a/n: This was originally meant as my entry for the "Fêtes des Mousquetaires" competition with the prompt 'Brotherhood' by ArcAngel-liberty4all, but sadly I wasn't fast enough in coming up with this fic and missed the deadline to enter. But I hope that you can still enjoy it!
Summary: Fevered and in the storm, d'Artagnan thinks himself alone, but there are three men there to prove him wrong by a simple act.
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
Brave the Storm
Constance lay on the opposite side of the bed from her husband, who was sound sleep, snoring lightly despite the pouring rain and the snap-crashes of thunnder, but for whatever reason, left her tossing and turning. She sighed and glanced over at Jacques, both envious and annoyed.
Finally admitting defeat after counting a hundred sheep for the twelfth time in a row, she carefully peeled back the covers and slipped from bed. Sliding her bare feet into the warmth of her slippers, and putting her dressing gown over her camisole, she navigated to the door through the flickers of lightening through the window and eased it closed behind her.
Her heart leapt into her throat as there was a boom of thunder and she heard clattering down the hall. Shaking the ill feeling from her shoulders, she walked softly down the hall towards d'Artagnan's room, where she was sure the noise had come from. His door was partly open, and after a moments hesitation, she pushed it the rest of the way.
"d'Artagnan?" she whispered into the dark room. "Are you awake?"
After a moment with no answer, and she was starting to realize her mistake; hoping that the rain hammering against the window covered her soft call. Constance barely managed to stifle the shriek as lightening flashed, lighting the dark room briefly to find d'Artagnan, covered in sweat, loaming close in front of her in his shoes, breaches, and shirtsleeves.
Hand over her racing heart, she gasped. "You scared me nearly half to death!" She quickly lit the candle on the table by the door. The flame cast the dark room in a orange-ish glow that should have appeared warm, but for some reason seemed sinister. She saw his blanket was thrown onto the floor, and so was his sword.
"I don't want to be alone." His hands were clenched at his sides and she could see his jaw working for a moment before he spoke. "I can't, Constance."
"What? d'Artagnan, are you all right?" she asked, watching him closely.
He started to pace in front of her, his form jerky and halting. Thunder crashed outside and he stumbled like he'd been shoved. He bit his fist, attempting to stifle the keen lodged in his throat.
"I can't stay here anymore. I have to go back." He gasped, his breath coming quick and short as he stopped in front of her.
She reached out and touched his arm. "Tell me what's the matter. What can I do to help?"
The rain hit the glass like hundreds of tapping and clawing fingernails and it was driving him mad.
His ran his hands roughly through his sweaty locks, his eyes glazed. Concerned that he might be with fever, she raised her hand to his forehead. His expression was pinched, almost as if he were in physical pain. Heat blossomed from his skin.
She tsked him gently. "You have a fever, d'Artagnan. You need to rest, not be up like this. Come on," and she started to steer him back towards his bed.
"I need to see him again!" he whimpered and suddenly pushed passed the woman. "I have to—"
"d'Artagnan!" she called, not caring to keep her voice down, least she wake her husband, and ran after the young man. "Where are you going?"
She ran into the kitchen, but he'd already been through and dread filled her as she saw the front door open and swinging in the wind.
She frantically exchanged her slippers for shoes, threw her cloak over her housedress, and grabbed d'Artagnan's still hanging from the peg, and ran out the door into the courtyard.
She didn't know where he was, but knew immediately who to go to. She ran from the yard and towards the Musketeer garrison, pounding through the muddy puddles. She could have sworn that there had been another horse hitched under the overhang. And her worried expanded. If he was fevered, delusion, and riding a horse in this cold storm in just his shirtsleeves—who knew what trouble might meet him.
By the time she made it to the garrison, she'd never run so hard in her life. Her lungs burned and her legs shook, and she was hardly able to gasp out Athos, Aramis, and Porthos' names to one of the Musketeers standing sentry. She was dismayed to discover that neither of the three men were there. She turned right around again and ran, even as the man called after. If she remembered right, Athos had an apartment, but couldn't for the life of her remember where, if she ever knew in the first place. So the next best thing, with a prayer to God, was the tavern that she knew the foursome frequented. It was her only other option.
She forced her legs to work when all they wanted to do was seize. She was already soaked, splashed mud covering the bottom half of her cloak and dressing gown.
If she was already in this state, she could only shudder at the one d'Artagnan was in.
The hour was late and the tavern was virtually empty, but for himself, the man passed out at the bar, Porthos cheating a man out of his meagre wages, and Aramis chatting up the pretty barmaid, and the bartender.
Athos lounged back in his chair, languidly drinking wine from his cup, in no hurry to move, even without the storm banging against the door. It was most like that the three of them were spending the night, or at least staying until the downpour let up. None thinking it worth it to dive out in the storm when they had all they could need right here.
