I make no apology for the sheer indulgence of this chapter and the next. I meant to cover d'Artagnan's recovery briefly so he could rejoin the rest of the regiment for the happy-ever-after scene, but it became a vehicle to reflect on what d'Artagnan has seen and learned from the war and I found I was enjoying the respite of the mountain village as much as a war hero might do, after all that has gone before. Hope you enjoy the change of pace too. It's a long one but - spoiler alert - no cliff-hanger!
Chapter 19: Skin and Bones
Spinau
He couldn't hear her, but that barrier didn't matter when he had to rely on her for everything. In fact, she mused, maybe it helped, in the beginning, when words might have got in the way.
She watched him for hours after the army medic had departed.
She'd treated many of their neighbours over the years, but never a man such as this, and she found she was nervous. He came from another world, she couldn't communicate with him, and she wasn't sure her skills would be enough to help him.
She'd agreed readily, when the two weary-looking officers had ridden into the village yesterday. Father Andre had greeted them and pointed towards her cottage, and she'd turned from hanging her washing and walked to greet them, already anticipating what they might ask. They'd warned her of the severity of his condition, and the one with the calm greeny-blue eyes had looked at her intently when she'd assured them she could cope. She had the feeling he missed nothing, and had felt oddly complimented when he'd nodded, as if she had passed his inspection. He'd given money to 'cover her expenses' which was more than she'd seen in years, not since her husband had died in the influenza outbreak two winters ago.
She'd readied her own room, moving her five-year-old son Norbert into his sisters' room to share the old marital bed; prepared her herbs and salves; borrowed a tin bath and extra blankets and sheets from various neighbours; and killed a chicken to make broth.
And now he was here, and his otherness frightened her.
He had slept almost as soon as his escort left. She'd seen the look of desolation darken his eyes and she'd seen the decisive way he'd closed his eyes, and she nodded to herself. He was frightened, and in pain, and felt alone. This, she understood.
But it was harder than she expected, caring for this man she'd never met. He smelt strange, for one thing. Not foul, particularly, though he was drenched in sweat and his clothes were stained, but... alien. He smelled of dust and blood. Leather and gunpowder. Rain and earth. He smelled of death.
She smiled sadly at her fanciful mind, and called her eldest, Celeste, to help her ease the filthy shirt from his back now he was deeply asleep.
Later she would wash the shirt, admiring the delicate stitching on the neck and cuffs. It was too shredded for her skills to mend. She had incredible patience with people and animals in distress, and absolutely none for fine needlework on fiddly material. For now she'd tucked it under the bed along with his weapons, which young Norbert knew not to touch on pain of being in charge of all the family washing for a week.
The man's wounds were horrific. She couldn't understand how he was alive, but here he was, lying here in her bed, in the room her husband had built, his breath hitching every time she touched him. His left side was peppered with holes gouged into his skin by burning metal, leaving the skin blackened and blistered. In places these showed signs of healing but around others the skin was puckered and reddened and she suspected there were still fragments embedded in his body.
The worst wounds – the gunshot wound under his right shoulder, and the deep hole in his left side – had been well-tended. She had prepared a herbal paste that would help to draw out any infection and she plastered this now onto a cotton pad, and bandaged the poultice over the mess on his side with a sense of relief.
She sent eight-year-old Celeste to borrow a pair of fine tweezers from her neighbour Geraint, a burly farmer whose huge hands were surprisingly nimble in the evenings when he mended everyone's clocks and repaired leatherwork. In her daughter's absence she worked quickly to strip the man's braes, finding the same gouges and blackened, burned patches of flesh. There was another deep wound in his left thigh which had been cleaned and carefully stitched, but it was long, and she thought it must hurt like crazy where it had bitten deep into his muscle.
She dipped a cloth into the bowl of warm water she'd set on the table next to the window, and started to clean his skin, working carefully around the worst of the wounds. She worked slowly, methodically, using the warm water to smooth and soothe his wounded body, running the water carefully down his cheeks and neck, lifting his limbs and washing under his arms, trying not to think about the intimacy of the act. She ran the cloth gently down his forearms, feeling the hard muscle and ridges of old scars settle under her touch. She took each finger in turn, pressing the warm cloth gently to loosen weeks-worth of old dirt caking his ragged fingernails.
