XXVIII. Letting Go
While most of the boats had brought the people back to the ship, it was decided that the boats carrying Treville, Athos, Aramis and Porthos would row directly back to the mainland on their own. Mainly because Aramis had sternly insisted that, first, none of them were in any condition to climb back on board a ship, and second, the naval battle was at a safe distance and they were in no immediate danger. The weather was calm too, leaving only a soft breeze and minor waves on their way back to the mainland. Treville had ordered the Captain of the Verseau to coordinate the removal from Ré Island of the support troops which he had left to finish dealing with the English. He didn't go back himself only because he knew they were out of danger for now.
The silence that hung over them was oppressive, and the Captain felt a certain relief when the boats finally reached the shallow beach of the mainland, landing near the docks. He had watched his soldiers all the way back, as much as the night had allowed him, and he had come to the conclusion that Ré Island must have been far worse than he had expected. From his experience, many soldiers that returned from war boasted about their victories or told stories about their struggles. But those who really fought at the front line, they stayed silent.
They were soldiers, and they knew what could await them when they followed their orders. But more had happened on Ré Island, more than just a siege, more than just a battle. Treville knew it by the looks on their faces, by the wounds they carried, and by the small number of musketeers he had been able to get out at all.
Whatever hellish events had marked their time on the island, it had strengthened the bond of these three even further, which was a good result, though gained at a terrible cost. But Treville had learnt very early in his life that things of great value can come where least expected.
As soon as the boats were safely landed, Treville jumped out and helped Aramis out of the boat while Porthos guided Athos. Now that the adrenaline and survival instincts the battle had sparked were fading, his men were only moments away from collapsing entirely.
Treville's mind screamed at him for answers, but the alarming state Athos, Aramis and Porthos were in restrained his need for information, and his sense of brotherhood prevailed. Together with the musketeer Ecale who had rowed the second boat, he brought them over to the docks, where all three of them sat down on the wooden planks.
Porthos turned his head to look for the ship carrying the civilians and the rest of the musketeers, but the Verseau was still a short distance away from the docks, as it had taken time to get everyone on board.
"We have a cart that will pick up you and the others up as soon as the Verseau arrives," Treville explained matter-of-factly, to answer the questions his men did not pose. "We will bring you to a temporary medical facility five miles north, near Marans. You will be treated there, and then, I will bring you home to Paris."
He saw how the mention of home made Aramis and Porthos exchange a meaningful and desperately relieved look.
"What about the civilians?" Athos asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. He didn't even look up.
Treville sighed. "As long as Buckingham is still on the island, we cannot allow them to go back. We will bring them with us to Marans, and from there they can decide what to do with their lives."
Athos nodded, but still didn't look up. He had rested his head on his forearm.
"Why don't we go to La Rochelle?" Aramis asked and he grimaced as he moved his bleeding leg. "It's closer, and I am sure they can help us there."
Treville lowered his gaze. "La Rochelle is under siege. The city formed an alliance with the English. The King sent out his army a few weeks ago. It is not a safe place."
Aramis groaned and buried his head in his hands, which left even more bloody marks on his already bloodied face.
"Thank you, Captain," Porthos spoke up. "For getting us out of there."
Treville managed a thin smile and nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you until we reach Marans?"
Athos stayed silent, and Porthos just shook his head.
"Well," Aramis grimaced and looked up, holding up his hand coated with fresh blood. "I could use something to bandage my leg with, otherwise, I fear I won't make it to Marans." He made a short pause and looked to his brothers. "We need something for Athos' arm. I can treat the bleeding, but we need something to slow the infection. Cleaning the wounds would be helpful."
The fact that Athos didn't even react with a testy comment or try to protest told Treville a lot about how serious things really were.
"And Porthos' shoulder is dislocated, I believe. Athos and I are in no condition to put it back in place," Aramis finished.
Treville wordlessly pulled out a can of water and handed it to them. They drank greedily, but made sure to share it equally.
"I'll insure you get what you need," Treville eventually answered and as he looked up, he saw the outlines of the Verseau getting closer. He gestured towards it with his head.
