A short breather which will hopefully answer some of your questions about how Athos and Constance reacted back in the "now", before we dive back into battle. I love all your speculations; they reassure me if I've hit the mark in later chapters, and nudge me to pick up a loose thread if I've missed one. Hopefully in time all your questions will be answered and I will try to update more frequently to reward you for your enthusiasm!
Interlude
The Wren had filled up, almost unnoticed by any of those gathered at their usual table in the shadows at the back. The barkeep's daughter Nicole danced around her patrons, collecting glasses and delivering drinks, but didn't disturb the five of them, and although there were plenty of Musketeers amongst the lunch-time crowd, none did more than glance their way. There was no mistaking the intensity of the discussion going on there.
Porthos had been telling most of this part, watching Athos and d'Artagnan carefully as he recounted those dark days. d'Artagnan seemed relaxed enough, occasionally chipping in a recollection or correction of his own, but his fingers fiddled constantly with his goblet or picked at a rough patch on the table, betraying his underlying tension, and as for Athos...
Athos had barely spoken since they'd taken their seats. He'd pushed his chair slightly back from the table and commandeered a wine bottle for himself, although Porthos was pretty sure he had not yet taken a sip from his cup.
Porthos ground to a halt and spared a glance now for Constance and Aramis, trying to judge their reactions. Neither of them had heard any of this tale, although Constance, surely, must have seen the scars on d'Artagnan's back. He tried to remember how obvious they were now, and realised that, 18 months on, the marks would be faint. To those who'd been there they were unmistakable, but to anyone else they were probably lost amongst all the other battle scars the Gascon sported.
There was a long silence, all the more intense for the exuberant noise of the customers around their table.
Eventually d'Artagnan spoke up, sounding slightly uncomfortable. "Porthos, maybe some more wine?"
Porthos looked around. No one had drunk much but ... perhaps the whelp was right. It might help to change the mood; at the moment Athos didn't look like joining the conversation any time soon. Obligingly he rose and made his way to the bar, making sure he could still see his friends as he waited to be served. He knew that Athos and d'Artagnan had made their peace long ago, but coming back to Paris had been hard for d'Artagnan, and after the revelations of the other day they had all felt out of kilter. If d'Artagnan was dreaming again, and Athos brooding...
He cursed as the pieces dropped into place in his mind and he realised why they were here again, listening to another instalment of their war stories but driven this time by the impetus of Athos' emotions rather than d'Artagnan's. He knew now what was at the heart of it, and turned without a thought for the drinks, heading back to the table at a rush.
No one looked up as he flung himself back into his seat. Suddenly unsure whether to push it or just let it go, Porthos hesitated, looking around. Constance was staring at d'Artagnan as if she'd never seen him before, and Aramis was watching Athos closely, a look of utter compassion on his face. Porthos' tension eased a fraction as Aramis caught his eye and smiled. It was a rueful smile that said "What a mess!" with a hint of apology, of "Sorry I wasn't there" and a raised eyebrow to hint at "Is there more?" Porthos shrugged as if Aramis had spoken aloud, and they both looked back at Athos.
Constance had caught the silent communication between the pair and rose to the bait instantly. "Now what?" she snapped. d'Artagnan jumped, looking from one to the other; he'd been fiddling still with his goblet, oblivious to Porthos' coming and going.
"What do you mean?" he asked, sounding confused.
"What am I missing now? It's like pulling teeth with a pair of tweezers! For pity's sake, if you've got something to say, any of you, could you please just say it!" She glared around the table tutting in exasperation.
"Constance," d'Artagnan began tentatively, and she swung to him.
"Yes? What's the matter, am I intruding on something? I mean, it's bad enough that I'm supposed to just sit here calmly and listen when you tell me that Athos flogged you!" She hesitated, looking apologetically at Athos' silent figure, then rushed on: "But now I'm supposed to ignore whatever undercurrent is going on, because none of you are talking but I know you're doing that thing where you don't talk and I don't understand!"
In her agitation she'd raised her voice and d'Artagnan caught her hands, which she was waving flamboyantly around the table, and gently hushed her.
She pulled her hands away from his violently, unable to speak for a moment. Seeing the love and apology in his eyes only made her angrier. He'd kept all this to himself, all this time! He'd had no one to speak to, or no chance to speak of it. She understood why; he'd barely been able to tell them about it here, in the safety of the garrison; but that meant he'd suffered all that pain alone. And it had led to Athos having to flog him, and she couldn't bear the thought of her husband, the man she loved with all of her heart and soul, being flogged like that when she was not there for him. She'd seen the faint scars on his back, hidden beneath so many other old wounds, and thought nothing of them, yet it seemed they had hidden perhaps the deepest wound of all.
