Title: Blood Will Have Blood
Author: JenF
Disclaimer: I do not own The Three Musketeers, d'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun
They find Aramis back at the garrison, although it's clear he's not been there for long. He's propped up at the table in the yard, a candle for company and a plate of Serge's left overs in front of him.
He looks up in surprise as his two compatriots seat themselves opposite him. Athos takes a swig from the bottle on the table, offering it to Porthos, who accepts silently.
"We have urgent business," Athos tells Aramis. "Finish your dinner and let's go."
Aramis doesn't query it, just as Porthos and d'Artagnan had followed Athos without question. He simply takes a hunk of bread and puts his hat on with a flourish, rising from the table in one graceful move.
Athos nods at him, grateful for his diplomatic silence. He hadn't wanted to discuss anything in the courtyard, even in the stillness of the night. He's been around too long to be lulled by the assumed safety of the garrison at night.
They make their way to Athos' rooms, Athos striding on in front, eyes ostensibly looking ahead but actually darting into every doorway and alleyway they pass. He can hear Aramis and Porthos exchanging lighthearted banter; he can make out Porthos' questioning of Aramis' latest conquest and the romantic's evasive answers. He's always amused by their lothario's ability to say so much but give away so little, although he would never admit to listening to or partaking of such conversations.
The three men reach their destination and Athos opens the door smoothly, watching all the while for company. He's satisfied that nobody has followed them and he hopes that this bodes well for them.
Once the door is shut behind them, and they are all seated comfortably, Aramis drops the show of nonchalance they have been putting on in the street.
"What is this business that is so urgent?" he asks, "and where is d'Artagnan?"
"The boy is on an errand," Porthos explains, "but I wouldn't like to vouch for any more than that."
"If he follows orders, he'll be safe," Athos says. "It may be a wasted errand anyway."
"If you thought that," Porthos counters, "you wouldn't have sent him."
Athos scrubs his face with his hand as he nods slowly. "You're right," he admits. "We can only wait for him now though. And hope he's learnt enough to do as I told him."
"And what, exactly," Aramis queries, "is this errand that depends on him following orders?"
Athos looks at his friends. "Treville's life is in danger," he tells them, wasting no time with flowery explanations.
"His life is always in danger," Aramis muses. "He's the Captain of the King's Musketeers."
"That's exactly what he said," Athos replies. "But this is not a threat to Treville, Captain of the Musketeers. This is a threat against Treville the man. This is personal."
"Personal?" Porthos raises his eyebrows. "What makes you so sure?"
Athos briefly explains the misdirected letter and its contents. He tells them how it details Treville's movements over the last six weeks, maybe longer, and how it tells the recipient where and when the Captain is most vulnerable.
"But what the intended recipient will do now the letter is lost, is anyone's guess," he finishes.
"So that's why we were attacked?" Porthos asks.
Athos nods slowly. He's fairly sure that's the reason, although random attacks on Musketeers aren't unheard of in Paris.
"And you sent d'Artagnan after this man, knowing that?" Aramis demands and Athos doesn't blame him for the accusation in his voice. He's been having doubts about it himself but he can't be seen to have reservations.
"He can handle himself," he asserts, although he's not sure who he's trying to convince.
"Don't you think though," Porthos says slowly, thoughtfully, "that a scheme against Treville might have produced a better attack than the one we saw tonight?"
Athos has been thinking the same thing himself. It had been a ridiculously ill thought out and poorly executed attack. Why did only one man, badly trained and weak, set upon three expertly trained musketeers? Surely he must have known there could have only been one outcome.
"Yes," he admits. "Which is why we needed someone to follow him, to find out what their plans are."
There is a heavy silence in the room, interrupted only by the sound of footsteps outside. Athos tenses but the footsteps pass by, accompanied by drunken laughter, and fade into the distance.
"Does d'Artagnan know of the threat to the Captain?" Aramis asks.
Athos shakes his head, guilt gnawing at his gut. "There wasn't time to tell him," he explains. "Time was of the essence."
"Then what do we do now?" Porthos asks. "You said yourself that these people will probably be dangerous and we've sent the boy off, unprepared and alone, to face them."
"I told him to watch only. He is not to approach them."
Aramis sighs and Athos can't help but feel his judgement against his decision. "When have you ever known d'Artagnan to follow orders if he thinks better?" he asks.
Athos sinks down on his bed, head dropping as he considers Aramis' words. It's true that d'Artagnan often follows his heart, not his head, but the young Gascon has been working hard on his self-discipline and restraint. Athos has faith in him but maybe Aramis and Porthos are right, maybe this was asking too much d'Artagnan.
