War Heroes

7

Today Is Not Our Day to Die

d'Artagnan pressed his gauntleted hands against the door and leaned in, without force, to rest his forehead against the wood as well. Sounds came clearly to him from beyond the barrier; the soft plink plunk of water dripping into a basin, the creak of the floorboards with each measured footstep, even the silence had a sound of its own.

Sighing out a long breath, he flexed his forearms and pushed the door open.

Constance's head turned slowly over her shoulder, the tears on her cheeks reflecting like that diamond he'd promised her, in the candlelight. "I still can't believe it," she said as his arms came around her waist from behind and she leaned back against his chest, nestling her head in the crook of his neck. Her arms folded over his, the wet cloth dampening her skirt.

d'Artagnan felt the splash of her tears, hot against his clasped hands. "I know."

There were no words, only feelings jostling for ascendency; pain was slowly crowding out shock and denial, though guilt hovered like a stinking miasma in the back of his mind. A Musketeer and a war hero, and he'd squealed like a stuck pig. Humiliation was making a cozy nest for itself at the center of the maelstrom of emotions.

"d'Artagnan." Constance lifted a hand behind her head to unerringly cup his cheek. "It is not your fault." She felt that stillness he had brought back from the war creep over him, shuttering his thoughts, blocking her out just as he had done that first night in their bed when her questing fingers had discovered the map of scars on his back. Her eyes closed on a fresh seep of tears.

He said nothing for the longest time, then turned his head and kissed her palm before stepping back. He reached around and took the scrap of cloth from her hand. "I'll finish this."

It was a dismissal worthy of Athos; this side of curt but without doubt, a rejection. Under any other circumstances, Constance would have fought, but her own pain was too great to mount the battle needed to assuage d'Artagnan's. She left the room with a quiet swish of skirts, closing the door noiselessly behind herself.

d'Artagnan did know he was on his knees beside the low bier until his mind registered the cold hand clasped between both his own. "I'm sorry." His breathing hitched as a sob balled in his solar plexus inched its way toward his chest, catching in the back of his throat. "I'm so sorry." His whole body fought the sound, the tearing of his heart, the sinkhole widening in the pit of his stomach, the churning in his soul manifesting as wracking shudders he could no longer control. This was nothing so clean as a sword stroke, it was a rending such as he had not known even at the loss of his biological father.

There would no warming the hand he held this time, as he done so many times beside a camp bed or a hospital cot, no color creeping back into the pale, bearded cheeks, not even the faintest of breaths to count with assiduous intensity. There was no small burning ember yet to fan back to life here; to bargain with God over.

The captain ... minster ... no, regent - was dead. d'Artagnan had gritted his teeth and kept his silence through a flogging, weathered Porthos' crude battlefield surgery with nary a curse, endured torture without making a sound and yet, Tréville was dead because the great d'Artagnan, even knowing what was coming, had yelped at the merest prick of Grimaud's sword.

Shame smelled of the excrement of death as bodily functions ceased to hold sway when the brain stopped the heart. It smothered his senses, clogging the very blood in his veins so it ran sluggishly, affecting every sensory perception in his body.

A warm hand closed over his clasped fingers, a shoulder wedged up against his own and another hand closed around the back of his neck. d'Artagnan fought the need to slump sideways into the offered comfort.

Athos fought back. The hand around d'Artagnan's neck moved slowly up to gently press, until they knelt together, leaning into the sanctuary of one another, heads just touching as that hand slipped back down to knead the bent vertebra. "It was the way he would have wanted to die. In service to his country ... to his king. He never wanted to be an old man, he told me so himself. It was why he turned down the king's request to fill Richelieu's position."

"He might be alive still had I not failed in my duties."

"He put the king in my keeping, d'Artagnan, if anyone failed, it was me. I should not have sent him off with Constance in the first place. I should never have left Louis, period. And then I compounded my stupidity by keeping it from you and Aramis." Athos's voice was little more than a whisper of sound. His repetition was a sorrow-laden sigh, "The failure was mine alone."

"You don't know -"

"It doesn't matter."

"I -"

The hand squeezed gently, reassuringly.

"One of the washer women told Sylvie. She does not know us well, yet." Athos settled his weight more firmly against d'Artagnan. "It doesn't matter," he repeated. "A rapier does not meet resistance against thin air, Grimaud would have known anyway. I'm grateful he was in a hurry and needed the king alive; you could have both been dead otherwise."

