Chapter One
He startled awake, automatically swallowing back the cry of pain, resisting the urge to cough and vomit as the smoke that had clogged in his throat was replaced by the crisp autumn air. His legs burned under his trousers, dream and reality entangling too much for d'Artagnan to work out what was real, what was simply a dream, even as he pulled in desperate lungful's of air. D'Artagnan forced himself up from his bed roll, walking on legs that weren't burning, but were, that felt as weak and as wobbly as a new born fawn's. He walked to try and remind his legs that they still worked. He breathed deeply to remind his lungs that they weren't choking on soot. Walked until he didn't feel like emptying his guts up. Till d'Artagnan knew where he was and when he was again.
But the remnants of the dream had gripped his attention too much; d'Artagnan had forgotten that he wasn't in his room, that they had camped out on the road last night, and therefore he wasn't alone. He'd also forgotten about the man on watch till Aramis cleared his throat. Startled, d'Artagnan looked over at him, cradling his pistol like he would a new born, the metal flashing dull in the light of the full moon. 'Ok?' Aramis asked when d'Artagnan met his eye.
D'Artagnan remembered the smell more than anything. The smell of the wood logs turning to charcoal, the smell of burning flesh as screams pierced the air… he forced the memories away, sniffed long and hard the fresh night air, and nodded, not trusting his voice at that moment. He glanced around, grateful that at least Porthos and Athos appeared undisturbed.
Dreams had been haunting his sleep for weeks now, growing in intensity. This was the first time though he'd woken to that awful pain and smell of burnt flesh and horrified screams, unable to at first distinguish dream from reality. The dream itself was nothing new. At one point they had occurred nightly, but his dad had been there, to soothe and protect and they'd eventually been replaced with better dreams, better memories crowding out the horror filled ones. His dad's murder had brought new material into his dark nights, the two memories occasionally joining forces to wrench a scream from his lips.
Normally on the nights spent in the company of his brothers he didn't dream. He was usually good at waking up before the dreams really got going. And when they were outside, the unusual noises of nature usually kept him in light enough slumber to keep them at bay. Autumn was swiftly announcing her arrival, though, and the leaves were too red. The last few nights he'd barely let himself drift into a light doze, the reminders of autumn too much. But tiredness had finally won out, and the dreams had inevitably surfaced.
Forcing his mind to the present, the memories back into the past, d'Artagnan drifted towards the horses. His own, a black gelding greeted him warmly, snuffling hopefully at his jacket pockets as d'Artagnan scrubbed a hand over his nose. Behind him he heard Aramis rise to his feet, fought the instinct to hide his face in the horses' mane.
'Bad dream?'
D'Artagnan briefly ran fingers through the forelock before gaining the courage to look properly at Aramis. 'Yeah.'
'Tell me about it?'
The burning smell threatened again; d'Artagnan risked leaning closer to the horse, filling his nostrils with the equine scent. 'I don't remember all of it.' He said, somewhat truthfully. There were sections of memories that had never appeared, something his dad had always been glad of, though his dreams sought to fill the time lapses in different ways. 'My father…' he added, letting it hang, not lying exactly but knowing to what conclusion Aramis would leap.
A hand rested briefly on his shoulder, squeezing in support. 'Night is when we are all at our most vulnerable.' Aramis spoke from his own experiences, d'Artagnan knew, fighting the instinct that wanted to shrug out of Aramis's hand as much as it wanted to lean in closer.
He stood motionless. 'Isn't it just.' D'Artagnan couldn't help the bitter tone though he tried to tone it back.
'You should sleep more.' Aramis suggested.
'You were due to wake me soon anyway. You might as well sleep.' D'Artagnan suggested instead.
Aramis studied him, d'Artagnan fighting the urge to turn and hide away. Finally the man nodded, stifling a yawn and sharing a ruthful smile at the action. 'Make sure you wake Athos.' Aramis said, waiting for d'Artagnan to nod before turning away. It wouldn't be the first time d'Artagnan had "forgotten" to wake the next man on rota. 'I mean it.' Aramis added in a harsh whisper, turning back briefly, finger up in warning before he stepped away to his bedroll, seemingly asleep in seconds.
