The support this story has received has been incredible. It's been a long while since my email has blown up like that. You guys are amazing.
I worked out that (roughly) on horseback it would take 13 days to ride from Paris to San Sebastian but if anyone wants to correct me on that assumption, you're more than welcome to.
One last thing. This is set between series one and two. Anne is pregnant and the Cardinal is ill, but still alive.
Fifty Days Earlier
d'Artagnan knew that this was all his fault. It still didn't make it sting any listen to Aramis shouting in his face, practically spitting venom at him, or to see Porthos glaring at them intermittently. Athos had gone with Treville to try and smooth everything over with the King so that Louis didn't make good on his threat to execute him.
It had all happened so quickly that even now, he couldn't be entirely sure of events. There had been a commotion near the doors to the balcony, the Musketeers guarding them drawing their swords with the familiar rasp of steel. Athos, who had been stood beside the king, acted with all his years of training to smoothly pull Louis into his shadow to protect him from harm but d'Artagnan, standing beside Anne, had been just a beat too slow. There was gunfire, more shouting and then he was desperately grabbing hold of the queen as she collapsed into him, slender, pale fingers clutching at the wound in her arm.
It was a simple injury – no lasting damage besides a scar. And yet that small graze could even now be enough to condemn him. Anne, once she had regained enough of her senses to know what had happened, had immediately brushed off the implication that it had been d'Artagnan's fault but if that wasn't enough to placate Louis then everything was about to get drastically worse.
Though from Aramis' tirade, it didn't look like d'Artagnan could count on him to be fighting his corner. It hadn't taken long for the Gascon to realise the connection between Aramis and the queen – he'd spent long enough pining after Constance to recognise the look of longing on his brother's face – but he'd kept his silence, trusting that it would never become an issue between them. Apparently he'd been wrong.
"Aramis," he cut in eventually, when the headache pounding behind his eyes threatened to overwhelm him. "I made a mistake. I'm sorry. But can you please at least wait to see if I'm about to be arrested before you wear your voice out?" Pain and fear made his voice harsher than it had any right to be – he was the one in the wrong here.
Aramis looked utterly furious, but Porthos spoke before he could start up yelling again. "He's right 'Mis. All that shouting might start to give folks the wrong impression." He raised his eyebrows pointedly and d'Artagnan realised that Aramis had told Porthos about his dalliance with the queen. He'd not had to work it out for himself. A tiny spike of hurt lanced through his chest.
There was a weight settling over d'Artagnan's lungs, pressing down heavily until it was becoming hard to breathe. He knew that he must look pale but no one seemed to give a damn. It was a strange sensation, thinking that he was probably going to die. In his line of work, there was always a high chance of never coming home again but after spending so long knowing that his brothers had his back, it was almost impossible for him to comprehend the idea of being alone in this.
But then, perhaps he was being overly dramatic. Aramis was worried and stressed – this was surely not enough for him to turn against his brother? And right now Athos was somewhere in the palace trying to convince Louis not to have him hanged.
"I really am sorry," he tried, this time making sure that his voice remained low and sincere. "I just…" He rubbed at his eyes, trying to wish the headache away.
Porthos huffed out a sigh and pushed himself upright off the wall, approaching for the first time. A heavy hand landed on d'Artagnan's shoulder comfortingly. "You'll be alright kid," he said. "The queen'll be fine – the baby too. She's not going to let anything happen to you when you did nothing wrong."
Aramis glared at them both, his lips drawn together tightly. "Just because the bullet didn't hit her belly, she could still go into shock! The child could still die!"
Silence flooded in after the statement, d'Artagnan's heart stopping dead. If his actions – or failure to act – lead to the death of the future heir to the throne, then there was no hope for forgiveness from the king or from Aramis. d'Artagnan had his suspicions about the true father of the unborn child but it was obvious enough from the glares between Aramis and Athos that the marksman felt he had a claim.
d'Artagnan didn't realise his knees had turned to water until Porthos was jumping in to steady him, hooking an arm around his shoulders and taking most of his weight. "Easy kid," he muttered. There was a glaring contest going on over his head, but d'Artagnan didn't care.
