A/N: Hi, everyone! I know I said I wouldn't update until tomorrow. But I began going back through and changing some things to create a better story, and I'm just really excited about how it'll turn out. And I'm excited to share it with all of you :) So here's the new chapter. This one isn't so great action-wise, but Chapter 4 will be up on Saturday at the latest and it'll start picking up. Reviews are always welcome, no matter what they say. To everyone who favorited/followed/read/left a review, a thousand thanks from me. It's so nice that work here gets so much positive support and feedback, and I want you to know I appreciate it.
Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Yet.
Namaste.
Constance walked briskly into the Garrison, holding her skirts up slightly to avoid tripping in her haste. She passed several musketeers practicing and peeked her head into the stables.
"Madame Bonacieux," the stable hand greeted her easily. He had grown used to seeing her in the past. Although he had nothing against the woman, he had noted in the past that she only came to the garrison when The Inseparables were in trouble. Which was rather often, he reflected privately.
"Antoine," she greeted, smiling prettily despite the nervousness she felt. "Have you seen d'Artagnan or the others?"
"Not this morning," he answered, pitching hay into a nearby wheelbarrow. "They might still be in the kitchens. Muster finished not ten minutes ago."
"Thank you," Constance said, already half out of the stables.
"You're very welcome," Antoine said. He turned to greet only empty air. He snorted once, then went back to his work.
"Oh, not you again!" Serge exclaimed, real exasperation in his voice. "What is it this time? If you tell me you need honey salve for one more sword slice or comfrey for another bruise, I swear you'll be going back with more than a few lumps on your own head, missy!"
He raised his soup ladle menacingly, the symbol of his absolute authority. Constance shrank away from the large man's bellowing.
"Nothing like that. This time," she added a little waspishly. "Have you seen them?"
"Haven't seen that lot since dinner time yesterday. Expert thieves, the lot of them. The fancy one and the boy were throwing around a bowl of cheese, threatenin' to spill it everywhere. While I was distracted, the big one made off with some extra loaves of bread. The rest of the garrison was clapping and cheering, like it was some big joke."
"Well, after two weeks of gruel, they'll think twice about pulling any stunts like this again." The cook's features creased into a frighteningly cunning smile that made Constance silently vow never to irritate the man again.
He turned back to his pots and pans, banging and clanging them together as he mixed ingredients.
"They'll turn up, lass. They always do," he called over the din.
Constance turned to go.
Looking up at the worn wooden stairs, she sighed. The captain would not be pleased.
"I haven't seen them since yesterday afternoon. They said they were going to the tavern. Have you checked their rooms?" Treville asked. His keen blue eyes gazed fiercely at Constance's in the determined way she had come to trust.
"D'Artagnan didn't come home last night. Athos' apartments were locked, and I wanted to see if they were here before I went searching every bungalow and tavern for Porthos. Or Aramis," she added dryly.
"They weren't authorized with leave for this morning. I don't believe they would have simply stayed home. We'd better go look for them," he sighed like a man about to begin some arduous quest. Secretly, he was pleased beyond measure to be away from his desk with all its hateful paperwork, but appearances had to be kept up, after all.
"We'll start with Athos' apartments again, then check back at your house. After that, we'll go to the tavern," Treville said, taking full charge and walking swiftly through the streets. Despite the nagging feeling that something was wrong, he shortened his stride length slightly out of deference to Constance.
She didn't say anything but was grateful for his consideration. Other men would have left her behind completely. The captain of the musketeers hadn't even asked her if she was coming, just knew she would. They strode through the bustling streets, hurrying towards the door they hoped would hold the answers.
The guards finally stopped hitting Aramis. He shuddered for a moment, breathing harshly. His entire body hurt, although his hands had gone numb from being suspended above him for so long. One of the guards stepped closer and undid the lock on the cuffs. Aramis collapsed to a boneless heap on the hard floor. A white-hot bolt of pain went through his entire body, and he could do little but tremble and try to stop the small noise of pain that threatened to escape him.
