Regrets

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Each man had gone to war and come back as someone new – regrets and all. This is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete Des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'.


Chapter Two: Athos

Pacing back and forth, Athos counted each step; and attempted to measure his stride in equal parts to bring order to his mind; his body – his life. He felt out of control; his limbs curiously detached; his thoughts askew – his focus of late wandering to regretful recollections cloistered behind cracked fissures of his carefully built wall of protection.

Soon, if nothing changed; if he did not correct his course – the cracks would widen and then break apart – exposing all of his misdeeds, mistakes and sorrows. He wondered who he would be then. How would he stave off disappointment; trauma; or regret? Where would he put such pain in order to keep his sanity?

His insides burned hot with unease, robbing him of appetite and much needed sleep. Each step he took trying to harness some degree of restraint only seemed to make things worse. Aggressively he pulled off his doublet and threw it down onto the small cot with force. The sheets there were crisp and pristine with little use.

Aramis would berate him, he mused for not taking care of himself. But pain; worry and shameful misgivings prevented him from thinking straight.

He quit his pacing and gripped the back of Treville's chair, forcing himself to be still. Leaning over he groaned with frustration and felt a twinge at his back. His muscles still ached with bothersome discomfort; even after days removed from the terrible beating he received by Grimaud's hand.

The rush of contained energy bombarded his senses. He was uncomfortable in his own skin and did not know himself. Four years of his life, spent entrenched in life or death situations and in senseless; deathly chaos had done something to him.

He could feel it. Everything was different; nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new.

The change was not felt so keenly until he rode across the borders of France and entered Paris. Paris – the city which opened her arms to him, and welcomed him almost a decade ago, no longer felt like home. With her different hue; violent streak, and volatile state she seemed a stranger to him. Whereas before her streets, establishments and vendors were familiar – now he found himself an outsider - an unaccustomed guest.

No matter; he was a stranger to himself – and homelessness, nothing new.

In battle – among widespread slaughter, the change had been minute; almost unnoticed – unrecognizable. For every man had undergone a metamorphosis – and in each other saw only the constant of brotherhood – nothing more. Out there, while in the throes of combat, he had time for nothing – but to fight for his life; keep his men as safe, well fed; well-armed as was possible; and be sure to bring d'Artagnan and Porthos back alive – just as he promised.

No regrets there, for he had gone to great lengths to undertake such an assurance. And would pledge to keep their oath of allegiance to one another all over again if need be.

Now, there was too much time for everything - too much time to eat; too much time to sleep – to dream; to think. There was too much time to wonder how his men were doing on the front lines – how fared what was left of his regiment without his input; why Paris had disintegrated into a cesspool.

He had too much time to think on Grimaud and his threat to France. Endless amounts of time which turned his duty into obsession, and all but exacerbated his growing agitation.

Making a decision he retrieved a bottle of wine from Treville's still secret hiding place. The false compartment beneath the side desk draw was a confidence he shared with the man, told to him on the day of his promotion. He sat down with careful deliberate movements and eyed the liquid contents with apprehension. Once down this road, he thought, where would it lead?

Licking his top lip, he sighed, placed the bottle with forced emphasis of care on the desk; and searched the room with some level of confusion.

He needed a drink badly, and gripped the neck tight. Frowning, he squirmed in his seat; but could find no level of comfort. This room was not his office – it felt foreign and unsettling to sit in this chair and contemplate drinking Treville's wine hidden away for four years. He wondered if his mentor ever regretted his decision to name him Captain; and thought back on that day they shared a cup of wine in stoic, companionable silence – the weight of coming war heavy between them.

To him, he marked time here until someone better would be called Captain and take his place.

Unable to sit another moment, Athos stood abruptly; strode to the window and looked out on the near empty garrison yard. Out there was not his home anymore. This was a place decimated of its regiment under his command; full of boys eager to become musketeers and lose their lives in a war about…..what?

Listening as the bell rang for the evening meal, it saddened him to know that Serge was no longer here to impart fond memories of an earlier, long ago time and pass such recollections forward to a new generation. Jacque no longer tended the stables, whistled lilting tunes as he worked; or spoke fondly of his mother. Outside these gates, the streets simmered with discontent; disillusionment; and mistrust.

He covered his eyes and pressed hard with the heels of his hands, causing stars to implode behind his lids. Paris – the garrison – his King – all had changed, and he most of all.

