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 Three: Porthos
Mesmerized, Porthos gazed down into the face of a miracle. The squirming, wailing child – all arms, legs and voice; red faced with effort – hollered at the top of her lungs and made him smile. She fit securely in the palms of his hands, and the warm, wet slickness of her did not deter his grip.
"You are safe – yeah", he chuckled; cut the cord of connection with one hand and tied things off with long ago remembered ease.
She was a loud one – he thought; so ready to announce to the world her entrance. He caressed the side of her cheek with his thumb and lifted her up to peer straight into her eyes. The brown orbs caught his and she reached for his nose – small fingers curling into fists.
He looked to the exhausted mother who lay spent on the bedding next to him. She sighed deep with worry - anxiety and fear etched across her face alongside pain. His smile faltered and he frowned with her. A tear escaped the corner of her eye and streamed down to trembling lips. Licking the salty wetness away, she reached for the babe and swiped foamy red froths of blood from atop her head.
Porthos reached for a blanket, swaddled the baby up and handed her over. Pulling the child in close, Elodie bent her head and wept openly – her shoulders shaking in time with the cries of her child. "I am alone in this", she whispered and kissed her newborn gently on the cheek.
Porthos moved quickly to clear away the remnants of afterbirth, then squeezed her arm; sat at her hip and murmured, "I am here Elodie", and waited patiently for help to come. He could hear just beyond the door that the fighting had slowed to sporadic grunts; moans and the stray sound of gun fire. There was no doubt in his mind that his brothers had found success in protecting this place and its women and children.
Elodie leaned over toward him, placed her forehead on his chest – her child nestled between them, and answered – "You are a good man Porthos", her heart filled with joy, and breaking at the same time.
And as he sat still at her side; with her tears dampening his shirt, Porthos looked inward to assess himself – and wondered if what she said was really true. Was he as she saw him – a good man? Because he could feel it. Everything about him was different. Nothing was the same. He had gone to war and come back as someone new.
Truly, in the past – he had seen himself that way – a good man. But he had changed so much, come back tired and weary of death – ready to begin again. If not as the old Porthos – boisterous, fun loving, full of the joy of life – then he supposed this version of him would do.
Staring down at this bundle of energy in her mother's arms, he knew the war had reshaped him into this more thoughtful, meditative, more perceptive person. He could see the shades of gray more clearly now; understood that all was not what it seemed. Instead of brashly knocking down walls; he would attempt to step around; think things through and navigate this new world as such.
Before the war – it was all about living life to the fullest; daring the world to go against him – proving his worth and sharing every glorious moment with those he loved. During the war – it was only about surviving- putting one foot in front of the other and maintaining his hold on sanity. Now, in the presence of new life, he thought – maybe it should be about giving something back to those he had been charged to protect.
His many mistakes, he would live with; rectify them and make good on the effort of moving forward. He reached down; cupped the babes head in his large hand, and felt the warm smoothness. This was a good start.
In battle, he had seen things, and done things that at one time in his life, he thought himself incapable of. But the very essence of war – her brutal intent – had dug deep into his soul and brought out the worst in him; turned him into someone that made him regret being a soldier.
War had tested him harshly and for a moment, he had failed; considered flight and left behind briefly every one he ever truly loved. It had been the lowest moment of his life – one he would regret for as long as he lived.
But all that was over now – though difficult, he had come to accept his frailties and besides, he was home now. Back on solid ground; away from the shifting sands of battle that threatened each day to pull him under and suffocate him.
Home, with his brothers – back in the realm of the real world – he would help bring France ….Paris back to where she once was; maybe even better. In that same vein, he would put right his life and give of himself to those in need.
He could see on his return that the war had taken much from many. Right beside him now was Elodie – a cruel example of war's ultimate sacrifice. Yes – he would try and do his part to tip the scales back in favor to a stable France.
Looking down on this small gift, he agreed with Athos. Men like Grimaud needed to be stopped. Their lust for power and revenge, of little help - when needed most was reform and peace. He could not abide men who took advantage of a devastated people for their own gains. But for his brothers' love for him, it could be he in Grimaud's shoes – a bitter, disillusioned , hard man; brought up in the worse of circumstances – believing that insurrection and greed was the only answer to relieving the harshness and profound regrets of the past.
Elodie's tears now dry; Porthos gently extricated himself; turned away from mother and child, and then stood to stretch his limbs. Though the birthing had been relatively quick – the stress of having battle so close, roaring over Elodie's screams had strained them both. He pulled close a nearby chair; sat down heavily and leaned over to rub the tension from his shoulders. Listening for his friends – the quiet outside unnerved him and took him back to another place and time.