He looks up at his companions and sees only concern in their faces, not the recrimination he was expecting. He opens his mouth but before he can say anything there is a pounding at the door and someone outside is calling his name.
"Monsieur Athos! Monsieur Athos!"
Athos leaps to his feet and, with Aramis and Porthos behind him, he strides to the door, flinging it open forcefully.
Outside is one of the stable boys. Athos doesn't remember his name but he knows he is one of the harder workers, a young lad who loves the horses and the musketeers despite knowing he will never be one himself. The boy is panting and flushed; he's clearly run all the way from the garrison.
"Monsieur," he gasps. "Captain Treville sent me. They've found a body – he needs you come, Monsieur."
Athos' stomach turns to lead and he momentarily forgets to breathe. The boy has already turned away, as though he can't face the musketeer before him, but he's waiting anyway.
"Whose body?" Porthos demands, stepping out from behind Athos.
"I don't know, Monsieur," the boy – Robert, Athos remembers suddenly – stutters. "The Captain simply told me to fetch the Musketeer Athos as quickly as I could and then locked himself away in his office."
"Thank you, Robert." Athos finally finds his voice. "We will be there instantly," and he turns away, back into his room, letting the door swing shut.
He moves slowly, purposefully, over to his dresser where he silently collects his sword and pistol before moving to where his hat and cloak are waiting for his next excursion. He puts his cloak on in one elegant movement and takes his hat in his hand.
And finds himself unable to move.
He's lost so much, so many people he's loved, and it always seems to be his fault. He thinks he must be the most unlucky person to be around. His brother died because he could not see what his wife was. His wife died because he could not accept what his brother was. And now, this young Gascon who has become part of their group so quickly and so easily …
He feels a hand on his shoulder as another hand gently takes his hat and places it on his head.
"It might not be him, Athos," Aramis soothes. "You said it yourself, he's growing up fast. He can take care of himself."
"Exactly," Porthos joins in. "But we'll never find out standing here. Let's go and see what Treville wants from us."
Athos shakes himself down, grateful once more for these loyal men by his side. They're right, he tries to convince himself. There is no evidence that d'Artagnan is dead, that it's his body waiting for them at the morgue. Treville's message is simply that a body has been found.
There is no proof, but Athos needs to see for himself before facing Treville. If it is their Gascon – and when did he become their Gascon? – then he needs to know before facing the Captain. If the body is that of d'Artagnan, then Athos will have one more life to add to his conscience, whatever his brothers may try to say. He was the one who sent the young man on this foolish mission, one that he should have sent Porthos on. The blame, if blame there is, will be his and his alone.
He opens the door and together they make their way through the deserted streets to the morgue. Standing at the entrance to the catacombs that house the last resting place for so many Parisians, Athos wants nothing more than to turn and run. As the mortician's footsteps draw closer, it's all he can do to stand his ground.
"You have a body here." He hears Aramis talking to the rotund man and he knows they are right next to him, yet they feel miles away, as though he's hearing them through a fog. He's unexpectedly thankful for Porthos' hand on his elbow, offering silent support and understanding.
"Aye," the mortician is replying. "That we do. We have many bodies here, God rest their souls, but I suspect you have a particular one in mind?"
"We do." Aramis' soft tones echo round the catacomb. "Your most recent arrival, if you please. The Musketeers brought the poor unfortunate here not long ago."
The man bites his lower lip, as though lost in thought, before nodding and turning on his heel.
"This way," he calls over his shoulder. "Came in just an hour ago – still warm, poor lad."
"Lad?" Athos's head snaps up, as all his worst fears seem to be about to be realised.
"Aye. Young lad, only just out of childhood by my reckoning."
Athos doesn't realise he's come to a halt until he feels Porthos increase the pressure on his elbow, moving him forward.
"What else can you tell us?" Aramis asks, throwing a look backward at Porthos and Athos.
"Not a pretty death," the reply comes and the mortician comes to a standstill by a bench with a body covered in a white sheet. Athos doesn't think he wants to hear any more but the man is on a roll now. "Beaten to death, quite brutal. The lad fought back though, fought hard too if the state of his hands is anything to go by." He rests his hand on the sheet, on the head of the deceased beneath.
He grasps the edge of the sheet and looks up at the musketeers, eyes coming to a rest on Athos.
"Are you sure you want to see this?" he asks. "I've seen everything man can do to man, but this shocked even me."
Athos swallows hard. No, he wants to scream. No, I don't want to see this. I don't want to this to be happening. But he says none of this. He simply nods once.
As the mortician slowly pulls back the sheet, revealing a shock of blood soaked, dark hair, Athos feels the reassuring presence of both Porthos and Aramis at his side.
And yet he has never felt so alone.