In Restless Dreams I Walked Alone - theredwagon

This is an AU story that takes place between season 2 and 3, when we don't know if the others had been able to convince Aramis to go to war with them. In this story, he does. I did very little historical research but the Musketeers would most likely have been sent north during the first few months of the war and at some point begin to take heavy losses from Spanish lighting attacks, before managing to push the Spanish back towards the Northern border, keeping them out of Paris. The time line and exact locations are not historically accurate because this is fiction and I am taking artistic license and all that. The title of the story is from the song "The Sound of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkel, no disrespect intended.

Disclaimer; No money being made, no harm intended.

Summary; D'Artagnan struggles to prove his worth, to the regiment and to himself, as the Musketeers march north in the first few months of the war.

Chapter 1

D'Artagnan's first kill in battle was like nothing he had ever expected.

In this duty as a Musketeer he'd had the unhappy fortune to have injured or killed more men than he could ever remember. Those first few months in Paris, he'd kept a tally, for the confessional, scratched on the wall behind his bed in Constance's home, and later in his quarters at the Garrison. As time passed though that tally began to weigh so heavily on his heart and his conscience that he could no longer continue to mark the deaths he was responsible for, not even if it meant the damnation of his immortal soul.

The first man d'Artagnan had killed in battle was not a bandit or a traitor or a mercenary; he was not someone who had charged at d'Artagnan with a bloodlust to kill him for monetary gain or some warped sense of honor. The first man he'd killed was probably no older than 18 or 19, his uniform noticeably too large on his thin frame, the beard on his face no more than a few straggly hairs on the youth's chin. But it was the look in his eyes that would haunt d'Artagnan for months to come. The boy was terrified. He was no seasoned soldier fighting for king and country by choice; he was most likely some boy from a farm, much like d'Artagnan himself, pressed into service against his will and against his conscience. Regardless, d'Artagnan simply had no choice, not when the boy raised his pistol with trembling hands and aimed at the Gascon's head, sweat rolling down his sunburned skin, his face twisted into a horrified mask of indecision and terror. D'Artagnan swiftly shot the boy at close range, ensuring the younger man a quick and merciful death, before he could so the same to him or one of his brothers.

At the time, it had seemed as if everything was moving in slow-motion; The boy raising his pistol, d'Artgnan shooting him and watching the boy's body fall, it seemed to take hours instead of seconds, and by the time he'd recovered his wits, another man was charging him, not a boy but a man; an angry, bloodthirsty man who managed to take a swipe at d'Artagnan's left arm with his sword before the Gascon ran him through with his own. After that, the battle continued for at least half a day, Athos periodically calling for his men to retreat and regroup before charging once again, the older man's voice hoarse from screaming orders on the hot, smoke-filled battle field for hours on end.

That had been in June, just a few weeks after d'Artagnan had left Paris and his new bride behind him for what would end up being a four year span at the front. It was now 5 months into that long stretch of time, and in his worst nightmares d'Artagnan could have never imagined that they'd be fighting for years and not months, not when they'd left the Garrison so full of false bravado and determination to send those Spanish bastards back to their King with their tails between their legs in no time.

To say that their first summer had been difficult would be an understatement. The summer had been hell, if hell had swarms of mosquitoes, vile diseases of the bowel, festering wounds that would not heal and a pit of amputated limbs buzzing with green flies and occupied by starving rats. D'Artagnan had experienced disease and death before, but certainly not to that extent or level of misery. They often went hungry, sometimes without enough potable water, and they hardly ever had enough medical supplies. But at least in the summer they could wash their clothes and bathe. The days had been warm enough to immerse their blood and grime stained bodies in the lakes and streams they encountered on the march north, but the weather had turned on them quickly and from September and on, the further north they marched, the colder it became, forcing them to make do with dusty clothes, wet rags and buckets of freezing cold water.