"I'm dead," he choked out, terrified. "He'll kill me."
"The Captain's not going to let anything happen to you," Porthos reassured him. "And neither are we. Ignore Aramis – you know he worries like an old woman when he wants to. The baby will be fine, and so will you."
Something in his sheer terror must have convinced Aramis that he was truly repentant, because he started shifting on his feet uneasily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "There's only a very small chance of any complications," he offered, even though he didn't sound like he believed it for a moment. "The queen won't let the king have you executed for this."
"If he even tries, he'll have to go through Athos first," Porthos said, letting a small grin poke through his frown.
d'Artagnan shook his head forcefully, a different breed of worry seeping in at the corners. "No. If I get arrested, you need to promise me you'll let it happen." He would not drag them all down with him.
"That won't be a problem," announced a new voice, and d'Artagnan jumped half a foot into the air before he recognised Athos' smooth drawl. "We're all free to go. The queen managed to convince Louis that it wouldn't set a good example to have his own men put to death, especially since ordering your execution would end with half the regiment on the scaffolding beside you." Athos' voice went quiet as he looked at his own feet, not meeting d'Artagnan's eyes. "Don't ever ask us to abandon you to death."
d'Artagnan's flood of worry was stemmed somewhat by the weight of Athos' words, and the understanding of what he'd been asking them to do. But no matter what it cost them, he would see them live. "I cannot promise you that," he admitted. "No matter what happens to me, I wouldn't have you on that scaffold for all the world, any of you. Especially not for my own stupid mistake."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis flinch badly. His dalliance with the queen must be lying heavily in his heart, only heightened now that Porthos knew as well – it was perfectly possible that a stupid mistake would see them all before the noose.
"Just be grateful it's not something we have to worry about right now," Porthos said, drawing them all back into the present situation.
Tension seeped out of d'Artagnan until he was leaning into Porthos to keep him on his feet. The bigger man didn't seem inclined to comment. "I think I need a drink."
"That can be arranged," Athos said, a smile catching at his mouth gently. Aramis seemed to shrink inwards with a huff, and left without a word; d'Artagnan tried to pretend that it didn't hurt like hell to see him walk away.
"Actually," he said quietly, "I might just…" He made to untuck himself from Porthos' side but the bigger man tightened his grip and didn't let him move an inch.
"Ignore him. He's being an idiot. You're coming to the Wren with me and Athos and we're going to have a good time." That, apparently, was the deciding vote and d'Artagnan found himself being shepherded out of the palace and down the familiar streets without another word. Porthos only released him once they were through the doors to go and fine some wine, and Athos took up the responsibility of dragging d'Artagnan to a table and forcing him into a seat.
"Stay," he ordered sharply, but he was smiling and the glare d'Artagnan threw him was too warm to be truly upset.
"I'm not a dog."
"I like to be sure about these things," Athos replied, sinking gratefully into the seat beside him. For the first time, d'Artagnan took note of the tense line to his shoulders, and the tightness around his eyes.
"What did the king say?"
Athos looked like he wanted to feign ignorance but conceded with a sigh. "The usual derogatory comments he makes when he's disappointed. A few threats to Treville."
"Serious ones?"
"Hard to say. Normally I'd say that he was just blowing off steam but with the Cardinal so ill… I get the feeling that he's in the mood to make foolish decisions without sufficient thought. We might need to be careful."
d'Artagnan huffed out a breath. He knew that what had happened had been his fault but it certainly didn't warrant the reaction it had garnered – an honest mistake that anyone could have made. "I'm sorry."
"You don't need to apologise," Athos told him instantly, looking almost angry at the idea. "You didn't do anything wrong. Aramis is… I know he's been difficult lately, with everyone. I'll talk to him."
"I'm not sure that he'd listen to anyone right now, even you."
"I've been told that before." Athos' mouth was twisted downwards, not quite a scowl but getting close. d'Artagnan wanted to ask but he was afraid to broach a subject that was so clearly a bad memory. "He'll listen."
