FF was playing up yesterday when I posted this and I couldn't see it or the link, so I took it down again. Apologies if some of you saw the link before it disappeared again, but hopefully it's working properly now. Humble thanks to everyone who is following, favouriting and especially those who give me your thoughts - you are awesome and make my day!
I had to split this chapter in two as it was so long, but that means the second part will be up soon x
Chapter Nine: A Hole Where my Heart Used to Be Part I
Orbara
He was awake again long before dawn. Once he'd slept out some of his exhaustion the pain from his torn and bruised muscles had woken him, and kept him awake, but he managed to keep quiet and rest, comforted by the sound of Porthos' steady breathing.
By morning his muscles had stiffened so much that he was in seven kinds of pain, and could barely rise from his bed. Porthos told him firmly to stay put, draped a blanket over his shoulders to help warm his abused muscles, and fetched Julien, who took one look at him and cursed, producing pain potions, bandages and healing ointment in short order. The wounds on his back had crusted, and the blood stuck to his shirt, but there was no time to clean it all properly: they could already hear the reveille being sounded outside and the sounds of a camp starting to bustle with urgent movement as the various regiments prepared to fight. So Julien settled for pouring the ointment onto the bandages covering d'Artagnan's back, so it would soak through to the skin below and soften the scabs, and wrapped more bandages on top to cushion the heavy leather of his doublet. Porthos came back from the mess tent with a cup of spiced ale, which d'Artagnan took, and some bread which he refused, and then there was only time to help him with his uniform before taking their place in the ranks.
Muster was short as Athos briefed them on the battle plans. Once again his gaze seemed to skip over d'Artagnan as he called names and assigned them into units, but as he dismissed them to finalise their preparations, he finally caught d'Artagnan's eye and beckoned him over.
They hadn't spoken since the brief exchange in front of Colombe the previous morning at the gate, and d'Artagnan felt his steps slowing as he approached. His heart was racing as he tried to read his mentor's expression, desperately wondering what to expect, what to say, whether to try to apologise again. But as he approached he could see Athos' jaw was set so he simply stopped and waited respectfully.
There was a small pause during which, d'Artagnan thought, Athos' expression softened ever so slightly. It gave him confidence to speak. "Athos?" Inside he didn't know whether to laugh or cry - that was all he could manage, when there was so much to say? But now was not the time and Athos made that clear in the next second, by turning to walk away.
"You're with me today, d'Artagnan."
Five words. d'Artagnan found himself examining them over and over as he followed his Captain, trying to look calm and professional and not at all like an eager puppy trailing after his master – the accusation that had led to his former nickname amongst the musketeers. Why was he to stay with Athos in the battle? Because you're unfit to fight, you numbskull, his inner voice supplied, but there was a bit of him that felt comforted, not insulted, by the fact that Athos wanted him close. He knew it made total sense – any leader worth his salt would keep a semi-fit soldier back from the front line – but still. Athos was looking out for him.
d'Artagnan had been desperate to prove himself fit, to justify his return to the front, but today after everything that had gone wrong, he found he didn't care about his reputation anymore. He was just glad to have a role at all.
Two hours later and he was revising that thought. He would have gladly swopped for any camp duty – rolling bandages with Etienne, husking corn in the kitchens for Chonfleur, digging the latrines out: anything but this.
He was consigned to escorting Athos as he rode up and down the hill overlooking today's battlefield, occasionally racing to the Generals with messages or to the front line with instructions to push forwards or fall back. The sounds of battle raged around him as he rode but he was powerless to help: Athos had made it abundantly clear that the slightest deviation from his orders would result in serious consequences. Athos hadn't spelled out what they might be, and d'Artagnan didn't want to know. He'd already suffered just about the worst punishment he could imagine – losing his officer's commission and being given the lash – and he had a feeling that any further transgression could involve being sent back to Paris. Probably without his pauldron.
