WOW thankyou to everyone who read, reviewed and left kudos for the previous chapter! :)
*****MAJOR NOTE******
I'm gonna put some trigger warnings on this chapter… Nothing is explicit ( which is why I haven't bumped up the rating - but if you feel that the rating should go up, let me know and I will do so) but this chapter deals with non-con rape scenarios and attempted, referenced and discussed, but not shown. There is also mentions of suicide. I am really sorry if this offends anyone, totally not my plan!
Other than that I hope you enjoy this chapter :)
~Tréville~
There were few in this world that Tréville deemed unworthy of the air in their lungs. He prided himself upon his levelled temper, his merciful justice and his patience in regards to his fellow man. However, there were those few, the unimaginable cruel and despicable, who he had not the time for, whose actions and presence repelled him so utterly it took all manner of will and strength not to gut them where they stood, regardless of the laws of chivalry.
Men like Claudius de Clermont.
The inked words that curled meticulously and forebodingly upon the page, stilled the Captain's heart and made his expression grave; his white knuckled grasp scrunching the parchment in attempt to relieve the anger burning through his body.
With far more power and influence than any other Comte in the towns surrounding Paris, Clermont prided himself on his untouchable status. His coin and love of the hunt provided a close relationship with his Majesty, securing his position among the gentry and by the King's side.
Though it was rare for Clermont to attend court – preferring an environment in which he reigned over the surrounding peasantry – his visits were often timely and coincidently coincided with a delicate misunderstanding within the Clermont region.
"Comte Claudius de Clermont arrived in Paris this morning," Tréville announced, his tone revealing nothing of his thoughts on the matter. "He is to join the King on his hunt tomorrow."
To this the Captain accompanied a weighted look to the three elder gentlemen before him. Though they had not been at the garrison during Clermont's last visit, they had indeed been privy to some of the disastrous events that followed and no doubt felt it's aftermath.
"Is that bad…?" d'Artagnan ask slowly, as though he were dipping his toe into icy waters.
Tréville felt a chill upon his skin as he listened to the youthful curiosity of his youngest musketeer. He had almost forgotten the Gascon boy was in the room. Though by now he should have known that calling in three would ensure a fourth.
Some part of him wished to lock the boy away from all this, keep some sense of innocence in tact, if only the smallest part. He had never told d'Artagnan this, for fear of perceived favouritism amongst his men, but the boy's father had been a dear friend of his back in Gascony. He and Alexandre had grown up together upon the sun-kiss Gascon hills. For years they had been inseparable companions, until the day when Tréville departed for Paris. To hear of Alexandre's death had been a heavy blow but to have the presence his dear friend's young son in his regiment was a gift in itself.
However with this gift he now felt it was his responsibility to protect his friend's hard-headed young son as the man himself could no longer.
"How long is he to stay?" Athos' expression was hollow; his tone sharp and chilled like shard of ice. He kept his words civil and professional, not willing to reveal too much on his thoughts on the matter.
"The week, I'm told," Tréville informed them with a heaviness to his tone. Even
"And is that bad?" d'Artagnan tried again, only to be tuned out once more.
"Be ready to leave at dawn," Tréville ordered gruffly, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.
"Is there not some –?" Athos began, but was quickly cut off by the Captain's stiff reply.
"The King asked for you four personally, to refuse would be the highest of insults to his person."
"I see." Athos murmured a barley audible response.
"I'm confused," d'Artagnan put up his hand to try and gain some attention and answers from the others around him.
"You are all dismissed," Tréville waved them off once more.
"Wait – " d'Artagnan spoke up, storming towards the Captain, only to be held back by both Porthos and Aramis' twin grips upon his shoulders.
"We're dismissed," Porthos grunted, pushing the young Gascon out the door, "that means we leave."
However not all of them left the room as instructed, Athos remained unmoving from his position, staring at the Captain as the other's exited.
"You seem out of sorts…" Athos began the moment the door was closed.
"I believe you were dismissed," Tréville sighed as he looked up towards the musketeer, hesitant to acknowledge the man before him, knowing the interrogation that would no doubt unfold.
"That's never stop me before," Athos replied smoothly allowing his words to fill the room with an effortlessly impression. "Clermont's arrival has you doubting yourself."
Athos' statement instantly cut to the Captain's core, piercing his heart and naming a demon he had not been aware of until then – doubt. For this serpent was truly the poison that curled around his mind and heart; he doubted his ability to lead, to protect his men.
"I know you blame yourself for Munier, but his actions were his own." Athos informed him sternly.
Tréville's expression cooled substantially, making its icy presence obvious to the musketeer before him. His fist curled around the inked parchment missive in attempted to relieve him of the ice-cold fire that burnt him to the core.
"It is hard for any of you to understand the outrage I felt at the misconduct that took place during Clermont's last visit," Tréville released his confession with a deep sigh of guilt and regret.
"Munier was naïve and idealistic, his heart was not cut out for the life of a solider, you cannot blame yourself for this."
"Do not speak of things you do not know, Athos," Tréville clenched his teeth, though he instantly regretted his anger, Athos was not the source of his rage and it was unfair of Tréville to punish him for it. "I have failed my men on a number of occasions during my time as Captain," he said slowly, allowing each word to gather the weight of his internalised emotions. "But none have I failed so entirely, as I did that boy…"
†††
The morning of the hunt turned out to be one of the finest that Spring had to offer. The sun shone brightly upon the dew dropped blades of grass, illuminating the surrounding beds of gloriously coloured flowers, which many a fine poet would have evangelised extensively upon the subject.
No expense had been sparred for his Majesty's hunt; tents and feasts had been prepared as had already been set up at their camp position early that morning. Four and twenty musketeers had been summoned in their bright blue coats to accompany the King with his sport, including four which Tréville watch cautiously.
The Cardinal had been his usual self, sauntering up to Captain with veiled amusement.
"When on the hunt with a wolf, it is not considered wise to bring a lamb, Captain," Richelieu tutted. His eyes drew a direct line to the young d'Artagnan on horseback, laughing unabashedly at something Porthos had just said.
"I do not do so willingly," Tréville murmured lowly, guilt weighing upon his words as gaze darkened upon the approaching gentry.
