Chapitre 2
"Tonight would last an eternity if that's what it would take for d'Artagnan to forsake his bravado and let his brother's share in the suffering. Aramis would take it as his penance. Porthos would take it as his honor to render help. As for Athos, it would be to lessen his guilt."
The silence was absolutely suffocating. No one dared to speak; the ground trembled as if a warning, reminding them of how precarious the acts of sharing feelings were. Athos and Aramis were never keen on displaying strong emotions, save for romance on Aramis' part. Porthos wore all his emotions his sleeves, they were beautifully placed next to the heart on his decorated pauldron. A solider with a heart on his sleeve. The irony.
d'Artagnan sometimes took after the emotionless two, and sometimes took after the big-hearted one. It was hard to say which side it would lean towards tonight.
Unfortunately in all the wisdom and strength these four had, they still didn't grasp the simple truth of speaking out when they required assistance of sorts. Each preferred to barrel through without any consolation for what anguish it might cause to oneself.
Pity. If only there were just a little bit smarter. If only they didn't outsmart their common sense.
d'Artagnan knew his brothers had seen through his façade despite the best attempts to minimise the toll it was taking on his body. Porthos was right on all accounts, the King has sent his four to be no better than his personal errand boy; delivering missives, collecting and delivering high-brow nobles to scattered places all across Paris. It was tedious, taxing to them and their faithful steads. A large amount of hours being on horseback filled in the time in between with for standing in Court attending to the King's every whim certainly gave just cause for d'Artagnan to feel ragged and worn out.
"Let me see," Aramis finally pipped up at a last giving a firm stare at d'Artagnan's hand. The tone was his usually friendly cheeriness, but it also came with a manner of authority. A medic's authority that one would not think to question. Obediently d'Artagnan set down his wine cup and repositioned himself to face Aramis squarely from his chair. "Tell me if something hurts, and don't be shy about it."
The youngest one nodded glumly. This is mortifyingly embarrassing. He let his left limb be poked and prodded all over. If it hadn't been for the constant throbbing of pain radiating from his lower arm and hand, he might have enjoyed Aramis soft touch a little more. It felt good to have his muscles massaged, relaxing them from the strains of overuse. Aramis did certainly have a medic's healing hands. They were soft and gentle, attending to every detail of hurt, but also at times strong and hard when they need to keep all the important parts inside the body.
"Well? Say something lad." Porthos prompted, leaning in closer watching Aramis work. "Anything?"
Aramis eyed his charge up and down quizzically, taking in all that wasn't said with his facial expressions. Giving d'Artagnan a little encouragment to answer Porthos, the medic gave a knowing soft squeeze on a particularly tender spot of his wrist.
"Ow! Gentle!" he suddenly recoiled at the unexpected surge of pain and cupped his arm gingerly to his chest. "You did that on purpose, didn't you Aramis! Why'd you pinch me? It hurts the most right there!"
Athos beat either of the two from responding, with a strong retort he glared. "Because you kept your stubborn mouth shut. I suggest you learn your lesson boy. Do as you're told. Aramis didn't pinch you, it only felt like that."
Just great. This evening is going fantastic brilliant. As if I need another reason for Athos to be angry with me...he already has a list, it could easily make a few volumes of a book now.
Resigned to being treated like an infant by his three older brothers, d'Artagnan dejectedly grumbled out responses to Aramis' endless string of questions. That man definitely had a way with words and it certainly made the lad squirm.
"And now let me look at your leg" Aramis asked signially he was done fussing over the poor arm.
Curiously Aramis made no questions or comments about how d'Artagnan was faring using an arm and hand that had considerably less dexterity than it once had. He sighed in relief being spared that embarrassment.
"No! Absolutely no!" d'Artagnan leapt up violently from his chair and upturning it in the haste, "I'll not be subjected to more of this treatment tonight. I've already bear enough this far."
d'Artagnan knew he crossed the line. He really didn't want to hurt Aramis' feelings, but there was no other way for him to get out of that stifling situation. His armour of deception dressed as Nonchalance, Pride, Bravery, Laughter were all rendered beautifully useless early in the night with a few well-placed looks from Athos first, then a couple of off-handed comments from Aramis and Porthos finished the deed. All that was left on the skinny lad were his clothes sans doublet or weapons, and an invisible piece scrap metal over his heart called Honour and Dignity.
