Summary: Athos has been dreading this night since the moment he made the suggestion, for in the vulnerability of sleep there is a high risk of exposure, but the war heroes are determined to find their equilibrium again. Like every good military leader he has made his plans and set them in motion. Now he has only to await the denouement.
War Heroes
2.
Night Caps & Night Shirts
(A 17th Century Pajama Party)
The goblet dangling from his fingertips held only water, the elixir of life. There had been days on end where water had been scarcer than gunpowder and lead, and there had been many days when their swords had been the only thing staving off the enemy.
Four years. Four long, hard fought years. The regiment, two hundred strong as they'd ridden through the streets of Paris to shouts and cheers of Vive la France was decimated. Less than fifty remained of the original two hundred, one hundred and fifty-eight comrades dead upon field of battle. Athos had a list as long as his forearm of names and dates, copies of the many letters he had labored over at night when the sounds of the fife and drum had ceased, the reverberations of the cannon fire had finally stopped echoing in his ears and his comrades lay sleeping the sleep of exhaustion beneath the stars, or if they had been lucky, under canvas when it rained.
Athos had prayed for rain every day for four years, with a fervency normally reserved for the fanatic. Rain meant a cease fire brokered by God, for both sides. Rain meant no one died beside him or behind him, or in front of him. Rain meant d'Artagnan and Porthos would live to see another day. He'd been grateful for every day of rain and every day God had spared the lives of his companions; one thousand four hundred and sixty-seven days. He had a another sheet of parchment, squirreled away between the pages of a bible he had opened and closed only to remove, mark, and return the much folded and creased page of days crossed off methodically every night.
Athos lifted the goblet and drank in remembrance of those last drops of water in his canteen. The last drops he'd poured down d'Artagnan's throat when their youngest had caught shrapnel from an exploding cannon ball, the last mouthful he'd used to cleanse Porthos' wounds after Alsace, the last bit of moisture on earth when he'd found himself cut off from his friends, buried beneath the carcasses of half a dozen enemy soldiers, barely able to move, a saber cut on his thigh pouring his life's blood into French soil.
It took an effort to drag his mind back to the present and the coming hour. They had agreed, however reluctantly, that including d'Artagnan's spouse and Aramis was necessary, no matter how difficult it might be. Tonight, Constance and Aramis would join them.
Athos had woken their second morning back, to find Porthos in his bed, the third morning to d'Artagnan in the bed, Porthos on the floor beside them and marveled at the fact he had not woken either time. But then, they had learned to creep in quietly so as not to wake anyone who might have been blessed with the mercy of sleep during their time away.
One expected to experience deprivation in times of war, but none of them had been prepared for the effects of extended lack of sleep. No matter the sentries posted around the French camp, Athos had posted his own, and still slept with one eye open, waking often in the night to listen for the sounds of breathing from his two companions.
Perhaps if he'd understood the precariousness of living in the capital, the trend would have continued. But the presumed sanctuary of the garrison had temporarily opened those impenetrable barriers, allowing sleep to slip over the border and overpower all resistance.
Those first few nights home, he'd slept the sleep of total exhaustion, beyond the reach of the nightmares that haunted them all, beyond the clenching fingers of pain the lingering effects of dysentery had left them with, beyond even the involuntary bodily response to the constant need for vigilance.
Sleep deprivation might well have been the reason it had taken more than a cursory glance to realize there was no sanctuary to be found in Paris.
Athos had only a vague recollection of his initial debriefs with Tréville. Exhaustion had played a key role in that, too, but neither had he expected to remain in the capital more than the day or two it took to gather new supplies and collect Tréville's latest recruits before returning to the front.
In hindsight, he thought he should have realized the situation when d'Artagnan had been imprisoned with the refugees the morning after their return. It had taken the confrontation in the lair of the Red Guards to fully shake him awake to the realization that Paris was under siege.
Their official orders reassigning them to the capital, stamped and sealed by the minister, had arrived the next morning.
Athos rose to refill the water glass from the pitcher from beside the bed, a luxury he would never again take for granted.
