Disclaimer – 3 Musketeers and the characters belong to Alexander Dumas.
This is rated M for many reasons, mainly gore and violence, with some disturbing imagery. Don't like, don't proceed further. Character death.
Chapter 1
Gascony.
He could not believe this was happening to him. Surely it must be some nightmare. The blazing pain as fangs and claws ripped into his flesh… He glanced down and was horrified to see one of the monsters tugging a coil of gut out of his ravaged belly. He tried to scream again but only managed a strangled choke from all the blood filling his mouth. At least the girl escaped. No, he can't possibly die this way… A soldier's death in battle, yes. In the course of some dangerous mission, yes… But definitely not… Please, Lord… not… One of the beasts ripped his thigh to the bone. He fell onto the blood-splattered grass.
The leader of the pack breathed his fetid breath into his face. D'Artagnan was aware of the slavering jaws gaping inches from his face. Surely this was the end. The beast was going to tear his throat out like some savaged sheep. A shrill whistle came to his ears… The beasts left him alone to his agony. There were men shouting… but he knew they would be too late… Human hands cradled his head.
"NO! Georges… No!" It was his father.
Sorry, father… Constance… everyone… I wish… He tried to speak but his tongue would not work. D'Artagnan sank into an oblivion from which there was no return.
Two weeks earlier.
"Send my regards to Bertrand," Monsieur de Treville added as he handed the letters to his family to the young Gascon. D'Artagnan had been granted leave to visit his parents and it would only be a day or two's detour for him to send the letters to de Treville's kinsfolk. "I will, sir!" D'Artagnan was positively beaming and for good reason. In addition to becoming a full-fledged musketeer of the king, the young man had finally proposed to the queen's lady-in-waiting, Constance. She had accepted without hesitation. Now he was going home to announce the good news to his parents.
A wedding date would probably be set for the following spring. Before that, decisions and arrangements would have to be made with regards to their future. D'Artagnan's work as a musketeer would keep him away from his parents for months. They were getting on the years. Perhaps the pair would like to come to Paris and live with their daughter-in-law? It was likely that Constance would leave her post at court to devote her time to being a wife and mother. Or would it be more reasonable for the Constance to move to Gascony? D'Artagnan would like their children to grow up in the beautiful countryside where he grew up. Constance looked forward to meeting D'Artagnan's family, but it was unthinkable for a lady to travel with an unrelated man without a chaperon. A trip might be arranged later with some respectable widow as a chaperon.
"Good luck, you little scamp!" Porthos reached up and ruffled D'Artagnan's hair as he sat in the saddle. He narrowly missed losing a few fingers to the chomping teeth of the Gascon's garrulous mare.
"Monsieur, your lunch…" Planchet grinned broadly and handed a bulging sack to the young man. The servant was fond of D'Artagnan for his easy and open manner. "Are you trying to break Buttercup's back?" Porthos teased and lightly cuffed the man's shoulder.
"No, Monsieur! It's only a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese…" the servant yelped before he scurried off. Porthos often forgot his own strength.
"Yes, D'Artagnan is a growing boy, he needs to eat," Aramis added. He browsed casually through the instructions their captain had given them. Porthos, Aramis and Athos were to go pick up and escort the young wife and children of a Spanish noble to the border, where they would be handed over to the Spanish. It was a routine mission. Athos and one of the younger musketeers were returning with the horses, just in time to bid farewell. De Treville was called away by the arrival of a message from the king.
"I must be going…" D'Artagnan smiled and waved to his three best friends. A glimmer of sunlight off the youth's little finger drew Athos' attention. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped the youth's hand. A sapphire stone glimmered in a silver ring on D'Artagnan's hand. It was a delicate ring, meant for a lady and it was a snug fit even on D'Artagnan's little finger. D'Artagnan coloured under his friend's scrutiny.
"I-it's a token from Constance. She had it from her mother…" Constance had given him the ring off her finger when she accepted his proposal, as a token of their promise to each other. On hindsight, the gilded locket he had given her seemed almost tacky, even if it was now the trend to give one's beloved a lock of one's hair in a locket. Constance was well aware of that fad but it seemed too much to ask her to sacrifice even a strand of hair off her head for his sake. It was then that she gave him the ring and he could not refuse her.
"Wear it on a cord round your neck. That little gem will have every brigand on the road after it," Athos advised. D'Artagnan was capable of holding his own against the average bandit but it never paid to take chances.
"I'd like to see them try," D'Artagnan grinned. Still, he pulled his gloves over his hands, hiding the ring from view. Buttercup whinnied and tossed her head.
"I'll pray for your safe journey," Aramis added as he pulled Athos clear of Buttercup's teeth. The Gascon bade his goodbyes and ambled off. Watching both horse and rider disappear down the street, Athos shuddered. He had an uneasy feeling that this was the last time he would see D'Artagnan alive. He wanted to call him back but his voice stuck in his throat. As if sensing Athos' discomfort, Aramis clasped a hand over the gold cross he always wore and muttered a quiet prayer for a safe journey.
"What's wrong?" Porthos asked as he peered in the distance, trying to catch a last glimpse of horse and rider through the crowd of market vendors and customers.
Two weeks' later…
"What's wrong?" Porthos asked Athos. The musketeer had pulled his horse to an abrupt stop at the side of a country path. Athos was staring at a copse of gnarled oaks on which a flock of cawing ravens were roosting. Occasionally, the ominous birds would drop to the grass below and peck at the dirt.
