I'm back. Been in a bit of a slump over the summer, but I think I'm good now. Updates may not happen for awhile after this, because classes have started up again.

VERY dark chapter, please be warned! References are made to btamamura's stories Thoughtful Gift, Recovering From All Wounds, and Race For Life. Flashback is from the episode "The King's Complex", with a touch of my own head-canon thrown in.

Flashback

Albert relaxed in the field just outside Paris, while his new friend Little John received his knighthood from the King back at the Louvre.

The Musketeer was most content. Innocent folk had been freed from prison (himself and Little John included, and thanks to their efforts), the King realized he was not the smallest man in the kingdom after all, and the humble, good-natured Little John had been honored for his own miniature stature. Everybody was happy (except for the Cardinal) and all was well.

Beside Albert was Little John's beloved bovine, Milkelie, who comfortably grazed while she waited. She had taken quite the shine to Albert, and had even seen fit to express her gratitude with a great, affectionate lick. Albert was delighted; that simple gesture meant more to him than any honor or medal ever could.

Eventually, he was recalled from his reverie by the familiar and welcome sound of D'Artagnan calling his name. He blinked once, and looked up to see his friend waving as he headed in his direction. "Oh! Hello, D'Artagnan!" he greeted. "This is a surprise. What brings you here? Did all go well with His Majesty and Little John?"

The brun nodded. "Sir Little John is having tea with the King. He sends his immense gratitude for everything you've done." Smiling, he added, "He seems a rather down-to-earth chap. Not that I know him well, but I don't think his promotion will give him an inflated ego anytime soon."

"Unlike certain Musketeers I know," Albert gently teased, eyeing the gleaming new medal decorating D'Artagnan's person.

D'Artagnan frowned, but found himself caving in to a small grin. "All right, all right!" he said, playfully knocking the brim of Albert's hat over his eyes.

As Albert straightened his hat, D'Artagnan settled down next to him, confirming his suspicion that he had sought him out with something specific in mind. "So… this is a nice place," he admitted, looking around.

Albert nodded, unfooled. D'Artagnan's tone was pleasant enough, but not quite as subtle as he likely hoped. Albert was no slouch at reading others, especially his dearest friends and brothers-in-arms… and he was even closer to D'Artagnan than the Three Musketeers. "But tell me, what's on your mind?" he casually inquired in a subtle-yet-direct maneuver of his own.

Scratching the back of his neck, D'Artagnan sighed and muttered, "Oh… well… look, Albert, you know that I know- as do the others- that you can hold your own just as well as the rest of us, if not better. You are the cleverest and most competent Musketeer of us all… and that's coming from me, so know I am serious."

"Thank you, my friend, but you really do sell yourself short. And that's coming from me, so know that I am serious!" Albert chuckled sheepishly at his half-joke. "Ok, that was bad, sorry. But you were saying?"

D'Artagnan didn't smile, and Albert's concern grew. "The thing is, Albert, I don't want to insult you, but… well, quite frankly, you really had us worried this time." He was looking directly into the other's sky-blue eyes now, his tone unusually earnest.

"Are you referring to my imprisonment in the Bastille?" questioned Albert softly. Albert had been taken by complete surprise by the enemy, which was a rare thing indeed. After the Guards caught him, he had been knocked out minutes after struggling to free himself, only to awaken dazed and confused in the Bastille where he was released from the sack by a sympathetic jailer.

"Well, yes, but that was the least of it!" D'Artagnan expelled an uneven breath and shook his head. "Last night… we were all together, precisely as it should always be. We were making merry together, just celebrating life and a spot of peace! We heard the cries of a seeming damsel in distress, and rushed into the line of duty as one! Next thing I know," he went on, "the four of us awaken in a crumpled heap early this morning… and down by one, our most valuable member!"

"D'Artagnan…"

The slightly older man hurried on, "That's when I realized that it was a trap, a set-up! That we were down and you were missing… I didn't quite know if you had specifically been targeted, but I greatly suspected foul play. We combed your workshop, every room in the mansion, the marketplace… we grew so frantic as the day wore on with no sign of you, we found ourselves smashing our way into every shop and home in Paris like base thugs instead of gentlemen and Musketeers! I didn't let on to the others about how worried I really was, but I think we all were by then. Soon, my imagination began to get the best of me; I pictured your abductors inflicting all sorts of terrible harm on you, even leaving you for dead on some lonely road in the country. For all I knew, they had you drowned in the Seine! What if we were too late? How could I live with myself if-"

"D'Artagnan!" Alarmed, Albert placed both hands on his shoulders, calling his attention with a firm shake. "Steady on, dear friend! You are deathly pale and working yourself into a frenzy! You know I am fine; I am right here, look at me." He had never seen him like this before. Righteous fury was D'Artagnan's greatest passion, but he was never one to give in to panic! Here was a man who prided himself on fearing nothing… and Albert himself was the source of such distress; not because of him, but for him!

