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D'Artagnan stood in the center of a bloody battle, his breathing loud as blood – not his own – was on his clothing and on his face, some even in his hair. He looked around wildly as he searched for other musketeers, nearly all of whom made it out of the battle alive, though some of them were injured. The Gascon thanked his lucky stars that Athos, Porthos and Aramis weren't fighting in this battle as they were on a mission. If his friends' were there with him he would have fought with his heart over his head and gotten himself and many others killed.
As he looked down at the convulsing English man down by his feet, he knew it would have been cruel to let the man suffer any longer (despite him being an enemy of France), so he did the only thing possible and brought his sword down on the man's chest, ending the suffering he was going through. He felt guilt weigh on his chest as he looked at all the death and destruction around him. His duty was to protect France, he knew that, but he still couldn't help but feel bad at the amount of killing he had done today. It was either France or the England, an ongoing dispute between the two, but still, they were people too. How many son's had he killed today? How many father's, brother's and friend's had he killed today? They were soldiers too, stuck in a grueling game of chess between the two countries that seemed to be never ending.
D'Artagnan didn't realize he was shaking until someone put a hand on his shoulder; it was gente and dare he say it, comforting? He looked into the face of Treville, who by the looks he was giving the Gascon understood how he was feeling, though he could conceal it better due to years of being a soldier.
“We're making a camp tonight before riding back to Paris in the morning”, Treville spoke softly, in an almost paternal tone, “come on”.
He gently guided the young Gascon away from the dead bodies that littered the floor and away a small distance where some of the musketeers were already making camp. Normally they would travel a distance before making camp but no more English men would be attacking France anymore so they decided to rest where they fought. Not an ideal situation but every man was tired after the battle and their bodies demanded rest.
“Sit”, the Captain said, pointing to a thick log on the floor whilst he sat on one across from him. A warm fire was going in the middle and D'Artagnan found himself putting his hands outward toward it, using the heat to warm up his freezing cold hands.
It wasn't even that cold, but for some reason he was shaking.
“How are you doing?”, Treville asked, looking at the young Gacson carefully.
“Fine”, D'Artagnan replied quickly. It was a lie though, he wasn't fine. He had just murdered more men than he could count and he had no idea how he was going to get over this one. It was his duty to kill men but he wasn't sure if he liked it. With the grief weighing down on him, D'Artagnan was stripped of all his enthusiasm and passion, leaving, in it's wake, a young man who had seen too much death and who had killed too much men. Surely this was not a healthy profession.
“Hey”, Treville said gently, which stunned D'Artagnan more than the deaths had, “how you're feeling right now is normal.”
The Gascon frowned. He wasn't really sure what he was feeling. Of course he felt bad about killing these men, but at the same time he felt angry about them attacking his country and therefore he felt stupid about grieving over these men. Out of everything, however, he felt sad. Sad about killing someones relative or friend. He remembered what it had felt like when he had lost his father and now he had put a son through the same turmoil.
“I don't know what I'm feeling”, he admitted, looking down at his sword with a look of disgust. It didn't feel right to be holding a weapon that had killed so many men.
Treville remained silent for a moment, watching the young man go through different emotions. “Have I told you that I once lived in Gascony?”
D'Artagnan's head perked up so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, “really?”, he asked.
“Yes, my family owned a farm there but when I was sixteen I left to come to Paris to join the regiment. I remember walking into the Garrison with an attitude and a temper that was easily flared up. I got punished many times but I never learnt my lesson...not until there was an attack on the king's life.”, Treville paused for a moment, recalling the memory, “I had never seen so many men storm the palace before, so many assassins in one place trying to end the king's life. Of course they just wanted to kill him to brag about it, but nevertheless me and my fellow musketeers fought side by side defending him and the queen. About twenty musketeers were killed in the process.
The amount of bodies that littered the polished walls was horrible. There was a moment where I wanted to walk out of the palace and leave Paris all together, but I remembered my duty and why I wanted to be a musketeer in the first place. Through all the grief and bloodshed I continued my duties and got on with what I was doing, though I was never the same as I was before. I was no longer loud and proud or did I have a temper. I changed.”
Without realizing it, D'Artagnan had tears in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. Him and the Captain were more alike than he ever realized. “Do you ever regret staying?”.
“Not for one moment. Battle changes people, it changed me but we can choose how we come out of it. We can either choose to drink ourselves to an early grave or we can go crazy thinking about what could have been, or we can come out of it stronger than ever. We can live with what we did knowing that we saved many people's lives tonight. D'Artagnan, let me ask you a question. If you had the option, would you choose to kill five men in order to protect twenty or more that they may kill in the future?”
“Of course.”, D'Artagnan replied back instantly.
“Well then what you did tonight was no different. You killed enemies to save the king and queen, to save everyone that you care for. It doesn't seem so bad to me.”
D'Artagnan sighed, still feeling conflicted. “I don't know how to go on after this.”
“It'll take some time, D'Artagnan, to understand what you did and why you did it, but once you do understand, I can assure you, you will be fine.”
“But how could you know that?”, he was skeptical.
Treville shrugged, “We're from Gascony, we're stronger than people give us credit for.”
After the talk with Treville, D'Artagnan felt slightly better about what he had done. The sadness was still there, as was the anger but there was a spark of hope within him that maybe, just maybe, he could get passed all of this and come out of stronger just like the Captain had. If anyone knew about grief and sadness it was Treville, so D'Artagnan trusted the man's judgement, after all, he had probably been through more than the musketeers had.
With a sigh, D'Artagnan made a make-shift bed a little way away and fell asleep. Though he was plagued with terrible nightmares, he was reassured by the fact that he had saved many people's lives and that was the only thing that had gotten him through the night.