Chapter Two – Shields of Old (Pt. 2)

Yesterday…

"Here," D'Artagnan said, tossing him the half empty bottle of wine. "It's not much, but they won't miss it."

Athos caught it one-handed and tossed back a curious look. The boy shifted under his gaze and wouldn't meet his eyes. He nearly groaned in defeat at the sight. Yes, he had complained about not having enough wine around. Yes, his moods had been rather volatile lately from the lack of it-after Treville ordered strict rations of everything, from food and wine down to bullets and string for their hunting snares. But had his foul moods affected the boy that much? The very notion seemed ridiculous. This cocky stubborn and independent little upstart that they had let into their ranks of friendship and brotherhood was intimidated by him?

Rubbish.

But the more Athos thought on it the more it made sense. Aramis and Porthos were used to his temperament after so many years. He had forgotten that D'Artagnan, in many ways, was still innocent and thus more open to the misunderstandings that Aramis and Porthos would normally cast aside. "Thank you," he said, finally remembering his manners.

The young musketeer nodded and put his hat back on, intending to return to his cot on the other side of the barracks. All four of them had protested at first at being separated, but Treville had stayed by his decision; by age and by rank. Technically, and unfortunately, that left D'Artagnan under Monsieur des Essarts' watchful eye, not Treville's, and not theirs. The boy was sure to have made friends with some of the recruits by now-hell, some small part of him hoped D'Artagnan would soon find him too boring and exchange his company for those more his age and…vitality. There was just something about the way the boy looked at him that unnerved Athos to the core.

Naked trust.

Unyielding faith.

Even…admiration.

Youth! How he despised it at times. And yet, it stirred something in him when those curious doe-like eyes found his. Why couldn't the boy look at him with that glint-filled fierceness he had seen so often on missions and in battle? That, at least, was something familiar to him. Was it warmth or acceptance the boy was looking for? He wanted to scoff and chalk it all up to hero worship-not that Athos had any indication as to where that came from either! And if that was still somehow true, after the little quality time they had spent together, then D'Artagnan was in for a rude awakening sooner or later. But did he want that epiphany sooner or later for himself?

Athos uncorked the bottle and held it under his nose for a moment. Then, with a reluctant decision firmly in mind he called the boy back. D'Artagnan turned, expectant, but hesitant as Athos corked the bottle closed again. "Find another cup."

The boy looked surprised for a moment and opened his mouth to decline the invitation, but Athos had none of it. He would…help to ease that awkwardness between them if it killed him, because if he didn't then Aramis would kill him for making the situation worse. Later, when they were both comfortable and privately enjoying their spoils D'Artagnan broke what was no longer an awkward silence between them. And he did it in a way that Athos didn't expect.

"Does it ever go away," the boy asked, quiet and unsure.

"What," he questioned.

"The pain…and the guilt."

Athos sighed. Sometimes he forgot exactly how young D'Artagnan really was. The boy did a good job of masking it, but it was moments like this that made Athos regret letting him into their lives so easily. "Of taking a life?"

D'Artagnan shook his head and tilted the glass in his hands, playing with the last sip of wine at the bottom of his cup. "Of letting it go."

Ah. Well, that too should have been expected. Taking lives as a soldier was one lesson Athos felt he shouldn't have to teach. Learning to live, however, with the betrayal (because in his mind death and betrayal were one in the same) of a woman, of a special woman, was a lesson he never wanted to teach anyone, and especially not the boy. Perhaps it would feel easier for him to push the matter aside if Constance had been in any similar hateful form to Milady. But she hadn't been, damn her. Not in a single way. She had been innocent, just as D'Artagnan was and is. "She's in a better place," he replied.

"I know…That should comfort me, but it doesn't."

"Would she want you to wallow in misery, or live?"

"Live," D'Artagnan answered, as if it were obvious.

And it was. "Then it's simple."

Athos drained the last of his wine and set the cup aside. He leaned back and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and imagined that the fire between them was twice as large. This was not the kind of conversation he was looking to have. Loss. What man didn't know loss? Why speak of it as if it were such an uncommon thing?

D'Artagnan looked up, with all traces of longing gone. "Is everything in this world so easily cut out for you? Is that how you pass your days, finding simple answers to difficult questions? Is that what helps you sleep at night?"

Athos set his teeth together and tried to ignore the accusing tone the boy threw at him, for both their sakes. "Pray tell, what did you hope to hear?"

"Something better."