Clermont was richly consumed in his own ego, just as Tréville had remembered. Dripping in his over exaggerated self-worth and importance. The Comte wore over embroidered finery of silks, much to fine to wear upon a hunt, though his fashion choices had seem to spur the King to out do his dear friend, for his Majesty's getup far outweighed that of his usual hunting attire.
With a sigh, Tréville kicked his horse into trot, preying to God almighty he could make it through the week.
†††
The hunt had been bountiful, which was appreciated by all as it put the King in a gloriously jovial mood, laughing unabashedly at the rehashing of the morning's events – the Cardinal had taken a tight corner a little too quickly and had fallen from his horse, though he was not injured, his pride most definitely suffered grievous wounds.
As the musketeers all moved to stand in position surrounding the King's tent, Tréville saw his opportunity to position anyone that could potentially spark the Comte's interest out of harm's way. The stable boys were young and innocent, so it was an easy task to send them to the river with the horses. That just left d'Artagnan. But how to position him away from Clermont's gaze.
Feeling no other option, the Captain called over his youngest recruit.
"D'Artagnan, take the horses," Tréville ordered in clipped tone, stopping the boy in his tracks. "They must be watered."
Though the young musketeer looked as though he was about to question the Captain, Athos stepped forward, taking the boy's shoulder.
"Don't argue, just do it." The stern musketeer muttered as he handed his horse's reins to the gapping Gascon.
Feeling his task complete, Tréville made his way back toward the Royal tent.
"There are stable hands right there," even at a few paces distance, Tréville could hear d'Artagnan's harsh whispers. "I am here to protect the King, not babysit horses."
"You heard the Captain," Aramis' quip was light though again easily heard, as was Porthos' grunt of agreement.
Just when he thought his plans had been subtly carried out, the shrilled voice of his Majesty thwarted them completely.
"Ah, d'Artagnan!" The King chirped merrily as his eyes caught a glimpse of the youngest musketeer. "Come, let me introduce you to the Comte de Clermont, Comte, meet my finest new recruit, d'Artagnan."
"My lord," d'Artagnan nodded politely, handing the bundle of reins quickly over to the horse master before aiming a smug satisfactory smirk in Aramis' direction.
Tréville closed his eyes and bit his lip as the rage burnt beneath his skin. His heart almost caught in his throat as he watch the young Gascon sauntered merrily towards the grinning Comte.
With knowledge of the subtext, it was easy to see ever flick of the Comte's gaze, the subtle smirk and glint in his eyes. It was maddening and sickening all at once.
"Getting them young these days aren't you, your Majesty?" the Comte chuckled brashly, "The child looks barely off his mother's teat."
Tréville watch the young lad with careful consideration. D'Artagnan's anger was clear and unmasked as he gritted his teeth, though to his credit he said nothing in retaliation, allowing the Comte to tease him. Clearly d'Artagnan had listen to Athos about calming his anger.
"D'Artagnan is one of our finest musketeers," Louis boasted unashamedly, giving the Comte a sly smile as he bragged upon the topic of his chosen subjects. "A particularly find swordsman, beat a man twice his size, in fact."
"How wonderful," Clermont purred, before clapping his hands together, "perhaps we should have a display of the boy's talents?"
"Forgive me your Majesty," Tréville interrupted their conversation, thankful of the opportunity to do so as he watch the Comte's eyes sparkle with interest. "But d'Artagnan has duties to attend to."
"And isn't the safest place for the King beside his most aspiring new musketeer?" The Comte laughed strutting up to the young Gascon, slinging a hand over d'Artagnan's shoulder, running his fingers through the boy's hair, tussling it affectionately.
Tréville's teeth grinded audibly as he clenched his jaw, mentally slicing the man's throat. The very display of this man's affections was unnerving, particularly as d'Artagnan seemed utterly oblivious to the entire situation. Oh how he wished to take a blade to this man, cut him where he stood.
"Yes, why not?" Louis frowned, reminding Tréville of the situation at hand. He would be an utter fool to try anything with the King looking on; to strike Clermont was a crime punishable by death. And even though the Captain prided his place by the King's side, he knew the law would be swift and just should he commit such an act. No, in this moment he could not act with feeling or instinct, this called for meticulous and unfeeling negotiation – the weapon of the gentry.
"Any other time, your Majesty, and I would not say a word," the Captain bowed low in respect, keeping his tone regretful yet strong, "but as I am in the process of reprimanding our young Gascon here, I do not think the honour of your company would send the right message for his misconduct."
Tréville avoided d'Artagnan's confused and hurt expression as he pulled the boy away from Clermont's grip, it was a cheap ruse, but it was better to be cruel to be kind in these delicate situations.
"Oh surely –" Clermont scoffed with an accusing glare at the Captain, a silent battle of wits being played through their exchange of expressions.
"As much as I hate to agree with the Captain, your Majesty," the Cardinal stepped forward, disrupting the stand off, "you cannot let your young guards run amuck only to be rewarded simply because you favour them."
In the briefest of moments, Tréville allowed his eyes to meet that of the Cardinal's, offering a small nod in silence thanks for the support shown. Richelieu's aid in the stale mate tipped the balance easily in Tréville's favour. It was not often that they found themselves on the same side, striving towards a mutual goal, but when they did, they were an unmovable force.
"Well off you go then," the King sighed in a patronising manner, as if he were talking to a small naughty child, "but do not let me hear of your misdeeds again, d'Artagnan, I quite appreciate your company and am rather disappointed in your devilish behaviour."
"Of course, your Majesty," d'Artagnan nodded deeply, his voice wavered a little, though none by Tréville noticed. "My sincerest apologies, it shall not happen again."
"I should hope not." Louis scolded in a harsh tone as Tréville led d'Artagnan away from the tent.
He hated upsetting the boy like this, shaming him so publically before the King – one who believed the young Gascon could do no wrong – but needs must.
"There is a stream not half a mile from here, take Mathieu, Thibault and the horses with you, have them watered and brought back promptly." Tréville ordered gruffly, his eyes still cautious of the way Clermont's gaze trailed after the young musketeer.
"Why are you punishing me?" d'Artagnan's brow creased in confusion, "What have I done wrong?"
