Chapter Fifteen – A Soldier's Requiem Pt. 1
Sunlight from behind his closed eyes eventually roused him from his slumber. Someone was shuffling things around next to him. He cracked his eyes open and spied Aramis packing the last of their things in the corner of their room at the fort. He tried to think of how long it had been and remembered that it must have been about a week since what happened on the beach. His ribs were still fairly sore, but the pain was much more bearable than it had been the first few days.
D'Artagnan groaned and carefully stretched with an arm around his ribs. "You've let me sleep too long!"
"It is your body simply taking what it needs to recover," Aramis said. "It is no fault of my own."
D'Artagnan turned and mumbled something questionable into his pillow.
Aramis chuckled, then crossed the room and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "How is your head?"
"Fine," he said pushing himself up. "No headache. Are we to set out this morning?"
"Athos is determined," Aramis lamented. "I think he could do with another day, but he's gotten restless."
"And grouchy," D'Artagnan finished for him. "How's Porthos?"
"The same as you, a little tired, but clear of any pain. It worried me that he could barely stand the sun two days ago, but head wounds are a tricky business."
"They are," D'Artagnan agreed quietly.
Aramis sighed. "D'Artagnan, I meant nothing by that-"
"I know, but it doesn't stop me wishing they weren't. Otherwise I would have remembered a long time ago. And all of this might not have happened."
Aramis sat down across from D'Artagnan and took him by the shoulders. "From the very beginning of this, none of us wanted you to feel guilty. Perhaps it was inevitable that our feelings would get in the way, but the sentiment remains. We only want what's best for you, for all that you've done for us."
"I know."
"No," Aramis gently corrected. "You don't. Athos, Porthos, and I were near destitute by the time you barreled into our lives. You won't remember this but I was a public street officer when you met me. I was not very well liked, and on a few occasions I had to make use of my prior training as a musketeer to simply survive. Each day would bring its own set of challenges. Depending on the number of tickets I would administer, I might not have gotten my promised wages for the week. Though other officers used that to their advantage and the public's disadvantage, I could not bring myself to do so. There were nights that I cursed my honor and character simply because it got me nothing but starvation and misery, but honor is not something that can be tossed away so easily. Not for me. So I suffered in silence, I prayed, and I waited until God would decide what to do with me. And then, he brought you," he finished with a soft smile.
D'Artagnan looked down to hide his eyes and played with a hole in the blanket in his lap. "What of Porthos?"
Aramis snorted. "He had his patronesses. Several of them. But none of them ever made him truly happy. The only thing that did was soldiering. He couldn't find a reputable occupation, so he set himself to wooing the ladies. It burned at him that he was so dependent on their generosity, and I think it was like a poison that was slowly killing him inside. Some days, I could see he was as miserable as I, but somehow he'd gotten quite good at hiding it, and made it seem like my imagination. It was his excuse for years, but now we know better."
"And Athos?"
Aramis sat back and got quiet. "He lived in his drink from sun-up to sun-down. Most days he was barely coherent enough to exchange two words with. I feared for him most in those days. I worried about his finances, because whether he was a comte or not, surely his pockets had some bottom. I worried about his health, because I only ever remembered him eating once every few days. And most of all I worried that I'd find him dead in an alley, having choked on his own sick…So, you see…before you, D'Artagnan, we were lost men of the worst kind."
"I'm glad then," the boy replied. "That things are as they should be again. I don't like imagining those hardships for any of you."
"They passed, just as this hardship will pass for you."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "If it hasn't after all of this, I doubt it ever will."
"Have a little faith," Aramis asked. "For me?"
It was on the top of D'Artagnan's tongue to say no, but he found himself reluctantly nodding. Even if it seemed like a far-fetched fantasy, D'Artagnan would give Aramis the hope he wanted. Though Aramis told him to take his time, D'Artagnan still rose and got his effects in quick order. He found their horses already saddled and almost entirely packed in the courtyard.
