Hello my friends, how are you? Finally, I'm ready to publish the new chapter of this collection, G for Grounded. I really hope you like it, for I must say I'm a little in love with this one. As usual, thank you everyone for your unwavering support! I really appreciate it, and you know, it really inspires me! Every time I start a new chapter, and I promptly get tangled with words, I remind myself that you're waiting and I keep going!
Deana: Thank you very much! Please, let me know if you enjoyed this one too!
LJ Groundwater: I'm really glad you were pleased with last chapter, and thank you very much for your help, I immediately fixed the errors and I'll keep that in mind. It's harder than I thought write in English, but I love this language so much that I had to try!
Sarah: Ahahah and a lot of awww for me because of your review! Thank you!
MargretThornton: Oh. My. God. I… have no words to thank you for your wonderful, outstanding reviews, the first one is absolutely lovely, you even quoted a few lines, I was already jumping up and down at that. But the second one… wow! I admit I was worried that no one would have liked the chapter about Constance, since the musketeers are the stars, but you regarded my work with so much care that I really felt… you know… touched. She really is remarkable, and I'm glad you found my description of her fitting, and I smiled too when you told me you smiled! Thank you, thank you very much!
Ok, since I'm ready to burst into tears because of your lovely reviews, I'll let you enjoy this new chapter! Love you!
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Grounded
"She didn't need to understand the meaning of life,
it was enough to find someone who did, and then fall asleep in his arms and sleep as a child sleeps,
knowing that someone stronger than you is protecting you from all evil and all danger"
(P. Coelho)
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
Athos was going to kill him, he knew that.
Merely a couple of days ago he had promised him that he would be careful and that he wouldn't get himself into troubles. Well… not that it was his fault. He didn't really wanted to be attacked by those bandits along the way, nor he asked to be injured while going through a mission. Really, that was just bad luck, right?
When the Captain assigned him to retrieve some documents stolen from the Royal Palace by an English spy, plans about something or another Treville didn't inform him about, two days ago, he just nodded, squaring his shoulders to make himself stand straighter, in hope to look worthy of such an honour. He wasn't a Musketeer yet, he was just a recruit, so he felt his chest puff up with pride at the task the Captain handed him. Usually, recruits weren't entrusted with missions, and D'Artagnan knew this was a sign of esteem. So, when Treville requested, in a firm commanding voice, not to fail, "it's of the utmost importance that you retrieve those papers, D'Artagnan, don't disappoint me", he promised that he wouldn't, swearing to himself, while descending the stairs leading to the courtyard, that he'd prove deserving of his (hopefully sooner rather than later) Captain's trust.
Unfortunately, his mission wasn't that simple. Because he didn't just have to rescue what was stolen from the King and get over with it, but he had to do it stealthily. The King didn't wish for England to know who was responsible for the planned raid, he preferred discretion, and that was a whole lot of problems. Also, that was the reason why Treville had chosen to send D'Artagnan alone: if captured, nobody outside Paris could connect him to the Musketeers, and therefore to the King, he didn't wear a pauldron yet, after all. And, at the same time, he was talented, and he had proved himself good at working in the shadows.
Athos, on the other hand, didn't like it one bit. It was as if they were facing the Vadim – crisis all over again. Only, this time it was worse because Treville was going to send him alone. And Athos… well. He was none too pleased with the whole idea. Well, nor were Aramis or Porthos, really, but neither of them had the ability to turn their eyes into a storm, crystal blue sky irises clouding and clouding until their colour paled almost to silver, like those thunderous days when you smell the rain, and you hear the sky shouts, but the hurricane has yet to begin. And you know that when it'll start, it will be ominous.
Athos's eyes were crippling, and when they set on D'Artagnan, he had to restrain himself hard to stifle a shudder.
"I can do it" the young Gascon blurted almost unintentionally, straightening up again as high as he could to give himself an air of self-assuredness. It annoyed him that Athos still reacted like that after all those weeks working together, really, they have known him for almost three months now, and he proved himself an asset so far, right?
He was too young, D'Artagnan, and too inexperienced to read the man's reactions for what they were: concern, and affection.