Nothing, you have done nothing wrong. Tréville wished to say, though he knew he could not. It was better to keep d'Artagnan in the dark for now. He did not need to know of how dark the world truly was. Let him keep his innocence for a little longer, if just a little while longer.
"Let me see… questioning your Captain's orders, disrespecting a superior officer in front of his Majesty, talking back to your superiors, do you wish me to continue?"
"What? When have I –?" d'Artagnan cut himself off as if realising he was in the process of doing just what he had been accused of.
"You have been slacking in your responsibilities, it is my duty as Captain to keep you in line."
"Slacking? Which respons –?" d'Artagnan could not hold his tongue as his temper flared.
"If you have any issue with my leadership, d'Artagnan, I hear the Cardinal's Red Guards are always seeking new recruits."
This last comment had the young Gascon's mouth gapping wide in hurt surprise.
"No?" Tréville questioned rhetorically, inwardly regretful of the prideful tears blossoming in the corners of d'Artagnan's eyes, but his cruelty was not without reason. "Then I suggest you take the horses to the river."
D'Artagnan slumped his shoulders in defeat, sulking off in search of the stable boys.
"Come along, Mathieu," d'Artagnan grumbled at the stableboy sourly, as he pulled himself up into the saddle. "Don't fall behind Thibault." He called back behind his shoulder as he spurred his horse into a trot.
"I could use a lad like that around my grounds," the Comte chuckled in an oily manner as Tréville returned to his Majesty's side, "what a wonderfully spirited young thing. What say you Captain, care to loan the boy out for a few months?"
Tréville saw red as his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, fully content to cut the blaggard to shreds before all who saw, though he quickly found his hand rendered motionless by another's tight grip.
Athos' eyes were sharp with concern and confusion; his mouth was a thin line. The musketeer's hold calmed and centred the Captain instantly, allowing him to see the grievous error he almost made in anger. Tréville gave Athos a reassuring nod to thank him and let him know he had regained his senses. And though Athos released Tréville's hand, he stuck by his side all the same.
"I should say not," Louis shook his head, clearly unaware of the events that had almost taken place. "D'Artagnan is one of the Captain's finest, his place is in Paris."
"Ah, more's the pity then," Clermont pouted slightly, mockingly as he flicked a small glance towards Tréville, eyeing the Captain's hand still upon his sword and smiling wickedly as if knowing his power and utterly relishing in the moment.
†††
The day commenced with an easy fashion. Deer were shot, triumphant gloating was had and they had all survived the day without further incident. As the sun began to sink beneath the trees, they started to make their trek back to the Palace.
With a watchful eye upon the Comte, Tréville made sure d'Artagnan was kept at the back of the precession, among the stable hands and servants. Though the King and his entourage largely ignored this action, it did not go unnoticed by three curious musketeers who fought to catch the Captain's gaze. However the Captain offered them nothing in ways of explanation. Clermont was his responsibility.
"There shall be a fête held tomorrow night, in honour of our dear friend the Comte," the King announced briefly as they walk back, Clermont distracted in conversation with the Cardinal.
"You and your men shall attend of course," Louis noted absence, as though he were reading aloud a list, "though d'Artagnan should not come, to punish him for his misdemeanours, really strive the message home, don't you think?"
"That is wise, your Majesty, a fitting punishment," Tréville nodded in agreement, though he knew that in any instance his men would cherish the lack of invitation to one of his Majesty's ostentatious fêtes.
"Good, but he can attend the next one, I am a merciful King, after all," Louis added with a stern expression.
"Truly, your Majesty."
†††
The ride back to the garrison was not as pleasant. It was silent and awkward. Where there was usually a highly amusing display of banter between at least four of his men, there was a strained uncomfortable silence. Tréville could see d'Artagnan was moping about being reprimanded before the King, but it was a small price to pay. Hopefully he could be back to his usual self soon, for his foul mood seemed to heavily affect his brother's around him.
As if by means of answering his thoughts, Porthos leaned over and flicked the moping Gascon to catch his attention. The larger musketeer then nodded his head over to Aramis walking ahead of them and revealed a series of collected pebbles in his hand. With a wicked grin, Porthos took aim and launched the pebble into the air, watching with bated breath as if fell into the groove upon the top of his hat. A silent wave of victory washed over Porthos as he celebrated his fine aim, though Tréville saw this celebration was possibly more so for causing a bright smile to burst across the boy's face. This smile only widened as Porthos offered his pebble collection out to d'Artagnan with a gesture of after you. After that came a series of missiles in Aramis' direction until he had finally realised the weigh upon his head and taken the hat off to see the collection of pebbles, causing the culprits to burst into a fit of giggles.
It would not be the first, nor the last time, Tréville had been silently thankful of the four's close friendship, but it was truly a wonder to him how the smallest of actions could turn their moods around.
Once back at the garrison, many of the men sort to untack their horses and go about their duties, however Athos chose to tear after his Captain with an almighty vengeance, following Tréville up the stairs and into his office, closing the door before turning upon the Captain.
"You have not seemed yourself since Clermont's arrival," Athos told him, watching as the Captain dropped himself into his chair, leaning his elbows against the desk.
"The Comte is not a man I would readily take company with." Tréville growled back with all the hatred he possessed for the beast.
"But you would be willing to cut him down before the King?" Athos turned upon his Captain with a careful expression.
"You did not have enough time in Munier's company to remember much of him," the Captain told the musketeer before him, a weariness to his voice that reflected the aching and tiredness he felt throughout his soul.
"Munier?" Athos uttered with a touch of confusion as to why they were discussing the dead musketeer, but he played along just the same. "He was a young lad, around d'Artagnan's age, no where near as talented, but a good sort." He noted stiffly, not one to wax lyrical.
"And how much have you learnt of the events that occurred?" Tréville pushed Athos to speak of what he knew.
"I was told the boy had grown senseless during the Comte's last visit, some action of Clermont's had riled him. So he confronted Clermont, before the King –half crazed, near the point of madness – and demanded a duel for his honour, the Comte obviously refused, laughed Munier out of the court. The boy killed himself that evening."