Thoughts of that threat, however unlikely, did not make it any easier to do Athos' bidding. For one thing Athos had not looked at him once when giving him instructions and messages. And for another, d'Artagnan was finding it increasingly impossible to restrain his natural impulse to fling himself headlong into the fight to help his fellow musketeers - who today were struggling, frequently lost from view in the melee below as the two armies clashed.
Next to him, sitting motionless astride his magnificent black stallion, Athos was the picture of control, but he too was finding it hard to stay remote, especially when distracted by d'Artagnan fidgeting and twitching, constantly checking his pistol and fiddling with his reins.
Athos was on the verge of sending d'Artagnan to the Generals with some spurious message simply to have a few moments' freedom from distraction, when he noticed a surge from the Spanish forces near to where Porthos was leading a small unit of musketeers, towards an area of dry-river beds which twisted between granite pillars in a labyrinthine pattern.
The musketeers had scouted a route through this rocky area a couple of days earlier and had hoped to be able to use it to move men, unseen, around and behind the Spanish front line, if the opportunity arose. River water had cut deep channels into the rock over centuries of spring flooding, and a man could move at a crouch unseen by those in the flatter land to the west. But now, as the battle-tide washed ever closer to the ravines, Athos could clearly see the danger his men were in. They had taken longer than anticipated to reach the river channels, and already the battle front was closing in behind them.
He glanced to his right. d'Artagnan was watching intently, leaning forward in his saddle as if urging the men to move faster. If they reached the far end of the ravines without impediment, they would reach a wooded area which would give them plenty of cover to work around behind the Spanish lines. With a force of around 30 men under his command, the plan was for Porthos' team to raid from the cover of the trees, picking off units of Spaniards then retreating, to cause the maximum amount of confusion and panic on that wing.
It should have worked; it really should. When he'd suggested it the generals had been impressed by the strategy. The Musketeer Captain was the only leader to have spotted the potential offered by this unusual terrain and the senior officers had been quick to approve the plan.
None of them, however, had expected the French regiment following behind the Musketeers to be so slow. They were supposed to be holding the back line, making sure the Spanish didn't flood into their wake as Porthos' men moved into the twisting stone channels, but they were slow to push forward and were now being repulsed by a strong counter-attack from the Spanish.
"They're retreating!" breathed d'Artagnan, turning anxious eyes on Athos.
"Go!" Athos told him and d'Artagnan shot off, not needing any further explanation. He galloped Nuit flat out towards the captain of the retreating Picardy regiment, reaching his position on the next hillside within half a minute. Athos waited impatiently, attention divided between watching the developing crisis below and the hillside to his left. After a few moments he saw d'Artagnan peel away and gallop back towards him, long hair flying as he urged Nuit ever faster. As Nuit skidded to a halt he gasped out: "Captain Allard says there's nothing he can do!"
Athos swore, already looking back at the front. If the Spanish front line didn't notice Porthos' men, he would be fine; the musketeers were already nearly at the top end of the ravine and would soon be safe in the woods, out of sight. If Picardy regiment would just slow their retreat and keep the Spanish troops occupied...
"Dammit!" Some of the Spanish had peeled away from main fighting and were racing up the ravine. They must have spotted the rearmost men of Porthos' unit. And then Athos was beyond swearing as he noticed a flurry of movement at the head of the ravine, where another group of Spanish swordsmen were suddenly visible at the top end of the channel Porthos was following.
"They're trapped! Athos!" d'Artagnan's cry of anguish was lost in the thundering in Athos' ears as he rapidly discarded one possibility after another. The only thing he could think of was the small group of Musketeers waiting in reserve on the slopes just below them – but they were hundreds of yards behind the retreating Picardies who were in a much better position to help, if only their captain would get his head out of his arse and see it. The musketeers would have to push through that fight even to get to the ravine and Athos knew, with a sinking heart, that they would probably be too late. It would take too long to move them into position, and they would get tangled up with the Picardies... But he couldn't just sit here and watch while Porthos' men were slowly overwhelmed.
