A/N: This chapter marks the start of a multi-chapter story, which is a virtual birthday gift for AZGirl, who was kind enough to provide a list of prompts that inspired this story. The full list of prompts will be included at the end of this fic for anyone who's curious.
Happy, Happy Birthday AZGirl! I hope you had a day that's a special as you. Many happy returns, my friend.
"In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves."
― Laurie Halse Anderson
He let his head hang loosely from his neck, his lanky hair framing sharply pronounced cheekbones, which were a testament to the poor treatment he'd endured. Beneath his hands, he could feel the coarse dirt and small pebbles, and his fingers briefly dug into the ground, inadvertently pushing some of the grains beneath his fingernails. He was bent over, barely propped up on his knees and shaky arms, his eyes tightly closed against the latest round of dizziness that had been his nearly constant companion for God only knew how long.
He'd initially tried to keep track of the time, but the abuse wrought on his body had stolen that ability from him. Each hour now blended and morphed into the next, characterized only by his continuous pain and confusion. Ironically, it was the pain which he'd initially dreaded that now anchored him to reality, the only thing he could still be certain of as the ground swayed underneath him. Another wave of dizziness struck, and his battered body was unable to resist, falling sideways onto the dirt when his tremulous balance deserted him.
He barely registered the impact, his mind briefly welcoming the newest surge of discomfort before conscious thought quickly skittered away. Darkness taunted him on the edges of his consciousness, and he found himself slipping happily into the void, the fingers of his right hand twitching at the coarse earth one last time before blackness overwhelmed him.
"This is takin' too long!" Porthos' left hand tugged the scarf from his head, followed swiftly by his right hand, which he dragged momentarily through his curls before letting both arms fall to his sides. He was dropping letters from his words again, which his friends recognized as an sign of his growing frustration. It was a feeling they unfortunately shared.
d'Artagnan had been missing for almost three days. The men who'd taken him were part of a group of bandits that the Musketeers been pursuing for several weeks. With their diligent efforts, the King's guard had nearly rounded up the entire group, save for about a half-dozen men who'd decided to seek retribution by taking one of the King's own.
The maddening thing was that the Gascon had been taken from underneath their own noses, so they had no one to blame but themselves. Regardless, each man had wracked his brain, trying to figure out how the young man could have been removed from their midst while they'd ridden back to town in the fading daylight with their latest batch of prisoners. The result was that the three friends were riddled with guilt, the feelings deepening more with each hour that passed and their fourth was kept from them.
With each minute that was added to the Gascon's absence, Porthos grew progressively more frenetic and less comprehensible, his words coming out in a jumbled mass of slang and missing syllables that hadn't been present since his first months with the regiment. While the large man's words had grown less coherent, Aramis had become a contradiction of politician and priest, doing his best to ease his friends' tempers while withdrawing for long periods each night to pray for divine intervention.
Though the two men's behaviours were increasingly worrying to the people around them, it was Athos' stormy brooding that frightened nearly everyone they crossed paths with. Any courtesies that had been ingrained in the former comte had mysteriously disappeared and been replaced with grunts, condescending and furious expressions, and the occasional physical manifestations of his overall foul mood.
As their group's leader, he'd taken d'Artagnan's kidnapping especially poorly, and had been subsisting on too much wine and too little sleep virtually from the night their friend had gone missing. While neither behaviour was overly abnormal for the man, both Porthos and Aramis had noticed that Athos was becoming increasingly emotionally volatile, and worried that they would soon find themselves unable to control the guilt-stricken man.
Silence had descended on the three following Porthos' proclamation, and with a glance at Athos' grim expression, Aramis realized that it was once more up to him to attempt to keep his friends balanced and somewhat calm. Sighing, he said, "We know they're holding him to maintain leverage over us, so it stands to reason they'll keep him alive."
'For now.' Athos' eyes darkened as the unwelcome thought darted through his beleaguered brain.
"One of the others we've arrested surely has the answers we seek," the marksman continued. "It's simply a matter of time before we have the information we need to rescue d'Artagnan."
"Assuming there'll be anythin' left to rescue," Porthos muttered, worrying his bottom lip a moment later as he glanced guiltily in Athos' direction. His expression quickly turned to annoyance at the admonishing look that Aramis cast his way, and the large man half-lifted one hand in acknowledgement that he'd spoken out of turn.
"As I was saying," Aramis began, his steely gaze still on Porthos as he silently dared the man to speak. "The answer lies with one of our prisoners; therefore, I suggest that we get something to eat, get a few hours' rest, and try interrogating one of them in the morning."
"What can possibly be done that we haven't already tried," Athos asked sullenly, clearly unable to completely abandon the hope that Aramis' suggestion offered, while at the same time remaining unbelieving that the tactic would actually succeed.
With barely restrained annoyance, Aramis kept his tone even as he replied, "I'm open to suggestions if either of you have a better idea." The was a hint of a question in his tone as he directed his gaze first to Athos and then Porthos, neither man meeting his eye in reply. Having received his answer, the marksman nodded. "It's settled then. Let's see if the tavern's cook has managed any improvements in his offerings."
Porthos shuddered momentarily at the memory of their last meal at the tavern, but willingly fell in behind Aramis who led the way. The tavern was their only option for food in the small village they'd been staying in, and no matter the state of their meal, he would consume it without complaint. Besides, he reminded himself as he trudged along, he'd eaten far worse and had survived. The thought offered little consolation and he steeled himself for the unappetizing fare that awaited them.
Morning dawned both too quickly and too slowly for the three tired and anxious Musketeers. None of them spoke as they gathered doublets and weapons and exited the room they shared above the tavern. It was clear from their appearances that none of them had had a restful night, but no one commented, having accepted that this would be their reality until reunited with their fourth.