It's November and the countryside looks barren, and it's colder in the north of France than most of the men are accustomed to. The Musketeers' camp is halfway between General DuBois headquarters, a half hour's ride to the south, and a few leagues from the closest Spanish regiment to the north, a precarious position, no doubt, but it is territory hard-gained and the General will not give it up. Their location is the reason for their frequent skirmishes; Spanish scouts and patrols grow bolder by the day as they try to gain territory further south, their goal eventually, to reach Paris. Earlier that week, Aramis, - coaxed out of his self-imposed exile when they'd reached Douai in July - had taken on the role of the regiment's medic after the death of their previous medical officer, a man who had been an actual physician. With no other suitable candidates to take the physician's place, the job had been impressed upon Aramis despite his protestations that his skills were limited. But the General hadn't cared enough to listen to his concerns and now, just a few days after being appointed medic his shirtsleeves were stained up to his elbows by the blood of at least a dozen young soldiers, d'Artagnan's included. The young Gascon had taken a slice to his thigh and despite the fact that it hadn't needed stitching it still needed cleaning and care, as Athos had insisted angrily, when d'Artagnan had waved it off as 'a scratch'.

In the Captain's tent, the only one large enough for them to congregate aside from the mess tent, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and a dozing d'Artagnan have gathered to discuss the early morning skirmish that had been the cause of d'Artagnan's injury . The three older men sit on empty powder barrels, washed free of their dangerous black dust and commandeered by d'Artagnan for that very purpose. There is a larger wine cask they use as a table and the younger man often bemoaned the fact that his ingenious furniture would have to be left behind the next time they break camp. On the ground, wrapped in his cloak and with his doublet as a pillow, the boy himself dozes fitfully, wiry frame shivering now and again from the cold. Athos takes the rough blanket off his cot and covers the younger man with a tired sigh.

"I told him to use my cot," Athos says flatly, "and he declined because his uniform is filthy… as if mine is ever clean."

"I'll take the cot if he won't," Porthos says with a wide grin but the big man doesn't actually make a move from his perch on the barrel.

"Aramis…the injured?" Athos asks quietly, being mindful of their youngest, who will have no choice but to fight the following day, injured or not. At least if he gets a decent night's sleep the odds will lean closer in his favour.

"Fourteen, but no life-threatening injures for the moment, providing they manage to avoid infections, only a few are actually still in the infirmary."

"And the lad?" he asks, concerned, indicating their sleeping comrade on the ground between them.

Aramis grimaces. "No stitches, but it pains him, I could tell by his movements this evening," the medic notes unhappily.

"Yes, well, there's not much I can do for him, if he can walk tomorrow he will have to fight, we are already spread thin," Athos tells them regretfully. "A quarter of our regiment is gone and we've only been away from Paris for five months. I can't imagine how we will survive the winter at this pace," Athos says, his expression fraught with worry.

"Well, if we filled our ranks with all of those generals and so-called officers watching the war from atop their horses, using their spyglasses and drinking wine, we'd be able to take out the Spanish twice over," Porthos tells them angrily. "They've got proper beds in their tents, did you know that? And the lad's sleeping on the freezing ground with a nasty gash in his leg, as are another 13 injured men! I've never questioned my duty, Athos, but to say that I'm frustrated would be an understatement," Porthos spits, thoroughly disgusted.

"Brother, everything you say is God's own truth but you know that there is nothing to be done about it. We are Musketeers, Porthos, paid soldiers, enrolled in this regiment voluntarily, with an oath to put our King and country above all else. It's not as if we didn't know the way of things," Athos reasons, though he certainly shares Porthos' sentiments. On the ground, d'Artagnan stirs and Aramis kneels beside him and touches his face and neck. "No fever for now," he tells Athos and the medic shakes him gently.

"D'Artagnan, come on, lad, time to sleep."

D'Artagnan groans. "I am sleeping, you fool," he replies churlishly.

"Yes indeed, but your bedroll in your tent is considerably warmer and slightly more comfortable. Would you like Porthos to carry you?" Aramis asks innocently.

