Author's Note: So everything should settle down to "normal" army life now, right? d'Artagnan has dived headlong into battle and partly recovered his self-respect, and Athos is regarding him kindly although the awkwardness is still there. All we need is a Porthos hug-apology and we should be done... but apparently I had other ideas that wanted to be written. The idea behind this third part of Battlescars was not only to explore the aftermath of d'Artagnan's time as a prisoner of war but also the effects of trying to live on the frontline, and the daily battle to reconcile the worst and best of being a human.
So today we see another aspect of war which you may find uncomfortable. It's a sad truth of every conflict that it's not just the soldiers who suffer, and it happens time and again in different countries, between different peoples. Our beautiful boys deal with it the best they can, and the next two chapters continue Porthos' story arc. I dedicate it to anyone who has suffered the consequences of humankind's violence, and I give you my prayer, that we never lose sight of what makes us awesome: the ability to find a moment of stillness and hope amidst the mayhem around us.
Chapter Ten: There's a Pulse
Aribe
The following morning d'Artagnan stopped on his way back from fetching water, watching a horseman as he appeared on the ridge above the camp, thundering down the track at a suicidally-fast canter. His heart thumped: he would know that silhouette anywhere. Fouchard followed his gaze. "What's that about then, I wonder?"
d'Artagnan turned and started running towards the gate. "I don't know, but it's Porthos. Come on!"
They reached the gate at the same time as Porthos but he shot straight past them without a glance. d'Artagnan saw him skid to a halt outside Athos' tent and fling himself off.
"Was he out on his own?"
"Yes but he should have been back last night." He watched as Porthos dropped his reins and pushed straight into Athos' tent. Something was seriously wrong.
Fouchard nudged him. "Go."
d'Artagnan shook his head, slowly, something sour twisting in his stomach. There was nothing he wanted more than to race over and join his two old friends. But he couldn't, because he knew he would not be welcome. Instead he walked slowly towards the centre of the musketeer camp where muster was due to be held in a few minutes, seeing other musketeers do the same as word spread that something was up.
A few moments later Athos emerged, looking as inscrutable as always. But d'Artagnan was close enough to see the pinched look around his eyes, and knew he was pushing down some deep emotion.
Athos looked around, saw d'Artagnan and hesitated. Visibly. d'Artagnan scowled and turned away, nearly crashing into Fouchard who was standing right behind him. "Dammit!" snapped d'Artagnan, sidestepping and trying to move past him. But he suddenly heard Athos calling out his name.
Closing his eyes to shut out the sight of Fouchard's anxious face peering at him, he turned slowly to face Athos. "Captain?"
Athos's expression suddenly sagged, and he shook his head. "No matter," he muttered, turning away, missing the look of pain that crossed d'Artagnan's face.
Athos called muster a few minutes later. "Before I allocate the normal duties, I will need some volunteers. Lieutenant Porthos has come across something: a French village, Aribe, which was behind Spanish lines for several months and liberated when our troops advanced. Porthos returned from his mission that way and noticed that there were ... signs of something amiss. I will need volunteers to investigate, and clean up the village. From what he told me ... there are no survivors."
A murmur of shock ran around the assembled Musketeers. d'Artagnan looked around, seeing expressions of doubt, disgust, fear and reticence on various faces. He sighed, and stepped forwards. "I volunteer, Sir."
Athos's head snapped around and he gave d'Artagnan a long look, but didn't acknowledge his offer.
"I'll help, Captain."
The voice was Fouchard's and suddenly d'Artagnan had an inkling of how Athos must sometimes feel. "No, Fouchard, this isn't one for you," he told him in a low voice.
"Rubbish. The Captain needs volunteers, and I volunteered. Just like you." Fouchard's voice was low but determined, and d'Artagnan realised he would not be dissuaded from this chance to show his mettle.
"I'll go." Guérin added his voice, and another couple of men stepped forward in quick succession until Athos had enough volunteers. Nodding his thanks, Athos handed Guérin, as the most senior of them since d'Artagnan's demotion, a hastily-drawn map with directions to the village and dismissed them before carrying on issuing duties for the remaining musketeers still mustered.
d'Artagnan saddled Nuit quickly then told Guérin he would collect some medical supplies from Julien in the infirmary. That done, he hesitated, looking over to the horselines. The other volunteers were still milling around collecting gear and saddling their horses. Athos was nowhere in sight. Resolutely, d'Artagnan detoured towards the Captain's tent and peered cautiously inside.