Porthos had spent a portion of the previous night watching over their prisoners, which currently numbered six until a contingent from the garrison returned to collect them and deliver them to Paris. While Aramis pleaded with God and Athos did his best to pickle his liver, Porthos had been an intimidating presence outside the prisoners' cell, having leaned back against a sturdy beam as he settled down to watch.
At first, the men had been wary of him and had tried to engage him in conversation, which the soldier had rebuffed with stony silence. Next, they'd hurled insults at him, targeting his obvious heritage, but Porthos had stalwartly refused to react. Eventually, the men grew accustomed to his presence, returning to their normal behaviour and even conversing amongst themselves. This had been the outcome Porthos had been waiting for.
As he unobtrusively watched from beneath the brim of his hat, head tipped down and arms crossed over his broad chest, he began to get a sense of the dynamics present in the group. After an hour, it had become obvious that one man, Chevereau, was the weak link. The others mocked and generally belittled the man, making jokes at his expense, which the bandit attempted, but failed to brush off. Chevereau's standing within the group would hopefully make him an easy target, and Porthos left shortly after reaching that conclusion to try and get a few hours of sleep.
It was this groundwork that had the three Musketeers removing Chevereau from his comrades the following morning, desperately hoping the bandit would offer some insight into the whereabouts of their missing friend. They'd brought the bandit to a quiet, unused portion of the stable after ensuring the owner was nowhere in sight. Their prisoner now stood cowering, his shoulders pressing against the gnarled wood at his back, as the three soldiers stared at him with their most intimidating expressions.
None of the men spoke, ratcheting up the tension that hung thickly in the air around them. Allowing the silence to stretch into a minute and then two, Porthos lifted his hands and cracked his knuckles, his message clear in the resounding pops that resulted.
"There's no need for that," Chevereau immediately blurted, sweat beading at his temples as his hands rose in supplication before his captors. "Anything you want, you just tell me." His eyes darted to Porthos' fisted hands before searching out Aramis' face, the marksman currently appearing to be the most compassionate of the group. "Just tell me what you want," he repeated, holding Aramis' gaze.
If the stakes hadn't been so high, the bandit's reaction would have brought a smile to the marksman's lips. Instead, he remained serious as he took a step forward, cataloguing the satisfying flinch that his approach caused. "The remaining members of your group have taken one of our men. You will tell us where to find him and provide any advice you're able about the best way to overwhelm your misguided comrades."
Chevereau's eyes widened at the request, the man obviously balking at the idea of giving up his friends. His gaze darted to Athos, and then Porthos, finding nothing but anger and the unspoken threat of violence in the men's stares. Licking his lips nervously, the bandit cleared his throat before replying. "They'll kill me if I tell you."
Aramis frowned at the man, waiting several heartbeats before asking, "You are certain of this?"
Chevereau nodded jerkily. Aramis removed the hat from his head, holding it in one hand while he ran the other one through his matted curls. His expression turned thoughtful for a moment, before giving a decisive nod and replacing his hat. "Then you are right to withhold what we ask from you."
The surprise was clear on the bandit's face as he said, "I am?" His stooped shoulders lifted marginally in obvious relief at the Musketeer's reasonable response.
"Yes, of course. We," Aramis gestured with one hand to himself and his friends. "We are the King's Musketeers. As such, we do not go around murdering people simply because the mood strikes. Do we, gentlemen?"
Athos and Porthos both shook their heads. "No," the larger man agreed. "Murder is against the law." The expression of relief on the bandit's face widened. "That's why we'd 'ave to maim him instead." A feral grin appeared on Porthos' face, causing Chevereau to shrink back as though believing the wall behind him offered any chance of safety.
Aramis was now nodding enthusiastically as he asked, "What do you suggest?" Turning to Chevereau he lowered his voice a fraction as though sharing a secret with the man. "Porthos has an extraordinary gift when it comes to hurting people without killing them. Truly, it is a wonder to behold, isn't it Athos?"
The older man nodded in agreement. "I have never met anyone his equal in the dispensation of pain."
Porthos cracked his knuckles once more to draw the bandit's attention back to himself. "How 'bout what I did that time in Orleans?"
Athos seemed to be contemplating the larger man's words while Aramis visibly flinched. "Orleans, really? That seems a little extreme," the marksman stated.
"But effective," Athos countered.
"That man was mostly dead by the time Porthos finished with him," Aramis protested, managing to keep one eye on Chevereau to see the effect they were having on him.
Porthos shrugged as he said, "There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive."
Aramis sighed as he relented. "Fair point." His gaze returned to the bandit as he moved out of Porthos' way. "When he's right, he's right."
Chevereau's hands swung upwards once more in an attempt to keep the large Musketeer at bay. At the same time, his mouth began to move, a confusing assortment of words tumbling from his lips. "No, wait, there's no need. I can be reasonable…and you…you don't want to do anything you'd regret. I…I can be reasonable, too. I've got…I've got information…just, wait, I'm at your service. Please."
Stepping forward and placing one hand lightly on Porthos' chest, Athos commanded, "Speak."
The information they sought spilled forth and within minutes they'd returned Chevereau to his cell and were preparing to depart. d'Artagnan's captors had had three days with the young man, and as far as the Inseparables were concerned, that was three days too many.
To be continued on Thursday...
A/N: The following line is from the movie, "The Princess Bride": "There's a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive."
Given real life's demands, chapters will be posted twice weekly, on Sundays and Thursdays. Thanks for reading and I'd love to hear your thoughts if you're so inclined.