She stopped to change the water and smooth a cream into the worst of the burns on his face and hands, before continuing to wash the rest of his body, careful to avoid the patches where the skin had peeled and his flesh still oozed a bloody discharge. She felt her face flush as she worked the cloth down the hard muscles of his stomach, over the sharp points of his hips, then down the tops of his thighs. It was several years since she'd seen a man's body, and while her husband had been fit from years of working the land, this man was all lean flesh, rigid muscle, and scar layered on scar. She cleaned around his private parts carefully, realising there was nothing erotic in the movement of her hands across this part of the stranger's body. For some reason it seemed more intimate to be touching the soft skin at the top of his thighs or the soles of his feet. She bit her lip, strangely moved by the trust indicated by his continued restfulness. His body was literally in her hands, and with it lay the responsibility for his future.
She didn't want to disturb his sleep, but managed to roll him a little to face the window, propping his chest on a rolled blanket and waiting until his breathing settled again before taking up another clean cloth. Against the stream of sunlight she could make out few details but her fingers found ridges of fresh scar tissue striping his back, and she wondered at the number of places his body had been wounded; wondered at the stories his body could tell; wondered if there was any part of his body unmarked by war.
When she could reach no more without his breath becoming shallow and disturbed, she dried him with a piece of soft felted cloth and rolled him gently onto his back. He was starting to shiver now and she quickly covered his nakedness with a sheet, then quilted a blanket on top, pulling it up to his shoulders. She cleared away the filthy water and cloths, setting them aside to wash later, and fetched the stones she'd placed by the fireplace in the main room, wrapping them in heavy cloth and placing them on either side of his chest to warm him, then stood back and watched him breathe for a moment.
The small drop of laudanum she'd given, in a herbal tea of her own recipe, was working by now and his face looked less pinched, but the tight lines around his eyes and mouth told her he was still in considerable pain. She sighed, knowing from Julien's instructions that he was over-sensitive to laudanum and she could not risk giving him more too soon.
He was still breathing deeply and regularly though, so she took up the tweezers Celeste had brought back, and settled on the chair next to him, lifting the covers enough to expose his left flank, and began to patiently pick every black dot of metal out of his skin. He'd been well-cared for by the Musketeer medics, but she guessed they hadn't had the time or facilities to undertake this work. Some were too embedded for tweezers so she had to cut the skin to reach them but she knew it was necessary. Left in his flesh there was too great a risk of infection even from the tiny fragments.
Eventually it was done. He'd flinched and sometimes twisted away from her, his face creasing as the discomfort brought him close to waking, but his eyes had remained closed and she thanked heaven for the mercy of unconsciousness.
She rose, straightening her stiff back, and moved quietly around the room, gathering everything which needed washing and tidying her ingredients away. She turned to check him once more before leaving and stopped dead, startled to find his deep brown eyes watching her. She stepped to his bedside and checked the temperature of his forehead. He blinked when she touched him, and raised a shaky hand to catch hold of hers. She bent low, hearing his voice for the first time as he whispered his thanks. She nodded, briskly straightened the sheet over his bare chest and walked out on legs that trembled slightly.
After two weeks of caring for him she felt she knew him almost as well as she had known her husband.
She'd watched his blind panic as he'd awoken frequently in the first night of restless sleep, struggling to remember where he was, and she'd quickly learned to reassure him by touch, not the words which were useless in his silent world.
She'd seen his watchful eyes track her movements around the room, and learned to meet his eyes frequently with hers, making the human connection that his pain and deafness otherwise denied.
On the first morning she'd come running at the sound of a crash from his room followed by an ominous silence, and found him collapsed on the floor, the table on its side and blood oozing from a gash over one eye. She'd had to fetch a neighbour to help lift him back onto the bed, during which she'd realised why he'd attempted to stand. His braes were drenched with acrid urine and she guessed he had been trying to find a chamber pot, perhaps too embarrassed to call for help or just too muddled after his long, drug-assisted sleep.