Aramis didn't know how long it had been since Bastian left, but the guards had wasted no time. He could feel the bruises swelling on his face and head, although his torso seemed mostly intact if not incredibly sore. His legs were also now covered in gashes and bruises. They hauled him up roughly and began dragging him towards the door, back to his cell.
Aramis sagged in their grip, gasping for breath as his shoulders rotated in their abused sockets.
"Wait, stop, please," he pleaded with them, feeling his stomach churn nastily. They continued heedlessly and Aramis' vision grayed out. Sounds and motion ceased to hold meaning for him. It all seemed vague and disjointed, so he closed his eyes.
He was roused from his stupor when he landed abruptly to the floor of Athos' cell. Bouncing across the rough surface, the wind was knocked out of him. A few objects were hurled in after him, where they rolled across the filthy ground toward him. He gasped for a few seconds, finally getting his breath back. He took in great gulps of the fetid prison air, then rolled himself over once he felt a little better. D'Artagnan and Porthos were calling his name with increasingly worried tones.
"I'm alright," he rasped out, staggering to his feet and going to the slot in the door. "That's the last time I mistake a stone floor with the finest swan's down," he tried to joke.
"How bad is it?" d'Artagnan asked, also peeking out of his gap in the iron door.
"Not terrible," Aramis answered, settling on a half-truth. "I'm alright, and they've left a needle and thread, some bandages…," he trailed off, looking at the haphazard collection of fabric strips thrown into the cell. "I can at least tend to Athos, and we'll go from there."
He was mumbling more to himself than talking to the others at this points. He forced himself to stop. Aramis could feel his heart racing wildly in his chest, and the other musketeers must have noticed something wrong.
"Aramis?" Porthos asked hesitantly.
"It's fine, Porthos," the handsome musketeers assured him with a confidence he didn't feel. "Let me see what I can do."
He pulled himself over to his unconscious friend. Athos was looking a little better, although the medic felt that the peace was going to be short-lived.
"Athos," he said, nudging the man's shoulder lightly.
The musketeer's eyes raced beneath closed lids, then opened slowly.
"'Mis?" he mumbled, trying to focus.
"I need you awake to tell me what hurts," the handsome soldier told his friend seriously.
Athos tried to pull himself up, then froze and gasped.
"Right side," he said between clenched teeth. A cold sweat appeared on his brow, and Aramis cursed softly.
The medic carefully helped ease his friend to an upright position. He picked up the bandages and began tying them around Athos' battered midsection. While he worked, he spoke to Porthos and d'Artagnan about what he had learned.
"He's rebelling against the government," Aramis finished. "Allied himself with the Spanish, and is against everything we stand for."
"Damn," Porthos said, lost for words to describe his feelings.
"I can understand his reasons for disliking the government. But why run the risk of getting arrested stealing things from French citizens?" D'Artagnan asked from his cell.
"Part of it is to lower the morale of France," Athos answered, voice rough. "These raids have been going on for months, and the King has been all but powerless to stop them."
"I have an idea," Aramis said slowly. "But you're not going to like it."
The other musketeers listened to the quiet words unfolding their plan.
"You're right, I don't like it," Porthos muttered.
"If you can think of something better, then by all means," d'Artagnan said dryly.
Aramis had focused on finishing his task once again. With a last careful pull, he tied off the last strand of cloth.
Athos leaned against the wall, obviously in discomfort from the tug of the bandages, but already looking better.
Aramis carefully wiped the congealed blood away from the cuts with a scrap of cloth left over when his hands began to shake.
Athos saw his strange, jerky movements.
"Breathe. Aramis, breathe," Athos commanded strongly, every indicator of pain banished from his body and voice.
The medic sank back on his heels, feeling his breath rattle around in his chest and trying to keep from passing out that instant.
"You need to calm down," their leader said in a firm voice, though not unkindly. They had fought each other's demons too often to doubt their hold.
"Trying," Aramis answered weakly. His hands shook violently, and Athos took them into his own, feeling the cold skin underneath his.
"Did they hurt your hands?" Athos asked quietly, feeling gingerly for any injuries hidden beneath the skin.
"No, they d-didn't touch my hands," Aramis said in a strangled voice. "Everything else, but not my hands. They said I needed them for this."
