As someone who's suffered from anxiety, please don't review this story and tell me that what d'Artagnan thinks about himself isn't true. I know it isn't. That's not how anxiety works.
Also, this hasn't been beta'd so there's probably mistakes everywhere. I apologise. Please tell me about any that you find so I can correct them.
d'Artagnan didn't know when he'd started to doubt his place amongst the Musketeers. It was probably shortly after they'd dealt with Milady and the Cardinal, when they'd finally been allowed a string of days, uninterrupted by another world-ending plot. The four of them had spent the brief reprieve apart (though d'Artagnan strongly suspected that the others had seen each other without him), and he had been glad of a little space to himself, to process everything that had happened over the last year.
When they were called back to duty, things had seemed easy between them. But d'Artagnan had started to hear the murmurings around him, growing ever louder, and for the first time, he started to notice that his horizons were changing.
When Athos emerged from Treville's office, d'Artagnan knew that he wouldn't like the next out of the man's mouth from his expression alone. He looked tense, shoulders drawn up close to him with his lips clamped so tightly they'd gone white.
"What are we doing today then?" Aramis called pleasantly, apparently oblivious to Athos' discomfort.
"We are heading south," Athos said, stressing the first word and pointedly not looking at d'Artagnan as he spoke. When he did turn to him, it was to deliver a curt, "You're not going to be joining us this time."
Whilst not unexpected, it still hurt to be dismissed so casually. He did his best to not let the emotion show in his expression as he shrugged. "Can I ask why?"
Athos glared at him a little. "No."
Well, that was strange. It technically wasn't his place to ask 'why' but he felt like he was owed some sort of explanation, even if he was supposed to just follow orders blindly. Treville only withheld his reasons when he was protecting sensitive information.
But then again, he was only the newcomer. Why would they explain themselves to him?
"Okay," he said easily, as though he wasn't hurt. He could tell that Aramis was watching him closely, so he smiled reassuringly at him and shook his head a little. It would only be for a few days - he could take care of himself.
Athos strode away with the others, apparently satisfied, and d'Artagnan watched them go with a sinking heart. If they were off on a mission then he'd be grounded to the garrison, which meant training. Normally, he loved training. But then, normally he was training with Athos, Aramis and Porthos. If they were absent then he'd be sparring with other Musketeers, who for the most part tolerated him with grace and patience, and didn't scorn him for his youth or inexperience. But then.
There were some other Musketeers, considerably older than he was, who seemed to have taken an immediate, intense dislike to him. He'd thought at first it was simply because they didn't yet know him and hence didn't feel that they could trust him but as time passed, he realised it must be more than that. He'd caught their comments about him before, saying that he was too young to be a soldier, that he would only get them killed, that the only way he could earn a commission as quickly as he had was on his knees. The last comment had rocked him so badly that he hadn't recovered himself sufficiently to challenge them before they'd been called away by Treville. Aramis had commented later in the day that he was looking peculiarly pale.
He'd felt sick at the insinuation, not just for himself, but for the friends he served with. To accuse them of taking favours like that in return for his commission?
It hadn't been until then that he'd really understood the risk his friends had taken with him. They'd threatened their standing in the Musketeers to help a recently orphaned boy, with no promise of a pay off beyond some skill with a blade. d'Artagnan could withstand people looking down on him, but he would not drag his friends into the dirt with him.
It was around that time that he started refusing offers to go for drinks in the evening.
Maybe that's what this was all about, he mused to himself. Maybe Athos had finally realised that their reputation was being dragged through the mud due to their continued friendship and he was making strides to rectify the imbalance. d'Artagnan couldn't exactly blame him for that.
"d'Artagnan!" He looked around to find Treville hovering on the balcony, frowning at him in such a way that he felt like a child under his father's scrutiny. "You're working on swords with Matthieu today. Get to it."
His eyes sought out the other man and he was barely able to contain a grimace when he realised that it was one of the men who wanted him gone. Maybe he'd be lucky and his ever growing skill would convince the man that he deserved his place here, but then again, maybe he wouldn't be.