D'Artagnan never had any intention of waking Athos. He didn't see the point, there was little chance he was going to sleep again tonight. Aramis predictably rolled his eyes when he worked it out, glaring hard at d'Artagnan but thankfully the work of breaking camp distracted any conversations, all of them looking forward to getting home.
xxx
Their last day on the road of the long, boring mission was quiet, and they reached the city gates by mid-afternoon. D'Artagnan wondered if he would get a predictable lecture on their return, but the relief of being home seemed enough of a distraction by itself, and after 10 days in each other's company the four men scattered to their own pursuits. It wouldn't last long, no doubt tomorrow would see them seeking each other's company again, but even men as close as they were needed time apart occasionally.
D'Artagnan didn't feel like venturing out. The dreams combined with the crush of autumn left him on edge, as it always did, exhausting in the fight to keep in the present and not retreat to the past. Though he didn't have too, he used the afternoon and early evening to see to the horses. He had always found horses relaxing, and even now, despite the disparaging comments it seemed to draw from certain older, more condescending musketeers, he often helped the stable boy. The work was mostly mindless, rubbing the horses down before checking all of their feet carefully while the sun still shone bright, aware that even a small cut could lame a horse if left untreated. Giving their legs a proper rub and massage to work through the many hours they had trodden over the past few days, before allowing them all to the quiet stable to rest properly. Relaxed and exhausted, the nights on the road catching up with him, d'Artagnan's sleep that night was free of the dreams that lingered into wakening.
The morning brought the first proper storm of autumn to the city, the wind scattering reddened leaves, decorating the floor of the garrison in a carpet of bronze. The rain belted down in the early morning but was chased away by the wind, leaving the ground saturated and covered with slippery wet leaves, the sky grey and threatening close above.
Sat at their normal table, d'Artagnan pushed his hair from his face for the umpteenth time, only for the wind to capture it, whipping it back, making him wonder why he bothered. He was steadily eating through a bowl of steaming oats when he was joined at the table. D'Artagnan was surprised to see Athos, looking unusually awake despite the early hour, with his own bowl of oats. 'You're early.' D'Artagnan commented, belatedly realising he sounded quite accusing.
Athos merely seemed amused. 'Sleep beat the liquor last night.' He studied d'Artagnan briefly, nodding at whatever he saw. 'As it did for you I believe.'
D'Artagnan smiled, resisting quite heroically, he thought, the urge to roll his eyes. 'Training day?' he asked instead.
'Probably.' Treville normally allowed a few days of rest at the garrison, training days as the musketeers referred to them, after long missions before putting them back on palace duty. How much training got done varied, but when Athos was involved, it usually meant more than other musketeers seemed to manage.
Aramis and Porthos joined them at the table, already arguing noisily about some comment Porthos had made on Aramis's night activities. They were interrupted before d'Artagnan could enquire, Treville appearing on the balcony and calling for all to muster.
Scooping up the last mouthful of oats d'Artagnan hopped up to stand between Athos and Aramis, standing loosely at attention as Treville descended. Treville walked the lines, making a few comments on state of dress, state of fitness, a few particularly disparaging remarks on the tightness of one man's uniform around his midriff to barely concealed snorts of laughter. He got to them, stopping before their group, offering a quiet well done on their successful mission. They must have done something right, Treville didn't offer his any advice on haircuts, fashion, or general life management to any of them. D'Artagnan felt strangely bereft without the usual words.
'Ok men. A few missives to deliver in the city.' Treville announced from the stairs once he had finished. He directed a few groups of men to the deliveries, assigning those on palace duty with him afterwards. 'Rest of you, training.' About to turn out, the men were held in place with the next announcement: 'Remember, Friday is the King's birthday, and you will all be on duty over the weekend. Rest up now, as you won't have any then.' The slight smile on Treville's face was distinctly knowing, mirrored by many of the musketeers around d'Artagnan.
D'Artagnan had still been a recruit last year and had been used mainly as a message boy , largely into the surrounding towns and away from Paris. He'd missed the celebrations, but had heard the rumours. A parade, banquets, hunts, dances… the celebrations lasted days, and with various locations and functions, stretched the King's Guards with the complexity of ensuring the security for it all.