As he'd suspected, Porthos was still in there – sitting motionless on the edge of Athos' bed at the back of the tent. He slipped inside and crossed quickly to his side, alarmed by Porthos' lack of response. He was staring down at his hands where they lay clasped on his knees, and didn't raise his head. Hesitantly, d'Artagnan sat beside Porthos and looked at him, seeing his face properly now.
The sight of silent tears trickling slowly down the big man's cheeks literally took his breath away, clamping tight bands around his chest and sending his stomach plummeting. As he looked on the despairing face of this man who never faltered, never gave up, who relished every moment of life, d'Artagnan's own world tilted and rocked on its axis.
He didn't think he'd ever seen Porthos cry.
He could hear the sounds of horses and men outside and knew he didn't have long, but inside the gloomy tent nothing stirred and he knew he couldn't leave Porthos like this. Resolutely he reached out and placed his warm hand on Porthos', alarmed at how chilled it felt. "God, Porthos, you're freezing!" he blurted, without preamble. Porthos' head lifted and he looked at d'Artagnan, seeming surprised to see him there. He heaved in a shuddering breath then simply sagged sideways to lean his whole body against d'Artagnan, who braced his feet to steady himself, and wrapped both arms around Porthos, feeling the silent tremors rippling through his body.
"Porthos, listen to me." Relieved beyond measure that Porthos was not pushing him away, as he'd feared, d'Artagnan pulled Porthos closer so his head rested on d'Artagnan's chest and held him tight. "We're going to Aribe. Guérin, me, Fouchard, Metier, Reynard, Duval, Lanoux and Nicholas. We're going to ..." What were they going to do? He didn't know what they would find, yet, but Porthos' reaction told him it would be bad. What could he say without making the images in Porthos' head worse? "We're going to set that village straight and ... and leave it looking calm, and peaceful, the way it should. I promise we'll do it right, Porthos, I promise."
He felt Porthos' breathing deepen and his clenched fingers relax a little. "You need to sleep, mon ami. Come on." He shifted ready to stand up, thinking he would take Porthos to his tent and hoping he'd have time to settle him before Guérin and the others were ready to set off. But Porthos' weight simply slid into the gap as d'Artagnan leaned forward to stand, and before he knew it Porthos had flopped face down onto the bed, his eyes already closing.
"Oh, merde," d'Artagnan muttered, panicking and pulling fruitlessly at the nearest arm. He didn't think Athos would be too impressed to find...
"Leave him." d'Artagnan's head snapped around so fast he heard something click in his neck. Athos was standing in the tent opening. How long had he been there? He leapt to his feet as Athos headed for the crate containing his belongings. He lifted out a spare blanket and tossed it to d'Artagnan who caught it by reflex rather than design.
"Athos, I'm sorry, I meant to take him to his tent but he – "
"I saw. He's better here where I can keep an eye on him." Athos' voice was expressionless but d'Artagnan knew him well enough to pick up on the deep concern in his voice, the tight lines around his eyes. He nodded, and unfolded the blanket to tuck it around Porthos' exhausted frame, stooping to lift his legs properly onto the bed, tugging his boots off. Athos watched him, eyes hooded, his arms folded and one hip propped on his desk. When Porthos was settled, Athos cleared his throat. "Time you were off: the others are waiting."
"Right. Sorry." d'Artagnan eased his neck and straightened, heading resolutely for the opening, but as he passed Athos a hand shot out and caught him by the elbow. d'Artagnan stopped, startled, his eyes meeting Athos' properly for the first time in a week.
"Thanks."
One word. How could one word affect him so deeply? d'Artagnan felt as if warm liquid was flowing down his throat, melting the core of ice that had blocked him since that night. For all he'd spoken to him in his capacity as Captain since then, this was the first time Athos had sounded like he was speaking to a friend.
Hed'Artagnan swallowed and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Athos dropped his hand, and d'Artagnan headed out of the tent walking on air.
His euphoria lasted a whole hour, until their horses picked their way out of an olive grove and they had their first glimpse of the village ahead. Thirty or forty adobe and stone houses rambled up the low slopes of the valley, clustered around the tower of a chapel. They were all immediately struck by the unnatural silence. Midmorning, even in early winter, a village this size should be bustling with activity as people went about the chores of daily living. There should be animals lowing and men calling from the fields; children playing; smoke drifting from chimneys; mothers chatting to one another as they swept the dust from their doorways and scrubbed clothes in the river: but he could see no signs of movement; no stock in the fields; nothing stirring the air.
