Epilogue: Paris, 1636
"An' the rest you know, pretty much." Porthos looked around the office as Aramis nodded; he'd heard all about their most recent campaigns in the north on the journey back to Paris together after meeting up with him in Douai. And of course he'd heard about the early part of the war from d'Artagnan, both during his recuperation in Douai and when he'd finally talked to them all about his captivity a few days ago. It was only the middle part that no-one had spoken about, and now he understood why. It had been far too intense to speak of lightly.
"So..." he started, when it became apparent that the others were still lost in memories. "Are there any last thoughts, or final confessions? Because if not, I have a strong fancy to enquire after tonight's supper. All that talk of roast fish and goats cheese has nudged my appetite towards starvation!"
No one answered straight away and he looked around anxiously, but there didn't seem to be any tension in the room, more an air of contemplation. There was a pause, then Athos spoke, looking at d'Artagnan, his voice low. "I thought I'd killed you." Aramis blinked for a moment in confusion, before remembering what Athos had told them of Spinau, when d'Artagnan had collapsed under the body of the Spaniard.
d'Artagnan smiled and rose, walking around to where Athos sat behind his desk, rested his hands on his shoulders, then started to massage him around the base of his neck.
Aramis could feel an eyebrow rising, apparently of its own accord, and saw a corresponding look of disbelief on Constance's face as they both watched the normally guarded man accepting a display of public affection from her husband. He caught her eye and winked at her. "Things really have changed around here, haven't they?"
She nodded slowly, watching as Athos patted d'Artagnan absently on the hand and jerked his chin at the Gascon to take a seat.
As soon as everyone had settled again Athos took a tight breath then began: "d'Artagnan, I – "
"No, you don't."
Athos' eyebrow twitched. d'Artagnan's lips rose at the corners as he regarded Athos steadily, then he shrugged as his smile spread. Athos snorted and tipped his head back with an air of resignation, then shook his head ruefully.
"Right, now that's sorted can we get back to drinkin'?" Porthos asked innocently.
Constance sent a despairing look at Aramis, who grinned at her and leaned in close. "What just happened?" she whispered.
"Athos tried to apologise, d'Artagnan told him he didn't need to, Athos asked if he was quite sure, because he bloody well wasn't going to offer again, d'Artagnan told him not to be such a dim-witted oaf, and Athos gave in," Aramis explained without hesitation.
There was a tiny silence and a snorted laugh from Porthos, then d'Artagnan leaned across to Aramis and said in a stage whisper: "Not bad, but I wasn't nearly as polite as that."
Aramis rolled his eyes and whispered back: "Ladies present, d'Artagnan. Honestly!" such a tone of parental disapproval that d'Artagnan burst out laughing and nearly shoved him off his chair.
Aramis righted himself, and tried not to let the smirk show on his face as he realised that not once in that exchange had he felt like an outsider.
The talk slowly turned to other matters as they shared the wine around. It was late, and d'Artagnan was starting to think pleasant thoughts about taking his wife to bed and continuing his efforts to put the past behind him by reacquainting himself with every inch of her body, when he noticed how quiet she was. He nudged her and asked her quietly: "Constance, are you content?" She nodded, but he put a finger under her chin and turned her head gently so he could see her expression more clearly in the candlelight. "Really?"
She sighed. "I was just thinking about everything."
"And?" His tone was still quiet but she picked up on the underlying tension in that single word, and hastened to squeeze his hand to reassure him. Her thoughtful, courageous husband had worried so much about revealing exactly what happened in the war and she knew it would take more than a few days before he accepted that nothing had changed between them.
"I just can't believe..." She was picking her words slowly, trying to marshal her thoughts, and felt him shift impatiently next to her. "Sorry, I mean... Look, the other day, when you told us about being r-raped ..." She still stumbled over that word but d'Artagnan had used it himself, and told her matter-of-factly that talking about it was helping him to lay the ghosts to rest. "I thought that was the worst thing that could have happened to you – to anyone."
"Isn't it?" Aramis asked her, perhaps more sharply than he intended. For two years he'd been the only one to know of the rape, after d'Artagnan came to him to recuperate in Douai, and he'd felt the responsibility of that knowledge keenly, especially having watched him ride back to the front after only a few weeks when still far from fully recovered. Hearing what had transpired after d'Artagnan's return to the southern army had only confirmed Aramis' worst fears about his vulnerability at that time.