Iris nickered and slobbered all over his shoulder. D'Artagnan sighed and pulled the carrot he sneaked from the mess hall last night. Iris happily munched on the treat, and when she was finished she started sniffing his pockets for more. D'Artganan turned away and gently pushed her nose in the opposite direction. She made a noise that was probably partly in protest because he knew she could smell the apple in his other pocket.
"You've had your breakfast," he scolded her. "Let me have mine?"
Iris snorted and stubbornly turned her head away.
"Girls," Marc said, coming up from behind.
D'Artagnan snorted. "Don't let her hear you say that."
Marc smirked. "Never. On your way then?"
"It would seem so. Athos is eager to get moving."
"Are you eager to get home?"
D'Artagnan shrugged. "Yes and no."
"It's been too long since I've been home too. I know the feeling."
"It feels like I'm giving up," he confessed after looking around to make sure they wouldn't be overheard.
"You can't give up what's not in your control, D'Artagnan. I know you wish it was, and I know the rest of us do too, but that's not fair because there's no chance it could ever be."
"So what am I supposed to do? I made a life for myself with all of you. I can't leave that behind."
"What did you do when you were chained to those rocks?"
"I prayed."
"Someone must have been listening that night. Maybe they'll listen again."
D'Artagnan gave it some thought and then nodded his head. He spotted Aramis and Porthos trailing after Athos from the barracks. Athos still looked fairly pale and had a noticeable limp, but the sight of the man on his feet without help brought a smile to his face. Marc turned and offered to help Athos into his saddle, but he stubbornly turned it down, avoiding eye contact from everyone. D'Artagnan frowned, but hovered by his side in either case. Aramis smiled at D'Artagnan as he saw that Porthos mounted his horse without any trouble. Athos got up onto his horse without much trouble, but didn't quite get enough of his weight immediately centered and started to pitch to the side. D'Artagnan reached up, despite his small height, and grabbed Athos by the belt to steady him. When Athos looked down, he paused. Almost instantly, he relaxed.
D'Artagnan gave him a pointed look before letting go and moving to his own horse. He accepted Marc's help, mostly for show and partly to avoid any lingering discomfort.
"You'll write," Marc asked.
"I will," D'Artagnan promised. "'And if I don't-'"
"I will come looking for you and under Treville's orders, Gascon."
"All of you are determined to see me be a professional scribe."
"Don't worry, we'll visit," Marc promised, backing away. "Can't have those hands forget their true purpose."
"Is that a challenge Garneau," Porthos teased. "Those would be dueling words to some of us."
"At least I am polite about it, Monsieur!"
D'Artagnan laughed. Aramis and Porthos cracked smiles. Athos snorted something like amusement, but D'Artagnan couldn't be sure. They left the fort by ten o'clock in the morning. The weather was just as hot as the previous week, but thick clouds in the sky occasionally gave them relief from the relentless sun. It would likely rain later in the day, so what breaks they took in the morning were short. Aramis watched after all of them like a hawk, minding Porthos' pinched eyes beneath his hat, Athos' grip on his healing leg, and D'Artagnan's stabilizing hand on his ribs.
In the early afternoon, they stopped on the side of the road for another short period of rest. D'Artagnan wandered through the short span of trees and found himself on the dunes of the shore again. He walked down to the water's edge and pulled off his boots. He tested the temperature of the water and found it colder than he expected. He could feel the fear well up inside, but refused to be ruled by it.
It was water.
He was free.
He was in control.
All the same, he jumped, when Athos laid a hand on his shoulder.
"You didn't have to come down here," he said, worried for Athos' still healing leg.
Athos raised a brow at him. "Neither did you."
"I'm fine."
"You are."
Athos still held onto his shoulder. At first, D'Artagnan thought it was for Athos' benefit, to take the weight off his leg, but realized it was more for him. Part of him railed at the unnecessary attention, but the other part that was comforted was stronger. In fact, whenever Athos willingly touched him or held him, the storm in D'Artagnan's mind eased. It was odd that Athos was an instant comfort to him, and in a way that Aramis and Porthos were not. It had been a confusing thing to understand, but D'Artagnan didn't give it too much thought. Aramis and Porthos were comforts to him in other ways; Aramis by the sound of his voice and Porthos with his smiles.
