Apologies for a longer gap between chapters; it's been a busy week. But today the sun is shining, our charity car wash is done and now I have some "me-time". So this one is for your "you-time" and especially for Coffeecup35, Porthos' staunchest supporter.
Chapter 11: Empty
He woke from the best sleep he'd had in days with a feeling that something was wrong. For a moment he lay listening, hearing only the sounds of a frontline camp at night: someone talking by the fire, a quiet exchange further away as two guards met on night patrol; the faint snoring of exhausted men in the tents surrounding them.
And silence in his own tent.
He shot upright. Porthos' bed was empty. Glancing automatically at the tent flap he could see the inky-darkness of the night sky. His gut told him it was late night, rather than early morning. He unfurled himself from his blanket back and leaned across to feel Porthos' mattress. It was still faintly warm, so Porthos could not have been up more than a few minutes, but his side of the tent was devoid of boots, doublet or weapons. Feeling uneasy – surely if Porthos was relieving himself, or hungry, or ill, he would not have taken weapons with him – d'Artagnan hastened out of the tent and checked the camp fire, the latrines, the mess tent and the medical tent in quick succession, with no success.
Standing still, hands on hips, d'Artagnan looked around the silent camp again. Where was he? He couldn't explain why he was so anxious but he knew he couldn't sleep without finding him. Porthos had been so distant since the battle at Orbara where he'd lost so many men, and had then been deeply affected by finding the ravaged village, and d'Artagnan knew that he was struggling. Where would he go?
Inspiration struck and he raced over to Athos' tent, but the darkness and sound of snoring from within told its own story. Just in case Porthos had snuck in anyway, he unlaced the flap enough to stick his head around but could see only Athos, sprawled out on his back with an arm across his eyes, clearly asleep. He debated waking him but quickly decided Athos needed the sleep as much as anyone, and besides, the same instinct that drove his unease also told him to respect Porthos' privacy tonight.
He scanned the Musketeer camp again. Each regiment had their own area, their own mess tent and camp fire, but he didn't think Porthos would be visiting any other regiments' camps at this time of night.
He shivered. The nights were getting cold as winter set in, and it was dawning on him that he was in his braes and shirt, and barefoot. He jogged quickly back to their tent, ducked inside and shoved his feet into boots, grabbed his doublet and weapons, then stood outside to scan the skyline as he did up buckles and belts.
Suddenly he froze. There! A figure was moving amongst the trees on the rising ground beyond the camp. Was that him?
He ran quietly across the muddy centre of camp, dodging between tents and leaping ropes and tent pegs, through the horse lines and up the slope, but when he reached the place where he'd spotted the figure, the clearing was empty.
Breathing heavily, he spun slowly around, hand on sword hilt, cursing the clouds obscuring the half moon. He scanned the ground but could see nothing of note; no signature trail of large footprints, no helpfully discarded scarf to indicate Porthos had been here.
On the other side of the clearing was a slope leading down to an animal trail he'd used when hunting rabbits, but that was well outside the camp boundaries. Here, he was still within view of the camp but once out of view, technically he could be accused of deserting. But then again, if it was Porthos he had seen here, it seemed he had left the camp and he surely didn't have permission either, and if that were the case, d'Artagnan wasn't about to let him stay out there alone. He had a feeling Porthos needed a friend, tonight.
He decided to check the trail. If he was spotted by the perimeter patrol he could always say he was laying snares. Most of the camp had enjoyed his rabbits at one time or another so unless Colombe was on duty he'd probably get away with it. Mind made up, he slid quietly down the hill and started to jog along the trail.
Porthos had not intended to leave the camp. At least, he didn't think he had. Then again he was beginning to wonder at the workings of his mind, because he didn't normally bother to put his weapons on to visit the latrine. But this night, when he'd woken needing to pee, he'd watched his fingers picking up his weapons belt and hadn't asked himself why he was doing it.
He'd relieved himself, then stood looking up at the sky for a moment, shivering in the cold air. For some reason he kept thinking about Aramis tonight. Maybe it was the burial service for those villagers. He could remember far too many times watching his brother stooping over a body, murmuring a few words and crossing himself, then gently closing the eyelids of someone they'd found, or someone they'd killed. It was a ritual that Porthos had always found calmed him. It marked the end of violence and the start of healing.
