(The Future is) Still to be Won
He should have known.
d'Artagnan raced through the streets, cursing himself soundly. That woman – she'd been so lustful, sending his senses reeling with it. He'd gotten caught up in it, unable to see past it, unable to see that she was broadcasting exactly what she wanted him to feel.
And now he was on the run as a suspected murderer, and no closer to the man who'd killed his father.
Constance was a godsend when he found her. Wary, as any woman would after the way he'd treated her, but genuinely worried about him. Waking up in her hands was one of the more pleasant awakenings he'd had recently.
And then he walked into the Musketeer garrison, pistol raised and ready. "I'm looking for Athos!"
He blocked everything he was feeling as he fought; it left him feeling muffled, as through his head was wrapped in fabric, and he couldn't maintain it for long, but it was much better than being tangled in someone else's mind while they fought. He'd spent days sick after killing someone he was reading, and he couldn't afford that here, where there was no one he could trust.
But the Musketeer Athos was so insistent, and his friends believed him enough to intrude on a duel. When Constance appeared, and the duel was obviously over, d'Artagnan risked letting the world back in, braced against the flood of foreign emotions.
"I am not the man you're looking for," Athos told him as the guards led him away, and d'Artagnan felt the truth of it in every part of his body. Athos meant every word he said.
"Then why did my father name you before he died?" he shouted after him, but he didn't expect an answer now.
Athos gone, the other two turned on d'Artagnan. "And you…"
"I have him," Constance said before either Musketeer could continue. "Come on, d'Artagnan. Let me look at those ribs. You shouldn't be fighting, you know."
She led d'Artagnan back to her house, settling him in front of the fire while she found some cloth to use as bandages. Halfway through her husband arrived home; d'Artagnan ignored him, more or less, trying to sort through his tangled emotions. Athos was the only lead he had; Athos had not committed the murder; Athos was going to hang for it anyway.
He sensed the Musketeers just before they entered the house. Constance hadn't finished with his ribs, but he didn't care. If the Musketeers had a plan to find out who was committing these crimes, he wanted to be part of it. He went with them with only a smile for Constance.
Along the way he learned that Athos' friends were called Aramis and Porthos, and that they believed utterly in his innocence. He'd rarely felt such devotion from anyone, and it was the last sign that he must have been wrong about Athos.
When they reached the inn d'Artagnan led the other two around the outside rather than through the courtyard. He knew they'd both noticed, but neither said anything about it, letting him choose their path.
The man he'd killed was lying in a shallow grave in the field behind the inn. Porthos took care of uncovering him, pulling away the loose shroud someone had wrapped him in.
d'Artagnan crouched on the edge of the hole, breathing through the rush of images and sensations, trying to find the one he needed. There; confused traces on the clothes. Opening his eyes, he scanned for the clue he needed to prove it to the Musketeers. "Look at his clothes. There's two bullet holes."
"So?" Aramis asked.
"I only fired once."
Porthos scrambled into the hole, pushing the bloodstained jerkin aside. "This is the shot that killed him…and this hole doesn't match any wound."
"It means he wasn't wearing the uniform when it was fired," Aramis said thoughtfully.
"But someone else was."
"Cornet."
"Those Musketeers didn't just vanish, they were attacked."
d'Artagnan followed them back to the horses, pleased at how easy that had been. He'd barely needed to say anything. They were smart, these Musketeers.
He hung back when they found the dead Musketeers. He hadn't known them, after all, and Porthos and Aramis' grief was too sharp to trespass on. Something lingered under the edge of Aramis' grief, some old terror, but he didn't push, he didn't want to.
By the time they returned to the horses Porthos' grief had moved into anger. d'Artagnan turned away, heading back towards his horse, blocking as well as he could. It was getting harder. Too long away from home, too long away from everything that had ever grounded him, too long with these extremes of emotion.
"d'Artagnan," Aramis said from behind him. "The men who did this killed your father as well. If you want justice, help us find them and clear Athos' name."
d'Artagnan nodded wearily, climbing back onto his horse.
"Are you ill, d'Artagnan?" Aramis asked, watching him. "Ribs bothering you?"
"No. Just tired." He forced a smile. "It's been a long day, after all."
Aramis smiled faintly. "Amen."
Porthos' Spanish gold brought them to a Red Guard. d'Artagnan hung back again as they interrogated him; he knew the Musketeers didn't mean the man any harm, but he also knew they wouldn't hesitate to hurt him to save Athos. Deliberate violence wasn't something he was used to, and the feelings swirling around made him feel sick.
It was worth it, though, to get the lead to Gaudet. d'Artagnan followed the other two without paying much attention to where they were going. He was sinking fast, and soon he was going to have to stop and recenter himself.