Something had been bothering since he had stood next to his brothers at morning muster. Off and on, it had nagged at him throughout the day, but he could never seem to put his finger on. That was why he hadn't allowed himself to get drunk, he was determined to figure it out. One thing he was sure of though, was that it concerned their youngest and newest addition—d'Artagnan. But that was it, and it was annoying him beyond measure.
d'Artagnan had left them early, stating that he wanted to get home before the storm hit. That should have clued the older man in soon enough to the problem, but it continued to elude him—until, at least, the front door of the tavern banged open and Constance stumbled in, soaking, covered in mud, and gasping for breath.
"Athos!" she wheezed, clutching at the beam next to her to stay upright, her other arm raised to her chest and twisted in a second cloak.
"Madame Bonacieux." Athos stood in surprise. Porthos and Aramis' attentions were drawn. "What has happened? Why are you here?"
"d'Artagnan—" but that was all she was able to get out.
"Here. Sit." Aramis rushed over to the woman, leaving abandoned a confused barmaid and guided Constance into a chair. And poured her a cup of wine. "Drink." He knelt in front of her. "Deep breaths." He instructed and demonstrated. She followed along as Athos and Porthos gathered around them (the former leaving his wine, the latter his won pot), until finally, her breath was relatively normal. "Now... what's happened?"
Constance nodded and cut right to it. "I found d'Artagnan fevered in his room. He was saying some confusing things and pacing. I tried to get him back to bed, but he just suddenly pushed passed me and ran. I chased after him, but he ran out into the rain before I could stop him! He took a horse, and I don't know where he went."
"A fever?" Porthos said, his glanced worried at the others.
"What sort of things was he saying?" Aramis asked urgently, hoping they may get some clue as to where the young man was headed. Paris was made up of a tangle of main streets, and fun little side alley. For all their searching, they might never find him—especially if he were unable to respond or know it was them calling his name. But he had to know that they would tear down the streets looking for him, even in his fevered state.
"Um... that he didn't want to be alone. He couldn't stay here any longer. And he had to see 'him'." She answered.
"'Him' who?" he stood.
Constance just looked at him helplessly. Athos was silent through the whole exchange, as slowly, things started to fall into place. And he berated his stupidity.
It was after Anne had come back from the dead for him, when Treville ordered them to escort Emile Bonnaire to appear before the King, and were forced to stay in his old home in Pinon after Porthos was injured. It was their journey back to Paris after d'Artagnan had rescued him from the fire, that from his own lack of openness, the Gascon had revealed details of his father's death that the others didn't know.
"I believe I might know where he's headed." Athos stated. He looked at Constance. "He reacted physically to the thunder, didn't he?" She nodded. The other's looked at him questioningly. "It's the storm. d'Artagnan held his dying father in the middle of a thunderstorm."
"That must be the 'him'." Aramis agreed.
"We know where th' inn is." Porthos told Athos.
Constance stood. "You have to find him, Athos. In his condition..." she shook her head worriedly.
"We will." He stated firmly, and the three grabbed their cloaks and headed for the door. "Go back home, Madame. We'll send word when we have him." Because there was no thought that they wouldn't, only a matter of time.
She nodded, but then called to them urgently. "Wait! His cloak." She handed it to Porthos. "He didn't take it when he ran off." She didn't know what use it might be, soaked like it was, but thought he might want it anyways—for the journey back at least.
The three ducked into the rain and mounted their horses hitched in the covered alley at the side of the tavern, and urged the animals into a fast canter. The beasts' hooves slicing through the deep puddles that lined the dark and empty Paris streets, the rain hammering down upon them. The lightening lighting their paths out of Paris, the thunder urging them faster.
d'Artagnan may have only been with them for a few months, but in those months he had demonstrated his honour, heart, trust, friendship—his brotherhood. He had saved Athos twice now. First from the firing squad even as he thought Athos was the killer of his father. And a second time, from the fire that his wife had set to the chateau to kill him once and for all. Both times d'Artagnan had been there when he had no reason to. He'd stepped up, and now it was their turn. And Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were going to be there for him. There was no need to think, just to do.
That morning had been pleasant enough for d'Artagnan, though his doublet felt slightly hot. But his dread grew until it was finally a constant scream in the back of his head. The storm had been slow growing, building throughout the day. The wind that swept through the usual stale streets of Paris. The clouds that slowly stroked through the sky, gradually turning to ash as they converged on the dull shinning sun.
As the day wore, he grew more and more tense. More distracted. Porthos took him down faster than usual when they sparred in the yard. He didn't so much as blink, as flinch and react bodily when there was a loud crashing sound from the kitchens as Serge knocked over some pots. When the day was growing to an end, he forced himself to at least go to the tavern for one round with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, but excused himself shortly thereafter.
It was on his way to the Bonaciuex home that it had start to rain. One moment, a few drops landed on his face, and a blink later it was like a bucket of water was thrown on him. He'd just closed his bedroom door when the crack of thunder sent him reeling.
