Warning: death of an OC, but it's off-stage, so to speak.
Chapter 18: There's A Soul
Porthos almost missed them, huddled as they were in the shadows of the rock face sheltering them. It was hard enough to see his feet and pick a path, and the torch was spluttering and sending oily smoke into his face, making him squint and curse as he clambered relentlessly up, calling their names. He felt a lurch of fear every time he called d'Artagnan's name but he refused to acknowledge that he was dead until he saw his body for himself, so he called both names until he was hoarse. He stopped to take a sip of water, sweat running down his face even in the chill air on this god-forsaken mountainside with its crumbling rock and bloody boulders and – what was that? Did something move in those shadows ahead? He swung the torch that way but could see nothing beyond the guttering flame, so he held it high and headed towards the shadows, and as he got closer he could see – Mon Dieu! Two bodies, lying so close he couldn't separate them with his eyes.
He stopped dead, icy fear clenching his gut, bile rising in his throat, heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest. Without conscious thought he started to run towards them, breath coming in sobs now as he found himself saying "no, no, no" over and over under his breath. They couldn't be dead! After all this time searching, knowing it was probably fruitless but refusing to give up hope, he couldn't believe God would be so cruel as to take them both like this, flinging their bodies carelessly down as if they didn't matter, leaving them crumpled on this bare hillside...
A stray thought sinewed its way through his churning mind as he hurtled towards them. They were a long way from the platform from which they'd fallen. How had they ended up this far down? Hope flickered, then surged as he saw one shape move and a head emerge from the dancing shadows. He would know the shape of that head anywhere. He bellowed the name: "ATHOS!" and hurled himself over the rock and debris, screaming over his shoulder to whoever might be in earshot that he'd found them, he needed help, get here now!
And then he was kneeling at Athos' side, hand sliding under his shoulders, trying to sit him upright, torch flung forgotten to the ground, flame sputtering and dying, but he didn't care because Athos was alive, his head cradled to his chest.
He ghosted his hands over Athos' chest, hearing him whispering and shushing him, information flooding into his stuttering brain. Blood on his chest. He's been shot, Porthos realised, feeling frantically for an exit wound and sighing in relief when he found it. Athos whispering that d'Artagnan was alive but badly injured. Lleaning over Athos to touch d'Artagnan's cheek tentatively, the only bit he could reach without moving Athos. Cold! His skin was cold, and clammy. Fear gripping him anew, but then d'Artagnan's head moved slightly, turning towards him, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw d'Artagnan's eyes flicker open for a second.
He turned and bellowed for help again, hearing answering shouts, much closer now, then seeing a glow of torchlight round a shoulder of rock and bob towards him, another one close behind.
"They're here" he told Athos, belatedly remembering that he could talk to them, these brothers that he'd lost, in his head, hours earlier. They were still here and he could talk to them, tell them what they meant to him... but other hands were here now, torchlight flickering over the scene, and he lost all power of speech when he saw for the first time the state they were both in.
There was no time for rejoicing, or heartfelt reunions. Willing hands took Athos from him, picking him up as if he weighed nothing, and then Etienne arrived, puffing but still snapping out orders. Porthos got out of the way then, feeling suddenly lost now he'd done what he'd sworn to do.
He picked up a discarded torch and saw four men disappearing back down the track carrying Athos. A hand squeezed his arm and he saw Santerre was there, holding a torch high for Etienne to examine the silent Gascon and looking at Porthos with compassionate eyes, telling him it would be alright. Porthos wasn't at all sure anything would be alright but he nodded, because that was what Santerre was expecting, and was rewarded with a smile. He wondered why Santerre was even helping the Musketeers, but then he remembered d'Artagnan had stepping in to cover for a few of the Picardy regiment when they almost rebelled against Colombe, what seemed like weeks ago now, but was actually only two nights earlier... and finally the stream of random thoughts stilled because his face was flooded with tears as he faced, for the first time, the possibility that he would still lose d'Artagnan for good, maybe here on this mountainside, or after a few hours of agony in the medical tent.
