I've loved reading your comments on the last chapter, thank you - especially those guests I can't reply to directly. Cheers, Debbie, for checking out the officer thing – I was sure they had to have some way of identifying officers but didn't realise pauldrons didn't exist at that time. I'm glad the BBC tweaked it though – can't imagine they would look quite so dashing in frock coats.
I love how much you all hate Colombe, but it will be a while before we find out what happens to him. Our three war-heroes have plenty to occupy themselves in the meantime, struggling with their own reactions ... A tiny bit of bad language from Porthos again, sorry. He's not one for holding back.
Chapter Eight: What's Left of Me
He lay there, letting his breathing settle and his body get used to hosting the new injuries, trying to work out what to do. Nothing could undo the last few hours but he had to try to put it right... but he was out of ideas.
All he could think of was to talk to Athos, but he knew the time for talking was past. He should have told him straight away why he'd hit Colombe; that something had triggered the memories of his captivity. It might have been enough, without having to explain everything that had happened... But no. In the army, discipline was everything and the only thing that might have saved him would have been if Colombe had hit him first. Verbal provocation, no matter what lay behind it, was no excuse. Even if he had tried to explain, it would have put Athos in an impossible position and he'd have looked weak, and no doubt would have been in trouble himself from the Generals, maybe even lost his Captaincy...
Besides, d'Artagnan knew he couldn't have articulated anything last night, not with the panic still thundering through his body, and Colombe prowling in the background, and so many eyes watching not just him but Athos too, waiting to see how he dealt with his ill-disciplined junior officer. All he had thought of at the time was getting away from that circle of eyes, and not showing Athos up any more than he had already.
So he'd said nothing, and instead of making it easier for Athos he'd made everything so much worse.
How had Athos felt, knowing he had to carry out the punishment in front of everyone? Etienne's words echoed in his head. "Hard on him... bloody furious about it". No wonder he couldn't bear to look at d'Artagnan now.
He tried to imagine how it would be if their positions had been reversed, and he knew he could not have done it to Athos. All this told him, however, was that he would make a lousy commanding officer. Athos had done what he had to do with dignity and care, while d'Artagnan had let everyone down – Athos, Porthos, the Musketeer regiment, Tréville, even the King – what would he say, if he heard his "Champion" had been flogged for ill-discipline? And Constance? She was so proud of him but what would she think of him now?
The thoughts churned around and around in his head until he felt like screaming, but the small amount of self-respect he had left wouldn't allow him to make a sound. No doubt there were soldiers outside right now, pointing at his tent and discussing his flogging; he would probably be the talk of the camp for days.
Gradually he realised there was nothing he could do to put things right. Except wait, and hope that in time the attention moved on. Once he'd healed he would work even harder to prove himself in battle again, and try to win back Athos' approval, if not his friendship. He swiped a hand viciously across his face, ashamed of the tears pricking his eyes.
All he could do was to keep his head down and do nothing more to disappoint Athos. And stay out of Colombe's way.
He suddenly remembered that no one had responded when he'd told them he had guard duty. Someone would have sorted it out, wouldn't they? But if they were expecting him still, he didn't want to give anyone another excuse to criticise him.
Mind made up, he rolled to one side, gasping as one shoulder came into contact with the bed, and quickly got his feet to the ground so he could sit up. Merde! The surge of pain from the new position made him feel faint and he had to sit for a long while, waiting until everything settled down again. Then he got to his feet, thankful that no one had taken his boots off, and stooped carefully to pick up a clean shirt. He dropped it over his head, wincing as he noticed the raw marks rubbed into his wrists by the ropes. Etienne had not cleaned them, or the cut on his eyebrow that had leaked blood into the corner of his eye. Oh, no matter. He struggled to get his arms through the sleeves, feeling the fire re-ignite in his back but determined now to ignore the pain and get moving.
He didn't bother to do up the laces on his shirt, and bent carefully to pick up his weapons belt. Doing it up might be another matter, and as for his doublet...
He heard quiet voices outside and called out in relief. "Fouchard, is that you?"
A blond head appeared in the tent flap. "Did we wake you? Ah – clearly not. What the heck are you doing?" Guérin pushed in followed by Fouchard.