"You would have shot me out of hand had I been a new recruit."

Athos' sigh rose from the deep well of shared war memories. "I know you were back in that hell hole. There is no shame, d'Artagnan, in being human. We do not come equipped with the ability to choose when and where we allow memories free rein." Roncesvalles was not spoken of even among the three of them, though it had been a significant turning point in d'Artagnan's willingness to leap into a breach without consideration of the consequences.

d'Artagnan's breath hitched again. He'd dragged his feet as long as he could master the mental capacity to do so, but he'd had one foot in the next world already by the time Porthos and Athos had escaped their captors and managed to free him as well. He did think about Roncesvalles if he could help it.

It had been the king in his arms that had thrown him back in time. To the day he had tried to rescue a whimpering child at the bottom of a steep pit. He hadn't stopped to think or calculate; it had not mattered that the child was clearly Spanish, he'd seen only an infant in need and acted accordingly. Porthos and Athos had been captured trying rescue him. Their escape seriously hindered when the Spanish closed off Roncevaux Pass with the bodies of the dead.

They all bore Spanish scars from Roncesvalles.

The hand around d'Artagnan's neck flexed again, Athos' forehead rested against his temple, strands of hair tickling his eyelid. He heard the word, "Breathe," and felt Athos inhale deeply. His body instinctively followed suit and the memories folded down neatly into their assigned spot.

Time ticked away in uncounted minutes for the two living souls.

"Your knees are younger than mine," Athos said at length, borrowing d'Artagnan's shoulder to raise himself to his feet. "Come." He held out a hand. "We should finish this."

They set to work in silence, finishing the job Constance had begun, of bathing the body. Aramis came, soft-footed, his arms full of candles, Porthos on his heels, carrying clothes the queen had sent over from the palace. One of the new, never-worn outfits tailored for the new Regent.

"No," d'Artagnan said flatly. "We're not putting him in those."

Aramis rolled his armful of candles onto the countertop, turning as Porthos held up the fancy togs for inspection.

"No?" Porthos asked. "He looks mighty fine in 'em."

"d'Artagnan's right," Athos seconded. "No one will know but us and if anyone asks, we'll say he was buried in his full robes of state. He left his coat over the back of the chair in my - his -" he shook his head wearily, "the office."

"It's right here." Aramis collected the worn, leather jacket hanging from an open cupboard door. "Constance must have had the same thought. There is a full set of clothes here."

"What are the candles for?" d'Artagnan inquired, as they began the job of fitting stiffening limbs into clothing.

"The body will remain here in the garrison until morning," Athos answered quietly, as he tied the laces of a shirt sleeve. "We will have the cadets spread word throughout the city, anyone who wants to pay their last respects may do so here."

"Why not the palace?" d'Artagnan forced a boot onto an uncooperative foot.

"Tréville had little use for that kind of pageantry," Porthos, who'd known him longest, stated with authority. "He understood its necessity, but didn' hold with it himself. He wouldn'a wanted that."

"The queen offered." Athos' conversation with the queen had not been limited to who would take over what responsibilities.

"Inviting all of Paris is to invite a kind of exposure we may regret." Porthos tenderly lifted the corpse so Athos and Aramis could slip on the coat as d'Artagnan shoved the other boot into place.

"I know." Athos leaned over to buckle the coat. "It is both his due, and the people of Paris. He is much loved; a war hero in his own right several times over."

"Remember when he made us walk all the way back from Calais, after he caught us fleecing the new cadets?" Aramis unfolded a royal blue cloth cornered with large embroidered fleur-de-lis that had been sent over with the clothes and laid it over the second infirmary exam table.

Porthos snorted. "M' feet were sore for weeks after we finally got home. We weren't doin' it ta' anyone couldn't afford it. I never did understand that punishment."

"d'Artagnan," Athos, his hands under Treville's shoulders, nodded to the feet. "On three."

Porthos and Aramis anchored the cloth as d'Artagnan and Athos hefted the body onto the second table. Aramis began spacing the candles evenly around the edge. Porthos went to clean off the first table and d'Artagnan helped him move it out of the way. The quartet moved table, body and candles into the middle of the room.

"You remember the first time we got paid, as Musketeers."

A smile spread across Aramis' face at Porthos' question. "Gads we thought we were rich! You'd gambled yours away before the night was over." He punched Porthos playfully.

"And you spent yours plucking one'a your pretty flowers out of that brothel."