She'd seen the look in his eyes when he next awoke, after she'd washed him and redressed him in her husband's braes. He'd been confused for a moment, then she saw comprehension dawn as he remembered what had happened, and she saw when he noticed the clean clothes. He'd closed his eyes as if in pain and the lines around his mouth tightened in his distress. She'd touched his hand gently then, and squeezed it as he looked up at her, shame curling in his eyes, and tried to reassure him with dip of her head, a gentle smile, a touch on his cheek. She'd watched him process this, close his eyes again, then take a breath and nod his thanks, his nostrils flaring his discomfort as he worked out what he'd put her through. She patted his hand to convey that it was understood, forgiven, over.
She showed him the chair lined up by the bed now, with the chamber pot ready on the seat, so he could lean on the chair back while his legs were so unsteady. She watched him register the practical arrangement, saw his eyes glisten and she wondered, as she stepped quietly from the room to give him privacy, whether the tears were of pain, or embarrassment, or thankfulness.
She'd learned that he was thoughtful, as he always thanked her when she rose from cleaning his wounds or straightening his blankets and pillows to make him more comfortable.
She'd learned that he was kind, as he spoke softly to her youngest, Suzette, when the three-year-old stared from the doorway, round-eyed, at the silent stranger, hesitating to follow her mother into the room. Slowly his gentle voice and quiet words reassured her to the point where she was brave enough to help him drink water and hand the fresh bandages to her mother, and within days she knew, if Suzette was missing, that she would find her little one curled up on the end of his bed, sucking her thumb, watching him sleep.
She'd learned that he was patient, as he bore the discomfort of her constant ministrations stoically and tried endlessly to decipher the movement of her lips as she talked to him. She learned to speak in short sentences, touching his arm first to draw those deep brown eyes to her, and explain what she was doing so she didn't startle him.
She could see his frustration when she had to help him to sit up in bed for the first time, and the flicker of satisfaction when he managed it for himself after a couple of days.
She watched him curl his fingers into white-knuckled fists as the pain of his healing skin threatened to overwhelm him at times, and the effort he made not to cry out when she debrided the dead tissue from his burns to keep the wounds clean and allow the new skin to form without ugly scarring.
She found herself noticing every tiny emotion that crossed his expressive features. She fell asleep to the sound of his quiet breathing, picturing his tanned fingers as they curled around a cup of water or the way his long hair fell over his eyes when he bowed his head while trying to push himself upright, and she was frightened by the emotions he stirred in her.
One morning Norbert barrelled into the house, tears flooding his cheeks as he sobbed and showed her the grazes from a fall on his way home from the chapel where the village children took their daily lessons with the priest. She knelt to examine his knees, struggling to keep him still as he winced and cried at her touch, and heard d'Artagnan call out to them. For a second she was frustrated, thinking he needed attention just when Norbert needed her, but then d'Artagnan's words sank in and she realised he was trying to distract the boy.
"Little one, have you seen Nuit today? Is she eating well?" he was calling over the racket of Norbert's noisy sobs. She lifted her son's chin with her fingers and pointed at the door to d'Artagnan's room. Another hiccupping sob escaped him, but he stopped long enough to hear what d'Artagnan was calling.
"Go on," she nudged him. "I'll patch you up in there."
So he hobbled bravely into d'Artagnan's room, and by the time she'd gathered warm water and a fresh cloth to clean the grazes, he was sitting on d'Artagnan's bed telling him in great detail about grooming Nuit that morning before school. d'Artagnan had quickly established that the five-year-old loved horses and had asked him to keep a special eye on his magnificent war horse, to the boy's obvious pride.
She watched them for a moment, seeing Norbert swinging his legs as they talked, his tears forgotten. And she saw that d'Artagnan was following her son's words even when he ducked his head to examine his torn knees. An 'oh!' of realisation escaped her as she remembered how d'Artagnan had called out even though they were outside his room, and d'Artagnan looked over to her, his eyes smiling their relief as he nodded slightly. He could hear again!
