Beginnings

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: Precarious beginnings of a well-earned commission sends d'Artagnan on a fevered journey where threads of the past join with the present, then reach out to an unknown future.

Chapter Twelve: Home

The sudden downpour of heavy rain ended, leaving the earth sodden; muddy – the smell of wet dirt reminding him of home, the fields of Lupiac – green, lush and fertile. An image of his father, smiling after such a rain swept over him with a sort of joy; replacing the sadness and vision of death that rain usually brought him in the aftermath of his sorrow.

Touching the stiff new leather at his shoulder, d'Artagnan smiled inwardly and knew that in this moment his father would be proud of him and this great, great accomplishment. Closing his eyes, he sensed Alexander's presence and longed for the strong embrace, the kiss at his cheek and the gruff words of "well done".

The phantom warmth of his breath was so real that he sighed and swallowed the lump forming painfully in his throat.

Athos stood silently at his side and he felt grateful for the man's steady company and understanding. His poise and stoic bearing a welcome balm that brought him comfort. He could not have achieved this if not for his tutelage; advice and friendship.

Side by side they stood; shoulder to shoulder in the expansive doorway of the stables. Horses brayed and stomped their hooves as Jacques raced by to settle them down with grain and hushed reassurances. Rays of sunshine reappeared from behind wispy thin clouds; which dissipated and then floated away to leave d'Artagnan feeling light – hopeful and almost happy.

Almost happy.

The injury at his side pulled painfully on bruised skin and when he winced at the discomfort – could hear Constance's rebukes, her rejection of their love and frowned. She had turned him away. Chosen the comfort of married life, money and the materials that came with it – over the adventure that would have been theirs's together.

He grabbed his side and would have let out a sob of pain if not for Athos who squeezed his neck with pride and brotherhood. What would he have done this past year without him? Would he have survived his grief; the ever present hole left behind at his father's untimely death? Continued on this fantastic journey? Or gone back to his father's home and attempted to carve out a life at the mercy of the land?

What if he had never challenged this great man beside him?

Across the garrison yard Aramis and Porthos called out to them with sincere delight; smiles as bright as the warming sun. "Well, there is our new musketeer!" Porthos bellowed, and suddenly his sorrows, rebuked love, regrets all drained away.

"Shall we go and celebrate!" chimed in Aramis, who skirted and hopped around overflowing puddles to not mess his boots with the agility of a cat.

Looking up at his friend, d'Artagnan could not help but smile also, and whispered with quiet awe, "It is true then?" His most reverent dream come to fruition – his commission secured; a true brother now to the inseparables and servant of his King.

"Yes" Athos answered, and together they strode out to meet the others.

Of course the Wren was overcome with excitement. The place was packed and full to the brim with musketeers; recruits and patrons who just wanted to bask in the glory alongside the triumphant regiment of the King's royal guard.

They had won the competition with d'Artagnan as their champion; and he languished proudly in the glow of new found belonging as men pat him on the back with words of congratulations on their lips. Wine flowed freely and the glowing heat from the hearth had him giddy with acceptance and comradery.

Truly he was home.

Jaquez, Marcus and Renard rubbed his pauldron for good fortune; then laughed loud and hardy; complimenting him between drinks on his bravery and skill – teetering on the edge of inebriation. He laughed with them; swiped sweat from his forehead – a lightheaded wave of dizziness sending him crashing down to his seat.

Placing his head in his hands he groaned, took a deep breath and scanned the crowded room, glad to see that a good time was being had by all. Though his own energy level was flagging – the inn itself was at a fever pitch – full of boisterous, rowdy vitality.

Porthos commanded the center table vociferously winning at cards – taking all comers – rubbing his hand together with gleeful anticipation; his eyes alight with mischief – coin growing like tall grass at his elbows.

Aramis- holding a barmaid close to his side – recounted loudly to a group of half-dozen or so musketeers the epic battle with Labarge – stroke for stroke; every man hanging on to each word. d'Artagnan shook his head, and felt the room spin around him. He could feel the heat on his cheeks and neck; and wondered if he were already drunk – his head pounding along with the injury at his side. He reached for the point at his rib and barely remembered Labarge striking a glancing blow as they fought.