"Alright, easy," Porthos said from the cell, hearing the conversation.
Athos took what was left of the medical supplies and gingerly felt along Aramis' torso. The medic shook his head vigorously.
"Nothing's broken. I wasn't even cut that badly. Just b-bruised."
"I'll decide what qualifies as 'badly'," Athos said authoritatively, as though he hadn't been struggling to breathe half an hour prior.
"Who made you…the medic?" Aramis slurred, his eyes closing of their own accord. He dimly felt Athos help him lean against the wall and straighten out his legs.
The last thing he heard before passing out again were heavy steps in the corridor. He was unconscious before he could hear the door to d'Artagnan's cell opening with a rusted shriek.
"There were four musketeers here last night." Treville's voice, accustomed to bellowing orders across a battlefield, carried easily through the tavern's interior. Several men slunk lower in their chairs, hoping not to be singled out. The owner of the tavern approached the captain with a tired look. He was a short, broad man with gray hair that was beginning to fall out.
"Captain Treville. So glad you could come back to my establishment." The owner sounded less than enthused. The musketeers had a long history of starting many fights, breaking many glasses (among other things) and generally causing disturbances within his four walls.
"I'm looking for Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan," Treville said without preamble.
"They were here last night, but they left around one this morning," the small man said brusquely. "I finally turned them out after they drank everything in sight, including a rather expensive barrel of Spanish wine."
Treville fought the urge to roll his eyes.
"Did you see where they went?" he asked, trying to be polite.
"How the hell should I know?" the owner gestured rudely. "It's bad enough that I had to see them, now I have to deal with you. I'm starting to think you lot just like breaking things!"
"If I find out you're hiding anything, you'll be sorry," the captain told him, refusing to be cowed and fighting his temper.
"I'll remember that, Mother," the tavern keeper said sarcastically, turning back to his bar.
Treville strode out the door without looking back.
Constance glared at the man for the sake of solidarity, then stormed out after the captain.
In the alleyway, Treville was kneeling down, looking at something on the ground.
"What is it?" she asked, hurrying over.
"Mud," he answered shortly. "It looks like it might rain today, but there's been no rain this past week. The rest of the dirt is dry."
"There's a wheel impression," Constance said, noticing a pattern in the strange grooves dried into the mud. "And something else." She frowned, noticing a flash of color a few feet away. Picking it up with her fingertips, Constance felt her heart drop as she recognized the purple plant.
"Is that heather?" Treville asked, frowning at the small flower.
"It's what they used to find Dulaurier," Constance said in a shaking voice.
The captain grimaced and stood with a sigh. "It's always something."
He insisted that they check the Bonacieux residence once more, and Athos' as well just to make sure they weren't overlooking something simple. Constance was unsurprised when they found the houses cold and empty.
Treville led her to the middle of the street, where they stood for a moment. Above them, the sky was darkening and thunder rumbled ominously. As the wind began blowing strongly, women ordered their children inside and frantically began taking in the washing on clotheslines crowding the streets.
Constance looked around bleakly at the squalid surroundings.
"I don't understand," she said in a small voice. Treville looked at her with quick sympathy and opened his mouth to reply. At that moment, a brilliant flash of lightning was followed by a loud crack of thunder. It began downpouring almost immediately.
Treville shrugged off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. If he was bothered by the water soaking him through, he didn't show it.
"We'll find them," he assured her. "Let's head back to the garrison. We can organize a search party and canvass all the known forests and locations where heather grows."
Constance felt her eyes pooling with tears of mingled fear and gratitude for the stern man. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck. Treville stood shocked for a moment, then gently patted her on the back.
"Come on," he said somewhat gruffly, but with a kind smile. Together, they walked back towards the garrison.
"I've seen you walking around Paris," Bastian told the infuriated Gascon. Unfortunately, being chained in place, d'Artagnan could do nothing but glower at his jailer.
"For weeks, Jacques and I waited until the right moment. We watched your training in the courtyard of the garrison, we saw you shooting, we saw you fight the Red Guards. I admire your courage, d'Artagnan, the proud way in which you hold yourself."