Thinking about them all, and all he would miss when he returned home to his parents, brought his mood crashing back down. He turned to Athos with a frown and half-pleading eyes. "Must we go?"
Athos sighed. "We've already tarried longer than we planned. Your parents will be expecting us."
D'Artagnan deflated a bit. He did send a letter ahead of them before they left the fort. Now, he was sorely regretting it. He did want to see his parents again. He missed them dearly. But he also did not want to leave his friends. Indecision pulled at both of his arms in opposing directions, though one side was stronger and he found himself pulling against it to stay on middle-ground. He wanted both worlds, the security of his parents and to face the dangers of the outside world with his friends. He'd grown to accept that he was not the sixteen year old that he remembered he was, but an older and more experienced boy verging on his own manhood. It was still odd, but pieces of the puzzle were starting to feel less foreign than they used to.
Athos trailed his hand to D'Artagnan's other shoulder and pulled him against his chest, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "This is not the end, boy. I promise you it isn't."
"Then what is it?"
"A short reprieve," Athos answered. "If your memory never returns, we will be content, because we will never forget nor abandon you. We are giving you time. We will return for you one day when you feel you are ready. You have my word on that."
D'Artagnan stepped out of Athos' reach and turned to face him. "But what if I'm ready now? What if I don't want to go home?"
"You do. You just do not want to admit defeat, which I understand, but it is not so. You need time and space to put your mind in order, to take things on your own terms away from the world, which would make unfair demands of you. It is not abandonment, only a change in tactics, if you would see it as a battle strategy. Can you give yourself what you properly need?"
D'Artagnan sighed. He knew Athos was right, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. He kicked at the sand by his feet. "I suppose."
Athos chuckled and reached out to him. D'Artagnan stepped forward and was folded into a strong embrace. "I know it is not easy to accept," Athos said to him. "It tears at all our hearts, but what is best for you in the mean time is the best for us."
D'Artagnan broke the embrace after a few moments. "We have guest rooms at the house, but someone's still going to have to bunk with Porthos."
Athos gave a short laugh, and for a moment, the mirth actually reached his eyes. D'Artagnan counted that as a victory.
"I can foresee several arguments on that," he said, reaching out to ruffle D'Artagnan's hair.
Something seized in his chest at the affectionate touch. It reminded him so much of his father that he needed a moment to process it. Athos had already turned and started up toward the dunes, expecting D'Artagnan to follow. But, strangely, the boy felt his feet sink into the sand like lead weights. All of a sudden, the sun seemed too bright. The noise from the waves crashing seemed too loud. The salt in the air was too thick.
"I'm proud of you." His father.
"I love you." His mother.
His father had his arms around his mother.
They waved to him.
He was riding away with a heavy heart.
Weightless, and without pain, he turned around and looked in all directions. He was alone on an island. Or perhaps it was more of a sandbar? But he could see no trees. He tried calling out, but found he had no voice.
His first glimpse of Paris was under a haze of pain. His shoulder-
He ran right into the town drunk. Pain shot down his arm and side. He had a challenge at eleven.
He left his horse for a much needed drink of water, and returned to a citation. He had another challenge at eleven-thirty.
His horse bucked and splashed mud onto a man with new clothes and two ladies on his arm. He had a third challenge at noon.
Mostly because of the ladies.
He tried wading into the water, but it was red hot, like boiling water with no steam. Fear brought him to his knees in the sand. The island was noticeably shrinking.
"What are the odds," the big man asked with a knowing tone.
"Indeed," the public officer agreed with suspicion.
The drunk merely glared at him.
The big one crossed his arms with a predatory smile. "Well, who's first?"
The drunk said nothing and simply drew his sword.
"Your manners have gotten worse, Athos," the big man said with a frown.
