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English
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Part 20 of All For One and, well, you know the rest... , Part 7 of All For One At War , Part 7 of All For One Correspondence
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2018-09-25
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Directions (French War Camp, 3 March 1636)

Summary:

If he’s honest with himself, he gets a kick out of watching Athos lose his temper. With other people, obviously. And with toffs in particular.

“Now look here!” one of them, red-faced old sot that he is, blusters.

“Kill tallies,” says Athos, clipped and dark, finger pointing at a report. “Positions captured,” he points again. “Prisoners taken,” and again. “Mortality rates,” and his voice doesn’t even quiver. “The numbers speak for themselves. And you want to send them out like common cannon fodder,” he spits, elegant as a rapier, black-clad body half-turned as though they’re barely worth his attention.

*

Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).

Notes:

Embedded letter images will have a text version in the end notes.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

If he’s honest with himself, he gets a kick out of watching Athos lose his temper. With other people, obviously. And with toffs in particular.

“Am I to understand…” and of course he starts slow – the first rumblings of icefall before it buries every fool in its path.

“Listen, Captain…” Amateur error.

“No, sir, you listen to me.” There he is.

“Captain–” he murmurs, but he’s already lost, he just doesn’t know it.

Athos rides over him without a flicker. “I have been given command of these men because they trust me, and because I trust them. I trust them because I know them, and I’ve trained near half of them, personally, in their craft. These are not simply bodies you’re throwing at a problem, as though that would not be obscene enough, but craftsmen, soldiers unlike any you’ve ever seen before, worth twenty of any men in any other regiment you care to name!” His eyes are as blisteringly winter-bright as Porthos has ever seen them.

“Now look here!” one of them, red-faced old sot that he is, blusters.

“Kill tallies,” says Athos, clipped and dark, finger pointing at a report. “Positions captured,” he points again. “Prisoners taken,” and again. “Mortality rates,” and his voice doesn’t even quiver. “The numbers speak for themselves. And you want to send them out like common cannon fodder,” he spits, elegant as a rapier, black-clad body half-turned as though they’re barely worth his attention.

Porthos wonders if he knows what kind of picture he paints, just in himself, when he brings the full force of his upbringing, training, intellect, and dammed-up passion to bear on the unwary.

“We’re well aware,” smooths a new voice, “of your uncommon regard for your men, Captain.” And some oily git steps forward now, exactly the type who’d like to get a sly and dramatic point in at such a moment, and Porthos has the greatest difficulty not rolling his eyes, has to close them for a long blink, in fact.

“Sir,” says Athos, “my respect for my men is what brings me here. However, I am equally ardent in my desire that you should not prolong this war by a matter of years for want of acceding to a simple request for–”

“But is it simple, Captain? Really?” And Porthos can feel his fists itch.

Which is why Athos is the Captain, obviously, though he spots the merest flinch in the gloved fingers where they’re held behind his back.

“Yes,” says Athos, and Porthos catches his breath, abruptly glad that he’s never persuaded Athos to a game of cards. “You, all of you,” and he turns his head without once losing eye contact with this gimcrack, “have the opportunity now to turn the tide of this battle by the simple expedient of refocusing the troops of these three regiments,” and he lowers his gaze at last, sweeping all of them down with him to the map on the table between them, splaying and swooping his fingers to paint the picture, “here, here, and here. Anything else is not only dishonorable, but a waste of men and resources, something you, no doubt, would need to explain in full to Minister Treville.”

A dangerous silence follows these words, and Athos raises a face of the most limpid simplicity Porthos thinks he’s ever seen on him right up into it, then steps back and folds his arms, and Porthos wants to shout with laughter.

“How did you come to this… conclusion?” asks Oily, and Porthos thinks his name might be Phillipe de Something-or-Other.

“The Spanish gather troops here,” says Athos, scooping imaginary enemies into ambuscade. “They’ve been hard at work, in secret, building hidden fortifications and supply trains, digging in.” A hard, black leather finger, pressed straight into the map. “If we do as you suggest,” and Porthos sees at least one Marshal’s jaw tighten on this word, “it’ll be a massacre. Of us,” his tone barely hinting at the notion that these dignitaries are particularly thick.

“And where did you come by this intelligence?” And it’s still Phillipe de Loves-His-Own-Voice doing all the talking for that side.

Athos’s smile is tight but – if you know him as well as his brother does – triumphant. “In the usual fashion of Musketeers, my lord.” He gives them two beats, and Porthos just knows that at least one of them is working up some witticism along the lines of “What, by starting brawls in taverns, wah-fwah-fwah?!” when Athos says, quietly, like a man laying down three kings: “I sent men behind the lines to gather the information directly. It’s all in my report,” he adds, mildly, eyebrows rising slightly, open hand gesturing elegantly at the pile of reports, and Porthos wants to applaud.

“And the men who gathered this information,” says Phillipe de About-to-be-Handed-His-Arse, “may we question them ourselves?”

“One died, my lord,” says Athos, quietly, calmly, as if the news hadn’t gripped him with sleepless nights, doesn’t still prick him with nightmares, “but the other is here. I can have him brought in. He’s still quite badly injured, but…”

“No, no,” says Phillipe de la Utterly-Outclassed with a careless wave of his hand. “Leave this with us, Captain. We’ll take your… unconventional suggestion into consideration.”

“I shall expect your orders within the hour, sir,” says Athos, with the barest of courtesies, and beckons Porthos with his head as he straightens.

They leave the tent in perfect silence, hearing it draw breath behind them. Porthos waits until they’re out of earshot and then some before punching Athos in the arm.

Athos looks at him with the easiest expression he’s seen on him for a while. “Yes?”

“Hell yes.”

A twitch of smile. “Good.”

“Fancy a drink?”

“You know – I think I’ll save it.”

“For about an hour-and-a-half’s time?”

Another twitch, this time a touch broader. “About that, yes.” They continue to walk towards their tent, Athos’s hand in his pocket, the one Porthos knows contains what must by now be a well-worn note in a sprawling hand:

d'Artagnan's pencilled note to Athos. See transcript to the right.

You were right, but we need one more day to be sure.

“What we need is de Maillé-Brézé to get involved up here.”

“What, instead of the Comte de How-Very-Dare-You-Know-Better-Than-Me?”

Athos’s beard quirks. “Quite.”

“And about fifty more Musketeers.”

“And that. Hurry up, Treville,” he mutters, or Porthos thinks he does, anyway, wire-taut and clouded again, onto the next problem, of course.

In the sudden clamour of movement, a mere forty minutes later after all, he quite forgets to fetch Athos that drink, or to ask him whether he’s sent that letter to Constance yet.

Notes:

Text of D’Artagnan’s Note:

You were right, but we need one more day to be sure.