Author's Note: Besides the usual disclaimers, and the plea for reviews, may I also suggest, if you enjoy the Fete des Mousquetaires challenges each month, you wander over to the Forums (of the same name) at the beginning of each month and vote. We have been having incredibly tight votes the last few months! Even better, if you like to write, join us in the challenges. We are a very supportive forum (IMHO) and it is fun.
"I'm begging you, let them go. Exact your revenge on me, if you must." His plea held an edge of desperation not normally found in his cool, cultured timbre.
Her cackling laughter was cold, harsh, and unforgiving. "You destroyed my life. Simply killing you is not enough. I want you to suffer, as you have cause me to suffer." Her maniacal laughter rang forth once more. "No. They shall die and you shall watch."
The rough bark on the tree to which he was tied, dug into the skin on his back. However, he didn't notice for the pain of his heart being ripped asunder was much greater. How had it come to this? She had always been an intelligent woman, ruthless in the pursuit of what she wanted, what she felt she deserved. Had he been naive not to realize that her ambition was both long and misdirected?
Her planning of this ambush had been meticulous and she managed to catch them completely flat-footed. That was quite an accomplishment, for they were four seasoned musketeers used to dealing with all sorts of nefarious scheming. However, she had solidly outwitted them.
Last night, the sound of a gunshot had echoed over the chirping of the creatures of the night. It had caused the musketeers, instantly, to go on alert. Rising as one, they had moved stealthily into the dark woods, guns and swords drawn, trying to locate the source of the disturbance. While the four musketeers were out fruitlessly searching the forest, she had entered their camp, spiked their stew, then melted into the gloom to wait. It had been very calculated and she had been sure to leave no traces of her passage.
The four of them, eventually, had returned to their campsite having found nothing amiss in their vicinity. They all knew sound carried strangely in the woods, especially at night, distorting both distance and reality. The shot could have come from miles away and been an innocent event, such as a huntsman shooting his family's dinner.
Still, in deference to the unresolved event, they kept their weapons within arm's reach after they had settled, once more, about their campfire. Porthos had ladled out four generous bowls of delicious rabbit stew, handing them around to each of his three friends. Aramis and d'Artagnan had dug into their dinner with gusto, as had Porthos who had prepared it. Athos, who was feeling unsettled by the gunshot that had no explanation, had merely toyed with his food, taking a few mouthfuls before setting the bowl aside and rising to his feet.
"I'm going to go check the perimeter again," he announced grimly, his gun drawn, primed, and ready.
His brothers' attempts to dissuade him fell on deaf ears as he marched off into the darkness to encircle their camp. d'Artagnan wolfed down the remainder of his stew, rose, and quickly went to follow after his mentor, not wanting him in the woods alone. However, Aramis reached out a hand to stay the young musketeer.
"Let him be, d'Artagnan. Athos has been moody all day, even by his standards. A few minutes of solitude will do him good."
"What is bothering him?" d'Artagnan asked as he stared out into the inky darkness as if the answer was written in the night stars.
The two older musketeers spared each other a concerned glance before shrugging and returning to their food.
"The day I understand Athos..." Aramis paused between mouthfuls of food lost, for a moment, to his own contemplations. "Well, I doubt I shall ever see that day. Personally, I don't think he understands why he does, what he does. Though, if we were to be honest with ourselves, which one of us really does?"
Without glancing up from his rabbit stew, Porthos grunted, "Food, fightin' and friendship is all I need."
d'Artagnan, whose world revolved around Constance, the love of his life, shifted his eyes from the woods to his companions around the glowing fire. "What about love?"
Aramis, always the romantic, had been quick to agree. "The pup has a point, Porthos. The love of a good women gives much meaning to life."
"Love?" Porthos snorted scornfully as he took a break from shoveling down his food for a moment of philosophy. "The way I see it, love nearly destroyed Athos, you, the Queen, and France. Even the pup didn't escape its clutches unscathed, though he seems to be doing alright now; well except bein' hen pecked by his new wife."
Aramis smirked knowingly at Porthos' last comment, while the Gascon was forced to look away as a faint blush crept up his neck. Constance was a formidable woman. And while the Gascon could have easily pointed out that all the musketeers in the garrison, including Aramis and Porthos, at one time or another, had been cowed by her trenchant tongue, he wisely decided to keep that observation to himself.