Etienne had ripped his shirt open and Porthos saw him recoil from the mess of burned and torn flesh revealed in the flickering torch light. Now he was working frantically to pad the wound in his side, and another high on his chest that looked like he'd been shot. Etienne called for help to carry him down, and Porthos watched numbly as they lifted him, seeing his head flop to the side and one blackened hand dangle until Etienne caught it up. He couldn't seem to move and it took Santerre nudging him, then pulling at his arm, to make him stir. "Come on, Porthos. They need you. Porthos!" And finally the big man pulled himself together and moved off, edging past the others at the first opportunity and giving himself the role of pathfinder so he didn't have to look at d'Artagnan's ruined body as they descended.
Back at their temporary camp there was already a mad flurry of bobbing torches and shouted orders as a cart was brought up to the fire and padded with every blanket and spare clothing they could find. They were loading Athos as Porthos arrived and he was grateful to see the man was conscious again, his face twisted with pain but clearly alert and looking over to where the second team struggled down the slope behind Porthos, trying to carry d'Artagnan at speed without causing him further harm.
They laid d'Artagnan carefully on the wagon, and Etienne scrambled up alongside Julien in the back and yelled at them to get going. Men scrambled to lead the way, holding torches aloft so the driver could pick the smoothest path back towards their camp, but as they reached the head of the valley where they'd defeated the Spanish in the morning – no, yesterday morning, Porthos corrected himself absently – Etienne shouted for them to stop, swearing under his breath as he checked d'Artagnan. Everything stilled for a moment and Porthos felt as if the whole world held its breath.
Then Etienne exhaled noisily and called Porthos closer. He walked unsteadily towards the cart, dreading the words he was sure were coming, thinking that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life: the smell of the tar from the torches, the sound of the sputtering flames and the horses playing impatiently with their bits, the touch of the freezing night air on his face.
But Etienne was asking him about the fortress and whether he'd seen medical supplies in any of the rooms there, and slowly the world cranked back into life again. He let his eyes slide towards d'Artagnan's face for the first time since he'd found them and saw, with a shock, that the dark eyes were open and seemed to be watching him. He broke off from answering Etienne and reached out a hand. "Is he...?"
Etienne snapped at him. "Yes he bloody is, but not for long unless I find somewhere I can work on him. Pull yourself together man: is there a clean room we can use?" And Porthos nodded, and got his weary legs going again, and led the way up the valley, through the previous day's battlefield, in search of somewhere they could use as a field hospital to try to save the lives of these two precious men.
They took over a bedchamber that had clearly been used by a senior officer. They found clean linens for the bed and laid d'Artagnan on it. Two men dragged a second bed in for Athos and others ran to set fires and heat water. Julien arrived clutching a bag bulging with potions and bandages and handed out supplies to Etienne before starting work on Athos. For a while the two medics worked feverishly side by side, comparing notes and issuing terse instructions to the willing hands helping them. Julien made Athos comfortable quite quickly, cleaning the wound in his chest as best he could in the uncertain light, washing it with copious amounts of medical spirits, then slathering a thick paste onto a pad and bandaging everything in place. Athos bore everything stoically and remembered to tell Julien that his left arm was probably broken, but he barely noticed as Julien strapped it firmly, so focussed was he on d'Artagnan's motionless body in the other bed, and the battle to save his life.
Porthos couldn't look at the battered body, but nor could he move away no matter how many times Etienne snapped at him for being in the way. He found a place at d'Artagnan's head and sat stroking his filthy, blood-matted hair, praying harder than he'd ever prayed before in his life.
d'Artagnan missed all the drama. He'd lost too much blood, and the shock of the explosion, combined with the pain from his wounds, rendered him unconscious for most of the next twenty four hours without any need for narcotics. He missed Etienne cleaning and stitching the deep gouge in his thigh where shards of metal had ripped through his thigh muscle. He missed Etienne's muttering as he pulled countless fragments of metal from cuts all over his body, and Julien patiently cleaning and covering the burns that marred the left side of his face and body. He missed the long conference as they tried to work out how to extract the metal shrapnel which had buried itself in his rib cage, and the fuss as Athos insisted on sitting upright to hold d'Artagnan's hand before they started to enlarge the wound around the metal so they could see what was going on.