The d'Artagnan's could sleep in the bed, he decided, reconnoitering the room as he would a battlefield, he and Porthos and Aramis would sleep on the floor. He had pillows he'd collected from Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan's old rooms, and extra blankets stacked in the cupboard, smuggled in surreptitiously by Constance over the last week. It had taken him that long to reconcile himself to this day, even though he had been the one to suggest it.
The dread roiling in his gut had nothing to do with sleeping on the floor and, yet, everything to do with sleeping. Four years at war had imprinted innumerable brutal memories the vulnerability of sleep invariably unleashed no sooner had consciousness given up the fight. It was one thing to share those nights when one woke shivering as with the ague, with comrades who shared the memories too. Quite another to expose them to others, even those who had once been the closest of companions.
Athos had already decided all weapons would be stashed in the large office cupboard, lest one of them wake fighting the enemy. They'd slept for four years with swords and pistols to hand; that too was proving a hard habit to break. Though considering the state of Paris, it was likely still a wise practice, but he could not take the risk.
A knock at the door stilled his restless pacing. "Come."
Clairmont, the most promising of the new recruits, though he had a d'Artagnan-like ability to get himself in trouble, poked his head around the door. "Everyone's bedded down, sir, the night watch posted and the next shift already sleeping."
"You made certain everyone is aware of the curfew? No one is to leave the garrison before morning roll call?"
"Aye, sir. And posted the notice at both entrances, big and bold like you instructed. But I made sure the command reached each one individually as well."
"Good man. How's the eye?"
Tréville had told him of Feron's latest venture; cock fights. Though instead of roosters, he'd been pitting the cadets of the Musketeer garrison against the full grown men of the Red Guard. Who somehow had missed the opportunity to serve their country on the front lines. Athos supposed all young men could be considered roosters at one time or another in their lives, and knew from experience how easily baited young men were.
"Fine, sir. Constance told you of the incident."
"No." Athos lifted an eyebrow. "Madame d'Artagnan has informed me it is my responsibility to get to know my cadets." That ship had sailed, Madame d'Artagnan was Constance to the recruits and no amount of Madame-ing them would change that. He still had to try. "It was Minister Tréville who warned me of Governor Feron's - shall we say blood thirsty? - tendencies. And to keep an eye on you. Said you remind him of d'Artagnan; a rare compliment, for d'Artagnan has grown into a superior solider. See that you live long enough to do the same."
The cadet blushed to the roots of his fair hair. "Yes, sir."
"Goodnight, cadet."
"Night, sir."
Athos, fists shoved into his aching back, waited until the door closed softly and the firm footsteps faded away before resuming his own pacing. These were his friends, family really, he awaited, yet somehow it was worse than facing the enemy, and that felt like the worst kind of betrayal.
Porthos slipped in first, not long after Clarimont's departure. "Missed you at dinner," he observed, turning so Athos could unbuckle those difficult to reach bits of strapped on armor. "And ya didn' wait for me."
Athos shrugged. "It was one thing to wear amour constantly when we knew we were surrounded by the enemy. I'm finding it extremely irritating to have to wear it here. I couldn't wait to get out of it."
"And your back?"
"I'm fine."
Porthos' scowl as Athos undid the last buckle and lifted the armor over his friend's head was chastisement enough. The twisting and turning necessary to get himself out of his own armor had woken the nesting pain in his back from the last time his horse had thrown him in the middle of battle and moved the bullet fragment again.
Their last battle, at least for the time being, as it had turned out. Athos had reluctantly turned over those still standing of the garrison battalion to General d'Aumont, leaving Frayne in charge of the remaining Musketeers, when they'd gone to follow the trail of the missing General Turenne. Instead of the general, they'd found their missing powder supply. Which they'd had to blow up to keep out of the hands of the Spanish.
But - they'd found Aramis. Athos thought the lost powder a small price to pay for the return of their missing brother. Even if his presence shifted their center of gravity.
"Lie down and let me work on it 'fore the others get here. And you'll sleep in the bed tonight. d'Artagnan and Constance will be sleepin' on each other, no need for a feather mattress."