"Pray," this Athos said, and when he spoke it was clear he was not someone uneducated. "Why should I show any that were not shown to me?"
D'Artagnan lowered his sword and made to apologize, for it was clear these men were friends, and certainly men of import given the caliber of their swords… which looked suspiciously like commissioned rapiers…
"Are you all…," he said before he could think to keep his mouth closed.
All three men swiveled their attention to him.
Figures were walking across the water toward him from four sides. He reached to his side, but found his sword missing.
Disbanded, his arse. He was living his dream. He was fighting alongside musketeers! Even if he got arrested on his first day in Paris, he vowed to count it as a badge of honor. He suspected his new 'friends' were not as likely to think of it as such-but they made him wonder as their scuffle with the red guards continued.
The drunk had defended his back when it was turned to an opponent he thought down for the count.
The officer shouted a warning to him as a guard jumped from the landing of the apartments to their right.
And the big one helped give him the momentum he needed to take down two men at once.
But his heart didn't burst until he caught sight of a young woman, watching with rapt interest.
He stood up to face his approaching enemy. He would not be afraid.
Her hair was golden silk.
Her eyes were gems.
Her smile was like a ray of sunlight on a cloudy day.
He got his arm sliced open for his distraction, but he made quick work of the annoyance and with a flourish that made the angel laugh.
Her laughter.
The figures were people. Three men. And a woman. The glare made it impossible to see, but while three of them continued toward him, one stopped.
He squashed the urge to fidget as the King regarded him with a raised brow. D'Artagnan refused to feel belittled. He was a simple farmer and if he wanted the life of a soldier, he needed to set an example right this moment. But setting that example in front of the Queen, the entire court, and Constance-who was a lady in waiting to boot!-was making him sweat.
The three approaching figures started to take shape. They were figures and faces he knew. All thought of defense on his mind melted away.
"Promise me you'll be careful," D'Artagnan said to her.
"Promise me you'll be safe," Constance shot back.
She kissed him, long and slow. He announced they were going to Paris. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos groaned aloud behind him, breaking him free from his daze.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "That's not a fair promise."
Constance raised an eyebrow at him. "Because you know how to use a sword? I may be a girl, but we're not ladies in waiting just because we look pretty."
"I may have to test that one day. Good night, my lady," he whispered in her ear with a smile.
He made to pull away, but she captured his lips again, and he was lost. "Goodnight, Musketeer," she replied.
The hot water lapped at his ankles, but he paid it no mind. Constance stood next to him. She took the side of his face in hand and kissed his cheek.
"I love you," Milady whispered. ("Spare the boy," she said to an annoyed Rochefort. "You know how much I deplore the sight of blood so early in the morning. And we are running late. If he doesn't die of infection, you may have the pleasure of killing him another time.")
A single tear escaped Athos' eyes as he pulled the trigger.
She gasped. (The last thing he remembered, before the pain in his shoulder took him was her beautiful serene face.)
Then, Milady fell through the clouds.
He reached for her.
She stumbled into him. He caught her. She was sweating and her eyes were glassy even as the wind whipped up around them both.
"Constance?! What's wrong? Constance-"
"I'm all right," she whispered. "Go. They'll shoot us both."
She was gone.
"He doesn't have the diamonds," a red guard reported.
"The girl!-"
"Damned musketeers!-"
"Shoot him! He deserves no less!-"
Rochefort turned to him and pulled out a short musket and dagger, aiming it at him in a cold fury. "I'll shoot him myself. Open the side hatches. I want them to hear him screaming."
Two soldiers approached.
An explosion. Running. Swords clashing. Falling. Jumping. Rolling. Rochefort growling across from their crossed swords.
He tried calling out for Constance, reaching, trying to move. The soldiers held him back.
The sword in his hand never felt as good as it did in that moment, when he saw Rochefort fall to his death. He stood there as the wind whipped around him feeling completely alive, and then a moment later the blood in his veins turned to ice. He remembered. Something was still very wrong.
