Welcome to 2015 - I hope the new year has been treating everyone well so far! At the prompting of one of my lovely readers, I've decided to start posting my newest story. This one was started in mid-December and does not reflect anything happening in series 2, so apologies if it ends up diverging from canon at some point. As usual, I'll do my best to post one chapter per day until it's done. If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy!
Looking back, he actually had no idea when it had happened, but at some point, things had irrevocably and undeniably changed. He knew of their reputation – the inseparables. It was touted like a banner throughout Paris and one would have to be new to the city or completely blind and deaf to be unaware of whom people spoke when these words passed their lips.
Sometimes the words were spoken in contempt – the inseparables who had foiled a bandit's plans or discovered a rebel's plotting, waltzing in as though the act of routing the criminals was the simplest of things, each subsequent success only adding to their reputation. Other times the words were spoken in reverence – the inseparables. The three men who embodied loyalty, honor and brotherhood; who did their duty no matter the odds that faced them, and wielded all manner of weapon with grace and agility, as though an extension of their own bodies. In darker corners, the words were sometimes spoken in envy – the inseparables. The trio who do anything for their brothers in arms and had on multiple occasions gone against the Cardinal's and the Captain's wishes, triumphing regardless. It seemed these men were untouchable; they could not be killed, would not be punished, and their reputation merely grew with each exciting retelling of their exploits.
The inseparables. At one time he'd been in awe of them as well, viewing them as many others had, entranced by their skills, seeking to live up to the high standards they embodied and gladly willing to do anything that kept him in their privileged company. He'd heard the few disparaging comments about them, but had dismissed those as the comments of the ignorant, the foolish and the jealous, knowing in his heart that these men were pure and true and he would never be amongst any greater than these three.
In the early days they'd embraced him into their midst, shifting to allow him into their tight-knit group and both welcoming and supporting him. They shared freely of their knowledge when training him, extended their friendship and camaraderie and made him feel as though he'd found his place in the world after having been set adrift with the death of his father. Most importantly, they gave him a purpose by showing him his own path to duty and the brotherhood within the Musketeers. And three had become four.
When he'd received his commission, the kind-hearted humour of his friends warmed his heart, and he was not bothered at all by the advice he seemed be receiving from the three men almost constantly about how to be a good Musketeer. He was an apprentice, they told him, and he'd accepted the words with a good-natured roll of his eyes. As the apprentice he was often relegated to the tasks the others didn't want to do: gathering firewood when they camped outside under the stars, cleaning up the dishes after a meal, ensuring their tack was spotless and in good repair. He took it in stride, knowing his apprenticeship wouldn't last forever and reasoning with himself that they all had their part to play in the successful functioning of their group, and a good Musketeer wouldn't shirk his duties, regardless how menial they might seem.
Then, slowly, things seemed to shift. Aramis and Porthos spent their evenings enjoying their individual pursuits and more nights than not, d'Artagnan fell into the role of Athos' keeper, keeping him safe when his drunken words started a fight and ensuring he made it back to his bed at the end of the night. Then he would stumble home himself to catch what precious few hours remained, heartened by the fact that he'd cared for his friend who, without a doubt, would do the same for him.
Porthos' needs required more deception, acting as a distraction during high-stakes card games when the large man was determined to win. While players were preoccupied with his antics, Porthos would very intentionally manipulate the game to his advantage, cheating mercilessly while d'Artagnan took the blame. They had managed to escape unscathed for the most part, except that one time a few weeks back when the card d'Artagnan had been slipped by the other Musketeer revealed his cheating to the table when another player had the same card already in his hand. That night the Gascon had been lucky to get away with nothing more than some badly bruised ribs and a jaw that ached for days from the post that he'd been run into face first. Again, d'Artagnan felt no malice toward his friend, recognizing that much of Porthos' need to win at cards stemmed from a childhood with nothing; who was he to begrudge the man his ability to win a few extra coins gambling.
Aramis was a different story yet again, and while he needed little help in securing female companionship, he did call on d'Artagnan to run all manner of errands, running out of time to complete them himself after laying too long in the arms of his latest conquest. As such, the Gascon found himself delivering flowers to one of the man's lady friends, running out to buy herbs that the medic had forgotten and needed in order to resupply his medical supplies, and picking up the man's laundry when his friend couldn't make it there himself. Once again, d'Artagnan felt proud of the fact that he was able to help his friend, understanding that each man had their own way of dealing with the traumas they'd endured and Aramis' happened to involve the fairer sex. While some criticized his womanizing habits, the Gascon accepted them just as he accepted all of the good and bad in his friends; just as they accepted all of him.