Then they rounded a twist in the track and the smell reached them for the first time: the unmistakeable, sickly stench of death.
Fouchard, riding beside d'Artagnan, made an inarticulate sound. d'Artagnan glanced but could think of nothing to say. Ahead of them Guérin slowed his mount, then stopped, letting the others come up alongside. For a moment no one spoke, all eyes on the village – and on the body they could see lying on the track they were following. It was a few paces from the first house, and sprawled face down, hands outstretched, as if the woman – for her bright skirts were clearly visible – had simply dropped as she ran.
d'Artagnan looked at Guérin, waiting for a lead, but the fair-haired sub-lieutenant seemed transfixed by the scene ahead. d'Artagnan puffed out a breath before speaking quietly. "Perhaps we should leave the horses here, Guérin. They won't get too stressed at the smell if we tie them under those trees."
Guérin jumped, as if he'd forgotten anyone else was there, and looked around. "Yes. Good idea. Thanks, d'Artagnan."
d'Artagnan had no problem with following the orders of a superior officer, but he and Guérin had been equals not so long ago, and he could see Guérin's hands were trembling as he tied his horse next to d'Artagnan's in the shade of some trees by the river. He looked overwhelmed by what lay ahead, and d'Artagnan knew he would need all the support he could offer.
As the others dismounted d'Artagnan pulled out a jar of a thick ointment which he smeared around his nostrils, then handed it to Guérin. "Julien uses it when gathering bodies from the older battlefields. It's got cloves and lavender in – helps to mask the smell." Guérin took it, grateful for d'Artagnan's foresight in bringing it, and passed it around the others.
They set off down the track, carrying shovels and picks, walking side by side in silence. When they reached the body of the woman all of them stopped, and Guérin knelt beside her. When he stood, his face was bleak. "She was shot in the back," he told them with a slight break in his voice.
d'Artagnan looked towards the houses a few paces ahead, already seeing the next body – a young boy, sprawled half out of the doorway of his house. Anger surged in him – anger at whoever had done this, whoever was responsible for this slaughter, for destroying this beautiful village and all the people in it, all their dreams, their hard work, their futures. And under that was anger that they had to deal with it. That Porthos had been on his own when he'd found it. And that these young musketeers, looking helpless and overwhelmed, would be the ones to pick up the pieces of this carnage.
d'Artagnan took a step away from the others and breathed hard for a few moments, feeling the anger surging through his body and channelling it, as he had done so many times before over so many different atrocities. He hardened his heart. There was nothing to be done except deal with this and move on.
His decisive turn drew the attention of the others and he spoke before he could lose his nerve.
"Nothing about this is going to be good, but it won't get better by waiting. We deal with it. Don't think about what you're doing. Don't think about who they were. They are just bodies and they deserve a burial and that's what we're here for. We'll think about it afterwards, when we're back in camp. Right now we just need to get on with it." He spoke quietly but firmly and found them all nodding.
Guérin visibly gathered himself. "The first thing is to gather the bodies – in the square, perhaps. I'll take a look and see if there's space."
He looked along the track but d'Artagnan stopped him. "We also need to find a suitable burial spot. Maybe we could gather the bodies and take them straight there, rather than to the square – it might save handling them twice."
Guérin nodded, grateful for the suggestion and the support d'Artagnan was giving. "Good idea. Reynard, Duval, we'll need somewhere with soft ground, maybe down towards the river. There'll be a lot of digging. Find us in the village as soon as you've identified a site." The rest of them started walking reluctantly towards the main huddle of houses.
"I think it would be good to work in pairs today," d'Artagnan said quietly.
"Agreed."
They stopped in what was clearly the village centre, where a rough square was overlooked by several larger houses. There was a stone well in the centre of the square, a water trough and a couple of roughly carved benches around a plane tree which gave welcome shade to the open space. A well-trodden path led up towards the chapel, a white-washed building with a square bell-tower, set on the slope above the square.
It should have been a peaceful scene but instead it was the stuff of nightmares, with blood-drenched bodies, swarming with flies, everywhere they looked.
d'Artagnan crossed to the well, stepping carefully around the body of a young girl, no more than five, and a woman whose hand was outstretched as if she was trying to reach her child. He leaned into the well opening, breathing the dank air gratefully and using the excuse of checking it to recover himself. Biting his lower lip savagely he took his own advice, repeating in his head "they're just bodies. It's just a job." After a moment he was able to turn and face the others, most of them just standing staring around but one or two starting to wander, tentatively peering into the shadowed interiors of the nearest houses.