Constance was willing to help, and she didn't even make d'Artagnan explain the whole plan before going to get changed. He was glad her husband wasn't home to see her walk out with him.
He wasn't planning to kill Gaudet. Not really. Aramis was right, they needed him to save Aramis, and d'Artagnan needed him to face justice. But he could sense the rage and knew Gaudet would never surrender, so he felt no guilt when Gaudet ran onto his blade.
Constance was shaking, trembling, guilty for killing, not sorry the man was dead, glad d'Artagnan was well; a mess of emotions, and he wasn't surprised when she asked him to take her home. Aramis and Porthos promised they could handle things from here, and d'Artagnan walked Constance home and let her talk about her feelings. Something he was good at, helping people work out what they were really feeling.
Sitting in a tavern, later, watching Athos try and drink away the guilt drowning him, he knew he had no more time.
Aramis rose to leave, settling his hat carefully on his head. "Do you need somewhere to stay?"
"No. But I do need another favour. May I walk with you?"
Aramis gestured expansively. "My path is yours. Porthos, I will see you tomorrow."
They walked in silence for a few moments, until Aramis prompted "Something I can help you with?"
"Yes." d'Artagnan took a deep breath. "Do you know of a church or chapel where I could spend the night without being interrupted?"
Aramis studied him. "You didn't strike me as the religious type."
d'Artagnan smiled tightly. "I sent my father's body back to Gascony, to the care of my neighbours. They will honour him as I would, I have no concerns, but…I would like to spend a night alone. It doesn't have to be a church; anywhere I can be alone will do."
Aramis' eyes had softened. "My friend, I'm so sorry. I hadn't even considered…of course, I know a place. Come with me."
By the time they reached the church d'Artagnan felt like he was floating. Feelings wrapped around him from everywhere and he had to struggle to keep from reacting to them. He missed Aramis' conversation with the priest entirely; the man touched his arm for his attention and gestured away.
"Old monk's cells," Aramis offered when d'Artagnan looked around for him, confused. "It won't be luxurious, but it will be quiet, and they won't come near you until you come out."
"Thank you," d'Artagnan murmured. Aramis tipped his hat, and d'Artagnan turned away, following the priest. The cell wasn't luxurious – it was one step up from a barn – but once the door was closed, he was alone, and the room had been empty long enough that there was only the faintest trace of the last occupant. d'Artagnan was able to ignore it with very little effort.
Sinking down cross legged, he pulled out his mother's rosary and began to rebuild his shattered walls.
Aramis had been waiting for almost three hours when d'Artagnan finally emerged from the church, close to noon. He didn't begrudge the boy the time; grief was difficult under any circumstances, and the delay d'Artagnan had had to deal with would have made things more difficult.
d'Artagnan looked surprised to see him; he hesitated before crossing the road to where Aramis was perched on a low wall. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Aramis echoed, offering him an apple. d'Artagnan took it automatically and then stared at it, bewildered.
"Well, I was going to ask if you'd eaten yet, but that answers that."
"Abbe…" d'Artagnan shook his head. "The Abbe offered, but I refused."
"Did it help?" d'Artagnan glanced up at him, and he added, "Not refusing. The night. Did it help?"
"It helped," d'Artagnan agreed.
"Return any time; the priests won't stop you, now that they know we're friends."
d'Artagnan played with the apple for a moment. "Are we?"
"Friends?" Aramis laughed softly, and then realised d'Artagnan was entirely serious. "d'Artagnan, you saved Athos' life. There is nothing you can ask us we won't do if we can."
"I didn't really…"
"You saved his life," he repeated firmly.
"I tried to kill him."
Aramis shook his head firmly. "You wouldn't have hurt him. Well, maybe hurt him. You wouldn't have killed him. Even if you could have beaten him –"
" 'If' ? I was winning until you interfered!"
"Winning?" Aramis repeated, smiling when d'Artagnan absently bit into the apple. "Is that what that was? Forgive me, I didn't recognise it." d'Artagnan scowled, taking another bite, and Aramis continued "Even when you beat him, you wouldn't have killed him. You're not that man."
"Maybe," d'Artagnan murmured.
Aramis bounced down from the wall, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on."
"Come on where?" he asked suspiciously.
"To the garrison."
Aramis deliberately kept walking a pace or two before turning back. d'Artagnan had stopped dead exactly where he was, staring at him. "What?"
"The garrison," d'Artagnan repeated.
"The garrison. That's where Athos is."
"Where Athos is."
Aramis went back to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and urging him onwards. "He wants to talk to you."
"I spent all day yesterday at the garrison, waiting for him to talk to me."