He'd never had a problem with fighting, or killing. He'd killed his first man when he was thirteen, in a knife-fight in the Court. It wasn't his choice but he'd had to stand his ground. He'd fought plenty of times with fists by then, and had long learned when to fight and when to vanish. But that day he'd been spotted, and the man whose purse he'd stolen had drawn his sword; his court friends had vanished, and he'd been left watching the man advance towards him, heart thundering in his chest. He'd warned the man to leave it, even offered his purse back, but the nobleman obviously wanted to teach the street urchin a lesson. Porthos had remembered his own knife which until then he'd only ever used for cutting purse strings and sharing food, and – backed against a wall by the complacent nobleman – he'd drawn it from his boot in desperation. They'd struggled, blades jabbing and slashing, and then the nobleman had slipped and Porthos' blade had cut his neck – just nicked him, almost without meaning to. And he'd bled to death in front of him.
No Aramis back then to make it all right. Porthos had left him there and legged it, then realised he was still holding the purse and circled back to return it, horrified that the few coins inside had driven him to murder. Then went back again to retrieve it, thinking at least he could feed his gang of orphans. Trying to make it feel alright. And it had, eventually. They had eaten well for a week, and Porthos had told himself he'd given the man a chance to back down, so it wasn't his fault.
But that killing had never sat well in his memory, so Porthos had learned to read the signs, to temper his strength, and pick his targets more wisely, so he didn't have to kill again. And when, sometimes, it still all went wrong, he'd learned to deal with the guilt. Even so, inflicting injury for his own gain had never felt right, and when Tréville had offered him a commission in the Musketeers, he had thought about it, but not for too long. To be able to use his strength and street skills for a good reason and be respected for what he did – to get paid for it, and feel proud to be part of a family that fought for good, not just to survive – that was compelling.
And since then, he'd been at peace with himself. He'd found friendship, brotherhood, a purpose in life. He was good at it, and he wasn't hungry anymore. He slept well at night, even when he'd killed, because he always understood why he'd done it, and he made sure he only killed when there was no other option.
For this reason he'd never had a problem dealing with death, either. He'd accepted long ago that he would die in battle, and he was fine with that. He had no family to mourn him – apart from his brothers, and they would be fighting alongside him. He didn't want to die a trivial death. He didn't want to die in his bed, or in some brawl over cards. He'd come close to that, a few times in the early days, and he'd been grateful when first Aramis, and then Athos, came along to watch over him when he got carried away. It was years since he'd thought about dying in anything other than the "right" way: standing by his brothers, protecting them, fighting for king and country, for a noble cause that he could be proud of.
But now Death had his claws in Porthos, and was stalking him in the shadows. Not his death, but that of his brothers. The men in his care. The ones he'd sworn to protect. Six of them, cut down in front of him and behind him, while he'd roared and slashed and struggled against an endless stream of Spanish uniforms. He'd survived – thanks to d'Artagnan and all those who rallied to that mad dash down the hill – but six men had died around him and he hadn't been able to protect them. And more – how many more – had died in the effort to rescue his men from that ravine? And how many were now lying groaning in agony, their wounds eating away at them? How many would not survive to fight again, or would be sent home, maimed, destined to live off charity for the rest of their lives?
He hadn't helped to bury them; he'd been lying on a cot in the medical tent when their graves were dug. He'd begged Athos to send him out of camp after that because he couldn't bear to look at anyone, couldn't bear to see the accusations in their eyes. And then he'd found that village, and spent the night sitting in the square, hugging his knees, watching over their bodies, waiting for Death to come back and claim him.
In the morning he'd risen stiffly to his feet, hardly able to believe he was still alive, for surely he deserved to die? Why was he still living, when so many good people were dead all around him? He'd ridden back to camp, far too fast, half hoping his horse would trip and hurl him off; taunting death, raging in his head for Death to come and get him.
Because he'd had enough.