In the end, the latter proved correct. Matthieu, it would seem, was not one to lighten a blow even in sparring. d'Artagnan was fairly sure he was developing a black eye from where an unchecked blow with the hilt of a sword had knocked him sideways but he wasn't going to complain. He always got a little bruised (or a lot bruised in his more vigorous encounters with Porthos) and he would heal. His pride, maybe less so.
He just hoped that his friends returned soon and he could resume his usual duties. Exhausted, he collapsed into bed and dropped unconscious in moments.
For the next week, things progressed in much the same way. Occasionally he would be working with some of the more accepting Musketeers, which brought a welcome relief to the general harassment he had to endure on the days where he was not. His body was littered with bruises from vicious bouts of sparring and there was even a shallow cut along his arm where a blade had found its mark.
In all, d'Artagnan was miserable. He missed his friends, and - pathetically - missed the safety they provided. He felt like a child wanting to hide behind his mother's skirts and was sickened at his own weakness but he would not deny the feeling. With his friends gone, he didn't feel safe in the garrison.
Treville managed to avoid conversation with him whenever he tried to find out when his friends would be returning and he was starting to feel as though they were all working together, against him. Athos' shortness just before they left was a testament to the theory. Had they really turned against him so readily?
If they came to him tomorrow and told him that for the sake of their own positions in the regiment, they wished to terminate any further friendship with him, he would understand. It would hurt and he would internally rage against the injustice of it all but he would smile and agree and wish them well in all their endeavours. This felt a little too much like a lover sneaking away before the dawn to sit well with him. They were bigger than this.
But then, what he thought didn't matter.
"Distracted Pup?" He flinched a little at the sudden voice beside his elbow and Etienne chuckled softly. The man was at least ten years older than d'Artagnan and he had a warm smile that he showed frequently, to all those about him. He was one of the Musketeers who did not scorn d'Artagnan's mere presence, and the Gascon found that he liked him, with the exception of the nickname he'd given him.
Relaxing, d'Artagnan smiled back, just a little. "Something like that."
"Well, if you can draw yourself away from your thoughts for just a moment, I thought you might like to know that Athos has returned."
d'Artagnan felt his heart jolt in his chest, even as his brow furrowed. "Not Aramis and Porthos?"
"From what I overheard, they'd stayed behind to finalise whatever it was they were doing. The whole thing seems very hush hush."
That was true enough. But if Athos was back, and the others shortly to be returning no doubt, d'Artagnan might finally get some answers. And even if he didn't, it was of no matter because he wouldn't be alone any more. Dieu, that sounded pathetic.
Trying not to look like he was hurrying overmuch, he rose and headed towards the courtyard, giving Etienne a nod of thanks. The Musketeer smiled knowingly and nodded back.
d'Artagnan hadn't been wholly self-centred the whole time. He'd spent a considerable amount of his free time worrying that his friends were in trouble and that he wouldn't be there to help them get out of it again. At any given moment they could be dying at the roadside or in some forsaken field and he wouldn't even know. Any time a Musketeer rode out of the garrison, there was a great chance that they wouldn't be returning; they all knew and accepted this outcome as unavoidable. But d'Artagnan still worried about his friends.
Athos was just emerging from Treville's office as d'Artagnan entered the courtyard, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his friend uninjured, if a little dusty from the road.
"Athos?"
The Musketeer startled a little, a far cry from his usual stoic nature. As soon as he saw who had spoken, his face dropped into an expressionless mask. "d'Artagnan. Is there something you needed?"
d'Artagnan just blinked at him for a moment, stunned by the shortness of his tone. "I- No," was all he managed, his throat suddenly constricting on him. Maybe his runaway thoughts hadn't been as inaccurate as he'd hoped.
"Then if you'll excuse me. I'm weary from the road."
"Of course," d'Artagnan answered automatically, and stepped aside so that Athos could move past him towards the dormitories. Athos had his own rooms elsewhere in the city, as many of the Musketeers did, but there was always a bed at the garrison for men just returning from missions who were too tired to make their way home.