He looked to his right as d'Artagnan, clearly having come to the same conclusion, leapt off his horse, drawing his sword. "Athos? Let me go! Please! Athos, please!"
Hardly believing what he was doing, Athos responded to the naked plea in d'Artagnan's voice and nodded, then closed his eyes as d'Artagnan raced off down the slope.
He couldn't get there in time, Athos thought, his mind still calmly analysing the battle scene even as his heart clenched in abject fear for his men. There were several hundred soldiers – Spanish and French – between him and the ravines where, even now, he could see and hear the fighting break out as Porthos' men were attacked from both ends of the river bed. Had he condemned half his men to their deaths by devising this bloody strategy in the first place?
He was peripherally aware of another rider arriving beside him as he watched his youngest Musketeer hurl himself down the hillside towards – well, not directly towards the ravines, but veering to the left and reaching the reserve musketeer unit in record time. How he didn't fall at that breakneck speed Athos didn't know, but he hadn't, and now he was racing through the startled musketeers, holding his sword high above his head as if it were a battle flag, screaming something that was lost in the general cacophony of battle. And men were scrambling to follow him, leaping to their feet and racing after him with a roar that Athos could begin to hear, now, above everything else.
They had caught up to the rearmost Picardy soldiers now. Thirty-odd musketeers bellowing to "ADVANCE! ATTACK!" and roaring through your midst is enough to give anyone pause, and even the Spanish bearing down on the Frenchmen seemed to hesitate as the musketeers burst through their ranks.
Athos held his breath as he leaned forwards in his saddle, his hand gripping his sword-hilt tightly as he strained to follow the action, his entire body clenched, willing his men to break through; to keep fighting; keep safe.
For a minute, two minutes, he could make nothing out; he'd lost sight of d'Artagnan and could barely see where the fighting line was anymore, amidst the chaos of pitched battles and whirls of dust. Then suddenly there was a surge – a rush of men all forging in one direction: towards the stone river channels.
He still couldn't make out any individuals but he could hear them: a wild yelling that was enough to set the hairs rising on the back of his neck. These were his men, hurling themselves headlong into a superior force but uncaring of the dangers; intent only on reaching their own men and supporting them.
And it was working! Slowly he realised that the press of advancing musketeers – still running full-tilt – had been joined by other men, for there were twice as many now, three times as many, all forging forwards and scattering the startled Spanish troops. Many peeled off to left and right to pursue their own targets, but the main swell of men had reached the ravine and was engaging the Spanish troops who had pushed up behind Porthos' men. He couldn't see Porthos, or the top of the ravine where the second line of Spaniards had cornered his unit, but at this end of the ravine the Spaniards were rapidly disappearing, battered by the resolve of the French.
"Impressive." The voice was low and restrained, but even so Athos startled, having forgotten the rider who'd approached just as d'Artagnan raced off down the hillside.
The rider on his left was unknown to him, but cut an imposing figure: in his forties, tall, with thick silvering hair swept back from an intelligent brow. He wasn't looking at Athos, but following the action below just as intently as Athos.
He looked back himself now, desperately willing them to succeed. He should probably answer the man, who he presumed was the new General, Faucille, who had arrived early that morning, but he couldn't unclench his jaw enough to speak. His men were down there, right in the thick of it, and he couldn't see them. Couldn't help. Could only sit here on this bloody hillside and wait to find out how many of them were still alive at the end.
Roger was cantering on the spot now, head tossing as he responded to the conflict in his master, whose weight was forward in the saddle, legs clamped around the horse's sides as he imagined surging down the hill to join his men. Only his hands – and his iron will – were keeping the stallion in check.
"Hardest part of the battle is standing watching," came the voice again: a low, rich baritone voice speaking quietly in the manner of one accustomed to being heard.
This time Athos managed a nod, restraining Roger's forward creep until the stallion settled to an occasional leg-stamp.
"They've turned the tide." He was amazed to hear his own voice sounded calm and matter-of-fact, in spite of the wild thumping of his heart and the chaotic thoughts in his head.