Aramis was not quick to take offence at those stinging barbs. Sometimes his brothers really thought him being a solider wasn't right for the medic. He had the hands of healers and a heart of goodness.
He's dead. We can afford to be generous.
"Very well." Aramis conceded indifferently and sprawled out lazily across his chair. "Fetch us another round. There's not a drop left even for the flies to get drunk. Show me you can make it there and back with my satisfaction then I will speak no more of the topic for the rest of the evening."
Three pairs of eyes were intensely trained on each minute movement, scrutinizing every muscle. Time slowed to a snail's crawl as d'Artagnan limped his way to the cupboard. It was only a mere ten paces away, but each step felt like a dance upon glaciers; one wrong step and the avalanche would follow. He was the avalanche waiting to crumble.
Armed with the precious liquids safely wrapped in his arms, he slowly fumbled back to his place by the fireplace. Porthos quickly took the load and handed them out fearing for much harm if the boy fell on shattered wine bottles.
"Satisfied?" d'Artagnan challenged with a childish scowl, arms crossed and shifting all his weight to his right hip trying to emphasise his point. He tapped his foot impatiently. Little did he know that one small action would cost him.
"I will be. Show me that same exact stance on the other side."
Aramis raised an eyebrow challenging the scowl and flicked his fingers miming his words. Porthos shot a knowing look to his older brothers and stood up, ready for the impending action. Athos skillfully suppressed a smirk by downing a large gulp. It was a little scary just how in tune those three could be at time.
D'Artagnan hissed under his breath some less than gentlemanly words in his native Bearn patois**and racked his brain for some plausible excuse. But none came.
Carefully and methodically the accused one recreated his movements, as if moving like a robot, to appease Aramis scrutinizing eyes.
"All the way to the left. Put your weight into it. Don't cheat."
He blanched a little at the request. Why were the sharpshooter's eyes just that good in details?!
Athos now stood too. He to the left and Porthos to the right.
Just as Aramis played out the scene in his head, so it happened before him. Sometimes he hated being so right.
Shifting left.
Losing balance.
Blinding pain.
Flaying arms.
Falling forward.
Gasping for air.
"I think you lost the privilege to speak for yer own 'ealth tonight d'Artagnan." Porthos gently deposited the smaller man into the chair and continue, "Now for all tat's good in this world, tell us what's wrong. Don't skimp on the details. We'll know. Trust us. We know. We 'ave eyeball in case you forgot A'mis got 'specially good ones."
Aramis carefully removed the boots and began his medical examination on his lower limbs, d'Artagnan was too focused on the pain to realise what was happening.
"Very well." He panted like a dog trying to steady his breathing. "Seeing as this is going to be a verylong night. I need much wine."
Athos complied and gave him new bottle.
"Speak."
At first the word were bitter and tasted foul in his mouth, he choked them out between swigs of liquid courage. They were harsh and self-condemning words about his plight. He gave not a care to his health at that point, hitting his knees with every word that escaped his lips. True to its namesake, liquid courage loosened his tongue and soon more words came tumbling out.
One after another.
And more one after another.
The momentum of the previous words pulling the ones following behind. They came barrelling out like a wild horse finally free from the pen of captivity. The words revealed came from deep within his soul, ones that his brothers never heard before. Even in his time of recovery and mental anguish they didn't hear of such speech. They knew he was still suffering from the invisible wounds, but not to this grand extent. Oh how we have failed you, lad.
The intense physical pain.
The pitying looks from others.
The dishonour it brought to the regiment.
The drive to regain what was lost.
The determination to better himself even further.
The guilt for having other attend to him.
The burdens others had now because of his sad state.
The resignation to live in such a life.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said so much. It was wrong of me. Chalk it up to the wine speaking hysterics instead." He ended in a whisper and took a long chug draining its contents. The wine felt like a salve to his wounded pride.
Betwixt the older men they were at a loss for words. It clearly wasn't the wine speaking, it was the young lad's heart finally given a voice. It pierced their hearts. Once again it was the wound destined never to close. Or was it so? Time may have exhausted all of his resources, but Acceptance still had her armada of ways. Soon she would unleash them. One would wait with baited breath.
Porthos engulfed the broken boy in a long hug. He could feel the boy relax a little with the tender action. He did not need to speak. His actions spoke volumes. Finally Porthos softly whispered over and over into his hair. "S'okay 'll be okay. We've got you 'ere."
