Some descriptions of battle violence ahead.
In the grand scheme of things, hundreds of years later when people look back on these days, they'll write them down as a pivotal point in the Franco-Spanish war.
Today, it is just hell on earth.
/
Athos is calm until the day wears itself out, until the battlefield has been searched; bodies, shot, mangled and blown apart, are pulled out and gathered, identified, written down and buried. He is calm until he's covered in so much dirt and grime, up to his knees and elbows, to his hair and toes, under his nails and in his ears, that it feels like even the blood in own his veins hasn't escaped. He is calm until he finds himself alone in his tent near midnight, his feet nailed to the ground from the soles of his boots, unable to move as if enclasped by thick, muscular arms from behind, temporarily numb.
He is vaguely aware that men are gathered outside. He does not know why - he hasn't seen that they have noticed his frame of mind.
There's a basin and a pitcher for him on the rickety desk. A struggling lantern hangs from a nail on the post, filling the tent with more darkness than light, throwing trembling shadows on the dismal furnishings. A worn-out sheepskin on the chair, a plain wooden trunk, a haphazard blanket and pillow on the cot.
A bottle of Bourgogne and a cup.
All these things, the basest necessities they may be, are made ready for him. That bothers him more than it should - more than it has - and now, standing there, Athos feels like a stranger in his own tent.
Normalcy is strange after a day in hell. The silence and the being alone.
He sets his jaw and forces himself to move, wrenching one leg from the clutch of that phantom force, and approaches the desk. Dips both hands into the full basin and watches them submerge, the water tepid and clean, smooth and soothing, but... it is wrong.
Wrong, the water and its cleanliness; wrong, that they have been prepared for him. He may be captain but this, now, makes him feel like a comte and that is wrong – he does not deserve any of this. Not on any given day but certainly not today – not today, when he has failed to protect his men, when he has led so many of them to their graves when he should have stood his ground and not given in to the general and that is an absurd thought but the weight of the day is coming down too hard to hang on to rationality's silken threads.
But his hands are clean now, of the blood that is not his and the mud and the grime. He watches them, steady, lift themselves out and dry themselves on a cloth. Twenty-four.
That is the count.
The Musketeers that died today – the bodies and limbs they've just finished burying. There's a sack lying open just near the flap. It's filled with items gathered from the bodies of his men. There's a silver belt-buckle, and a gold-edged, decorated powder horn. A dozen swords with names inscribed on them, and rings: family heirlooms, wedding bands, treasured gifts. Crosses and gloves and weapons belts – items that once decorated Athos's brave men, now waiting to be sent to their loved ones.
What is left of the regiment is waiting outside. For what, Athos doesn't know because his words to them have already been said, spent as they'd stood by the graves of their brothers. They wait in vain, for Athos, tonight, will not go out.
When Porthos comes to check on him first and then d'Artagnan, he gathers his exhaustion and his wounds around him like a cloak and sends them away. The night is spent wide awake, and from that day on, the captain's sleepless nights begin.
/
It starts with the bags under his eyes. The morning after that terrible day, no one's surprised to see them – most of the men are supporting the same circles under their eyes. But by the fourth day, some of them already begin to speculate that the captain might be drinking again. Yet Athos is as clear-headed, as clipped and distant, and as sharp as he's always been. Sharp, in ways more than one, for somehow, strong emotion always seems to whet Athos like a blade. No one can put a finger on what is different when he's this way, but he is dangerous when he's charged.
Smart men as they are, they get on with their duties, keeping a respectful, if also wary, distance from the captain.
A week passes by, the lantern in the captain's tent lit up until sunrise every night, and the men, Porthos and d'Artagnan at the helm, begin to interrogate Dupond, the captain's young aide, on whether Athos is eating, sleeping, or getting any rest when he is closed up in that tent. For even to Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos has his figurative doors closed. The two men know their third all too well - understand his woe all too well – to impose on him too much right now; Athos had objected to the assault plan on that day. He had been overruled. Not a single soul feels that Athos is to blame but, regardless of any unfounded feelings of guilt, the horror of that battle is already giving everyone nightmares. Athos is hardly the only one having trouble sleeping.