"They are coming. Let's get you home."
Two days later, near Marans
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Porthos had been able to sleep properly, meaning longer than three hours, and he at least felt halfway rested when he woke up at sunrise. He and the others had been brought to the infirmary close to Marans. It was a small, wooden building, but the house and the few that surrounded it had been occupied by the musketeers for the past several days. There was shelter, there was medical treatment, and there was a tavern which provided them with food and gave the civilians some places to sleep.
The captain had informed them yesterday that if they felt strong enough, they would be leaving this afternoon to make their way back to Paris. Porthos could not wait to make his way back to Paris. The medical examination two days ago by a real doctor brought in from a village nearby had proven that Aramis' assessments were quite accurate.
It had turned out that Porthos had bruised a few ribs during his encounter with the English Captain. Additionally, he had a dislocated shoulder which Treville had popped back into place, but the swelling was still painful. There was some nasty bruising going all over his back, but Porthos somehow couldn't remember when that had happened. His eye was finally healing nicely, and the dizziness that had plagued him ever since he had been held captive was beginning to disappear.
Aramis had received treatment for his leg first. On top of the wound he had suffered many weeks ago in Cévry, the English Captain had inflicted a deep and bleeding gash going all the way over his thigh and knee. It would leave a scar, but Aramis had been told he should be able to walk without assistance again soon. The wound on his back from the farmhouse incident had been cleaned and stitched. The marksman was still limping around, a little too much for Porthos' liking, but slowly and surely, the color was returning to his brother's face.
Athos had held them all in a grip of fear until last evening. He had lost consciousness on their way to Marans and hadn't stirred until yesterday. Aramis had cursed him for being a stubborn idiot, but Porthos knew it had been the worry that had controlled his friend's tongue. Athos' left arm had been a mess of fresh cuts in addition to the two inflamed gashes. Luckily infection hadn't spread to his blood, and his temperature had been falling since yesterday. Aside from his arm, Athos had sported a sprained knee and some major bruising along his left side. Porthos had wondered how Athos had made it off the island still standing, but he was just thankful that he, Athos and Aramis had all made it out of that hell hole alive.
All three of them were still exhausted, but the fresh air and the change of atmosphere slowly allowed them to calm down and get the rest they had so desperately needed.
After Porthos had awoken this morning and had found both Athos and Aramis still fast asleep, he had left the infirmary and slowly made his way over to the tavern to get some water. They were keeping it there in bottles, and Porthos feared he would not be able to use the well in his current condition.
He strode over towards the two story building that was the tavern. The civilians had been brought to the barn right next to it, which belonged to the owners of the tavern. Porthos slowed his pace as soon as he laid eyes on Lucien, the village spokesman, standing in front of the building next to Marie and her daughter, the child Porthos had rescued during the attack on Cévry.
He briefly considered not going to the tavern in order to avoid any confrontation or conversation, but deep inside, he knew that would be childish. Besides, he was really in need of some water, and the tavern was the best place to get it.
He had almost made it to the stairs when he heard Lucien's voice.
"Porthos?"
The musketeer groaned internally and stopped before he turned towards the man hurrying towards him. Lucien looked genuinely pleased to see him, and Porthos seriously did not know why. Marie granted him a warm smile and sat her daughter down onto the ground.
Lucien nervously shifted from one foot to the other. "We did not know if you or the others made it out … your Captain won't let us into the infirmary."
"For good reason, it is for the injured only," Marie added sharply and glared at Lucien, before her attention snapped back towards Porthos.
"Still, the Captain could have been more polite," Lucien grumbled and now also earned a sharp look from Porthos, who couldn't help but be amused at the slightly frightened expression the memory of the Captain's reaction conjured on Lucien's face.
"What about your friends?" Marie asked shyly, as if she was afraid of the answer, but Porthos gave her a reassuring smile.
"Athos and Aramis survived too." His face darkened. "Many others didn't." He sighed and raised his hands in refusal. "Listen, as much as I'd love to tell you what you want to know, I really need to get something to drink."