He didn't miss the actual extraction: his agonised howl when Etienne laid hands on the metal was something that would stay with all of them for a long time, and his eyes, flickering frantically around their faces, spoke volumes about his pain and panic as Etienne struggled to extract the three-inch fragment. He might not have heard Etienne's impressive string of swear words which lasted – without repetition, Porthos related later in a tone of awe to those waiting anxiously outside – for several long minutes but he certainly felt the horrible sensation as the alien shrapnel came out with a gush of blood.
d'Artagnan had found Athos's face by then, and fastened his eyes desperately on his mentor until he lost consciousness again. Blood loss, Etienne informed them briskly as Julien struggled to control the bleeding. The burning metal shard had effectively cauterised the wound as it penetrated, he told them, which had undoubtedly saved d'Artagnan's life, otherwise the wound would have bled freely and he would have died before they found him.
He missed another long conference as the two medics probed the wound, finding splinters of rib bone which clearly worried them both. The metal had shattered one of his ribs and they had to remove the loose fragments and try to realign the remains before stitching the layers of muscle and tissue back in place as best they could. He also, thankfully, missed the ten minutes cleaning and stitching the wound on his shoulder after extracting the musket ball which had come to rest there after passing right through Athos.
It was four hours before they had done all they could for him. Etienne took a long pull at the Spanish wine someone had uncovered in a storeroom before washing his hands and leaving with a small escort, weaving with exhaustion but anxious to check on his other patients, particularly Fouchard whose burns were extensive.
Julien stayed, insisting that Athos got some proper rest and tasking Porthos with watching over them both. He was concerned about the big man, who had been relentless both in the long battle to take the fortress, and in his efforts to find the missing men afterwards, but Athos had lost a lot of blood and desperately needed sleep.
Emerging from the temporary sick-room, Julien looked around and found half a dozen men slumped in the corridor, all looking just as exhausted as those in the room behind him. Sighing, he reminded himself that although he'd also been on the go for over 24 hours, he'd been behind the lines, not fighting for his life on the battlefield, and decided the least he could do for the rest of the men would be to organise some food.
Etienne returned a few hours after dawn with horses and a special guest in tow: General Faucille. The General had already delivered a rousing speech to the main camp, now relocated close to the captured fortress, praising them for their efforts in securing a famous victory against the Spanish, but he was acutely aware that some of the main heroes of the battle were not there to hear his words, so he'd insisted on making the journey back up the valley.
He came in without fuss, telling the exhausted helpers to stay resting and stopping to chat to those he recognised before entering the sick room quietly behind Etienne, who lost no time checking d'Artagnan's bandages and catching up with Julien.
They'd washed the grime from his face but he looked almost worse as this revealed the true extent of the burned skin running down his left side, from his cheek to his thigh. Julien had covered the worst patches with a thick ointment which he hoped would help protect the weeping flesh from infection. There was a thick bandage wrapped around d'Artagnan's slim waist, which was stained with the blood that continued to weep from the wound in his side, and another thick pad over his left thigh where they'd found another deep wound gouged in the explosion. He look pale, his skin almost translucent, and a light sheen of sweat coated his face and chest.
General Faucille had a quiet word with the medics, stood looking at d'Artagnan for a moment and then came over to where Porthos was snoring in the chair next to Athos' bed. A smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth as he regarded the big Musketeer who had so ably led the main assault on the fortress. He seemed relatively unscathed, with just some small cuts on his jaw and forearms to show for his efforts, but in sleep the exhaustion they all felt showed clearly on his face. And something else: his worry for his brothers meant he sat awkwardly with his head tipped to his shoulder, one hand resting on Athos' chest.
The General turned to Athos, who was propped up on the bed to take the pressure off the wounds on his back and front. He was awake, watching the General as he approached the bed.
"Athos, how are you?"
Before answering Athos glanced to his right where d'Artagnan lay so still, and the General got the impression that his answer depended entirely on how the young Musketeer fared.
"I'm a bit sore, but glad to be here," admitted Athos with unusual honesty.
"May I?" With Athos' answering nod the General sat cautiously on the edge of the bed and looked at Athos assessingly. "How bad is it?"
Etienne answered in his usual blunt fashion. "No fighting for a month at least. Forearm's busted, serious chest wound and his back's mangled too. Sorry General."
Athos gave a decent approximation of the stare that had recruits trembling in the ranks, but Etienne simply nodded at him and wandered off in search of food, patting d'Artagnan's foot in passing.