So they give him time and they give him space.
And they worry.
When over two weeks pass, Athos has visibly lost weight and his drawn features have already become a permanent fixture, they can remain silent no more.
/
In the morning, Porthos walks by the young aide on his way to the smithy's workshop, and when he returns the same way five minutes later, Dupond seems to be having his second plate of breakfast. This draws Porthos's attention. He stops, frowning, and that's more than enough for Dupond to gulp and guiltily leave the plate aside and stand up.
"It's the captain's," he explains uneasily, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, "I just went in to bring it to him but he said he won't have it and said that I could."
Porthos scrutinizes the lad for a long moment, then releases him. He has no doubt that Dupond is telling the truth. Instead, he turns dark, concerned eyes towards the command tent. The time for intervention is approaching.
In the afternoon, it is d'Artagnan who goes into the tent and finds Athos's mid-day meal untouched. But unexpectedly, Athos cannot remain unmoved by the naked despair in his friend's eyes, and he takes the first step, quietly admitting to d'Artagnan that he cannot sleep.
And that he cannot drink himself to sleep.
The touch of lament in that sacred confession breaks d'Artagnan's heart.
"How can I help?" he asks, simple and sincere. Athos sighs and closes the book in his hand, and offers him a tired half-smile.
"I do not believe it can be helped."
"Did you ask Establet? Perhaps he can give you something - "
"I have. The result was... less than desirable."
He doesn't say that the only thing Establet's potion did is to remind him needlessly of Aramis. A deep sense of longing fills Athos now as he remembers their missing friend again. Aramis with his kindness and his wit and warmth. He sighs again. Putting down the book, he rubs his forehead - the last thing he can deal with is another added layer of loss. A headache is mounting yet again, as they, too, have become a fixture these days.
"You can't go on like this, Athos," d'Artagnan states, concern bleeding through, "You're going to make yourself ill -"
"I am not making myself anything, I assure you," Athos intercepts, raising his head slowly to look at d'Artagnan. Exhaustion is taking its toll on him. He's taken exception at the suggestion that he's deliberately harming himself.
"Athos, you are not eating properly - " d'Artagnan re-starts, not at all accusatory but-
"Not by my own choice," comes the stiff reply.
"Well, are you trying hard enough?!" the question just bursts. The moment he speaks, d'Artagnan realizes just how utterly petulant that sounds, but backing down isn't in his nature so he stands his ground and waits.
Athos stares at him for the longest moment, his face unmoving, and when he speaks, his voice is even and lordly.
"I thank you for your concern. But if you will excuse me, I have matters that I must attend."
"Athos – "
"That will be all."
The subject is closed, and the Gascon is left out.
He leaves, frustrated, but wows that this is not the end of it - he will try again.
Athos cannot shut him out.
/
"Will you not rest?" he asks, kindly, at another time.
"I cannot."
"Then I'll keep you company."
Athos turns his head just until he can see him with the corner of his eye.
"I thank you. But I do not require company this night."
"Why not?"
"Because I am not good company tonight. Go to sleep, d'Artagnan. You'll be needed alert and ready tomorrow." And he turns his back, the dark leather stretched over his frame glinting red in the firelight.
A mountain of will, daring d'Artagnan to climb.
But Athos has only ever been the one mountain he cannot scale. With immense sadness in his heart, d'Artagnan rises and retreats for the night.
But even though he doesn't know it yet, he has, in fact, successfully worn Athos out. For the reaction the next time is an angry hiss and an unbecoming slap on the tent's flap when he walks in to find Porthos in his tent.
"What is this," he spits, "are you taking turns?"
"What did you expect?" Porthos asks, not a trace of humour or lightness in his voice – the question is brutally blunt.
"Leave me be, Porthos." He stalks past the bigger man to walk towards the desk.
"Leave you to what?" Porthos asks, following, "Spend another night strollin' 'round the camp like a ghost – continue workin' yourself to your grave? The men are worried 'bout you, Athos – we are worried. You 'aven't been yourself since Breisach."