He didn't want to fight any more. He didn't want to kill any more. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone else's safety, or their death if he failed. He didn't want to bury one more body. He just wanted to... he just wanted to lie down and, and ... stop. Not think. Just rest.
He sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees and dropped his head to his arms and he cried. He cried for the children whose bodies had lain in the square in the centre of their village where they should have been safe, and he cried for the men who had followed him into battle believing in his strength to keep them safe. And he cried for himself, because he was lost, and because if he'd had enough of fighting and killing, then he'd had enough of the Musketeers, and he wasn't sure who Porthos was if he wasn't a Musketeer.
He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually he realised he'd run out of tears. It took an enormous effort to lift his head, because he knew once he did, he would have to do something. Move; stand; walk somewhere – and he didn't know where or what to do.
But eventually he opened his eyes and looked around, because he was cold and if nothing else he could surely find somewhere warmer to sit than this bare hillside...
What bare hillside was this? He lurched to his feet suddenly, turning on stiff legs and squinting into the unfamiliar landscape. Where the hell was he? The moon was out from the clouds now and the ground around him was backlit with a silvery, cold light that cast teasing shadows all around him. Some looked like bodies, others like men he knew, friends and enemies. One had d'Artagnan's shape but then it morphed into a tree trunk, and he wondered if he was going mad.
Slowly things came back to him. He had been walking, hadn't he? He noticed the moonlight on the hillside above the camp, how peaceful it looked, and been drawn towards it... Had he crossed the river? He looked at his boots and saw they were black with dew but not soaked. So he was still on French soil.
He sank back to the ground and dug his fingers into the dirt. France... where could he go? He could get work, he knew that: there was always work for someone of his stature. He'd always fancied being a farrier or blacksmith. Maybe he could find a village where he could learn the trade.
He sat for a while, trying to picture that life. He got glimpses of it: there would be a barmaid with dimples with whom he would flirt, and maybe an older woman whose husband had died in the war who would rent him a room. He would settle the odd bar brawl and help farmers with the harvest; learn to deliver a calf by pulling on its hooves, as d'Artagnan had described more than once after too many cups of wine when he was missing his old life in Gascony.
d'Artagnan.
He hadn't said goodbye.
He'd left him sleeping. Thinking everything was alright. He could see it in his face when he'd told the lad to move his stuff back in; he'd looked as happy as the day he'd married Constance. He hadn't needed apologies or explanations for the awful things Porthos had said to him when he was angry at surviving the fiasco in the ravine. He was loyal, that boy. No, not a boy any more. Only God knew what he'd been through at the hands of the Spanish but no one could call him a boy anymore, no matter how he doubted himself. He'd had so many knockbacks but he'd somehow kept going and Porthos thought he would be alright now. He and Athos were still wary around each other, but only because they were both hurting, and didn't want to hurt each other more. They just needed time and they would have plenty of that if Porthos wasn't there. They would have to talk to each other then, sort out their problems together. d'Artagnan would have to ask Athos to look out for him the way Porthos had promised to. That ridiculous promise to kill him rather than let him be captured again – how crazy was that! He'd have to ask someone else now, not him. Not fair to ask him anymore.
Porthos realised, distantly, that he was crying again. He wasn't sure why, this time, only it had to do with d'Artagnan and not saying goodbye, and Athos having to look out for d'Artagnan on the battlefield. Not that the lad needed protecting any more, but if he was injured, Athos would have to be there for him, not Porthos. But Athos had other responsibilities, and enough to cope with. Too much. Too many men to worry over. Who would help him plan now? Who would listen to him sighing and swearing to himself as he wrote the letters of condolence to the families?
Had Athos written to the families of the six already? Porthos should have helped him. He could have given the wives and mothers words of comfort about how they'd died bravely. He couldn't do that if he was working in a smithy in some village in the Alps.
Athos. He'd need someone to talk to and Porthos wasn't sure d'Artagnan was ready to help anyone else just yet. But there was Fouchard... Porthos had grown very fond of the eager, enthusiastic youngster. A little older than d'Artagnan, in fact, but they were years apart in maturity. Although Fouchard had proven himself over and over, recently. He would help Athos get used to Porthos' absence, wouldn't he?