There was a pause, broken only by a loud snore from Porthos. Without looking, Athos reached over and poked him gently in the ribs, and he stopped with a snort, mumbled indistinctly and resettled himself without waking.
Athos found the General watching him carefully. "Sir?"
The General nodded to himself, as if making a decision reluctantly. "We've received orders from Paris. We're to send reinforcements north as soon as this area is secured." He paused, watching Athos.
"North?" he queried.
"Towards Frieburg."
The north east border with the Spanish Netherlands, where – rumour had it – the fighting was becoming even more intense, with the Spanish pushing deep into French territory and sending tremors through Parisian society. It made sense to send the southern veterans north, Athos conceded, even as his stomach constricted at the implications for the three of them. He glanced again to his right and grimaced as the movement pulled on the stitches in his shoulder.
"How many men are you sending?" he asked, neutrally.
The General smiled. "I'll take four regiments north. I'm splitting the Musketeers, Athos. The fight here in the south is almost over, but I'll need some of your men to stay here to help with the patrols and train the new recruits when they arrive. I'll take the rest of you with me."
"The Captain's not fit to travel, Sir," interrupted Julien, looking nervous but firm; not normally involved in the strategic meetings, nonetheless he was the only medic in the room and he was ready to protect his patients.
"I understand," agreed the General peaceably. "Athos, I'd like you to stay here with the other men who are unfit to travel, then bring them north to join us in a few weeks when you are ready."
Athos let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and nodded his agreement. This gave him license to stay with d'Artagnan until he recovered. He didn't allow himself to think of the alternative outcome.
"Good." The General rose decisively, hesitated, then put both hands out, waiting for Athos to decide which of his injured arms he could move with the least pain. They clasped hands awkwardly and the General stooped closer. "Tell your men I am honoured to have served with them both. You are a credit to your regiment, all of you."
Before Athos could think of a response, the General had turned to leave. "Do not tarry, Athos. We need men of your calibre with us."
Athos was surprised at the level of regret he felt watching the General leave. He was the only commanding officer, since Tréville, whose leadership, judgement, and strategic thinking Athos could really look up to. For the first time in a long while, and in spite of his injuries and his fears for d'Artagnan, Athos felt a stirring of passion about this war. He would get fit; he would make sure his injured men got the best possible treatment, and he would reunite with his men in the north, ready to protect Paris.
His thoughts drifted to the Garrison, to Tréville, and to Constance, even as his eyes went back to the restless Gascon beside him. He couldn't leave here without him; his life wouldn't be worth living – assuming he survived the war, himself – if he came back to Paris without d'Artagnan. Or Porthos, for that matter, suppressing a smile as the snoring started up again. Feeling his own eyes grow heavy, he allowed himself to settle to sleep, feeling oddly comforted by the resolutions he had just made.
d'Artagnan hovered between life and death for four long days. His wounds wept infection and they had to reopen and clean out each one several times. He tossed and thrashed constantly, his body slicked in sweat, and Porthos and Julien battled to keep his skin cool as his temperature soared. Sometimes he seemed aware of his surroundings and in those moments Athos and Porthos sought to reassure him, to touch him and encourage him. Even though he still couldn't hear their voices he would fasten his dark eyes on their faces, struggling to make sense of their words. His eyes looked huge in his gaunt face and Athos didn't know which was worse: seeing the pain and fear in his expression as he watched them intently, or seeing his dull eyes slide closed as the infection took hold again.
By the fifth day Athos was mobile himself, refusing to wear a sling ("Which bloody arm do you suggest I wear it on, Julien? This one?" – waving his sword arm with an effort because of the wound high on his chest and the heavy bandages protecting it – "or this one?" – gesturing with his broken left arm – "Or maybe you'd like me to wear a sling on both arms? Perhaps you could explain to me how that would work? You might as well just tie me to the bed and be done with it!"); displaying his exhaustion and pain in every muttered curse and scathing glance.
Porthos was a rock, as usual, smoothing ruffled feathers and distracting Athos from his pain and anxiety by helping plan the best route north, making lists of supplies, and, on the fifth day when d'Artagnan's fever finally broke leaving him limp and exhausted but sleeping deeply for the first time since the battle, accompanying Athos back to the main French camp to visit the remains of the musketeer regiment, including the rest of the wounded.