"Can you buckle my weapons belt?"
"No way! Metier's taken your guard duty and you are not going anywhere."
"I need a leak." It was true, he did need to relieve himself and he couldn't face an argument about taking duty.
"Oh. Well, you don't need weapons for that but I'll come with you if you – "
"I don't need a bloody escort!" Glaring at the pair of them he tried to sling his weapons belt around his waist and missed the end, too stiff to reach his arms behind his back.
"Oh, for f... Come here!" Guérin grabbed the end and buckled the belt loosely around his hips. "I suppose you want your doublet too?"
Fouchard looked horrified when d'Artagnan nodded. "Are you mad? He can't wear that!"
"Are you going to argue with him?" asked Guérin, sounding amused. He handed the doublet to d'Artagnan who averted his eyes from the raw edge of leather at the bottom of his pauldron, where the mark of a sub-lieutenant's rank had been sliced off. He took it resolutely, put one arm through the sleeve then looked helplessly at Guérin, who tutted and shovelled d'Artagnan unceremoniously into it, doing the chest straps up loosely then patting him gently on the shoulder. "I'm off duty so I'll be around. Don't do anything stupid."
d'Artagnan snorted. He would be impressed if he made it to the latrines without falling over, never mind doing anything stupid.
Outside he was aware of heads turning his way and conversations stopping as he passed. He kept his head up and nodded to anyone whose eyes he caught, determined to front it out. He had done something stupid and been punished. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
Once he'd relieved himself, he turned and looked across camp. It seemed an awfully long way to the gate, where he was supposed to be on duty. He could just make out the guards at the post – Metier and someone he didn't recognise. Could he really make it over there?
Yes, dammit. He wasn't injured, or ill, just sore. Concentrating carefully on his feet, he plodded slowly towards the gate.
When he finally reached them, Metier refused to let d'Artagnan take back his duty but the other soldier, who d'Artagnan didn't know, took off with alacrity when d'Artagnan offered. "What the heck are you trying to prove?" asked Metier, incredulously.
Good question, thought d'Artagnan grimly. He was remembering that he hadn't eaten since – when? Yesterday evening, a few mouthfuls of stew, very little else. He hadn't slept. And he was in a world of pain. Not the best way to feel when standing guard for the next five hours. Why had he thought this was a good idea? And he'd forgotten to bring any water with him. It was nearly winter but the sun was still warm in the middle of the day and his face felt hot and sweaty.
Metier gave up expecting a response and handed him his own water bottle, grunting when d'Artagnan thanked him. "You're not invincible, you know. You need to slow down," he told the Gascon sourly.
"What do you ... You think I'm showing off or something?" He was so far off the mark it was almost laughable.
"Well, aren't you? Monsieur 'I can still do my duty even after a public flogging'?" He spat the words out, stunning d'Artagnan.
"That's not..." d'Artagnan stopped, and shut his eyes. What was the point?
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"What is it, then?" asked Metier, more gently.
"I just – I'm frightened!" He couldn't believe he was admitting this to anyone, least of all someone like Metier, who'd been a Musketeer for years and had always been quite aloof.
"What of?"
He couldn't seem to stop himself. "Of ... not being ... strong enough."
Metier stared at him. "You? For Christ sakes, d'Artagnan, you're bloody indestructible! Everything bloody bounces off you!"
It was d'Artagnan's turn to stare. It didn't feel like that to him.
"Is that what you think?"
"It's what everyone thinks, you idiot. Everyone wants to be next to you in a battle." He paused, considering, then corrected himself. "You or Porthos."
d'Artagnan suddenly started laughing. That was more like it!
It was at this moment, with both of them now laughing, neither really sure at what, that Colombe chose to ride out of the gate. Stopping between the two guards, he sat looking down at d'Artagnan, a strange smile playing about his lips. "It seems your captain didn't beat you hard enough, boy. Maybe you can run an errand for me after your guard duty?"
Metier spoke up immediately. "I'll do it, Sir."
"No thanks." Colombe didn't even look at him. "I've asked the Gascon."
"The Gascon has a name."
All three of them jumped at the icy tone of the new voice, and d'Artagnan almost smiled before remembering what Athos had said the last time he'd seen him.