Marie once again gave him one of her warm smiles and she pulled a can of water out of her bag to give it to Porthos. "I got it this morning. It's still fresh."
Porthos nodded his head gratefully and took a few deep sips of water. The cool liquid against his dry throat felt good, and he almost felt how it restored his strength and refocused his senses. He wordlessly walked over towards the stairs and sat down on it, fully aware that he was being followed by Lucien and Marie.
"How are you feeling?" he asked them and took another sip of water.
Lucien shrugged. "We're alive. We lost our homes and everything we have ever known, but we're still breathing." He looked at the ground, almost in shame. "I was afraid we would never get to thank you. For what you and your comrades did for us."
Porthos just raised a hand. "Listen, I appreciate it, I really do, but it was our duty." He lowered his gaze. "We just did our duty."
Marie hesitantly sat down next to Porthos. "Your duty was also to do what your General told you, and if you had done that, many of us would have starved."
The musketeer said nothing, he merely took another sip of water and stared at the ground.
"I know what you did for us," Lucien added. "And I'm ashamed to say, not all of us would have done the same for you."
Porthos snorted. "That's a comfort."
"What I am trying to say is," Lucien began anew and sat down on Porthos' other side, "is that your selfless act of charity and help will not be forgotten by us, no matter our …" he cleared his throat nervously, "religious affiliation."
Porthos just raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"You did not think twice before rescuing us. You did not care about our past or about what we could do for you. Generosity like that is rare these days. I apologize for making things more complicated in the beginning." Lucien sounded sincere, and Porthos just made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Will you go back to Ré Island?" Porthos asked carefully.
Marie nodded. "Many of us will, as soon as it is no longer a battleground." She bit her lip indecisively. "Porthos, is there anything we can do to repay you?"
The musketeer just grunted. "Survive." His comment elicited a dry laughter out of both of them. Marie's daughter, the little girl that he had rescued in the village, walked up to Porthos and handed him a few flowers she had plucked from the grass close by. She was shy, but she had a proud spark in her eyes.
"Maman said you would like them," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, and Porthos put on his best smile and graciously took them between his hands.
"I do," he answered softly. "Thank you."
The girl smiled shyly and hid behind her mother. Porthos' face turned serious again, and he turned towards Marie, though he kept throwing glances towards Lucien as well. He cleared his throat nervously before he spoke.
"Actually, there is something you can do." Lucien looked curious and doubtful, but Marie had a heartwarming look on her face.
Porthos kept his gaze firmly locked on her. "Should you ever return to Ré Island, please give my fallen comrades the commemoration they deserve. They deserve better than being forgotten in the dirt where they fell."
He wasn't sure about their reaction, but he felt Marie's hand on his arm and she forced him to look at her. "Of course. We will take care of your brave comrades. We will give them the respect they deserve."
"And our children will know what the musketeers did for them," Lucien added with an unusual sincerity.
Porthos pressed his lips together tightly. "Thank you."
Aramis had thought to have awoken early in the morning, but when he had opened his eyes, he had discovered that Porthos' bed was already empty. Aramis' night had been plagued with the echoes of cannons and the screaming of men, and he felt as if he had been run over by a horse, or several horses and maybe a wagon or two.
A quick glance to the side assured him that Athos was still sleeping in a cot nearby. The swordsman's face had a much healthier color now, and the fact that he was actually sleeping was something Aramis considered a win after the past few days.
The marksman sat up and his hands twitched towards his leg. It was broadly bandaged, and to his own surprise, the bandage was still clean and barely spotted with blood. The wounds were pulsating painfully, but considering how he had felt two days ago, he was coping just fine.
He ran a hand through his way too long hair and beard, before he carefully put his boots on and threw his jacket over his shoulders. He had slept in his pants and a torn white shirt. He knew that he and his brothers were leaving this afternoon, but he needed to get a bit of fresh air before he spent time assisting the doctor that usually came around this time of the day.
