D'Artagnan's eyes snapped open when he heard that sword meet metal. He looked up and stared in surprise at his father standing over him, protectively.
"There is one honor greater than that of a man's word," Bertrand said. "His heart. His love and devotion to his family. To his son. And my son is worth a hundred thousand of you. Damn your revolution and damn the day you ever dared think you could use me to your own ends! If you want a fight, then here I stand, you varlet."
Degare smiled, twisted but eager for what was to come. "So certain of yourself, old man?"
"Certain of your death, yes."
The two men fought across the field, away from him and for a moment D'Artagnan wondered at the inhuman strength that seemed to take over his weary father. The longer he watched though, the sooner he saw that it wouldn't last long. So he snatched his sword up and tried to get to his feet. The pain in his leg shrieked anew and sent him right back down into the mud. He tried again and again to get back up, but every time he took a step forward the pain proved too much, and each time made him slower from the blood loss.
Just as he gritted his teeth together to try again he looked up in time to see Degare pin his father to the old dead oak tree. His father was spent and Degare looked nothing but invigorated. Their blades screeched together under desperate strain and D'Artagnan's heart started hammering in his chest when he saw Degare only using one hand. The man leaned in close to his father and said, "I'm afraid you've outlived your uses, my friend."
Then, with his free hand, he slashed at Bertrand's throat with a hidden blade.
"NO," D'Artagnan screamed.
He could only watch as his father's sword fell and he slumped to the earth beneath his feet, choking and dying. The irrational thought that he could still save his father had him crawling on hands and knees through the mud and water like a senseless animal. He grunted through his efforts, as if making the noises could somehow make him faster. But by the time he reached his father's side the man was already gone.
"This is what we do," Degare said, cool and calm. "What we did when we were once musketeers in Paris. Without fear people don't know you exist. They spit on you in self-importance and forget that one blow could mean the difference between life and death. They forget their humanity. And when you remind them, as you have to now and again, it opens doors for you without ever having to knock for entrance."
D'Artagnan struck out in a raging hot fury, stumbling from his leg wound but holding his ground long enough to deal a nasty gash along the man's arm. Degare cried out and, laughing as he did it, he thrust D'Artagnan's sword from his hand and beat him down with his fists. One final head knock onto a large boulder had him at Degare's mercy, and not a second later there were hands around his throat.
"Your friends are dead. Your pathetic excuse for a father is dead. Who do you have left to fight for, boy? Who else if not your own people? Your countrymen?"
What did he have left? He hadn't known the true meaning of what it meant to be alone until that very moment, when the life was slowly being choked out of him as he lay there, writhing on top of a large stone that would have been big enough for five epitaphs. There was little strength he had left to keep his neck from being snapped in two and stars were dancing on the edges of his sight, threatening to overtake him. He had nothing. Absolutely nothing left…
…but one thing.
"Me," he gasped, determinedly pulling at Degare's iron grip on his throat. "And…my honor."
Degare sneered down at him. "You disappoint me if that's all the fight you have left for it." Then, suddenly, he let go and backed away. "Go on then, get up."
D'Artagnan choked for air before dragging unsteady arms to push himself up. His head spun and the ground tilted underneath him, which made it hard to tell where the ground was. Just as his arms began to shake under the strain of his upper body, Degare punched him across the face, sending him right back against the boulder where he started. Blood leaked out from his nose and nearly made him gag when it ran back down his throat. He tried again and had the same result.
Maybe it was the blood loss, but it seemed like every time he did it, stubbornly clinging to life and refusing to back down, Degare looked angrier. Finally, when he was on the edge of consciousness Degare drew him up by his ruined shirt and spat in his face as he spoke. "What are you but a simple little farm boy from Gascony running around in a musketeer's uniform. Lot of good that crest does you out here, boy!"
"And…what are you," D'Artagnan said. "A nameless bastard picking fights in the countryside. Preying on…weaker men…boys half my age because no one with half a brain would bother listening to your lies and schemes…You've proved one thing. You've proved…that you are the one thing…men like you always fear to become. Absolutely…no one at all. After all these wasted years and bloodshed you are still nothing and will die nothing!"
Marcel Degare's face twisted in a terrible rage and D'Artagnan saw him raise his fist high in the air. There was a knife in it. The knife that killed his father. It was fitting to die by the same blade, he thought, because he could think of no other way to have it by this man's hands. Though the injustice burned like a roaring flame in his chest as he watched the blade descend on its way to end his life he let his thoughts drift towards who would be waiting for him on the other side. And in those final moments, he knew some kind of peace that preceded the pain of death.
He opened his eyes to greet it, but a shadow appeared behind them and took a shape that shocked him into full awareness and stunned silence.
Athos leaned forward, pushing and twisting the man's own knife that he drove into his gut deeper, and whispered into Degare's ear. "Rot in the hell you've made, devil."