When he regained some equilibrium, only Athos – he noticed; amongst all the merriment, sat alone in the back of the room nursing a cup of wine – watching as if on guard. His face – a mask shrouded in aloof control. He wondered what Athos must be thinking. Had his mind fallen on his home, now destroyed; on the Comtesse de Larroque – who he obviously cared for; now gone – banished from Paris, perhaps never to be seen or heard from again?

He understood loss and unrequited love. Could this be why he sat alone amongst the gaiety? Or perhaps it was her he thought of – the wife long dead, now come to haunt him in flesh and blood.

A commotion at the entrance pulled his thoughts away from Athos and his melancholy state. Four Red Guards strode into the lion's den of musketeers with purpose – hands on the hilts of their swords – looking about the celebratory room with loathing. d'Artagnan shivered; touched his pauldron and felt an overwhelming sense of dread close in around him.

Standing quickly to his feet – trouble a dark shroud descending – he swayed unsteadily; and grabbed for the nearby table to right himself. As if on cue – Athos was at his side, and the sounds of joviality; storytelling and laughter ebbed to an eventual halt.

The four red cloaked men stood still amidst the silence and eyed the room with disdain – bodies tense; legs set wide apart, ready for action.

d'Artagnan reached instinctively for his own hilt; but felt Athos' steady hand engulf his and set it aside. All eyes studied the four with curiosity; caution and now sober intent – waiting for a word from their Lieutenant as to what was to happen next.

Stepping forward, Athos held up his hand to stay the room of anxious musketeers from taking action. Collectively men relaxed and the barmaids skittered to the outskirts of the room; while the innkeeper frowned with concern – fearful for this establishment.

"A drink for you gentlemen." he squeaked out, attempting to appease the four. "On the house, my good fellows – in the spirit of keeping the peace." When he received no response, Athos interjected, "If not a drink, then what is it you seek?" His voice a smooth stream- steady; calm and unhurried, contradicting the tenseness in the room.

A young dark haired guard – his features hardened with grief and anger stepped forward to address the room. "We seek to right a wrong musketeer!" Scanning the crowd, his gaze falling on d'Artagnan, he yelled out, "You have sullied the good name of the Red Guard for the last time. We seek retribution!"

A voice from within the crowd countered, "Good name? You speak of the Red Guard? I think not!" And laughter erupted like a tidal wave. d'Artagnan moved to step forward and accept the challenge – but Athos held out his arm; and then grabbed hold of his doublet to keep him still.

d'Artagnan looked to his mentor and ground out through clenched teeth, "He challenges me" – as the laughter around them began to die down.

Athos frowned; stared hard into d'Artagnan's eyes and between them in a moment spoke a conversation of restraint. Reluctantly d'Artagnan broke away from that stare and stood down – the order clear; there would be no duel here today.

"First Monroe wrongly accused and imprisoned, then our good Captain Trudeau – the best of us – dead by your incompetence; and now this – dishonor before Cardinal Richelieu and our King!"

"So you come here, to challenge a room full of musketeers – declared by our King to be the finest of regiments?" Porthos called out standing now to his feet – mirth and incredulous condensation dripping in his voice. Every man nodded in agreement and moved in closer to surround the four.

The Red Guard shook his head with vigor; withdrew his sword from its scabbard – pointed the tip at d'Artagnan and spat out, "No – I call out your champion!" and on that resounding statement the four Red Guard unsheathed their swords as well.

Out here in the cool night air – he felt invigorated; alive and overcome with odd sensations. Standing over his opponent he breathed in and out with such force that his chest shivered; his mouth went dry and blood rushed deafeningly in his ears.

When he took note of his surroundings – Aramis, Athos and Porthos stood behind him on this side street – forlorn, empty – deathly quiet. Their faces were like stone, hard – anticipating what he might do next, and readying themselves.

The three guards hovered nearby, their red cloaks hanging limp on sagging shoulders. Beneath the tip of his sword, lying on the ground, his neck strained; taunt – weapon out of reach, sprawled the belligerent challenger from the inn.

