Chapter 2

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It felt as if the world stood still, stubbornly refusing to move on as if nothing had happened. Everybody in the garrison yard seemed frozen to their spot, despite feeling the ground shifting beneath their feet, finding it difficult to process the information they had just been given.

Sylvie was the first to move, silently, the shock momentarily numbing her emotions but not her brain. Without uttering a word, she started climbing the stairs to join Athos, disappearing out of sight.

"What?" Constance could barely speak, her eyes still pinned on Aramis. "I mean… How… why?"
Words suddenly seemed like strangers from a foreign country. Nothing made sense at that moment.
Aramis swallowed hard, painstakingly trying to keep it together.
"He was protecting the King and making sure the boy was taken to safety. However, Grimaud made sure Treville wouldn't follow him." The flash of hatred in his eyes when speaking their arch-enemy's name through gritted teeth didn't go unnoticed by the young woman.

The musketeer didn't say anything more. He passed the reins of his horse to one of the cadets standing nearby and disappeared inside the garrison with his look set firmly ahead of him, oblivious to everyone around him. Porthos, speechless and devastated, followed him, dragging one foot in front of the other and his head down.

Constance turned to her husband, who still hadn't moved from his spot. The tears running down his face spoke for him.
"I failed him…," d'Artagnan whispered, with a haunted look. His wife quickly walked over to him and cupped his face with her hands.
"That's not true and you know it!" she insisted. "You were alone against Grimaud and his men; no one would have stood a chance in such-"
"I should have!" the musketeer cried out angrily and darted away, entering the garrison building.

Constance ran after him as he took two steps at a time, climbing to their private quarters. He was blinded by anger, with pain and guilt on his heels. As he burst into the bedroom, he hastily detached his sword from his belt and threw it on the ground, with considerable strength. His hands went into his hair as he, frustrated, paced there and back, almost choking on every breath he took as if someone was squeezing his throat.

"I'm…" his wife started when she stood at the door, struggling to find words. "I'm so…"
"This shouldn't have happened," d'Artagnan interrupted her, still pacing. "This should not have happened!
"D'Artagnan…"
"I underestimated Grimaud. I should have found a better place to hide with the King. I should have been more prepared…"
"You did what you thought best! We all did," Constance tried to stop him feeling guilty.
"It wasn't enough, Constance!" His voice boomed in the room and finally, he stopped pacing, staring at his wife, his whole body vibrating with rage – he was angry with himself, with Grimaud, with the whole world.
"Can't you see? I have failed him! He and Athos trusted me, and I failed them both, and my mistake cost Treville his life!"

Constance was lost for words. The sudden heat in the room dried her throat, but her pained gaze spoke for her.
"This is not about you failing," she said knowingly then. "It's about you losing someone very dear to your heart… Someone who believed in you and gave you the opportunity to do something special with your life."

The anger and frustration in d'Artagnan's features suddenly faded; the fire blazing in his eyes turned to water. His chest started heaving as he scrunched his face and covered it with his hands. His mental strength finally deserted him, and the mask of rage has fallen, exposing the Gascon's true and raw emotions. Constance took a few steps toward him and slowly pulled him into her arms.

"You have notfailed," she said while stroking his hair as sobs finally broke free from his chest. "You never failed him. Even the best soldier can't be perfect all the time. We all make mistakes. Some of us are lucky and can learn our lesson. Others lose their lives. Treville was the first one who would have told you that. He understood that being a musketeer means being prepared to give one's own life for the greater good if needed. The evil that we all have been fighting against is too great… It was not your fault."

Her husband continued weeping in her arms, the dam within him shattered to bits. Constance felt something warm running down her cheeks and squeezed her eyes shut. The lump in her throat appeared suddenly and almost took her ability to breathe. She hadn't expected Treville's demise to hit her so hard, and yet it did; it dealt a heavy blow to her heart…

She had barely stepped away from the altar when her new husband and his comrades had to leave for war with Spain. Over the four years that followed, she had become Madame d'Artagnan, the unofficial leader of the garrison, strong and feisty, both generous and uncompromising, holding the reins on the musketeers' base tight and becoming the rock, especially for young cadets. However strong and resilient she already had been, she needed all the help she could because almost overnight, Paris had become a hungry, unpredictable and untamed creature, often making even the smallest mistake fatal.

