Disclaimer & Spoilers: See Chapter One
Warning for potential triggers: For particulars, please see the note at the end of the chapter.
A/N: I'm going with the idea that all four of the guys live at the garrison, which I know does not match up with the original book, but the show seems to imply.
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"I will not murder my best friend." – d'Artagnan, 1.10 Musketeers Don't Die Easily.
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Chapter Two: d'Artagnan
Unable to sleep with all the chaotic thoughts bouncing around in his head, d'Artagnan had started wandering the streets of Paris, attempting to drive himself to exhaustion.
Due to a heavy fog having descended over the city, it was difficult to see very far in front of him as he walked. He had yet to run into or see anyone out and about at so late an hour, but that suited him just fine. After everything he'd been through recently, he was enjoying the almost eerie quiet that surrounded him.
Walking without aim was allowing his mind to settle enough that he thought he might be able to finally fall back asleep when he returned to the garrison.
Murderer.
It was just a faint whisper on the wind, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, but he heard it as clear as Notre Dame's bells at midday. He stopped dead in his tracks, his hand on the hilt of his sword, straining his hearing in order to determine where the voice had come from.
Having just passed an alley, he thought it reasonable that the voice had come from there, so he retraced his steps in hopes of discovering the voice's owner but encountered no one. With the fog obscuring everything and still no one in sight, he guessed that he'd simply chosen the wrong direction and headed back the way he'd come.
Murderer.
The voice was louder this time and most certainly sounded accusatory. It was also definitely coming from somewhere close by; once again he turned and headed in the direction he thought the voice had come from. The fog shifted as he rushed through it, but otherwise he could see very little of what was in front of him. Slowing his steps to avoid running head first into trouble – either human or manmade – he hears it again.
Murderer.
He nearly jumped out of his skin with the proximity of the mysterious voice. It was as if it had come from right next to him, yet when he scanned his surroundings, there seemed to be no one around and nothing amiss.
One thing was unmistakable about the voice: it had sounded like it was accusing him of being a murderer.
Noticing that he had unintentionally wandered back towards the garrison, he changed his direction intent on seeing if Athos was home. He hoped that the older man would be in his quarters and not be too drunk to help him.
Murderer.
This time the voice had practically shouted its accusation, but he did his best to ignore it as he practically ran towards his mentor's quarters. He badly needed Athos's stoic, yet somehow calming, demeanor to help him understand what was happening to him.
As he got closer and closer to where he hoped his friend was, the disembodied voice got louder and louder. He entered a city square intending to cut across it to get to the street which led directly to the garrison.
Murderer.
The accusing tone of that infernal voice sounded out at the same time as a pistol was fired. D'Artagnan ran towards the gunfire, not paying attention to where he put his feet as he ran through the dense fog. As a result, he tripped over something, causing him to fall sprawled out on the ground. Turning over carefully, he began to rise from the street when he spotted what had tripped him.
It was a body.
With the fog and the darker-than-normal surroundings, he couldn't determine whose body it was at first, yet he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine and his stomach tried to drop into his feet.
Murderer.
He couldn't ignore the voice if he had tried, it was yelling so loudly now. Its mocking tone was taunting him as he moved closer in order to lay a hand on the body's shoulder to turn it over.
As the body shifted to its back, d'Artagnan was confronted by the face of his best friend.
Murderer.
The voice screamed its accusation at him and he knew it was right that he should be blamed for this. He began to check for injuries, immediately feeling blood pouring out of Athos's chest – right next to the heart.
He lifted his hand and saw that it was saturated, dripping with blood, a puddle spreading outward onto the ground. It was obvious that there was nothing he – or anyone else – could do for Athos.
It was all supposed to be fake, meant to fool Milady, but somehow everything had gone wrong and now his best friend was dying. It had been his idea to pretend to shoot Athos in order to fool Milady. It was his fault, he was a—
Murderer.
Guilt invaded and flooded his heart, mind, and soul as he realized the voice had been his own all along.
He picked the older man's body up and cradled it in his arms, begging Athos to not die though he knew his entreaties would be ignored.
D'Artagnan could feel the breath rattling in Athos's chest as his brother's inhalations and exhalations slowed down.
Murderer.
The word was an indictment to his failure as a Musketeer. It was a pronouncement of the blame that rested on his shoulders and the guilt that was spreading within him.
Athos drew in a painful breath and opened his eyes. After a moment, the unfocused gaze managed to focus on him, and he struggled to speak. Athos's bloodied lips moved but no words could be heard over the loud beating of d'Artagnan's heart.
D'Artagnan leaned in closer and he felt tears begin to make their way down his face.
"No, no, no. Stay awake. Stay awake. I'm s-sorry. I didn't mean to… Just… Please, don't…"
His friend took another breath; blood dribbled out of his mouth and ran down Athos's chin as he made another attempt to speak.
With effort, Athos whispered one last word:
Murderer!
Athos let out a final, gurgled exhale before d'Artagnan felt his friend go limp in his arms even as the older man's eyes continued to stare at him in condemnation for his actions.
Familiar, yet disembodied voices seemed to agree with Athos's final judgment. Over and over they all chanted the same word in unison:
Murderer.
D'Artagnan tore his gaze away from Athos's accusing eyes, expecting to see his friends about to drag him away to the Châtelet to be executed for his crimes, but the fog coalesces and grows so thick around him that he cannot see any farther ahead than the length of his arm.
He returned his gaze to Athos with the intention of closing his best friend's eyes, but the body has mysteriously disappeared from his arms without him noticing. Frantically, he searched the ground around him on his hands and knees trying to find Athos, but there was nothing but the voices repeating the same word again and again.
Murderer.
He stands on shaky legs and puts his hands to his ears in an attempt to block the voices, but to no avail.
Suddenly, a hand reaches out of the fog to snatch the pistol he's carrying from his belt.
When he turns to see who has taken his weapon, he is stunned and more than a little relieved to see that it was Athos.
His relief is short-lived when he notices the blood saturating the front of his mentor's doublet.
Athos takes a step back and points the pistol straight at his heart. Too shocked to do anything about it, yet strangely accepting of his impending fate, d'Artagnan stands there waiting for the end. He locked eyes with Athos and saw an expression that chilled him to his very core.
As Athos began pulling the trigger, he hears his own voice one more time:
Murderer.
Gasping for breath, he opens his eyes. Pain assaults him – not all of it is physical.
D'Artagnan carefully sits up in bed. He is breathing heavily, causing the healing ribs and wound on his left side to ache a little. Moving a hand to the bandages covering the gunshot wound Athos had inflicted on him, he was pleased to discover that there was no new blood seeping through.
Trying to get his breathing back under control, he keeps reminding himself that it was just a nightmare, that what had happened was not real. That Athos was alive and not dead.
It wasn't his first nightmare with this particular theme nor, he suspected, would it be his last. Each time he had it, he couldn't help the feelings of guilt, remorse, and regret that followed him into the waking world.
For some reason, this particular nightmare felt different, making him doubt reality. He knew Athos was alive and safe at home, yet d'Artagnan had the overwhelming urge to check in on his friend's well-being.
He knew it was ridiculous to be so effected by a dream, but his mind wouldn't let go of the desire to confirm with his own eyes that Athos was alive and well. Unable to stand it any longer, d'Artagnan got up and got dressed, only wincing a little when he put his shirt and doublet on.
Irrational or not, he would seek out Athos. He had to see for himself that his friend was alive and that he was not a murderer.
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To be continued.
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A/N: Fun fact: this is the first chapter I finished for this story.
Thanks for reading!
Warning (Spoiler): Temporary, slightly graphic, death of a major character is depicted within a dreamscape.