"D'Artagnan's home should be this way," Aramis studied a weathered stone marker by the road. They had concluded their mission with no interference by either the Cardinal's forces or Buckingham. The Spanish woman and her children have been reunited with her husband. It was Porthos who suggested a detour to visit D'Artagnan, seeing they were near his home, and possibly making the journey back to Paris with him. D'Artagnan was not due to return to Paris for a week or so.
"Hark, listen…" Athos shushed his companions. They heard a hunting horn and the distant barking of hounds. Someone was hunting, most likely a noble. It was early summer and the peasantry would be busy with farming and other chores. D'Artagnan's father owned a modest farm with a few horses and a herd of cattle. The yipping of hounds died away. All they heard was the wind rustling through the trees and the cawing of the ravens.
Athos slid out of his saddle and picked his way cautiously towards the oaks. Protesting ravens took flight at his approach. The grass below was trampled and stained dark in places. There was mild coppery tang to the air which they were no strangers to.
"Something was killed here, maybe a lamb…" Aramis sniffed. "Foxes or wolves… that would explain the hunt…"
"I doubt it's a sheep…" Athos gingerly lifted a torn and bloodied shred of cloth from the grass. "It's getting dark, we better get to the village or else we will be the ones sleeping with the wolves in the open…"
"D'Taggin?" the old man wheezed and cupped his hand to his ear.
"No, D'Artagnan! We're looking for the D'Artagnans' farm!" Athos literally exploded with rage at the hapless villager. Aramis had to restrain him for fear the old man would come to physical harm over his deafness. The sun was setting and the idea of spending a night in the open or in some farmer's barn did not appeal to any of them.
The old man did not reply but raised an arthritic finger, pointing in the direction of a distant farmhouse. Athos murmured his thanks with as much grace as his fury would allow.
The path leading to the building was churned into a quagmire and they were obliged to lead their steeds on foot. There was a sombre pall over the farm buildings as they approached. The cows lowed from the paddock. A gaggle of geese fled out of their way.
"Who goes there!" a young voice called out. Athos was confronted with a pitchfork in his face. The wielder was a young lad not much older than his own son.
"Easy, we're friends of D'Artagnan from Paris…" the musketeer replied firmly and pushed the offending weapon aside.
"Really? Are you the King's musketeers?" the boy's suspicious eyes darted to the swords in the musketeers' belts. "Georges' friends?" he lowered the pitchfork. "Should have come sooner…" the youngster shouldered his pitchfork and beckoned them to follow him.
A lamp burned in the window of the main farmhouse. The suffocating sense of foreboding grew even heavier as they approached the farmhouse. Aramis paused when the first weak sobs reached his ears. Athos and Porthos heard them too. The house was in mourning. Something had happened. Could it be D'Artagnan senior? D'Artagnan had confided in Aramis that his father was suffering from pains in the chest recently, possibly his heart. If the boy had lost his father, they should be there for him.
Silently, they allowed the boy to take their horses and lead them to the stables. D'Artagnan's aged mare was standing in the yard, casting her forlorn gaze over the newcomers. She flicked her tail and plodded away when the boy called her.
The boy led them inside the farmhouse. A few sombrely-dressed women were gathered in the hall. They only gave the intruders a passing glance before returning to their weeping. A coffin was resting in the centre of the room. The musketeers gasped when they saw who was lying in it. Their first reaction was that of disbelief.
"N-no…" Athos blanched and almost stumbled. Porthos had to support him. Aramis gasped and murmured a prayer. "Told you you should've come sooner…" their young guide repeated.
D'Artagnan was lying like a pale wax effigy inside the coffin with the sheet pulled almost up to his chin. He looked so young with his smooth cheeks and hairless chin. His hair had been combed back but stray strands had escaped and seemed to be dancing as if he were still breathing, but they knew it was only an illusion cast by the flickering candlelight. D'Artagnan was without doubt very dead.
"This can't be!" Athos bellowed and tore free from his friends. "D'Artagnan! Open your eyes, this is an order! What about Constance? Or your parents? You can't just die like this… " the stricken man grabbed hold of the corpse by the shoulders and shook it. The women shrieked.
"Athos! Stop! Control yourself!" Aramis and Porthos leapt forward to stop him. Athos ripped the sheet covering the coffin off. He should not have. One of the women screamed and fainted, forcing her companions to tend to her instead of setting on Athos.
The stench of decay hit them, compounded by the summer heat. Whoever had dressed the corpse had done their best to hide the worst of the damage to the body but the fluids of decay were already seeping through the bandages and clothes. The arms had been arranged in an attitude of prayer over the young man's breast but his left wrist terminated in a bandaged stump. The right hand was missing at least two fingers. The abdomen had sunken in and the shirt and breeches there were sodden in dark fluids.
Athos turned away and fought against the acrid gorge at the back of his throat. Their young guide was retching violently in a corner while Porthos thumped him encouragingly on the back. The large man looked awfully pale himself. Aramis pulled the sheet back over the mangled legs, belly and paused for a moment. He took his cross off and placed it in his friend's hand before pulling the sheet back up to the young man's chin.
"H-how did this happen?" Athos gasped when Aramis and Porthos managed to get him seated on a bench and calmed down. "How?" he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Author's Notes:
Yes, I've done it. I had a musketeer torn to pieces by wild animals. D'Artagnan is dead from this chapter onwards. No returning from the dead or any of that stuff.
I made some minor updates:
1) Putting in a paragraph that was somehow lost
2) Using the name Georges for D'Artagnan's first name.