"Life is never as grand as people make it out to be, not unless they're trying to sell you something at an exorbitant price and not without an underhanded additional fee. Trusting people to be fair in this world, for justice to survive in the end, will get you killed."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Trust has nothing to do with it-"

"It has everything to do with every person that crosses your path. One day, when you grow up and lose those childish notions of attachment you'll learn how unnecessarily complicated it is. You simplify your life, you lessen the pain, you live longer."

"You can't believe that," D'Artagnan said, softer.

"I do. And the sooner you come to terms with that the better."

"You're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

Athos bristled and tried to loose his clenched jaw. Who was this boy to sit there and judge him? "I don't appreciate being called a liar-"

"And I don't appreciate being taken for an immature fool who knows nothing about the hardships of life," D'Artagnan hissed. Abruptly the boy stood, tossing his cup aside in anger. "I would cast your words and coldness aside if it weren't for the part of you that I know wants to fly free above it all. You may have hidden it from Porthos and Aramis, but you don't fool me. Every man was born with a heart. If he was not he would be no creature of God's. Without it, yes, life is as black and white and dull as any simple animal can understand. But men are not animals. Men reason and feel. It's our lot in life, no matter how painful it can be. No matter how you try to rationalize it, Athos, life is complicated. It's indefinable. And it's difficult. You tell me to move on as if it's an easy matter, but it isn't. And it shouldn't be. Not ever."

Athos leaned forward with confident arms resting on his knees. "Then why did you ask me that question if not in search for an answer? You can say it however many ways you like but what you say and how you live are two different things, boy. 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?"

"…do you really think me so simple, Athos?"

It wasn't the question itself that stilled Athos' hot tongue, it was the way D'Artagnan said it, with a kind of loaded resignation that spoke of old ghosts and age beyond his years.

"I wasn't looking for an answer," D'Artagnan continued. "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. I shouldn't have expected anything more from a friend who's good at nothing else."

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but found D'Artagnan already gone. The insult still stung and it hung over him like a dense wet cloud. He cursed that country-bred boy who dared to think let alone say those things to his face. He cursed the fact that Porthos had offered him a place to stay in their lives. He even cursed the day that child ran into him, ruining his shirt AND knocking his injured shoulder into being. That boy caused him pain, that boy uprooted what peace he'd finally been able to sow for himself, that boy…reminded him what it was like to feel…something in a very long time. Once his temper cooled he realized that he hadn't had anything to say to that insult in the first place. Opening his mouth to return it had been instinct only.

Further into the night, when the majority of the men with the exception of the night watch were asleep Athos had regretted his harsh words and coldness. As much as Athos would never admit it aloud he knew all too well that it was D'Artagnan himself that made his days pass easier. Maybe he hadn't been ready for the change, but the older musketeer couldn't very well do anything about it now. And even if he was successful in pushing D'Artagnan away, there was still some damned part of him that was afraid to accept the consequences of that. Damn the boy and his ideals, he was important just the way he was, young and full of enough hope for them all.

Who was he to snuff that out?

At any rate, D'Artagnan hadn't left him-them yet. And it wasn't looking like he would any time soon, which meant some kind of security in their friendship. But it also meant that Athos regrettably had something he still needed to fix. Sleepless as he was he could find no reason to stay in bed so he left his room with a specific purpose in mind. He knew D'Artagnan would be relieving the night guard before dawn. And he also knew how cold those early hours were, how cold it was growing too. It was a simple matter of making sure the boy didn't catch the sickness that was going around.

It was a practical matter that could mean whatever he wanted it to mean.

So when he silently snuck over to the sleeping shivering boy, he laid his warmest and best cloak over him as an apology, because they both knew he would never utter one aloud. He could get by with the other worn cloak he used for easier mobility when hunting. It was a small sacrifice for a big wrong he was trying to rectify, but he was determined to suffer for it. His conscience wouldn't let him know peace again until he did.

That morning saw the poor icicle of a post boy in the infirmary and Athos grumbling to himself after receiving a letter from Grimaud, his family's old servant who he charged with the upkeep of his estate. Mostly he ignored the man's monthly letters, sometimes choosing to burn them without opening just for spite. It wasn't as if the man was intolerable himself, quite the opposite. He was quiet, he rarely spoke, and he was much better at bookkeeping than Athos had ever been. But the man's incessant pleas for Athos to come home and run things himself, sometimes said between the lines, incensed him into such a fury he would shut himself up for days.

Why he was writing a letter to the man now, however, was a different story. Grimaud's two elder sisters had both perished from injuries sustained in an accident on the road, and he was named their beneficiary to settle their affairs. God knew how much the man could do with a leave of absence. For Athos that meant he wouldn't hear from the servant for at least two months, so either way it was a bittersweet blessing for both. Though Grimaud nearly drove him mad at times, Athos never would have wished such a tragedy on anyone, let alone the patient man who he respected alongside his own father growing up. It would take longer for this letter to reach him from La Rochelle and the post wasn't due to leave until tomorrow, but in some matters Athos was nothing but punctual. It was ingrained into him, after all.