He'd been going to teach the young musketeer to use the baton to fight with. Useful tool, a nice long piece of wood. He'd planned to teach them all ...
He sighed, and looked eastwards. There was a hint of light there, and he was cold.
He heaved himself to his feet, sniffed the air, turned his back on the moon, and started plodding back towards camp without conscious decision; no thought other than that if he hurried, he could be back before d'Artagnan noticed he'd been gone. Because, God knew, the lad had enough on his shoulders already without worrying about Porthos.
Behind him, the shadows shifted as clouds drifted across the face of the moon, and eventually one shape detached itself from the tree-trunk behind which it had waited for so long.
When he had finally caught up with Porthos, d'Artagnan had been so relieved that he'd started across the clearing towards him before his senses caught up with him enough to realise Porthos was crying. At first he wasn't sure: it wasn't a sob, more of a raw breath, a hitched cough; but then he saw the big man's shoulders shaking and he knew that he was watching Porthos slowly fall apart.
It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to go to him, but he knew, without doubt, that it would be the wrong thing to do. He didn't know why Porthos had come all the way out here – they were miles from camp now – but it was entirely possible that the only reason he was crying now was because he thought himself alone. Whatever was eating at him – and d'Artagnan had a pretty good idea what it might be – Porthos hadn't felt able to express it back in camp. Maybe he just didn't want to burden Athos, who already had the lives of the regiment in his hands. Porthos was so good at protecting those around him; he would be trying just to cope on his own, like he always did.
But d'Artagnan knew from his own bitter experience that you couldn't just go on absorbing everything – all the hurt, the pain, the fear, the anguish of war – without it eventually leaking out, or spilling, or erupting out, in some way. And if Porthos had picked this way – privately, miles from camp, with no one to witness his disintegration, then d'Artagnan was not going to interfere. He would just wait, and make sure Porthos was safe, and be ready to pick up the pieces if need be, the way Porthos had done for him countless times during the last few years.
d'Artagnan had almost fallen asleep leaning against the tree trunk, but jerked into instant wakefulness when Porthos finally stood. He was acutely aware that both of them were vulnerable if discovered so far from the camp, and he wasn't sure what he would do if Porthos set off in the wrong direction. He was incredibly relieved therefore when Porthos turned, sniffed the air like a black bear, and heading towards the woods again.
He was slightly less happy to realise that Porthos was going to pass within a few feet of him and that it was too late to move without giving himself away. All he could do was close his eyes, hold his breath and lean harder into the shadows.
Fortunately Porthos' thoughts were clearly far away and he passed d'Artagnan without pausing. Breathing a sigh of relief d'Artagnan waited until the sound of Porthos' steps had almost faded before moving stiffly off to follow him silently back to camp.
It was only when they were within sight of the camp fires that d'Artagnan realised Porthos was bound to notice his own absence when he got to their tent. Biting his lip – he really didn't want Porthos to realise he'd been under scrutiny all this time – he contemplated leaving his weapons by the fire and pretending he'd just been to the latrine trench, but was saved, ironically, by the alertness of a perimeter patrol that spotted Porthos as he headed down the last slope back into camp.
d'Artagnan dropped to the ground the second he heard their challenge to Porthos, then wriggled cautiously away as fast as he could without being heard. As soon as he was a safe distance away he circled around the back of the tents and emerged as if from his own tent in time to hear Porthos blustering about losing his dagger and coming out to look for it. Dropping his own weapons hastily just inside their tent, d'Artagnan jogged silently over towards the perimeter and then slowed to a casual walk, fiddling with the strings of his leathers as if he'd just been to relieve himself and calling out to Porthos: "Did you find it?"
Both guards turned as one, their hands close to their pistols until they recognized d'Artagnan. "Your dagger, did you find it?" he repeated, as he came over to the trio.
"Yes thanks," said Porthos, gathering his wits finally and producing the "missing" dagger to corroborate his reason for leaving camp.
"Good. I could do without helping you search in the middle of the night... What time is it?" he added to the guards as he turned, clearly waiting for Porthos to join him.
