided. "You see, they are good people, living in a very small town. I've always been a bit too much for that town. And I don't think that's improved. But to them, everything is so much better now. To them, I'm this perfect musketeer. Not the young rascal I used to be. It'd be a shame to take that away from them."
That didn't sound like Aramis at all. "You're pretty near perfect, though," d'Artagnan said.
"I know." Aramis preened and d'Artagnan was pretty sure he was fluttering his eyelashes, too. "But you know how your maman always finds another speck of dirt on your face, or a hair out of place? Well, I don't think she'd see it quite like that if she had to endure me for too long."
Would his own mother? She'd be proud. D'Artagnan knew she would be. She'd love to hear about his commission and all. But… d'Artagnan tried to imagine going back to Lupiac. He still rose early, even in Paris. But then… no morning muster in Gascony, no new missions. Feed the animals, milk the cows, tend to the fields… wake up the next morning and do it all again. How had he done it for so long? His feet were itching, remembering it now.
"I don't think I could go back," he said. "Not that I want to, but…"
He trailed off. How could he say that without sounding ungrateful? He loved his mother, his home, of course he did. But also…
"But you've seen how much more there is to life," Aramis said. "And while your maman might not understand that, I'm sure she'd still like you to have it."
She would. She'd always wanted him to have everything, even if she didn't understand. D'Artagnan scratched his horse's ears. That was one thing. They hadn't needed another horse. A useless horse that wouldn't pull a plough. And where did he have to ride? But she'd been happy for him. Had smiled at him racing across the fields and dreaming of adventures. Aramis was right. She wouldn't begrudge him this.
"Do you think my dad knows?" He surprised himself with the question, but he did want to know. And Aramis was the one who knew about such things. Half an abbé and all that.
"I'm sure he looks out for you."
"Yes, but… does he know about this?" D'Artagnan plucked at his pauldron. "About the regiment and my commission and about the farm?"
Aramis huffed out a soft laugh. "I'm sure he's always known. He doesn't need to watch you from above to know you'd make a fine soldier. He trained you very well."
"He also trained me to be a farmer."
"Did he? You might have gotten good with horses that way, but—Athos might disagree with that—I don't think you learned your skills with the sword threshing wheat."
D'Artagnan's face burned so much he thought he might start to glow like a candle. Had his father always thought he was a bad farmer? That he needed to give him some alternative? He'd been a soldier himself, of course.
"We could go to church in the morning," Aramis said. "Light a candle for your papa. Thank him for all his great work and foresight."
"I'd like that." Because he had to do something, right? A letter to his mother, a candle for papa… he had to do something to make this right.
"It's all paid off now," Aramis said. "All that work he put into you. Here you are, upholding the honour of Gascony at the royal court and sometimes even nearly beating the best swordsman in the whole of France."
He squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder. "You've done very, very well. And trust me, your parents know you're right where you're meant to be."
