118. A Little Perspective
Set in Season One.
Mentor: (from the Greek Mentor). In the Odyssey; a loyal adviser of Odysseus entrusted with the care and education of Telemachus)
oOo
Porthos's head was too large.
Aramis's too small.
The wall behind them pulsated like a black heart.
The cot abutted to the wall on his right. No escape that way.
A bank of pillows to his left that seemed itself like a wall, keeping him in.
Grotesque Porthos loomed over him; his outstretched hand equally large. Athos shrank away, rewarded for his effort with a sharp pain in his side.
" … run through," distorted Aramis said, wiping his hands on a cloth that seemed to grow larger by the minute. "An accident."
The walls continued to pulse and footsteps alerted him to another's approach.
d'Artagnan, he knew, but much older.
He reached up to his own face but it was still smooth, unchanged by age, but unusually damp.
The over-large dark-skinned hand reached out and snared his own. He looked up into Grotesque Porthos's face, which leered at him, the teeth blindingly white. Trapped where he was on what felt like a bed of damp moss, he had nowhere to go so he squeezed his eyes shut. The images then were much worse and he bit down on his bottom lip, afraid that if he screamed, he would not stop.
"You're not Porthos," he said, through gritted teeth.
He wondered where real Porthos was. And real Aramis and young d'Artagnan.
The heat was getting unbearable.
His fingers caught at the bandage around his middle and he began to pull, wanting to be free of it. They were quickly pulled away, his arm oddly stretching out of view.
"What happened to d'Artagnan?" he asked. "Why is he old?"
The mismatched heads turned to each other, but did not answer.
"Answer me!" he cried. "Where is he!"
Later, he thought he heard the sound of someone crying softly. He turned his eyes and saw old d'Artagnan, his elbows on the bank of pillows, a curtain of black hair obscuring his face. Not old hair. Not like his face.
He wanted to reach out but was afraid his arm would float away again, as Aramis's head had done earlier.
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d'Artagnan raised his head.
The lines that had made him look old had gone. What remained was relief.
The walls had stopped pulsating.
Porthos and Aramis were asleep. They looked … normal.
Athos lifted his hand. It did not float away, though d'Artagnan grabbed it and held on tightly, as if it would.
"I'm sorry," he said, over and over again.
"What are you sorry about?" Athos murmured, in confusion. His head ached and he still felt odd, but the key to enlightenment was in the boy's answer.
"I nearly … ran you through," d'Artagnan replied, his eyes shining, looking every inch the young man Athos remembered, the grey pallor that had aged him now faded.
A sudden image came to Athos's still-fevered mind. Standing in the training yard and reaching around and feeling for the thin blade protruding through the small of his back. Feeling nothing. He sighed in relief as the image floated away.
"Not a mortal blow," he murmured.
"You ran such a fever, we thought you would not survive," the boy said. "I couldn't have lived with ..."
Athos raised his hand, relieved that it still did not float off.
"Enough," he said, with as much firmness as he could muster. "As I remember, I slipped and you could not stop your forward momentum; that is all. Let us say no more about it." The fever explained the strange illusions he had experienced. Still a little disturbed by it all, he did not want to revisit it. He wanted to sleep.
"Athos is right," Aramis said, from behind d'Artagnan. He appeared slowly and stood beside the cot; "Leave it for now."
He and Porthos had spent a good part of the night keeping d'Artagnan reined in. He dropped a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and looked down at Athos.
"How are you feeling, my friend?" he asked, as he poured a little watered wine into a cup.
Athos thought for a few moments.
"Well, your head is the right size," he sighed, "And d'Artagnan is no longer old. So all is well. Though I cannot vouch for Porthos."
Aramis smiled and shook his head, reaching a hand behind Athos's shoulders to raise him a little and help him drink.
"Porthos is asleep," Aramis said, tilting his head toward the table at the end of the room, where the big man rested his head on his folded arms, snoring quietly. "It's been a long night."
He put the cup back on the table and rested his palm on Athos's forehead.
"Still a little warm," he said. "You had some strange illusions."
"They were anything but normal," Athos agreed. "They seemed all too real. My apologies for worrying you. And, insulting you?"
"Insults, no. Worry, yes, very much so," Aramis replied, casting a sideways glance at d'Artagnan, who looked down.
The fearful look on Athos's face during the night was something none of them would easily forget.
Porthos groaned and eased himself up from his chair, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Seeing the three of them, he grinned.
"Who's hungry?" he said.
Before anyone could respond, d'Artagnan raised his head, looking miserable.
"It was my ..." d'Artagnan began;
"I am glad the blades you were sparring with were rapiers," Aramis said, quickly, needing to say it. Needing to stop d'Artagnan. "Or we would not be having this conversation."
"fault." d'Artagnan finished, defiantly.
"I could eat something," Athos interrupted. He was equally as good as Aramis at interrupting when a conversation needed steering.
Porthos sighed and swung the chair out of the way before slowly walking over.
"Seems to me," he said, "There are lessons to be learned here."
"I thought you were asleep," Aramis smiled at him.
"Yeah, well," he said, with a shrug. "Just keepin' my powder dry."
He folded his arms and drew back his shoulders;
"Aramis, I think we're all in agreement with you. d'Artagnan, it was an accident. And you," he said, giving Athos his best glare, "You sure you're hungry? Serge will expect you to eat what you're given."
"I could eat something," Athos repeated. "And you could finish what I leave when I drink something," he added, giving him an expectant look.