Yet she could see in the tight lines around Athos' eyes just how hard that had been on her oldest Musketeer friend, and she hadn't been there for him either. Or for dear Porthos, she thought, beginning to realise how tough it must have been on him, too.
It might have happened nearly two years ago but something had triggered the hurt that now hooded Athos' eyes, and she couldn't bear the muddle of emotions flooding her heart at the mess these men had struggled through.
She realised her eyes were full of unshed tears and she looked down to find Aramis pushing a handkerchief into her hands. Wiping at her eyes she looked up and saw d'Artagnan's expression as he waited, looking worried but calm. He was always so patient with her, she realised. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just a lot to take in."
d'Artagnan took her hand again, and this time she let him, squeezing his fingers tightly with hers to signal that she was listening now. He smiled suddenly, that wide smile that told of his love and joy, the one that always lifted her spirits and which she had not seen nearly enough recently. And when her own slow smile spread across her face in response, he kissed her hand briefly then composed his features and tried to explain.
"It's not really about the flogging."
She waited a moment, but he looked around as if unsure how to continue, so she demanded impatiently: "Well what is it about then?"
Unexpectedly Aramis answered her, after first glancing at Porthos as if checking that he had the right of it. "From what I've heard, my friends, you both handled an impossible situation with great dignity. d'Artagnan did not blame Athos, knowing he was obliged to follow conventional army disciplinary sanctions. However, after what d'Artagnan told us the other day, Athos now understands precisely why you reacted to Colombe so violently. He is, I imagine, re-thinking, and regretting, the punishment he carried out."
This was exactly what Porthos had realised when he went to order more wine, and the big man nodded his agreement at Aramis' explanation for Athos' obvious discomfort. Aramis continued: "Erroneously, obviously: d'Artagnan's motivation was irrelevant to the misdemeanour so Athos' hands were tied, but –"
"But I would have found a way around it, had I known. Had you trusted me with the truth of it."
Athos' voice was quiet and strained, but even though d'Artagnan was glad finally to hear from his brooding Captain, he couldn't help but flare up at his words. "Trust works both ways, Athos! Did it ever occur to you that I needed you to trust me? To trust that I had good reason not to explain? To give me the benefit of the doubt, perhaps?" He thumped the table with his hand, knocking his goblet in his agitation, and now it was Constance's turn to try to pacify him.
Athos slowly raised his head, for the first time since they'd settled at the table. He looked stricken: d'Artagnan's words had hit their mark. It seemed this was indeed exactly what Athos was regretting.
Porthos exchanged glances with Aramis as Athos carefully placed his still-untouched goblet on the table, picked up his hat, and rose with dignity. "My apologies, Madame, gentlemen, but I need some air." And with casual grace, he turned and wound his way through the crowd.
"d'Artagnan, are you okay?" Aramis touched the Gascon cautiously on the shoulder.
d'Artagnan dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers fiercely through his hair, and sighed. "I don't know," he answered honestly, for once. "I shouldn't have said ..."
"Men!" Constance pushed herself up crossly, smoothing her skirts and then scowling as they all looked up in surprise. "You worry about this and that, and blame yourselves for things that are beyond your control, but do you ever talk about what bothers you? No! Or not until it's far too late, and meanwhile you fret, and brood, and storm off..."
"That was hardly storming, Constance –"
"– and expect everything to magically solve itself!" With that, she bustled out after Athos, looking determined.
d'Artagnan groaned. "Too much to expect any sympathy," he muttered, as he pushed himself to his feet and set off after her. "Don't waste the wine!" he called over his shoulder.
"Do you think we should ..." Aramis began, then grinned as Porthos rose and carefully tipped Athos' untouched wine back into one of the bottles.
"Yep."
"Good. Just what I was thinking." Aramis flung an arm around Porthos' shoulders and snagged another couple of bottles of wine from the counter as they left the Wren together, calling out to Nicole that he would settle up later.
"Where do you suppose..."
"Athos will've headed for his office, so..."
"Of course."
They caught up with d'Artagnan dithering at the top of the stairs to the balcony outside Athos' office at the Garrison. "Alright?" asked Porthos as they reached him.
"Yes, I think so. As long as Athos is." His look of apprehension morphed into one of determination as he pushed open the door to Athos' office.
Inside they found Athos sitting at his desk, and Constance rummaging in his cupboards. When they entered she turned with a look of impatience on her face, which cleared when she noticed the wine bottles held by Porthos and Aramis. "Nice to see someone has some sense!" she exclaimed, retrieving Tréville's best glasses and handing them to Porthos.
d'Artagnan sighed again, feeling he was somehow the villain of the piece today. Aramis picked up on this too, and caught Constance by the elbow as she passed him a glass. "Any idea why you're mad at d'Artagnan?" he murmured quietly.
