Chapter Text
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Treville
Commitment to the life of a Musketeer sometimes meant great sacrifice. All too often, men went without home and hearth, without a women, without children, the justification for this seen in the security of King and country, in the lives of their brothers. For Captain Treville, however, sacrifice also meant the lives of those men within the brotherhood.
Each time he sent them out on a mission – in groups or alone – he knew in his heart it could be the last time he’d see them. There were dangers on the road that no amount of training could protect the men, and some nefarious acts that no amount of honor could spare them from. When he saw them ride back into the garrison alive – if not always whole – a part of him was able to breathe once more.
Since the moment Grantaire stepped into his office with word on his lips that four of his men were dead, Treville hadn’t slept. Sharing the news with the King that his young cousin was reported dead as well had been one of the hardest moment of his long career as a soldier.
But what had come next was worse.
He’d been ordered to prepare his troops for battle – on French soil – and a soldier follows orders. No matter that he’d sent the youngest in his regiment on a suicide mission after a blind hope. No matter that they were six men down. No matter that his heart had stopped beating several nights ago and he was now a walking shell of a man, learning once more how to move forward with the death of his men on his conscience.
The King had cried. War was demanded. There was nothing for it.
The afternoon they were preparing to ride toward Mortagne, three men thundered into the garrison, calling to speak to Captain Treville of the Musketeers. When they’d handed him the missive, he’d been relieved, but when he inquired why Athos himself hadn’t brought it, he’d been alarmed. Sending three of his men to the King and Cardinal to report the news, he rallied four other men to come with him and they had ridden toward Mortagne anyway.
This time, however, it was not for war. It was for rescue.
They met up with the returning Musketeers and their young royal charge as the day thinned and the hour stretched toward evening. He saw Benoît and his heart beat once more. Porthos’ imposing figure came next followed closely by Athos, though it was clear his Lieutenant was wounded by the way he held his right arm close to his chest.
Last he saw Aramis – the feather in his hat bouncing jauntily with the gait of his horse, belying the drawn expression of the man beneath it – with d’Artagnan held in front of him, limp in his arms. Calling for the men with him to halt, Treville waited until the battered group reached them.
“Report,” Treville demanded instinctively, though what he’d wanted to say was much different.
Athos pushed his mount forward, though Treville couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to the worrisome figure of d’Artagnan, unconscious against Aramis, head handing low enough that his long hair covered his eyes.
“The villain Trousseau is dead. His…,” Athos faltered.
“Bandits,” Porthos supplied.
“His bandits have either been killed or captured,” Athos continued. “And Lesgle is among them.”
Treville brought his chin up, having not anticipated this news. “You’re saying Lesgle is a traitor?”
“I’m saying he betrayed the Musketeers, orchestrated the kidnapping of the King’s cousin, and was party to the near-murder of four other Musketeers.”
“You have proof of this?” Treville inquired.
“Yes,” Benoît spoke up, surprising all men present. “I can tell the King.”
Treville’s nod of assent was more like a bow of respect.
He looked at d’Artagnan. “Will he live?”
“No one has faith in my skills anymore,” Aramis sighed. Athos cleared his throat, and Aramis addressed Treville once more, “He needs rest and time to heal. He was wounded during his efforts to rescue us, and while serious, they are not mortal.”
Treville felt a pain cut through him, looking at d’Artagnan’s young face. The boy was barely past twenty years and he had sent him up against monsters with nothing more than a pistol and some bread.
“He should never have been allowed to leave the garrison,” Treville voiced his assessment.
“Sir, if I may,” Athos countered. “d’Artagnan saved us. If it hadn’t been for him, we would not be here before you.”
Treville lifted his chin once more, unsure if his Lieutenant was covering for the young soldier or speaking in earnest.
“It’s true, Captain,” Porthos chimed in. “He defeated five of Trousseau’s men—“
“Four,” Aramis corrected with a tilt of his head.
Porthos sighed. “Four of Trousseau’s men to rescue us from chains.”
“After he found me,” Benoît supplied, pulling Treville’s own pistol from his cloak. “And provided me with a pistol to protect myself.”
“And then was key in working with us to overcome a dozen of Trousseau’s men in our efforts to get Benoît free,” Aramis concluded. “In short, we are quite grateful to you, Captain, for ensuring he did leave the garrison.”