When she'd settled Norbert and turned to him again, he'd told her softly that his hearing had crept back that morning in a haze of white noise and high-pitched whistles. Voices were fuzzy and it was days before he could listen easily without lip-reading, but she saw how his expression relaxed from that moment, and she knew he was starting to believe that he would get better.
Not long after that she found him using the chair to walk his way around the room. She scolded him and sent him firmly back to the bed, and berated him when she found his leg bandage oozing fresh blood from his exertions. "You can't hurry healing" became a familiar phrase that Celeste and even little Suzette would repeat sternly if they found him out of bed when they returned from their daily lessons in the chapel.
She learned to love the fleeting grin when they told him off, as much as the stoic smile when she pulled off the bandages that stuck to his wounds, and the proud beam when, a week after being brought to their village, he managed to manoeuvre his chair all the way outside. He rested on the bench beside the front door, panting softly from pain and exertion, sweat dripping down his face, and she sat beside him, running her fingers over the wood which her husband had planed so they had somewhere to watch the sunset over the chapel on the other side of the village square. Now she shared the bench with this exotic stranger and realised it was the first time she'd sat here with any man except her husband.
She'd risen, once she was sure he wouldn't keel over, and fetched a blanket, and water, and settled beside him again to wait for the children to come home from playing near the river. They'd talked for the first time about something other than how he was feeling or about her children. He'd asked about the village, and her husband, and she'd asked him about the war and how long he'd been away.
That had started a new routine for them both. She would dress his wounds – a process which was now taking thirty minutes instead of an hour or more – and bring him breakfast, and warm water to wash in privacy while she breakfasted in the other room with her children and sent them running off to chapel for school. Then she would help him outside, and she would do the washing, or tend her tiny garden at the side of the cottage, or prepare the vegetables, and whenever she could she would sit with him and they would talk.
Norbert brought him a fresh, sturdy hazel pole, and as the skin on his hands healed he began to carve it, first shortening it to the correct height, then shaping the top to fit his hand so he could use it to lean on instead of the chair. Then he peeled the bark from its length with his main gauche and used a stone to shape and smooth the wood, until finally he was ready to try it. Norbert clapped as d'Artagnan made his first circuit of the cottage, and she found herself grinning stupidly as she watched his lean figure disappear slowly behind their home.
The second Saturday, when he'd been there more than two weeks already, the sun was unexpectedly warm and they all moved outside, chatting to neighbours as they went about their chores – washing clothes, scrubbing pots, sweeping in front of their houses, digging up the last of the vegetables. Norbert brought Nuit from the field where she'd been enjoying some decent grass and the company of two sturdy village ponies, and d'Artagnan admired the sheen on her flanks, carefully not mentioning the dust on her back where Norbert could not reach.
Celeste helped her mother with the washing, then both girls helped pick the leaves from a bundle of dried herbs and took turns to grind it with pestle and mortar. Ninette mixed in her oils and poured it carefully into clean bottles to replenish her stocks. d'Artagnan sat bundled in blankets, watching and teasing them and working on his stick, carving delicate patterns into the core.
When Norbert returned from taking Nuit back to her field, he sat nestled up against d'Artagnan's side and begged him to tell him some war stories.
This had become a regular request. He'd already extracted a promise that d'Artagnan would teach him some sword skills as soon as he could stand without support, and was busy carving himself a short sword from the remains of the branch he'd found for d'Artagnan's stick. d'Artagnan usually fobbed him off with a frivolous anecdote, well aware of Ninette's anxious attention when Norbert showed too much interest in the war, but today the girls joined in, asking questions about where soldiers slept, did they have beds and blankets, and what did they eat and how did they wash their clothes.
He grinned in easy enjoyment of their differing interests in the soldier's life, and described their tents, describing the daily dance he and Porthos had to make to get dressed without falling over each other, and then told them about Chonfleur, their burly, hard-working cook, and the amazing bread he made fresh for them every morning, regardless of the weather or whether they'd spent all night marching and pitching camp. He told them about washing in streams or buckets, and swimming in whatever lake or river he could find, laughing at their expressions when they realised he was serious. Children of the foothills knew well how cold the mountain water was.