Aramis grabbed his temporary cane from the ground next to him and slowly rose to his feet, before he started limping towards the door. Almost every surviving musketeer that had fought on Ré Island during the past weeks was in the infirmary, as there was not one soul that had left the island unharmed. The 'beds' were more linen sheets on the wooden floor padded with some straw, but compared to the island, it was pure luxury. Most of the musketeers were still asleep or staring blankly at the ceiling.
On his way to the door, he passed the bed where Guillaume was currently residing. Théo sat next to him and urged him to stay in bed. After having defended Frédéric so fiercely on the battlefield, Guillaume had taken a heavy hit against the head as well as a sword to the side. He had assured everyone who had wanted to hear it that he was fine, but Théo, one of the lucky few who had escaped with only scrapes and bruises, was having none of it.
As he was arguing with Guillaume, Théo caught Aramis' gaze and greeted him with a slight nod, before his attention reverted back to the stubborn patient. The marksman continued to stumble towards the door, to get a bit of fresh air before he would look after his brothers. Maybe he'd also find out where Porthos had gone.
"Aramis."
Aramis froze when he heard his name, spoken by a familiar voice, and he grabbed onto the side of a wooden pillar to keep his balance. It took him a few moments to gather himself, and to prepare himself for the conversation he had avoided ever since they had arrived here.
He turned around and faced the musketeer that had addressed him. Arthur was sitting up in his cot, leaning awkwardly against the wall behind him. His chest was covered with a broad bandage, heavily spotted with blood. Sweat had gathered on his neck, and his face looked ashen. His eyes were only halfway open, blinking tiredly at Aramis, but still, he looked far better than he had only two days ago.
Aramis slowly approached the wounded musketeer and knew by the tone in Arthur's voice that the musketeer was longing for news. He was longing for company. Just like Athos, Arthur had shown the first signs of real awareness only yesterday, but back then, Aramis had had his hands so full with taking care of Athos that he had not had the time to look after Arthur. In hindsight, he felt guilty.
"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked carefully, and he tried hard to maintain an objective tone to his voice.
The hint of a smile played around Arthur's lips, but it vanished quickly. "I'll be fine. In time. I didn't get to thank you yet."
Aramis furrowed his brow. "For what?"
Arthur grimaced as he tried to sit up further. "You saved my life on that beach, because you put my life above yours."
"No, I put your life above Philippe's." Aramis did not feel guilty about it, yet he couldn't help but sound as if he did. It had been the only reasonable choice he could make at the time, knowing as he did that Philippe was not going to make it, but Arthur still had a chance if he could get help.
Despite the sorry state he was in, Arthur sent the marksman an admonishing look. He was a few years older than Aramis, and therefore always had been a guide to every other musketeer in the regiment, Aramis included. They had both been in the regiment since its foundation. And even though Arthur was a man of many facets, aside from his occasional drunken violent outbursts and his famous stand-off with Treville, he was one of the most honest and respected men in the regiment.
"You did what you had to do to save as many of us as possible," Arthur replied calmly. For a moment, he had a soft and calm expression on his face, and then, it changed. He lowered his gaze and his lips were quivering as he spoke his next words.
"Treville was here last night. He talked to me briefly, but there was one question I wasn't able to ask as I blacked out." Arthur looked composed, but Aramis could see the unshed tears that had gathered in his eyes. "Aramis, what happened to Mathis?"
Aramis felt a wave of dismay and guilt wash over him at the mention of the name. He had known that there was some kind of connection between Mathis and Arthur, though he had never asked. But deep in his heart, he knew that if anybody deserved the truth without excuses, it was Arthur.
"During the battle, Mathis went to take out the cannons. Treville said his men have not been able to find him, not among the living, not among the dead. He just…disappeared."
Arthur's face darkened. "People don't just disappear, and you know that."
The marksman closed his eyes, and the pictures of the young musketeer disappearing in between the English soldiers flashed in front of his inner eye. "No they don't," he whispered, opened his eyes again and looked straight at Arthur. "There is a possibility he made it to Fort de la Prée. If not, there is only one fate left."