Treville slid his eyes across the five riders, his heart filled with pride at their report. “As you say,” he nodded. “My only regret is that d’Artagnan isn’t able to hear your words.”
“We can always repeat them when he wakes,” Aramis smiled. “But if it’s not too much trouble, the longer we linger here, the warmer he grows and I—“
Treville held up a hand. “Say no more.” He turned to the four riders with him. “Head to Mortagne, help them clean up from the battle and bring Lesgle’s body back with you. Traitor or not, he was a Musketeer and is our responsibility.”
The men nodded, each tipping their hats to the exhausted riders, and took off down the road. Treville turned and rode ahead of the group, bringing Benoît up to his side and talking with the young boy about his experiences on the ride back to Paris.
It was night when they returned to the garrison and Treville encouraged the men to seek food, rest, and what medical help they required as he returned Benoît to the King. By the time the formalities had been seen to, and his pistol had been, reluctantly, returned, it was nearing midnight. He knew where he’d find his men, however.
He knocked on the door of Athos’ room in the garrison and smiled when Porthos opened to let him in.
“How is he?”
The big man had changed from his heavy studded jacket into a simple shirt and breeches. “He’s taken a fever, but Aramis is hopeful that rest will cure him of it.”
Porthos stepped back and allowed Treville to enter the small room, which should have felt crowded with five men inside, but for some reason simply felt like home. Aramis and Athos were now dressed similarly to Porthos and it was clear that they’d each washed a bit of the dirt and blood that had littered their uniforms and faces earlier.
d’Artagnan lay on Athos’ narrow bed, sheets pulled up to his waist, his chest bare save for the bandage that Aramis was re-wrapping. The bandage that had been wrapped around his head earlier had been removed and his hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty strands. Athos sat on a backwards-turned chair in the corner of the small room, and looked across at him, not standing as he might when they met in official capacity.
“How was he when you told him about us?” Athos asked, his right hand bound with thicker bandages and once more close to his chest.
“He was, understandably, distraught,” Treville replied.
“Had he eaten? Rested?” Aramis asked, sitting on the floor next to d’Artagnan’s bed.
Treville glanced down, shaking his head. “I do not know. Though I doubt it. He manages to complete his solitary rides in half the time it takes everyone else.”
“’Cause he wants to get back ‘ere,” Porthos murmured. “To us.”
Treville nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”
“He has proven his value to this regiment, Captain,” Athos stated.
“Athos, you know, as I do, the sacrifice being a Musketeer requires.” Treville stared at the man, knowing more about the darkness that plagued his Lieutenant than Athos would ever realize. “Are you ready to sentence him to such a life?”
“Yes,” Athos replied without pause. “And moreover, he’s ready for it.”
“He’s the best of us, Captain,” Porthos said quietly, and Treville saw Aramis nod in agreement.
“Let him be the soldier you trust each of us to be,” Aramis implored, his voice a low rumble, weariness dancing around every syllable.
Treville looked at them, each in turn meeting his eyes unflinchingly. He then gazed on the restless figure of d’Artagnan, the young man’s face pulled into a frown of pain. He sighed, letting his worry and heartbreak at the thought of their deaths escape with his exhale.
“You’re all exhausted,” he said. “Go rest. I’ll sit with d’Artagnan.”
“Sir, I—“ Aramis began to protest.
“That’s an order, Aramis,” Treville replied. “One of you can relieve me in the morning. Athos, you can take d’Artagnan’s quarters as you’ve given yours up for the time being.”
Reluctantly, they nodded, each rising and slowly moving toward the door. Aramis gave him instructions about keeping d’Artagnan cool, making sure he took water, and coming to get him if the wound bled or fever spiked. Treville practically pushed the man through the door; he’d cared for wounded soldiers many times before.
Pulling the chair Athos had vacated up next to d’Artagnan’s side, Treville sat, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on his knees.
“How much of that did you hear?”
d’Artagnan’s eyes opened to slits. “How did you know I was awake?” he asked, his voice sounding like crushed glass.
Wincing in sympathy, Treville poured some water and eased the boy’s head up slightly, helping him drink. “You looked to be in too much pain to be sleeping.”
Laying back, eyes closed once more, d’Artagnan confessed, “I heard you come in.”