They begged for more, so he told them about the children the Musketeers had adopted* – it seemed so long ago now - and how they'd managed to keep them hidden from the army officers, but that his own Captain Athos had known about them all along and turned a blind eye. Their faces fell when he explained that the children had been orphaned by the war, so he told them about the lovely farming couple who had adopted them when the army had to move on, and watched as Suzette snuck her hand into her mother's and Norbert shifted a little closer to his big sister.
He tried to change the subject then, asking them about the neighbouring village, much bigger than theirs, to which they went once a week to learn with a proper teacher. But it was not long before Norbert was asking him how many battles he had fought in, and how many man he had vanquished.
Vanquished. A strange word.
It meant beaten, overcome, but it did not hint at the reality – the stench as a man was eviscerated, the screams, the roar of adrenaline-fuelled bravado, the stink of gunpowder and sweat and piss and blood, the dirt in his nostrils, the ringing in his ears...
He had shut his eyes, he realised, and opened them to find all four of them staring at him openly.
He shook himself, apologised, looked for something he could answer that would not give them nightmares. His eyes caught hers, and found a look of tenderness mixed with something like a plea. He frowned, trying to understand what she wanted, and she flicked her gaze towards Norbert, and this time he could see the worry in her eyes, and he understood that she was frightened her son would listen only to the glory, the heroics, the passion of battle, and would not hear the pain and fear that underlay everything.
He bit his lip. How could he answer without scaring them? These children knew of loss; quite apart from their father's death, no one growing up in a farming community was shielded from the rude reality of birth and death. But they knew nothing of the inhumanity of war and he couldn't begin to find words to express it, even if he wanted to. He looked down and found Norbert staring up at him, his face alight with anticipation, and sighed. It would be easy – safest – to keep quiet, as he knew Ninette wanted. But he also knew that to say nothing would only allow the young boy's imagination to run wild, painting d'Artagnan in the light of mysterious heroic stranger and possibly deepen his fascination for the war to the point of obsession.
He suddenly remembered Athos' first words to him. "I usually remember the men I kill." He had taken those words and tucked them into his heart, as he had done with everything Athos had taught him, knowingly or not. But was it still true? Could he remember every face, every death, after so long at war?
With a feeling of dread, he realised he couldn't. There were simply too many. He couldn't even remember some of the individual battles they'd fought in; after nearly three years, they all seemed to merge in his memory.
Something of his inner distress must have shown on his face, for Norbert's hand was patting his arm gently, and little Suzette had left her mother's side and was climbing up to sit on his other side, ducking her head into him. He winced as she inadvertently brushed against the wound on his side, but shook his head as Ninette made to rise, to let her know he was fine. He wrapped a corner of his blanket around the little girl and dredged up a smile for Ninette, then looked down at Norbert who was still waiting patiently for an answer.
He caught the boy's hand and squeezed gently, aware he had been silent for too long. With an effort, he mustered a smile and used words as a barrier between memory and emotion, placing each one carefully as if they were stones in a wall.
"It's hard to remember, little one. When I joined the musketeers, Captain Athos taught me that I should always honour the memory of any man I had to kill." The children all called him Captain Athos when they spoke of him in awed tones, as if his title was part of his name. He'd made quite an impression on them in his battle-torn uniform when he'd arrived with Porthos looking for somewhere for his soldier to recuperate. d'Artagnan found he'd begun referring to him in the same way, storing it up to amuse Athos when he next saw him. "I tried to do it at first: I made sure I remembered each face, and thought about they had been like in life; whether they had families... I said a prayer for each one, too." He paused, thinking of Aramis and how he always showed such respect and compassion for anyone who fell within his reach, friend or foe.
He swallowed, pushing down the regret he always felt when he remembered Aramis, picturing him kneeling in a cold chapel for hour after hour praying for their safe return, and carried on, clearing his throat. "But in a war there are too many battles and too many men die. It's – I can't remember them all. And that's – that feels so wrong, because they are men like me, good men, and they deserve to be remembered, and honoured."