It was Treville who, despite his obligations on the Court, offered her a helping hand and had her back whenever she and the garrison needed it most. He was someone she trusted and respected unconditionally and knew she could count on while d'Artagnan and his friends had been away. In a purely men's world, Constance was a woman aware of her place and yet unwilling to slumber in the shadows, passively awaiting her destiny.

"Take the reins, Constance; hold them tight, but remember to loosen them up a bit now and then. Only then can you maintain balance and order."
She did remember, just as she remembered one of the first lessons Treville gave her when she began her life in the garrison. Back then, she was a wife without a husband, a captain without a title, a woman showing strength and perseverance at times when even men often faltered.

"He told me stories about him and my father when they were young," D'Artagnan broke the silence after his weeping subsided.
Constance pulled back, surprised. "They knew each other?" she asked.
"They grew up in the same village." Her husband chuckled, wiping away the tears from his face. "Father never mentioned it, and even Treville told me only once we were about to go to war. He probably didn't want me to think that he would make me a musketeer quicker than I deserved it only because I was his old friend's son."
"I guess your father thought the same when he took you with him. You were so young when you came to Paris…" Constance had a dreamy look on her face, remembering the first time she saw the man she married less than two years later.

"Probably. I had a lot of learning to do. Once I truly deserved my place, I guess Treville didn't see any danger in sharing his memories with me." He smiled fondly. "It only happened once, that night before we left for the war. Remember? We stayed up really long, longer than we should have because we were to leave in the morning."
"I do remember," Constance said, raising her eyebrows, with a smirk. "I couldn't believe Treville would allow you such an unheard-of breaking of discipline. I also remember that you smelt of wine so much that I thought I was sleeping with a wine barrel by my side." She smirked. "Although the wine didn't affect your… bed manners."

He chuckled, tracing her features with his warm, brown eyes. The late afternoon sun rays penetrating the window turned them into pools of honey.
"None of us knew whether we'd ever return… There was a thrill but also sadness in the air." There was melancholy in his look. "I felt torn between the pride of fighting for my country and the thought of leaving you here alone. I had no idea what horrors would lie ahead of us and that I would question many things later."
Constance's only reply was an empathic smile.
"Aramis had left us too, and I couldn't help feeling that everything was wrong," D'Artagnan continued. "That's when Treville joined me at the table and shared wine and his memories with me. He and my father were truly great friends when they were young." He sighed, shaking his head. "And I started connecting the pieces together. All those years when my father used to tell me fantastic stories about the musketeers, their bravery, honour and fight for justice, he was-"
"Preparing you for what he thought was your destiny," Constance finished, smiling.
"We set out to Paris wanting to petition the King, and in the end, I have found my fate in the garrison." His smile widened before slowly fading again.

"You have never really gotten over it, haven't you? You haven't really had the time," Constance inquired softly.
D'Artagnan's eyes filled with water again. He knew exactly what she meant – the death of his father.
"It's been… almost seven years now…" he remarked incredulously, "but no, I don't think I have."

The dawning on his face was a confirmation itself. The past years filled with duty, camaraderie, war and marriage had pushed his old and probably deepest wound into the shadow of his mind. It was hidden but never gone, waiting to be cut open again. The sudden loss of the man who had hugely shaped d'Artagnan's life brought it back to existence. Treville was like a father to him after he had lost his own, the experienced and wise hand guiding him through the winding path of life. There was only one other man remaining now who d'Artagnan held in similar fatherly regard…

"Once all this is over," Constance continued, "once you end this… terror once and for all, you will have time to think, process and heal. And I will be by your side every step of the way. We all will."
Her encouraging smile and glistening eyes made him smile.
"You are the finest woman I have ever known," he said softly.
"You already said that." Constance smirked.
"A long time ago. It never hurts to say it again, especially when it's true," d'Artagnan replied.

Their smiles faded again as they sighed and closed the gap between them. As d'Artagnan rested his cheek against the top of her head, he was brought back in time again – he thought of his first arrival to the garrison, his often exhausting efforts to become a musketeer, to the day when he defeated Martin Labarge and gained his commission from the King himself…

"Well done, d'Artagnan. I'm proud to have you under my command…"

His vision got blurred again so he closed his eyes, stifling another sob. There was one thing he couldn't suppress, though. It was the image that popped into his head again – the smiling face of a man shaking his hand and officially taking him under his wing as a musketeer, but becoming so much more over the years - a man he for the rest of his life would proudly and fondly think of as one of the most just and honourable men he had ever known.

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