A time and place where he had done things he could not undo. Moments that would haunt him to the grave. Where despair had taken precedence; led him away from the battlefield and his new found ferocious appetite for war.
In that terrible, decisive moment he had thought to escape himself – make haste from the onslaught; and turn his back on the useless brutality of it all – the brutality in him.
He remembered being so very, very tired. His mind numb with grief; the whys of it – his purpose lost to him. The weight of death was so heavy about his neck that it bowed his shoulders and bent his back. It was at the time a relentless force of malevolence that surrounded him, attacked his defenses and penetrated his heart.
With blood on his hands; spotted on his face, in his hair, soaked through his clothes – he laid down his sword and walked away.
Sorrow – he thought he knew. He had lived through it and survived the death of his mother – who lay still; rigid in his arms as a five year old child for two days until someone came to relieve her from his embrace.
Near starvation, he had endured – until he learned to carry his own weight; pick pockets, steal or fight to feed his shrinking belly. The sting of humiliation he had borne stoically – not knowing where he came from; who was his father, what did it mean to be Porthos du Vallon?
He had pushed through it all and found himself to be a strong, capable man with good intentions. Proud of his accomplishments – glad of good friends who loved him, and knew his mother would be pleased.
But out of all this – it was this war that broke him down. Chipped at his resolve bit by bit until his insides were reduced to a hollow core; loud and empty – echoing with disdain; screaming at him to fill it back up with life.
Gladly he had stepped away – hoping to find what was lost.
Resolutely he had walked at a brisk clip for miles with the purpose of finding some respite from the tortures of heinous battles; blood lust and the slow agonizing pall of regret for the things he had done. But as he walked, the realization hit him that he could not walk far enough; or find just the right amount of distance to separate him from such pain. That no matter where he went - it would all follow him down into sleep; cling to his psyche and ride upon his back for the rest of his life.
There was no escape. And to take desertion with him – live with it out in the world was an impossible regret to stomach.
Closing his eyes – he could see that day, that very moment of realization with such clarity. How he stood in the eerie silence of row upon row of purple wild flowers; and how the sun was so bright he squint. The breeze was cool; hit his face and when he breathed in, the scent of nature filled him up. Tall grass swayed at his knees and when he looked up, the sky was unbelievably pristine – not a cloud to been seen. He remembered that a lone bird flew overhead; heading no doubt to some place free of strife.
How could it be that peace such as this was only a few miles away from bedlam?
Turning to look back, he could see the smoke rising over the grassy knolls and the ground rumbling beneath his feet. Back there he had left them – his brothers to fight on alone – to perhaps die that very hour, while he stood out in the open field….safe.
Suddenly, the distant reverberations of musket fire; cannon fodder and screaming men rushed toward him like a torrid storm, and woke him from such a stupor. And he remembered running back at full speed; never stopping to gather his breath; racing hard toward the piercing sounds of men in the heat of battle – yelling aloud stride for stride, "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me….."
By some miracle, when he reached the perimeter of battle he found his sword among the fallen, lifted it over his head, and re-entered the fray as if he had never left.
He would never share that regretful moment with his brothers. Never. Always – he had prided himself on his strength; his ability to carry any burden, no matter how heavy the load. To have them see him any other way – weak, desolate, hopeless was unthinkable.
Opening his eyes – he noticed Elodie watching him closely; her eyes wet with concern. So he rose to sit once again at her side; caught her hand in what he hoped was a comforting grip and rubbed her knuckles with care. On this day Elodie had heard his confession with compassion and without judgement. To have finally voiced it aloud; to have unburdened his greatest regret – left him the lighter for it. He had never thought to speak of that day – ever; but something in her drew him out.
He wasn't sure why he told her. Perhaps it was her own dire straits – her wanting to lay down, give up and not fight for her life; the future. Fear could do that to you – he knew. But he was through with giving up. There would be no more of that for him; or of anyone else in his sphere if he could help it.
The girl child cried out then, surprising him with the strength of her bellow. Porthos put out a finger, reached to touch her chin and watched in amazed awe as this very miracle, with such tiny hands; and strong tenacity wound her fingers around his and would not let him loose.
He laughed then at her boldness and knew she would one day be a force to be reckoned with. "Hold on little one", he cooed and grinned as her cries gave way to gurgling content.
He would take his cue from her – and be content also.
Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I really enjoyed this episode (Fools Gold) and hope this chapter does Porthos' experience justice. Please leave a review – as I love to know what you think! At this time, I want to also say thank you to those readers who have not only read; but have reviewed; favorited or are following this entry. To those guest readers who left reviews – thank you, your comments are most appreciated!
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 and join the competition, please go to the Musketeers Forum page titled Fete des Mousquetaires to learn more about the rules and how to enter.
Next and final chapter: Aramis
