War Heroes

8

Head Over Heart

"You know better than to treat your weapon like this, cadet. And why are you out here alone? The captain said -" d'Artagnan shied back from a precisely calculated shovelful of dirt.

"Don't think to lecture me when I'm just following in your footsteps." There was menace in the growl that writhed up like fog-shaped spirits from the grave in the early morning chill.

Kicking the musket free of the burgeoning pile of earth, d'Artagnan moved to the edge of the precise rectangle. "Captain's orders, no one is to be off by themselves."

"I don't care and I don't need or want help," Brujon snarled, the next shovelful raining off d'Artagnan's chest to patter down around his booted feet.

The Musketeer flicked soil off the pistol in his hand as he surveyed the silent cemetery. Fourteen open graves. Fourteen interments. Fourteen new crosses. Fourteen casualties of greed and arrogance. Fourteen friends gone forever.

Nine Musketeers, four cadets, one barely-held-the-office Regent. Irrevocable tragedy.

d'Artagnan had just come from the palace, where they had moved Tréville's body. The queen has asked that the Regent lie in state until the funeral at the Ninth Hour. Then they would bury him here among his Musketeers. Athos had decreed it.

The grief was nearly overwhelming.

Porthos' 'we left a clean war to come back to this?' resonated in the back of his mind as d'Artagnan grabbed a nearby shovel, pitched it into the hole and jumped down.

Brujon turned his back and began shoveling on the opposite side. Without giving ground. "Fair warning," he snarled, "get in my way and I'll chop off whatever the shovel lands on."

"Fairly warned," d'Artagnan agreed, and back to back with the cadet, began throwing up shovelfuls of dirt as well, though the grave was already deep enough to accommodate at least two coffins.

They'd worked in silent tandem for nearly half an hour when d'Artagnan felt the cadet cease his depredations upon the earth. Stomping the shovel upright in the soft ground, he brushed his hands on his britches and reached for his water skin, then offered it to the cadet.

Brujon shook his head, though he did lean heavily on his shovel handle, for which d'Artagnan was profoundly grateful. There was not a fiber in his body that did not ache with a wearing intensity.

"Why are you here?"

Dawn had barely broken night's hold, the slanting rays of the sun touching only the lip of scorched grass surrounding the pile of damp, dark earth. In the still, cool light, d'Artagnan met the cadet's level look with a frown. "You've been a cadet for six months and you still need to ask that question?"

Brujon squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't want to hear about comradeship and brotherhood," he grated. And in a rush of spilling words, ground out, "We weren't cut out to be soldiers, we should have stayed home ... should have listened to our parents. We should never have come to Paris."

d'Artagnan, more than bit surprised, swallowed his first response and took a long, hard look at the tear-stained teen. Intuition slapped him across the face so hard his head spun. It took a moment to gather his composure enough to say quietly, "I'm sorry." And resume shoveling.

"For what?" The belligerence could not quite conceal the underlying anguish in the youthful voice.

"If you would prefer I keep vigil at a distance, I will afford you that space."

A trickle of blood joined the grimy trails of tears as Brujon bit his lip, only to be washed away by a new river of tears. "Yes ... no ... I don't know ..." He smacked his forehead.

Perhaps, d'Artagnan thought, in an effort to bring clarity to the raging torrent of emotions that must be crowding the overtaxed mind. Or just as likely, in a useless attempt to rein in the grief clawing at the tender spirit housed in the shell of a proficient and truly gifted cadet.

Clairmont had had the desire; Brujon had the natural talent.

"I should have been with him ... should have ... protected him. It should have been me!" Brujon folded over the shovel handle, his body wracked with low, keening sobs.

Merde! He was three kinds of idiot; d'Artagnan smacked himself mentally. Guilt was a fresh, keenly honed blade, one d'Artagnan knew the slice of all too well.

With an ease borne of extended association with men whose masculinity had never been threatened by physical contact, d'Artagnan knelt in the dirt, elbowed the still upright shovel out from under the cadet and caught Brujon as the youth collapsed in a graceless heap of sharp, boney angles, slumping over d'Artagnan's knees.

Grief was an unpredictable deluge, it came in on a flood tide and ebbed in its own good time. d'Artagnan's own tears - for the tragedy of a young life stolen by a man who had been robbed of his humanity; for Brujon's loss; for the accumulated loss of comrades and friends; salted the new-turned earth as well.