Lieutenant Colombe turned in the saddle to look at the Musketeer Captain, who had walked up, unnoticed, in his wake. "I'm still waiting for an apology so you'll forgive me if I can't be bothered with his name."
"I did apologise!" d'Artagnan said heatedly. "I should never have lashed out and I told you so straight away, as soon as I realised who I had hit."
"You didn't know it was him?" asked Athos, sharply.
"No. He took me by surprise – it was just instinct."
"So it wasn't personal?"
"No!" Athos should know him better than that!
There was a silence, then Athos looked at the mounted man. "Don't let us keep you," he said, pleasantly.
Colombe muttered something indistinct, kicked his horse viciously and with a squeal the animal took off at a fast canter, kicking up a dust flurry in his wake.
"Carry on." Athos turned and walked away, leaving two slightly confused Musketeers in his wake.
"Was he checking up on you?" asked Metier. d'Artagnan shrugged, forgetting that shrugging should be bottom of his list of gestures right now. His gasp of pain brought Metier's head up sharply. "Oh, sit down before you fall down," he said irritably, gesturing at the log that formed part of the barrier by the gate. "I'll let you know if any more officers turn up."
d'Artagnan sank gratefully onto the log, and wondered how much longer before he could go and lie down again.
It felt like five days, not five hours, before they were relieved, but eventually they were walking back across the camp, Metier slowing his pace to accompany d'Artagnan. As they parted company Metier said gruffly: "You're a good man, d'Artagnan. We're all glad you're back."
d'Artagnan stopped, taken aback by the unexpected compliment, but by the time he'd turned to thank Metier, he'd disappeared into the mess tent.
d'Artagnan made his way slowly back to the tent he shared with Porthos, finding it thankfully empty when he entered. He wasn't looking forward to explaining his next action to Porthos but he'd seen how things were with Athos earlier and he'd made a decision during the long hours of guard duty on the gate. Porthos would be torn between loyalty to Athos and protectiveness towards d'Artagnan, but he shouldn't really be sharing an officer's tent now he'd lost his commission, and he didn't want to wait until someone pointed it out and made Porthos enforce that rule. He would make it easy for the big man by moving out voluntarily.
He tried bending to open the chest containing his few possessions, but it pulled horribly on his back. Suspecting that his shirt was sticking, he gave up and simply gathered up his blankets and pillow, and slipped out again, feeling guilty. He should find Porthos and explain, but first he desperately needed to lie down.
He made his way to the tent which Fouchard shared with four others, knowing there was a spare bed there at the moment while San Marle was recovering from a leg wound. Most of the Musketeers were still eating lunch, but he found Fouchard in the tent, sharpening his blade. He looked up in surprise to where d'Artagnan hesitated in the entrance, clutching his bedding.
"d'Artagnan – are you okay? What are you – Oh, no. No, no, no!"
"Just until Athos calms down. Please, Fouchard?"
"Porthos will be furious!"
"Porthos will be grateful. Once he's finished shouting at me." d'Artagnan sank onto the spare bed, nearest the tent flap – always the least favourite spot in winter. "Can you wake me for evening muster?" He manoeuvred carefully until he was lying face down on the bed, and resolutely shut his eyes before Fouchard could protest further.
Six hours earlier
Porthos had been shocked to the core when Athos yelled at d'Artagnan to get out, straight after the flogging. He'd known how shaken Athos was; knew it was a bad idea for d'Artagnan to go to him so soon; but he hadn't expected such a vitriolic response from a man who barely ever raised his voice. From the stricken look on d'Artagnan's face, neither had he.
Torn between two old friends who both desperately needed support, he cursed. Where was bloody Aramis now? Much as it pained him, he knew Athos would tolerate no one but a close friend at the moment, so he'd sent Fouchard and Guérin after d'Artagnan while he stayed with Athos.
One look at the man told him it was pointless trying to talk to him. His face was white with anger, his eyes pinched as if in pain, his jaw clenched. He'd picked up a book and had it open but Porthos doubted very much if he even knew whether it was the right way up.
