Ghosts

AUTHOR: Parisindy

DISCLAIMER: No money was received or exchanged.

I do not own The Musketeers or any of its Characters.

This is purely for fun.

Note: the Battle of Rocroi took place well after the TV shows time line. But I wanted a battle for the characters to fight in so

please excuse the historical inaccuracies.

this is a bit of an odd story, hope you enjoy it

Maybe all the people who say ghosts don't exist are just afraid to admit that they do.

Micheal Ende – The Neverending Story

D'Artagnan stood on the battlefield nearly devoid of thought, empty and cold. The Spanish were now retreating, and he could see a few stragglers running through the burnt out vineyards trying to reach safety. Canons still fired, and muskets rang out, but they were a distant din that did not call to him. 'The sky should be red,' he whispered to himself. 'Everything should be red.' But in truth, the world seemed to have lost its joy, colour seeped away, leaving nothing but a grey goulash of shapeless mud and bodies. Even the blood dripping off the end of his rapier seemed to have lost its hue. There is no glory in war, he decided, no victory in the dead man at your feet, just cold misery, and layer upon layer of muted grey. His head hurt, his knee hurt, but more than anything his heart hurt. He couldn't remember how he got here, or why he even existed. Every breath of air, every blink of his eyes seemed all too much for his muddled head to handle. So instead he let his thoughts drift, seeking to escape the horrors of his surroundings.

He dreamt of a place far away, a small house on a hill. The wind rushes over the rocks from the harbor and beats against its walls. After years of abuse, the building leans to the left in a vain attempt to escape its tormentor. You can see through the walls, the salt from the nearby ocean leaves stains on the floor. Soon it just might slide down the hill to the water and float away. Sometimes it shakes, but so far it has stood strong, never allowing the wind to conquer it.

D'Artagnan blinked, the field that once belonged to a farmer and his family, wavered before him once again. The sugar beets and potatoes crops would not grow to be harvested this year, as there was simply nothing left of the field other than bodies and mud. Nothing, nothing… but shouldn't there be something? Or someone? Athos? Athos had demanded they all stay close… his hair wild in the wind, his eyes sharp and anxious. That was hours ago, where was he now? D'Artagnan felt so alone, like some lone gull, circling, looking for land.

Time passed, but he couldn't tell if it had been minutes or hours. At some point his knees had given out, and he had let his body sink to the ground, the wet dirt pulling at him, drawing him down. He blinked lazily looking for birds, but they too seemed to have abandoned him to the darkness. The stars and the moon seemed to be his only companions now.

Seemingly out of nowhere a large hulking mass of a man appeared from the darkness. He was checking the bodies and when he saw D'Artagnan he let out a cry of pain that seemed otherworldly; it rolled across the field like a fog, thick and heavy. Large hands grasped D'Artagnan's face demanding his attention.

'It's me Porthos! Do you know me? I found you, I found you, I found you!' The words bounced around D'Artagnan's head meaningless, but his heart fluttered, he should know. He was pulled up from the mud, it slurped and it clung, but it seemed non-existent to the giant who pulled him up to his chest. The man named Porthos, keened, as tears rolled down his face, the clear water leaving steaks in the dirt and gore that splattered his face.

'I know you,' whispered D'Artagnan, though he wasn't completely sure that he did. But there was something unerring familiar about the dark man before him. He brought back visions of the house on the hill, standing strong and sturdy against the wind. 'I would like to go home now,' spoke D'Artagnan into the man's shoulder. 'Please.'

The man's tears seemed to flow stronger at his words. 'Aye, it's time.'

D'Artagnan let his eyes droop close as he sighed, his breath puffing in the cold air, 'good, because I am so very tired.'

D'Artagnan dreamt, he dream of the house on the hill, but there were colours now. Pale and washed out but anything was better than the relentless grey. The pale sunlight dripped through the cracks and called to him like a warm spring day. He followed his feet, crawling up a staircase that was missing boards. A humming, a quiet song floating through the air, reminded him of friendship and brotherhood, and a small laugh that was as beautiful as yellow butter cups swaying in the wind. Two people, a man and woman; he could feel their joy, their life, their happy energy flowing through the walls like a memory of a lifelong past. As he reached the top of the stairs, their voices grew stronger. He let his hand slide along the weather beaten wood as he walked down the hallway, through the pantry and to a back door. He reached out for the ring handle to open the door that he was sure led to the back garden. He pulled and the door creaked, but would not open. The humming, the pretty soft song started to fade away. 'No!' he cried out! 'Aramis! Don't leave me! Constance!? Where are you?' He shook the door as hard as he could but the pretty little laugh and the comforting music became more distant till it was completely gone. 'No!' he sobbed again.