'Ah, the annual social gathering of France's finest.' Aramis reminisced as they retook their seats.
'Aye' Porthos agreed, 'what a pleasure it is to watch them consume their weight in food and drink, faithfully guarding them from their own excessiveness.'
'Come Porthos, they are all, of course, merely submitting themselves to their king.' Aramis playfully admonished.
'Right, of course' but whatever Porthos was about to say on the subject was interrupted by Athos.
'We are meant to be training.'
'Athos, you are the only musketeer who actually thinks a training day means training.' Aramis moaned on a sigh.
'No he's not.' Porthos said with a good natured laugh and wave of his hand at d'Artagnan, who had been getting eagerly to his feet. D'Artagnan didn't care, he always had the energy for training. 'Suck up.' He added to d'Artagnan.
D'Artagnan merely shrugged, letting the ribbing roll over him. He forgot about them as he and Athos headed to the targets, practicing with throwing knives before moving onto pistols. Athos would never give less than his best, and d'Artagnan was far too competitive to let anyone beat him at anything, though he eventually had to concede by the smallest of margins. They took their rest, out of bullets and needing a drink, taking seats back at the table. D'Artagnan looked around, locating Aramis and Porthos with a group of recruits on the other side of the courtyard. It appeared that the two were getting their entertainment taking bets on which recruit would win in various activities. Athos also looked over, but as they appeared to be helping the recruits as much as betting on them, he let them be.
'Your sleep has been disturbed over the past week.' Athos said abruptly.
Startled by the sudden statement, d'Artagnan took a moment to speak. 'I have never found sleeping outside that restful.' He attempted a casual shrug though the movement felt jerky.
'This was more than normal.' Athos said.
D'Artagnan didn't know how to answer. He never slept well surrounded by so many reminders of autumn. He didn't know if he had the words to explain, and the explanation… the explanation wasn't something d'Artagnan had ever willingly spoken about aloud. He was rescued from having to answer by Aramis and Porthos returning to the table. 'We are going to the tavern.' Aramis announced. 'Drinks are on Porthos.'
'What? Why?' Porthos demanded.
'You won all my money.'
'And how does that translate into me buying you drinks?' Porthos demanded.
Aramis flung a hand to his chest in a dramatic pose. 'You would leave your poor friend to suffer from thirst?'
D'Artagnan got to his feet, glad enough for the distraction to clap Aramis cheerfully on the shoulder 'I'll buy you a drink.' He said. 'If it will be enough to shut you up.'
Aramis, who had been smiling gratefully at the younger musketeer, turned on him with a shocked expression. 'And only the one drink, mind.' D'Artagnan carried on before Aramis could say anything, his tone airy. 'I doubt you deserve more'
He walked towards the gates, Porthos laughing heartily as he caught him up, clapping him none too gently on the shoulder. Athos frowned, not satisfied with the answer d'Artagnan had given and suspicious of the almost desperate redirect. But he was wise enough to know there was little point in perusing the line of questioning with an audience. And if d'Artagnan wasn't willing to talk, Athos knew he wouldn't get anywhere. He stood and followed them to the tavern.
xxx
Their day off, predictably, flew by. Too soon, the four found themselves back in the garrison, assembled for morning muster, Treville bypassing any inspection to issue orders for the king's birthday celebrations.
'A good many people will be arriving at the castle this afternoon. Tonight is the main banquet; 200 guests are expected to be in attendance. The Red Guard will be on the main entrance and the gates. We will be in the main banquet room and helping with patrol of the palace and grounds. You will remember your duty at all times; I don't need to tell you how difficult such an event is to guard.' He began to pair the musketeers up, giving out specific roles and rotations. D'Artagnan was paired with Athos, on a rotation through the main banquet hall with Porthos and Aramis, and another 2 pairs of musketeers. They were to be in the royal palace an hour from when they were dismissed, warned to expect long hours and little rest over the coming days. On the bright side, d'Artagnan considered as he readied his weapons and loaded pistols, at least it would distract Athos from probing about his sleep habits for a few days.