Maybe that's all that this was; Athos must be tired and he just wasn't awake enough for pleasantries. He'd never been very good with fatigue.
d'Artagnan was just tired of dealing in 'maybes.'
The next day brought with it a thunderstorm, and a pair of miserable, wet Musketeers. d'Artagnan watched Aramis and Porthos dismount and lead their horses into the stables from under the shelter of the balcony, wanting to approach but unwilling to chance the deluge. Athos still hadn't reappeared from the dorms - or if he had, he'd slipped away from the garrison before dawn light and avoided d'Artagnan entirely.
The others reappeared on the other side of the courtyard, peering out of the stables as though weighing up whether it was worth leaving their shelter again to go and give their reports. They seemed to have decided that the report could wait for a few more minutes and were pulling away from the doorway when Aramis caught sight of him and nudged Porthos' shoulder to get his attention, nodding his head in d'Artagnan's direction. The larger man followed his gaze and spied him, his face lighting in a gentle smile that instantly soothed d'Artagnan's jumpy nerves.
Somehow he'd been expecting the two of them to brush him off as Athos had, but seeing them dash out into the rain towards him, he felt his heart grow soft in apology. They'd done nothing to earn his mistrust.
"You look cosy," d'Artagnan informed them as soon as they passed into his shelter, eyeing the way water seemed to drip of every inch of them. Porthos shrugged and smiled, but a mischievous light lit Aramis' eyes. The Musketeer took a quick step towards d'Artagnan but the boy had seen his intention and scrambled backward, out of range of the grasping arms. "Oh no you don't," he warned playfully. "I'm perfectly happy staying dry over here."
"I think it's only fair that you suffer along with us," Aramis reasoned, trying to advance again before Porthos' hand landed on his shoulder.
"Leave the poor boy alone."
"But why does he get to stay dry when we don't?"
"Because life is unfair."
d'Artagnan watched the conversation pass between them and thought about how much he had missed it. He hadn't even realised how quiet his personal world had become when the three of them left it.
"Where's Athos?" Porthos asked suddenly, breaking d'Artagnan out of his thoughts. "Did he make it back alright?"
"I saw him last night," he said. "He gave his report to Treville and then headed for the dorms to get some rest. I've not seen him this morning."
"Strange," Aramis mused. "He's normally up before the sun. It's not like him to sleep in late."
"He was pretty tired when he got in. Maybe he's just trying to recover."
Porthos and Aramis shared a look then and it was a look that d'Artagnan had once found impressive but now just infuriated him. It was a silent conversation shared between the closest of friends that didn't require words and it was one that entirely excluded d'Artagnan; he'd found that they tended to use it when something was being communicated that they didn't want him to know about.
"What is it?"
Aramis looked back at him and plastered on a smile that d'Artagnan supposed was meant to make him feel at ease, but actually did nothing but cut at him. Did they think he couldn't tell it was fake? "Nothing I'm sure. You're right, he's probably just tired."
There was a momentary pause in which the three of them were suffocated by the sudden awkward tension in the air, but then Porthos rallied himself. "What happened to your face?"
d'Artagnan was confused for a second before he remembered the black eye and bruised jawline. Generally his tormentors had been careful to avoid his face so as not to arouse suspicion but they couldn't hide everything. He shrugged as though he was unbothered. "Sparring got a little out of hand."
"Did the other guy have a hammer? That's some pretty impressive purples."
"Sword hilt, actually," he corrected with a forced smirk. The relief he'd felt only moments ago seemed to have slipped out of his skin, leaving him just as raw and tense as he'd felt last night.
"'A little out of hand?' You're lucky that you didn't break your jaw!" Porthos exclaimed, concern clouding over his features. Beside him, Aramis had gone rigid. "Who was it?"
d'Artagnan was suddenly stuck with the image of Porthos and Aramis going after Matthieu to 'defend his honour' or something like that, and he recoiled at the idea. As much as he might appreciate the show of solidarity, it would do nothing but fuel the rumours that he was a foolish farm boy who couldn't look out for himself and was only a Musketeer because the others fought his battles for him. He shrugged. "I can't remember," he lied smoothly. "I've been pairing up with different people since you've been away."