A guard he vaguely recognised, a man from Auvergne, informed him pompously that it was past 4 o'clock and hardly worth sleeping now. d'Artagnan laughed. "It's never too late for sleep, my friend," he said cheerfully, putting an arm around Porthos' shoulders and giving him an imperceptible nudge towards their tent.
Inside, Porthos sat heavily on the bed and looked quizzically at d'Artagnan who carefully avoided his gaze, busying himself with toeing his weapons closer to his bed and pulling his boots off. "I bloody hate peeing in the night now it's getting so cold at night," grumbled d'Artagnan half to himself as he wriggled under his blanket with relief. He really was chilled to the bone. He heard, rather than saw, Porthos shake himself and yank his own boots off before settling with a grunt. Finally relaxing for the first time in hours, d'Artagnan was asleep within minutes and, exhausted by the emotion of the past few days, Porthos finally followed suit.
If both men looked weary a couple of hours later at muster, Athos made no mention. In truth he was just relieved to see the two men standing together again, but he also had a lot on his mind. He'd been called to yet another early morning meeting with the Generals, led by the new arrival, General Faucille, who was clearly a man on a mission.
The extra surveys had been done and a new battle plan drawn up, which the General was planning to execute at the earliest opportunity. He doubled the number of patrols and ordered close scrutiny of the Spanish encampment, and everyone was kept busy during the day with the preparations for a major campaign.
d'Artagnan's life slowly returned to normal, if there was such a thing in war-time. Colombe seemed to be keeping a low profile after the fiasco of the surveys. Porthos had said nothing about his night-time wandering, but after a couple of sharp looks at d'Artagnan as he yawned over his porridge the next morning he seemed to have accepted the notion that d'Artagnan had simply risen to relieve himself and overheard Porthos talking to the guards about losing his dagger. Neither of them had talked about the disaster in the ravine, or the massacre at Aribe, and d'Artagnan knew that Porthos was still subdued and struggling to hold himself together. But he also knew that Porthos would be alright, and was all the better for knowing d'Artagnan would be, too.
And he would, he realised suddenly. There was a time, after he'd returned from Paris, when conversations had stopped if he joined the group around the campfire, then restarted with a different feel – more cautious, as if the musketeers were wary of upsetting him. And after his punishment for hitting Colombe (he still struggled to say the word 'flogging', even in his own head), he'd known everyone was watching him all the time, waiting to see if he fell apart or lost his cool. It had been comforting, in a way, knowing that they were looking out for him, but it had also been unnerving. But after the losses in the ravine near Orbara the regiment's attention had moved on and it was a huge relief to be able to think of himself as 'just' a Musketeer, again.
He still felt wary around Athos, who seemed more distant than ever as he spent hour after hour in planning sessions with the other Captains, with the Generals, or on his own pouring over maps and writing endless reports. Before, d'Artagnan would have burst in and teased him into taking time out, or dragged him out forcibly if he blustered, but their easy companionship seemed a thing of the past in the formality of the larger army setting. He was desperate to find out what Athos made of the situation with Colombe, now that he'd observed some of it for himself in the survey debriefing, but there was an invisible line between him and Athos which he didn't know how to cross anymore.
For a while he resigned himself to accepting the new situation and his position as just another of Athos' men, and after being the centre of attention for so long he'd almost welcomed this new anonymity.
It was a shame, therefore, that the problem with Colombe suddenly came to the fore again. This time however, he was not the focus. Colombe was.
Author's note: Porthos tells Eloise in Season 3.7, Fool's Gold: "I know a lot about fear. You asked me if I've ever been scared on the battlefield. Well I was. When I was on the front line at one point, we were losing more men than we could bury. Seeing things like that, it does something to your mind. The fear takes over. One night it got so bad I left. I got five miles away then I realised what I was doing and I came back. No one ever knew." "Why did you come back?" "My men. My friends. However bad it gets, you keep going for them... fear has no power over you." I've often wondered about what happened to drive him to that point, so this is my attempt to understand what drove him to that point, and what brought him back. I hope I did him justice.