He'd never had this innate sense of fear for a thunderstorm before. But ever since that night when he'd held Alexandre in his arms... he could feel the fear in him. It had rained since that day, of course it had—sometimes it felt like that was all Paris did—but it hadn't stormed, not like that night.
He'd found himself under his covers, like some lost little boy. Tossing and turning, sweating, his head swimming, his heart hammering. That dark punctuated by the flash of light through his closed curtain. His heart lodged in his throat. Hot and cold, tangled in the blanket. The walls closing in on him, the rain tapping the glass of the window like fingernails of the hands that were trying to get him. He needed his father. He didn't want to be alone anymore! And suddenly, he couldn't stand it anymore. And he just ran. Ran from the isolation and crushing walls, and rode towards the last place he didn't feel like this, to the last place he'd been with his father.
The houses blurred passed d'Artagnan as he spurred his stolen horse faster, the house fronts pressing in upon him. The rain pelted his skull, plastering his hair. His shirtsleeves like a second skin upon him. He broke from the city limits at a gallop.
Paris was crushing him. His father had left him, but the young man was sure in his fevered state, that if he returned to the place where Alexandre had died in the storm, he could get his father back and he wouldn't be alone anymore. He was sure there was something that he was forgetting, some ones, but his fevered mind couldn't grasp their faces. A deep chuckle, a clap on the shoulder, a solemn nod.
It was the thunder and the lightening, the boom and the flash. It chased him, followed him—it was after him—driving him mad. But he just knew, that if he could get to that place, that he would find what he was wanting, they would come for him, though he couldn't quite tell who 'they' were.
His horse came a stop, its sides heaving, it's flanks slick with rain, its breath snorting like steam from its nostrils. d'Artagnan fell from the saddle to the ground, groaning in pain at the hard and awkward landing. He was splattered with mud, soaked to the bone.
He dragged himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled to where he father lay. He didn't know where the tears ended and the rain began. His fingers dug into the wet earth easily. He scrambled at the mud, digging for his father. Sound like an animal left his throat, swallowed by the rain. He whimpered as the thunder drove him further underground.
His teeth chattered so hard from the cold, like the clacking of a skeleton coming after him. Where was he? Where were they? He collapsed and curled in on himself. The rain pounding him into the ground. The bright white light flashing through his eye lids. The hard booming of his heart, so distant.
He'd found his father. But would they find him?
Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had rode their steeds hard, the mounts exhausted and as freezing as their riders.
"Where is he?" Athos shouted.
"There's 'is horse!" Porthos exclaimed spotting the wandering horse through the sheets of rain. The three quickly dismounted and approached the horse that looked as drowned as their own and themselves. "'E's not here!"
"He can't have gone far." Aramis said. The inn was right in front of them, and the barn was to his right. Would d'Artagnan have gone to either of those? But then it hit him. He gasped, and grabbed Porthos nearest him. "The grave!"
"The grave." Porthos repeated, and his eyes widened.
And then they were running, Aramis and Porthos leading the charge around behind the tavern to the grave where the innkeeper had buried the man that d'Artagnan had shot in the barn that night.
They were horrified, scared, as they looked down into the shallow grave that d'Artagnan had dug out over the original, and found the young man unmoving and curled in on himself. His fingers a bloody mess. Athos and Porthos scrambled to retrieve the young man. He was like ice, and though he moaned, they couldn't hear it and feared the cold might have stolen him from them too soon.
"Inside!" Aramis shouted, and they rushed with the man between them.
"Oi!" Porthos bellowed as they made it inside. "We've got an injured man 'ere!"
The innkeeper rushed out from back and immediately recognized Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan between them despite the months since he saw them, and quickly offered them the closest room, his own. Aramis quickly issued orders to the man, for blankets and warm water.
d'Artagnan moaned as they laid him down on the bed, and they all breathed in relief that he was still with them. Aramis ordered them to strip the Gascon, get him dry and under the covers, and went to retrieve his kit. Luckily, the innkeeper had already made the stable boy collect their horses and their saddlebags were already brought in.
The innkeeper returned with more blankets and the water. And as d'Artangnan's core temperature was slowly risen again, he was wracked with severe shivers that made it difficult for Aramis to bandage his fingers, but was a good sign.
Athos looked down upon the fevered young man, worry a wrinkle between his brows. "What were you thinking?" Athos whispered, not expecting an answer.
At the sound of his voice, d'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open. "Don' wanna be 'lone." He mumbled.
"You're not alone, d'Artagnan." Aramis told him, shaking his head.
"Yeah," Porthos nodded. "You 'ave us."
"We're your brother's," Athos finished. "You can't get away from us that easily."
d'Artagnan smiled, even as his eyes closed again. And even as the thunder boomed, and the lightening flashed, he knew he wouldn't have to brave the storm alone any longer.
(the end)
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
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