Tréville sighed at this reveal by Athos, running his hands through his fingers, he had been fearful of the stories that circled around Munier's mysterious breakdown and subsequent death.
"All you need know of Clermont is that he is not a man but a wolf, a wolf with a particular appetite." Tréville spoke softly though his tone was harsh and distant. "With no particular affinity for gender, Clermont simply favours the young and the unwilling…"
"Munier…" Athos breathed in sharply, suddenly placing all the pieces together for the first time.
"Could not live with the crimes against his person, nor could he deal with being among men of honour, when he felt he had none."
"Why did you never tell us of this?" Athos spoke with a hollow tone, his haunted anger clear and threatening. "Why does no one know of Clermont's offenses?"
"I have no proof, Athos," Tréville revealed regrettably, "Munier confided in me only to hang himself the very same night. I cannot go against a man in the King's favour with nothing more than a dead man's word."
"So we let him live? Is that it? He simply gets to carry on his crimes unpunished?" Athos roared, allowing his anger to bleed through, heating his tone.
"Open your eyes, Athos, the world is not a kind place, you know this!"
"This is why you sent d'Artagnan to the river with the stable boys…" Athos' thoughts suddenly backtracked to the events of that day, seeing all through a new perspective.
"Clermont's attentions has fallen upon our youngest," Tréville told the musketeer with a heavy heart.
"If he touches a single hair on that boy's head I will slit his throat, regardless of consequence." Athos bit a growl as he met Tréville's gaze with a fiery glare.
"I had expressed similar thoughts, though I believe our best course of action is to wade out the storm, keep the Comte's attentions elsewhere – on festivities and frivolous matters." Tréville offered, "Thankfully the King has not extended d'Artagnan an invitation to the fête tomorrow evening, the less time he spends in the Comte's company, the better."
"All the while he thinks you are punishing him unreasonably…" Athos muttered, though his tone revealed nothing of his thoughts on the matter.
"You think I should tell him?"
To this Athos offered a slight shake of his head in the negative. "D'Artagnan is brash at best, informing him of this threat would no doubt spur him into the Comte's grasp…" Athos drawled with a sigh, reflecting upon the young Gascon in the courtyard. "His pride would prove to be his downfall."
"Aramis and Porthos also, I would not wish to see their reaction to Clermont's interest in d'Artagnan, nor do I wish to witness their revenge upon him."
"Then we say nothing," Tréville concurred with a deep nod, "but we remain vigilante."
"Agreed." Athos nodded, moving towards the door, surprised when the Captain stood up to follow him, standing in the doorway.
Placing a hand upon his shoulder, Tréville spoke softly, "I swear to you I will not allow this monster to further torment those under my protection."
"As will I," Athos promised darkly.
"Though we must not forget that d'Artagnan can also defend himself, his is not some blushing maiden. For all we treat our young Gascon like a child, he is an exceptionally skilled musketeer of his own – what in God's name is going on down there?!" Tréville growled as he moved out onto the balcony to see what all the noise was about.
What it turned out to be as d'Artagnan chasing after Aramis like a manic, darting around support beams and over tables, all while looking as though he were planning to skin the elder musketeer.
"This is – cause for – "Aramis laughed ducking another blow, as he ran around a large wooden support post. "Celebration, not –" he cried out with a wicked grin, barely missing d'Artagnan's flying fists, "anger!"
"Exactly," Porthos chuckled as he picked up d'Artagnan from behind, hauling in over his shoulder with ease, though the smaller man's arms and legs flailed madly, "our little Gascon's become a man!"
"Put me down!" d'Artagnan cried, squirming in Porthos' hold.
"Gentlemen!" Tréville bellowed furiously, leaning over the balcony with a heavy scowl, causing the men in the courtyard below to freeze instantly and Porthos to drop the raving Gascon. "Explain yourselves!"
"Aramis is an idiot," d'Artagnan growled at the exact same moment Aramis gave a bright grin and declared: "D'Artagnan has a beard."
"What?" Tréville's brow creased heavily in utter confusion and bewilderment.
"Don't worry," Aramis reassured his Captain calmly, "it's so tiny I nearly missed it mysel – ouch," Aramis flinched as a d'Artagnan's fist flew into his unguarded shoulder.
"I told you I just forgot to shave!" d'Artagnan protested, charging the grinning musketeer in hopes of landing another blow upon him. "I could grow one anytime I wished!"
"Protest all you wish, I know the truth," Aramis laughed, ducking around Porthos to shield himself from d'Artagnan's fury. "And I'm so proud!"
"Silence!" Tréville barked with a thunderous echo that rang throughout the garrison. "Find something to do – all of you – before put the lot of you on sentry duty for the next month, do I make myself clear?"
A chorus of meek yessir's were muttered under breath as the three stood silent, a touch of solemnness and embarrassment on their faces as they reflected on their childish antics.
"You were saying…?" Athos drawled slowly causing Tréville to turn towards the musketeer by his side.
Athos' right brow was high upon his forehead as he directed an accusing glare towards his Captain. Though the musketeer said nothing further, his expression spoke volumes.
"Do not let him out of your sight," Tréville sighed wearily, scraping his fingers across his scalp in frustration. "While Clermont remains in Paris, that boy does not breathe without an escort."
†††
Tréville had never been one for pomp and circumstance. Though indeed of noble birth and status, his humble Gascony upbringing had distilled within him a deeper affection for all things pure and simplistic – fête's in all their pageantry did not sway his amusements so; particularly those caked in powder as to mask the hideousness beneath.
The day had come and gone with not further issue. D'Artagnan accepted his punishment of sorts, though he looked disappointed he could not be with his brothers this evening, he knew he had to follow orders.
Tréville chose to remain by the walls of the large ballroom, enjoying the easy vantage he had over the entire room. From his position, no one could move in this ballroom without him seeing.
However this worked both ways and Tréville soon found himself with an unwelcome companion.
"Youth is a gloriously delicious temptation, is it not Captain?" Clermont flittered out, tossing his lace napkin about frivolously in theatrics as he watched the dancing gentry with complete fascination. "So enticing, so captivating, yet wasted upon those who have it."
"God bestows youth upon the young for a reason," Tréville bit a snide reply, feeling sure that his skin was crawling by the very presence of the Comte near him. "It is ungodly to think otherwise."