"How will I tell our parents." It wasn't a question, more a cry of despair.

"That is not for you to worry about. I will make that journey with Athos."

Brujon unbent as though time had aged him decades in the last twelve hours, to sit back on his knees. "No, I cannot in good conscience, send another to do my job."

"Then we will go with you."

The cadet rose up enough to pivot on his boot toes and sag back against the dirt wall, propping his elbows on his knees. "No," he said again, flatly, "this is my responsibility."

d'Artagnan dug in his pocket for the talisman kerchief he was never without; it had belonged to Porthos once upon a time. "I believe it's Athos' responsibility, so technically, you'd be going with us." He wet it with his water skin now and, kneeling up, grasped Brujon's chin to wipe away the accumulated layers of dirt and tears. "Are you certain we should bury him here?"

Brujon wiped his streaming nose with the back of his dirt-caked sleeve, undoing most of d'Artagnan's handiwork. "He wanted so badly to be a Musketeer. When he asked if we'd won and I told him, yes, he said ... 'Then we'll get to wear the uniform.'" The teenager pressed the heels of his filthy hands into his eyes again in an attempt to stem the tide of tears that would not be conquered.

"What did you tell him?" d'Artagnan prompted after a moment.

" What else could I tell him?" Brujon attempted to squeeze off the seeping tears. "I told him ... yes ... one day ... brother. I thought ... I thought he was getting ... better. I thought ... it was true."

d'Artagnan pulled the youth back into his arms as the storm intensified again, an encompassing hold that sheltered as much as it comforted. "We will bury Clairmont and the rest of our comrades as full Musketeers," he promised rashly, knowing full well Athos would baulk at passing out six new pauldrons just to have them uselessly buried. Somehow, though, he would make certain that ragged strip of blue cloth Clairmont had worn so proudly was replaced with the sigil of the House of Bourbon.

d'Artagnan rinsed the muddy handkerchief when Brujon drew back again, that filthy sleeve once more coming into play. "I'm sorry," the cadet muttered. "I ..."

d' Artagnan cut off the stammer with precision. "This is not a matter of head over heart." He handed the shabby bit of cloth to the cadet this time, remembering his own youthful pride and the horror of unwanted tears.

Brujon buried his face in the threadbare material for a moment before obeying the implied command. It was black when he held it out tentatively. "I can ... get it washed."

"No need." d'Artagnan took it back, rinsed it again and kneeling up, finished the job.

That kerchief had been used more than once to stave off death's hot breath, wipe away the soot and grim of a long day's battle, it had even been used as a flag of sorts to rally the Musketeers to the Inseparables. d'Artagnan had rescued it the last time Porthos had used it as a tourniquet, it had a long and honorable history, it did not deserve retirement in the dust bin.

And the cadet no longer looked like a face-painted court jester, though his fair complexion did nothing to camouflage the flush of mortification tinting his cheeks scarlet.

They were knee to knee in the narrow space and d'Artagnan reached across to curl a hand around the back of Brujon's neck. "We have all lost comrades and friends in the last two days, we are all grieving, but there is a job to be done still. The ranks of the Musketeers are seriously depleted, and Aramis' effectiveness will be comprised by his duties this afternoon. You are the most qualified of the cadets; I'm counting on you to watch our backs as we tend to the Minister. I need you, Brujon."

"Yes, sir," the cadet replied wearily. "I serve at the pleasure of the king."

"When this is over, if you want to go home, I will make certain you are honorably released from your pledge, but Brujon, it would be a waste of your talents if you choose to do so."

"It does not matter, I cannot go home without Clairmont. And he would not want to be anywhere else." Brujon allowed himself to be drawn to his feet and boosted out of the grave. Burying his shovel hilt deep in the pile of dirt waiting to fill up the deep hole he'd just dug, he turned to give d'Artagnan a hand up out of the earthen fissure. "I will try not to disgrace the battalion with further tears."

"Aramis says tears are a natural fortification of the mind; smething we were never meant to control or stifle of our own accord. There is no shame in shedding them." d'Artagnan waited until the youth had scooped up his musket to sling a companionable arm around the youngster's shoulders, turning them toward the alley behind the shambles of the garrison stable. "You must allow your heart whatever time it needs to grieve for our fallen comrades."

The still- young war hero steered the youthful cadet between the rows of charred and blackened crosses, across the scorched grass.