Athos set his goblet on the small table beside the bed and gratefully stretched out face down on the mattress. Just the heat of Porthos' large hands eased the constant ache that had plagued him for the last six months. A fragment of a pistol ball the surgeon hadn't been able to get to without fear of nicking his spine. Despite Porthos' having knocked the daylights out of him, Athos's subconscious had a clear memory of the hell of that surgery. His recovery was one of those indelibly inked recollections.
Porthos' hands pressed end to end the length of his spine kept him from moving as the door opened again. Constance, carrying something heavy from the sound of her footsteps, stopped just over the threshold. Athos heard d'Artagnan's boot falls stop behind her, then the scuffle of slippered feet as the Gascon nudged his spouse forward.
"What happened? Were you hurt today?" Constance kept her voice steady. Fear had become a constant shadow. Not only for her own safety and that of her garrison charges, but for her spouse and his garrison companions away fighting for the safety of those behind the lines holding back the Spanish invasion, all unknowing that a different kind of fear had staked its own claim in the rear.
"No," d'Artagnan said simply.
They'd discussed this endlessly too, knowing there would be a barrage of questions. There was no way around it; sooner or later they would have to share. So they'd made a list - subjects they were willing to discuss and subjects that were off limits accept among themselves.
"This is an old wound." Not the oldest, d'Artagnan could have added, but didn't, as he set down the bucket of water he carried and took the tray from his wife to deposit it on the desk. "Bad?" he asked Porthos, knowing Athos' new garrulousness did not extend to his own suffering.
"Feels like a hangman's noose all the way down his spine."
Athos was glad he had his face in an elbow as the heat of embarrassment flushed his body from head to toe. Unfortunately, the damn bullet fragment could not be excised from the willing-to-discuss side of the list, it affected him too often.
The surgeon had wanted to relieve him of his command, Athos had flatly refused.
He heard Constance tiptoe over to the side of the bed, felt her skirts fluff over his shirt-sleeved arm and the whisper of her hand in his hair. "Is this why you did not come to dinner?"
He could lie and say yes, it would placate her.
Aramis had called them on their casual lying, though, after the medal incident, sparking a heated argument that had ended in a negotiated truce. They would be as honest as they could, but discussion ended when any of the three war heroes called a halt. The line of questioning also ended there and would not be brought up again unless the party involved divulged further information of their own accord. It was agreed among them there were wounds yet too tender to probe, even lightly, even if it was patently obvious they were putridly infected. No one had the right to force or try to cajole another to speak of those dark, festering places in the soul.
They had also agreed, knowing full well the impossibility of the reality, that truth could be spoken in their midst without offense being taken, or hurt manifested. Though it would not be spoken with anger or malice, hopefully blunting its cutting edge.
"No," Athos admitted, squeezing his eyes shut.
"He carries tension in his back and shoulders," Porthos put in, relieving Athos of the need to admit his back was bothering him because in addition to the week they'd had, the anticipatory dread of this evening had clenched every muscle in his body with the force of a vise. "We ain't exactly been playin' Hunt the Slipper since we got back."
Constance's hand stilled momentarily and Athos felt the small sigh against the back of his neck. "I brought some food if you're hungry. Pasties and pastries," she said lightly, leaning over to kiss the back of his head before she rose.
"Careful there, my lady, or you'll turn me into a jealous man." d'Artagnan's tone was light as well.
Athos heard the booted feet return to the door, followed by the creak of hinges. He needed to remember to oil those.
"And Aramis is tardy as always," d'Artagnan remarked, closing the door gently. They'd been wont to let it slam behind them in the old days, and chuckle at the sigh it had always raised from their remarkably patient former captain.
"Likely found a new inamorata already." Porthos, having succeeded in ridding Athos' spine of most of the knots, rested his warm palms over the small of his back for a few moments. "He went out to get some wine."
Athos was off the bed like a shot, practically knocking Porthos from his perch on the edge. "ALONE?!"
"Uhh," Porthos frowned. "Yeah. You didn't mean for that stupid rule to apply to us did ya?"