General Faucille nodded, then turned as another rider cantered up with a message from further along the front. With a tip of his head the General had moved off and Athos was left alone again. But not for long. To his left messengers were flying down the hill and the French line was consolidating and pressing forwards now, and faintly Athos began to hear Spanish cries of 'Retiro!', 'Regresa!' (Retreat! Fall back!). Suddenly the area near the ravines was free of the fighting and almost immediately, it seemed, French fighters started to re-appear from the swirls of battle-dust.
Without conscious thought, Athos nudged Roger forward and they began to pick their way down the hill towards his men. The first group was pouring out, heading towards the rest of the French lines to assist with the forward push, and at the same time protecting those that followed, for the men behind were in no condition to fight, Athos saw with a surge of fear. They staggered in twos and threes, dragging their wounded between them, moving unsteadily away from the fighting and towards the hill.
Athos stopped Roger with another supreme effort of will and stood waiting on a low ridge where he was visible to his injured men and could still see the rest of the regiment. As the first of the injured reached him he leaned down and clasped a shoulder here, a hand there as they passed, sending them on their weary way up the hill towards the waiting medics. Each familiar face was one less worry but as the trickle of injured slowed, he knew he was not giving them his full attention for his focus was on searching behind them for the two faces he had yet to recognise, either amongst those still fighting or amongst these wounded men.
Suddenly Fouchard emerged from the chaos and called out from his position under the shoulder of an unconscious musketeer. "Captain! They're just behind me."
Athos let out a breath that was perilously close to a sob as he looked over Fouchard's head and saw the achingly familiar figure of Porthos, his face coated in blood, sagging heavily onto d'Artagnan's slender frame. d'Artagnan's arm was wrapped around Porthos' waist and he was struggling to control the big musketeer, both men weaving with exhaustion but – oh, thank God! – still walking. Still breathing, still living...
Athos was off Roger without hesitation, running towards them with a haste unseemly in a captain but totally uncaring. He ducked under Porthos' other shoulder and took his weight, looking over at d'Artagnan whose face was also dark with dust, blood spatters and sweat-trails, but whose eyes were dancing with adrenaline as he coaxed Porthos up the hill. He looked okay, Athos realised; in fact he looked more than okay. He'd come alive, in that mad dash down the hill and into the fray, gathering men in his wake, and even now, weaving with weariness, he looked as if he could conquer the world.
They reached the top of the hill, Roger trailing after them obediently, and Athos steered them firmly towards a flat-bedded cart already loaded with half a dozen wounded. Hands reached to help and he released his hold on Porthos reluctantly, watching until he saw him settled in the back, leaning against another semi-comatose musketeer. As the wagon set off Athos took a long breath and tried to remember what he should be doing. Checking his walking wounded. Overseeing those still fighting. Reporting to the Generals for further orders. Gathering his wits he turned, to find d'Artagnan still standing next to him, hands on his knees now, panting, sweat dripping steadily from his brow.
"You okay?" Athos asked him quietly, seeing General Marche approaching and knowing he only had seconds before he would be dragged off to do his duty again.
d'Artagnan nodded, still struggling for breath now the adrenaline rush was wearing off. "Porthos will be too. I couldn't see any serious wounds."
Athos shut his eyes in sheer relief for a second but then General Marche was there, demanding his report and his explanation for breaking the battle lines and ignoring the plans.
He turned to remount Roger, telling d'Artagnan quietly to get back to camp and check the wounded – by which he meant Porthos – and apologising to the General in the same breath. d'Artagnan watched him go, his eyes shining brightly in his dirt-streaked face.
By mid afternoon the Spanish had gathered their dead and retreated to the next valley, and orders were given to the French army to make camp where they stood. In the old camp anyone still standing was pressed into mind-numbing activity as tents and equipment were packed and loaded ready to advance a league. A small contingent remained with those too injured or exhausted to move, which included Porthos, but d'Artagnan was sent with the other men to make the new camp. He made the journey half a dozen times and worked alongside the others until well into the night, setting up tents, horse lines, the mess tent, helping set the camp fires and drawing water from the only river still running through the lowest part of the valley.