Changing the subject purposefully, d'Artagnan asked, "You've seen the sketches Aramis made of Grimaud?"

Brujon nodded.

"Keep a sharp eye out and your weapon at the ready. No one will go unarmed, even into the cathedral."

"I can do that."

"Good, I'm counting on you." The repetition was deliberate and more effective than a command.

By the time they arrived at the back door of their temporary headquarters in Christophe's tavern, Brujon had tapped some inner well of strength, squared his shoulders, and was walking under his own steam, though his footsteps dragged with a heavy lethargy.

d'Artagnan sat the cadet at the work table in the deserted kitchen, plied him with strong tea laced with a healthy dose of brandy and set to work preparing a quick breakfast.

Exhaustion, however, had taken its toll before d'Artagnan turned back with the steaming omelet. Brujon was asleep, head resting on a crooked elbow.

Silently, d'Artagnan stepped over the bench to sit down beside him, eased the tea mug from inside the lax fingers and began to eat. It was not that he did not grieve every loss the garrison had suffered, but he had learned to grieve on the move. Between burying the dead and cleaning weapons, before the next call to leap into volleys of deadly cannon fire, around bedside vigils, strafing lead and perilous pikes. d'Artagnan had lived in a perpetual state of mourning since his first encounter on the battlefield.

If he could afford Brujon an hour's rest in the middle of this war, perhaps even stretch it to two, he would spare the time to keep him company.

Aramis stuck his head around the door. "Ah, there-"

d'Artagnan cut him off with a sharp slash of his bladed hand.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "- you are." He did at least lower his voice. "I wondered where you'd got off to this morning so early." He scrounged a fork and helped himself to Brujon's morning meal, blithely ignoring d'Artagnan's scowl.

He'd kept up his sign language skills by teaching it to the children, so he had no trouble interpreting d'Artagnan shooing him off, nor understanding the silently voiced, 'go away.' He was rather amused that Athos' protégé was fulfilling the early promise of leadership, issuing orders as though he was already in command of the garrison. That did not mean, however, he had any intention of complying with those commands.

"He was out digging well before dawn." Aramis slid onto the bench across from the pair, commandeered the plate and proceeded to devour d'Artagnan's culinary efforts with gusto. "He's dead to the world."

"Not the best choice of words at the moment." d'Artagnan's scowl shape-shifted into a glare. "You knew he was out alone and you didn't tell me?"

"He needed to be alone; digging kept him busy." Aramis filched the mug of brandy-laced tea as well. "Porthos and I took it in turns to keep an eye on him."

d'Artagnan grunted , only slightly mollified. "I wish you'd told me."

"We had other business to attend to and you wouldn't have left him alone." Aramis, having finished his second breakfast, rose and went to rinse the plate and tankard in the wash tub. He set them to dry on the towel laid on the counter, continuing quietly, "You know Brujon is only here because Clairmont up and left the village to join the army."

"He never told me that, but I gathered as much from our conversation this morning. Did he tell you?"

"No, I got from it Porthos, who heard it from Tréville, and shared it with me one of the times we were watching the two of you training in the courtyard." Aramis turned back to the table. "You know they're both titled? Younger sons of the nobility, so just courtesy titles, but still..."

"Uh - no; didn't know that either. Nor would I have guessed. Neither of them have that indefinable air of authority Athos wears like a second skin."

"That would be because Athos is a true comte, having inherited his title when he was barely into his teens. No responsibilities devolve to a courtesy title."

d'Artagnan shrugged. "There were no airs, no expectations of special privileges."

"No, they're good kids. Too bad they joined up at the wrong time. I think Brujon is going to have a hard time adjusting to life without Clairmont."

d'Artagnan only shrugged at the speculative look Aramis cast his direction. "I'd have a hard time adjusting, too, if you or Porthos or Athos had been killed in that blast. By the way, I need Athos, would you find him, please, and ask him to spare me a moment."

Again with the commands; it certainly hadn't been inflected like a question, despite the phrasing. "Sure," Aramis replied, taunting d'Artagnan with an inexplicable grin. "I don't think he's broken his fast, he might come quicker if I tell him you're cooking." It had been the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen that had drawn Aramis. Yet another change among the new Inseparables - d'Artagnan had barely been able to boil water prior to Aramis' sojourn in Douai. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"Andorra," d'Artagnan said briefly, and without inflection.