Constance looked up, realising the others had fallen silent to listen to the quiet conversation between d'Artagnan and her, but it was her husband who answered. "No. I don't think it was the worst thing. But I'd be interested to hear what you think?"
She swallowed, feeling embarrassed at being asked her opinion of their war experiences in front of these four hardened soldiers, but d'Artagnan's expression was encouraging and she realised he genuinely wanted to know. "Well, I suppose... losing good friends like Fouchard. And Jambert," she added, remember the other man whose death d'Artagnan had described with such a sense of loss*. She glanced at d'Artagnan anxiously but saw nothing worse than regret on his features. Emboldened, she carried on. "And for Athos, I think having to hurt d'Artagnan that way so publicly, and then not being able to talk to him to put it right..." She saw Athos grimace and stopped speaking, worried she was making things worse, but d'Artagnan huffed and stuck out a foot, managing to kick Athos gently under the desk, and she caught such a look of warm acceptance between them that she couldn't speak for a moment.
Then it came to her. This, this was what she didn't understand. She welcomed it, was in awe of it, but how could these men go through everything and still be so – whole? Athos had flogged d'Artagnan in front of half an army: the most humiliating punishment for something that was outside his control, when he was at his most vulnerable, and they hadn't been able to talk about it for two years, and yet they were fine? They'd said – what, five words – and that was it? She knew they'd been through so much together since then, and had clearly long since come to terms with it. But after d'Artagnan's revelation about being raped the reason behind his punishment had clearly bothered Athos, yet they'd nodded, and that seemed to be the end of it.
That wasn't all she struggled to understand. All of them had lived with the constant fear and exhaustion during wartime, and the knowledge that at any moment they could be – would be – sent into battle again, time after time; that the chances of being injured were far greater than ending the day unscathed; that any injury would lead to days of painful treatment if not an agonizing death, far from the comforts of home. They sometimes had days without proper food; weeks without a full night's sleep; months without a hot bath. And through all of that they had somehow retained their sense of honour, of justice. They were able to care for each other – to the extent of sharing a musket shot, as Athos had done for d'Artagnan in order to keep him safe, literally laying his body down to protect his brother. And they didn't just care, but understood each other, well enough to have a whole conversation in a few words, as Athos and d'Artagnan had just demonstrated. And not just to understand, but forgive, and love, in spite of everything they had seen and done.
She was rambling aloud, trying to explain what she didn't understand. Oh, she'd been in danger herself, and done her share of fighting, since she met this foursome. She thought of the fight against Gaudet, when she'd first met d'Artagnan and ended up shooting a man to save his life; and her first sword fight when they'd rescued the baby Henry from his kidnappers, the near riot at the refugee camp just a few weeks ago, and the showdown at Cristophe's inn when they'd had to rescue Tréville and Porthos from the disaffected soldiers. Those battles had been terrifying but brief, and adrenaline had propelled her through them. But afterwards she'd had d'Artagnan and the others to comfort her, and could return to her safe routine to catch her breath. War didn't give you that respite.
"It's easier that way." d'Artagnan tried to explain. "The hardest bits are when you catch a glimpse of normal life going on around you, and yearning for it. Like when we took Marcus and Madeline to the Peltiers near Ossès*, or after staying in Spinau, when I had to rejoin the others – it was hard leaving them after spending time with those kids and seeing them prepare for Christmas, even though I was desperate to get back to the others."
"S'right," Porthos chipped in. "Much better to just forget about comfort and – " But he didn't finish, as Constance suddenly interrupted him, swiping crossly at a tear that had escaped unheeded and was now dripping unattractively from her nose.
"Speaking of Spinau," – and her tone was uncompromising enough for d'Artagnan to flinch even before he knew what was coming – "What did Athos mean when he said you'd 'nearly had a moment' with Ninette?"
Ah. Athos had been so engrossed in that part of the tale he hadn't censored his account, but she'd said nothing at the time and d'Artagnan had begun to hope she hadn't noticed. Of course he should have known better!
He looked at her, seeing the familiar glare, the jut of her chin, the tension in her body as she waited his response, and took a moment to marvel that it didn't feel odd having this kind of conversation in front of the others. He just wished he knew how to explain what had – or hadn't – happened.
"He told me about it as we rode away from Spinau." Athos' voice was quiet and contemplative as he broke the silence, and d'Artagnan breathed a silent sigh of relief as Constance turned to listen to Athos, her body relaxing a little.