Most of them, he amended silently. There were some who did not deserve an honourable death, not even a prayer. He suddenly remembered a fragment of dream – he thought it was a dream – in which he watched Athos killing Bautista, the Spaniard who still tormented him in his nightmares. He saw Athos running him through and pulling his sword out in one fluid motion, turning away before the body even began to fall. Was it a dream? It was a silent scene, played out in his mind countless times in the last week. It must be a dream... but he clearly remembered the feeling of helplessness, lying on his back, and turning his head to find Fouchard's body next to his, and watching flakes of ash drifting down from the sky, and feeling heat in his side, burning heat... It was the same in every dream and he was starting to wonder if perhaps it could be real.
He'd been silent for a long time again, and he felt Norbert nudge him.
"Are you alright, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"
He nudged him back. "Yes, little warrior." He heard Ninette's indrawn breath and winced inwardly. His head began to ache from the delicate path he was treading. "I was remembering a man who deserved to die, and I got a little lost."
"Tell me! Was he a bad man?"
d'Artagnan groaned inwardly. He could not – would not – touch that memory here, in this beautiful, peaceful place. "There are no bad men, Norbert." He repeated the words he'd heard his father tell him countless times in his own childhood and realised with shock that he didn't believe this particular wisdom anymore. He gritted his teeth: Norbert would have to chose for himself how to view the world when he was old enough. "But there are bad acts, and we all have to choose how to treat others. This man – he made some bad choices. I won't forget his death." He said it so emphatically that he began to believe it was true, even though he could not be sure. He resolved to ask Athos, the first chance he got.
Ninette rose then, and gathered the medicine and ingredients, saying she would make lunch. Celeste followed her to help, but the other two stayed snuggled with d'Artagnan on the bench, so he carried on, quietly telling them more stories. He tried to lighten the mood, and told them about the young army recruit who told everyone how well he could ride, but who fell off into the ashes of last night's fire the first time his horse trotted. They giggled at his description of the man's face as he struggled to his feet, covered equally in embarrassment and grey soot. This led on to his description of Fouchard, another army man whose horsemanship had been sorely lacking, at first, and how he'd helped him to improve his riding skills and learn to care for his horse.
"What sort of things did you teach him?" Norbert demanded to know.
"Oh... things like checking their legs for heat and soreness, after battle, and rubbing them with warm water to ease their muscles. And always putting straw under their rugs, if they are still sweaty and there is no warm water to wash their backs, so they cool off without catching a chill. Um... what leaves they can eat if their corn rations are running low, and which ones give them stomach ache."
Norbert was nodding his agreement, looking important as he realised he knew all of this already. "More!" he demanded.
d'Artagnan racked his brains for something else to tell them. He didn't want to scare Suzette, who was listening just as intently on his other side, but Norbert's face showed his rapt attention and d'Artagnan didn't think he'd managed to put him off the notion of becoming a soldier yet. So he told them about the little things none of them bothered to talk about because it was as much a part of soldiering as the uniform. The soreness of unwashed skin when you've marched for hours in the sun. The way the raw patches on your feet merge to form one huge blister and the skin comes off with your stocking when you finally stop to rest. The feeling of being weak with hunger, light-headed with thirst. Turning to fight even when your body aches for rest, your head floats with exhaustion, your eyes are full of grit, your fingers cramping with their desperate grip on your sword. The hollow feeling when you get back to camp after burying the dead, and find nothing to eat but the morning's cold porridge and stale bread. Lying down to sleep, still in the clothes from two days ago, and being woken after an hour to take guard duty. The sores you get from scratching at flea bites, and the hard skin you get on your hips and elbows from sleeping on the bare ground, and the way your scalp itches when you haven't had time to wash the sweat from your hair in weeks.
Suzette was frowning now, trying to decide whether not washing your hair for weeks was a good or bad thing, but Norbert was still gazing at him adoringly and d'Artagnan knew all the stories of hardship were just feeding his notion of d'Artagnan-as-hero.