Athos stepped into the hall to send for Clarimont as Porthos cackled.

"'Member the look on his face when you drove that coach and four through the entrance on a bet? We hadda take the team off'n push it back through in order to get it out. Left alotta gilt paint on the walls."

"Remember the look he gave us when we announced we'd recruited Athos to be the garrison's sword master after he'd turned down his request to buy a commission?"

Porthos guffawed again, slapping his tailed kerchief against his leg. "I'd give anything to see that look one more time."

The mood sobered again, between heartbeats.

Clarimont knocked on the open door and stuck his head around. "You wanted me, Captain?"

"Yes, I need a contingent to spread the word around Paris; our doors will be open all night to any who wish to pay their respects. No one goes out alone though, understood?"

"Yes sir, we'll get right on it."

"I think I will was always remember how incredibly humble he was," d'Artagnan observed. "And yet, he knew his own worth. He would not back down when the king was so angry he sacked him as Captain of the Musketeers. I was surprised when Tréville continued on here, as though he was one of us. Though ... he was ... even when he was captain. I've only ever served under Tréville and Athos, but I imagine that's an unusual trait to find in the army."

"It is," Porthos agreed. "Though I've only ever served under Tréville and Athos, too, I had plenny'a run-ins with general this or that and their aide-de-camps who thought they were better than their masters when I first come to the garrison. Tréville treated everyone as an equal."

"He believed in me, maybe not right away." Athos slouched against the door jamb. "But he did not withhold his approval for long. He was unstinting in his belief in all of us. And I don't mean just the four of us; he believed in every Musketeer. We were better men because of it."

"His dry sense of humor always tickled me when he allowed it out." Aramis leaned a hip against the impromptu bier.

"Yeah, me too." Porthos drifted back to lean against the counter.

Silence crept back into the room settling like a low hanging fog.

"Do you suppose we'll continue on then," d'Artagnan asked quietly. "As the new king's personal guard?

Athos hummed. "This goes no further than this room, as I've been strictly forbidden to tell anyone. However, I'm done with secrets."

Three heads turned in his direction.

"The queen is planning a blessing ceremony to be held at the cathedral once the funeral is behind us. She is disbanding the King's Musketeers ..." Three jaws dropped. Athos held up a hand. "And reforming us as the People's Musketeers. Our jobs will be little different than they are now. We will still augment the Swiss Guard at the palace, but it will be our responsibility to keep the likes of Grimaud and Marcheaux from causing further harm among the populace. In fact, our first job will be to hunt both of them down, along with the remainder of the Red Guard. I do not want any of them brought in alive, though unless you have him dead to rights, you will leave Grimaud to me." Athos crossed his arms over his chest. "I am not asking; that is an order."

d'Artagnan's expressive eyebrow winged up. "We have carte blanche to kill them? They don't have the right to a trial?"

Athos scowled at their youngest. "Fine, if your conscience is bothering you, then you may arrest them if they throw down their arms and follow like lambs. They will die on the gallows anyway for their treason. I, for one, cannot find even a shred of mercy in my heart for the traitors who were involved in murdering Tréville."

"Well, when you put it like that..." d'Artagnan deflected Porthos' swat.

"As much as I would like to spend the night here," Athos shoved off the door frame, "if we are to have half of Paris parading through the garrison, we need to be the ones on guard. We know the faces we're looking for. Anyone entering needs to have empty hands visible and no hoods pulled up. d'Artagnan and I will take the street entrance, Porthos, you and Aramis station yourselves at the front of the courtyard. Make sure you have enough ammunition to win any war Marcheaux and/or Grimaud might attempt to start." He turned to go, stopped and turned back slowly. "Brothers, today is not our day to die." Those words had been branded on his heart. "But should one or all of us fall in the coming days, I will take your love with me to the grave and I hope you take mine."

Porthos, closest, grabbed him around the neck, reached for d'Artagnan and flicked a glance at Aramis, who was already on his way. "Today," he coached as they circled arms affectionately, heads bent inward.

"Today is not our day to die!" In deference to their mentor, they did not raise their voices, but the rafters rang nonetheless.

"You know he's here, don't you?"

A zephyr of warm air wrapped around them briefly, as if another pair of arms, their encompassment broadened by new freedom to stretch beyond the confines of a corporal body, lengthened to accommodate four pairs of broad shoulders all at once.

The Inseparables stood for a moment longer, arms entwined, as the warmth slowly faded away.


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 successor and assigns; the story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.