Porthos had taken with him the brandy d'Artagnan had brought him from Paris, knowing Athos had finished his own when sharing it around the campfire a few days ago. He poured Athos a measure and stared at the amber liquid, remembering the feeling of relief and euphoria when he'd seen d'Artagnan return looking more like himself. Was that only a few weeks ago? How had it all gone so wrong?
He handed the cup to Athos who took it mechanically, held it for a while then hurled it to the floor.
Anger flared in Porthos. It wasn't just for the waste of the brandy, but for wasting the gift that d'Artagnan had given him. None of this was the lad's fault; it was that prick Colombe's doing from start to finish – Porthos had no doubt that he'd deserved the punch from d'Artagnan – and the bloody army regulations. d'Artagnan hadn't deserved the punishment and he didn't deserve this reaction from Athos, and it was time someone told him so.
"Athos, it wasn't the boy's fault; that bloody... "
"Don't." The voice was clipped and low: raw emotion held at bay by tight control.
Silence. "That's it?" Porthos was incredulous now. "You're not going to discuss any bit of this?"
"Nothing you can say will change what happened, or how I feel."
Porthos recognised the truth of that but he had to try.
"But it's wrong! I know why you 'ad to do it but we can't let Colombe get away with it. 'e set d'Artagnan up and 'e doesn't deserve it, not after everythin' else the lad's been through. We have to sort that sleezy bastard out!"
"There's nothing to be done."
"So you're just going to sit there and do nothin'?"
"So it seems."
"Athos, that's just – "
"Enough!" A flicker of emotion leaked into Athos' voice but Porthos was too wound up to hear it.
"It's not 'enough', Athos, you owe it to him to – "
"I owe him nothing, Porthos!" He spat the words out through gritted teeth. "He is a soldier first, here, and he must follow the rules, just like everyone else. I cannot make an exception! And I cannot 'sort out' that bloody man – and neither can you, not without bringing the whole regiment into disrepute, and causing all kinds of ruptures within the army, because you know damn well people would take sides. There are more important things at stake here than one man, so there's nothing else to say – and if you persist with this conversation I will ask you to leave."
Porthos stared at him, fists clenching and unclenching, then simply turned on his heel and stalked out.
Athos sat for a long time, a very long time, staring at the book in his hands, then finally laid it down carefully, dropped his face into his hands, and began to weep, silently: for d'Artagnan's innocence, and Porthos' faith in him, both of which were surely now lost forever, and for himself, for the depths this war had brought him to.
It took far longer than he cared to admit to pull himself together. There was a time when he contemplated just walking out. The temptation just to saddle Roger and ride away from them all was almost overwhelming, but then he remembered the look on d'Artagnan's face when he'd told him to get out, and he knew he couldn't leave on that note or he would scar d'Artagnan for life – if he hadn't already done so. Literally.
He groaned, dropping his head into his hands again, but this time with a murderous scowl on his face. How the hell was he going to put this right?
His innate sense of duty and obligation eventually forced him to his feet: he wouldn't solve anything by skulking in here.
He ran a hand down his face and through his hair, squared his shoulders, straightened his doublet and belt, and flung the tent flap aside.
Striding out more purposefully than he felt, he was startled to see his tent pretty much surrounded by musketeers. Lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard the unusual activity outside: whereas they normally congregated around the campfire when off-duty, this morning they had apparently decided it was a good idea to drag benches and logs to the area right in front of his tent, where around thirty men had settled to clean tack, sharpen weapons, and chat. There was even a spot of hair cutting going on. And behind him – he turned – yes, behind him was Porthos, wielding an axe as if he wished it was smashing down on the head of Colombe, not the logs he was chopping viciously into firewood.
When he saw Athos emerge, he finished his swing and passed the axe to the musketeer stacking the logs and wandered his way, clearly trying to look casual. Athos scowled to himself. What the heck did they think they were doing? Were they keeping an eye on him – or waiting for the next instalment of the drama?
Porthos arrived in front of him and eyed him without speaking. Athos felt a childish wish to see which of them could keep silent longest, but quashed it. Besides, there really was no doubting the outcome: Porthos wouldn't last two minutes. He frowned, noticing that his spirits seemed to have lifted slightly since leaving his tent. He couldn't figure out why – nothing had changed – but it seemed that just seeing his men around, giving their silent support, was helping to settle him.