"NO," the younger man replies forcefully, and he turns to Athos to help him to his feet. The Captain checks the younger Musketeer himself for any signs of fever, only to have his hand slapped away by an annoyed d'Artagnan.

"Why are you all pawing at me? I'm fine, it's just a scratch."

"Pawing at you? That sounds rather naughty, lad, should I even ask?" Aramis questions cheekily.

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes, collects the weapons and turns to leave. "Do we have orders yet Captain?"

Athos' mouth tightens. "Unfortunately, yes. The General has decided he's had enough of the surprise attacks on our camps, we are to launch our own tomorrow. You'll take nine men and make your way towards the Spanish camp two leagues north of here. You leave tomorrow at dusk, our main objective is to take out their powder and damage their supplies. The three of you will be in charge with Aramis taking the lead, and I expect you to make our regiment proud."

"Don't we always?" Porthos says and puts an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders, steering him towards the tent flap. "Come on, lad, we have a nice, freezing cold tent waiting for us," he says and he tugs the younger man along with him. Athos watches as d'Artagnan follows with a noticeable limp, but the fact that he doesn't appear to be fevered or in any inordinate amount of pain is a huge relief.

"If I may take my leave as well, captain," Aramis says, settling his hat over his unruly dark hair, "I need to check on my patients."

"Get some sleep, brother, tomorrow will be difficult, most of the men have never taken part in a raid of this kind before, best to be on your toes," Athos says.

Aramis nods knowingly, worry creasing his brow, but he remains silent as he departs. Orders are orders, and the Musketeers have long ago learned it's not their place to question them.

When he is alone, Athos strips off his weapons and his boots and instead of sleeping as he has encouraged the others to do, he spends the next few hours worrying about everything that can go wrong with the General's plan.

It takes Porthos a good quarter of an hour to get d'Artagnan to cooperate, the boy tiredly resisting Porthos' attempts to get him to remove his filthy clothing, mostly so he can mend the tear in his leather breeches and sneak a peek at the bandage under his drawers. To his consternation, Porthos sees fresh stains on the shredded linen on the lad's right thigh where he'd bled through his bandages and he hands d'Artagnan a clean pair of drawers from his saddle bags with the threat to take off the torn, bloodstained ones him himself if he doesn't comply. Cursing loudly, d'Artagnan has no choice but to obey. Once he's redressed in clean undergarments and moth-eaten shirt he wears to sleep, Porthos practically manhandles him to the ground and onto his bedroll where he pulls up the lad's knee-length drawers to get a look at the slash on d'Artagnan's thigh. Grumbling, the older man finds some bandages and a flask of brandy in his saddlebags and he quickly sets about cleaning and re-wrapping the lad's injury.

"Why are you such a mule-headed child?" Porthos grouses, removing his weapons, belts and doublet. He finds a needle and thread in his saddlebags and sitting on his bedroll he careful begins to stitch d'Artagnan's breeches as well as he can with the meager light from the lantern beside him.

"Why are you such a worried old hag?" d'Artagnan retorts, huddled under the rough, military-issue blanket they've each been allotted. Even in the semi-darkness of their tent, Porthos can see that all is not right with the younger man.

"Because you never watch after yourself, you seem to think your invincible, swords and pistols can't fell the mighty d'Artagnan," Porthos says with thinly veiled anger. "I've been sorely tempted more than once to put you over my knee, like a naughty child."

D'Artagnan lets out a hearty chuckle. "I'd love to see you try, Auntie Porthos. You know, you do resemble an old auntie of mine now that I think of it, especially with that needle and thread and your mock-stern expression, yes, it's uncanny, aside from the beard of course," the lad teases, laughing at his own anecdote, "Although I do remember her having a few dark hairs on her chin."

Porthos finishes his sewing and throws the breeches across the tent at D'Artagnan. "You're welcome," he says, putting the precious needle and thread back in their place in his bag before snuffing out the lantern.

"Thanks, brother," the lad tells him sincerely, his voice soft in the silence of their shared tent.