Aramis' curiosity spiked; he had not expected a precise location. "What happened in Andorra?"

d'Artagnan's lips tightened. "Porthos and Athos were wounded."

Aramis sat down again, careful not disturb the sleeping cadet. "And for that reason you learned to cook?"

The dark eyes slid away on a sigh. "The medical tents were always at the back of the lines and for the first year, our camp was always on the front lines. There was ..." d'Artagnan's gaze lost focus. "There was some rivalry among the ranks. We were considered the dilettantes, come late to the ball in order to cause a stir. And, to be honest, few of us had as much battle experience as those in the core of the army. More than the conscripted, but far less than the Swiss mercenaries and the generals' own battalions. For Athos, it was a long battle of wills; I did not realize war was equally about internal as well as external politics. I thought he was going to be cashiered any number of times."

d'Artagnan fell silent. Aramis got up and refilled the mug with straight brandy, setting it with care in front of his brother. No one had spoken of this, though it shed some light on the authority Athos commanded without thought.

"Where was I?" d'Artagnan pulled his attention back to his immediate surroundings. "Andorra." He took a deep, silent breath before continuing soberly, "It just so happened that Athos got himself shot off his horse and Porthos stepped on a bit of fragile, unexploded ordinance that suddenly found new life and nearly took off his leg. It was often easier and far less time consuming to cook near the wounded. Lots of companies did it, but no one in our unit had that skill, so I asked Serge to teach anyone who was willing to learn. It meant we could make sure our wounded were getting the care they needed. We'd all been around you long enough to have picked up a few pointers along the way, so we just needed to learn to cook."

"Porthos would have lost his foot if d'Artagnan hadn't brilliantly maneuvered the surgeons," Athos said quietly, reaching over Aramis' shoulder to take the mug sitting in the middle of the table.

Neither of the seated Musketeers had heard him enter.

He made a face, turned and dumped out the brandy before refilling it from the tea kettle nestled among the hearth coals. "Are we telling war stories?" He moved around the table to take a seat beside d'Artagnan, eyeing him before flicking his gaze to Brujon with a raised eyebrow.

"Up all night with Clarimont, then grave digging."

"Alone?"

"No," Aramis put in hurriedly, "Porthos and I took turns keeping an eye on him."

Athos sighed. "I had a detail on that."

"Yes, but Brujon refused their help when they finished."

" Absolon, Louvel and Clarimont during the night. Marrock and Raulf probably will not live through the day." Athos was careful not to jar the tabletop as he planted his elbows and dropped his head in his hands. "Constance thinks there may be more."

"Who?" Aramis asked sharply.

"Devereux almost for certain, possibly Fiacre and Étienne," d'Artagnan supplied. "She's concerned for Franck as well."

"Dev? I thought the amputation had gone well?" Athos had stolen an hour from their midnight vigil to make the rounds of the wounded.

"Sylvie says the bleeding has started again, he's slipped back into insensibility," Aramis reported. "A blessing actually. We've gone through both the king's and Feron's personal pain arsenals already. I've men searching out every Paris apothecary we can find, but it's too little too late. Those first hours are crucial."

"How come nobody tol' me we were havin' a meetin'?" Porthos sniffed the air as he entered the room. "Wha's cookin'?"

"Shhhhhhh." d'Artagnan lifted an arm to point down at the sleeping cadet in their midst as Porthos slid onto the bench next to Aramis.

"Oh," Porthos stage whispered, "didn't notice 'em. Athos, when do we have'ta leave?"

"We need to be at the palace by sun high. The funeral is scheduled for 3:00 o'clock."

Aramis looked up from fiddling with a loose splinter in the table. "Very biblical. Who chose that hour?"

"I did. And I intended it to be significant." Athos swallowed the rest of the tea in the cup and set it back on the table. "The war might not be over yet, but it's been Tréville's hand that has safely guided France to an eminent victory. I wish he had lived to see it come to fruition." He rose, squeezing d'Artagnan's shoulder. "When this is done, we will bury own, then end this with Grimaud."

"Athos, about that ..."

Athos arched an eyebrow when d'Artagnan trailed off. "About what?"

"I need ... four pauldrons."

"Only four?" Athos inquired dryly, his gaze flitting to Brujon.

"Not for him; for Clairmont and the rest of the cadets. They deserve to be buried as Musketeers."