"Tis a shame your youngest could not attend," Clermont asked with a light conversational tone, though there was clearly something sinister beneath it, like a snake hidden in the grass. "Moping back at your garrison is he?"
"It is none of your concern were my musketeers are placed."
"Oh, how possessive you are, Captain, never learnt to share did you?" Clermont chuckled, "Do not worry yourself, I have far more delicious distractions surrounding me this evening than to bother your lovely boys in blue."
Tréville felt his knuckles crack under the pressure he was placing upon his clenched fists. He felt for sure, were he to look at his palms, he would see small crescent indents upon it from his fingernails.
"Well, as charming as you company is," the Comte scoffed in a disapproving manner, "but I'm afraid there are far more beautiful things in this room than you."
And with that the Comte filtered his way back into the crowd, consumed by the sea of people.
"You handled that better than yesterday," Athos suddenly appeared beside him, muttering his words under his breath so as not to be overheard by those around them. "I probably would have shot him," he added quietly without a hint of emotion.
"I cannot just kill him, Athos," Tréville hissed back, his eyes not leaving wave of people as he tried to locate the Comte, "his power is too great and is a dear friend of the King. We must go about this cautiously and bide out time."
"Much easier just to kill him," Athos noted casually, only slightly veiling the disgust and anger that lurked beneath his skin as he watched Clermont fuss and flitter between the ladies of the court.
"You'd be in the hangman's noose before the sun rose…"
"Be worth it." Athos growled back lowly, confusing Tréville slightly as it sounded more like something Porthos would say rather than the sullen musketeer.
"Rather impulsive of you," Tréville noted, his eyes still trying to locate Clermont in amongst the hundreds of passing faces, "Shall I inform d'Artagnan his mentor is a hypocrite?"
Athos gave his Captain a tight look before sighing, "I hated fêtes."
"How did you handle the when you lived the life of a Comte?" Tréville wondered aloud, though apart of him already knew the answer.
"I drank." Athos delivered his response with a deadpanned stare.
†††
Time flittered by in an easy fashion as Tréville walked about the room, standing aside while others danced jovially and chattered frivolously about superficially subjects; fashion, wine, gossip.
It had been sometime since Tréville had laid eyes upon the Comte, each time he thought he saw him, the man would disappear into the crowd of people once more. One moment he had seen the man titter about one of the Queen's ladies in waiting and had seen the need to whisper a cautionary word in her Majesty's ear.
"Watch yourself, your Majesty," Tréville warned her with the gentle kindest of father, "you and your ladies," he sent meaningful glances towards the few decadently dressed women by the Queen's side. "Do not let them walk alone in the halls or gardens."
"Are we being threatened?" the Queen asked the Captain guardedly, watching the joyous crowd with newfound suspicion.
"I am just exercising caution, your Majesty, these types of events lend some to partake a little too much in excitement, some men are not as kind beneath their charming façades."
"You speak of the Comte," the Queen revealed delicately.
"Has he treated you ill, your Majesty?" Tréville tried to calm his anger at her discomfort, surely Clermont would not have the nerve to attack the Queen of France?
"No, nothing of the sort, it is just, I pride myself on having a decent ability of sensing a person's true nature, Captain," the Queen put diplomatically, "I sense a wickedness about the Comte that does not match his claims of purity and his fake charm."
"You are a wise woman indeed, but nevertheless you and your ladies should be on your guard, take a musketeer escort with you at all times." Tréville warned her softly, "Clermont is not a man to underestimate."
"Clermont?" Louis intruded upon their conversation loudly, appearing at the Queen's side, a full glass of dark red wine in his hand. "Pity he was feeling unwell," the King sighed petulantly, "I give the man a fête and all he want to do is walk in the gardens."
"Clermont is not here?" Tréville blanched, his eyes searching the crowds desperately though he knew the man was not there.
"Oh yes, excused himself a little while ago, claimed he was ill." The King shrugged flippantly, taking a sip from his glass of wine.
"Majesty, please excuse me, I must go," Tréville pleaded his excuse desperate, his mind reeling.
"What, you too?" The King pouted, looking a little drunk, "Why does everyone wish to leave my fêtes early?"
"Come dear, I shall entertain you instead." The Queen took her husband's arm and led him into the crowds, leaving the Captain alone.
Tréville wasted not another moment, dashing forth through the corridors of the palace with a fevered pace. His mind was ablaze with poisonous thoughts, spurring his feet as he leapt upon the closest horse, uncaring of its owner or the fact that its tack was badly secured.
The streets of Paris were a blur as he urged the horse into a galloping pace, which was dangerous in the usually crowded streets, but night had ensured there were little pedestrians to block his path.
His haste paused in the courtyard for the briefest of moment as he slid from the borrowed saddle, ignoring the horse completely. His pause was long enough to place together the events that had taken place. A bottle of the King's fine sparking wine sat upon the table, two glasses beside it, with one upturned – there were no signs of an obvious struggle but that did nothing to reassure his thoughts. Though the Comte's horse was still in the stable, which meant he was still at the garrison.
Fuelling the fire beneath his feet, Tréville ran to the dorms, sensing that this would be the Comte's next port of call. D'Artagnan's own lodgings were the second to last upon the Eastern corridor and something spurred him in that direction first.
As he broke through the door, his heart thudded painfully against his chest, almost breaking at the sight of his youngest recruit and his dear friend's beloved son.
D'Artagnan lay upon his bed, looking asleep and blissfully unaware of the utterly monstrous man that shadowed overhead. The Comte's fingers trailed across the boy's neck and chest as if admiring him as if he were a carved statue, taking care as he unlaced the boy's shirt.
"Move away from him." Tréville snarled lowly, raising his pistol to the level of the Comte's head, cocking the pistol and readying his stance.
"Captain!" Clermont yelped, leaping back from d'Artagnan instantly, his eyes widening at the sight of the pistol in his direction. "What are you doing? Put your gun down."
"You have long surpassed my tolerance," Tréville told him with a dead-cold stare. "This is simply the final nail upon your coffin."