Porthos laughed.
"It's a compromise, of sorts," Aramis sighed, wearily. "Food it is."
"And proper wine," Athos muttered, struggling to raise himself a little higher.
"I'll go," d'Artagnan said, striding out before they could comment.
"He's angry," Athos murmured.
"He blames himself," Aramis said, as he fluffed the pillows behind him.
"We couldn't placate 'im," Porthos added.
Athos raised an eyebrow at them both.
"This is an occasion where "head over heart" doesn't quite fit, my friend," Aramis said softly. "He knows it was an accident, but as the evening wore on, the possible consequences outweighed the logic."
"It was a bit scary," Porthos hummed, as he opened the shutters to let the morning sun in.
Athos sighed. He supposed it was, seen from the other side of his hallucinations.
"I need a drink," he muttered, more to himself than his two friends.
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d'Artagnan came back a little while later with a tray of food, closely followed by Serge, bearing a flagon of wine and four cups.
"Welcome back," the old man said, heartily, looking Athos over. "You gave us all a bit of a scare."
Athos nodded and reached out to take the offered cup of wine.
"So I hear," he replied, watching d'Artagnan, who had yet to make eye contact with him.
After Serge left, Aramis picked up a plate of food and nudged Porthos;
"It's a beautiful day, we should eat in the fresh air," he said.
Porthos looked up from filling his plate and caught the pointed look Aramis was shooting his way. His eyes flicked to d'Artagnan who was sitting at the table, but not touching food nor drink.
"Yeah, good idea," Porthos said, taking a quick look over at Athos, whose eyes were firmly fixed on their young friend.
Balancing a full plate and a cup of wine, he followed Aramis out of the room.
"Subtle," d'Artagnan muttered, scuffing his boots on the floor. When Athos did not comment, he looked across and saw that he was being carefully watched.
Athos tilted his head to the chair next to the cot.
"Sit," he said.
d'Artagnan looked at the chair but did not move.
"Please," Athos added.
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"I understand," Athos began, a few moments later, "That you want to take responsibility for this."
"Yes," d'Artagnan replied, finally making eye contact. "Of course I do."
"Yet you deny me that choice."
d'Artagnan frowned.
"I don't ..."
"I take responsibility for slipping. My boots need repairing. They have needed re-soling for some time, but I have neglected to do so."
"You've been busy," d'Artagnan conceded.
"Yes, but that does not excuse me. A soldier should take care of his equipment, including his uniform. So, how are you responsible for my negligence?"
"That's not ..."
"What? Not fair? Could you have stopped your forward momentum?"
"Well, no."
"Could I have righted myself?"
"Perhaps."
"And if I had, would your blade have struck me here instead?" Athos said, reaching up and touching the centre of his chest. "Your blade would have done more damage," he concluded.
"You don't know that," d'Artagnan said, stubbornly.
Athos looked away, his wine untouched.
"That is true," he said, before turning back and pinning d'Artagnan with an unrelenting scrutiny. "But neither do you."
d'Artagnan was picking at the seam of the blanket that was folded across the bottom of the cot.
"Let us call this, six of one and half a dozen of the other," Athos said. "Some things are unavoidable. We have to learn by this, just as we learn how to control a difficult situation or a wayward horse."
"You are comparing me to a wayward horse?"
Athos smiled indulgently.
"There is something of the unbroken colt in you," he said. "Let us put this behind us, shall we?"
"But your infection ..."
"Was a consequence no doubt of a dirty blade. We are all guilty of that. And that is something we can do something about."
"A lesson learned."
"Well learned," Athos replied, firmly.
"It is admirable that you wish to take responsibility for your actions," he continued, "There is honour in that. But the action was the result of someone else's mistake, in this case, my own, and I take responsibility for that. Allow me that, d'Artagnan."
d'Artagnan did not reply, his head down, his hair obscuring his face, unconsciously now rubbing at a scar on the back of his hand.
"So, we are even," Athos persisted.
He waited patiently, aware the young man was wrestling with his emotions.
d'Artagnan finally looked up.
"Yes," he said, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips.
Athos watched as d'Artagnan continued to rub his thumb across the scar. His eyes flicked from the scar to d'Artagnan's face.
"I gave you that scar," he said, softly.
"As I remember," d'Artagnan replied, "I was holding the blade too tightly, and you said I had little room for manoeuvrer because of it."
"Just so," Athos replied.
"I think I was nervous."
"Well, you have since corrected it. Your movements are fluid now," Athos replied. "You leave me little to correct."
They both sipped at their wine in companionable silence.
"So, you understand?" Athos asked quietly, eyes fixed on d'Artagnan.
"It's not what happens, it's how you deal with it?"
"Exactly," Athos replied. "That philosophy will serve you well."
"Athos?"
"Hmm?"
"I can take your boots to the cobbler. While you are in here?"
A small, slow smile spread across Athos's face, as he settled back.
"Thank you, d'Artagnan. "But no. I have also learned a lesson today and that particular job is my responsibility."
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A/N: A rapier is a thin, light sharp-pointed two-edged sword used for thrusting. Despite it's common usage in the 16-17th centuries, many films set in these periods have the swordsmen using epees or foils. Director Richard Lester and fight choreographer William Hobbs attempted to more closely match traditional rapier technique in The Three Musketeers and The Four Musketeers. Since then, many newer films, like The Princess Bride have used rapiers rather than later weapons.