Though his mind was otherwise focused, temporarily forgetting about his exhaustion from the sleepless night before, he still registered the sound of someone entering the small room he shared with Aramis and Porthos-both of whom had yet to return from their night duties.

"Athos-"

"Wear it," he said without turning his back to acknowledge the boy's presence. His assumptions were correct when he heard the rustling of fabric and an annoyed sigh. "There's a storm coming," he continued, dipping his pen into the inkwell. "And the temperature's dropping."

"But-"

Athos finally turned and glared. That seemed to shut the boy up, if a bit sheepishly too. He tried not to wince at the bags under the boy's eyes.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said with an embarrassed frown.

Athos waved him off impatiently and turned back to his task to hide his own embarrassment. The thanks wasn't needed.

"Athos-"

"Yes," Athos groaned, and loudly. Would he get no peace this day?

"I didn't mean what I said last night. I'm sorry, if it still means anything."

For a second time, before Athos could turn to face him, D'Artagnan was gone. With that irritating quality about the boy aside, would he never stop feeling like he owed D'Artagnan something? He sat for a long time, long enough to hear the morning birds in the darkness. Frustrated, he tossed the unfinished letter aside and stood up, throwing his other worn cloak around his shoulders to go for a walk. On his way, Aramis joined him and tossed him some bread for breakfast.

"How goes our young friend's attempts to melt your icy heart today," Aramis asked with a teasing twinkle in his eyes.

"Mind your own damned business," he groused, ignoring the smirk on Aramis' face. "Don't you have morning prayers to see to?"

"Just because I choose to still carry the word of God with me doesn't mean I intend on impressing it onto any other lost soul that happens my way. Faith is meant to be found, not fed."

Athos wrapped his hunting cloak around him tighter against the wind. "You were fed once."

"And behold the results. A man of scripture takes up his sword instead to save souls. I have too many uses in life to find peace in just one. Sometimes it's in God, other times it's in man's plain stubbornness."

"There's plenty of that in the boy alone. By now you should have had an earth-shaking epiphany-"

That was when they heard the first shot. When they heard the second one they started moving. When they heard Porthos shouting D'Artagnan's name they ran.

Athos caught up to Porthos first. Men were shouting and yelling for others to get their arms and form some kind of a defensive position to where they could return fire. Athos could hear Monsieur de Treville shouting somewhere behind them, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the guard platform. There were two bodies lying down on it. One was stark white and unmoving, blood dripping down and staining through the wooden planks beneath him. The other…Athos recognized as D'Artagnan (with no small amount of relief) who seemed uninjured but not far from injury any time soon. From the state of the centuries-old mortar and stonework it wouldn't be long before someone got lucky with a musket out there.

What had made him call out to the boy? Was it because he hadn't moved when Aramis told him to? Was it the sorry sight of D'Artagnan's musket several feet away from him, making him practically defenseless? No. It was neither. It was the blank stare in the boy's eyes, the way he twisted his fists in his hair, how low he held his head. All bore the faintest signs of the one thing he thought he'd never see because of D'Artagnan's stubbornness and bravery.

Fear.

And that made Athos angry, furious even. The last thing he ever wanted to see was the one thing the boy had promised never to show. To see it now, when he was a split-second away from getting himself killed because of…his own inexperience at being under this kind of a barrage, at being pinned down with no options left but to put his trust in someone else, was something ten times worse than a sin. Before he knew it he was shouting for D'Artagnan to move. When the boy finally listened to reason and jumped Athos was more worried about restraining himself from strangling the life out of the boy for making…them worry.

But Aramis saved him the trouble by helping D'Artagnan to his feet, once Porthos finally set him down. To the boy's annoyance, Aramis started checking and rechecking him for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"No-"

"You're certain?"

"Yes-"

Athos flung D'Artagnan's cloak aside to pick up where Aramis left off. "What about-"

"I'm fine!" D'Artagnan stumbled out of his reach, waving his arms to bat all three of them away. Then the boy paled at the sight of the hole in the cloak and immediately-to Athos' ire-started to apologize. "Athos, I'm sorry about-"

"It's a damn cloak, boy. It's replaceable." He left the 'you're not' part off, but that didn't seem to help. His train of thought seemed loud enough for even Porthos to hear. And damn that big oaf and Aramis both, they were grinning to each other over the boy's head.