"YES! I did!" Athos was already belting on his sword. "Feron is not to be trusted! For all we know, Marcheaux's sniveling weasel has already reported Aramis' leaving alone." He swiveled on a boot heel, his glare touching each of the occupants of the room. "No one is to leave the garrison alone, day or night, including all of us, have I made myself clear?"
"About what?" The door opened, admitting Aramis. The lock snicked into place before he moved to deposit several bottles of wine on the desk next to Constance's food.
Athos slumped against the nearest wall so great was his relief. "You will be the death of me yet," he muttered, shoving back the hair that had fallen into his face. "I just received a verbal slap on the wrist from Tréville for not acting leader-ish enough, so listen well." He straightened, hands on his hips, bringing the full force of his commanding - when he wished - persona to bear. "None of us will be exempt from any of the rules posted in this garrison going forward. We will set a good example and we will do as we say."
"Meaning we're no longer allowed to say one thing and do another?" Aramis inquired airily. He lifted his hands at Athos' renewed glare, taking an involuntary step back. "Just clarifying, mon capitaine, since that was never our usual modus operandi." He tried his charming smile as a follow up.
The glare faded to a scowl, followed by a still resistant sigh. "You will not break this one indiscriminately, no matter the lure of your inamoratas, Aramis. Until we have brought Feron to heel, no one goes anywhere by themselves, not even to the market."
The bleak gaze turned on Constance, who nodded obediently. If Athos needed to rattle his rapier, she would comply. Marcheaux was a weasel, but a cunning one. She'd managed to get herself out of a corner or two on her own, but having raised the man's ire to new heights, she was actually glad to heed Athos' command.
"I know you've been used to going about on your own, Constance, I'm sorry to curtail that, but I'm not prepared to have to murder the entirety of the Red Guard to affect a rescue. Tréville told me about the little stunt you pulled on Marcheaux and his men."
Well! Tréville was turning out to be quite the little tattletale, Constance thought crossly. She'd had secrets of her own she'd wished to keep. Twisting the tigers tail had been one of them. She'd had second and even third thoughts about instigating that plot, but only after she'd pulled it off ... with the help of Minster Tréville. She'd known he'd have to detail the extent of the responsibilities she'd taken over here at the garrison, but she had not expected him to be quite so graphically detailed.
Athos had said nothing to her prior to this, but his retaking of the reins had been evident from his first full day. Young men had suddenly appeared to heft bags of flour, carry her casks, stir her pots when her hair began to frizz in the heat of the kitchen, even schlep any water she needed from the orchard well. She had not realized a cadet had been assigned to her daily until Clarimont had showed up to shadow her for the day, trailing her from stall to stall in the market, confiscating her basket when it began to drag at her arm. She'd turned on him like a scolding fish wife only to be informed, in no uncertain terms, his orders for the day were to fetch and carry whatever she needed.
Constance had been at the bottom of the stairs in the courtyard, on her way to give the returned captain a piece of her mind when Athos had appeared at the top of the steps. Something in his demeanor as he'd started down had silenced her tongue.
He'd inclined his head with that soft, "Madame d'Artagnan," that seemed to tickle every one of the Inseparables when they proffered the greeting, and gone to mount the horse one of the stable boy's had been holding for him at the mouth of the short entrance tunnel. She'd turned in place, watching him go, then shaken herself from head to toe and informed Clairmont, in no uncertain terms, he was dismissed. She'd seen the young man catch her husband's eye, who'd only shrugged, that peculiar gleam evident as d'Artagnan had swept her with a bold gaze before turning away with a smile, to his own task. The remaining Inseparables had been at the courtyard table, parts of half a dozen flintlocks broken down for cleaning spread out before them. Clarimont had parked himself in her kitchen and proceeded to completely ignore her clucking pouter pigeon impersonation.
"Understood." d'Artagnan was first to second Constance's assent, now, Porthos' rumble of agreement coming over top of d'Artagnan's response.
And there it was again, that deference Athos not only accepted, but expected. Aramis inclined his head as well. "Of course we will set a good example."
