Deep into their third bottle, D'Artagnan found the confidence to bring up the duel again. "Just tell me again," he pressed Athos, "why you would start a fight you had no intention of winning."
"D'Artagnan," Athos said with surprising patience, "I did not start the fight, but I was wrongly accused. My reputation as a man bears on the reputation of the Musketeers. I had no choice but to accept."
Aramis leaned forward, putting his elbow on the round table between them, "This is not the first young noble who has sought to show his bravery or his honor by dueling with a Musketeer," he said, pouring out the last of their wine amongst them, "If we took on all challengers, and pressed our advantage in each case, the nobles of France would have a dire shortage of younger sons."
"There is no honor in killing a lesser opponent," Porthos added, "Especially if there is no just cause."
"But that's the point," D'Artagnan said, exasperated, "There was a just cause. There was honor. Isn't that the most important thing? Isn't that what defines the very character of all men?"
"Honor over what, D'Artagnan?" Athos questioned, "Over a petty and imagined grievance? Dueling over perceived insults is the realm of bored nobles with no true understanding of the value of life or the cost of death."
"We take no death lightly," Aramis added, putting a hand on D'Artagnan's arm, "We will fight to the death only when a man will not yield to the authority of the King, or to protect the innocent."
"Or to protect the life of a brother," Porthos said quietly, clapping Aramis on the shoulder, "Anyone who attacks my brother, attacks me."
"All for one?" D'Artagnan said with a smile. He'd heard that motto enough in the last weeks to realize it was not just a saying but part of a code his friends lived by. A code that touched his heart even though he was still just on the edge of it. He longed to be a Musketeer, but even more so, to be a part of this brotherhood of three was a powerful feeling. Despite the anger he had shown them at their first meeting – and foolishness he had to admit now— they had seemed to easily take him into their midst after he helped to clear Athos's name. He didn't really understand it, he just knew it was right. He found the hollow emptiness of the loss of his father filled by the presence of these men. While he dared not say it out loud, he felt like he belonged with them.
"All for one, yes, that's part of it," Aramis answered, "but also one for all. The actions we take individually are actions that are part of all of us. Individual honor is all of our honor. Just as one man's shame, is the shame of us all," Aramis's voice trailed off at that, wrapping his hands around his wine cup and dropping his gaze as if looking for something at the bottom. Porthos's hand still on Aramis's shoulder squeezed tightly, and Athos leaned forward, looking intently at the marksmen until Aramis had no choice but to raise his eyes. They exchanged an unreadable look, but D'Artagnan caught the small smile that Aramis finally gave his friend, and the slight nod that Athos shared in return.
"Marsac," Aramis said softly, lifting his glass. Porthos and Athos followed suit, a quiet toast to an unknown companion – at least unknown to D'Artagnan. So much silent communication between these men, so many shared stories that D'Artagnan would never be part of. Just a word could pass for an entire conversation. He felt foolish now thinking he could ever be inside of this no matter what his heart longed for.
Sensing his younger friend's discomfort, Athos returned his attention to the original conversation. "D'Artagnan," he said, shifting back comfortably in his chair, "all actions I take as a Musketeer become the actions of all Musketeers. It is my brothers who will pay for my follies, so my brothers keep my follies in check. If I act with honor, I honor my brothers also."
"But then in the duel," D'Artagnan circled back, still unable to understand how Athos could separate one kind of honor from another, "Where was your honor?" D'Artagnan realized as soon as the words came out that he had expressed himself poorly. He felt Athos to be the most honorable of men. He stammered to try to explain but Athos smiled at him, shaking his head.
"True honor, comes from following a noble life, not the nobility's rules," Athos said, not taking the young man's words to heart, "and the noble life says we must fight injustice, stand for the innocent, uphold the law, and perform our duty to the King. That is the oath we take as Musketeers."
"As much as a prig as du Bellay is," Porthos said with a grin, "we still can't kill 'im. He's an innocent."
"And killing prigs is unfortunately against the King's law as well," Aramis said, his eyes twinkling, "It doesn't mean we can't have fun though. We aren't saints, God rest our souls," he added, gesturing to his brow, his lips then his heart in supplication to God for all of their transgressions. Athos flagged down the tavern keep for another bottle of wine. The night was far from over.
The hour was late and the rain pouring down when they made their way home from the tavern. Athos and D'Artagnan split off from the others just before they got to the Garrison, Athos on his way to his rooms and D'Artagnan back to his bed at Madame Bonacieux's home. Despite the time, he secretly hoped she might still be awake, sitting by the fire mending something. He looked forward to their hushed, late night conversations, a forbidden moment stolen from her husband. D'Artagnan knew it was wrong, but his heart ruled his head in his decisions, particularly when it came to love. There was no circumstance in which love did not justify all manner of actions in D'Artagnan's mind.
As D'Artagnan rounded the corner of the next block the crack of a pistol shot rang out from the streets behind him. He stopped and whirled around, drawing his pistol and running back down the street the way he had come. He raced head long down the alley, slowing down just enough to skid around the corner. He slipped on the wet cobblestones and slid down onto his left side. As he pushed himself up to a sitting position, he could make out two forms at the end of the street. A man, kneeling in the middle of the road and a cloaked figure under the shelter of a balcony with an outstretched arm, pistol in hand. The kneeling man dipped his head slightly and despite the rain, D'Artagnan instantly recognized him.