His body tingling with adrenaline d'Artagnan frowned and attempted to get his bearings; until he found Athos' green, granite gaze. He realized then that he had no memory of how he stood here now, victorious it seemed.

Teetering back and away he stumbled over his own feet – staggering to remain upright; tension and rage melting away. His body felt hot and cold at the same time as the cobblestones tilted underneath, as if rising up to greet him. A prick of acid caught at the back of his throat; and he swallowed hard to keep it down.

What was happening? How was he here?

Swiping sweat soaked bangs from his forehead, he looked again to the downed Red Guard as he made to sit up and reach for his weapon. Recovering, d'Artagnan kicked the sword away and held the tip of his blade at the man's heaving chest; swaying – his own legs trembling, about to give out.

Looking into those eyes, he remembered now. The rage, grief and hatred of this man, who had lost everything of meaning, came flooding back. The altercation in the inn, being called out – his own indignation and then….here. The battle itself was a vague hazy episode; a flurry of movement; clashing steel and blood.

He knew such grief – he thought and lowered his weapon to consider. There before him was himself a year ago; angry, hurt – beyond consolation. He had done the same – fought with every fiber of his being to assuage such anguish.

"Do you yield?" he whispered harshly; his voice bouncing off stone, traveling building to building along the desolate street.

The Red Guard sat up then, and reached for his arm – blood dripping freely through fingers and down his shirt sleeve. d'Artagnan reached for his own injury; feeling wetness there and flinched. His body tired, and weary – ready to collapse.

The three others bent low, not waiting for their comrade to concede and lifted him from the ground. Clearly now d'Artagnan could see blood not only at his arm, but also at the man's side; his leg and knew he could not possibly continue. He leaned heavily into his friends as they rallied to lift and carry him off.

As they moved away, the sounds of their boots straining under the weight, d'Artagnan could hear the man's pained retort reach him in eerie echoes. "Remember me musketeer. I am Marcheaux and one day…..one day, no matter how long it takes, I will have satisfaction." And then they were gone, lost among the shadows; Marcheaux's sobs reverberating in the dark, "I will have satisfaction!"

d'Artagnan watched them retreat, dazed; confused – unsure what to do next. A wave of heat encased his body and sapped his waning strength. Knees buckling, he lost all control of his limbs; and began an awkward descent to the street. He would have hit the earth hard if not for Athos who caught him beneath the arms and held him close.

Before losing all sense of awareness – he heard Athos murmur in his ear, "I have you."

The wind blew stiff and woke him from a scattered dream of Constance telling him goodbye, saying that she didn't really love him. A flirtation it was – nothing serious; her skirts swishing along the ground as a door slammed shut in her wake.

His heart was broken.

Standing carefully on the thin ledge of rock, he looked out over the horizon and beyond the lush of billowing green trees he could just make out Lupiac – home; his father's house, nestled within a lovely grove of purple and white wild flowers. Out of the chimney, smoke curled and beckoned him to come.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the wavy haze of his vision, he took a deep breath and looked down below from his perch. There a dazzling blue stream cut a path to where he truly belonged. The pauldron on his shoulder weighed heavy; his heart ached, and every bone in his body seemed to hurt with even the most minimal of movement.

Above him a stringent voice laced with care called to him, "d'Artagnan ….up here! Look this way. Can you hear me? Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" And there leaning over the jagged edge was Aramis; curls whipping about his face – hand out urging him to, "Take my hand, let me help you…climb! God is here with you; and I will not let you go."

But he was too weary to give the effort; so turned away, faced the setting sun and knew that instead of up, he needed to climb his way down to the bottom; find a way across the water and make his way home.

The pain at his side pierced him like a dagger; but he took a cleansing breath and began the climb down; calling up to Aramis – "I am sorry", and let gravity pull him along with rocks skittering alongside him.

The rocking motion was relentless and had him nauseated at every dip and rise. His stomach flipped flopped and with the heat, it had him gagging. Before he could stop himself, he sputtered up bile over the side of the boat; so much so that his ribs hurt from the effort.

Groaning, he lay down in the bottom of the boat and sobbed. He was so exhausted. His stomach rippled with cramps; his throat was parched and the continuous shifting of the boat only made it worse.