Neither Porthos nor Aramis looked like they believed him but thankfully they let it drop. Behind them the rain seemed to be easing off a little and the pair used the brief lull to tip their hats to d'Artagnan and make their way upstairs to the Captain's office.
A voice from behind him made d'Artagnan startle. "So who really was it who messed up your face?"
He turned around to find a dishevelled Athos leaning against the door frame that lead to the dorms. There were deep bags under his eyes and his hair was in total disarray around his face, a far cry from his usual straightened out appearance. d'Artagnan's own personal insecurities rushed out of his head, replaced by concern from his friend. "Did you sleep at all last night?" He hadn't meant to blurt the question out.
Athos looked a little surprised but not offended. "A little. Are you going to answer my question?"
"No," d'Artagnan said. He wasn't about to lie again but nor was he going to lay blame at Matthieu's feet, no matter how much the smug git deserved it.
"Why?"
"It was an accident. No point blaming someone for it and besides, I don't need you three to fight my battles for me. I can take care of myself." So maybe he was going to lie a little. But what Athos never knew wouldn't hurt him.
"And yet we leave for a week and come back to find you black and blue. You'll have to forgive us for being concerned."
He didn't really know what to say. They seemed to genuinely be worried for him and he was grateful to know that he'd been wrong to doubt their friendship as quickly as he had but he also couldn't forget the way Athos had dismissed him before they'd left, and then again last night. Irritatingly, he couldn't see it from an outsiders perspective and so he didn't know how irrational he was being about it all. There wasn't anyone he could ask either. Constance wouldn't want him darkening her doorway now that she'd found her own happiness within her marriage and who else did he have? Treville? Not likely.
The whole thing made him feel unbalanced in a way that he hadn't done since finding his father's killer.
"I'm grateful for your concern but it really isn't necessary. You, on the other hand, look as though you've been mugged. Are you sure that you should be out of bed?"
It was a risk - Athos never liked people expressing concern over his own wellbeing, hypocritical dick - but d'Artagnan needed a new topic and he was genuinely worried about the way Athos seemed to be using the door frame to keep himself upright.
"I'm just tired. It was a trying mission." d'Artagnan couldn't do much but nod at that, since no one had filled him in on what the mission had actually been, or even whether or not it had been a success. "Training is going to be miserable today anyway," he continued, oblivious to the lad's discomfort. He nodded at the rain that was starting to pick up again. "Hope you don't mind getting wet."
A child of summer who'd been raised in the south, d'Artagnan most certainly did mind getting wet, but there was nothing for it. "Maybe Treville will just give us the day off?"
"In all the years I've been here, that's never happened on account of rain."
"Not once?"
"Well, there was that time that the river broke its banks and the garrison was flooded. We tried for about an hour before it became clear that it was easier to try and drown your opponent than disarm them with your sword. Treville sent us home after that."
"That sounds like something I want to see."
"I seem to recall Porthos enjoying himself immensely."
"When was this?" The man in question asked, as both he and Aramis hurried down the stairs and back under the overhang, freshly soaked.
"The flood in '27."
Porthos' face broke into a perfectly devilish smile but Aramis shuddered dramatically. "Don't remind me. I was cleaning out my rooms for weeks."
"You're just sore about losing to me in wrestling five times in a row," Porthos reminded him, still smirking. Aramis glared half heartedly then turned to stare morosely out at the rain. "Today's going to be miserable, isn't it?"
"You're already soaked," d'Artagnan pointed out. "How could it get worse?"
Porthos groaned loudly and Aramis slapped a hand over d'Artagnan's mouth, making him blink in surprise. "Don't say that you fool," he admonished. "That's just asking the fates to spite us." d'Artagnan's only response was to try and bite Aramis' hand.
The courtyard around them was gradually filling with Musketeers, everyone trying to crowd around the edges in the vain hope of avoiding the rain for as long as possible. d'Artagnan caught sight of Matthieu and his friends glaring at the four of them from across the open space and he looked away quickly so as not to draw attention. For now he was safe amongst his friends and he didn't want to consider what was waiting for him after they were sent away again. Somehow he didn't doubt that he'd be alone again soon.
