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Jul. 23rd, 2014 11:55 pmIt isn't until he's away from them that d'Artagnan really realizes how much being a Musketeer meant to him. How much being around them did, anyway. He never honestly got the chance to be one, showing up in this strange place not long after being commissioned, which is just one more way in which none of this seems fair. He'd finally gotten his chance, finally proven himself, and seen justice exacted at the same time, only to wind up unable to do anything about it. The Musketeers, they were all he'd had left. Now, he doesn't even have that anymore.
Having Porthos and Aramis here helps, but it's not the same, and not just because it's still difficult to accept that their group is an incomplete one now, though Athos' absence is practically a tangible thing. What he can't get past instead is the time they've had here that he hasn't. That may not be anything new, strictly speaking, their friendship going much farther back than their meeting him, but it feels far more significant when it's several hundred years of history and progress that he has to catch up on. They've had a chance to get used to this future. He hasn't, still baffled at every turn by what it holds, and perhaps more importantly, unable to figure out where he fits in it or what he's supposed to do with himself.
Of course, nothing stops just because that's the case. That, at least, is one thing that this Darrow has in common with the life he was taken from. It carries on, and he must do the same with it, even when his heart is so heavy that it feels like it must be made of lead, or when it feels as if there cannot possibly be any use. He may not be a part of this yet, nor even want to be, but he's here regardless, and as far as he's aware, that's unlikely to change in the foreseeable future.
Even if he could get accustomed to this, he doesn't think he would be able to stop thinking of Paris. It wasn't even his home for very long, a far cry from his farm in Gascony, but being on these streets, it's those that he remembers. Which is why, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face headed in the direction of the park, he's certain that it has to be in his imagination, some sort of wishful thinking. She's still there, though, after he looks away and blinks, leaving d'Artagnan with only one conclusion to reach — that it isn't only the three of them here in Darrow, but Constance, too.
At first, instinctively, he almost smiles. She looks even more beautiful than he could have remembered her being, and there's no one from his old life he's missed even a fraction as much. Too quickly, though, he remembers their last conversation, and by the time she's near enough that he could speak to her, it's all he can do to hide how heartbroken she left him, his gaze turning towards the ground beneath his feet. It occurs to him that he could have just kept going, walked in another direction, not let their paths cross at all, but he simply wasn't capable. She has to be as lost here as he is, and he still would rather die than let any harm befall her. He might as well let her know that there are people who'll look out for her here.
Quiet, all but imperceptibly cold, he says, "Madame Bonacieux."
Having Porthos and Aramis here helps, but it's not the same, and not just because it's still difficult to accept that their group is an incomplete one now, though Athos' absence is practically a tangible thing. What he can't get past instead is the time they've had here that he hasn't. That may not be anything new, strictly speaking, their friendship going much farther back than their meeting him, but it feels far more significant when it's several hundred years of history and progress that he has to catch up on. They've had a chance to get used to this future. He hasn't, still baffled at every turn by what it holds, and perhaps more importantly, unable to figure out where he fits in it or what he's supposed to do with himself.
Of course, nothing stops just because that's the case. That, at least, is one thing that this Darrow has in common with the life he was taken from. It carries on, and he must do the same with it, even when his heart is so heavy that it feels like it must be made of lead, or when it feels as if there cannot possibly be any use. He may not be a part of this yet, nor even want to be, but he's here regardless, and as far as he's aware, that's unlikely to change in the foreseeable future.
Even if he could get accustomed to this, he doesn't think he would be able to stop thinking of Paris. It wasn't even his home for very long, a far cry from his farm in Gascony, but being on these streets, it's those that he remembers. Which is why, when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face headed in the direction of the park, he's certain that it has to be in his imagination, some sort of wishful thinking. She's still there, though, after he looks away and blinks, leaving d'Artagnan with only one conclusion to reach — that it isn't only the three of them here in Darrow, but Constance, too.
At first, instinctively, he almost smiles. She looks even more beautiful than he could have remembered her being, and there's no one from his old life he's missed even a fraction as much. Too quickly, though, he remembers their last conversation, and by the time she's near enough that he could speak to her, it's all he can do to hide how heartbroken she left him, his gaze turning towards the ground beneath his feet. It occurs to him that he could have just kept going, walked in another direction, not let their paths cross at all, but he simply wasn't capable. She has to be as lost here as he is, and he still would rather die than let any harm befall her. He might as well let her know that there are people who'll look out for her here.
Quiet, all but imperceptibly cold, he says, "Madame Bonacieux."