"The rope's cut. Keep a look out for a bucket; this is going to be hot work so we'll need water if the well hasn't been contaminated."
Guérin nodded but he looked shaken and lost. d'Artagnan tried to give him a lead. "We'll work in pairs. Fouchard, you want to work with me?"
Fouchard was one of those who had not yet moved from where he'd come to a stop in the square. He looked at d'Artagnan, his eyes wide and desperate, shaking his head. "I don't think... I can't do this! I'm sorry, I just ... can't!" The last word came out in a kind of wail.
d'Artagnan swallowed, glancing at Guérin, but he looked just as lost as Fouchard sounded. The other three had stopped to listen and all looked just as overwhelmed.
"Fouchard, you can do this. You know why?"
The young musketeer shook his dark head.
"Because these people need us. We are not leaving one person here to be picked over by rats and crows, do you hear me?" The anger was leaking into his voice now and he let it. "We give them a decent burial. We lay them to rest." The last four words emphasised, dark eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. Compelling them to listen. "We clean this village. We leave it looking peaceful and cared for, the way they made it. We do this for them, and we do it properly, because we're Musketeers. We don't weep and wail, we just do it." Voice firm now, and mesmerizing. No other sound but the stirring of a breeze in the plane tree and the rasp of crows, circling overhead, waiting to resume their meal.
"Fouchard, find the others. We need to know where we're burying them. Go!" He would be better for some fierce action. Watching with satisfaction as Fouchard visibly jumped, then raced off. "Metier, Nicolas, start searching the houses. Bring out everyone you find and place them just outside their houses. Lanoux, find a bucket for the well and test the water. Guérin and I will search the rest of the village. Tell Fouchard to find us as soon as he knows where the burial site will be. We'll change roles after an hour. Get moving!"
Suddenly remembering he was no longer an officer he looked at Guérin again, checking he hadn't overstepped the mark, and saw only gratitude, and new resolve as Guérin clapped d'Artagnan softly on his shoulder, and jerked his chin at the pathway leading up to the chapel. "Let's begin up there."
Gradually they settled into some kind of rhythm. Nicolas had found a cart and taken the back off, to make it easier to load. Lanoux rigged a bucket for the well and declared it was clean; they made use of the cooling water frequently, and gratefully, every time they passed. Fouchard had conquered his revulsion and was now working steadily with Metier, handkerchiefs pulled over their noses and mouths to protect them from the flies as much as the scent of death.
Each time the cart was full two of them took turns to haul it down to a field near the river which held the stubble of a maize crop, making it easier to dig than established pasture. They laid the bodies in a row above the growing burial hole, and swopped places with the men digging.
d'Artagnan didn't know which job was worse: dragging the bodies from where they'd fallen and loading them on the cart, or hacking at the stony ground in the maize field, with nothing but the flap of crows and the buzz of flies for company.
After three hours Guérin called a halt. They lit a small fire in the square – no one wanted to intrude into any of the houses – and made a tea of water mint and eucalyptus leaves; not the most warming of drinks but all they could find, and it gave them an excuse to stop for a few minutes. No one felt like eating but d'Artagnan had picked some young oranges and a few wizened apples on his way back from the burial site and they shared those.
They'd cleared most of the village but still had the outlying farms and smallholdings to check. They'd found every third or fourth house empty, as if their owners had retreated before the advancing Spanish forces had arrived in their valley. Those that remained with their homes had paid the ultimate price, but d'Artagnan wondered what had happened to those who'd fled. He thought about Marcus and Madeleine, the refugee orphans adopted by the Musketeers for a few months last year before the fighting got too intense and they'd had to find them a farming family to live with. He prayed everyone in their village was safe.
He'd tried really hard to take his own advice, pushing all thoughts of the victims aside and concentrating only on the mechanics of the job: Search. Lift. Carry. Dig. But the sound of picks attacking the soil, the stench, and the stickiness of blood on his hands no matter how many times he washed them, gave him constant flashbacks to his worst memories. Digging his father's grave in the deluge outside Paris; the stink from the body in the oubliette when he'd been captured by the Spanish;all the friends they'd gathered from battlefields over the last two years, all the bodies – French and Spanish – he'd stepped over in battle. All the waste. The internal battle to stop his mind from spiralling into a hellish pit of self-destructive thoughts was as bad as anything else they had to cope with, today.
