Riding Hard – Revised
By: MusketeerAdventure
Summary: Running away was his true talent. This is a reimaging of my very first Musketeer story. Please note: there are moments of dark thoughts and perhaps triggering events contained in this story.
His childhood home was far behind him now; left in the dust as Roger's hooves struck the earth with abandon.
From his perch, Athos held on tight and followed his lead. He put all his trust in the horse, and leaned over his neck in close solidarity. For once, he just wanted to go along for the ride… clear his mind from unrelenting disorder.
However, his thoughts were chaotic, and much like Roger – were racing untethered; riding hard.
Though he suffered much abuse in Pinon, and his energy depleted, Athos held firmly to the reigns. Every bone and muscle in his body felt strained … brittle, stretched to the limit; on fire. Forehead damp with exertion, sweat dripped down into his eyes where they pooled, stung like acid; and then flowed down his cheeks as false tears. His vision blurred. It was getting hard to see what lay ahead.
Swiping the tears and wetness from his face was useless. The sweat just poured from his scalp and slipped down his collar tracing a cool finger along his spine. He shivered … even in this oppressive heat.
Grateful for Roger's strength, he pounded his neck with the flat of his hand in gratitude and encouragement … egging him on. His power had surged them ahead of his brothers and Captain Treville; leaving them behind at some length, but not too far … as he could still feel them at his back; on his heels attempting to keep up.
It felt good to be out front … alone; hidden from their scrutiny.
The air rushed through his hair, billowed through his shirt effectively cooling the heat radiating throughout his body; rejuvenating his waning energy and battered body.
Athos sighed with relief. This moment out in front gave him time; time to think – time to reflect on what transpired in Pinon. The distance between he and them left no room for conversation. It was retreat he needed… a complete withdrawal.
Roger's rhythmic strides galloping over hard packed dirt jarred his insides which churned with anxiety and disgust. He could not leave Pinon fast enough. The death, destruction and heart ache within those borders was all his doing. His many mistakes laid to bear, visited upon a people who did not deserve it. Visited upon Catherine … scarred forever. Visited upon Anne, whose sins perhaps were his to share? And now his mistakes were visited upon his friends, who came to rescue him anyway.
Spurred on by such dark thoughts, he insisted with unyielding force; with pressured heel to flank that Roger press on even faster. The ground thundered hypnotically beneath him. The clouds rolled in, obscuring the sun. Soon night would fall, much like the past so close on his heels, ready to encroach on the present, and envelope him whole.
Leaning over low to feel Roger's heat on his cheek, Athos yelled with force in his ear to "move, move, move". With effort his faithful friend responded to his rider's need to escape; to fly if need be, as running away from demons and ghosts were his true talent. The residence of Pinon could attest to that; abandoned Catherine could attest to that; his true Anne could attest to that.
Amidst this swirling tornado of guilt, without warning, Roger came to a sudden skidding halt. Legs locked straight, as dirt and stone rose up to pelt his face and neck. It took everything he had to hold on and keep his seat as Roger's head bowed and nostrils flared … refusing to move forward.
Hands gripping the reigns Athos closed his eyes and thought for the briefest of moments …"what if?" What if he were to just let go – release his hold, then give himself over to oblivion. "What if?" … he speculated? Wouldn't it be better this way, to just fly out; away into the brush and sleep? To no longer burden his brother's with this weight? To no longer find himself lacking in joy or good character – to instead find peace. "What if?"
His hand loosed about the reigns to make good on this.
But then, Roger danced, sidestepped and pranced to find his equilibrium – he still in the saddle. When he opened his eyes, confused – Captain Treville pranced alongside on his own mount – the reigns just briefly released now caught in his strong grip; bringing both horse and rider under control.
Heart racing, Athos could see the question in Treville's eyes; more than question … for the man knew him well; so turned away from that piercing stare. How could he explain? What could he say to justify this moment of uncertainty? Nothing … for his Captain had saved his life many times over, and so did once more today.
Now slowed from an agitated dance to a slow pirouetting trot, d'Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos rode up hastily to join them. They seemed unaware of the near fatal calamity and encircled him with smiles of good will. "What do they see in me?" he wondered, truly bewildered, as they continued on at a slower pace, Treville now stationed out front; leading the way – his back straight with authority.
Evening fell incrementally around them, and with Roger content to saunter, Athos' mind wandered to consider his friends.
Riding alongside him, Aramis seemed at complete ease; perhaps even arrogantly so. By his standards, to have survived the battle of Pinon was definitely considered a feather in his cap. Chest puffed out, hand on hip, his hat situated at the perfect angle – he brimmed with the aura of energy, verve … life. This skirmish did for Aramis what battle always did, bring him purpose. Aramis in a good mood was a rare commodity as of late. He was glad to see him in high spirits and felt remiss that he could not share in the man's pride.