She glared at him, then softened as she considered. "I suppose..." She trailed off, then looked at her husband's hopeful expression. "Oh... It's all these secrets!"
"Then let us not have any more." Athos sounded slightly more like himself now, although he was rubbing at his temples as if to dispel a headache.
Porthos snagged a couple of glasses from Constance, nudging her towards d'Artagnan, and plonked himself down on Athos' bed, leaving Aramis to prop a hip against the desk.
Constance went to sit on the windowsill next to d'Artagnan, and looked at him expectantly. "Well then?" she demanded, when no one moved to pick up the metaphorical baton Athos had tossed in the air.
d'Artagnan screwed up his face. "I'm not sure what more there is to ..."
"No? How about explaining how you and Athos patched things up without ever talking about it? Because it's a pretty major thing to do – to flog your friend in front of the entire regiment, if not half the southern army by the sound of it! And for something that wasn't his fault – I'm guessing Athos felt pretty guilty about it –"
"Actually he felt mostly angry with d'Artagnan, for not explaining," put in Porthos helpfully.
"And it seems d'Artagnan was angry with Athos for not trusting him to have good reason. So how in heaven's name did you all get beyond that?"
"I wasn't angry, Constance," d'Artagnan objected. "Not then. In fact I didn't know I felt angry until just now, in the Wren. I think back then I was just... mortified. And sad, I suppose. I felt like I'd lost everything – Athos' regard, and my reputation amongst the regiment. But the thing was, we just had to carry on." d'Artagnan's voice was low, remembering. "None of us had a choice. We had nowhere to go, and a war to fight. And that helped us. I didn't blame Athos, and although he was angry with me – "
"I still am. Even more so, now I know what lay behind your action. The punishment was completely inappropriate and you should have told me." Athos's words were blunt, his tone acid, and d'Artagnan sighed yet again.
He knew perfectly well Athos wasn't really angry with him; more likely angry with himself for not finding out the truth, or suspecting, at the time, but he would have to work that out for himself. d'Artagnan had long since outgrown his own feelings of embarrassment and shame at the flogging, and he knew Athos had too. There was no time for such indulgences in war. It was only now, back in Paris, that all the sharing of their war stories was stirring up those emotions, forcing them to put everything to rest properly.
"And yet I could not tell you, and now you understand why." d'Artagnan was firm, his gaze direct and unwavering, and finally Athos looked him in the eye.
After a long-held breath, Athos nodded, imperceptibly, and there was a collective sigh of relief around the room.
"So... we're good?" Porthos asked, tentatively.
"No, wait! That's it? Just a nod, after all this, and that's it? You can't – that can't be everything."
Athos rolled his neck and d'Artagnan groaned, quietly, then shut up hastily as Constance turned to glare at him. "What?" she demanded.
"I just wondered if we could – should, even – just enjoy the accord we have reached," he told her softly.
"I think Constance will not let you rest until she's heard the rest of the story," Athos sounded unexpectedly calm, as if he'd finally resolved things in his mind. He was not fond of prolonged discussion about anything, but he seemed resigned to the fact that it needed to be done.
"I would be glad to hear more," Aramis supported him. He was grateful for anything that helped break down the barriers four years apart had erected between him and his brothers. He could hardly believe what he'd heard this morning and was harbouring more guilt than ever at not being there to help them. Porthos had hinted more than once at their constant regret, and sometimes anger, at his absence. He accepted the anger, knowing this moment was not about him or his feelings, but was heartened by the knowledge that they'd actively missed him. He would take Porthos for a drink, later, and was more confident now that they could move past this.
Athos nodded his agreement, finally taking a sip of wine. "She just wants to hear more of her husband's heroics," he commented, wryly.
"Hardly," objected d'Artagnan but the others laughed and Constance settled against her man, snuggling into his side. She was hoping the rest of the war would make for more comfortable listening than what she had already heard, but even if not, she was grateful for the insight the stories were giving her into the changes she'd seen in all of them since they returned.
"Well then, my hero," she teased him. "What happened next?"
"Well, the war carried on regardless of whatever personal issues we had. I decided the only thing I could do was keep my head down..."
"... and stay clear of Colombe, the bastard," added Porthos with feeling.
"... definitely that," agreed d'Artagnan. "So I kept busy... and then Porthos needed me, and that helped."
"I did?" Porthos looked puzzled.
"Yes, you did." d'Artagnan sent him a fond smile, and took up the tale.