He looked around at his companions, sprawled around the unwelcome midday heat, sweat making clean rivers down their cheeks like tear tracks. They'd all struggled at times during the morning, and Fouchard still looked as if he couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up.
"What do you think about making them a memorial?" He blurted it out without forethought, the words coming directly from his subconscious thoughts.
"What do you mean?"
"Like a cross or something?"
"I could do that." Duval, eager. "I've done it before." It was true; he was a good woodsman and his carving skill was often called on when they had to bury one of their own.
But d'Artagnan was looking for a way to help Fouchard, who looked like he was drowning, not Duval, who seemed to be coping better than most. So he nodded his agreement but chewed his lip, watching Fouchard sag against the wall of the well, hands curled tightly around his cup, not drinking. "What if we found things to put around it?"
They all looked at him, waiting. "Um..." He hadn't thought this through yet. "Something that describes who they are. Were."
"But we don't know who they were." Incomprehension on Reynard's face.
The idea grew. "Yes we do." He paused, trying to pin his thoughts down with words. "They were good people. They built strong houses. They carved beautiful things for their homes. They loved their children." It was true: the children's clothes were cared for, carefully patched, and there were wooden dolls and hobby horses and hoops in almost every home. "We could collect something from each house – nothing big, just something that looks loved."
"Like a doll – I found one girl holding hers. I left it but I know where it is." Fouchard, catching on, enthusiastic now.
"One house had a pottery in the back and some gorgeous bowls and platters." Reynard, getting up.
d'Artagnan looked at Guérin. It would take extra time to do, but he was nodding his approval, and within moments they were all at work again but with renewed energy. They would make something good happen in this place.
It was late afternoon before they finished laying the bodies in the burial trench. Climbing out wearily, d'Artagnan looked at the memorial they had created, and his breath caught in his throat. It had been growing all afternoon but now, silhouetted against the setting sun, with the lazy swirl of the river behind, it was spell-binding.
Rather than make a cross, Duval had stripped a small rowan tree, cutting selected branches until it formed a three-dimensional cross from whichever direction it was viewed. Then they had dug it up and moved it to a spot just below the burial site. At this time of year, being a small tree, Duval thought there was a chance it would take root in its new home, but if not he hoped it would weather and harden as the leaves dropped, creating a lasting monument.
As they came across suitable items they brought them to the tree and hung some from its branches: a wooden spoon, darkened from years of stirring; a horseshoe; a deep blue jug, tied by the handle; a child's bright bow, carefully refastened by Fouchard around one of the branches. Around the base they laid larger items – a plough share; a milk pail; more pottery. A miniature wooden cart, made with love by a father so his young son could "help" in the fields. Not too much: they left the more precious or delicate items left in the homes, for relatives or friends to find, one day, when it was safe to travel in this area again. But enough to say: 'We lived here, we loved, we laughed, we died here - and someone cared'.
Lost in thought, d'Artagnan almost missed the first shout. "Riders!" Hands snapped to weapons as they scrambled to collect discarded pistols. He squinted, shading his eyes with his free hand, then held a calming hand out to the side.
"It's Athos, and Porthos. And someone else."
Everyone relaxed. The horses came closer, trailed by a dust plume, and soon they could all see what d'Artagnan had recognised by instinct long before the details were clear. They walked to meet them, stopping on the track near where they'd found the first body that morning. As the riders drew to a halt d'Artagnan saw the third man was a young priest, looking around apprehensively.
Athos slid off his horse and looked over their shoulders to the maize field from which they'd emerged onto the track. "How are you doing?" he asked.
Guérin filled him in on the day's findings – they'd collected almost 40 bodies in the end, and were confident the area was now clear. They just had to fill in the grave now, so the priest had arrived in perfect time. Athos nodded, eyes scrutinising each face carefully, then turned to help the priest dismount. He looked at Porthos for a moment, then handed his and the priest's reins to Porthos without comment, and moved off towards the burial site.
d'Artagnan hesitated, looking at Porthos. The big man was staring off into the distance, in the direction of the village square, and d'Artagnan realised he would be remembering it as it was when he'd found it. Had it been last night, on his way back? Had he spent the night here, walking around the ghostly village? Or had he been delayed and travelled past here early this morning? On his own, tired after a long ride, super-vigilant: how would this have looked in the dawn light? It had been hard enough for them all, today, working together and able to talk quietly, feeling they were doing some good. For Porthos on his own, unprepared and unsupported...