"Captain, please, see reason sir!" The Comte cowered under the aim of the pistol, holding his hands high as he whimpered like the coward he was, "I didn't touch him, I have done nothing wrong!"
"But you would have done," Tréville countered, his pistol unwavering in its mark, his voice an utter parody of himself, cold, lifeless, accusing, hateful and unmerciful. "Just as you have done to countless others before, just as you did to Munier."
"You would not shoot an unarmed man!" Clermont begged with a ferocity only seen in those begging for their lives. "It violates every code of chivalry, you are a man of honour, Sir, you cannot!"
It was in that moment the Tréville realised Clermont was not the wolf, he was. He the Alpha of his wolf pack, he was the predator before his cowering prey, the beast with razor-sharp claws that would rip the flesh who dared to strike against his own. This demon before him had invaded his den and tormented his pack; there would be no mercy for these crimes.
"You are not a man," Tréville snarled menacingly, releasing the ball with expert precision, sinking the lead deep into the monster's thick skull without a moment's hesitation.
The pure ecstasy released within was beyond horrifying, though he relished it all the same. Civility was kept for decent folk. All others deserved his wrath.
It was all over in a matter of seconds, Clermont was dead, leaking blood sluggishly upon the worn wooden floorboards, lifeless.
Wearily, Tréville moved towards the unconscious boy upon the bed, sitting beside him to assess the damage. The Captain thanked God above reverently that d'Artagnan's clothes remain intact and seemingly untouched. There was a small red mark upon the boy's throat that looked as though it had been made with teeth. That made Tréville wish he had killed the Comte in a slower fashion, a shot to the stomach rather than the head, it was cruel but nothing that the cruel monster didn't deserved.
"D'Artagnan?" Tréville attempted to wake the boy, gently shaking his shoulder though it seemed to no avail. D'Artagnan's heart beat strong and his breath drew uninterrupted and there was no grievous wound upon him but he was completely unconscious, looking more as if he were simply in a deep sleep.
Clermont had most probably given the boy some sleeping tonic, to even allow him to get d'Artagnan here. The very thought left a horrific taste in Tréville's mouth, the thought of what could have happened, had he arrived too late, had he not noticed Clermont's absence, had Clermont been subtler with his advances.
"It would have killed them all," he muttered aloud to the sleeping boy, brushing away the dark locks that had fallen across his face, thinking of the three men who would move Heaven and Earth for the boy in the bed. "You could not even being to understand what this would have done to them."
In sleep, all Tréville could see was the tiny boisterous babe he had once met all those years ago, giggling happily upon his proud father's knee. Though little Charles was a now a gallant musketeer, with enough acclaims to his name to make his father even more proud, it was hard not to see the doe-eyed Gascon babe bumbling about the farmyard dutifully after his father.
The stench of cooling blood and gunpowder hung in the air around them, reminding Tréville that it would be best to remove d'Artagnan from the room before he woke. It would no doubt be a shock to wake to find your quarters drenched in blood with a Comte of the King's esteem lying dead upon your floor. No, he would spare d'Artagnan that rude awakening. Taking the boy in his arms, Tréville lifted d'Artagnan off the bed gently, making his way out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Someone would have to deal with Clermont's body, but for now his first task was to see that d'Artagnan was alright.
It was in that moment that Tréville met with three distressed musketeers in his path.
"Captain?" Athos' voice was breathy and judging from the heavy breathing from the other two, it was easy to see they had tore after their Captain with not a moment to spare.
"Take him." Tréville told them with little emotion in his voice, offering the boy in his arms out towards the three men.
All three immediately stepped forward to catch the boy, but Porthos proved to be closest, taking d'Artagnan into his arms with gentle ease, one hand cradling the boy's head against his chest while the other scooped under his knees. They all carried the signs of emotional torment upon the state of their youngest.
Aramis flittered about the unconscious boy, frantically seeking signs of life and the ferocity within Athos' eyes were reflective of that within Tréville's heart, though the Captain saw need to calm his men.
"He's fine," Tréville revealed with a weighted stare, conveying a deeper meaning to the stormy musketeer before him. "Not a scratch on him," he added lightly, though he knew these were the words Athos needed to hear. "I swear upon my honour."
"What does that mean?" Porthos growled at Athos and the Captain, sensing the subtext being spoken over him.
"It means he's fine." Athos gave a look to the larger man that he would reveal all later and Tréville allowed this. The Captain completely trusted Athos to handle this situation with his brothers, whatever Athos decided they needed would be what they were given.
"Just mysteriously unconscious…" Aramis murmured under his breath unconvinced by Athos' reassurances, sharing a look with Porthos, though they said nothing more.
With a delicate shrug, Tréville unburdened himself of his cloak and fleur-de-lis crested chest plate, loosening the buckled just enough to slide it off with practiced ease. Munier's vengeance had been dealt, his satisfaction gained before the eyes of God and all that is holy. Now he would face his punishment.
"Olivier d'Athos de la Fère, Athos, I hereby name you my successor and Captain hence forth until further notice or until stated otherwise by his Royal Majesty, King Louis XIII of France." Tréville spoke with duty and honour as he bestowed his swords and pistol, along with his cloak and breastplate to the musketeer before him.
"Captain –?" Athos blinked, his hands numbly cradling the Captain's effects, shock and surprise clearly written upon his face as he stared up at Tréville.
"Let him stay with you, he needs rest but his lodgings…" Tréville paused, thinking of the blood that splattered across the walls and the Comte's lifeless body inhabiting a large portion of the room. "Are not fit to occupy him."
"And what state are his lodging in exactly…?" Aramis posed his question cautiously, clearly not wishing to propose judgment but curious all the same.
"The Comte de Clermont will not be returning to his estate, though I am sure his family will be wanted his possession. It would be best to send someone to gather his possessions as he will not be needing them."
To their credit, not one of them spoke. They simply stood in confusion and shock at the Captain's calm and pleasant demeanour.
"Now, if you will excuse me, gentleman," Tréville nodded with deep respect and civility, the very picture calm in his every movement, "I have a murder to confess."
With that the Captain turned upon his heels, making his exit, leaving three gapping musketeers in his shadow.
With a contented determination, Tréville turned the corridor to the stairwell, swearing he heard Aramis' overwhelmed voice utter:
"Your name's Olivier…?"