It was not a pretty death, but it was fitting for the life that man chose to lead and the pain he chose to cause. Athos released him, collapsing onto the boulder and peering over the side as the man quickly bled to death. He turned his gaze away and rested his head on his arm to catch his racing heart. He moaned aloud at the realization that he was almost too damn slow. He almost hadn't caught that hand. He almost hadn't…the mere thought of it was too much to even comprehend.
He picked his head up, painful as it was for him to do so, and looked on at D'Artagnan who was very much alive and fearfully as shell-shocked as Athos felt. They stared at each other in disbelief. Panting for breath and admittedly shaking from frayed nerves, he reached over and touched the boy's face, finding it warm and inexplicably real. He started listing all the injuries he could see, and found himself returning to that awful moment in the stables back home when everything changed between the two of them. D'Artagnan reached up and grabbed Athos's hand, attempting a smile that instantly started to crumble under bitterness with tears and sadness.
"I thought you were dead!"
"You're among friends who are tough to kill. I thought that was clear from the moment we met."
D'Artagnan lunged at him then, as best he could at any rate, and grasped Athos so tightly that he gasped out loud at how it made him dizzy. But it was a sensation he welcomed with open arms. They both sat on the wet ground as he wrapped his arms securely around the boy who had been the source of all his grief over the past week.
"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan cried. "I'm sorry for everything! I never meant for any of this to happen-"
"Hush," Athos whispered, cradling the boy's head under his own with a gentle hand. "You're alive. That's all I give a damn about."
D'Artagnan openly wept and Athos let him, too tired with relief that he had been allowed this one miracle he prayed for through out his captivity. To be alive in this moment as well was more than what he hoped for. Aramis and Porthos approached silently, both relieved that their delay from another small band of rogues hadn't meant certain death for either of their friends. Once D'Artagnan started to quiet down Aramis laid a hand on the boy's back.
"What did we tell you, D'Artagnan," Aramis said.
D'Artagnan's head shot up and Athos feared that the shock might have been too much for him because he was trembling so badly.
"You mean what did I tell him, Aramis," Porthos joked, though it lacked his usual cheer.
Before any of them could say another word D'Artagnan yanked them all close into an embrace. Aramis winced at his shoulder being jostled, but made no sound and returned the affection, glad to be in company of his living friends. Porthos was all too happy to join in, but got a little too enthusiastic.
"Damn it, Porthos," Athos cursed. "My leg!"
"Don't ruin the moment," Porthos groused. "You'll live, grump that you are."
D'Artagnan chuckled as his final tears, of happiness, sent him into blissful and merciful oblivion.
Two days later…
He studied the blade of his grandfather in his hands, alone in his bedroom, home in Gascony. It was indeed a fine weapon, expertly cast and well taken care of-as a gift from the King of France should be. In the morning light from his window he could still make out the inscription, small as it was: 'Steadfast hearts conquer all.'
They were simple words, but with grand meaning that D'Artagnan found little room for. The weapon had been granted to him in his father's will, but part of him wondered if he couldn't leave the sword here at home, at the very least for insurance for his mother. But then he remembered that his aunt and uncle were coming to live with her, so things could hardly be as bad as he feared they might be. Left without excuses he trudged over to the mirror and in a fit of curiosity he undid his own sword and attached his grandfather's.
It was slightly heavier, and longer to accommodate someone much taller than him. He remembered dreaming of using this very sword in battle one day, but now that he looked at it and realized its worth, it didn't seem right. This sword wasn't a weapon, and it wasn't a treasure either, it was a memory of everything that was, of the happier times he spent with his family, with his father. Wearing it cheapened the grandeur. So he took it off and put his own back on, stowing the old sword in a velvet cloth made specifically for it, never knowing if it would see the light of day again. And he didn't care if it didn't.
D'Artagnan went downstairs, dreading his duty with each step, and was surprised to find Monsieur de Treville standing at the side of his father's simple coffin.
"I came looking for forgiveness," he said, without turning or looking up. "And perhaps a little of the old times your father and I shared. Instead I find death and silence…How did he die?"
"Saving me," D'Artagnan said, quietly. Almost mechanically, he retold the account of their duel, leaving nothing out, but managing to keep his voice steady. "It didn't matter much," D'Artagnan muttered, shaking his head. "Not in the end."
"You say that now because he's not here. Perhaps he considers it did."
"Perhaps…"
Treville sighed. "I fought for your father in those dark days. I visited as often as I could, to keep his spirits up. Somehow it never seemed to be enough. After you were born… I thought finally he had come back to himself. I would hope that the work I've done to instill pride and honor into what we do today has washed away the sins of those that came before me. I would understand if you do not wish for this life to be your fate. The dangers you face as a musketeer are a high price. Especially for a single parent."