Arthur exhaled slowly. "English captivity."
Aramis bit his lip and lowered his gaze. "Yes. I am so sorry, Arthur. I wish…"
"Do you think you could have saved him?" Arthur interrupted matter-of-factly. He did not sound reproachful, it was more of a calm and slightly desperate question.
Aramis chose his next words with care. "I tried. Believe me, I tried. But he had his mind set on taking out those cannons, and I just couldn't…I couldn't stop him. And I could not get through to him. Wherever he is, he is out of our reach."
A tear ran down Arthur's face, but he winced and leaned forward to clasp Aramis' arm, squeezing it slightly. "I believe you, Aramis. It's not your fault." His gaze found the ceiling, and he seemed to be remembering something. A sad smile played around his lips, but a loving spark returned to his eyes.
"You see, I promised her to look after him. Seeing her again will not be the same." He noticed Aramis' confused look, and as he weakly leaned back against the wall, he explained. "Christine. Mathis' oldest sister. I've loved her for eighteen years. But," he stopped midway, and took a deep breath as a visible painful memory seemed to get hold of him. "She married because I missed my chance. Her husband raised Mathis well, but so did I, to a degree."
For a moment, nobody said anything. Aramis was at a loss at what to say, and Arthur was clearly hesitant to share such private information with him.
"And does she love you?" Aramis eventually asked. He did not want to dig his nose into affairs that weren't his, but he felt like he needed to understand Arthur's dilemma in order to provide comfort.
Arthur nodded weakly. "We never stopped loving each other. Her marriage did not stop us. And when Mathis joined the musketeers, well…I became his chaperone. Guess I failed her twice."
Aramis shook his head vigorously. "You did not fail her. And you did not fail Mathis either. He fell victim to something out of our control, and there is no use to blame yourself for it. It won't help anyone. Not Mathis, not his sister, not you."
The older musketeer needed a few seconds to comprehend and accept Aramis' words. He took a deep breath, as if he hadn't said all of it yet. Arthur seemed to gather the courage to speak up again, and as he did, he couldn't even look Aramis in the eye.
"Aramis, I…I will not go back to Paris with you. I will not go back to the musketeers."
Even though Aramis had had a feeling deep inside that this would be the case, it still hit him hard. He was in no position to judge anyone for leaving, but while leaving the musketeers was something Aramis did not consider possible for his own path in life, it seemed more within the reach of others.
Arthur continued with an unsteady voice: "When we were on that beach with Philippe, all I could think of, every second, was how much I regretted never having taken the chance. Call me foolish all you want, but I'll try to make things right with Christine. Now that her husband is dead maybe God will grant me a second chance; maybe I'll have to take another path entirely."
Aramis bit his lip. "Does the Captain…?"
Arthur blinked as confirmation. "He was the first to know. It was the first thing I said to him, and I believe he understands. Please don't think ill of me."
The marksman offered his comrade a pained smile. "I would never. None of us will."
Arthur's face was a mixture of gratitude and pain as he reached to the side and pulled out a blue sash, the one he had always worn for as long as Aramis could remember. It was stained with dirt and blood.
"Take this," he said, his voice slowly growing hoarse. "It has a deep personal meaning to me. Should Mathis ever find his way back to the musketeers, no matter how slim the chance, could you give this to him?"
Aramis reached out and took the piece of cloth between his hands, before he nodded. A lump had formed in his throat, and no matter how strong he tried to stay, this conversation weighed heavy on his heart.
"Until then," Arthur continued with a weak smile as a few tears continued to run down his pale face, "it is yours. Fully and truly. Wear it with pride, old friend."
Not a sound escaped Aramis' lips, but he once again nodded his head in gratitude and he offered an honest and warm smile.
Arthur's eyes began to close as the exhaustion and pain threatened to overwhelm him.
"I'll miss being a musketeer," he murmured, but it was barely audible.
Aramis clasped Arthur's shoulder in comfort. "You will always be a musketeer, Arthur."