Blue eyes locked with brown. "As hard as this is going to be for both of us, Aramis, I'm not just your friend anymore. There will be consequences."
The marksman, for whom obedience had ever been a bone of contention, inclined his head once more. "You were never just my friend, Athos." Aramis peeled away the façade he'd learned to present to his superiors at the abbey and spoke from the heart. "You have been our leader since ... what?" he glanced at Porthos, "a week after joining the garrison? If it took that long." He removed his hat, holding it to his chest as he bowed. "I am yours to command as you will."
"Hear hear," Porthos said softly. "Well said, brother." He sketched a bow too. "Aramis speaks for all of us."
There was a moment's hesitation, and then Athos stepped forward, extending a hand.
Constance caught her breath, eyes widening with glee as she clapped her hands. "Ohhhh! I've always wanted to see this secret ritual!"
Aramis stepped forward immediately, placing his hand over Athos'. d'Artagnan and Porthos took steps in and reached out too.
Athos glanced around the circle, then flicked his gaze to Constance. "Madame? You are one of us now, would you join us."
The eyes widened even more, the mouth formed an O of surprise and Constance took, like Aramis, took an involuntary step backwards. "Me?"
"You been runnin' the garrison for nigh unto four years now. N'you're married to one of us. We think that qualifies you to be one'a the new band of Inseparables." Porthos pulled her in by an elbow, laid her hand a top d'Artagnan's, and put his hand back on top.
Constance thought if she did not die of embarrassment, she would surely burst with the swelling of the soul deep contentment they had just given her.
"All for one?" Athos' inflection caught them all by surprise.
"All for one," the answering quartet responded immediately.
"And one for all!" This time it was a quintet and did they but know it, that quietly jubilant intonation set in motion the downfall of one Marquis de Feron.
"Do I get a pauldron and a sword, now?" Constance did not even try to contain the joy dancing an allemande in her heart.
"Don't you have a sword already, madame? d'Artagnan? I thought we'd deputized you to see to your wife's pauldron."
"You mean this?" d'Artagnan, as if by sleight of hand, produced a feminine version of the Musketeer's shoulder guards, though the center of the gold fleur de lis on hers bore an engraved A inset with a V.
"You're not joking ... just to include me." The words came softly, almost reverently. "You really mean it."
Constance reaching to touch the pauldron sparked one of Athos' most cherished memories. Of watching Aramis untangle the buckles and straps of Athos' first pauldron on the table top in his apartment, after accepting a position as the garrison sword master and a long drying out.
"You've earned it." Athos took the plate armor, fit it over her shoulder and buckled the arm strap at the elbow "The queen gave the orders for your commission," he said, grinning as he opened his arms for a hug, leaving d'Artagnan to size the belt and buckle it at the waist.
"As a Musketeer? Commissioned?" Constance hugged him a bit bewilderedly. "By the queen?"
"That's why your pauldron bears the engraved letters A V. It's her monogram."
Constance craned her neck to look down at the molded piece of leather that fit her shoulder like a glove.
"You been doin' the job. Any reason you shouldn't be commissioned?" Porthos lifted one of the wine glasses Aramis had been busily filling and handing around. "A toast, to our newest Musketeer, though no longer the youngest," he laughed, winking at d'Artagnan.
d'Artagnan rolled his eyes as he raised his glass. "To my wife, who will kick the shins of anyone who calls her a puppy."
"To Constance." Athos' grin broadened at d'Artagnan's restraint. "Who makes our lives easier and cooks even better than Serge," he toasted with his glass of water.
"To Constance," Aramis echoed, saluting the still wide-eyed Madame d'Artagnan, even as he wondered what the story was with the water, "whose beauty, wit and charm brighten the garrison daily."
Constance, her face alight with a joy that made three men think she was the most beautiful woman on earth, and one allow that she was likely the second most beautiful woman in Paris, threw her arms around Athos again and hugged him tightly. "Thank you for this, it means the world to me."
"Not my doing, Constance, this was your husband's idea."