'Shhh now,' a voice low and gruff spoke quietly. A hand wiped a cloth across D'Artagnan's face, cleaning his tears. 'Just bad dreams, nothing more.'' The cloth moved to his forehead, it felt cool and clean, and the sensation was enough to ground him. D'Artagnan opened his eyes blurrily. Porthos smiled down at him. 'They're ya are.' His lips quirked up, obviously pleased, but there was a spark in the large man's eyes that seemed to be lost. He looked beyond exhausted, haunted and lost. D'Artagnan blinked back at him confused. He had heard voices, where were they? His eyes bounced around the room they were in. No, not a room, a tent, a medical tent. It was lined with cots, men lay everywhere bleeding and dying. His breath caught in his throat. There had been a battle, dark and grey, bodies and death. Porthos, swiped the damp cloth along D'Artagnan cheek again, drawing his attention back 'None of that now, just look at me, don't think of that, the fighting's done for now.'

D'Artagnan tried to speak but his throat closed shut causing him to cough. Porthos put a hand at the back of his head, leaning him forward so he could sip from a small tin cup. He coughed some more but it finally eased. 'I heard Aramis, he was humming, and Constance…'

Porthos' face blanched slightly. 'They're not here lad, but we'll find them soon. I've looked and looked but so far only found you. But we'll find them, just you wait and see.'

'But,…' D'Artagnan started, 'There was a light, and they called to me, but I couldn't go.'

Porthos' eyes turned hard then, 'that's not true, just bad dreams brought on by seeing bad things.'

D'Artagnan would not believe it, 'No, they were here, I could hear Aramis humming, he was here, he was calling for me! But they left and I couldn't get to them.'

Porthos stood up angrily, knocking the stool he was sitting on over, 'No! That's not true and I won't believe it! I will find them! It's not true! Just bad dreams, you're out of your head. I am going to find them you'll see.' He stormed away, leaving D'Artagnan alone once more.

D'Artagnan dream, he dream of the house on the hill, but the colours were gone again. The grey seemed strong now, making the edges of the world seem soft and fuzzy. He followed his feet, crawling up a staircase that was missing boards, a humming, a quiet song floating through the air and a small laugh but they seemed different than before. More haunted, more pained. He reached the top of the stairs and their voices grew stronger. He let his hand slide along the weather beaten wood as he walked down the hallway, through the pantry and to a back door. He reached out for the ring handle to openthe door that he was sure led to the back garden. He pulled and the door creaked, but would not open. The humming, the sad soft song started to fade away. 'No!' he cried out! 'Aramis! Don't leave me! Constance!? Where are you?' He shook the door as hard as he could but it would not budge, the little laugh turned into a sob and the once comforting music started to sound more like a funeral dirge. 'Aramis!' his voice pleaded, 'Constance are you alright? Please, I don't understand. What's wrong?' But their voices became more distant, fading until they were completely gone.

When he woke next, there was a new person beside him. He was sitting on Porthos's stool, but had it tipped back, his feet rested by D'Artagnan's on the bed, but his hat was pulled down over his face and D'Artagnan could hear his breaths come filtering through in soft quiet snores. D'Artagnan studied him, he was like Porthos but not; he should know him. This man was slighter, his clothes dirtied and ripped, he wore a sling across his chest holding his arm tight against the opposite shoulder. D'Artagnan mind flited around inside his head but would not settle on any one memory, but this man, he exuded the same level of 'right,' and 'home' feelings as Porthos had. His brain clicked and whirled like the gears on a windmill, a name finally appeared on his lips and he spoke it even before his brain was aware of it. 'Athos.'

The man gave a start, his chair tip forward and his hat tipped back. A genuine smile flickered across his face for a brief second. 'You're awake then? You had Porthos worried.'

D'Artagnan blinked for a moment as a memory surfaced: Athos had demanded they all stay close… his hair wild in the wind, his eyes sharp and anxious. 'Athos,' he whispered again.