Later that day
Athos was seated outside of the infirmary on a wooden bench while he waited for the return of Aramis and Porthos, before they would start their journey back to Paris.
His bandaged left arm was resting on his knees, and he had a cup of fresh wine in the other hand. As soon as he had felt able to stand up again, he had insisted on getting out of the pain-filled infirmary. It smelled of blood and sweat in there, with a hint of decay. The air outside was not the best either, but it was better than being reminded of Ré Island with every breath he took.
He looked up when he heard the creaking of a door to his right and he laid eyes on Treville who had just left the provisional armory. Though armory was a rather fancy word for the small room in which everybody had thrown their broken weapons and ruined uniforms.
Athos greeted him with a brief nod before he returned his attention to his wine, but Treville pulled up a chair from the side and sat down next to him.
"Should you be up and around?" the Captain commented with a worried expression on his face.
Athos looked up. "Nobody stopped me."
Treville sighed. "You feel strong enough to make the trip back to Paris this afternoon?" he asked casually. Athos could hear that it was not what the Captain really wanted to know. Treville had never been good at small talk.
Athos growled. "If we don't get attacked by Buckingham on our way there, I should be fine."
The Captain answered him with a dry, humorless laugh. "No promises."
An uncomfortable silence settled between them, but one with which Athos was fully content. He kept focusing on the wine, and tried to ignore the questions that hung in the air unspoken. It was not that he did not want to share his experiences with Treville. Next to Aramis and Porthos, there was no person on this earth he trusted as much as he trusted the Captain. But he was skeptical about the reaction his reports may cause.
After not even a minute, Treville finally spoke up. "What the hell happened over there, Athos? And I don't mean the strategic facts and the siege, you know I don't." The Captain made a short pause and ran a hand over his beard. "Barely half of the men have returned at all. I know the faces of men returning from the front line. After all they have seen, but with you…" he stopped as if he took a second to rearrange his thoughts. "With you, and the other few musketeers, there is something else. Something that goes beyond military strategies and battlefield experiences."
Athos took another deep sip of his wine and then lowered the cup. He chose his next words very carefully.
"We betrayed our duty," he said quietly. He was completely still, his sharp eyes rested calmly on his Captain. "The orders we were given, the orders that we were told would ensure our survival, were immoral. We disobeyed them. And I would like to tell you I regret it, Sir, I really would, but I don't. The General was deliberately getting rid of the musketeers, and while we can guess, we still don't understand why." He made sure that the Captain understood that he felt no remorse about disobeying the General.
Treville furrowed his brow. "What do you mean, he was getting rid of the musketeers?"
Athos huffed and took a deep sip out of the cup of wine. "What would you do if your commanding officer sends the only medic out on a dangerous and potentially deadly mission?"
The Captain hesitated a split second, and shook his head as if he hadn't understood what Athos was aiming at. "I'd ask him how he ever made it to his rank with illogical reasoning like that."
A dark expression crossed Athos' face. "Yes. That's what we did. But I refuse to believe the General was merely incompetent. He knew exactly what he was doing. What I or the others did to…"
"What was his name?" the Captain interrupted suddenly. Trevilles eyes were wide open, and he didn't look at Athos. It was as if a memory had returned for him, a memory that Athos was left to confirm for him. "The General, you never mentioned his name."
"Suard," Athos replied. "The Commander sent us General Suard."
Athos could see his words reach Treville, and he knew that face on the Captain. Realization. Paired with guilt.
Treville rose from his seat and walked over to the window to look into the infirmary. "Commander Décart sent you General Suard to take over the command?"
Athos narrowed his eyes. He felt as if one last piece of the Suard puzzle was missing, and he had a feeling the Captain could help him complete it.
"What do you know, Captain?" He tried to sound as polite as he could, but this was Treville, his mentor, he was talking to, not Treville, his Captain.
"It was not you, Athos." The Captain turned around to face the swordsman again, his face the unreadable mask Athos was used to. "It wasn't you, it wasn't Aramis, it wasn't Porthos. If it was General Suard who took over command, I am not surprised that Gino has not returned with you."