"Athos!" D'Artagnan yelled as he scrambled to his feet. The cloaked man turned his head toward the shout and gave Athos an opening. Athos hurled himself toward his attacker but the distance was too great. D'Artagnan pelted down the street as a shot rang out and Athos's body fell to cobblestones. The cloaked man ran. D'Artagnan fired off his pistol but the shot went wide. The man turned the next corner just as D'Artagnan came upon Athos. The sight nearly stopped his heart.
Athos lay on his back, face pale as his shirt collar, arms stretched out from his body. The rain pelted down over his prone figure and D'Artagnan could see blood like the haze of a red cloud seeping away with the rivulets of water through the cracks in the cobblestone. He cried out in some wordless expression of grief as he flung himself to his knees beside the still form of his friend. Just like my father, D'Artagnan's mind spun, Murdered just like my father. "No!" he shouted, picking up Athos's head and cradling him in his arms, "No, no, no," he sobbed, his tears mixing with the rain as he smoothed the wet hair from Athos's face, stroked his cheek as if willing him to live. And then it was his father's face, and he kneeled in the courtyard of the Inn and watched the red blood of his father's life wash away in the mud. It was too much, too much to bear, and D'Artagnan lost himself in grief and blood and for a moment wasn't sure who he was mourning.
Then there were hands on him, pulling him up, pulling Athos out of his lap.
"No!" he roared, "Don't touch him," he cried but the grip was strong and he found himself being restrained while Athos was pulled from his arms.
"Let 'im go," a voice he knew, large hands gripping him by the shoulders, "You have to let 'im go," a voice filled with fractured pain and urgency. D'Artagnan raised his head to meet Porthos's worried gaze. He bit his lip, trying to hold back the tears. His breath came in ragged bursts and Porthos clapped a hand behind his neck, and another on his shoulder.
"It's going to be okay, D'Artagnan," Porthos said, breathing hard himself, but trying to reassure his young friend. "It's okay," he repeated again, "It's okay."
"Porthos!" the shout came from outside of D'Artagnan's field of vision, "I need you!" Aramis called out. Porthos gave D'Artagnan an intense gaze and squeezed his shoulder then left him sitting in the rain and mud as he moved to join Aramis, bent over the still form of his mentor. D'Artagnan couldn't bear to watch them, and he shakily pushed himself to his feet. His father, now Athos . . . was he meant to keep watching helplessly as people he loved bled to death in the street? He pulled an arm across his face in a futile gesture to wipe away the tears and the water. It was too much. He felt helpless, and empty . . . and angry. Anger pushed up from his gut like a wave. It numbed the despair, the loss, the grief and flooded him with red hot heat that seared away everything else. He knew who had done this. And he knew the price he would exact. No less for Athos, than for his own father. D'Artagnan felt his tears stop and he stood up straight. Those men would pay, all of them, for taking Athos. He couldn't look at the scene of grief unfolding before him. The brotherhood he hoped to join broken before his eyes. He would give them a final gift – he would avenge their brother. D'Artagnan turned away and ran off into the wet, black night.
"Put your hand here, over mine," Aramis said to Porthos. Aramis had gotten Athos's doublet open and had his hands pressed down over his left shoulder. Porthos obeyed, and as Aramis slipped his hands out from under Porthos's, Porthos pressed down applying pressure on the chest wound. Athos didn't move, but Aramis quickly checked his pulse in his neck and found a steady, rapid beating. Satisfied, he started to uncoil his blue sash from around his torso.
"It's soaked through, but we'll get this over the wound and then get him back to the garrison," Aramis explained, "Can you lift him enough for me to get this underneath?" Porthos nodded his head and moved a hand to Athos's back and lifted his shoulders off the ground. He did his best to keep out of Aramis's way while he wound the sash.
"The ball went through," Aramis said as he worked, "That's a good sign. But he's going to need stitching. We need to get him out of the rain and back to the Garrison and I can patch this up." Athos started to moan and breathe more heavily, his head rolling from side to side. He was regaining consciousness.
"I think the two of us can manage," Porthos said, "Someone should be on guard. There could be another attack."
"D'Artagnan!" Aramis called out, but did not stop his work with the bandage. When the young man did not appear, Aramis shot Porthos a look. "I have him," Aramis said calmly. Porthos nodded and let Athos lie back into Aramis's arms. He stood, and looked about for their missing comrade.
"D'Artagnan!" he shouted, his deep voice echoing off the walls in the empty street. The rain was letting up and visibility was getting better, but he could not see any sign of the boy. "I don't know," he said to Aramis, shaking his head, frustration coloring his voice.
"Ok, we worry about him next," Aramis said with resignation. He turned his attention fully back to Athos, helping where he could first and pushing his worry about D'Artagnan aside for the moment. "Athos, can you hear me?" he asked, lightly clapping his friend's cheek. Athos tried to roll his head away from the offending hand. Aramis tried again, "Athos. Open your eyes. C'mon," Aramis ordered. With a shuddering breath Athos finally forced his eyes open and gazed up at Aramis.