"Ninette was pretty, and a lovely person. He told me he'd grown so fond of the whole family that he wanted to take you there one day to meet them. He couldn't wait to show you the village and the people who'd helped to save his life. It seems Ninette misunderstood his feeling of gratitude for something else."
d'Artagnan looked at Constance, seeing the words settle in her mind, then watched as the niggle of doubt crept up again.
"But you still nearly had a moment – not her, you?"
This time he couldn't leave it to Athos to respond. He tried to be honest, knowing it was risky but not knowing any other way. "Not really. She took me by surprise, and I'd been thinking of you. For a second I nearly responded, before my brain kicked back in and I pulled away." He paused, watching her, knowing if he protested too much it would make it worse. But before he could go on, Aramis pitched in.
"Biggest compliment a man can pay, that is," he announced cheerfully. Everyone looked at him. "I wouldn't have stopped her. Pretty woman, warm sun, wartime – who wouldn't? Well, your husband wouldn't – more fool him." He said it fondly and d'Artagnan smiled, knowing what Aramis was trying to do.
Constance was staring at him assessingly. "So I'm supposed to be impressed because you were only nearly unfaithful to me?"
d'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. It didn't sound quite so good put that way. "Not impressed. There is nothing good about temptation, even for a second. But I promise you, as soon as I realised what was happening - what could have happened - all I could think of was you. It just ... it just made me miss you all the more." He said the last bit so quietly, and so lovingly, that Constance could only sniff and lean into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, and for a moment there was only the sound of the fire crackling and slow breathing.
"All right then," she muttered, after a pause. "But what about the rest? How can you wake up every day knowing it may be your last, every day – for years?"
They all looked at each other. Aramis shrugged as if to say count me out, but Porthos shook his head. "You know as well as any of us, mon ami."
Aramis looked around, slightly sheepishly. "Well, for me it's about knowing that you're needed; that your friends are depending on you." He stopped short, realising just how close to shaky ground he was. But Porthos was nodding, encouraging him. He smiled, ruefully. "I've let people down too many times, and I know how it feels, and I never want to feel that way again."
Porthos patted him absently on his shoulder, his own eyes looking almost black in the firelight, and Constance could see he was quite emotional. "It's the same for me, mate. Same for me. Just want to make sure everyone's safe, Constance, that's all it is."
She smiled at them both, wrapping her arm more tightly around d'Artagnan's waist. Was it really that simple?
Athos suddenly rose, and came over to where she sat close to her husband, bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. It was so sudden and unexpected that she found herself blushing. "What was that for?" she asked, to cover her embarrassment.
"For asking good questions," he answered her, seriously.
"Which you haven't answered, I notice," she retorted tartly.
He stood looking down at the pair of them, and rubbed his forehead, looking uncomfortable. "I just do what needs doing," he answered after a moment.
d'Artagnan snorted. "You sell yourself short, my friend. I don't know anyone else who would race up a cliff face towards a cannon you suspect has been spiked, then hurl himself over the edge of a mountain – oh, and stop a musket ball – for someone you thought was as good as dead." He paused a moment, then added thoughtfully " ... Except maybe Porthos or Aramis. You would no doubt have done it too, given the chance." He hurried on before any of them could protest. "I owe you such a debt, Athos, and – "
"There are no debts between friends." Athos' voice was low but firm, and brooked no argument, and there were nods all round.
"And no fear, either," added Porthos. "Least, if there is it doesn't matter, because your friends are the ones you'd die for, so you don't notice the fear."
"You told me that thing, didn't you? Before my first battle, about looking to your right, and your left, and seeing that a Musketeer is never alone?" At Porthos' nod, d'Artagnan went on. "That's who we fight for, isn't it: each other. But it's not just finding something – someone – worth dying for. If you're really lucky, the thing you'd die for turns out to be something worth living for, too."
There was a moment's stillness in the room, then Athos clasped d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed it gently before picking up the wine bottle and offering it round.
"Nah, I'm good. Gonna take this one for a meal," Porthos said, levering himself to his feet. "If we're done, that is?"
To nods all round, he hauled Aramis to his feet and draped an arm over his shoulders.
"Did you really tell him my thing about looking to your left and right?" Aramis asked him as they weaved a well-lubricated path towards the door.
"Course I did. Most sensible thing you ever tol' me, that was... ow!"
d'Artagnan sniggered as Aramis elbowed Porthos in the ribs as they disappeared, then stretched, and looked hopefully at Constance. She caught his sideways glance and tutted, standing so abruptly he nearly toppled off the window seat. "I know that look, and you can think again." She turned to Athos. "As for you..." He had stood when she rose, and now waited with only a tiny hint of apprehension. "You are ... forgiven. Three times over, by the sound of it."