†††
Though he had been in and out of the Châtelet many times during his years as Captain, he had never been upon the other side of the bars. The horrific cries and bellows of tortured agony that filled the cold stone walls, felt like nails upon his flesh, dragging him down into the pitiful abyss that was the prison around.
Thankfully – by some mercy of god or respect from the prison guards – he had been given a separate cell to wade out the night, unmolested by the villainous miscreants that haunted these halls, like souls upon a graveyard.
Perhaps, if he were truly unlucky, the King would sentence him to life in prison. Give him the block, the rope, the gun; give him the infinite any day. Give him anything other than his hell they labelled a prison.
A sharp twist of the thick iron lock upon his cell, had Tréville's gaze upon barred door in an instant. The jailer was gruff and hideously unkempt, though the Captain did not resist when the man pulled at his chains, releasing Tréville.
Without a word of explaination, his jailor pulled him from his cell, spurring him down a series of dank and ill-light corridors, past cell after cell of jeering inmates. Was he bound for the courtyard? To be executed by ways of firing squad? Surely he was to stand trial first?
To his surprise, he was not let into the executioner's courtyard, but rather to the prison's main entrance, where a large heavily decorated carriage lay in wait.
"For all the years you've served as Captain, this is by far the stupidest thing you've ever done." The Cardinal scoffed mockingly as he stepped out of the carriage, beckoning Tréville to climb inside.
"I was not expecting an escort, though I suppose you volunteered, simply to see me in chains." Tréville growled, his pride flaring as their age-old rivalry spurred his heated words, though he entered the carriage all the same.
"While the idea was tempting, I came merely to see what all the fuss was about." Richelieu chuckled as he followed the Captain, calling out to the driver to move off.
They rode in silence for a little while. In all honesty Tréville was beyond exhausted by the ordeals of the previous evening and his time spend within the confines of the Châtelet prison. Though the Captain's appearance revealed this exhaustion clearly, this did not stop the Cardinal from making conversation.
"Do not expect much sympathy from his Majesty," Richelieu proposed lightly as they travelled across the crowded Parisian streets. "Your little altercation put rather a damper upon his celebrations," the Cardinal frowned scathingly, though there was a sense of veiled amusement behind the withering glance.
"The fête finished early?" Tréville frowned, having not heard anything from the palace regarding the previous evening.
"Yes well, it is rather difficult to continue festivities when the guest of honour has a musket ball in his head and his blood paints the walls your Musketeer's garrison."
"It was a pistol," Tréville noted absently, rubbing his aching wrist lightly to relieve the pain that burned from the presence of the weighted manacles.
"Ah, my apologies," the Cardinal snapped facetiously as the carriage turned towards the Louvre gates.
"Here, you are to appear before the King, clean yourself up first," Richelieu sniped, producing a small bowl of water and cloth, "common criminal does not suit you."
†††
The King's mood was indeed most foul. He fussed and pranced before his throne is a hideous rage, tossing about phrases such as 'disappointment to the Crown' and 'shame to the Musketeer name'. And all the while, Tréville remained silent and stoic, listening to the King's reprimands but never given an excuse for his behaviour.
"You are one of the most honest and loyal subjects at my court, Captain," Louis sighed, clearly exhausted from his fit of anger as he moved to sit heavily upon his throne rather than pace about it. "I honestly forget sometimes that you are a soldier at heart, a warrior first, forged in blood and fire of battle. You favour action over simple discussion."
Tréville frowned upon the picture his Majesty was painting of him, as if he were some untameable berserker fresh from the battlefield. And while the Captain wished to correct the King's overly romanticised notion of him – labelling him as some caricature tin soldier with nothing upon his mind but war and blood – he remained ever silent, keen to see where his Majesty's words were heading.
"I had heard rumours surrounding the Comte," the King uttered softly as if he were simply discussing the fine weather that morning or the season's latest fashion trend. "Rumours that did not bode well for his character, especially considering his close friendship with myself."
Tréville waited in silence, contemplating his Majesty's words with meticulous consideration, unsure if he was truly hearing correctly.
"And while I usually ignore such slander pertaining to my most effluent of subjects," Louis continued softly, causing Tréville's eyes to rise in surprise, his heart fluttering as releasing to direction of the King's speech. "I cannot ignore such things when they come from both of my most trusted men and dearest of friends."
Both?
Tréville's gaze darted from his Majesty's person to that of the man beside him.
Richelieu's expression gave nothing away, though it was obvious of whom the King spoke, no other could claim such a friendship with the King other than the Cardinal himself.
"And so hence forth I absolve you, Clermont was an abominable sort and probably deserved worse than what he got."
Undoubtedly, Tréville uttered inside his mind, though to the King he said "Thank you, your Majesty," and nodded reverently, adding, "Not all would be so forgiving and just."
"Nonsense," the King chucked, looking a touch bashful, "now run along, I've had quite enough of this whole bothersome escapade."
Both the Captain and the Cardinal bid the King a cordial goodbye and left the throne room by way of the main door. It was only once they were a far way down that the Captain turned to Richelieu, pausing the other man's gait.
"I, uh – thank you," Tréville revealed softly, unable to find any other way of expressing his thanks.
"Clermont was a disgrace to France, his dalliances were becoming a nuisance, far outweighing his usefulness." Richelieu noted conversationally with a touch of nonchalance. "His young son has recently become of age and is a dear friend of mine. I have faith he will prove to be an even greater Comte, with my tutelage of course."
"So it was all purely in self interest?" Tréville smiled, reading through the Cardinal's cleverly constructed mask of indifference.
"Undoubtedly," Richelieu proposed with a blank expression.
Feeling as though he would get no further word upon the subject, Tréville offered the Cardinal a deep nod before making his way down the long extravagant corridor.
"Captain," Richelieu called out after Tréville had only taken a few steps.
"I may tolerate a great deal of occurrences deemed despicable in your eyes, but even I can see when such acts go far beyond the redeemable."
Tréville nodded with a friendly smile, before making his exit, truly thankful for those who had stood by his side. It was true what they said about allies, you often found them in the most unlikely of places.