The water overtook his knees and he felt himself sinking. The soldiers held him up.
The Queen took his hand and squeezed it. Her eyes were as glassy as the diamonds around her neck. ("You're a…musketeer," Constance rasped. "Do your duty…the queen…she needs you.")
"If there is anything I can give you for what you've done and all you've suffered," the Queen said with a sad smile, as the party continued behind them. "You need only ever ask, Monsieur D'Artagnan."
He turned to see Athos, Porthos, and Aramis conversing with sad smiles of their own. It was almost like they expected to part ways again. ("I need you," he whispered, though she was no longer with him. "Please? Please, Constance-please-") He turned to the Queen with resolution in his heart.
"There is one thing," he said quietly. "If your majesty would permit me…?"
The Queen listened. Then the Queen smiled. "I believe I know just the man."
He tried to stand on his own, but he had no strength. She'd slipped away. He felt himself slipping.
"Monsieur de Treville," the king exclaimed. "It has been too long! Far too long! I hope your retirement was long and boring."
"Very, your majesty," Treville answered with a smug smile for the Cardinal. "All hobbies I have taken up since I last departed have proved useless."
"Then I assume our agreement is still valid?"
"What agreement," the Cardinal asked with a knowing tone.
"Ah, Cardinal, I had quite forgotten you were there," the king said.
D'Artagnan snorted just loud enough for Porthos to hear next to him. The large man slapped him on the arm, but when D'Artagnan looked up he saw him barely restraining a grin of mirth.
"May I re-introduce our old and most beloved friend, Monsieur de Treville, Captain of the king's musketeers."
"But your majesty disbanded the musketeers years ago."
"And I have just reinstated them. Consider it a contest if you will, of my affection. Now, of course, there is to be no dueling, no rabble-rousing, nothing of that kind-"
"Takes all the fun out of it," Porthos muttered under his breath.
"Quite," Aramis replied just as quietly.
"Just a friendly competition, while also bolstering our ranks. I think it's rather ingenious on my part."
"Quite so, your majesty," the Cardinal replied with angry eyes and a smile that wasn't entirely genuine. "Quite so."
He looked up into their faces. The faces were kind. And familiar.
"Vincent," the boy said, holding out a hand.
D'Artagnan shook it with a smile of his own.
"This is Jacques and that's Marc," Vincent introduced. "But, the more important question is, who would like to duel who first?"
"No," D'Artagnan disagreed with a smirk. "I think the more important question is which of you would like to lose first."
Jacques laughed. "Gascon cockiness already! This is going to be fun."
Vincent and Jacques.
"Why La Rochelle," D'Artagnan asked.
Aramis shifted in his saddle, uncomfortably. "They're Protestants."
Well and whole, holding him up, giving him strength.
"What do we do with him?"
The kitten mewled softly, nuzzling deeper into Vincent's hands and chest for warmth.
Jacques scoffed. "What do you mean, 'what do we do with him?' There's barely enough food going around."
D'Artagnan scratched the kitten behind the ears. It brought a paw up and tried to nibble on his finger. "He can have my share."
Marc snorted from across the room. "You're both mad."
"You've still got cat hair on your pillow," Vincent quietly called.
"Piss off, Vince," Marc grumbled as he rolled over in his bed.
He grabbed Vincent's shoulder and Jacques, and pulled himself upright.
"What's wrong with the boy," Athos asked quietly, though D'Artagnan could still hear him.
"Guards shot a small party trying to escape the city. One of them was a girl with yellow hair."
The water was at his hips. Though it burned like fire, he stood tall again.
"You can say it however many ways you like but what you say and how you live are two different things, boy," Athos said. "Coming to Paris to be a musketeer was simple for you, wasn't it? Loyalty is always a simpler matter to you than to most and when it comes to honor and pride it's never a difficult choice now is it?"
D'Artagnan stilled, hurt. "…do you really think me so simple, Athos? I wasn't looking for an answer. I was looking for something much more substantial. Compassion."