"Where –" he started to speak, then shook his head, "My shoulder –" he trailed off.
"I know, I've got it," Aramis responded, knowing what Athos was trying to say, "You're still in the street. I wrapped the wound, it's not that bad, but you are leaking blood all over Paris. We need to get that stitched up. Do you think you can stand?" Aramis was not surprised to see his friend nod. Athos would insist he could walk with gunshots to both kneecaps. He looked over to Porthos who raised his eyebrows in disbelief, but nonetheless extended his hand to help Athos to his feet.
Athos gripped his arm and let Porthos do most of the work to get him upright while Aramis supported him with a hand to his back and shoulder. He was unsteady, but Porthos ducked under Athos's arm and had him by the waist before he had a chance of pitching over. He felt dizzy and the watery world was hard to focus on, but he sensed something was wrong. He tried to look around, growing agitated as his eyes refused to let in clear images.
"D'Artagnan," Athos said through pained breaths, "I saw D'Artagnan –" his dark eyes flashed with concern for his young friend.
"He was here," Porthos rumbled next to him, "By your side when we found you. He was badly shaken -crying . . . I think he thought you were dead," Porthos furrowed his brow, uncomfortable with sharing D'Artagnan's vulnerability even with his closest friends. Some things a man should be allowed to keep to himself.
"You let him . . . go off alone?" Athos was breathing heavily, pain and worry forcing him to lose his typical cool demeanor.
"We did not let him do anything," Aramis chided softly, "We were busy making sure you were in fact not dead."
"He'll come back soon enough, "Porthos started to say but Athos cut him off.
"No. No. If he thinks. . . I'm dead . . . He's angry . . . hurt," Athos tried to keep his composure and explain, "If he thinks I'm dead," he pushed on, "He'll want. . . revenge," he looked up at Aramis, his eyes almost pleading, "His father. His father died in the rain . . ." Athos's voice trailed off, a pained groan escaping his lips. The pain was getting overwhelming and his head rolled back against Porthos's shoulder as he fought to breathe through the throbbing fire expanding from his shoulder.
Aramis pursed his lips. Athos was likely right. If the boy believed Athos dead, there was no telling what he might do. But where would he go? Who would he blame for this?
"Athos," Aramis said, slipping a hand behind his friend's neck and helping him to meet his gaze, "do you know who did this? What happened?"
"Was waiting for me," Athos worked hard to speak, "under the stairs.
"Did you see who it was?" Porthos asked.
Athos shook his head, he was fighting now to stay coherent and to keep from simply moaning with every breath, "Didn't recognize him," Athos panted, he fought but couldn't find breath for more words.
"Then who is D'Artagnan chasing?" Aramis said, bewildered and frustrated.
Suddenly, Porthos took in a sharp breath as the events of the day clicked into place. "Du Bellay," he said, "It's logical. He threatened Athos, told him he would pay, that it was not over," the big man shook his head, "Coward he called you," he snarled, "and then he hides in the shadows to attack you."
"Wonderful," Aramis said, rolling his eyes, "He's off to kill the son of one of Louis's pet noblemen." Athos took off his hat and shook the water out, running a gloved hand through his damp curls. At least the rain had stopped. He looked at Athos, who looked on the verge of collapse. "Porthos, you have to get Athos back to the garrison," Aramis said, "And from the look of it, you'll probably have to carry him. I'll go after D'Artagnan. Du Bellay is a guest of Madame Beauvais at her chateau on the Île Saint-Louis – even the farm boy will know that."
Aramis could see Athos ready to argue, but he put his hands to either side of his friend's face and steadied him to look him in the eye, "Brother, I will take care of our Gascon. I will bring him home." Athos's eyes looked desperate, but he trusted Aramis with his life, and the life of the people he loved. He could release this burden to him and really, he had no choice. He was spent. All his energy was now focused on remaining standing. He nodded his agreement. Aramis clapped his friend lightly on the cheek and gave him a determined smile. He looked up at Porthos and they exchanged a glance – Porthos wordlessly telling Aramis to be careful and Aramis telling Porthos to make haste – the wound was not mortal, but it was painful and now at risk of infection.
"C'mon, you," Porthos said, getting Athos moving, "Don't pass out on me or I'll carry you into the Garrison like you're a little girl," he teased. Athos's brain was too fogged with pain and worry to react, he just started moving his legs under the support and guidance of his friend.
Aramis watched them take a few steps, satisfied that Athos was functional enough to make it back to the garrison, and turned to head off after D'Artagnan. His left foot came down on something rounded and he almost lost his balance. Aramis bent down and picked up a pistol. Looking at the weapon, he could see its fine craftsmanship. This was not a typical military pistol, it belonged to someone with money. Someone like du Bellay. He turned it over in his hands, looking for the owner's markings. When he found them etched to the barrel, it was not at all what he expected. He needed to find D'Artagnan before he made a terrible mistake.