He recognised the look on Porthos' face. He'd seen it enough on other faces when someone had just had enough. Sometimes it was all just too much, and this was that moment for Porthos. It was clear the burly musketeer did not want to talk and he knew, he knew, Porthos would not want anyone to notice how close to breaking point he was. And yet he was here. He had given them directions this morning: Athos could have come alone, or with another escort, but Porthos was here.
Carefully, moving slowly, d'Artagnan reached up to Porthos' hand where he clutched the reins, and extracted those of the other horses. Leading them to where their own mounts were tethered, he tethered them alongside then returned to Porthos, who had not moved other than to track his actions with his eyes.
d'Artagnan reached a hand up and waited.
Porthos drew in the longest breath, and sighed it out.
Then he dropped his reins into d'Artagnan's hand, and dismounted slowly.
d'Artagnan breathed an inward sigh of relief and tethered Flip with the others, returning to Porthos' side and, after a tiny hesitation, tucking his arm under his friend's. "Come. We did a good thing here, today."
He said nothing more, feeling Porthos' body held rigid next to his as they walked towards the others, feeling his steps slow as they neared the grave. He tucked his arm closer to his side so Porthos could feel him breathing, feel his warmth.
They stopped close enough to see into the mass grave. Porthos didn't look, at first, but as they listened to the priest intone the words d'Artagnan felt him shift and knew he was lowering his eyes to the broken bodies within. His breathing quickened and d'Artagnan felt him tense, as if he would break away. Stubbornly d'Artagnan tightened his grip on Porthos' arm, and gradually felt the tension subside, heard Porthos' breathing steady again.
The familiar words of the burial rites wrapped around them.
"Fratres: Nolumus vos ignorare de dormientibus, ut non contristemini, sicut et ceteri, qui spem non habent. Si enim credimus quo Iesus mortuus est et resurrexit; ita et Deus eos qui dormierunt per Iesum, adducet cum eo". d'Artagnan had only studied a bit of Latin at school, but the words were familiar to him from his childhood, where the entire neighbourhood attended any funeral out of respect and support. Brethren: We will not have you ignorant concerning them that are asleep, that you be not sorrowful, even as others who have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them who have slept through Jesus, will God bring with Him.*
Aramis would have done this better, he found himself thinking suddenly; Aramis was a soldier first and foremost and would understand the pain they all felt at this unwanted consequence of their profession. A visceral pain shot through his gut at the thought of the comfort it would give to have Aramis standing with them both, now, and he struggled to regain control for a moment.
"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis." Eternal rest give to them, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon them. He wished those words could apply to the living, as well; there were plenty of damaged souls standing here who needed some rest from the thoughts torturing their dreams. The priest moved on to the Sequence and d'Artagnan deliberately tuned out after the first words. "Dies irae, dies illa": Day of wrath and doom impending. God knows they could do without more impending doom! Luckily the priest either didn't know all 19 verses of the Sequence, or perhaps he saw from the shifting of feet that he was losing his audience, and moved swiftly on to the offertory.
"...libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundi lacu: libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum: sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam". Deliver the souls of all the faithful departed from the pains of hell and from the bottomless pit: deliver them from the lion's mouth, that hell swallow them not up, that they fall not into darkness, but let the standard-bearer, holy Michael, lead them into that holy light. This time it was Porthos who stiffened, shifting impatiently at the mention of the 'bottomless pit' of hell. Was this really supposed to comfort the bereaved? d'Artagnan leaned automatically into Porthos, lending him the support and warmth of his body, and felt Porthos subside again.
Finally, hurrying a little more now, the priest reached the Absolution & burial.
"Libera nos, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda: Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra": Deliver me, O Lord, from death eternal in that awful day. When the heavens and the earth shall be moved. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescat in pace. Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them, may they rest in peace."
They gave their "amen" with varying degrees of relief. Then the priest made the sign of the cross in the air, then turned and repeated it to those standing around the grave. d'Artagnan felt unexpected tears prickle at the back of his eyes. If only it were that easy to find peace!