Athos supervised the dismantling of the Musketeer camp after a long debrief with the Generals, then remained behind with the injured. d'Artagnan ate a quick and unsatisfying meal of bread and apples, then begged the other Musketeer Lieutenant, Jumot, to let him return one more time to the old camp to check on Porthos. Anxious himself for news – there were still twenty-odd musketeers under medical care, some of them seriously injured – Jumot agreed and d'Artagnan grabbed Nuit and - too weary to saddle her up, managed a creditable vault onto her bare back and pushed her straight into a canter. She was as tired as he was but she responded with her usual honesty and travelled the well-worn path rapidly in spite of the darkness, having traversed it too many times already today.
In the medical tent d'Artagnan was relieved to see Porthos was sitting up and talking quietly to Athos. He slowed his steps, noting the weary faces of those on the cots nearest to him, stopping to speak to a couple as he made his way towards Porthos.
Athos looked up as he approached, and his expression softened. "How's the new camp?"
"We're going to miss the well," replied d'Artagnan with feeling as he settled on the edge of an empty cot next to Porthos. He'd spent two hours this evening hauling buckets of water from the river and carrying them up to camp to dump into barrels – back-breaking work at the best of times but with all the aches of the morning's fight making themselves known, on top of his battered back, it had nearly finished him off.
Athos snorted an almost-laugh, then rose, patting Porthos on the shoulder. "I'll check on the other men then we'll head back together, Porthos."
d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, noting the red-stained bandage around Porthos' head, and the thick bandages wrapping one arm. "Are you fit to move?" he asked, injudiciously as it turned out. Porthos snapped his head towards d'Artagnan, wincing as the world wobbled on its axis for a moment, then growled out a grumpy curse. "Of course I bloody am! Bloody medics think they know it all."
d'Artagnan grinned, relieved that Porthos had regained his fighting spirit. But Porthos hadn't finished.
"As for you, you blitherin' fool, you should know better'n to interfere where you're not needed. Athos needed you by 'is side and where were you? Fartin' around wavin' your sword and stirrin' everythin' up, givin' Athos an 'eap of trouble with the Generals ... Fuck's sake, when are you goin' to learn to follow orders?"
He was shouting now and d'Artagnan's mouth had fallen open, scarcely able to believe his ears and reeling with the unfairness of Porthos' tirade.
"Porthos, enough!" Athos' voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hush that had fallen over the tent.
d'Artagnan's voice, by contrast, was barely a whisper "Porthos, that's not what..." He trailed off as Porthos turned his head away. What could he say, if that's what Porthos really thought? How could he think that?
"Go." Spoken so close that he could feel Athos' warm breath on his ear. d'Artagnan lurched to his feet and stumbled wildly towards the entrance, hearing only Athos' calm voice and Porthos' rumble as the stares from medics and conscious wounded followed him out of the tent.
Outside, d'Artagnan moved on wooden legs to Nuit where she waited patiently in the dark of the virtually abandoned camp. A small guard patrolled the close perimeter and half a dozen men huddled around a camp fire nearby, but no-one looked up as d'Artagnan hauled himself wearily onto her back and nudged her slowly onto the path to the new camp.
He was so stunned he couldn't remember the short journey at all. All he could hear was Porthos' angry accusations ringing in his ears. All he could see was his friend's weary, battered face glaring at him as if he was a bumbling cadet. Why would he say those things?
In the new camp he slid slowly off Nuit's back and stood, one hand on her neck, trying to think what to do. If Porthos was heading over to the new camp would he sleep in his own tent? He would need someone to keep an eye on him but it wouldn't be d'Artagnan, of that he was sure. Porthos looked like he couldn't stand the sight of him. Maybe he should move Porthos' bed into Athos tent – but would he see that as just another example of him "interfering"?
"d'Artagnan?" Guérin was standing in front of him, looking worried.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing – not with me. Are you alright?"