It was here that they were given the devastating news that Fouchard had succumbed to his injuries and died, mere hours before they arrived in camp. Athos had been almost bowled over, staggering slightly on feeble legs as he tried to take it in. The young man who'd basically adopted Athos when d'Artagnan was captured; who'd stood by him through every setback; who'd quietly looked after his kit, his tent, made sure he ate and slept, and stoically borne every bad mood with steadfast loyalty; the man for whom d'Artagnan had nearly sacrificed his own life in order to protect him from the cannon's blast: how could he be dead?
Porthos steered him into a chair and fetched him a cup of wine which he pushed away irritably. "What happened?" he asked Etienne in a controlled voice.
Etienne glared at him. "He was bloody ripped to shreds, that's what happened!" he snapped. "Never really stood a chance..."
"I know that," Athos interrupted, keeping his own voice even with an effort. "I saw him, remember? I meant – did he regain consciousness? Was he in pain?"
Etienne shoved a hand through his chaotic hair and sagged onto an empty bed. "Sorry. I –" He stopped and swallowed, looking every one of his fifty-odd years. "I'm gonna miss that boy." He sighed, then raised his grey eyes to Athos' green ones and smiled. "He asked after d'Artagnan, you know. Early on, before the infection took 'im. He was dosed up to the eyes so I don't think he felt much pain but even so he remembered d'Artagnan trying to warn 'im. Cried with relief when I told him the lad had survived as well." He stopped, hearing the irony of his words knowing that Fouchard himself had not, in the end, survived. Then he shook himself. "Gave me a message for you. Said you should sleep more and trust others to help you."
Athos felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes and he looked away, blowing his cheeks out. Porthos' warm hand squeezed the back of his neck and for a moment he leaned back, accepting the comfort offered. Porthos dropped his other arm across Athos' chest and pulled him back into a firm hug, and Athos let him, knowing Porthos needed to receive the physical comfort as much as to give it.
The remaining musketeers had already prepared Fouchard's grave so Porthos and Athos stood and watched as the body was lowered into the hole, and Athos tried to find some words. He managed to speak of Fouchard's loyalty and irrepressible optimism before his words reminded him of d'Artagnan, still struggling for life in the Spanish fortress, and he choked up. Porthos looked around, saw grief on everyone's faces and stepped forward, twisting his hat in his broad hands but speaking with calm authority.
"Fouchard was one of the best. 'e was a raw nervous youngster when 'e arrived, but 'e learned from the best of us an' 'e died doin' what 'e loved. I'm proud of 'im and what 'e became, an' I'll tell 'is parents that when we get back to Paris. Which we will, soon, once we've made our borders safe, right?"
There was a chorus of 'ayes' and nods as the men replaced their hats and dispersed slowly. It was a sad truth that they had buried far too many good friends to let one more death affect them too overtly, no matter how popular or loved he was. Porthos shivered at the thought and took comfort in those who still lived, wrapping an arm around Athos' shoulders and steering him gently back towards the main camp.
"They're moving camp tomorrow," Athos told him suddenly. Etienne had given him the news while Porthos had been talking to Guérin, who was recovering now his head had finally stopped hurting.
"Tomorrow?" Porthos stopped dead. "d'Artagnan's not fit to move yet, won't be for days!"
"Weeks, more like," Athos grunted, turning to face Porthos. "We'll have to find somewhere he can recuperate."
Porthos' face creased in incomprehension. "What do you mean? He'll be comin' with us!"
Athos shook his head. "We'll be working our way along the southern border until replacements arrive, mopping up the Spanish stragglers, sleeping rough then moving on. We probably won't have a base camp for a while. d'Artagnan is barely conscious still; he needs proper rest."
"So what are you sayin'?"
"We'll have to find somewhere – someone – to take him in for a few weeks, until he's fit enough to join us. Hopefully before we have to travel north."
They took a long detour on the way back the fortress, but eventually arrived back at dusk to find d'Artagnan being spoon-fed a thin broth by Julien. His eyes lit up as they entered and he raised a hand in greeting.