"I know. My apologies. I had something I needed to do, and he stopped to help me." Dead Musketeers in the snow had shaken him badly, and he hadn't been able to convince Athos to leave him alone. Porthos wouldn't have, either, if he hadn't been elected to keep d'Artagnan around. "But he's waiting for you now."
"Should I fall on my sword here, or wait until he can see me do it?"
Aramis stopped, swinging around to look at him, catching his shoulders in both hands. "One more time. You saved his life. He knows that you attacked him in grief and despair; Athos understands grief, and he has forgotten your actions already. You saved his life and he is grateful, and he wishes to talk to you. Please come with me." And if Athos wouldn't have died, this life would certainly have been over, though he couldn't explain that to d'Artagnan.
d'Artagnan studied him for a moment before nodding. "Very well."
"Good. Now. Tell me about Gascony. I was there once, a long time ago."
d'Artagnan talked about Gascony, in generalities rather than specifics. Aramis listened carefully, asking questions here and there, listening to his tone and the things he wasn't saying. The boy was grieving, still, but not the all-consuming kind he'd been suffering before. This was slower, softer sadness he'd feel for months and years yet.
d'Artagnan didn't hesitate at the garrison entrance, walking in alongside Aramis without missing a beat in the conversation. Aramis could sense the tension in him, though. He was glad when Porthos waved at them, absently throwing his sparring partner over his shoulder and coming to join them. "There's our Gascon. I thought you were going to keep him, Aramis."
"My apologies," Aramis said, waving d'Artagnan to the table. Athos was already there, and from the cloths laid out he'd been polishing his weapons, but there was no sign of them now.
"You were rather a long time," Athos said mildly.
"I was waiting."
"Waiting?" Porthos repeated. "Didn't go in after him? Where was he that you didn't want to go in?"
"Church," d'Artagnan said shortly. "Praying for my father. If I'd known you wanted to see me, I'd have come sooner."
Athos shook his head. "Don't be foolish; of course you should pray for your father. I hope Aramis hasn't interrupted anything else you had planned."
"No plans."
Athos glanced at Aramis, who explained, "He's a little concerned that you're holding a grudge."
d'Artagnan whipped around to glare at him, but Athos was already saying "A grudge? For saving my life?"
"I didn't save your life, I tried to kill you."
"He saved your life," Porthos said firmly.
"I'm aware," Athos agreed. "I believe you killed Gaudet."
d'Artagnan looked down at the table. "I'm not sorry that he's dead. But I know that it made your defense harder, and I'm sorry for that."
"He ran onto your blade, I saw it happen," Aramis reminded him.
"And my defense was fine," Athos added. "What will you do now?"
"Go home, I suppose," d'Artagnan said with a shrug.
"To Gascony? Be a farmer?" Athos shook his head. "A waste of talent. Let us train you, and I'll guarantee you a place in the regiment of your choice."
" 'Us', " Porthos noted to Aramis.
"I think we've been volunteered," Aramis agreed cheerfully.
"He's good at that, have you noticed?"
"It does seem to be his skill, yes."
"Gentlemen," Athos said mildly. "d'Artagnan? You can't tell me you'd rather be a farmer over serving in the regiments. Training with us – Porthos, shut up – will get you into any of them."
d'Artagnan looked up, blinking. "Including this one?"
Aramis grinned, glancing at Porthos. That was very neatly done; d'Artagnan was clearly skilled with more than a blade.
"I can't promise you a place in the Musketeers," Athos said apologetically. "But I can give you the best chance possible, if it's what you want."
"You don't owe me anything."
"This isn't for you," Athos lied briskly. "I have a duty as a Musketeer to insure that the regiments are filled with talented young men. And you, d'Artagnan, would be wasted on a farm in Gascony. At least try, for a time. See what you think."
"Who's running your farm now?" Porthos asked.
"My fath – my headman. He's a good man, he'll be able to keep it running. Better than I would, I imagine."
"What's going on?" Treville called from above them.
Aramis grinned as d'Artagnan instinctively shot to his feet. "Captain, you remember d'Artagnan," he called up, lounging just a little more than he had been.
Treville eyed him. "What's he doing here?"
"Beginning his apprenticeship," Athos told him.
"It is customary for these things to go through the captain, you know."
"We were just on our way up to see you."
"I'm sure. Come on, then, I've got to be at the palace shortly."
Athos gestured d'Artagnan towards the stairs. Porthos slid along the bench to sit opposite Aramis, watching the pair leave. "Think he'll stay?"
"Oh, I'm almost sure he will. At least long enough to learn something."
"And the other thing?"
"No idea yet. We'll keep an eye. Come on; I'm sure your aim could do with some work, it usually can."
"Loser buys dinner?"
"Suits me, I'm rather hungry..."