“Their pride is earned, d’Artagnan,” Treville told him. “You did well.”
“Managed to get myself injured,” he muttered, fever and weariness allowing the young man to address his Captain with more casualness than Treville had heard when they spoke in official capacity. Treville decided to follow suit for the moment.
“Soldiers rarely walk from a battlefield unscathed,” Treville informed him. “Whether it’s a wound that can be stitched or bandaged, or one that no one ever sees, we all carry the scars of battle.”
He watched as d’Artagnan blinked slowly at him, eyes cloudy with pain.
“My father,” d’Artagnan began, then paused as his side pained him enough to capture his breath. Treville watched the young man press a hand to his side, then relax as it passed. “He said that to be a soldier was to lose yourself.”
“You father was a…farmer, correct?”
d’Artagnan nodded, running the tip of his tongue over his dry lips. The lack of fight and stubbornness he’d come to expect from the young Gascon told Treville just how weary his soldier truly was. Treville helped him drink once more, then took a cloth and wet it, gently smoothing d’Artagnan’s hair from his face, and cooling the fever he felt burning there. He talked as he did this, not wanting d’Artagnan to feel self-conscious at having his Captain care for him in such a way.
“Farmers bring life; it is precious to them, as they have it in their power to create and sustain it. And through that power, they can keep others alive and thriving.”
d’Artagnan blinked hard, forcing his eyes to stay open, clearly needing to hear his Captain’s words.
“Soldiers protect life, but in doing so, at times have to destroy it. Each time you take a life – even when there is no other choice, or when death is deserved – it chips away a piece of you. So, in a way, your father was right.”
“How do you get it back?” d’Artagnan asked in a rough, achingly young voice.
“You don’t, I’m afraid,” Treville sighed, cooling the cloth once more and placing it on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “You learn to live without it, or you fill the hole with something else.”
“Like…brothers,” d’Artagnan whispered.
Treville watched as the boy surrendered his fight, eyes fluttering closed, body relaxing into the bed.
“Exactly,” he whispered back, leaning back in his chair and watching the young soldier sleep.
d’Artagnan stirred twice more during Treville’s watch, both times with a murmured dream that pulled his brow low, puckering the gash on his forehead, and causing Treville to quiet him with cool clothes and reassuring words. When the door to the room opened just as dawn's light graced the opened window, Treville was unsurprised to find Athos, rather than Aramis, step inside.
“Aramis needs rest,” Athos explained. “He didn’t sleep once while we were captured.”
Treville stood. “I’m taking you all off of rotation for at least a week.” He glanced at d’Artagnan. “Maybe two for some.” He touched Athos’ bound hand. “It will heal?”
Athos nodded. “Aramis seems unconcerned.” He graced Treville with a rare, half-smile. “And I trust him.”
“As do I,” Treville smiled in return. “He’s been restless, but sleeping,” he said nodding toward d’Artagnan who was once more shifting in the bed. “His fever is down, though.”
Athos nodded and moved further into the room, then paused and put a hand on Treville’s arm to stop him from leaving.
“Thank you, Captain,” Athos said, the sincerity of the words a balm on Treville’s calloused heart.
“The job of a Captain is more than drafting orders, you know,” Treville informed him. “If not for the man beside us, who would we be?”
Athos nodded, his lips almost teased to a smile, then turned and sat in the chair next to d’Artagnan. Treville saw the young man stir, eyes blinking open, clouded with confusion as he worked to focus on the figure next to him.
“Athos?”
“Good morning,” Athos greeted, his voice strong and sure, drawing instant clarity into the young man’s eyes. “Still in my bed, I see.”
There was something powerful about the sound of the human voice, Treville thought as he lingered in the doorway. The emotion caught in that sound could cut through the chaos and drive one forward, a near-tangible reminder that no one is alone in the madness. Athos’ good morning was to d’Artagnan I see you, I know you, I am watching out for you. His Lieutenant may not acknowledge it, but he had a powerful voice. Treville had seen its effect. His voice demanded attention and insisted on action. It compelled men to listen and to believe even when everything inside of them was screaming denial.
“’s good to see you,” d’Artagnan rasped, his smile like a hand grasping the rope that pulled him to safety.