"That's the most you've moved in days!" Porthos plonked down on the end of his bed. "So, 'ow're you feelin' then?"
d'Artagnan's face creased as he tried to follow. "Merde, I keep forgettin'!" Porthos tutted. "Sorry lad." He turned to face him square on and repeated himself more slowly.
d'Artagnan's face cleared as he got the gist. "Julien says I'll live." He smiled, but kept watching anxiously, seeing the exhaustion on their faces.
Athos exhaled noisily as he lowered himself gingerly into a chair. His arm was aching and his chest was hurting abominably. He shut his eyes for a moment until everything settled again, aware of warring emotions – relief, at hearing d'Artagnan's voice after the days of fever-ridden silence – and dread at the thought of the conversation ahead.
"Athos?" d'Artagnan sounded uneasy and he opened his eyes with an effort of will.
"Sorry. Bit tired. How are you?"
d'Artagnan squinted; the dim candlelight did nothing to help him decipher words. Julien had assured him his hearing would probably return once the damage to his inner ears healed, but meanwhile he was lost in a frightening silence.
Porthos nudged his foot, waited until the dark eyes had swung towards him, then told him slowly that Athos's shoulder was healing well, he was back to his normal exhausted grumpy self, and he wanted to know how d'Artagnan was. He was rewarded with a small grin as d'Artagnan dropped his head back to his pillows.
"Tired as well. And I can't sit up yet so I have to be spoonfed." He glanced back at Athos, flapping his hand exasperatedly.
"You've got a bloody hole in your ribs, and another in your shoulder. You won't be sitting, or walking, for quite a while." The words came out more abruptly than Athos had intended, and d'Artagnan blinked. He'd only understand a few words but the look on Athos' face was enough to send his stomach plummeting.
"What's happening?" He looked quickly between them, seeing the tension on both their faces. "How long are we staying here? I'm sure I could ride in a day or two, if we're moving on."
Athos glanced at Julien who shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry Athos. He saw us packing up the supplies."
Athos sighed. "You got orders too?"
"Yes, came soon after you and Porthos left. We're all moving north tomorrow."
Athos nodded, then looked back at d'Artagnan. "You're lucky to be alive, d'Artagnan. I'm not risking your recovery by dragging you from camp to camp. We'll be sleeping rough most of the time and you're barely over the infection." He paused to make sure d'Artagnan understood. The Gascon looked from him to Porthos, seeing the same expressions of regret and sympathy on both faces. He shut his eyes and turned his head away, fighting his emotions. He felt ridiculously close to tears at the thought of being separated, of having to watch them ride away, of being left – of being useless, written off... He flinched as something touched his cheek and flipped his eyes open – to find Athos squatting awkwardly beside his bed, turning his jaw with gentle fingers to face him so he could go on speaking.
"I promise – I promise" he emphasised slowly, his eyes locked on d'Artagnan's – "that we will come back for you." He waited until d'Artagnan gave him a shaky nod of understanding. "We're taking you to a village near here tomorrow. I've spoken to the priest and there's a herbs-woman there who's agreed to look after you. We'll be fighting within a few leagues so we will visit you if we can, and as soon as you are fit, we will travel north together, with the rest of those who are still recovering, and join the rest of the regiment on the northern border."
d'Artagnan nodded his agreement as he got the gist, but the tension on Athos' face did not ease and he sensed there was more to come. They'd been visiting the injured, and a cold dread gripped him as he asked: "Fouchard? Is he – how is he?"
Athos flinched and dropped his eyes. d'Artagnan didn't need to hear the words of regret which came stumbling from his lips: his captain's expression told him the answer. He closed his own eyes, effectively shutting everything and everyone out as a wave of regret flooded his body. He felt a visceral pain in his stomach and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Fouchard, dead?
Suddenly hoping he'd misunderstood he opened his eyes again and searched their faces, desperately hoping he'd got it wrong. But Porthos was standing up and coming round to where Athos was now slumped against the wall, rubbing fiercely at his temples, and when he saw d'Artagnan looking he shook his head slowly, coming to crouch next to Athos and put a comforting hand on both shoulders.