"You're right," Athos replied, surprising his protégé, though in the next instant he thoroughly dashed d'Artagnan's hopes. "But the extras we had were locked away in the armory."

"Used our own ordinance to set the first bomb there," Porthos said gloomily. "Nothing but splinters left. Though I did find a strong box, kicking through the wreckage of the barracks."

"A strong box? Constance had one she brought with her from the Bonacieux residence."

"Thought it might be hers. I left it on the bar in the tavern, didn't see her anywhere."

"Last I saw her, she was on her way to the cellar to relieve Elodie," Aramis pushed off the table.

"I looked around where I found the box, but didn't find no key."

"It may be on that key ring she carries around, not that it matters." d'Artagnan did not much care about the box, though it was at least a momentary diversion. "I don't think she kept anything valuable in it."

"We can always pry it open if she wants," Aramis remarked. "Any orders for us, Captain?" He followed Athos to the door.

"Keep this place intact, stay out of trouble and be at the palace at noon. I will meet you at the Louvre if I am not back before then."

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan half started up from the bench, intending to follow as well, but Brujon stirred and he sank back down. "Athos, you can't go searching for Grimaud alone!"

The captain's lips twitched with nearly the same smile Aramis had tossed at d'Artagnan. "You are not yet Captain of the Musketeers, brother. But as it happens I have too much to do to go hunting Grimaud before the conclusion of this afternoon's business." Athos tipped his hat and pushed open the door.

Aramis, with a glance over his shoulder, assured them Athos would have a shadow whether he liked it or not. d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'll stay here, if ya wanna take the box to Constance," Porthos offered, rising to scrounge bread and cheese from among the food supplies sent over from the palace kitchens.

"There's nothing in it but her old marriage ring and some dried flowers she carried at our wedding."

"It was a lot heavier than those couple'a things would indicate," Porthos tossed back conversationally. "Maybe she saved up a fortune while we were gone. Go find out, 'cause she's not stealin' my livres to feed us again if she's sitting on a tidy pile of her own." He added a grin to his voice lest d'Artagnan take offense to his teasing, though Porthos was dead serious. He had recently discovered a grand reason to save his hard-earned money. Her name was Marie-Cessette, and her mother was going to be his wife, though Elodie did not know that quite yet. "I'll look after your nestling; make sure to wake and feed 'em 'fore it's time to leave."

d'Artagnan hesitated. "He's having a hard time."

Porthos squinted across the table as he sat down again. "Dried a few'a your tears in my day, pup; you oughta know a wet shoulder don't scare me." And just laughed at the half-hearted, under-the-table kick. "Christophe'll have somp'in you can use fer a pry bar if the key is lost," he added by way of encouraging d'Artagnan out the door.

The metal box d'Artagnan found on the end of the bar was a lot heavier than he expected. He hefted it and headed for the cellar stairs, though the door creaked open as he reached for it. Constance, a basin of dark water on one hip and bundle of sheets under the opposite arm, appeared on the threshold. d'Artagnan snatched at the heavy door she was bracing with a foot and dropped the box to take her burdens. It clattered to the floor with a distinctively heavy thump.

"That needs to get emptied out back," Constance informed her spouse. "Dev's gone," she added matter-of-factly. "God, in His mercy, took him gently." The former lady-in-waiting puffed out a breath to blow back the hair sticking to her forehead. "d'Artganan-" she reached out to stay her husband with a hand on his forearm when he took the bowl and turned instinctively to do her bidding. "Is this what war is like? Real war?"

For a moment he did not turn back, her question raising goose bumps up and down his spine, but she deserved an answer. He moved the basin so he could hold it with one arm just as Constance had and turned to slip the other around her waist. It took a bit of physical cajoling to draw her against him where she could rest her head against his chest, if only for this moment they stole together. He could feel the weariness dragging at her and rested his chin lightly on top of her head.

"Honestly, war is rarely this intense. Battle usually lasts no more than a day or two before one side or the other withdraws and moves on. And then it's either follow - and march endlessly - or wait endlessly, until the next would-be contingent comes along to try and take back the territory. This has been...brutal."

"And it's Frenchman against Frenchman!" Constance would have wailed, but she was too worn out to do much more than exhale the exclamation on a weary breath.

"According to Athos, this not at all uncommon among royals. Succession is a precarious thing."

"When will it stop?"