Athos huffs a short, impatient breath, and speaks over his shoulder, his voice lordlier and mightier than ever.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to pick yerself up," Portos puts forcefully. "The man I'm lookin' at, that ain't the Athos I know. You're not eatin', you're not sleepin' – hell - when did you last sleep?"
"When I was able," Athos grinds out, the words enunciated as if talking to a retard. He turns around to look at Porthos squarely in the eye. "I appreciate the concern. But I do not appreciate the implication from both you and d'Artagnan that I am deliberately negligent in my health. Because I assure you, I am not. I cannot sleep."
The unexpected frankness, framed within that rebuke as it is, softens Porthos considerably. He shakes his head.
"That ain' what's botherin' us, brother. It is that you won' open up. This can hardly be the first time you're losin' sleep an' I get it, Athos - I get that with not drinkin' an' all maybe you're findin' copin' hard -" he pauses, regarding the man determinedly staring below at the ground, jaw tight-set, "but if there's one way I know that's gonna solve this, it is to talk."
But when did Athos ever talk?
Predictably, he keeps silent.
"What is it that you need hearin'?" Porthos presses. "That what happened in Breisach wasn't your fault? It wasn't. You warned the general and the Marquis that it would 'ave been a slaughter; it's not your fault they didn' listen - "
"Yet I could have refused to follow their orders. I could have refused to lead twenty-four of my men to their graves. What, tell me, will exonerate me from that?"
Porthos blinks, then nods heavily. There is the source of the conflict, of the sleepless nights.
"You already know the answer to that," he says.
"Yet it is not satisfactory, Porthos. Not this time. I could have refused."
"An' you'd be court-martialled and possibly stripped of your commission - where would that leave us? With Duval as the cap'n?" Porthos snorts.
"I am not worth the lives of twenty-four men."
"Now that is some warped thinkin', Athos, you gotta know that."
"Do I?" Athos asks, almost, almost sarcastically, but Porthos ignores it, shaking his head again.
"I see now why you didn't want to accept Tréville's offer in the first place. Is this what you feared would 'appen? That you'd try to remove yourself from responsibility the moment it became too much?"
The words have all the subtlety of a battering ham. And they quickly produce the desired effect: Athos fingers begin to clench at the sides.
"Careful, Porthos."
"Why? Tell me I'm wrong. No?" He chuckles humourlessly. "I'm gettin' a really strange sense of deja-vu, Athos – I'm really hoping you prove me wrong again but right now, I gotta say it, my friend, what you're doin' is plain cowardly."
Athos seethes. But he does not break.
Porthos does.
Crossing the space in two strides he grabs Athos by the arms and shakes him roughly. "Enough of this," he growls, their faces inches apart, "Athos - enough of this!"
"Unhand me," says Athos coldly.
"No." The fingers dig even deeper into Athos's arms, bruising. "No - not until you pull your head together and start actin' like yourself again."
But he doesn't expect Athos to tense, brace himself and suddenly shove him across the chest – hard -and he stumbles back, wincing as his legs hit the edge of the wooden trunk behind.
As he's pushing himself up, a grin begins to stretch over Porthos's lips. A predatory glint in his eyes, either possessed by the devil or struck by divine inspiration, he crouches, and he lunges.
Then it is a proper, no-holds-barred fist-fight.
/
In the end, after d'Artagnan has run in at some point to break them apart and received a punch across the jaw for his trouble; the men are gathered outside just as they did two weeks ago, worrying about what's going on; all three Musketeers are sitting on the ground, shoulder to shoulder, lips split and noses bleeding, knuckles bruised and breathing hard.
Sandwiched between Porthos and d'Artagnan, Athos is trembling from head to toe.
He draws both legs up, wraps his arms around them and bows his head until his forehead touches his knees. As the tremors begin to ease and he slowly tips sideways, Porthos puts an arm around him and pulls him gently to himself.
In the morning, when he wakes up stiff and aching and huddled under a blanket that hadn't been there, he finds Athos still deeply asleep, slumped heavily against his chest.
He gathers him close, shuts his eyes and says one of Aramis's prayers of thanks.