"D'Artagnan, you promised Constance you would return. I was there, you swore to her that you would do everything in your power to make it back home in once piece, what's changed?" Porthos asks, gravely concerned for what he sees as d'Artagnan's flippant attitude towards his own safety.

Porthos can hear the other man moving about, and a loud hiss follows as d'Artagnan tries to sit up. "Why do you think I don't care?" the lad asks, sounding indignant.

"Because you're first in the fray, last to be tended to and you hide your discomfort and your pain as if you feel the need to suffer in silence."

D'Artagnan lets out a snort. "Did it ever occur to you that I have no choice in the matter? That although I have been raised to a position of authority in this regiment that the other Musketeers still look at me as a green boy? You and Aramis and Athos have proved yourselves to them a thousand times over, these men expect me to do the same or else they will not follow me," the younger man explains carefully, his voice wavering with the uncertainty that he has just confessed to a surprised Porthos. "The first sign of weakness and I will be the laughing stock of the regiment, the boy dressed in his father's clothes, pretending to be a grown-up."

Porthos is silent. He hadn't even considered that the lad would be feeling this way. He'd always seen d'Artagnan as an equal, literally from day one, and the boy had achieved what the rest of them had over the course of a decade in just two short years. He was more than worthy of a position of authority in their regiment, but he could understand why d'Artagnan would feel the need to prove himself to the others, most of whom were older than him by years.

Porthos sighs and pulls his blanket up to his neck, the cold seeping into his bones from beneath his bedroll and through the flimsy canvas walls of their tent. "Alright, I respect your answer, but amongst us, when it's just the four of us, you don't need to always have your guard up, d'Artagnan. You can feel pain and weakness and exhaustion and the rest of us will think no less of you for it. I've heard what you've had to say, but this is the last time you keep something important for me, from us, are we clear?"

"Yes, mother," the lad replies and Porthos feels himself relax somewhat.

"Now I want an honest answer; is your wound paining you? Do you feel sick or feverish?"

He hears d'Artagnan sigh and settle back into his bedroll. "Some pain, yes, but it's manageable. I'll have Aramis look at it first thing, alright?"

"Agreed, we'll go together, I'm not sure if I trust you fully just yet," Porthos says with a yawn.

"Porthos?"

"Yes, lad?"

"I've never actually led a raiding party before," d'Artagnan admits.

Porthos feels his chest tighten. "I know, but it'll be the three of us together and you'll be fine. Most important thing to remember is that the men must follow your orders, so just keep up what you've been doing, I know for a fact that more than one man is afraid of your wrath," Porthos says, chuckling.

"Really, who?" the younger man asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Well, Lacroix for one. A few weeks ago, when you were having a go at them over missing supplies, that boy was shaking so hard in fear he literally took two steps back when you approached him, it was hysterical."

"Surely you're joking."

"On my mother's grave, he looked ready to shit his pants…or cry, maybe both. And Bonet; I saw him cross himself once when you passed, said that your must be the 'actual spawn of the devil' to be so unafraid of the Spanish, his exact words."

"Now you're definitely having me on, Porthos, that's absurd," d'Artagnan scoffs.

"I'm not, I swear. Look, don't worry, just give clear orders and make sure the men know who's in charge, everything will be fine."

"Of course it will," the lad says with confidence in voice, a loud yawn following.

"Bedtime now, I still might put you over my knee, you know."

"Promises, promises," d'Artagnan says and Porthos can't help but laugh.

There's no further sound from the younger man and Porthos assumes he has finally fallen asleep. They are all equals, in battle they rely on each other completely and they've never once shown any special deference to the lad, no need to since he is fiercer than any two soldiers put together. Hearing him voice his insecurities is somewhat jarring. It was easier for Porthos to think he is reckless and careless than to worry that the younger man doubts himself. But at least now there will be no more hidden injuries and the lad no longer needs to keep his worries and fears bottled up and to himself.

At least, that's what he hopes, Porthos thinks, just before exhaustion pulls him under and puts an end to his worries for the night.