Athos paced the room in fury, how foolish of him to think all would be on the roads of healing. Even he failed to realise the depth of guilt and self-loathing. Him of all people. He should have known better. Aramis grabbed his senior by the collar. "You're scaring him. Sit down. Don't do this to yourself. Not here, not now. It's not your fault. It's not. We are all to blame. We should have taken better care of him."
Athos complied and took a long hard look at his youngest musketeer. He no longer seemed young, as if being with them all aged him years ahead of his time. The sparkle of youth was barely visible in his eyes now. The smile of innocence and happiness had all but faded into one of polite indifference.
"D'Artagnan," Athos chose his words carefully. He now knew how to speak without making a fool of his words. "Why would you say such things about yourself? Do you not realise there isn't an ounce of truth to it? It was your own heart poisoning your mind with baseless lies. We could not be more proud of you. If you were a dishonour to the regiment Captain Treville would have decommissioned you a long time ago. No one should have gone through what you went though, much less come this far as you are now."
"But look at me," the reply came dejectedly, "I stagger around like a drunkard on my best days and shuffle slowly like an aged veteran on my worst days. My footwork with rapier and main gauche are not like they were. My hands cannot handle a musket as easily now." He pointed to his left leg and sighed. "Useless leg. Useless arm. Flopping around doing nothing worthwhile except sending pain to me. I can hardly stand the sight of it."
Porthos butted in, grabbing his hands firmly between his. "Not useless. Not drunkard. Definitely not. We've all see Athos drunk and we know what 'n ugly sight that is." Athos glared at him but ignored the jab. He knew Porthos was trying to prove a point.
"About your firing skill, you honestly do need some work on that, but that's nothing new, you snatch a the trigger far too often. It throws off your aim." The sharpshooter rubbed his beard pensively. "But I know just how to improve your aim. It's not that you can't do it at all; you just need to learn a different way to load and fire. That's all. You definitely can do it. Let me teach you."
Athos nodded in agreement. Hope swelled inside.
"Was that really so hard now? Aramis already has a solution to your skills for firearms. Porthos has more or less tactfully discredited every one of your self-loathing claims. As for footwork and swords, leave it to me. I know what can help you. You are far from useless. I'm offended you would say such words like that!" Athos balanced his elbows on his knees and propped up his chin with one hand. He continued with his speech.
"If nothing else, it is us who failed to see your suffering. I should have seen it, acted on it. Shouldn't have let those spiteful words fester in your head for that long. Forgive us d'Artagnan. We didn't know of your hurt. Never mind what other may think or say, you are far superior to them. The crude judgment and pity is their loss to see the courageous and honourable solider you are. Why are you defined by their unreasonable words?"
D'Artagnan was taken aback with this burst of fellow feeling from all of his dearest companions. Athos, a man known of few words and even less in emotions, showed a different side of his usual stoicism. It made the young one feel grateful his mentor views him in such positive light.
At last the famed marksman added in his final thoughts. "Athos and Porthos are right on all accounts. Listen to them. I will only comment with my medical observations. Despite the severe trauma you unfortunately received. You've done well to recover from it. Relearning muscle moments takes time, it won't happen overnight. A babe doesn't start running as soon as it's born, so why should you hold yourself to impossible standards. As for the pain, you should have told me sooner I could have given you a concoction. Treville would have seen to you being exempt from Court to save your leg from even more strain. I know our skills as a horseman pale compare to yours, so you should have known to take care with your legs. We ride with our legs, not our hands."
"Look here." Aramis knelt down and poked several tender spots on his injured leg. "See this? You've sat for some hours now without boots on and you still have new bruising forming here and here. Swelling here and especially here. Redness everywhere. You need to be careful, especially if standing long periods of time."
D'Artagnan nodded obediently basking in the love of his brothers. It felt like a mountain had finally been shattered to dust, he could now breathe. He wasn't as worthless as they thought of him, they still saw a precious value in him.
So this is what love of brothers and family means? Philia. Storge. Greek.
He understood now. Relief and happiness settled into his bones.
A-N: Bookmark/Subscribe/Favorite for notifications on new chapters. Happy reading friends! There's more chatter and action on Ao3 about this story if you're interested.
Notes:...his native Bearn patois** This is a direct reference to the novel. In the first chapter d'Artagnan's father is described as speaking with this dialect, a regional dialect of Gascony.
I hope you've enjoyed it. Happy reading friends! I'll see you in the next chapter!