So he told him about Fouchard. About how he'd climbed the cliff, in their last battle, and helped to capture the Spanish cannon, and somewhere in the middle of it he was aware of Ninette coming out to call them for lunch, and frowning when she heard this part of the story, but he didn't stop, he couldn't stop because he had to make the boy understand. So he told him about the Spanish men running away from the cannon, and about seeing the look on their faces, and realising what was wrong. And he saw the moment when Norbert understood it too, when he recognised that d'Artagnan was telling him about the moment that he'd got injured, and he saw the adoration turn to apprehension; but it was still mixed with determination and hero-worship. So he carried on, and told him about trying to warn the others, and running towards Fouchard, and knowing it was too late. He told him he couldn't remember much of what followed, except that Captain Athos had seen the explosion and came to protect him, that he'd got him down off the mountain, and stayed with him because he didn't want d'Artagnan to die alone.
His voice broke then, and Suzette told him crossly that he didn't die, he was here, with them, and he shouldn't be sad. And he smiled then, but his smile vanished too soon as he remembered why he was telling them this. So he told them that Fouchard had been carried down, but was too badly injured to live. That he'd died, and d'Artagnan had not been there to say goodbye. That it hurt; it hurt more than he could tell them, to lose a friend. That he had woken every morning of the war, frightened that he would lose a friend today.
That you didn't fight to 'vanquish' the enemy.
That those they fought they were just men, like those he served with.
That you didn't fight to stay alive yourself, but you fought to keep those you around you, those you loved, alive.
And that you never, ever forgot the times you failed.
There was a long silence then, broken only by the sound of Suzette sniffing next to him. He swallowed, realising his voice was hoarse from speaking for so long, and ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself and finding, to his surprise, tears dripping down his cheeks. He wiped them away but more came, and he began to breathe faster, panic flooding his body at the thought that he was out of control, again; that his emotions were leaking out of him and he couldn't stop them. He'd forgotten all about teaching Norbert something of the reality of war, and could think only of Fouchard's face now, as he'd rolled off him in the deafening silence of the explosion's aftermath, his own body afloat on a red sea of pain, his mind tumbling in the turbulent air, his thoughts only on the fact that he was too late to save his friend.
There was a rustling, a stirring of air around him that he was aware of but couldn't summon the energy to respond to. He was aware of Norbert's voice protesting as Ninette took him by the hand and urged him to come indoors. He wanted to tell her that he was fine, or perhaps to apologise for saying too much, but his body felt too heavy to move, so he went on staring at his hands and watching the tears drip slowly onto his fingers.
Then there was a square of white cloth being pressed into his hand, and he took it, noticing the calloused fingers and blunt nails of the one who passed it to him. He looked up, and found himself looking into the face of Captain Athos himself.
He began to laugh, wondering if he would ever again think of Athos without mentally giving him the soubriquet of his rank; tried to stand, found Athos grabbing at his arm as he stumbled, felt his balance going, his laughter hiccupping now and coming perilously close to tears again, tipping forward into Athos' solid body and found himself enveloped, hugged, embraced, clapped soundly on the back and clasped around his neck, laughing and definitely crying now, and in the middle of all the emotion noticing that he hadn't felt this safe for a very long time.
The handkerchief had been put to good use, and both men had composed themselves. Athos held d'Artagnan by both shoulders to look at him properly, demanding to know when his hearing had returned, then confessed he'd heard his musketeer talking about the war, having seen them as soon as he'd ridden into the village. He'd thought to surprise them but had been mesmerised by d'Artagnan's quiet words and had only come forward when he'd seen the raw emotion and realised he had to intervene.
He sent Norbert to retrieve Roger, who was meandering about the dusty square examining the sparse grass with disgusted snorts, and told d'Artagnan quietly that they all missed Fouchard, every day. d'Artagnan had nodded, and dropped his head to hide another tide of emotion, and Athos had exclaimed softly and pulled him in for another brusque hug before pushing him away and helping him to sit down again, murmuring that he'd have come sooner if he'd know what a welcome he would get. d'Artagnan had thumped him on the chest then panicked, remembering Athos' own wound too late, and Athos had laughed – properly laughed – at the expression on his face, and patted his own shoulder. "Don't worry; it's healing up well, thanks to Porthos forbidding me to do anything remotely strenuous." He explained Porthos was leading the new recruits on their first overnight mission and he'd taken advantage of the absence of his self-appointed "governess" to visit d'Artagnan.
d'Artagnan laughed at the image conjured up by the description of Porthos as governess, but sobered quickly. "I never thanked you!" he blurted out without preamble, aware of just how much he owed Athos. Telling the story to Norbert had brought it all back and he started to stumble out his gratitude to his captain and dear friend for rescuing him, for looking out for him as he always did. Immediately he saw Athos' eyes flicker and knew that he would be thinking about Roncesvalle when – in his eyes at least – he had not been able to look out for d'Artagnan.