Porthos appeared then, ending the conversation as he deposited two bottles of wine on the table and pushing on straight in front of Athos. Since ending Milady's machinations, Athos had been steadily growing less and less likely to lose himself in a bottle but even the strongest man couldn't just drop a habit of five years without any middle ground. The most noticeable compromise was that Athos would no longer drink alone.
"You both look like someone died," Porthos said. "Cheer up or you'll bring me down too."
"I fear I'm not good company tonight," d'Artagnan said apologetically, and made to stand. Athos' hand clamped down on his shoulder so quickly that he hadn't even seen it move, pinning him in his chair. The younger man frowned at it stupidly. "Um?"
"d'Artagnan, I can't believe that I have to be the one to tell you this, but you don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Bad things happen and people make bad decisions, Aramis more than most. For the love of god, sit down and have a drink. You'll feel better."
The words were light, but there was an undercurrent of bare honesty there that had d'Artagnan sinking into his seat before he'd really had time to parse the statement. Silence spread between them for a long moment before Porthos rolled his eyes at the both of them and took a deep gulp of wine. d'Artagnan was fairly sure he heard him mutter the word 'morons' but he let it pass.
As was usually the case, Athos had the right of it. By the time d'Artagnan was stumbling into his room in the early hours of the morning, he had a wide grin fixed on his face, and Aramis' anger was so far from his mind that he couldn't have recalled why they were even fighting. Porthos deposited the very drunk Musketeer on his bed with a fond chuckle and left, pulling the door closed quietly so as not to disturb any other residents. Of one thing he was sure: d'Artagnan would be miserable come morning.
"Why did you let me drink that much?"
Porthos snickered at d'Artagnan's hunched form, his head buried in the forgiving cushion of his arms so that he could block out the stubbornly bright sunlight. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time."
"I have so many regrets."
Athos had settled himself beside d'Artagnan, a faint grin on his face the whole time. He wasn't a cruel man – he was sorry to see d'Artagnan suffering – but even he had to find him just a little endearing when he was like this.
"Treville will skin you if he catches you napping," Porthos warned him, but it was without real force. The Captain wasn't unaware of the fracture within their group, and he would overlook a lot for the best of his men – provided they did their duty with as much conviction as always, they had a free rein.
"Let him. I can't feel any worse."
"I wouldn't be so certain about that." The new voice startled d'Artagnan badly enough that he fell off the bench entirely, landing in an undignified heap on the floor and blinking up owlishly at Treville's balcony. The Captain raised an eyebrow.
"Um, sorry sir," d'Artagnan offered, embarrassed. He hopped to his feet with as much enthusiasm as his pounding head could muster and stubbornly ignored Athos' and Porthos' suppress laughter.
Treville seemed to decide that it was really just better to pretend it hadn't happened. "You're wanted at the palace. I gather the queen would like to speak with you."
Any humour that had been lurking in d'Artagnan's body left him in a rush, along with all his air; he only just stopped himself from collapsing back into the dirt. Athos and Porthos had simultaneously gone silent, their backs rigid.
"Did… Did she say why?" His voice was almost gone, breathless with fear.
The Captain looked sympathetic. "No. Whatever happens d'Artagnan, the Musketeers are your brothers. They will have your back."
d'Artagnan took the time to swallow back the feelings in his throat before he nodded, snatching up his weapons belt from where he'd left it on the table. There was no point in keeping the queen waiting – if she was going to have him punished, he might as well get it over with now.
Porthos snagged his arm as he tried to walk past, pulling him to a halt sharply. "Not so fast. We're coming with you."
"The hell you are," d'Artagnan snapped back instantly, tugging himself free. "The last thing we need to do is draw attention to anyone else. Besides, I can't look like I'm trying to defend myself without making is seem as though I'm guilty of something."
Porthos could see the truth in his words, but it didn't make him like it any more. d'Artagnan turned his back on his frown, trying desperately to calm his heart into something that wasn't driving him crazy. He couldn't help but glance around the gateway as he passed through it. For all he knew, he wouldn't walk through it again as a free man.
The thought was a gunshot in a wounded mind, and d'Artagnan was lost to the ache.