It was painfully evident to Treville, if not yet to Athos, that d’Artagnan’s wounded spirit had anchored itself in Athos, finding the reassurance there that he’d lost when his father had been murdered.
“It’s good to see you, too,” Athos replied, and with that, Treville took his leave.
He remained true to his word, keeping the four off of rotation for some time. Aramis had insisted on d’Artagnan staying in bed for another day before the lad was up and moving slowly across the courtyard to join his friends at the table for breakfast. Unnoticed above them, Treville was able to stand outside his office, leaning against the balcony, and listen to their gentle banter.
That first day, they were careful with d’Artagnan, Porthos ultimately assisting the boy up the stairs to his own quarters with one of d’Artagnan’s arms flung across his shoulders when it was clear he was wearing down. After that, though, Treville watched as they each pushed at each other, slowly at first, testing limits and boundaries, not looking to hurt, but to strengthen.
Athos’ hand took longer than d’Artagnan’s side to get to a point where he could move it without the tale-tell flash of pain crossing his features. Porthos was often times forced to sit suddenly as his head would pain him unexpectedly. And Aramis…well, that surprised Treville.
Aramis’ scars were less from this particular battle than they were from times before; scars from his past left raw and bleeding. He seemed unable to relax unless at least one of the other three were near him. He kept a wary and watchful eye on d’Artagnan as if expecting the lad to keel over at any moment.
It was Athos who kept Aramis grounded. Athos with his stoic expressions, dry humor, and stubborn determination pushed at Aramis to re-engage in a soldier’s life. He began to enforce training sessions one week after their return, setting up targets that they each could hit blindfolded, but Treville saw it for what it was: rebuilding confidence.
Once d’Artagnan was able to move without tearing open his stitches or going white from pain, Aramis began working with him on his sword skills once more and Treville was impressed with what he saw. Porthos worked with the other recruits, getting his strength back by tossing the unsuspecting men over his shoulder – or head, depending on the man – and wrestling with whoever was fool enough to take his challenge.
Athos had become quite adept at throwing knives and wielding his sword with his left hand, but the day Treville saw him grip a sword with his right, he knew it was time to get them back into the fight. The four men were sitting at the table, laughing about some tale Porthos had just finished when Treville called them up to his office from his balcony.
“There is a man in Nice who is in possession of some sensitive material pertaining to the treaty with Austria,” he said the moment they’d entered the office.
Aramis’ eyebrows bounced. “What sort of…sensitive material?”
Treville forced himself to frown, though he’d known to expect that question. “That is none of your concern. Your orders are to collect the man and return him to Paris – unharmed – as quickly as possible.”
He handed the orders to Athos who took them with a nod as Porthos squared his stance and waited for their game plan.
“Sir, if I may,” d’Artagnan said, clearing his throat. “What of my orders?”
“Did I give the impression this was a selective mission?” Treville replied, purposely gruff.
d’Artagnan shook his head, glancing quickly askance at Athos.
“You are a Musketeer, d’Artagnan,” Treville continued, standing and leaning his fists on his desk. “Your orders are to protect King and country,” he narrowed his eyes, “and watch the backs of your brothers. Because without you, they seem to get themselves into a great deal of trouble.”
Aramis and Athos grinned, looking at d’Artagnan.
“Get into more trouble with him, you ask me,” Porthos muttered good-naturedly.
“Nobody asked you,” d’Artagnan returned, his smile lighting up his face.
“Go on, then,” Treville waved them from the office. “These missions don’t complete themselves.”
He watched as the four filed from the room, Athos resting a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, his only sign of congratulations. Treville wasn’t certain how it had happened; new recruits came and left every day. Some made it into the regiment, some washed out, each one giving it their all in the time they were present. But something different had occurred the day d’Artagnan arrived. Something subtle yet vital had slipped into his ranks, and into three of his best men.
He sat at his desk for some time after they’d left, listening to the life outside of his opened window, the garrison living and breathing with the lives of the men under his charge. Men he had to be willing send to their deaths, if necessary. Men he respected and admired. Men he depended upon to do what was right, no matter the cost. They were soldiers, and soldiers follow orders, even to their death. But there were times, he knew, that his men had defied death. When their hearts beat stronger because they beat for each other.
Before, they had a bond. Now, they had a heartbeat.
And Treville suspected that would be their salvation.
END