"You'll be alone" Athos replied, his voice calm even if his eyes were blazing, piercing through the youngster's head as if the Musketeer could read his mind.
"They won't see me" the Gascon retorted, trying again to convey confidence in his voice. He needed for Athos to trust him, to believe in him, especially after the whole Vadim fiasco. The Musketeers were quick to reassure him after he killed the man, to explain him that it wasn't his fault if Vadim had deceived him, almost succeeding in blowing them all up to pieces in the process, D'Artagnan first since the man had him tied up to those bloody gunpowder barrels. Vadim had fooled everyone, including themselves, they said. But he couldn't help himself. He still felt like he had let them down. He was entrusted with a mission: gather informations about Vadim's plan, to stop him from murdering dozens of innocent people. But he wasn't able to fulfill his duty. He was tricked into believe he had been smart enough to deceive Vadim when it was the other way around. And he was grateful for his friends' kind words, even Athos had reassured him more than once…. Still. He felt guilty. He felt the need to prove himself smarter than that.
He wasn't just a naive farmboy from Gascony, too ignorant to unmask a deceit. He was a man, a warrior, good enough and strong enough to wear the Fleur de lys on his shoulder.
And probably Athos read all of that in his eyes a couple of days ago, when he recounted them his mission… because he relented. And then he nodded, giving him his permission to leave, and follow his Captain's orders.
But he also had grabbed his wrist, just before D'Artagnan could mount his horse, pinning him with a petrifying stare. "Don't get yourself into troubles, understood? And be careful".
D'Artagnan had smiled at that, shaking his head perhaps to ease the tension. "Careful Athos, or I might think that you care about me".
That earned him a laugh from Porthos and Aramis, who good-naturedly messed up his hair. But even if Athos' lips had quivered in amusement at the youngster jest, his gaze had not wavered.
And that was why D'Artagnan knew he was in trouble now.
Truth to be told, his mission started smoothly. He was able to track down the spy easily enough since the man had planned to hide in a small built up area outside Guernes, a half day ride from Paris, roughly ten farms and a inn nestled by a small river, while waiting for his men to escort him to Le Havre and then sail to England. And even the retrieving part of the plan was almost too easy: he just sneaked in the spy's room during the night, disguising himself as a farmer who passed by the inn where the man lodged.
It was his escape plan that didn't exactly come together.
The man wasn't as asleep as D'Artagnan had believed, to begin with. And he wasn't even alone. Hidden in the room there were two more men, that jumped on the Gascon as soon as he grabbed those darn papers.
The reason why he was now riding as fast as he could toward Paris, bloody and battered, a gash along his hairline oozing blood, probably a couple of broken ribs, a small hole in his side, courtesy of the spy's dagger, and, worst of all, his wrists firmly tied in front of him, the rope so tight that he was unable to grab the reins to ride with his hands, and he had to settle to hold onto the horse's mane.
A very uncomfortable position, since he still had to ride as fast as he could to leave behind the French countryside, but he didn't have the chance to try and unbind himself. He had managed to escape, injuring the spy and one of his men in the process, snatching the documents just before jumping out a small window that, luckily enough, overlooked a pile of hay, but now they were pursuing him.
So he couldn't stop, not for a second. Mainly because he couldn't afford the risk of being killed, losing his cargo in the process. Captain Treville's orders were clear: bring back the papers. Period. The mission comes first. He just had to keep going, in the hope to get rid of them along the way.
However, Athos was going to kill him.
Of that he was sure.
Assuming that his horse could ride up to Paris, to achieve that goal he would need to change his pace, and chances were that his pursuers would capture him again. Or worse, kill him, since they took his sword and his pistols when they caught him earlier. But even if he'd make it, he'd still be unable to clean up properly, enough to remove the blood from his face, for instance. Hence, Athos would probably spot his injuries in no time, and then he would be the one to run him through, since he broke his promise.
Still, it was hardly the time to worry about the older man's reactions. He had three men hot on his heels and two hours ride still ahead, and since his head was throbbing like a hammer, his chest was hurting so much his breathing was laboured and shallow, not to mention his wrists, his flesh burning as if it had been set on fire, he needed his focus to keep in his saddle. Get to Paris would be a miracle.