As predicted, training that day was miserable. They were soaked to the skin in moments and shaking so hard from cold that even gripping their swords became challenging, but Treville was unrelenting. It made sense, d'Artagnan supposed, since they could never guarantee the conditions of a battle but all he could think about was that the weather was exactly the same as the day his father died. The thought distracted him badly enough that he didn't win a single match all morning.
"What's wrong with you today?" Athos asked him quietly as they were taking a brief break to try and warm themselves up a little. "You fought better than this before we even met you."
d'Artagnan grimaced at him. "Just having a bad day I guess."
"You've had bad days before but nothing like this. Are you injured?"
Well, he was actually. His ribs were battered and aching but if he admitted to that then there was no way the others would let it go as just 'sparring gone wrong.' He didn't want any more attention falling on him. "No. Like I said, it's just a bad day."
"d'Artagnan-" Athos started, then stopped himself. He looked like he very much wanted to say something, to push for answers and for a moment d'Artagnan was caught feeling terribly guilty. He criticised his friends for keeping things from him when he was doing just the same in return. He didn't want to hurt them. Athos bit his lip for a moment as he drew himself back behind his cool concern, keeping a firm grip on his emotions. "Is this going to be a problem?"
"Not at all."
Athos hesitated for a moment and then said very quietly, "You don't have to deal with everything on your own."
It was a lesson that Athos had struggled to learn, but in dealing with Milady and confiding in his friends, he seemed to finally have accepted that he didn't have to bear the weight of the world alone. Perhaps d'Artagnan should start heeding his own advice more often.
He made a quick decision. Admitting one truth might stop them from looking for another, and surely the others wouldn't judge him for this weakness. "My father died in the rain. When it's like this-" he gestured about them, "It just reminds me, I suppose."
Athos glanced at him then looked away quickly, dipping his head down in the way he did when he was thinking. "There's no shame in grief."
"It's been over a year now," d'Artagnan pointed out as emotionlessly as he could. "It's long past time that I put it behind me."
Beside him Athos stiffened, turning to face him in surprise. "No one has the right to tell you how and when to grieve d'Artagnan. Don't ever let anyone tell you that what you're feeling is wrong or weak. People deal with loss differently. You saw what became of me after-" He stopped there, ever unwilling to directly address what had happened with his wife. "I found the Musketeers, I found Aramis and Porthos and they helped me to recover and become a functioning member of society again. Let us help you."
"You already are," d'Artagnan reassured immediately, feeling guilty all over again. He wasn't trying to accuse anyone of not being there for him - his grief was his problem to deal with. "The Musketeers have given me purpose when I had nothing else and I'll always be grateful for that. The rain is just a reminder. I can deal with this."
The conversation didn't feel over, but at that moment Treville wandered over and engaged Athos in a discussion about the technique of some of the more recent recruits. Taking it as his cue to make himself scarce, d'Artagnan wandered away, trying to find Aramis and Porthos from where he'd lost them in the downpour but stopped when a familiar figure stepped into his path.
"Looking for a partner whelp?" Matthieu sneered, sword already in hand.
d'Artagnan really didn't want to tangle with him today, but to walk away from such a blatant challenge would only mark him as a coward. Slowly, he drew his own sword. "Sure."
Matthieu lunged at him before he'd even taken his position and d'Artagnan had to duck sideways to avoid the sharp thrust towards his abdomen that would have undoubtedly killed him. Surely Matthieu wasn't stupid enough to do him serious harm in front of the whole regiment? But there wasn't time to be thinking such things, he realised as he jumped away from another wild swing that almost grazed his arm.
Being on the defensive wasn't d'Artagnan's preferred style. He was more for attacking quickly and then retreating to safety before his opponent could recover, using his own natural speed to avoid injury. The only problem with that technique here was that while Matthieu was slower than d'Artagnan, he was three times as strong, covered in wiry muscles that he knew how to use to his full advantage. Every time their swords crossed, d'Artagnan's arm would jar with the force of the blow.