"When?" whispered d'Artagnan, desperately trying to take it in. He'd been with Fouchard since the beginning, when they were both youngsters in their first campaigns, often set to work together by the more senior musketeers. d'Artagnan had helped Fouchard improve his riding skills, and in turn Fouchard had been beside d'Artagnan every time he faltered, keeping him grounded with his unswerving loyalty and optimism. How could he be dead?
He knew it was stupid to have hoped his friend would survive. He'd seen him in the moments after the explosion as he struggled feebly under d'Artagnan's body. He'd rolled off him to let him breathe, then lay unable to move himself as he felt the piece of metal shift in his side. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness ever since and now, almost a week later, it was hard to be sure what was real and what was a fever-ridden dream, but he thought he remembered Fouchard moving his hand towards d'Artagnan, trying to reach him and comfort him. He'd questioned Julien as soon as he could stay awake long enough to 'hear' the answer, and had dared to hope after hearing he was still alive and in Etienne's care back at camp.
Athos was speaking and he tried to concentrate but his face looked blurry, and d'Artagnan realised his eyes were brimming with tears. Furious with himself he interrupted Athos. "How is he dead and I'm alive, Athos?" There was a silence as d'Artagnan looked around fiercely. "I don't understand. I was on top of him - I should be dead, not him!"
Julien cleared his throat and answered tentatively, knowing neither of the others had an answer. "It's speculation, d'Artagnan, but we – Etienne and I – thought if you were in the air when the explosion hit, because you were throwing yourself at Fouchard, your body offered less resistance so the force didn't damage you so much. Fouchard was standing right next to it, wasn't he? You protected him from the worst of the flying metal as you landed on him, but his body had already taken the impact from the explosion. But really it's impossible to say without being there. And, to be honest, how does it help, to know? It's a miracle that either of you survived." He paused, seeing d'Artagnan watching him intently as he tried to follow, but then the Gascon's head drooped and Julien looked despairingly first at Porthos, then Athos.
d'Artagnan picked out a few words – 'air', 'resistance', 'impact' – and tried to fill in the blanks but then he made out the word 'miracle' and a feeling of anguish threatened to swamp him. Miracle? Fouchard was dead, what kind of miracle was that? And what good was it to anyone that he had survived? He was so weak he could not stand on his own, he couldn't hear... Every failure, every weakness, every fear that he was not good enough was rattling around in his skull and his struggle to contain his emotions seemed like the final condemnation of his lack of worth.
Then Porthos loomed beside him, plonking himself on the bed and turning d'Artagnan's chin towards him. "He asked after you. Etienne told us." d'Artagnan tried to turn his head away, a tear spilling slowly down one cheek, but Porthos stopped him with gentle fingers. "Etienne told 'im you survived and were goin' to live. Said pretty much the last words 'e spoke were to thank God that you lived. d'Artagnan, 'e knew what you had tried to do for 'im, and 'e was grateful. 'e died at peace because you still live. Don't – don't throw that away, lad."
d'Artagnan's emotions overwhelmed him in earnest as he deciphered Porthos' words, and Porthos looked close to tears himself as he tried to work out how to hug d'Artagnan without hurting him. He settled for laying a hand on his head and smoothing his hair as he had done when they first brought d'Artagnan here from the mountainside.
Athos watched, unblinking, from his uncomfortable seat on the floor, keeping his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. He had a good idea what might be going through d'Artagnan's mind, and was at a loss as to how to reassure him but he himself was exhausted, with waves of pain rolling through him, and he could do little other than watch as Porthos sat with d'Artagnan, talking quietly to him. In the uncertain light he doubted whether d'Artagnan could distinguish what Porthos was saying, but he was accepting comfort from the big man - leaning his head on Porthos' shoulder, his eyes still bright with unshed tears.
They slept, eventually. Porthos insisted that Athos move to the bed, and made sure he had enough blankets to be comfortable. Julien offered around some brandy he'd been saving, and they sat quietly, watching d'Artagnan sleep and thinking about the move ahead.
