A/N: An entry to the August 202 Fetes de Mousquetaires challenge "falling stars." Thank you for reading.
An historical note: Shooting stars, also known as fallen stars, send streaks of light across the night sky before burning out into a point of inky blackness. Superstition has it that simply spotting one of these stars as it falls can bring good luck, though the rationale behind this custom changes based on who's telling the story. Some cultures claim that fallen stars represent souls that have been released from purgatory, allowing them to finally begin the ascent to heaven and peace. Either way, the shooting star is said to possess a bit of magic, which means positive vibes and good luck for anyone who happens to gaze upon one.
Fic is set immediately before S3, Epi 1, Spoils of War.
"Lantier's going to get us killed," Porthos muttered. Neither of them responded, but not because they disagreed, "Why'd he keep us on the field after the cannons stopped?"
"Out of powder.'"
"The shipment?"
"Late, I don't know." Athos was concentrating, but not on the conversation.
"What does he expect us to do? Fight with no - Ow."
"Keep still," Athos commanded.
"Damn. Ow!" D'Artagnan clutched at Porthos's sleeve and tried not to move again.
"Here," a bottle of wine was shoved at him. He needed help to drink it his arm was shaking so much.
An agonized scream rose up from the camp slicing through the stillness of the night.
They paused.
It continued.
Probably an amputation.
Athos started in at D'Artagnan's shoulder again.
"How many dead?" it was a hollow question. Porthos asked it every night
"Too many," D'Artagnan huffed the response from between clenched teeth. He wanted to cry out, but he wouldn't. Athos was picking shrapnel out of his shoulder - he wasn't cutting off his arm. He had no business adding his voice to the anguish rising up from the camp.
"How long can we keep this up?" he was breathing heavily trying to get past the pain.
"Until we win."
"We're not winning. We have no powder. We're dying."
"Then until we die," Porthos sighed.
"There has to be a better answer than that."
"There isn't, we're soldiers -"
"We're Musketeers. At least we were - a lifetime ago - aaah!" He dropped his head toward his chest and Porthos gripped the back of his neck.
"Keep still." It had become Athos's job to clean their wounds. Porthos was useless at it. Athos was efficient but rarely comforting. "Give me the wine."
D'Artagnan braced for what was coming next. As rare as wine was some days, Athos spared none of it in thoroughly dousing D'Artagnan's shoulder. It burned like Hell itself but it was the last thing. Their end of the day ritual instead of evening prayers.
How was it the three of them were still alive? How had none of them lost so much as a finger to this war? A knot swelled in his stomach. The bill would come due soon.
Porthos helped him back into his filthy shirt. Athos rinsed his hands in the bucket of water they brought up the ridge. They were rear guard tonight, stationed beyond the miasma of sickness and death that spewed from the camp.
They settled just over the other side of the ridge, the earth itself muffling the sounds from below.
They had good blankets and plenty of food in their packs. Athos had somehow kept the Musketeer regiment provisioned. The deaths of so many of their rank provided a strange windfall that no one could bear to comment on - the ones who lived enjoyed the comfort of food and supplies passed on from the ones who died.
They didn't discuss the watch. Nights were restless. Someone was always awake. D'Artagnan tried to settle, but his body ached, the wound ached, his heart ached.
"Ya see that?"
"Huh?"
"In the sky, ya see that?" Porthos pointed up.
D'Artagnan peered up at the thick scatter of night stars, "No. It's the same as ever."
"Just wait."
D'Artagnan shifted onto his back to get a better look.
He moved to put his hands behind his head but winced as his shoulder pulled. He grabbed his padded doublet. Someone helped him get the wadded fabric positioned behind his head.
He waited.
The stars waited too, blinking and cold. Uncaring about the three men on the hill or the 300 men in the tents below.
A streak of light slipped across the sky. He blinked.
Another one, and then another.
"See," Porthos was smug.
"Hmmm," he hummed. He watched the stars as slowly one after another took flight. Sometimes two or three streaked across the sky. He wondered where they were going - why they bothered to move now when for days and days they had been still and silent witnesses to men dying in the night.
"Falling souls."
D'Artagnan shifted his head slightly toward the voice, surprised to hear anything from Athos.
"What?"
"Falling souls," he repeated, then pushed himself up to sit, a bottle of wine in his hand, "Souls released from purgatory. They fly to heaven or hell."
"Busy night in purgatory," Porthos commented. Athos gave a shrug and took a swig from the bottle.
Another shattering wail rose from the camp.
"Busy night down there too," Porthos sat up, reached for Athos's bottle.
The stars keep falling from the sky more rapidly now as D'Artagnan watched, fascinated. A memory surfaced in D'Artagnan's mind of another starry night on a hill.
"Remember Bertrand?"
"He had a red feather in his hat," Porthos laughed, "No matter how miserable he looked after a battle that feather stood up perfectly."
"What happened to him?"
"Dead. Fever in Toulouse." Athos knew what happened to all of the men under his charge.
"What about, Samuel? Remember him?"
"Good card player," Porthos acknowledged.
"Shot at St. Girons."
"Henri the younger."
"Surprisingly good drinker."
"Died with his father in the mud at near Andora."
"Frederick."
"Lost a pocket watch to him at cards."
"Lost his leg also in Andora. Died on the way back to Paris."
Robert. A gardener. Drowned
Jean-Louis. A big laugh. Shot.
Gerald. Newly married. Also shot.
Luc.
Franc.
Bernard.
Georges.
Claude.
Rupert.
They named them all, one by one, as the stars fell from the sky. The ones that died first and the ones that died today. If there was a purgatory this war was it.
In an hour or so they ran out of names and the stars themselves started to still again.
Porthos and Athos finished the wine. They settled back on their bedrolls. D'Artagnan's eyes drifted closed.
"Where'd ya get that, about the souls?"
"Aramis."
"Figures."
"Porthos," it was a warning but a soft one.
Porthos was still angry. Athos was resigned. D'Artagnan was just glad no one else he loved was suffering along with them. Although he would have appreciated Aramis's good cheer and comfort even so.
"If the powder doesn't get here, do ya think Lantier's sending us anyway?" Porthos was not going to let them sleep.
"Yes," Athos sounded certain.
"Bastard."
"Our luck's going to turn."
"Says the farm boy."
D'Artagnan propped himself up on his good arm and looked at Porthos.
"Falling stars are an omen of good luck."
"Miracles and luck ain't getting us out of this."
"What do you think's gotten us out of this so far?"
"Skill and common sense," Athos's tone make it clear it was the end of the discussion.
D'Artagnan laid back down.
Porthos eventually started to snore.
Waiting for sleep to find him again, D'Artagnan watched the sky and to the east, toward Douai, one last star streaked into the night.
A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want more Musketeers in the starlight, check out my fic "Written in the Stars" - its sweet and still one of my favorites.