"If I gave up my sword, Monsieur," he said with a weak smile. "I would have to face my mother's fury. That I am not ready to face."
"If you or your mother find yourselves in need of aid, you need look no farther than myself."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
Treville turned back and laid a gentle gloved hand on the face of D'Artagnan's father. After a moment he reached to the sword strapped to his waist, moved it, and placed the hilt in Bertrand's cold hands. "This is where it should have been," Treville whispered. "Years ago. Forgive me for my blindness, old friend."
The captain respectfully left to greet his musketeers and D'Artagnan moved to close the coffin. But he hesitated when his gaze fell on his father one last time. Some unnamable feeling ballooned in his chest and rendered him motionless. All he could do was stare. Until his mother laid a soft hand on his back and turned his attention. He looked at her in childish want for comfort and support, and perhaps for some form of permission.
She said nothing, touched the other side of his face, and kissed his cheek. He pressed his determined lips together and finally closed the coffin. As he rested his hands on the lid he closed his eyes in preparation for what needed to be done. And when he set about doing it, angrily driving the nails into the wood to seal the opening, his mother stubbornly held onto him. If she hadn't, he later realized, he wouldn't have been able to.
They buried Bertrand under a tree on the edge of their property. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stayed, at a distance when D'Artagnan requested it, until he was ready. Reflecting on the entirety of what happened, he was scared to admit how close had he been to losing everything. He had lost much, which was certain. But if he had lost anything more…He would have understood all too well what his father warned him about. Because to lose everything would mean returning to that awful evil feeling of having nothing and no one at all.
He closed his eyes and tried, with all his heart, to forget it.
Six months later…
D'Artagnan woke abruptly from his disturbing sleep, sweaty, cold, and shaking. He panted loudly in the dark, trying to stay above the cold waves of fear and convince himself that what he had seen wasn't true, but like all the other nights before this he failed miserably. It was dark in his room and that only added to the paranoia that things were not right, that he could still be dreaming and further tragedy and horror were waiting just beyond the door. So, understandably, the outline of a figure in the doorway made him start. But when Athos stepped into the light D'Artagnan let out a breath he'd been holding and tried to hide his white knuckles underneath the covers.
"I'm fine," he croaked.
"No, you're not," Athos whispered. He came further into the room, sat on the side of D'Artagnan's bed, and wordlessly pulled him into an embrace.
He was still shaking, even after he clung to the man like a piece of wood in the middle of an endless sea. True to Athos' fashion, he said nothing and maneuvered them on D'Artagnan's bed, as he'd done many nights before, leaning back into a comfortable position so the both of them could get a decent night's sleep. For they had learned the hard way that once D'Artagnan's nightmares flared up, they didn't stop simply by waking and venturing back.
He buried his face in Athos' chest and after ten minutes of deep breathing, as per Aramis' instructions, the tension was nearly gone. Though their arms were still wound tightly around each other, neither man said a word and was resigned to spending another night like this, together to keep the invisible demons at bay. They never spoke of the dreams if D'Artagnan didn't volunteer the account, and tonight it seemed that all he wanted was simple comfort and rest.
"What man isn't without his nightmares?" D'Artagnan mumbled against his chest, with his insecurities unusually bare for anyone to see.
"Not a very good one," Athos said, rubbing D'Artagnan's arm with surprising gentility for emphasis.
"Athos-"
"If you thank me one more time, boy, I swear-"
D'Artagnan smiled. "Nothing, then."
"Go to sleep," he whispered, waiting until the boy was asleep before adding the unspoken addendum between them. "Son."
The combination of Athos rubbing his shoulder and the steady beat of his heart beneath D'Artagnan's cheek seemed to send him, unreservedly, straight into a peaceful dreamless sleep which made Athos thankful. The older musketeer stayed up longer, continuing his vigil for any signs of another nightmare. He listened to the quiet of the night, and the occasional snore from Porthos across the hall, and found his thoughts return to a long forgotten mark on the hand that he had been using to comfort the boy.
The jagged but faded burn scar on his hand caught the moonlight from the window and took him back to a time of punishment at the hands of his own father. A noticeable shiver went through him at the uncomfortable memory and, though he tried to hide it, D'Artagnan unconsciously shifted closer and tightened his arms around him. Typical, Athos thought, shoving those traitorous thoughts and memories back down. Noble and selfless even while he's asleep. But after a moment's thought, he decided he didn't mind. And after another, he admitted that he was thankful for it. Because life went by much easier when you had someone like you, someone who knew, how to travel the lonely road to acceptance.
A/N: Anyone with any suggestions for the sequel please feel free to pass it along. I'm not entirely sure what it will entail yet, but something with our four boys, Treville, and maybe even D'Artagnan's mother. Hope you enjoyed the story!