Until they didn't. The first time it happened was the end of a long week, spent riding hard in pursuit of some bandits terrorizing travelers, culminating with a short encounter that left all the men bruised and sore, d'Artagnan sporting a large knot on his temple, which had caused a minor concussion. By the time they'd ridden through the garrison gates with the bandits in tow, he could barely keep his seat and wanted nothing more than to curl up in his bed and sleep until the pounding in his head abated. As they'd handed their prisoners off to be taken to the Chatelet, Porthos looked meaningfully at Aramis who'd nodded back and turned to d'Artagnan. "We're off." The sharpshooter tilted his head meaningfully in Athos' direction before clapping Porthos on the back, and the two walked out of the garrison side by side, Athos following several steps behind. For several moments d'Artagnan considered letting the man go by himself, but he knew that the other two had entrusted their lieutenant to his care, so with a sigh, he hurried to catch up.
The next time d'Artagnan had been sent away by Aramis to collect an item the man had mistakenly left behind at a lady's house, claiming he couldn't go himself because he'd been ordered to parade duty at the palace. It was not the Gascon's favorite thing to do, always wary of encountering a cuckold husband, but he nodded agreeably enough and went to do as he'd been asked. What his friend hadn't mentioned was that he was also to be at the palace and his absence earned him a 15-minute diatribe from the Captain as well as stable duties for two weeks, which needed to be completed around his regular training and other tasks. Aramis had sheepishly apologized, explaining that he'd believed d'Artagnan would be able to make it back in time given how swiftly he ran, and the Gascon had forgiven him.
Now, d'Artagnan sat on his bed with trembling hands, re-reading the letter that had arrived that morning, asking him to make haste to return to Gascony to stand by his uncle's side. He wasn't close to the man who was his mother's brother-in-law, therefore, technically not even related by blood, but family was family. It seemed that the man was experiencing trouble of some sort and was now sending for d'Artagnan, his own marriage never producing any children before his wife died and having no other family who might help. Chewing his lip, the Gascon considered the situation, reluctant to ask for leave to return to home, but equally disinclined to let the man think he'd been forsaken by his last remaining family member, regardless how distant the two were from one another. Running a hand through his hair, d'Artagnan exhaled slowly and stood, his decision made, and he went to speak with the Captain.
"Come," a voice called from within, and the Gascon pushed open the door to Treville's office, presenting himself in front of his commander. "What is it, d'Artagnan?" the Captain asked, putting down the parchment he'd been reading.
"I need to go home, sir, to Gascony," the young man began. "I have an uncle who's written me for help. I honestly don't know what exactly is going on, but he's the only family I have left and I feel obligated to at least check on him. I'd like permission to take leave so I can make the trip."
Treville eyed the young man in front of him carefully, noting the general air of weariness about the boy which seemed to have only grown worse in the months since the boy had received his commission. He found this concerning given that their missions hadn't been overly taxing and thought it might be a good idea for the boy to take some time and travel home to see to his affairs. "Alright, you may have three weeks."
d'Artagnan nodded gratefully; the generous amount of time Treville had offered would allow for the week's trip that it would take to reach Gascony from Paris and provide a full week with his uncle to deal with whatever had the man concerned. "Thank you, sir."
As he turned to leave, the Captain spoke again, "Perhaps the others could use some leave as well?"
The Gascon tried to control his grin, but knew he was failing, his face having brightened at the thought of having his three friends with him on the long journey, especially since he was unsure about what awaited him when he got home. "Yes, sir, I think they would welcome the opportunity, and I would be grateful for their company."
The Captain gave a nod, trying to remain serious but his features softening in response the boy's reaction, "Good, I'll see you all back here in three weeks' time. Safe journey."
d'Artagnan felt lighter immediately, already looking forward to being able to spend the next three weeks with his friends, and confident that the four of them would be able to manage whatever troubled his uncle. It was still early in the day and he decided first to see if Athos was awake. Upon entering his mentor's rooms, the Gascon got his first whiff of wine, which meant that despite the fact that he'd stayed in the previous night, he'd still drunk his fair share of alcohol. Groaning internally at the thought of dealing with a hung-over Athos, he pushed through the door to find the older man deeply asleep on his stomach, face pressed into his pillow as one arm hung down to brush the floor.
Sighing softly, d'Artagnan crossed the space between them and placed a hand on the man's shoulder, shaking gently to wake him. "Athos, wake up, I have news." Athos groggily managed to prop one eye open, allowing it to slide closed again when he confirmed the identity of his visitor. "Come on, Athos, we need to get ready to leave Paris."
That got the man's attention, his soldiering instincts taking over as he pushed himself up on one arm and opened his eyes again. "We have a mission?" he asked, words still somewhat slurred, suggesting that he wasn't fully sober yet.
"No, I've got something to take care of and the Captain suggested you come along," d'Artagnan started to explain.
"So, no mission?" Athos interrupted.
"No," the Gascon began.