"Yes, of course. Why?" d'Artagnan wished his voice sounded less shaky.
"You've been standing there for five minutes, that's why. What's on your mind?"
When d'Artagnan didn't answer immediately, Guérin tutted and took the reins from d'Artagnan. "Come on, I'll give you a hand."
They settled Nuit at the horse lines together, working in peaceable silence to fetch water and hay and rub her down properly since d'Artagnan hadn't had time earlier.
"Right, let's get you a drink then you need some sleep. You look exhausted. All that hero stuff is great but I thought you were supposed to be on light duty!" Guérin's tone was gently teasing but it was the last straw for d'Artagnan.
"All right, I get it!" he spat at Guérin. "I'm a waste of space, I don't deserve to be here, I get it but what can I do?" He'd started angrily but already despair had crept into his voice. "I can't exactly leave so tell me, Guérin, what should I do?"
Guérin was staring at him. "What do you mean, you're a waste of space?"
d'Artagnan suddenly felt unutterably weary. His back was on fire and it was taking more energy than he had left just to stand. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week. He headed back towards the tents, squinting to see where the tent he shared with Porthos was. He hadn't unpacked yet: it would be easy enough to move out. Again.
Guérin caught him by the arm and pulled him to a stop. "Talk to me!" he demanded.
Mutely, d'Artagnan shook his head and tried to move off but Guérin's grip tightenened.
"Who told you you're a waste of space?"
"No-one." Not in so many words.
"Was it that Colombe bastard?"
d'Artagnan let out a bitter laugh. If only it had been him saying those words, instead of his best friend.
"Then who? I know it's not Athos: I heard him talking to the General and giving you credit for the rescue."
"Really?" d'Artagnan hated the desperate note he heard in his voice.
"Yes, really! God, d'Artagnan, you are just – impossible! Did you really think Athos would not give you credit? It was bloody amazing. The whole camp is talking about it..."
"But Porthos said – "
"So it was Porthos who upset you?" Guérin pounced on his words, then paused at the stricken look on his friend's face, and went on more gently. "What did he say?"
"He just – he said I was foolish and needed to learn to follow orders."
Guérin looked at him sharply. "Didn't Athos give you an order, then?"
"Yes! Well, no, not in so many words – there wasn't time. I begged him to let me go – we could both see what needed to be done – he nodded, and I went."
Guérin was beginning to make sense of it all now. Damn this bloody war that made everyone so tired, and every small word take on huge significance. He put his arm around d'Artagnan and steered him towards the campfire. "What Porthos said was not about you -"
"Well he wasn't looking at anyone else when he yelled at me that I'd given Athos a heap of trouble and – "
Guérin had had enough. "You pig-headed Gascon, don't say another word: just listen! Porthos is hurting! He got caught in a trap – it was just bad luck, but that's what it was, a trap. He had thirty men with him and he lost six, and twice that number injured. Fewer than half his men walked out of there unaided! We know none of that was his fault but you know as well as I do that won't console him. Then I imagine Athos told him the bits Porthos didn't see – about you belting off and rousing half the hillside to come after you – and about having a roasting from General-bloody-Marche for not following the battle-plan – and then you walk in and you're the one person he can yell at because he's hurting, he's feeling guilty for letting his men down – " d'Artagnan went to interrupt but Guérin talked over him. "Yes, we know he didn't let anyone down but he's not hearing that at the moment. And you're his closest friend, his tent-mate, for chrissake, he can let off steam with you, let all the hurt out, because you can take it!"
d'Artagnan was twisting his fingers in his lap, his breathing coming unsteadily, but he was listening with a desperate intensity.
Guérin softened his voice, his expression full of empathy. "Trouble is, he's forgotten that you can't take it, can you? You've been battered too many times these last few months and you don't know which way is up anymore, do you?"
d'Artagnan was beyond answering.