Was that the reason they were there? He supposed it must be, if his instincts were still true. But surely they must hate him for punishing d'Artagnan so unfairly. Everyone knew the trouble Colombe had been giving the Gascon and how unjust the situation was, so why were they all here?
He found Porthos answering his unspoken question. "Seems everyone wants to be close this mornin'. 'ope we didn't disturb you."
"Indeed." His usual dry response seemed wrong right now but he didn't know how else to be. "How is d'Artagnan?"
"Etienne thinks it will mostly 'eal without scarrin' an' you did a good job."
Oh, really? That was a good morning's work? Something must have shown in his face for Porthos caught him by the elbow, looking contrite. "Sorry... you know what I mean though."
Athos sighed. Yes, he did. "Is he in his tent?"
Porthos looked surprised. "No – 'e's on duty."
"WHAT?"
A sudden hush fell over their end of camp as all eyes swivelled their way. "He 'ad guard duty, remember? Metier took it for 'im, but 'e went over not long ago and insisted. I think 'e swopped with the other guard in the end an' Metier stayed with 'im..." But Athos had gone already, striding towards the east gate with a grim expression. Porthos sighed, feeling everything was spiralling out of his control.
As it happened, Athos arrived in time to hear Lt. Colombe taunting d'Artagnan, which was as well for the Gascon or Athos might have unleashed all his bad humour on him for being stupid enough to take guard duty unnecessarily. Instead he felt a surge of protectiveness towards him, and took pleasure in sending the lieutenant on his way. Feeling slightly better humoured, Athos did the rounds of his men then headed for an officers' meeting, thankful, for once, to be able to lose himself in duty and obligation.
Porthos was uncharacteristically short-tempered as he headed for lunch. In the mess tent he took his portion of bread and meat unenthusiastically and found an empty table where he could fume in peace. He hadn't seen d'Artagnan since he'd spotted him heading for guard duty, and he was feeling guilty about that, mad at Athos for being so distant and correct about everything, and unusually pessimistic about the future. It would take a lot of work to heal these schisms and at the moment he didn't see how he could do it.
Someone plopped into the seat opposite him and he looked up hopefully before realising it was only Guérin, who chuckled.
"What?" Porthos suspected he sounded irascible but he didn't care.
"You were hoping I was someone else."
Porthos huffed and didn't answer.
"He's okay, you know."
"'e's been flogged."
"Yes, and he's okay," Guérin repeated patiently.
Porthos met his eyes. "Really?"
"Yes. He's just worried about you, and Athos, and letting everyone down..."
Porthos literally growled, and Guérin laughed. "I know, we've all told him off about that. Everyone knows what happened, and who's fault it really is. How's Athos doing?"
Porthos shrugged. Guérin looked at him sympathetically, then trapped Porthos' hand where he was stabbing his fork viciously into the table-top. Porthos sighed. "Athos is keepin' it all under wraps, like 'e always does."
It was Guérin's turn to look angry. "That bloody man's got a lot to answer for!"
"Who – Athos?" Porthos half rose from his seat, ready to explode across the table in defence of the very man he was angry with himself.
"No! Colombe of course! I tell you Porthos, there's more than one man muttering about making him pay for what he did to d'Artagnan, to the musketeers."
Porthos looked up sharply. It was one thing for him to mouth off to Athos, but quite another to find the men were talking about it. "Oh, no mate! You need to slap down any talk like that smartish, Guérin."
Guérin flushed, and Porthos guessed he'd been quicker to join the grumbles than quash them. He stood up abruptly and spoke quietly, leaning across the table to emphasise his words. "Doesn't matter what we think. We're Musketeers an' we follow our captain. d'Artagnan knows 'e did a stupid thing, and 'e took his punishment with dignity. Anyone takes the law into 'is own 'ands just undoes everything 'e went through this morning. So I don't want to 'ear any talk about retribution. Are we clear?"
Guérin nodded, looking down. "I'll pass the message on."
"See you do." Porthos patted him on the shoulder and turned away.