He paused, walking around the table and idly running his hand over it without touching the edge.
"My family is from Lupiac; I lived there as a boy. You've not yet lost the Bearnese accent."
Bastian's voice hinted at some inner bemusement, and d'Artagnan just stayed quiet, slightly confused.
"It does me pride, to know that one of my countrymen has acted with such honorable conduct, even through the catastrophe Dulaurier engineered."
D'Artagnan bristled at being compared to this criminal in any way. "What does this have to do with anything?" he snapped impatiently.
Instead of being angry, Bastian again smiled to himself. "Brash as ever. You really are a proper Gascon. The meaning of all this, d'Artagnan, is simply what I've been telling you. I want you to know that I hold no ill-will for you particularly. You killed Dulaurier, and he was valuable to me. He was also too dangerous to be left alive. The honor you showed during his last moments was related very faithfully to me by Jacques. I can't bring myself to hate a man who acts with such grace under pressure."
"Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the last living associate of Dulaurier's ring. Jacques doesn't share my sentiments of gratitude, quite the opposite, I'm afraid. I asked him if he wanted to help with the treatments of your friends, but he refused. It was only you that he really desired revenge against. After everything he's done, I can't deny him this. You understand," he said, looking at d'Artagnan with a disarmingly open look.
The Gascon felt dark hatred flare and spit at the criminal.
"We share nothing!" he hissed in a low voice filled with venom. "The life I knew in Gascony ended when my father was murdered on the road, when my farm was burned to the ground. I belong to the musketeers, to Paris, and to the king of France."
"Maybe," Bastian said easily, nodding. "Although, I suspect that will change fairly soon."
"What do you want with us?" the musketeer shouted, his patience wearing thin. "Aramis told us everything. You're using the jewels you bought to undermine the crown. A few pathetic robberies and thieves in the nights aren't going to change the allegiance of an entire country," he sneered.
"You don't think so? You think it would take something earth-shattering and dramatic to accomplish the feat?" Bastian asked him. The man approached d'Artagnan with an odd, half smile that didn't reach his eyes. He picked up a knife and walked closer.
Bastian ran the blade lightly across the sensitive flesh of his neck. His pressure increased and the musketeer flinched as blood ran down in a thin red line.
"Dulaurier managed to disrupt your whole life in one evening. By accident, no less. It only takes one small act to change everything. The doubt is already present in the minds of the people. By the time King Louis decides we are worth his attention, it will be far too late."
He moved the knife downward and d'Artagnan hissed as it cut into his side, across his ribs.
"The entire world will come crashing down around your ears, and there will be nothing you or your precious musketeers can do to stop it," Bastian said viciously, jerking the knife upwards. Blood was beginning to stain the Gascon's shirt. He gasped at the pain but kept silent.
"The worst part? You won't understand why, because all your actions are governed by a vague morality of right and wrong."
Bastian turned around and took a pistol from the table. He checked the priming and loaded a ball.
"Let me tell you a secret, d'Artagnan," he said. "In your world, great force is needed to overpower others. Battles are won and legends forged in this way. That's where you're wrong, all of you."
Bastian's warm breath tickled his neck as he spoke quietly into his ear. The Gascon fought a shudder.
"In your philosophy, the bigger something is, the greater the impact it will have. The notion that 'might makes right.' Tell me, is the pebble truly less than the mountain?"
D'Artagnan closed his eyes and heard the hammer of the pistol cock back.
"A pebble wouldn't be crushed in a landslide," Bastian said and pulled the trigger.
Athos flinched as the retort of the gunshot rang through the prison's stone walls. Porthos scrambled up from the floor of his cell across the hall and stood at the door. Athos felt his frayed nerves sing with tension as silence fell over the prison.
The noise roused Aramis, who sluggishly moved his head toward the source.
"What was that?" he asked thickly, attempting to move his uncooperative limbs.
Athos shook his head tightly, lips pressed together in a trembling white line.
They heard footsteps and the sound of something being dragged across the stone floor a few minutes later. Two guards came back, hauling the unconscious frame of d'Artagnan between them. They unlocked his cell and set him on the floor.