The fight dragged on, d'Artagnan wearing out quickly. The brief conversation with Athos had calmed his nerves slightly but even he could not entirely erase his father's fading voice in the back of his mind hissing 'Athos,' as though it was both an answer and an accusation. He could see blood in the puddles at his feet and red staining his fingers, even though he knew that it couldn't possibly be real.
The distraction cost him the fight, as it had done all morning. With a fierce flick of his wrist, Matthieu sent d'Artagnan's sword spinning away from him to fall out of his reach. His main-gauche was of little use against a sword and he knew it.
He raised the blade in a salute, acknowledging his defeat, but Matthieu was taking another step forwards as though to finish him off. Too surprised and confused to respond, d'Artagnan stood stock-still until Treville's voice rang out across the courtyard: "Stand down!"
Coming to his senses, Matthieu instantly lowered his sword, sheathing it in one smooth movement and turning towards their captain with a disinterested look on his face as though nothing had happened. d'Artagnan looked in the same direction as though in a daze, and realised for the first time that the fights around them had stopped too - Treville hadn't just been talking to them but to everyone. The fact that he'd just saved d'Artagnan from being skewered was completely coincidental.
Feeling punch-drunk, d'Artagnan barely listened as Treville called out orders and dismissed the rest. He did pay sufficient attention to know that his name hadn't been called but he wasn't sure if the others had been mentioned. All he really wanted to do was get away from Matthieu to somewhere quiet and alone so that he could have his breakdown in private.
A Musketeer, a brother, had just tried to kill him in the courtyard. In front of everyone.
It didn't seem possible. He wanted to believe he'd been imagining it but he couldn't get the look in Matthieu's eyes out of his head, that fierce determination and sadistic glee. Could he really hate him that much?
Of course, if d'Artagnan tried to voice his thoughts to anyone, they'd just assume he was looking to cause trouble or just imagining it, which ruled out going to his friends for their thoughts.
None of it made any sense.
d'Artagnan's mood only plummeted when he saw his friends heading to the stables when Treville had finished speaking, meaning that they were headed out on a mission, the second in a row without him. Had Athos requested this? Maybe he'd been wrong to admit to his feelings about his father and all he'd achieved was painting himself as a coward who couldn't be depended on, just because of a little bit of rain.
Aramis saw him watching and offered him a one-shouldered shrug and what-can-you-do type smile but didn't come over to explain, just followed the other two without a word. Athos and Porthos didn't even glance in his direction.
One mission without him could be ignored, meaningless but two in rapid succession? Something was wrong here, and d'Artagnan was sure it must relate to the way the rest of the garrison seemed to have turned against him. That morning Pierre, a Musketeer who up until today had treated him with as much respect as he did anyone, had bested him with a sword and then sneered at him, with a muttered 'should have stayed at home, whelp.'
With little else to do and the courtyard clearing, d'Artagnan headed towards the dorms. He could get changed into something dry and try to rid himself of the ghosts dogging his heels, no matter what Athos had said. Which had probably been meaningless if he now believed d'Artagnan too much of a liability to take on a mission because of the weather. Not that he was necessarily wrong in this case. His losing streak this morning had done nothing but prove that he wasn't ready to be a soldier, much less a Musketeer.
d'Artagnan had learned within a few days of coming to Paris that his friends were referred to casually as the Inseperables and to start with he had secretly been thrilled that the supposedly complete trio had moved to make room for him. As time went on and more Musketeers began murmuring hateful things about him in dark corners, he started to understand that general opinion said that he had latched onto the three of them and they'd been too polite to turn him away, but they hadn't let him in either. He just stayed with them, a barely tolerated presence to be disposed of at the earliest opportunity.
He'd never been one to listen to rumours but alone once more, he couldn't help but feel as though he had been 'disposed of,' as though he were worthless. As soon as he'd had the thought, a hundred memories flew to mind of the last year, times when his will or opinion had been overridden by one of the others; Aramis forcing him against a cart to growl Porthos' innocence, Marsac disowning him as one of the Musketeers and the others staying silent, Athos swearing him to silence after the fire. Tiny moments that hadn't meant much before that suddenly fell into new light.