The mood was subdued at evening muster, with none of the usual energy and gentle back-row teasing that marked the Musketeers on a good day. It seemed everyone was looking sideways at d'Artagnan, Porthos or Athos.
d'Artagnan kept his head down, partly because he didn't want to make things difficult for either Athos or Porthos, and partly because he was in so much pain by now that he could barely speak. He wanted nothing more than to disappear and sleep, and only looked up when Athos named him as one of those off duty until the morning, noticing miserably that Athos didn't even glance his way.
Porthos, as usual, did the rounds of all the musketeers on duty that evening so it was after midnight before he turned in – to find d'Artagnan missing from his cot, along with his bedding. Exhausted after the previous night's lack of sleep, and knowing that he could hardly search every tent for his missing tent-mate, all he could do was slump onto his bed, roll himself in his blanket and try to relax enough to sleep.
He was so tired that he did sleep – but after an hour or so he found himself wide awake again, listening in vain for the sound of d'Artagnan's light breathing or gentle snores. The intense silence in the tent seemed to close in on him and after another hour of tossing and turning he eventually gave up and stalked out of the tent, feeling anxious and furious with the Gascon at the same time.
He sat by the fire for a while, stewing over everything and finding to his surprise that his main emotion was anger with, of all people, Aramis. He'd missed him in a hundred different ways since they'd left him at the Abbey in Douai, but never more so than today: for not being there.
Time, and the ever-engulfing demands of the war, had gradually driven Aramis from his thoughts until he'd got used to managing without him. But today, when both Athos and d'Artagnan were suffering and neither could look the other in the eye: today he'd needed Aramis; longed for his common sense, his ability always to look beyond the moment towards something better ahead. And he hadn't been here.
He shivered, feeling the chill of the middle night settling into his skin, and rose, thinking to return for a blanket if not to his bed. Just in time to see, beyond his own tent, the shadow of a man emerging from another tent and heading unsteadily for the perimeter of the camp. A man whose shape he recognised immediately. Stooped more than normal, and moving stiffly, but unmistakably the outline of one very stubborn Gascon.
Porthos watched him climb the low rise beyond the tents and settle himself at the base of a tree near the top. Then he sighed, fetched his blanket from his tent, and followed.
d'Artagnan was in his own world, or trying to be. He'd been so shattered from emotion, pain and lack of sleep that he'd fallen asleep immediately after muster, oblivious to the others coming in at different times. But he'd woken instantly when Fouchard shook his shoulder and hissed at him to shut up before he woke the whole bloody camp. Blinking blearily at him, d'Artagnan slowly realised eyes were glaring at him from every cot in the tent. "What's going on?" he whispered.
"You were shouting in your sleep. For quite a while." Fouchard's tone was sympathetic but edgy.
d'Artagnan couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, and was content not to know. His memories of his treatment at the hands of the Spanish were vivid enough whilst awake: he had no desire to remember how they twisted into his nightmares. He sighed, waved an apology at the tent in general and thanked Fouchard.
When sleep was still eluding him an hour later he knew this wasn't going to work. He still felt light-headed with lack of sleep but couldn't relax enough to drift off again, wary of disturbing everyone again if he dreamt.
He could rarely remember his dreams, for which he was eternally grateful, but he knew he'd disturbed Aramis many times a night when recuperating in the monastery. Aramis' gentle presence and touch had helped him to the point where he usually dropped off again quickly, even here, using the breathing techniques Aramis had taught him. But the added layer of guilt over what he'd put Athos through, worry about his friendship with both Athos and Porthos, and anxiety about disturbing the tent again were all now conspiring to keep him very, very awake.
How had it all gone so wrong?
He'd been so anxious to get back to the front once he'd started to recover in Douai, and although he was apprehensive about his ability to be effective on the battlefield after everything he'd been through, it had never occurred to him that he would have trouble fitting back into everyday camp life.
Now he was adding to Athos' worries instead of helping him, and there was a gulf between them that he feared might mean he'd never be close enough to Athos to rebuild the trust. Athos hadn't even looked his way at muster and – merde! He jumped violently as Porthos sat down beside him.
"Sorry." Porthos didn't sound very sorry.
d'Artagnan's heart was pounding. He was technically within the camp environs, but close enough to the perimeter to need to keep more alert than this. He hadn't heard Porthos approach at all!