The palace was already in a controlled state of chaos when the four arrived. Servants rushed around, loaded with bottles of fine wine, baskets of bread, braces of pheasant and rabbit, armfuls of linin and silver and cutlery. D'Artagnan had never seen the palace so busy and found himself watching the spectre. 'Come on.' The laugh in Aramis's tones told d'Artagnan that he had been distracted enough to miss his name being called.
'Sorry. Never seen the palace this busy.'
'This is nothing. Wait till the guests arrive.' Porthos told him.
'Come- we need to check the security.' Athos said, turning and leading the way.
The planning by the Red Guards was substandard enough to have them busy rethinking the whole plan. Treville approved the changes, much to the Red Guard's chagrin.
The afternoon dragged, but once the various persons of importance began to arrive, their wives or mistresses on their arms, all dressed in splendid robes, the atmosphere turned electric, and the musketeers got busy keeping the peace.
The king and queen were announced, fashionably late, bringing the seated audience to their feet to show their appreciation to their hosts. D'Artagnan and Athos were stationed behind the royal couple for the first course, standing to attention, eyes forward seeing everything and nothing.
D'Artagnan quickly got bored. The fancy noblemen in their fine linins, the woman dressed in colourful silk were something to behold, but the conversation that d'Artagnan wasn't trying to hear was dull. Even the vast amount of alcohol being consumed didn't particularly liven up the party, and only being rotated around the ballroom saved d'Artagnan from the tedium. He didn't find it easy standing still, though he had had a lot of practice in his short time with the musketeers. He much preferred the missions, being active; even hunting with his majesty was better.
He counted the fine swords on display, bejewelled grips catching the light from the torches as their owners moved. He wondered how many of them were able to use the weaponry they displayed so impressively at their side. Looking at some of the owners, he strongly doubted the rapiers and swords had ever seen much use.
The impressive meal dragged through 8 courses. As the clock approached midnight, the long tables were efficiently cleared to one side and the dancing began, the music at least a distraction. D'Artagnan and Athos were stationed by the large double doors leading to the ballroom. As the music continued more couples began to leave than entered. The king and queen left not much later, the red cheeked king looking happy, his happiness clearly making those around him sigh with relief.
As was almost inevitable with too many men sure of their own importance, and copious amounts of alcohol, a loud shouting match broke out in the hallway, distracting Athos and d'Artagnan as shouting led to the distinctive sing of shiny unused swords being drawn. Neither hesitated, or bothered pulling their own swords, stepping between the two arguing noble men, each facing a man and pushing down the raised swords. D'Artagnan looked up at the idiot who had been posturing, ready with a quiet word to try and defuse the situation, or to enlighten the fool of how cold the chatelet would be that night, when his brain caught up with the man in front of him and he froze.
Golden brown eyes stared at him, ignoring the desperate screams as they watched the flames grow higher. Golden brown eyes that warped and wavered in the heat, clouded out by the intense smoke. Golden brown eyes that were impassive as he had explained how Charles wasn't needed anymore, you see, that he was unnecessary. The sound of music and conversation muffled and drifted away replaced by the spit and hiss of fire, the unnatural screams of pain. Burning heat licked painfully at his legs. The overwhelming stench of burning flesh and smoke filled his nostrils making him want to heave. The eyes of the monster, face creased in a permanent scowl, stared back at him, d'Artagnan helpless to look away.
A hand on his shoulder, squeezing uncomfortably tightly grounded him, sound returning in an unsteady trickle as the nobleman before him huffed in irritation, puffing up his chest and loudly complaining as he turned to his exit.
'D'Artagnan!'
His heart beat painfully fast in his chest, tripping along as it pushed adrenaline through his veins, fear making him suddenly hot and cold at the same time.
Athos voice was harsh in his ear. 'D'Artagnan!'
He blinked, banishing memories with difficulty as he turned to Athos, limbs feeling heavy as concrete as he tried to bring himself back to the present. 'Are you with me?' Athos demanded, hand still on d'Artagnan's shoulder still squeezing sharply, a hint of worry in the tone.
'Yes.' His voice was too loud, too shrill. He cleared his throat, feeling smoke clog it once again. 'Yes.'