"Four times," corrected d'Artagnan, "including killing that Spaniard in Spinau. And many other times, in other battles –"
"And you repaid me as many times over, d'Artagnan."
They looked at each other, each seeing the signs of those four years reflected in the other's face.
"No debts, remember?" d'Artagnan said softly, and was rewarded with a shy smile from Athos.
"Well, I have things to do," said Constance firmly, heading for the door without waiting for d'Artagnan. Not the least of which, she knew, was finding some time to herself so she could come to terms with everything they'd revealed to her today.
d'Artagnan caught her up at the top of the stairs. "Are you alright, Constance?" he enquired gently.
She turned to glare at him, but softened instantly on seeing the look of concern on his face. How could she not be alright, if he was? Pushing her own tumultuous feelings down deep, she smiled her reassurance at him and answered honestly. "I am – if you are."
He took her left hand in his to escort her down the steps. His right arm slipped around her waist and his hand drifted lower, experimentally. She pushed it away, instinctively glancing down into the courtyard to see if they were being watched, and he laughed aloud, throwing his head back in sheer joy at the familiarity of the dance.
Athos leaned on the balcony railing and watched them descend to the courtyard, Constance now giggling as d'Artagnan tried to plant a kiss on her neck, cursing softly as she skipped away from his warmth. On impulse, Athos called out to them.
"d'Artagnan!"
They both stopped and turned enquiring faces up to where he stood in the shadows of the balcony.
"See you at muster," he called, his lips twitching as d'Artagnan's happy anticipation faded from his face at the thought of evening muster, only an hour or so away. "Eight am," he added firmly, waiting until the penny dropped and d'Artagnan realised he was being offered a night off.
"Aye, Sir," he called back up, tipping an imaginary hat at his Captain as he turned to catch Constance up again. Athos watched them with a fond smile, then raised his eyes to the rest of the courtyard, watching his men moving quietly around at their evening chores. He heard a burst of laughter from the mess room and sniffed appreciatively at the savoury smell drifting up. He shivered in the cool air, and looked up, seeing the early evening stars brightening across the dusky sky, then turned back to his office feeling a rare moment of peace settle over his shoulders. They had survived the war and indeed grown stronger because of what they'd faced, both together and apart. There was still a battle to be fought for Paris and the King, but just for tonight he allowed himself a moment of optimism. They knew what they were fighting for; for each other, and for honour, and love, and friendship; and it was worth dying for. No, he corrected himself, remembering d'Artagnan's words. It was worth living for.
* The story of Jambert and the children Marcus and Madeline was told in Battlescars 2: Light Up the Dark.
And there we are, at the end of another story, with the usual mix of regret, relief and a sense of achievement battling for supremacy. It's turned out just a teensy bit longer than I imagined when I came up with three or four scenarios (the night-run to save Porthos, being captured by the Spanish, the conflict with army regulations and Athos making up for it by rescuing d'Artagnan in a battle), all to explore the impact of war and the changes in them between Seasons 2 and 3. I never imagined writing some 230,000 words and over 400 pages! Thank you so much to those who stayed with me throughout. I lost faith in it many times but your encouragement and comments have kept me going, so I give one last heartfelt thank you to all of you who have shared your enjoyment with me over the last year (!), including the guests (Debbie, Cynthua, Doubtful Guest, Zoe, Guest, Julie Pettitt, That one girl and DragonMusketeer), to whom I cannot reply directly but whose comments and speculation I have loved. I am sure I will be back with another (maybe shorter?!) story before long so until then, keep safe and share the love!
Note: Words from Paradise Fear's Battlescars provided the chapter titles for parts 1 & 2, and here are the words to their song Warriors which inspired the chapter headings for most of part 3:
I've spent twelve months
Fighting this illusion of me.
Stuck in the shadows
Of the person I'm supposed to be
And lines got blurred
Somewhere in between
My father's son
And their twisted fantasy
And I felt empty
What's left of me?
There's a soul
There's a pulse
There's a warrior
There's a hole where my heart used to be
Now I'm filling it up with all the things
I always said I'd be
So I let you in
But I'm so scared of what you'll see
Just skin and bones
Hiding this monster inside of me
And I don't need much
I just need a little room to breathe
And I need you
But I'm not so sure you need me
And I felt empty
What's left of me?