Reaching over, Aramis draped his arm, companionably, over Porthos' broad shoulders. "Love, my friend, is a two-edged sword. Much goodness in this world has been done in the name of love, as well as terrible evils. I prefer to think goodness is winning."
Shrugging off his brother's arm, Porthos concentrated on his eating once more. "Ain't saying love is a bad thing, just too complicated. Food, fightin', friendship. Much simpler."
At that point, Athos ghosted in from the darkness to the light of the campfire. Without a glance for his brothers, he gracefully settled on the ground, face shielded under the brim of his low-slung hat, the one he used as a defense mechanism against unwanted conversation. Though his half-finished bowl of stew was within easy reach, he made no motion to resume eating it. Meanwhile, Porthos and d'Artagnan were working on polishing off their third bowls, while Aramis had stopped after his second.
"All quiet?" d'Artagnan queried of his mentor, ignoring the nonverbal signal to be left alone. The hat trick might work on strangers, but it never did on his brothers.
"I saw... nothing," Athos responded, slowly, and without conviction. He appeared restive, shifting his gaze, periodically, from the flames to the forest
"But?" Aramis prompted knowing his brother well enough to sense something was troubling the man, which may or may not have to do with the darkened forest surrounding them.
The last month had been a time of vivid contrasts: d'Artagnan's wedding to Constance, the declaration of war with Spain; the promotion of Athos to Captain of the Musketeers, Treville's promotion to the Minister of War; his own abrupt desertion to the church and quick return at his brothers' wise guidance.
But even more than that, something had happened between Athos and Milady, though none of them were really sure what had actually transpired. Athos, when asked, had announced, in his usual succinct manner, she had left for England. And that had been all he would divulge.
Porthos had informed Aramis that the swordsman had unexpectedly left the garrison, while they were prepping to retrieve him from his folly at the monastery, and had ridden out to meet her, for what reason no one actually knew. Their newly minted Captain had returned, alone, and pensive. Aramis suspected Athos himself had no idea what he would have done if he'd crossed paths her. And that, the marksman knew, was the crux of the age old issue between the estranged husband and wife.
Maybe Athos' moodiness was being triggered by all of those things and maybe none of them. Athos was Athos and was still an enigma sometimes. His brothers loved him, but even after all they had been through together, they still didn't understand him at times.
Athos remained ruminating by the fire as the others cleaned up from dinner. When Porthos held out his barely touched bowl of stew, Athos had brusquely waved him off. With a shrug, Porthos wiped the bowl clean.
Later that night, there had been no discussion over who would take the first shift of the watch. As Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan settled their weary bodies on the ground, shifting around to get comfortable, each doubted Athos would even concede to sleep tonight. However, neither of the three musketeers had time to give it much thought, as sleep had claimed them swiftly and deeply.
Athos, much to his chagrin, found his own eyes impossibly heavy as they kept drifting shut. By the time he realized his drowsiness was being rendered by an unnatural cause, it had been too late. His eyes had closed and stayed that way.
She had slunk out of the shadows with a sense of satisfaction that she had bested what were supposed to be the premier musketeers in the regiment. It had been child's play and now she would wreak her revenge on Athos. She had waited a long time for this moment, to pay back the humiliation that had started ages ago.
In spite of her feminine appearance, she was a very capable woman, having made her way in life, alone, for so long. One by one, she dragged each musketeer to a different tree trunk, where she propped up their malleable limbs and tied them in place with stout rope. By the time she was done, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan where tightly secured onto the trunks of three trees in a row.
She had scouted the area earlier in the evening, until she had found the perfect venue for her production. The fourth tree, the one to which she tied Athos, faced the other three trunks. She was going to be assured he saw every last detail of her revenge, felt every moment of agonizing pain, and had no choice but to watch, helplessly, as it unfolded. There would be no walking away from this one.
"No, I won't forgive you," she whispered, vehemently, as she tied off the last knot.
When the scene was set to her satisfaction, she settled on the ground to wait for her captives to rouse, savoring the anticipatory sweet taste of revenge.