"Soon." d'Artagnan kissed the crown of her head. "Orléans has poured every livre he has into building some monstrosity of a chateau somewhere in Chambord; he's penniless. With Lorraine dead and Grimaud as good as dead, he has no backing. I expect his demise will be the queen's first order of business after we lay Tréville to rest today. Which translates to no more than a day or two."

Constance shuddered. "There was a man, last night, in the store room when I went to gather supplies. He had a knife point broken off in his chest. He let me pull it out, but he was gone when I turned around. Vanished; as if into thin air."

"One of ours?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"No, he wore a hood and appeared much like he disappeared; suddenly and without warning." She did not add that he'd caught her in a moment of raw emotion following the devastating loss of Clairmont, who'd been one of her favorites.

"How did he get in? Where did he come from?" d'Artagnan sidled them over to a counter so he could rid himself of the basin and put both arms around his trembling wife.

"I don't know."

The Musketeer was silent for a long moment. "There is an outside door to the cellar, Aramis and I came through it when Christophe and his men were holding Tréville and Porthos hostage." d'Artagnan turned, caught sight of a cadet and ordered him to find and guard the cellar door. "I'm sorry, in all the chaos last night, it never occurred to me." His blood ran cold at the thought of what could have happened, though Constance would have gutted any man attempting to molest her. She was an expert with that knife she wore sheathed at the small of her back.

"I asked him to stay, told him we would make up a pallet for him, and when I turned around ... he was gone. Just gone. I thought ... I thought perhaps I'd hallucinated the whole episode." She put a hand to her head. "And you ..." Her chin tipped up in order to search d'Artagnan's face. "You've lived like this for four years. No wonder you are so changed."

"Not so changed I hope, that you no longer find me dangerously attractive."

His attempt to lighten the mood had her lips curving in a smile. "Right now, I'm very glad you're dangerous." She hefted the slipping ball of blood-soaked sheets under her arm and rose on tiptoe to plant a kiss on her tall war hero's lips. "I must get these in a kettle to soak. Promise me you will not die here on the streets of Paris after surviving four years of war."

"Today is not our day to die," d'Artagnan repeated, with all the arrogance of imperishable youth. "Nor is tomorrow or the next day." He extracted the sheets from under her arm before she realized what he was doing. "Porthos found your strong box in the rubble of the garrison. Hope you didn't have anything breakable in it. No holes, but it does have a few dent," he said over his shoulder as he hooked the iron swing bearing the kettle of steaming water with a booted foot. He swung from over the fire and dropped the mess into the cauldron.

"Where?" Diverted, Constance clapped her hands in delight. She'd assumed everything they'd owned had been destroyed in the blast and all consuming fires.

"I don't know where, he just said-"

"No," she interrupted, "I meant ... never mind." Her gaze lit on the iron box d'Artagnan had dropped on the floor next to their feet. Pulling the keys off her belt, she flipped through the array, pulled one out, knelt and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily, they both heard the snick, but the lid would not budge.

Nor could even the two of them together pry it open when d'Artagnan came to help. He lifted it to a table, but still no luck.

"It will have to wait," he said reluctantly, "Unless there's something in it that we could use right now."

"No, just some keepsakes and a little a money I've put aside from your pay." Constance sighed her frustration. "Our marriage lines and your infrequent letters from the front." She'd found her own letters to d'Artagnan at the bottom of a trunk that had followed him home, eventually, from their last deployment in Bayonne. And put them away in her box thinking that perhaps someday, they might want to revisit the experience of their four-year separation, two months into married life.

"Why's it so heavy?" d'Artagnan returned to the sheets to poke at the air pockets in the immersed sheets with a long stick, the water turning pink, then red.

"Oh, I put bricks in it to dissuade anyone who thought to make off with it quickly and easily. Your old pauldron is in there too."

"Bricks," d'Artagnan repeated, and then, "my old pauldron?"

"I thought it might be something of value to you someday, if only sentimental. It took awhile to earn it after all."

d'Artagnan left off poking at the sheets and came back to lay a hand on the box with a speculative look. "Porthos is in the kitchen with Brujon, see if he can get this thing open. If anyone comes looking for me, I'll be back in a short while."

"Where are you going?"

d'Artagnan, threading his way through the tavern tables and benches, was already halfway to the front door. "To Athos' apartment; I have an idea."

"Francois, go with him," she ordered the first Musketeer she saw. Francois followed her husband out the door without even a questioning glance. Constance took up the stick d'Artagnan had abandoned and stirred soap into her laundry.