His heart had hardened; his tongue more severe; his joy – lost to him, emerging in only sporadic moments that caught him off guard. The war had redefined what joyful content he had found in brotherhood, honor and duty. Now everything seemed black or white; right or wrong; good or bad. He could seem to find no in between – no middle ground; the color of life - his spark dwindling to almost nothing.

God forgive him, he missed the battlefield. He missed living on the edge – living hard day to day; hour by hour and sometimes even moment to moment. He missed the heat of blood, the adrenaline of charging toward the enemy and surviving by any means necessary.

With determination he strode toward the desk; picked up Treville's chair and flung it across the room with the strength of pent of fury; and searched its hollow space for peace – peace of mind; peace of body…..stillness; maybe even just quiet. But it wasn't here.

He placed his hands on the desk and took a shuddered breath, hoping to rein in this rage; this destructive energy that possessed him and drove him to drink; to strike out; and then to withdraw and stew within this resurfaced, explosive nature he had thought himself cured of years ago.

His brothers saw it; their concerned looks, attempts to engage him in normalcy – their love not enough to temper this volcano that erupted without warning, then simmered like molten lava beneath the surface.

Balling his fists, stray papers caught between his fingers and he thought of her. Thought of her argument as to why he must choose; why he could not wish to be happy and be Captain. For when he loved her; held her; felt her warmth at his side –the war; a ravaged Paris, no longer existed. She alone held the power to keep the unthinkable horrors he had committed; witnessed – ordered at bay.

She buffered the white noise of screaming death that bombarded his every waking moment, and gave him respite. Her ideals of equality for all men and women; passion for life and justice rang true to him, against his better judgement; and the dogmas of his King. The strength of her beliefs was formidable; and he admired her for it.

When in her sights – he was someone undiscovered; an uncharted territory – and it frightened him. Who was he if not the Captain; if not a musketeer; if not the brother of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan? What of his duty to France; his King and Treville?

What of his wife, whom he thought of daily and held onto what could have been? Her glove - an ever present, tangible reminder of his weakness – her incomprehensible hold on him. Regrets from his past a festering scar that never healed. And he wouldn't wish it to. He deserved to be reminded of it; punished for his part in his brother's death; and lives altered – to live with it always.

Sylvie asked too much of him. Asked that he know her; be a part of her life – give a part of himself.

His fear? That he would somehow hurt her; that he could not love her; treat her well. That somehow, the war had stripped him of whatever kindness and decency he had garnered from the care of his brothers. And she deserved kindness, decency …and so much more.

His regret? That he used France – his duty as an excuse to put her at arm's length. When in truth he was just afraid. Afraid he had become someone unfit to be among people who lived life with expectations of goodness; a future and fair play.

Seeing Sylvie again had hit him hard. She had come to help –her expressive eyes sad; her posture at first hopeful, then defeated by his ever present mask of indifference he had perfected so long ago. The space between them, a rippling tide of calm; quiet that emanated from her, toward him – beckoned for him to come home and be at peace. But he could not bring himself to join her side, and embrace what she offered.

In his mind, he could not care for her and perform his duty for France. So she turned away and took tranquility with her.

Picking up his chair from the floor – he dragged it back to the desk; sat heavily and considered the map in front of him. Soon his brothers would enter and stand before this desk, ready for orders. They would follow Sylvie's advice – go to Eparcy; hunt down Grimaud and bring him to justice.

He took a weary breath, and massaged the throbbing at his temples; the bruising at his throat – and then rubbed carefully around the pain in his arm. But found he could not ease the pain of regret gaining purchase in his chest – making it hard to breathe.

Suddenly her smile; the sway of her hips; the way she tilted her head when in thought flashed in his consciousness for the briefest of moments. Then before the vision of her could take hold; he buried the idea of her deep amongst all the other regrets residing there.

A knock at the door gave fair warning his brothers were about to enter. Removing the cork from the bottle – he took a long swig that burned down his aching throat, and answered roughly, "Come". He would think on his regrets another day. For now – duty called.


I want to first off say thank you for the wonderful response to chapter one! And that I hope chapter two did not disappoint. Please review, and let me know what you think. This piece is a multi-chapter entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires June challenge, with the theme of 'Regret'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.

Next Chapter: Porthos