"What are you doing?" It was a pretty inane question – Porthos was wrapping a blanket gently around his shoulders, then claimed a corner for himself and settled down, clearly ready for a chat.
"Thought you might want some company."
d'Artagnan couldn't deny that he was both more comfortable now, with the blanket cushioning his shoulders, and warmer. It occurred to him that perhaps not all of this was due to the blanket.
He let out a long breath. What would he do without Porthos? Suddenly overwhelmed with love for this man, who had always had his back, literally and figuratively, he leaned to his left and settled his shoulder against Porthos' before answering his question. "If it's your company, then – always."
Porthos grunted, sounding pleased. There was a companionable silence for a while before d'Artagnan asked: "Why are you out here? Is everything okay?"
"Everyone is okay." He meant Athos, just as he knew d'Artagnan had. "Just couldn' sleep with all that silence in my tent."
"Oh."
"Why are you out 'ere?"
"Same. Only the tent was too noisy. Most of which was me, apparently."
"Oh?"
"Fouchard said I'd been shouting in my sleep. Woke the whole tent." He paused, looking at Porthos' solid outline against the night sky. "Do I do that a lot?"
Porthos chuckled. "Quite a bit."
"Oh... I'm sorry, I didn't – "
"No need to apologise. I dare say you've got a few bad memories floatin' around that 'ead of yours. Got to come out of there somehow, an' if you won't talk about it – "
"I can't. I'm s-sorry, Porthos. I just c-can't. Not here. Not yet."
"I know. I'm not blamin' you, lad. Just saying."
After another pause d'Artagnan asked, cautiously: "Don't I disturb you, then?"
"Nah. Got used to it."
"I didn't know. I don't remember."
"Thought as much. I usually stop you, soon's I 'ear you startin' up."
"But you must lose so much sleep!" d'Artagnan was mortified.
"Like I said, I'm used to it. Worried me, when you first got back, but I found if I just lean over an' prod you, you settle again an' we're both back asleep in a couple of minutes. It's not a problem, whelp."
The Inséparables' old nickname surfaced again and d'Artagnan, for all his efforts to prove he was their equal, found he didn't mind.
"How's your back?" Porthos finally felt able to ask one of the questions that had been worrying him, and Athos, all day.
"It's not too bad. I know Athos took care, and Etienne says most of it will heal without scarring." He didn't mention that first blow, the force of which had frightened him. It had betrayed Athos' fury at being put in this position, but he'd felt Athos settle, after that; felt the precision of his blows. "How is Athos?"
Porthos sighed. "I won't lie, 'e's strugglin' with it. But 'e's not angry with you – you know that, don't you?"
"I don't know why not. It's all my fault, all of thi-"
"None of this is your fault!" Porthos sat up so quickly d'Artagnan nearly overbalanced as his shoulder prop disappeared.
"Of course it is! I should have..."
"You are as bad as each other!" Porthos flung his hands in the air, reminding d'Artagnan suddenly of Aramis. "Athos blamin' 'imself, you the same – I wish one of you could think clearly. The only man to blame 'ere is that bloody lieutenant whass'is'name. And the bloody army regulations we 'ave to abide by 'ere, stead of Musketeer discipline."
There was sense in what Porthos said, d'Artagnan could admit, but he still felt awful, and knew he would go on feeling that way until he'd cleared the air with Athos. He was determined to speak with him in the morning – even if he had to stalk him.
When he said as much though, Porthos exclaimed "Merde, I forgot about that. We 'ave to get some sleep or we'll be useless in the mornin'. Word came through late: we're fightin' tomorrow. Some new General on 'is way 'ere, apparently. Come on." And he held out a hand to help d'Artagnan to his feet.
After a quick detour past Fouchard's tent to collect d'Artagnan's bedding, against protests firmly ignored by Porthos ("Don't bloody argue. Told you, I can't be doin' with the silence...") d'Artagnan was back in his own tent, dropping face down onto his bed with a heartfelt sigh and, in the seconds before he succumbed to sleep, thanking God, again, for Porthos.
Next time we're back in the 'now' in Paris with a short interlude, but there are plenty more questions to answer so we'll soon be back in the thick of the war.