Rafts of wavering candles floated at the edges of the rectangular darkness, casting eerie shadows through the pillared archways, though the darkness at the center remained thick and heavy as a Parisian fog. In the unadulterated silence, he heard a massive door creak, the tattoo of slow, measured footsteps, the hiss of each candle flaring to life as fifteen more joined hundreds of flickering companions. The sound of beads sliding through fingers so familiar with the ritual the noise was nearly inaudible in a place where every click and whisper was magnified by the superb architectural acoustics.

d'Artagnan, though, had identified the intruder even before the murmur of prayers dating back to antiquity ruffled both the silence and, somehow, the darkness as well. Almost, he thought fancifully, as if Aramis were a da Vinci saint stepping from his canvas mooring, the glow of his aura announcing his identity.

A cedar and bergamot-scented zephyr wafted the air as Aramis' presence created a small island of warm incandescence in the middle of the chilly darkness. d'Artagnan realized with a start, his companion had always manifested this light, he'd just never seen it in quite the same way before. His garments, the clothes d'Artagnan had christened Aramis' pilgrimage outfit, carried the chill of the night, though the arm inside the full-sleeved shirt was warm and comforting pressed against d'Artagnan.

They sat in silence for uncounted heartbeats, drawing solace and support from just being together.

Aramis' voice, when he spoke finally, was little more than a rustle of air, barely a whisper of sound. "I would never have guessed you would find succor in a dark cathedral in the middle of the night." He pressed closer when d'Artagnan leaned into his side. "Why here?"

"I don't know; my feet brought me here."

Brujon had found Aramis drinking alone, feeling sorry for himself, since he'd been certain his three companions had been spooning with their women. The cadet had stayed behind, at d'Artagnan's command, though he had adhered only to the spirit of the law rather than the letter and stayed far enough behind to be able to report d'Artagnan's whereabouts to another of the Inseparables.

"Perhaps because it feels closer to heaven and those we've lost." Aramis was grateful for the human contact as well. "But - in the middle of the night?" He'd sent Brujon to his bedroll with a sleeping potion he was relatively certain the young man would ignore, before heading for the cathedral himself.

"I could not sleep and did not want to wake Constance. She's exhausted."

They were all broken in body and spirit, at a loss as to how rebuild from the sifting ash that had been their home. There had been no triumph in the defeat of their enemies earlier in the day, no comfort in the words Aramis had pronounced with such authority over the multiple mounds of earth marring the singed grass. They had drifted off separately as they'd left the small Musketeer cemetery.

To d'Artagnan, it had felt like the beginning of the end.

"You are stewing, I can feel it ... d'Artagnan, no one could have foreseen Grimaud's actions."

d'Artagnan did answer immediately, and it was clear when he did, that it had been preying on his mind. "We knew the nature of the beast, we'd been touched by the blackness at the heart of it, and yet we failed to respect it as an adversary. Grief is not a reason, it's an excuse, and a poor one at that. Tréville would have demanded our pauldrons for our rank stupidity."

d'Artagnan could not look at the ruins without a shaft of guilt. They should have maintained their vigilance, kept their wits about them, should have known better than to leave the garrison unguarded and vulnerable.

Aramis had no refutation for the bald truth.

"What's done cannot be undone. Those lives will haunt me into eternity."

Aramis, too, took time to gather his scattered thoughts before quoting quietly, "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

d'Artagnan had leaned forward over his knees, breaking contact. Aramis laid an arm lightly along the tense spine, sliding his fingers beneath the overlong hair to knead the taut muscles at the base of the skull.

"I know this to be certain truth, d'Artagnan. They do not need or want our guilt holding them on this plane of existence."

He was contemplatively quiet for several more long moments, considering his words, for Aramis had learned to parse what he shared of his experiences walking between worlds. "Because of your actions, those young men did not cross over reluctantly or with any trepidation." He paused again, wondering if he should offer a word picture of what he had been privileged to witness, then chose to continue. "Perhaps it will ease your mind to know that a new generation of Inseparables went side by side into eternity."

Because the youthful war hero sitting next to him in the darkness had learned it was not always a matter of head over heart. d'Artagnan had recovered what he'd gone looking for in Athos' apartment and sent four young men off on a new journey wearing the old pauldrons of the still flesh and blood Inseparables.


This is a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.