Never had Albert been more deeply moved. And yet, he understood exactly how D'Artagnan felt. The loss of his mother at a tender age left deep scarring, and Albert didn't know it at that moment, but his emotional well-being would be put to the test again in a year with the near-loss of his dearest friends and brothers… on two separate occasions.

D'Artagnan allowed himself to be placated by Albert's firm, yet tender reasoning. A final shudder rippled through him, and he inhaled. "Well… when we found out they were arresting everybody shorter than the King, I understood. You can't imagine my relief! Knowing that you were safe after all… I mean, it still sickened me to know that someone like you had been dragged away and locked up like a lowly criminal, but if anybody's clever enough to escape, it's you… though we wasted no time in speeding to your aid, nonetheless. And sure enough, you managed to free yourself just as we managed to get ourselves thrown in!" he laughed ironically.

"D'Artagnan, I had no idea I put you through so much turmoil! I am not offended at all; on the contrary, I can't say what it means to have such loyal, caring friends. Never once have I taken for granted or underestimated the significance of the Musketeers' motto, but hearing all this from you has driven it home like never before!" Albert closed his eyes with a half-sob, half-chuckle. "Is anyone as blessed as I, as blessed as we all are? Oh, it was foolish of me to be so caught off-guard by Milady," he admitted, "but I shall just have to be even more careful from now on. Nobody is perfect. She and the Guards had me right where they wanted me… they could have done far worse to me, as you said."

Albert stared bleakly at his most cherished possession, which he held in his hands. It was the medal D'Artagnan had given him last year for his 21st birthday. He wore it always, safely tucked into the top of his uniform and next to his heart. On the gleaming surface of gold, the inscription (he couldn't read the words in his pitch-black surroundings, but knew them by heart, could trace every letter with his finger) read:

To a very dear friend

Only you deserve this medal

It was all he had left of D'Artagnan, whom he was now as firmly convinced as everybody else that he had murdered. He knew now it wasn't a dream at all, but the true visions plagued him nightly with stunning clarity that left his five senses reeling. It was always the same- the image of him emotionlessly slaughtering his friend… then him thinking he had awoken to a very-much-alive D'Artagnan's secure, loving embrace… but then the Devil would claim his due after all, dragging him back down, down, down into eternal inferno… concluding with him awakening for real in his own personal hell, not so much this damp, dark cell he was chained up in, but the fathomless remorse that would kill any lesser man.

All the evidence had been there from the start. And that opening scene in these recent recurring night-terrors was, as far as he was concerned, him reliving the missing piece to the puzzle. The picture was complete at last.

It didn't matter why or how anymore. Maybe after knowing so much trauma and terror, he just finally snapped without warning. He had been far more broken than he thought.

"Albert… why are you looking at me like that?"

(To a very dear friend)

"What's wrong?"

(Only you deserve this medal)

"Don't you know me?"

"…"

"You don't have to do this, Albert. I would willingly die for you, but I can never bring myself to touch my sword against yours, not even in self-defence. Think about what you're doing, for your own sake, I implore you! My friend, please, stop!"

"Goodbye, D'Artagnan."

His soul was forfeit. All around him, wicked voices chanting, booming over the cracking of whips: "This is the Day of Reckoning! Don't try to pray, now suffer and obey. Not even your tears can save you tonight."

Screaming, Albert ripped the medal from him and threw it far. Landing with a dull clank, it was lost to the darkness.

Time had no meaning in this place. After awhile, neither did emotion; the mind can only take so much before it shuts down. He experienced each day merely existing, barely aware without feeling.

Albert neither knew nor cared when one day began and the next ended. He had long since become accustomed to the burning numbness in his neck, wrists, and ankles, not unlike his hollowed-out heart. It was nothing to him now. He was nothing.

The Guards kept him fed on warm piss and maggot-ridden bread (when they were feeling generous, they supplied him with filthy water). Somehow, he managed to keep it all down. Basic survival instinct or sheer apathy? For his other physical needs, a bucket was supplied, which they couldn't be bothered to empty and replace.

When they were bored, and frustrated with his lack of pleading, crying, or any sort of response whatsoever, they would beat him. But no matter how severe the blows, he was like a toy whose mechanism was dead- no fun- so, they gave up soon enough.

But one day, when the head Guard came down with his lantern, a strange hissing sound greeted him.

"You just say something, 601?" He brought the light closer to the still figure curled in on himself.

A second time, more forced and raspy than the first. There was hardly anything human left. "Kill me. Please."