But he couldn't have been imagining the friendship they'd offered him, could he? Athos had confided in him about his wife before Aramis or Porthos, Aramis had trusted him with the secret of Marsac's presence, Porthos had trusted him to reload his pistol in time to shoot their pursuers.
And yet the more he thought about it, the more he realised that in those instances, the others hadn't had any choice but to lay their trust in him, simply because he'd been the only one there. The wrong time and place, as usual. It was rapidly becoming the story of his life.
Treville summoned him early the next morning, though d'Artagnan was already awake. Or, more accurately, he hadn't gone to sleep yet, having been tossing and turning for hours before finally accepting that sleep was going to evade him all night long and giving up. The Captain looked weary and short-tempered, and d'Artagnan didn't dare ask where his friends had gone.
"I need you to take this missives to the garrison in Cherbourg. You're not to read them, nor in any way tamper with them. You understand?"
d'Artagnan felt his heart drop a little at the order - it was a long, lonely ride to Normandy - but he didn't let it show on his face. Instead he nodded, taking the package thrust towards him. "Of course Sir."
"You leave at once."
Feeling a little like a dog bowing to its master, he ducked his head and left the room without a word, heading towards his rooms to pack. He shouldn't need much beyond a change of clothes and some basic food provisions as there should be plenty of villages and towns along the way. At least he hadn't been ordered to stay off the roads (which normally meant at some point they'd be under attack from an unknown party).
With supplies strapped to the back of his saddle, he rode out of the garrison with more reserve than normal. He kept his eyes on the road ahead of him as he made his way out of the city, not taking in the sights and sounds of the busy capital.
Once he was past the city wall he calmed down a little, the fresh air soothing him in its familiarity. The dawn was brightening into a beautiful day, the rain of yesterday long gone - d'Artagnan felt that he should treasure the sun before he headed north.
He made it until midday without trouble.
The road stretched emptily before him one moment, and the next there were men around him, yanking him from his mount before he had time to even understand what was happening. He hit the ground hard and rolled with the momentum so that he could regain his footing, despite the fierce ache spreading rapidly across his ribcage, taking his breath away.
His attackers outnumbered him ten to one, and he was only able to land a single punch - that resulted in a sharp crack he hoped was a broken nose - before something struck the back of his skull with enough force to send him to his knees in the dirt. Hands were on him instantly, holding him down and stopping him from reaching for his weapons as one of the men stepped forwards to crouch before him, a cloth obscuring all of his face but his eyes.
The man reached out and fisted a hand in his hair, yanking his head up straight from where he'd let it sag, ears still ringing from the blow. "What have we got here?"
d'Artagnan came to a little at that, the voice so horrifyingly familiar even when he couldn't see the face to match it to. But it couldn't be, surely? Whatever hatred Matthieu harboured towards him, he was a Musketeer too, a brother he was sworn to protect.
"I told them that you had no business being a Musketeer," Matthieu sneered, unaware of his concussion-induced confusion. "And now Treville has sent you to me, all alone like a lamb to slaughter. He never did have the guts to do something like this himself." He gestured to the men holding d'Artagnan and the Gascon's head snapped forwards as he bore another blow.
He dropped into the darkness.
When he came to, his head was pounding so fiercely it took him several moments to remember what had happened and why he was laying on the forest floor with his hands tied behind his back, face pressed into the earth. As soon as the memories returned, he almost wished they hadn't. A groan crawled out of his throat unbidden, half in response to the pain and half in desperation.
Matthieu was either a traitor to the Musketeers or Treville really had sent him out alone so that Matthieu could finish him off and the regiment would be rid of him without unnecessary paperwork. Neither option was particularly appealing, though d'Artagnan was leaning towards the former. Treville had helped him earn his commission, it made no sense to turn against him now and besides, he did not seem the type of man to condemn an innocent to a quiet murder just for the sake of convenience. And whatever Athos, Porthos and Aramis thought about him, they would never stand for this.