"Then leave me alone. There's still far too much wine in my veins and the sun is much too low in the sky for this conversation," Athos allowed himself to fall back onto his mattress, closing his eyes in dismissal.
"But, Athos, I need your help," the Gascon protested.
"Later, now get out and let me sleep," Athos ordered, rolling over and turning his back to the young man. d'Artagnan stood there for several seconds, considering trying again to reason with his friend, but decided there was little point until he was more awake.
Sighing, he turned on his heel and left in search of Porthos instead. He'd checked with the guards on duty when leaving the garrison and they'd confirmed that the large man hadn't returned during the night. For this reason, the Gascon headed for Porthos' favorite tavern, guessing the man might still be engaged in a card game, especially if the stakes had been high. Sure enough, he spotted his friend sitting at a table near the back, playing against a sole opponent, likely the last man remaining after a full night of drinking and cards. d'Artagnan moved to stand next to this friend, glancing automatically at the cards he held and noting the likelihood of a winning hand. "Porthos, we need to go," he said.
"Oi, not now runt, I'm in the middle of a game," Porthos replied with a glint in his eye.
Huffing, d'Artagnan tried again, "Yes, now Porthos, we need to get packed and head out."
Porthos spared a glance in the Gascon's direction, face turning more serious as he asked, "A mission?"
The young man hesitated as he recalled Athos' reaction, but decided he couldn't lie to his friend, "No, not a mission, it's something of a more personal nature and it'll take us away from Paris for the next three weeks."
"Three weeks?" Porthos began shaking his head, "That don't really work for me. I've got a seat at another game in a few days that I can't pass up."
"But, Porthos, this is important," d'Artagnan hated the pleading tone that colored his words, but couldn't do anything to change it.
"Sorry, lad, but nothing's more important than this game. Now run along, I'll see you at the garrison later." With those words Porthos turned his attention back to the game and effectively ignored the young man beside him.
Swallowing down his hurt feelings, d'Artagnan crossed to the door and exited onto the street, which was growing busier as the morning progressed. He leaned against the wall of the tavern, closing his eyes and throwing his head back in frustration at his friends' reactions. His friends…the men that he would and had done anything for, who had both just indicated that they had better things to do. Had he been wrong about the bonds between them? Giving his head a shake to draw himself away from his morose thoughts, he decided to go back to the garrison. Aramis seldom spent the night in his own bed so the Gascon had no idea where to find him, but he could at least head back and pack his things and then appeal to his friends once more when they arrived.
His heart lightened at seeing Aramis enter the garrison gates ahead of him and he quickened his steps as he called out, "Aramis!" The sharpshooter stopped and turned, an easy grin on his face at the sight of his friend, and d'Artagnan was encouraged by the reaction. "Aramis, I'm so glad to see you," he said as he came abreast of the other man.
"d'Artagnan, you're up early," Aramis commented.
"I received some news from home this morning and I've already been to see Athos and Porthos," the Gascon explained.
"Hmm," Aramis hummed, not really paying attention to the young man's words as he kept an eye on the gates behind the boy.
"We need to pack our things, enough for three weeks," d'Artagnan started to explain.
"Three weeks," Aramis looked at him in concern. "Did Treville give us a new mission?"
"No," the young man replied slowly, drawing out the word. "But it is a matter of some urgency."
"Nonsense," Aramis clapped a hand on the Gascon's shoulder, grinning broadly, "the only urgency for Musketeers is our duty to the King."
"But, Aramis," d'Artagnan tried again.
"Ah, there it is," Aramis' attention was once more on the gates where a splendid carriage had appeared. "I need to go take care of this. I'll see you later." Before the young man could say another word, the sharpshooter was moving toward the ornate carriage, pulling the door open and stepping inside.
d'Artagnan was left alone, shaking his head in disbelief. When the Captain had suggested that his friends accompany him back to Gascony, he'd been thrilled, but it seemed that it would not be. Each of the men had politely, but firmly dismissed him and continued on with their lives as if he was a minor annoyance. With a jolt, he realized it hurt, and despite the fact that he'd done everything in his power to be a good friend to the three, it seemed now that those feelings ran only one-way. Perhaps the inseparables were exactly that and he had not been part of their group as he'd thought. Instead, he'd been playing the role of tolerated outsider; the buffoon who was useful as long as nothing was asked for in return. Swallowing thickly he turned and walked in the direction of his room, not wanting anyone else to see the moisture that sat in his eyes at the thought that his feelings of friendship might not be shared and, most importantly, not returned. While he might be a Musketeer, he had not found the family he thought he had and it was that belief more than any other that had him packing his things and departing as quickly as possible. He could not bear the shame and continued pain of being with three men who cared more about what he was willing to do for them, than what he might ask for in return. As he rode out of Paris, tears once more clouding his vision and despair pooling in his belly, he couldn't help but wonder at how easily he seemed to have been cast aside.