A large, cool hand cupped his cheek; and a quiet voice whispered, "Breathe – soon it all will be over, and this will be a distant memory." When he opened his eyes, Porthos was smiling and staring down at him with good natured warmth.

Pulling himself up to sit, the boat tilted slightly to the right and with a death grip he held on to the side as Porthos made his way to the bow. A single white sail fluttered above them; stood out starkly against the azure sky, and off in the distance he could see the foamy shoreline. Soon the gentle to and fro no longer churned his insides; and Porthos' solid presence eased his queasy stomach and calmed his nerves.

Together they traveled the stream that led to home.

"Thank you Porthos", he croaked; eyes pooled with gratitude. The big man passed over a skin filled with water and nodded for him to drink up. Fresh water – cool and crisp quenched his thirst and with a relieved sigh he drank it all with fervor.

Looking toward the shore a sense of happy anticipation engulfed him. Soon he would be at his father's house; and there was nothing he wanted more than to walk the land; sleep in his own bed; and have the company of Alexander d'Artagnan.

The boat languidly sailed along and d'Artagnan could feel the worry cascading from Porthos to meet him like crashing waves. "I'll be alright", he promised as the bottom hit sand and pebbles. Jumping out he looked back just in time to see Porthos drifting away – the ebb and flow pulling him back the way they had come.

And as he waved his goodbye, eager to turn and find the road home, Porthos called out to him, "Won't you stay?" and before he could reply, a thick fog rolled in; obscured his vision and all he could make out then was the lone sail – catching what was left of the evening breeze – before it too was lost to him.

Alexander met him at the gate; pulled him over the threshold onto d'Artagnan land; and hugged him with joyous abandon – lifting him fully from his feet – as if he were a child again. d'Artagnan embraced him back – long; hard and with tears in his eyes.

He was home.

His father's warm kiss at his cheek had him flushing red with pride. When he pulled back and touched his hand to the fleur de lis, d'Artagnan stood tall as if at attention. The gruff voice of his father bellowed out, "Well done". He let out a sigh of relief and fell back into his father's protective hold. All his worries lifted from his chest. Now he could breathe easy; and rest.

The wind from up here flew by in swift swirling gusts. So strong, it captured his breath; lifted his hair and cooled his hot skin. Out beyond these fields; past the fence – he wondered how fared Paris, the garrison, Captain Treville; his King who named him champion and ….Constance.

The stream from here was not so far, and Porthos – steady; calm Porthos came to mind. His good heart and kind nature a soothing wave of wellbeing he missed greatly. And then there was Aramis – out there somewhere atop the ravine; waiting with his faith to hold him up and pass on his strength.

Squinting hard against the breeze – down past the wild flowers and outside the gate, he could just make out a man standing with hat in hand; self-possessed, patient and still. He looked familiar and for a moment thought it might be Athos come to persuade him to return, and take up the pauldron.

"Athos?" he called out against the wind, but the man did not answer and so he thought he must be mistaken. Leaning his back against the bark of his childhood tree, he marveled at the magnificent sight that was home. Everything seemed ten times as beautiful; twice as bright – better than he could have ever imagined it. The weather was perfect; the sky pristine – the clouds whiter that white. He was happier than he had ever been in his whole life. Yes – he would stay here with Pere, work the land; marry a girl who loved him, and put his fanciful dreams aside.

From his favorite branch – he could hear his father yelling up to him, "Come down Charles from this blasted tree!" – a familiar chastisement that had him fondly chuckling with humor.

"There", he pointed down toward the gate. "You have someone here who waits. Go and greet him."

Suddenly with his feet now on solid ground he studied his father's face with concern; and countered warily, "Who is that waiting?"

"Someone I think who wants to take you back where you belong."

d'Artagnan turned to protest, but a firm hand on his shoulder stayed the outburst on his lips. "Charles – I am glad to see you; and you have made me very proud. To see you this way – brave; honorable; valiant does my heart good. But now it's time for you to go."

d'Artagnan felt the earth shift beneath his feet; and his father's gaze bore through him like fire. "You know this to be true."

