A/N: I can't be the only one who thinks d'Art crying is ADORABLE. I just wanted to give the poor guy a hug... :'(
Tag to: Episode 8.
Bittersweet.
The room wasn't big or very well furnished, with just a bed and a wardrobe along with a stool. . But it was his own and for that he was glad.
There would be no pesky cloth merchants bothering him about the rent, no stealing glances at… D'Artagnan stopped himself before his mind took him there.
He threw the bag holding the few of his possessions on the floor and slumped on the bed, utterly and completely exhausted from the day's events. It hadn't started well, what with his heart being so mercilessly ripped to shreds, and it had only gotten worse till the king had ordered him to kneel and made him a musketeer.
D'Artagnan knew he should be happy. He certainly had been in the field, overwhelmed actually, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he had hugged each of his comrades in turn.
But now all he felt was… nothing.
He supposed that that in itself was a blessing of sorts. The others would be along as soon as they got rid of the grime and dirt of the day and they would want to drink and feast in his honor. He would have to laugh and talk and be merry, even though all he wanted to do was lay there and not move for the entire night.
He hadn't told them about Constance. Not then, and certainly not now.
It seemed the musketeer life did not allow for successful romances. Athos' love life was in shambles, Porthos' heart belonged to the regiment, Aramis was too far gone to care and now it seemed that d'Artagnan had his own tale of woe to drown in whatever glass of cheap brandy the others used to quell their hurts.
To date d'Artagnan had never let anyone who had wronged him go without seeking justice for their actions. But this was something he had never had to deal with. He couldn't very well march up to the respectable Madame Bonacieux and challenge her to a duel over his broken heart.
No, all he could do was join the ranks of soldiers, all of whom drank late into the night, each for their own reason, an unspoken agreement between them of never prying into another man's affairs.
D'Artagnan smirked bitterly. He was a musketeer after all. There were standards to live up to.