Athos sat back with a scoff, not in shame but bitterness. "There's not enough wine in the camp for that."
"Forgive me, then," he said, making his retreat. "I shouldn't have expected anything more from a friend who's good at nothing else."
The water rose to their shoulders. D'Artagnan started to feel afraid. Vincent and Jacques squeezed his arms.
Treville turned and whispered to their company of several bed-tired and cold-weary men. "We wait here. Make them think we've left the back defenseless and lure them in. If they want a fight, then you all had better damn well give them one they won't forget!" (Treville stood, and came around to him from behind his desk. He looked at D'Artagnan for a long time before smiling. "I believe it is you I have to thank for the timely return of my regiment.")
Then, they let go.
There was no time. None to shout a warning. None to call the man's name. Only enough to act. So, D'Artagnan did, without a second's hesitation, and shoved all of his weight through his shoulder into Athos' back. –Pain.
The water was above his head.
"You are going to be fine, boy," he said, even as their breaths continued to turn to frost before their eyes. "Would I lie to you?"
"N-no," D'Artagnan groaned, tears gathering in his barely open eyes.
"Then start looking like you believe me, damn it." –More pain.
He tried to swim, but felt himself drifting.
"Brace yourself, young man," the doctor said, putting a leather belt between the boy's teeth and taking his position next to Aramis. "And try not to scream." –Excruciating pain – Athos' eyes – Unbearable heat.
He couldn't breathe. He was tossed and turned like a ragdoll in the current.
Aramis squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "It's going to hurt but it needs to be done."
"More pain," the boy asked, small and quiet.
"Yes, but it needs to be done or you will die."
"But I already am. Aren't I in hell, for what I did?" (Vincent called his name, softly. Vincent fell. Jacques sprinted up the staircase. Jacques fell. D'Artagnan stood, frozen.)
"Let them go, D'Artagnan." The boy tensed up like a rock, but he would say it however many times he needed to until he decided to listen to reason.
Suddenly, he was lying face down in the sand. Washed on a shore. He lifted his head. A hand was in his sight.
"Let the dead have their peace. Don't keep them here," Athos whispered.
It was his own.
"I trust I don't need to remind you of your promise," Athos said.
"Our promise," D'Artagnan corrected him. ("A promise, no matter the situation, the circumstances, or the enemy. If I think that head of yours is going to make you run headlong into a fool's venture then when I say you'll stay put and not risk your damned neck.")
"We have faith in you," Athos whispered up to him.
His mirror image held out a hand to help him up. The other him looked every bit the version of him that he'd heard about. Something swelled in his chest as he reached up to take the hand. Before he knew it, he was pulled to his feet.
And he was left standing on the beach with Athos walking back to the dunes. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He gasped and groaned, falling to his knees and curling over into a ball, crying and shaking.
Athos had hands on his shoulders, trying to pull him upright. He was calling to him. D'Artagnan tried to answer, but the noise of the waves at his back was too loud for him to process.
"Aramis," Athos shouted. "Porthos!"
D'Artagnan grabbed onto Athos' legs. "Athos, he gasped, tears streaming down his face. "Athos!"
Athos froze, and pulled him upright. D'Artagnan grabbed onto the arms holding him upright. He drank in the sight of his mentor, his dearest friend, and his secondary-father.
"What is it," Athos demanded. "What is wrong?"
"I remember," he sobbed. "I remember-"
Athos's eyes widened. "What-what do you remember?!"
"Everything! Oh God," he groaned. "I never thought I would-"
Athos crushed him to his chest and did something D'Artagnan had never seen or heard before. Athos laughed, long and loud, with tears of pure joy. The pain in his head eased a little, as his heart clenched. Perhaps he was acting like a needy child, but he didn't care. He never wanted this moment to end.
A/N: On D'Artagnan's memories – they're my little AU take on the 2011 movie that could have been. I tried making things a wee bit more canon. One more chapter after this one, then it's done, I promise! Happy New Year!