But none of this was explaining why d'Artagnan was tied up in the forest and not lying at the roadside with his throat cut. Stifling another groan, he managed to wiggle around enough to flip onto his back so that he could take a look at his surrounding.
A few feet away, a man was sitting on a rock, watching something outside of d'Artagnan's limited range of vision. His movements seemed to have alerted his guard however, and he turned to face him, eyes glinting about the cloth around his face.
"I was hoping you'd wake soon," he said, voice instantly recognisable as Matthieu. "It'd be a shame for you to miss your own execution."
The words sent a thrill of fear down d'Artagnan's spine. His bonds were tight and he couldn't see himself being able to flee while bound as he was. No one would even realise he was missing for days. Even riding hard it was a two day journey from Paris to Cherbourg and Treville hadn't stressed speed. No one was coming to his rescue.
"You look like you're trying to work out how to escape," Matthieu commented idly, apparently unconcerned at the thought. "You won't. In a few minutes we're going to have you hanged and even if you somehow untied yourself, there's nowhere to run. Get back to Paris and Treville is just going to send you back out here."
"Treville wouldn't condone this," d'Artagnan argued back, wishing he were more sure of himself.
"Then why are you riding alone through country that he knows is full of bandits? My men and I have been working these roads for weeks and yet he sent you here all alone, with no one coming to save you. He wants you dead so that he doesn't have to deal with you."
With his head splitting open, d'Artagnan was struggling to concentrate on the conversation but he forced himself to focus. This was important. "You're a Musketeer," he reasoned, "Why are you doing this?"
Matthieu darted forwards at that, putting himself in d'Artagnan's face. "Why am I doing this?" He hissed, furious all of a sudden. "Why? Because once the Musketeers had honour, respect. We were heroes. But then Treville started making compromises, started recruiting from outside the aristocracy. My father was a Baron, did you know that? I am noble. And you? You're a piece of dirt from nowhere, who managed to whore his way into the regiment. Tell me, how many men did you have to pleasure before-"
"Shut up," d'Artagnan snapped viciously, writhing in his attempts to free his hands so that he could punch the self-satisfied git in the face. Hate he didn't know he could feel towards a brother welled up in his veins, burning him with its intensity. "I won my commission through talent alone, not because my father was rich enough to suck up to the king."
Matthieu's hand lashed out, striking d'Artagnan across the face and sending him back into the dirt, followed by two swift, aching kicks to his stomach. "You are nothing, you hear me?" Matthieu kicked him again then used his foot to nudge d'Artagnan back onto his back.
The Gascon was panting, instinctively trying to curl up to protect himself against the abuse. He was vaguely aware of Matthieu spitting on him.
"You're going to hang, boy," he snarled, "And then I'm going after everyone else who thinks that vermin like you deserve to be Musketeers. Your little friends are at the top of my list."
There were people beside d'Artagnan then, dragging him off the ground but his legs couldn't take his own weight. Matthieu was going to go after the others. Alone he wouldn't stand much of a chance, but apparently he had men of his own and besides them, he had the element of surprise. They trusted him. And he was going to stab them in the back.
He wanted to shout at the injustice of it all, but he couldn't seem to get enough air in his lungs, ribs constricting painfully as his stomach clenched. Through blurred vision he could see a noose thrown over a thick tree branch and for a moment all he could think was 'is this what Milady felt like?' The thought was not a comfort.
With his heart pounding as loud as it was, he couldn't hear whatever it was Matthieu was saying to his men. He wanted to laugh at that; a man he hated was giving his epitaph and he wasn't even conscious enough to hear it.
There was noose around his neck then as men forced him onto a rickety stool and the rope was pulled tight. For a moment the air went still and d'Artagnan knew what was coming even before he felt the jolt of the ground beneath his feet being kicked away, leaving him to fall into the tight grip of the noose. His throat snapped shut but the fall wasn't enough to break his neck; he was going to suffocate to death.
He could see, couldn't hear, couldn't do anything other than panic is silence, aware that his legs were kicking about wildly in an instinctive search for purchase. He found none.
Terrified and alone, d'Artagnan passed out.