Guérin sighed. He was tired; it had been a very, very long day, everything ached and he hadn't put his bed together yet. But his friend was in trouble – again – and he couldn't leave him like this. He could feel the Gascon trembling slightly beside him, whether with exhaustion or emotion he didn't know. Compassion won out over weariness and he tried again.
"Right. We're back in the garrison." d'Artagnan's head shot up at that, and his intent gaze never left Guérin's face as he explained. "You've been on a mission that went wrong; you rescued Porthos and he's now in the infirmary, mouthing off because he's feeling shocked and guilty and in pain. Athos stays with him to calm him down, and you're sitting at your table with Aramis. What does Aramis tell you?"
"If we were in the garrison I wouldn't be feeling this way." d'Artagnan sounded defensive, and slightly petulant.
Guérin suppressed a smile. "Humour me."
d'Artagnan sighed. "Alright... he'd probably say... to stop thinking about myself and put myself in Porthos' boots. And to have another drink, and it would all be alright in the morning."
Guérin laughed. He could just imagine Aramis saying that. "And in the morning?"
d'Artagnan shut his eyes, imagining the courtyard in the early morning, and felt a visceral longing to be there instead of here. It took an effort to remember the question and formulate an answer. "Porthos would apologise, Aramis would look smug. I'd grumble about being unappreciated..." It sounded so easy! Here it was different, amidst all the chaos and the fear, the exhaustion, the constant stress, the incessant noise and clamour, the rivalries between regiments, the posturing of the Generals, and not forgetting the Spanish with their tercios and their field cannon and their endless bloody numbers...
Even so, he felt something shift inside him as he pictured the garrison. Guérin was right: he would never let things bother him back there, the way they did here. What was wrong with him? He'd lost all his confidence, that unshakeable belief that problems could be solved by bravery and honesty, by doing the right thing. Here nothing he did seemed to be right. Had he lost who he was? It certainly felt like it at the moment. But ... He didn't want to lose himself. He hadn't got where he was by being uncertain, or worrying about what people thought of him.
A warm cup was dumped into his hands and he looked up as Guérin plonked back down next to him. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed his friend get up to fetch them both drinks. He took a sip and let out a tiny moan of appreciation as the warm, honeyed mead slipped down his throat. He hadn't realised how parched he was, or how cold.
They sipped in silence for a moment, then Guérin nudged him. "Is it working?" he asked, hopefully.
d'Artagnan laughed, shaking his head ruefully. Guérin was even sounding like Aramis now. He sighed. "I don't know." Oh, for goodness sake. Still uncertain. He had to change this. He'd felt so sure, that morning in the middle of the battle, about how to help Porthos. He hadn't dithered or doubted himself then; he'd trusted his instincts. He just had to remember how to do that the rest of the time – not just in battle."No. I do know. I know what I have to do. But I might need reminding, from time to time."
Guérin nodded, and nudged d'Artagnan gently. "It will be my pleasure to give you a kick up the backside whenever I see you worrying, young Gascon. Now if you've finished this particular crisis, can I please go and build my bed so I can get some sleep?"
In the end d'Artagnan slept by the fire that night. Partly it was because he couldn't find the energy to wrestle with his camp bed, even though his mind was fizzing with tired energy and he thought he might sleep better under the stars. And partly, if he was honest, because he wanted to watch for the others when they arrived at the new camp.
He had set up Porthos' bed in Athos' tent, but then everything had caught up with him: lack of sleep from the previous two nights, the pain and emotion of the flogging, and the nervous energy of this morning's fighting. His back was throbbing mercilessly, and it was all he could do to struggle over to his tent to find a blanket. Within moments of wrapping himself up by the fire he had fallen into a light doze.
He woke briefly when he heard horses arriving during the night and watched Athos help Porthos to dismount by his tent. He saw Athos duck inside, then reappear almost immediately, looking over towards the tents. He thought he saw Athos notice him by the fire and nod at him as he helped Porthos into the tent. Sleepily, d'Artagnan fed more wood to the fire and settled down again, knowing that he could sleep properly now both his brothers were safe.