Athos could see the Captain's hands clenched to fists. He guessed that Treville had known about Gino's relationship to Suard's family. Perhaps that's why Treville granted him a place among the musketeers despite his lack of a commission. Athos just kept staring at his superior, and decided to share what he knew.
"Gino told Aramis about the Suard family's loyalty to the King's mother before he died. That's why Suard sent Aramis into a trap where he barely made it out alive, and which killed five other marksmen. He refused to let us rescue Porthos and the other captured musketeers from Lord Eadmund. We thought he was planning treason, a treason we would have to prevent if we knew about it." Athos said it more like a question than a report, because he could read from Treville's suddenly pale face that there was more to it.
"That may have only been one reason," Treville said slowly, his voice trembling slightly. "Another may have been that Suard was trying to get revenge on me."
"You?" Athos' voice was sharp. "How?" He deserved to know everything, and he could see that Treville knew that too.
The Captain took off his hat and clenched his jaw, before he dropped back onto the chair next to Athos. "Ponts-de-Cé."
Athos raised an eyebrow. "The battle of Ponts-de-Cé? Where his brother was killed?" Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two figures approaching slowly. Treville did not see them, but Athos knew Aramis and Porthos had noticed them and were listening attentively, though they stopped at a safe distance, giving Athos and the Captain the space they needed.
Athos leaned forward. "You really think this was to avenge a death we musketeers were not responsible for?"
Treville pressed his lips into a thin line. "Yes, I do." His eyes found Athos' again. "Because I was the one who killed the Comte's youngest son. It was me who killed Eduard Suard that day."
Athos said nothing, and he saw that neither Aramis nor Porthos made an attempt to say anything, or make themselves known. It was an uncomfortable silence. Athos did not know what Treville expected him to say, but Athos neither blamed the Captain, nor did the assumptions about why Suard did what he did help anyone now.
"I apologize," Treville continued slowly, but with a steady voice. "I apologize for what you had to endure because of something I did."
Athos couldn't help but feel puzzled that the Captain though he owed them an apology. "You are not responsible for Suard's actions or his loyalties. Don't take responsibility for that. A man is always guilty of his own actions, nobody else can carry that burden for him."
Treville shot him a grateful look and he seemed to recover himself.
"Suard's misguided path of vengeance is nothing anyone but him should take responsibility for," Aramis added from behind.
Treville turned around and laid eyes on Porthos and Aramis as well, before he looked back at Athos. "What exactly happened to Suard?"
"He was killed by an English bullet," Athos replied shortly. He did not bother to offer any further explanations.
"Two, actually, but that's not the point," Porthos added. "Despite his best efforts to the contrary, we survived Ré Island. That's all that matters right now."
The Captain looked at all three of them for a long moment, his brow furrowed with worry. "It was really bad over there, wasn't it?"
Athos swallowed down the lump in his throat and said nothing, Aramis steered his gaze towards the ground, but Porthos took it on himself to answer on their behalf.
"Well it weren't the most comfortable or relaxing couple of weeks," he said casually, "but let me assure you, Sir, we'd do this hell all over again if you asked us to."
A rare smile played around Treville's lips, and by the time he had gotten up from the chair and turned to face all three of them, he had put on his Captain's mask again.
"I know I don't show it often," he started and his eyes slowly swerved over the three of them. Athos on the bench, holding the cup of wine tightly in his hands, Aramis, leaning against the wooden beam to take weight off his leg and Porthos, standing between them with his arms crossed in front of his chest. If he hadn't known before, it was clear by now that the experiences of the past weeks had made those men inseparable. He finished.
"But I am proud of you."
I know I said this would be the Epilogue, but change of plans. The 'Epilogue' I had written was roughly 10k words and that's a bit much. With the help of MountainCat, it was split into two chapters and a short Epilogue. Next Upload will definitely be the last chapter plus the Epilogue. A promise, this time. Thank you for reading! And also thank you to Jmp for your lovely review, I am so happy to hear you enjoyed the fight.