And when he turned to dispel such a notion; to scream out that he did not wish to leave; that he must stay and wanted more than anything to never leave his side again- the wind changed course and he could truly see beyond the rose color that his father's home was charred with no plank left standing; his beloved tree toppled – the fields black and scorched.

His eyes now open – he wept openly with tears of sorrow, regret and loss.

With a gentle kiss on his temple, his father turned away and let the mid-morning mist encompass him. Over his shoulder, he called, "Be well my son – we will see each other again." d'Artagnan stood motionless; bereft alone at the gate. No, that wasn't true; there was Athos here watching him – his gaze afraid; apprehensive.

d'Artagnan studied him back, knew without words what Athos asked of him; and could not deny him. With a final look back, he murmured, "I love you Pere", and followed Athos beyond the gate closing it firmly behind him.

Together they traversed to the stream without a spoken word between them. At the water's edge they sat to wait side by side upon a boulder of stone. d'Artagnan sighed and felt heat rise up from his belly and said, "I am tired." Athos shared his water skin; removed the scarf from his neck and wiped sweat from his brow – his hands trembling; fearful of some unknown d'Artagnan could not fathom.

d'Artagnan grabbed hold of his wrist; smiled and asked, "Why are you afraid? I would gladly follow you anywhere." Athos searched his face, looking for what; he did not know and would only reply, "Rest."

When next he was aware the gentle to and fro of the boat woke him and as he made to sit up Porthos reached down to keep him still – "Quiet" he fondly fussed, and ruffled his sweaty hair. Pressure at his hand had him turning to see Athos with them in the boat, his face a myriad of emotions that made his stomach churn with anxiety.

"Everything is okay." Porthos pledged and squeezed his neck lightly.

"Rest", Athos added – and so he did.

At the bottom of the ravine his legs wavered; his heart hammered in his chest and he wondered aloud, "I cannot make it…can I?" But Porthos and Athos lifted his arms over their shoulders and held him up. "This is a piece of cake!" Porthos exclaimed with determination and up above Aramis leaned over the edge and yelled, "Come on now – I've been waiting here long enough."

And then they were, the three of them, traveling up, and up over slippery rock and sharp pointed edges with Aramis giving direction; soothing words of encouragement and sending prayers of good fortune their way. All the while Athos whispered, "Rest" – so he placed his head in the crook of the man's neck; sighed with relief and did what he asked without question.

When last he came to himself - his father's gate, the winding gentle stream, and the impossibly difficult climb up the ravine faded slowly away as if they were a farfetched unlikely dream. Replaced now with the infirmary – he laying on an uncomfortable cot; his body wet and sheets soaked through.

Surveying his surroundings, he frowned, attempting to understand why he was here. Nearby with the window open, a cool breeze floated in to dry his skin; and he shivered.

Suddenly Aramis appeared above him; and pushed wet plastered hair from his brow. "Your fever has broken", he surmised with a smile. "We have been waiting for you and it is good to see you." He moved away then to fetch water on the stand.

As he turned his head, Porthos grabbed his shoulder – the cup ready with water to squelch the dryness of his throat. "Here", he offered, and lifted his shoulders and head from the pillows with little effort. He drank heartily and sighed with contentment. "I told you yeah… a piece of cake; and here you are."

When he finished the cool satisfying water, Porthos laid him down with gentle care, and there at his side Athos sat, holding his hand in a vice like grip.

"You came for me", he rasped out and coughed to clear his throat.

"Yes", Athos assured, his voice cracking with emotion; and moved close to kiss his temple just as his father had upon letting him go. "We will talk tomorrow."

"So sleep", Aramis interjected, "and when next you wake the three of us will be here."

So, d'Artagnan drank in their presence, the three musketeers – truly his brothers now; and felt the grip of Athos' hand now at his elbow – rubbing soothingly to guide him down to sleep. He turned to his side and as he opened his mouth to inquire of his prized possession – saw that his pauldron lay close by within his reach.

He was a musketeer now. The future unknown but gladly welcome.

Thank you for reading! I apologize for such a long delay, but hope that you enjoyed the chapter. Please review and let me know what you think. (By the way, this chapter is a continuation of a chapter written for one of my stories, 'A Moment'.) Comments are most welcome!