Behind him Athos could hear the booming voice of Porthos regaling in good humor the heroism of Pinon. His voice, strong and animated bounced from tree to tree and vibrated among the brush. His retelling of the harrowing battle with intricate suspense and solemn nuance bore little of what he remembered of the skirmish. Frowning, he could only recollect the devastating losses and Catherine's visceral hatred; her weapon aimed to pierce his heart. Porthos' optimism; and glass half full nature was lost on him.
Riding alongside Porthos, entranced by every word spoken was d'Artagnan; attentive eagerness written all over his body. His joy of being a musketeer and fighting alongside his brothers for justice was evident in his laugh, his good humor; his faux disbelief of Porthos' embellishments.
He could not recall ever being so young, so open; so free. Athos couldn't help but to smile.
Rotating in his saddle to witness youth in its prime, d'Artagnan's gaze turned to meet his, their eyes locked, and in an instant his litter brother's admiration, happiness and love overwhelmed him. There was no filter and a piercing pain thought only reserved for Thomas' loss filled his chest.
Athos turned swiftly away to concentrate on the stiff, secure back of his Captain. Realization hit home. This boy saw no fault in him and would follow him blindly to his own detriment. How was he to survive such a loss again?
He could not.
Athos kicked the stones at his feet and watched them tumble down into the creek bed.
Trees swayed around him and spoke to one another. Branches curved to caress their cousins; leaves swirled in disarray; and the wind deftly supported their strange communication… their ebb and flow – poetic.
Below him, the creek wound its way deep into the forest, twisting, and turning toward some unknown destination. Water lapped gently onto rock, pebbles and sand. Reaching down, Athos picked up a pebble, studied its smoothness; how small it was, then threw it in the lulling waters with some force… listening for the thump in this near darkness.
Standing still, listening to the trees, he wondered … where this pebble would eventually settle. Would it travel beyond the bend to find purchase along a new shore? Would it drift out toward the ocean and just lose itself among the vastness – at the mercy of strong currents and undertow? Or would it just drop to the bottom – drowned – never to see the light of day?
What was he going to do?
He had been standing here, on the bank of this creek for hours – moody; dark… alone. No one had come to share his company; beyond offering a meal or drink. He refused both, preferring solitude; searching for answers among the trees – who spoke volumes to each other … with no insights for him.
Immediately upon arriving here by the creek, Treville called a halt to "rest."; his authority as Captain obvious to everyone but himself, as no objections was given. "We'll make the last stretch to Paris in the morning."
All agreed with varying degrees of relief and weariness. Aramis said a whispering prayer; Porthos raised his arms overhead to stretch tired bones; and once on solid ground, Athos leaned into his horse on weakened knees to murmur nonsense words of gratitude – Roger nodding in return. d'Artagnan had eagerly approached, absconded the reigns and before any opposition, moved away with Roger – a smile on his lips. "I'll take care of him", he volunteered.
"Kindling for the fire as well." the Captain added, as Aramis and Porthos laughed softly at the vitality of youth and Treville taking advantage of such.
That had been some time ago, as now the camp had taken shape with a crackling fire offering warmth from the chill of evening; the horses tethered… still among the trees; his saddle and blanket waiting for him to lay down his head. But instead of partaking in warmth and rest, he stood vigil here by the creek … wondering about pebbles, journeys, and fate.
Suddenly an odd sensation assaulted his senses. Stillness blanketed the area, stifling the air. The wind paused, the trees stopped talking, the water ceased flowing; night noises of creatures scurrying under brush were muted. Athos frowned, unsure of this phenomenon. Small hairs on his arms tingled and behind him Aramis and Porthos stood – waiting. Along the tree line Treville sat intently examining the full moon – waiting. By the fire lay d'Artagnan – asleep; waiting he assumed for dreams of Constance and adventure.
Ignoring their quiet overture, he attempted to keep his brothers at bay, but the silence of waiting was deafening… uncomfortable; the scrutiny unbearable; the air too still. Compelled to speak, Athos blurted out, "I told him today, that he doesn't know me."
Porthos swiped at his tired eyes. Athos had been quiet … too quiet. He knew this mood and it never boded well, leading to late nights of imbibing in wine or other illicit substances. Was this what he worried over? d'Artagnan? "He knows enough of you to worship the ground you walk on", he stated soberly, knowing these words held little power to persuade Athos from this melancholy.
Shaking his head, Athos turned to face his friend. "That person he worships is not me."
Porthos squinted in the darkness, Athos' face obscured in shadows; but he could imagine the expression of disbelief etched there – that expression that could not believe that someone would care for him unconditionally. Porthos sighed deeply in exasperation – for they have had this conversation before.
"You think because you say to him that he does not know you, that he will not love you." Aramis solemnly intoned. "I think, my friend … it is he you do not know."
Athos bowed his head, thought on this, and after a pause spoke softly, with insistence, "Once I have spoken to d'Artagnan, and have told him more of me; of my self - he will see me for who I really am. Flawed, damaged … weak. I will insist he leave my side, and find a suitable mentor. He will be relieved to have escaped this curse."