†††
"That's my bread!" d'Artagnan's voice carried across the entire courtyard as Tréville paused at the garrison's entrance.
"Is not a communal loaf?" Porthos frowned in mock surprise.
"You took it off my plate!" d'Artagnan accused the other man, gapping comically with a disgusted look upon his face as Porthos licked the boy's portion of bread before putting it on his own plate.
"I licked it so it's mine now!" The larger musketeer announced cheerfully.
"Ugh, Aramis!" d'Artagnan whined with a small pout.
"I'm afraid he's right, d'Artagnan, it's a clear law of ownership." Aramis told the boy regretfully.
"Athos, come back! Porthos nicked my bread!" d'Artagnan called out into the garrison, though he did not get a reply.
"What a brat you are!" Porthos chuckled, flicking small balls of rolled soft bread at the boy.
"Hey quit it!" d'Artagnan swatted the bread pellets that flew at him.
"Porthos stop playing with your food…" Aramis rolled his eyes only to become the larger musketeer's newest target, "oi!" he yelped, before grabbing himself a piece of bread to retaliate. "Oh, big mistake…" he smiled darkly, lining up Porthos in his sights, readying his bread projectile.
Tréville couldn't help but chuckle as he watched from afar. Concealed by the shadowy archway of the garrison, it was clear the three men were far too occupied in their squabble to notice their Captain's eye upon them. The simple quiet – or in this case loud – moments between the brothers were rare and wondrous to behold. Too often his men looked old beyond their years, jaded by the hurtful cards fate had dealt them. But it was truly heart-warming to see them act like children, like his children. His lost boys. All emerging from disconnected pasts, joined by a likeness in spirit and heart.
"I believe you will be needing this back," Athos crept forth silently out of the shadows producing Tréville's effects, placing them into the Captain's hands gently.
"Thank you for looking after them." Tréville said with an appreciative nod, securing his sword and gun at his waist, he cloak upon his shoulder, welcoming in the familiar weight of his possessions upon his person. It was like the embrace of an old friend, or more accurately a limb, with them he felt bare and exposed. With them he felt whole.
"That is all I ever would've done." Athos told him, his honesty clear and unwavering.
"I will not always be able to lead you, Athos, you must know that there will come a day were I must chose a successor." Tréville sighed, this was a conversation that he had long since wanted to have with the other man, but had never found the right opportunity. Athos was the clear candidate for the position, though Tréville was unsure whether the man would ever accept the idea. Athos did not appose leadership amongst the other musketeers but somehow recoiled at Captaincy.
"Indeed, I believe I have someone in mind," Athos uttered softly as he watched the three musketeers at the table, d'Artagnan cheering in triumph as he tossed a cup of water at Aramis, soaking the man's face and shirt, which proved an ill-thought out plan as Aramis had a cup of his own behind his back.
"How is he?" Tréville wondered aloud, unsure whether he truly wanted an answer. D'Artagnan seemed fine, but if history was his guide, one could never be too sure of what lay beneath the surface, what tormented the subconscious.
"Aramis thinks Clermont gave d'Artagnan a tincture of some unknown concoction," Athos supplied absently, "he is unharmed by its effects but remembers nothing of last nights events."
"Thank the Lord for small mercies." Tréville breathed in relief, finally allowing himself to relax for the first time since Clermont arrived.
"You were prepared to forfeit all you'd obtain in life to protect d'Artagnan's honour…" Athos asked softly.
"I am your Captain, Athos, it is my duty to protect those who serve by my side." Tréville told Athos fiercely, eyes locked upon the man before him to ensure his words held weight. He kept this stare for a moment before relaxing with a shake of his head. "That and his father would butcher me from beyond the grave were anything to happen to his golden son."
"I often try to picture d'Artagnan's father," Athos pondered quietly with a frown, "but all that comes to mind is d'Artagnan with a farmer's beard…"
"Oh that boy is nothing like his father," Tréville chuckled fondly, unabashedly.
"In heart, yes, in duty and honour, but his fire? That is all his mother. His looks too, that is all Caterina. She was a truly remarkable woman, more beautiful than an angel, with the temper of a banshee."
"She sounds like a fine woman."
"The very best."
"You knew his father then?" Athos frowned, clearly curious as to why the Captain had never said this to any of them.
"Yes, Alexandre and I were close friends, Caterina also, I even met d'Artagnan once, as a child, he was all limbs and bruised knees," Tréville revealed with an affectionate smile, his mind travelling back to bygone eras.
"So, a week ago?" Athos uttered slyly.
"Yes, well he hasn't changed much since, he poked my ankle with a stick and demanded a duel to attain satisfaction," Tréville chuckled with a fond smile, before adding, "He was two."
"Sounds like him," Athos snorted with a roll of his eyes.
Tréville bit his lip, anxious of the guilt within his gut as he placed his hand upon Athos' shoulder. "Athos, know that there is nothing I would not do to protect my men. I understand my past actions have not always proven this, but that does not mean I do not bleed when my men are cut."
"And us you, Sir." Athos concurred deeply, before wincing as Porthos' unabashed laugh interrupted them as he threw a half eaten apple towards d'Artagnan's head, missing it only by a hair's breadth.
"If lunch is always in this fashion, it is no wonder the boy is so thin," Tréville chuckled humorously.
"I really should…" Athos nodded at the squabbling men, now in the midst of a large-scale food fight that had spread to the width of the entire courtyard, clearly eager to stop the skirmish before it took over the streets of Paris.
But Tréville had a different idea.
"I'm going for a walk, I expect I won't be back for some time…" Tréville announced, "incidentally I believe there's a box of rotten fruit by the far west corner, apparently they make excellent projectiles…"
A glint of sly mischief sparkled in Athos' eyes as he nodded politely, "I hope you have a pleasant walk."
"I intend to," the Captain smiled, bidding the musketeer good afternoon with a slight nod, allowing Athos to rush forth into battle against his brothers.
As Tréville walked out into the fresh Spring afternoon he chuckled at the shrieks and cries that rang from the garrison behind him, relishing the moment more dearly than any sparkling gem or polished gold.
Thank you so much for reading :) Let me know what you think! The next chapter is Athos' followed by d'Artagnan's :) xxxx