There was little time for introspection in the morning. Julien took charge of d'Artagnan, making sure he ate and changing his dressings again. He didn't see Athos or Porthos until they came to help carry him out through the maze of underground corridors in the fortress, emerging eventually into the watery sunlight of a winter's morning high in the Pyrenean mountains. In the courtyard a small cart awaited him, piled with rugs and with Nuit already hitched to the back. They propped d'Artagnan up at the back of the cart so he could greet his horse properly, and everyone found a reason to stop and watch as the black mare dropped her nose into his hair and snuffled him happily before nudging him firmly on the chin, nearly knocking him over, her tail swishing as if telling him off for deserting her for so long. d'Artagnan laughed in delight as he rubbed her forehead and pulled her ears gently.
But even those few moments of activity were enough to exhaust him and he was grateful when Julien bustled over and made him lie down before climbing in next to him. The plan was for Julien to travel with d'Artagnan and a small escort several leagues north to the tiny village of Spinau, near Larrau, and then ride to join the others somewhere near Ossès which would be the area they patrolled for the next few weeks.
It seemed no time at all before they were ready to move off and he'd barely spoken to Athos and Porthos. He pushed himself upright with difficulty, ignoring Julien's admonishment not to pull his stitches, and looked desperately around the bustling courtyard as everyone mounted up. Then Porthos rode up, patted him briefly on the shoulder and winked at him, and behind him he saw Athos looking over and raising a hand in farewell. There was no time for more before the cart rattled into movement and the riders flooded past him, calling out to him to get well and rejoin them soon.
d'Artagnan couldn't hear their words but he could see their cheerful stoicism as they headed back towards the front line and he craned his neck to watch them, picking out Athos' upright figure and Porthos' broad shoulders topped with his wide-brimmed hat for as long as he could make them out, before flopping back onto the blankets feeling horribly lonely as he faced the long, uncomfortable journey ahead.
The sun had passed its zenith by the time the cart finally pulled up on a small open square surrounded by wood-framed stone cottages and, overlooked by a white-washed chapel with a square bell-tower. Goats and chickens roamed the square but everyone else had stopped to watch the cart as it wound down a dusty track into the centre of the village. d'Artagnan caught glimpses of dark-haired children in well-patched clothes, the smaller ones staying close to their elder siblings, as he passed.
d'Artagnan was in a world of pain from the constant joggling and jarring of the cart on the journey and it was all he could do to lie still without writhing as he waited to be offloaded. He'd refused any pain draught that morning, knowing he reacted badly to opium and fearing it would simply make him vomit on the journey. Now he was desperate for relief from the pain that pulsed in time with his heart beat.
A slender woman in her twenties came to the back of the cart and regarded him with her head on one side and dancing grey eyes. d'Artagnan felt uncomfortably aware that he was sweating and dishevelled, and tried to push himself up but her eyes flashed alarm and in a moment she had scrambled up next to him, restraining him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder.
A couple of soldiers lifted him down and carried him awkwardly through a doorway and into a small room at the front of a modest cottage. d'Artagnan had to bite his lip and breath through his nose so he didn't cry out as they manoeuvred him onto a neat bed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing, feeling pathetically grateful to be lying on something soft, and stationary.
There was a flutter of air by his head and he opened his eyes with an effort, to find himself under the scrutiny of a small boy who was standing on one leg, staring at him thoughtfully. Before d'Artagnan could react the boy's eyes suddenly widened, he looked over his shoulder then darted out of the room, ducking past the woman's skirts as she entered carrying a jug and cup, followed by Julien carrying a bag of medical supplies.
Julien unwrapped d'Artagnan's bandages to check his wounds, and the two conferred as he handed over pots of salve and the stoppered glass vial which d'Artagnan knew contained laudanum. Then he was gone, touching d'Artagnan gently on the cheek to bid him farewell and telling him clearly to behave himself and not give Madame Larrault any trouble. d'Artagnan closed his eyes and shut out the world as the last of his comrades left him behind.
A/N: I'm genuinely sorry to say goodbye to Fouchard. I invented him as a guard at the beginning of Luck will Travel and he took on a life of his own as a foil for d'Artagnan as our Gascon moved beyond being the eager, naive young Musketeer that we still saw glimpses of in Series 2. I knew someone close to them had to die for their war to be believable, and couldn't bear to lose Guérin after all he's done for d'Artagnan. (It is slightly disturbing how real these characters have become in my head!)
On a more cheerful note d'Artagnan finally gets some "comfort" over the next few chapters, with one little flourish to come. I hope to post again on Tuesday.