Then the brutes moved to Athos' cell, unlocking the door. Athos forced himself to his feet and stepped in front of Aramis, who was still seated on the floor with his back against the wall. One of the guards shoved Athos out of the way, knocking the air out of his lungs and jarring his recently bandaged ribs painfully.
The eldest musketeer fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The guards grabbed Aramis, who was still groggy and unable to resist. They hauled him upright and pulled him towards the door.
"Athos?" Aramis asked uncertainly, weakly struggling in the grip of the jailers.
"No!" Athos shouted. He staggered upright moved, purely on instinct. Even through the haze of his current condition, Aramis felt the strong grasp of his friend's hand around his own. Their fingers were yanked apart and Athos was punched hard across the jaw, knocking him to the ground once again.
The guard holding Aramis snarled and dragged his limp body out of the cell and back into his own across from d'Artagnan. The Gascon lay unresponsive and still on the floor where the brutes had dropped him.
Aramis hit the ground and groaned in pain, momentarily unable to move. Athos sat on the floor of his cell, rubbing his jaw tenderly around the bruise already beginning to form.
A third guard came down the steps holding a large club in his hands. He joined the other two, who were standing outside the door to Porthos' cell.
"Bastian said to take him upstairs now," one of them said, motioning toward the door.
"He could escape," the first one replied, looking doubtfully at Porthos' large frame through the slit in the door.
"Better not risk it," the guard holding the club answered.
"Stay back!" Porthos growled.
One of them unlocked the door and flung it open. Porthos charged towards the men and succeeded in wrapping his hands around the neck of the one holding the keys. His eyes widened in terror and his fists beat ineffectually at the musketeer's arms, which may as well have been made of iron.
The second guard shouted and punched at Porthos, who refused to loosen his grip. The guard holding the club moved behind the musketeer and brought it sideways on his head with as much force as he could.
The blow stunned the soldier, who loosened his grip slightly. The guard being strangled in his grip pulled away and fell to the floor, wheezing through his damaged throat. The other two hit Porthos with wild abandon, aware that if they didn't subdue the musketeer he would escape.
Porthos fought back, but even he couldn't prevail against the onslaught. Eventually, his blows weakened and he fell senseless to the floor. The guard who had been choked recovered and staggered to his feet with the aid of his friend. They hauled the musketeer up, grunting with the effort, and dragged him through the hallway towards the stairwell.
Athos was on the ground of his cell, struggling against the black thoughts of panic and despair that crowded his mind. Aramis had made his way to his door and tried to look at d'Artagnan who had remained unconscious throughout the struggle.
"D'Artagnan," the medic said. There was no answer.
"D'Artagnan, wake up," he commanded, louder this time.
"They shot him," Athos said in a weak voice.
Aramis felt fear claw at him in a vicious, overpowering wave. Instead of fighting it, he let it overwhelm him. If he yelled, perhaps Bastian could hear him. The louder the better, then.
"D'Artagnan, wake up!" he yelled, beating his fist against the door. He felt a bright flare of pain but ignored it. The medic struck the unmoving door over and over until his strength was gone.
Finally, he slumped to the ground, his hands bruised and bleeding.
Athos curled in on himself against the wall. He could hear the ragged breaths of Aramis struggling against sobs in the cell next to him.
"Aramis, they'll find us," Athos said numbly, trying to make himself believe his own words.
"How?" Aramis shouted, his voice echoing through the cell block. "They don't know where we are! We don't even know where we are!"
"Treville and the garrison will be looking for us by now," Athos answered in the monotone voice that sounded strange even to his own ears.
"It might already be too late!" Aramis yelled back. Athos didn't have an answer to that and sat back.
He shivered slightly against the cold pervading his cell, too weary to do anything else.
"D'Artagnan!" the medic called loudly, getting to his feet once again and peering through the door.
Still, there was no answer. Inside his cell, d'Artagnan lay unconscious on the floor, blood seeping out around his body in a slowly growing arc.
"Porthos!" Aramis screamed, kicking at his door.
Athos stared into space, hoping against hope that the plan they had just set into motion wouldn't prove useless.