But before either could talk further, Ninette was back, quietly encouraging Athos to come in and take lunch with them, fussing over how far he had ridden and – when he hesitated – telling him firmly that d'Artagnan was getting cold and needed to rest inside.
Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye-roll at the blatant manipulation, and grinned as he helped him to stand. He admired the home-made walking stick, making Norbert literally bounce up and down with pride at his part in helping to make it. Later, d'Artagnan promised himself: later he would talk to Athos.
Lunch was the usual simple meal of soup and bread, during which d'Artagnan quizzed Athos on where they were based and how everyone was, especially those who were still recovering after the recent battle. He was relieved to hear that the other casualties were all recovering well although Guérin was still on light duties because of the headaches he suffered from since his head wound at Candanchú. They were working along this part of the border, making sure there were no more Spanish lurking in the foothills, mopping up any patrols, stragglers or deserters they found.
It sounded like the old days at the beginning of the war – just the Musketeers, rough camping, permanently on horseback: no fixed battles, no schedules, no army of massed regiments. Porthos was in his element, Athos reported, and d'Artagnan wished more desperately than ever that he could be back with them and part of it. Athos watched him, understanding the Gascon's frustration but knowing he was in the best place to heal, and engaged his host and her family in conversation, steering firmly away from the subject of war.
By the end of the meal d'Artagnan was flagging, worn out after the long morning's fresh air and all the talking, and Ninette was unmoving in her insistence that he go to lie down. Athos was happy to be rescued from a long conversation with Celeste on the serious subject of vegetable growing, and leapt to his feet to help d'Artagnan to his room, trying not to notice how thin he still was, or how he sank onto the mattress with a sigh of relief and leaned his back carefully to the wall, sitting with his eyes tight shut for a moment.
"How bad is it?"
There was a beat before d'Artagnan opened his eyes again and raised a smile. "I have never found sitting up so hard in my life," he admitted ruefully, touching his side where his ribs were far from healed.
"And your chest? Your leg?" prompted Athos.
d'Artagnan rotated his right shoulder as he reflected on his answer. "It's not too bad. Still hurts if I laugh. Or lift my arm too high. Or –" He stopped as he saw Athos' eyebrow rising. "Well, it's getting better. And my leg only hurts when I put weight on it, and that's getting easier. I'm building up the walking each day... What's the plan? When do you have to leave?"
"I should be heading off; it'll take me a couple of hours to get back. d'Artagnan... we are likely to get our orders very soon. To head north."
d'Artagnan's eyes flickered. "How soon?"
A shake of the head; he didn't know. "A few days, maybe a week."
Days? d'Artagnan still couldn't walk unassisted. There was no way he could mount up, still less travel for a week or more to the north-eastern front.
Athos must have seen the dejection in his eyes. "I'm going to delay all I can. I have a lot of men still recovering. And," he hesitated, a small grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, "it's hard for orders to catch up with us when we move around so much."
d'Artagnan's answering smile faded quickly as he took in the precariousness of his position. If he wasn't fit to ride, they would be forced to leave him behind. He'd have to join another unit, or wait for a release to head north on his own to catch them up. A wave of tiredness swept over him as he contemplated the possibility he might lose track of Athos and Porthos entirely.
Athos rose and picked up his hat, straightened his doublet, settled his sword more comfortably, then touched d'Artagnan briefly on the shoulder. "I won't leave you behind. That's a promise." And before d'Artagnan could respond, he had gone.
* d'Artagnan's story about the war orphans is told in Battlescars 2: Light up the Dark.
For those who need fair warning, there are just two more chapters to go and a brief epilogue. I promise I will get them posted quickly x