Athos walked back to the horses with the priest, but as they passed d'Artagnan and Porthos the young pastor paused, looking at them both, then reached out to lay a hand flat on each of their chests, over their hearts. He bowed his head for a moment, mouthing something under his breath, then gave them a shy smile and moved off again.
d'Artagnan looked at Porthos, unable to articulate his feelings at that moment. It felt as if he could feel the warmth of the priest's touch on his skin, even through his leather doublet. It conveyed something like forgiveness, something like understanding. It felt as if blood was flowing back into a wizened, blackened part of his heart. It felt as if he could breathe again, just for a moment.
Suddenly energised, he released Porthos' arm and reached out to take the shovel from Fouchard's hands as the other man moved to start filling in the grave. "I'll do this. You go and get the horses ready – all of you."
No one argued with a volunteer for a job like this. It was the very worst part, thought d'Artagnan, half regretting his impulse as he scooped up the first shovel-full of earth and trickled it delicately into the hole. There was something completely alien, utterly wrong about covering someone's face with earth, even though they were long dead. He worked from their feet upwards, trying not to look as the first layer of earth neared the long row of heads and some grains spilled onto lips and eyes. His moment of energy had left him long before he felt a hand on his and looked up, surprised, to find Porthos silently taking the shovel from him.
d'Artagnan rested for a few minutes, then found the second shovel and worked alongside Porthos, listening to the sound of their spades digging rhythmically into the soil, and the wind fluttering the leaves on the memorial they'd made, and the sound of Porthos breathing alongside him, feeling oddly comforted.
When they reached camp again, Athos told them all to take the rest of the evening off, and headed to his tent with Porthos who had still not spoken a word to d'Artagnan or anyone else. d'Artagnan dragged Guérin off to the river to bathe, and this time Fouchard came with them even though he hated swimming and rarely got more than his feet wet. d'Artagnan took off his doublet but left everything else on, feeling a desperate need to scrub the smell of death from his clothes, and the others followed suit, simply wading into the river and sinking below the water as soon as it reached their knees. No one stayed in long – the sun was already setting and the winter water felt icy cold – but d'Artagnan, at least, felt refreshed on emerging, although Fouchard was clearly regretting getting his leather breeches wet. "How will we get them dry?" he kept fussing, until d'Artagnan threatened to dump him back in the river again.
They were late for the evening meal but Chonfleur seemed to know every man's whereabouts and always kept enough food back for those who were on duty and missed the regular mealtimes, and tonight he produced, with a broad beam, a rabbit stew. d'Artagnan had frequently been urged to put his catapult to use since the food poisoning incident, and it had become a favourite treat amongst the Musketeers, but he hadn't been hunting for days and gave Chonfleur a quizzical look as he accepted a steaming bowl and sniffed it, appreciatively. Chonfleur winked at him. "Got a few sources in the other regiments after they tasted your stew, lad." d'Artagnan grinned.
As he sat down, he was delighted to see Porthos looming in the tent doorway, and waved him over. After a moment's hesitation, the big man came to sit with them. Fouchard quickly collected a bowl of stew for him which Porthos accepted without comment. He didn't eat much, and didn't join the conversation, but the others took d'Artagnan's lead and simply talked around him, meaningless chatter about their cold feet and whether to sit by the fire or just hit the sack.
When they'd finished, it seemed natural to d'Artagnan to walk with Porthos, and the others tactfully melted off in different directions. When they reached the tent they normally shared, d'Artagnan hesitated, until Porthos sighed and turned him in the direction of Fouchard's tent where he'd slept the night before.
d'Artagnan's heart plummeted as he realised he must have misjudged the situation. For a moment he couldn't believe it: although they'd not exchanged any words about the argument, he'd felt as close to Porthos today as ever, and had been so sure that Porthos would welcome him back into the tent they normally shared.
"Get your bloody stuff then – an' don't wake me up when you come in," Porthos rumbled grumpily in his ear, giving him a gentle shove to get going.
d'Artagnan knew he was grinning stupidly as he collected his belongings from Fouchard's tent, but he couldn't help it, as another of the bands of pain around his heart relinquished its hold.
* Excerpts taken from the Traditional Latin Mass (I found it on missale dot heliohost dot org). Don't ask me where my fascination with Latin prayers comes from (I blame Aramis) but I thought the Musketeers would be very familiar with the funeral rites by now. I was raised a Protestant but often accompanied a friend to catholic services while at university, and remember the rituals feeling vaguely familiar but horrendously long and often full of doom and haranguing, compared to the sanitised Protestant version of the same service. I find it interesting to explore the effect these well-known words would have on the soldiers during war. And I just like the sound of the words.