'Are you okay, D'Artagnan? Porthos told me that you did not seem yourself. Though I suppose none of us really are at the moment.'

D'Artagnan felt a bit lost for words as his brain still seemed to refuse to settle on any one thought but he did his best to clear his head. 'Porthos was here and then he left, I think he was angry with me. I heard Aramis and Constance, they were here but I can't seem to find them.'

Athos studied him for a moment then used his good hand and rubbed his eyes and then his face. 'You will have to forgive us both I'm afraid, it's been a long day, nearly two now. Porthos isn't angry, but he is distraught, he said you told him they were in the light. I think he took it to mean you thought them dead.'

D'Artagnan felt even more confused, 'They're not dead, I heard them, and they were at the house in the Garden. I heard Aramis singing, Constance was laughing, heard them!' D'Artagnan could tell Athos did not believe him and he suddenly felt it was very urgent that he did. He tried to rise, to grab his friend's arm when the world suddenly shifted. He had been numb to everything until now, but now there was pain, and colours and starbursts. He cried out from the sudden assault, he felt Athos grab his shoulders and then there was just darkness.

D'Artagnan dream, he dreamt of the house on the hill, it was hard to see now, at nighttime with no candles lit. He followed his feet, crawling up a staircase, his leg sank through a hole that he could not see in the dark. He hissed as the scrap burned his knee. The house was silent other than the sound of his ragged breath. He reached the top of the stairs. He tried to move silently, he didn't know why he felt the need for it, but everything was just still and quiet He didn't feel he should be the one to change that. He let his hand slide along the weather beaten wood as he walked down the hallway, through the pantry and to a back door. And he stood there, a white door with chipping paint, no sun, no moonlight, and no voices drifting through the window above it. Maybe Porthos was right, maybe they are dead, maybe he was, everything seemed so unclear.

He reached out for the ring handle to open the door when a dark shadowed hand reached out and grabbed his wrist. He jumped and tried to back away but the hand held firm. The hand was cold and clammy, like death itself.

'They are not here they are in the garden.' The voice was low and quiet, and familiar.

'Father!' D'Artagnan tried to rush forward but the black shadow dissipated into nothing only to reappear on the other side of him. D'Artagnan turned his back to the door.

The shadow took on a more human shape but still D'Artagnan could not see its face, 'I am not here, none of us are. They live son, you must find them.'

D'Artagnan's heart beat wildly and tears streamed down his face. 'Father, I have missed you! Let me go with you'

The shadow started to fade, 'I am not here, go to the garden, find them.' D'Artagnan rushed forward but it was too late, he was gone.

'No!' he sobbed. 'Father, come back please!' He turned back to the door, maybe if he could just get outside he could find them all, but it too was starting to fade, like some strange mirage on a hot day. Everything was shifting and blending, the door, the walls the, house, the hill, everything fading to grey.

He woke with a start to a loud grating noise. It was not Aramis's humming, nor Constance's happy laugh. But it was familiar.

As the world came into focus he could see the cot beside him with Porthos' sleeping form and that Athos sat in a chair between the two men. When Athos saw that one of his charges was awake he leaned forward with a weak smile, 'I always said Porthos' snoring could wake the dead.' The mirth did not reach his eyes.

'We're not dead, are we?' His own voice surprised him, low and gravelly, like he hadn't spoken for some time.

'Quite the opposite, I am winged at best, and your fever has broken. You took a terrible blow to the head, and your knee is damaged. But you are doing much better now. Still the doctor believes it will be some time yet before you are well enough to be on your feet.' Athos looked at him almost like he expected the younger man to complain but D'Artagnan stayed silent, he was far too tired at this moment to complain. 'Porthos will be fine too, he is just exhausted, and he's been worried sick. Still it took some convincing to get him to rest. It has been a trying time for all of us.' Athos paused, like he wanted to say something more, but couldn't bring himself to do it.

D'Artagnan coughed slightly before asking his mentor, 'What is it? What is wrong?'

'Do you remember what happened? You've been… confused for some time.'

D'Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, in an attempt to sort out his addled memory but apparently it was long enough that he caused some concern.

'D'Artagnan?'