"Curse? What are you talking about?" Porthos called out; his nerves now frayed.
"Please, do not pretend" Athos pleaded, "Death follows me like a shroud. Have you not seen it since the day you met me? Did you not see it today in Pinon? I would spare him this as I have tried to spare you."
"But, we will not listen" Aramis murmured softly, "as we all carry some burden, some imperfection Athos."
Holding out his hands in surrender, Athos turned away to listen for the trees to stir; the water to lap against the shore … for the night noises to surround him once again. He needed peace.
Aramis moved forward to counter this silent argument of retreat; but before he could speak – Treville stood and held up his hand to stay him. There would be nothing more to gain from this conversation tonight. So ordered, "All of you; to the fire and rest. We have a long ride ahead of us in the morning."
Without question, the three musketeers made their way to camp.
d'Artagnan reached out to hold Constance's hand; but heard Athos call his name – so turned to see the three musketeers standing by the creek.
Blinking rapidly, he thought himself still dreaming; as everything seemed so still and surreal. He could feel no warmth from the fire; no breeze on his face and no sounds of animal life in the brush. The moon sat high giving off an ethereal glow – shining silver set in onyx. He thought to sit up and question this but then heard his friend's voices and realized he was definitely awake.
Relieved, he burrowed down beneath his blanket ready to find Constance and follow her to whatever adventure lay ahead. Only beyond the fire he heard Athos speak of flaws, curses and death. She – his love, dissipated within the smoky embers; leaving him here by the fire to shiver in despair alone.
Turning his back to the flames, d'Artagnan wondered what this meant. What was Athos speaking of? Was he preparing to leave his side; to break his promise of brotherhood … to train him up, in order to be worthy in the company of the Inseparables?
His mouth went dry.
Hearing footsteps and overtures of "rest" "sleep well" – d'Artagnan squeezed his eyes shut. Aramis and Porthos moved blankets away from the fire to rest among soft moss complaining "the earth here is too unforgiving", "the heat too stifling." Across the fire pit he could hear Athos groaning as he slid painfully to the ground and leaned back against his saddle.
Heart pounding, d'Artagnan closed his hands into tight fists. Aramis was right. Athos must not know him at all if he thought to turn him away without a fight. A sort of anger welled up in his belly; and he could practically hear his father admonishing him for his temper; "to think things through; bide your time, listen to what the man has to say". Unclenching his fists, d'Artagnan decided to take that advice, took a deep breath then said, "You wish to know what I know of you. Today, I saw honor, courage, and love for justice." Holding his breath he waited … afraid of no response.
"So, you are not asleep." Athos answered; his voice quiet and pained.
Rolling on his side to face his friend – d'Artagnan hardened his eyes and set his mouth in grim determination; hoping to show his strength of convictions. But Athos would not meet his gaze; preoccupied with shifting kindling and rising red embers. So he sat up to garner his attention.
"I don't know what you see," began Athos, staring into the flames, "but who you have described is not me."
Brow furrowed, d'Artagnan wondered what that statement was supposed to mean. No other man he knew – except his father – was larger than life, the way Athos was. No one else could ease his temper; scold him compassionately; teach him patiently; accept him … with all his faults. No other showed him through example the importance of justice, King and country. These three his father had raised him up to believe in; and sitting across from him – along with the musketeers was that personification.
d'Artagnan rubbed his jaw confused.
"You say Athos that I don't know you, but I do. Your talk of curses and flaws change nothing about how I see you."
Finally lifting his head and looking him in the eye Athos glared across the flames, and through a clenched jaw ground out, "You know little of me."
Athos' deepened and harsh tone took d'Artagnan aback. His own temper now flaring he stood to his feet determined to be heard. "You are strong than me Athos; more skilled and could possibly remove me from your side. But I tell you this – if you send me away I will come back."
Athos raised his hand to stay the coming tsunami – but d'Artagnan continued now in a louder, stronger voice. "If you leave me brother, I will follow. If you go from me in death, I will not just forget you."
Suddenly exhausted and spent, d'Artagnan rounded the fire pit and flopped to the ground to sit close to his friend. Studying his hands, the fire, the moon he continued tiredly, "I love you brother. Please don't make me work so hard."
Finished. Complete. d'Artagnan leaned into his friend, touching shoulder to shoulder … waiting.
Waiting…
Waiting…
Then there it was – Athos' hand on his neck; a quick reassuring squeeze and a brief kiss on his temple.
Once again the trees swayed, water rippled in the creek, the fire gave off heat and Roger could be heard braying within the tree line.
"You have won then" Athos admitted, nodding slightly. And with a gentle push ordered, "Back to your blanket and sleep. We ride hard for home in the morning."
Thank you for reading this reimagined version of 'Riding Hard'. I suddenly had an idea to try and improve on this story as it was written many years ago. I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave a review to let me know what you think.