"D'Artagnan," Treville called, making his way over. "How many are there? Did you see?"

"No," D'Artagnan said, ducking his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't see-"

"Alright," the captain sighed. "You four with me!"

D'Artagnan kept his head low to hide his reddening face. Athos lead the boy on with a firm hand on his back, telling himself that he was only looking out for the boy since the shock hadn't fully worn off yet. As they went D'Artagnan's jaw was still tight and his eyes burned with determination despite his hunched stature, but Athos could tell that his proximity to the young musketeer was helping. The further they went the more D'Artagnan was coming around to himself and his surroundings. Athos just hoped he didn't notice him fingering that ominous hole in the cloak that had been so close to striking the boy's back.

Idiot! Stupid, stupid idiot! Why hadn't he looked? Why hadn't he dropped down before Porthos told him to? Why didn't he grab his musket? Why did he just stand there like a complete and utter fool?! He could have seen how many rebels there were. He should have seen how many, but when Monsieur de Treville asked him and he had nothing to say for himself it was the worst kind of humiliation he'd felt since joining the Musketeers. Even letting Rochefort shoot him and take his letter of recommendation didn't compare to this. At least in that case he only had his own welfare to be concerned with.

It was that kind of thinking that not only got you killed on the battlefield, but also your comrades-who in many ways were just as innocent, or more so, than you.

If he had been paying attention Vincent might still be alive. That other boy, Jacques, might still have lived. D'Artagnan had blood on his hands now, blood that felt so much more real than the blood of the enemies he had been forced to kill in battle. The sensations in his fists were so much more real and morbid than it made his stomach churn and his hands itchy to wipe them clean. But to do that would mean to deny his fault in their deaths. Vincent and Jacque had names. They had families, families who would never get the chance to bury their sons, families who would never know why their sons died needless deaths.

But he knew why.

He would remember.

And he might go his entire life without being able to…what?

Apologize to their families? He didn't know who they were, where they lived. He couldn't apologize to either Vincent or Jacques. They were both gone. D'Artagnan looked down and noticed that his hands were shaking, so he wiped them dry on his pants and gripped his sword to hide it. Treville led them into some deep brush just off the road and told them to ready their muskets. Before he could draw his sword Athos pressed one of his small muskets into his hands.

He looked up, confused and still a little doubtful. "You trust me with this?"

Athos readied his weapon but gave pause for one moment to give him the last push he felt he needed to focus. "Don't waste it," he whispered.

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!"

There was a near-silent murmur of assent, and then the captain was making his way to the side. Though D'Artagnan did his best to not look at the captain as he passed, he almost did when Treville stopped next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't turn your back," Treville whispered in his ear. "And make sure they're dead if they fall."

D'Artagnan nodded and tried to swallow past something thick in his throat, but didn't show it. Treville moved on after squeezing his shoulder, and moments later the captain was right. Rebels started trying to move around the back in somewhat organized groups and lines. There weren't many of them, but there were certainly enough for their small company of men. D'Artagnan pulled out Athos' pistol-sized musket and waited for the sound of return fire from the fort. He took aim with the men beside him and waited for the order, determined to see at least two men fall at his hands today.

One for Vincent.

And one for Jacques.

Treville gave the order. After that it was something near chaos. Another group of rebels came in to try and ambush them from behind. Then the front charged them with swords, determined to finish them off. D'Artagnan and Athos drew their own swords at the same time and pushed forward with a handful of other men until they had the rebels on the run. Some stopped and turn to fight. They lost track of Aramis and Porthos along the way, but they continued to drive their enemies back from where they had come.

An explosion nearby knocked everyone off their feet. D'Artagnan looked up and saw part of the wall of the fort collapse. Two rebels ran away in retreat, laughing to themselves and congratulating each other on a job well done. Men all around him were moaning and screaming and all D'Artagnan could see was red. So he charged after them and managed to knock them both down a short hill. He dispatched one and engaged the other in a vicious sword fight. At one point or another he noticed that Athos had fought his way over to him. They worked, back to back until another group of scouts joined in the fray and separated them.

It was tiring work, but D'Artagnan heeded Treville's advice and never turned his back. He refused to acknowledge the pain in his limbs and the weariness in his bones, moving from one rebel to the next without hesitation, knowing that these men-some his own age-would just as soon kill him if he didn't put his full weight behind his sword. When he was finished he denied himself the chance to take a breath and looked for the next threat. And when he found it this time, his legs didn't freeze up. His thoughts didn't slow. His hands didn't fall limp.

His entire body went taut like a bowstring and he shot across the field when he saw one rebel on the ground who was shakily raising a small musket, taking aim at-

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.