'I'm okay just trying to sort it all out.' He needed a moment to sort out what was real and what was possibly just fever dreams. When he opened his eyes again everything seemed clearer. 'The Spanish had attacked Rocroi, we were fighting for hours. Aramis and I got separated from you and Porthos. Aramis took a shot to his thigh, it was bleeding badly. I hauled him back away from the main fighting, but we were too far from the medical tents. Luckily Constance was there looking for wounded. We were near the old farm house to the west. I told her to take him, to hide. The Spanish were closing in… I don't remember much after that.' D'Artagnan took a deep breath; he could feel his face was wet, and when he looked to Athos his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.

'Athos, please tell me you found them, tell me they live.'

His friend ran his good hand over his face. 'We've been looking for hours…'

Exhaustion was slowly taking hold of D'Artagnan and he blinked his eyes heavily, desperate to keep them open. 'Go the farm house. Look in the garden, you'll find them there. ' He reached out and loosely grabbed Athos' shirt. 'I think you need to hurry.'

Athos gripped his hand for the briefest moment and met his eyes. 'We'll bring them back to you.' He quickly woke Porthos and they were gone.

D'Artagnan blinked once more looking up towards the ceiling of the tent. 'Hurry,' he whispered. 'They are fading to grey.'

When he woke next he could tell considerable time had passed and that things had changed. The sun shone brightly through the flaps in the tent and he could hear birds singing cheerfully in the distance. He shifted his head carefully and looked around. Another man now occupied Athos' chair, it was Captain Treville. With a grunt D'Artagnan started to sit up. It was proper to greet his Captain this way, but the man placed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to stay put. 'Easy now, all is well.'

'Where is Athos, did he find them?' He couldn't help to blurt out, forgetting his politeness with his desperation to know if his friends were okay.

His Captain smiled and it was a genuine. 'They found them, right where you said, hiding amongst some shrubbery in the garden. The doctor has looked at them, they both suffered from exposure and Aramis had lost a lot of blood, but it is believed they will both make a full recovery. It was a cold night and it was close, had we found them any later... I hate to think it might have been too late, but they live D'Artagnan, because of you.'

Weeks passed and they all healed. They had stayed in Rocroi while the cleanup was being done, houses were rebuilt and the dead mourned but now they were getting ready to return to Paris.

D'Artagnan stood looking over the field where the main battle took place. Dreams still haunted him at night and he felt unsure if he would ever be rid of them.

A hand clasped on his shoulder, suddenly startling him from his thoughts. He smiled when he saw that it was Aramis.

'Still jumpy as a new born fawn I see.'

'It's your ugly face that startled me.' D'Artagnan joked back, relaxing in his friend's presence. Aramis laughed out loud and it was the best sound D'Artagnan had heard in a very long time. They stood for a moment and both their gazes shifted to the west where off in the distance they could vaguely see a small house up on the hill.

'Well, I for one will be glad to free of this place.' Aramis turned to his friend, their light mood shifting. 'Do you still dream of it?'

D'Artagnan nodded, 'Yes, but it's different now. I only dream of the door I cannot open.'

'Maybe that is something we can change. Constance is helping to get the last of the wounded ready for travel. We still have time.' The two friends strolled back to their horses where Porthos eyed his two friends curiously. They both still moved slowly and stiffly from their injuries.

'What are you two no-goods up to?'

'I think we're going to go put some ghosts to rest.' Aramis replied hauling his sore body onto his horse.

'You need a chaperon?'

D'Artagnan smiled at his friend. 'Thanks but I think this is something we need to do on our own.'

It took a while for them to finally arrive at the house but as they entered the front door D'Artagnan shivered despite himself. It was exactly how it was from his dreams, which was more than a bit disturbing. No, he had to tell himself. No, this time was different. Aramis was with him. Constance was fine.

'Are you alright? 'Concern clouded Aramis eyes as he watched D'Artagnan closely.

'There are ghost I am not sure I will ever be rid of.' He stepped forward; and he let his hand slide along the weather beaten wood as he walked down the hallway, through the pantry and to a back door. He stood there staring at the metal ring handle, his breath catching in his throat.

Aramis came up behind him and whispered, 'You'll never know until you try.'

D'Artagnan reached out, his hand shaking, but he grasped the ring tightly and pulled. The door creaked, and opened. Light streamed in and he stepped through.

the end

thanks for reading