She did not quite spin, but she came close as she whirled, her skirts billowing. "You thought to do this for me?"
d'Artagnan gave a rather Gallic shrug; that infinitesimal lift of the shoulders accompanied by raised hands. "It was the only thing I could think of that might show our appreciation for what you've done here. Tréville took it to the queen for us and told us it had her enthusiastic support. She had the royal mint make the fleur de lis for your pauldron."
"You are the best husband ever!" She flung herself into his arms. "Nothing could have pleased me more, d'Artagnan! Not even my own sword!"
"Hmmmm ... not even ... shooting lessons?"
Constance drew back to smirk at her husband. "Well, as much fun as that was, this is better. I never imagined THIS, not in my wildest dreams. And I had some pretty wild ones."
"Lucky for me."
For a moment Athos wondered if there would only be two extras sleeping in his room tonight, and then Constance was passing out of flurry of hugs and kisses again, prettily thanking each of them for their role in her astounding surprise, then refilling glasses and handing around plates as the church bells of Paris began to toll the hour of midnight.
"I hate to break up the party, but -" Athos politely refused the plate Constance tried to hand him, interrupting himself to insert, " No, thank you. The duty roster was posted this afternoon in the common room, no one here gets to sleep in in the morning."
"Whatta' ya call these things?" Porthos wanted to know, holding up a crescent of flaky, golden pastry drizzled with melted chocolate as he put his plate down and went to collect blankets and pillows from the cupboard in the small sleeping alcove behind the desk.
"Croissants," Constance told him, "and that's the last of the smuggled bar of Spanish chocolate d'Artagnan brought home. Do you like them?"
"I'd like 'em a bit bigger." They were finger-sized for Porthos. "We'll find ya som'more chocolate." He was eyeing Athos' untouched plate avidly. "There's just a touch'a sweet to 'em, you might even like 'em."
Athos, whose back had forced him to take a seat at the desk, picked up the plate and passed it to Porthos. "You're welcome."
d'Artagnan's brilliant distraction had worked beautifully. Instead of the hint of discord that had inserted itself wil-you-nil-you between the war heroes and their comrades, the collective mood was warm and celebratory. The Gascon had all the earmarks of a genius intelligence officer in the making.
Tonight they would retire in harmony, the dissonance of distance overcome for this short while at least. And that was a start. Athos was grateful for the reprieve.
Constance disappeared behind the screen Athos and Porthos had collected from Athos' old apartment. He owned the building, and had told his agent to instruct the landlord to leave it vacant on the off chance they made it home alive. Athos was coming to understand there had been a reason Tréville had not kept quarters out of the garrison; he did not expect to be returning to the apartment any time soon.
d'Artagnan, his wife drawn in to his chest, her shiny new pauldron tucked against her night-gowned chest, had thrown off the blanket already when Athos started pinching out the candles around the room. He stooped without thought, biting back the sharp gasp of pain, and drew the covers over them, receiving a sleepy thanks from Constance for his efforts.
Porthos had laid out his bedroll next to Aramis, just like old times; both were asleep when Athos blew out the last candle, stripped to his smalls and crawled into bed himself.
Before surrendering to his own weariness, the Captain of the Musketeers took a moment to importune Aramis' friend, God. No nightmares, no sleepwalking, just ... no crazies tonight ... if you can manage it. We'll all be forever grateful. He did not append an amen, that would be too much like praying.
Aramis' even breathing drifted to him like an old friend he'd been missing without realizing. Porthos' familiar gentle snore was reassuring and from long acquaintance, he could distinguish the soft cadence of d'Artagnan's breathing from his wife's.
Athos slept. And in his dreams the breech among them was whole again, their tattered spirits rewoven, the bonds unbroken.
Further Bent History: The birth of the croissant itself – that is, its adaptation from the plainer form of Kipferl (dating from the 13th century) before the invention of viennoiserie – can be dated to 1839 when an Austrian artillery officer founded a Viennese bakery at 92, rue de Richelieu in Paris.I've just moved up the invention a couple hundred years or so.
This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story are the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself - and Constance's pauldron - are the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