And yet, because D'Artagnan was stubborn, or, even better, since he was well equipped with a stubbornness so strict that he could easily compete with a mule, he kept riding, covering miles and miles solely thanks to his willpower.
Therefore, two hours later he finally saw Paris' elegant outline rose above the horizon, the sun peeking among the clouds high in the sky, indicating that by now it had to be noon. He was so tired, so exhausted, so in pain that he was almost doubled over his horse's neck, a bad thing for his injuries but unavoidable since he couldn't find the strength to sit up properly. His vision was starting to blur, he felt nauseous and he was shaking, hard, due of his efforts to complete his mission or because of he was running fever he didn't know. But he was almost there.
He knew he was supposed to dispose of his pursuers before returning to Paris, to prevent England from associating his mission to the King, but between losing his cargo and risking that the plan was uncovered, he had to choose priorities, and deliver those papers to the Captain was the most important thing. So he didn't change his route, trying to come up with a plan to capture the spy while protecting his burden.
And, while the entrance arch of the city was getting closer, the wind rustling his sweaty hair cooling down his overheated worn out body, D'Artagnan thought that maybe, with a little luck, he could kill two birds with one stone.
It still was risky but… it was his best option.
So he slowed down, so much that he could see the three men's forms take shape behind his back, and moving carefully to ensure he stayed within reach of their eyes he entered the city, his mind conjuring an intricate path of streets and alleys to follow so that the British would not understand where he was going until it was too late.
Almost there.
I'm almost there.
Come on, just a few minutes.
Hang on D'Artagnan.
It was hard. He was feeling worse and worse at every leap of his horse, beads of sweat dropping in his red-rimmed eyes burning like acid rain, arms and legs shaking and straining, and the pain… my God… the urge to collapse, to succumb to unconsciousness was so strong that avoid falling from his horse was all he could think about right now, oblivious to the chaos he was leaving in his wake. Men and women shouting, and cursing, and hurrying out of the way before his horse could run over them. And then goods tumbling, crates knocked over, smashed to the ground soiling the already filthy Parisian streets.
Almost there.
I'm almost there.
And finally he saw it: the garrison. He didn't even consider to slow down, D'Artagnan, to check if they were still following him. He knew that, he felt them there, riding as fast as possible in the middle of a bustling city to reach him. He spurred his horse and entered the courtyard in full gallop, barely managing to avoid trample a couple of Musketeers who were sparring near the gates as he planted his legs in the animal flanks to finally come to a stop, jumping down from the saddle before the beast had even halted.
Few seconds, and then his pursuers would burst into the yard, unable to realize, in the fury of their chase, where exactly they ended up. But D'Artagnan had no strength to alert the Musketeers about their soon to be guests, he just hoped that they would understand soon enough, and help him to stop them. So, adrenaline raging in his veins, the only thing, by then, keeping him standing and conscious, he marched as fast as he could toward the shooting range, grabbing the first pistol available in his tied hands, before moving right in front of the gates, aiming and ready to shoot, arms shaking so bad that he wasn't sure he could hit his target.
That's why it took him so long to register his brothers' shouts, their voices calling his name more than once, while their fellow Musketeers around him interrupted what they were doing before his arrival to look puzzled at him.
He realized the havoc he had created only when a large hand landed on his shoulder, startling him enough to make his head turn.
Porthos.
"Holy mother of God, D'Artagnan, what happened to you!" he growled, deep soulful eyes filled with concern.
"Are you injured?!" Aramis exclaimed, materializing at Porthos' right with a frown.
"Why your hands are bound?".
D'Artagnan had to bit his lip when Athos appeared at his other side, winter blue eyes already examining him for injuries.
But he couldn't answer them.
He didn't have the chance. At that moment his three pursuers came barreling in the courtyard, pistols in hands and horses in full gallops, aiming at him as soon as their eyes spotted the young Gascon.
"There you are, boy".
Not their smartest move.
Because as soon as their pistols raised against D'Artagnan, it was like a thunder. Every men in the yard, every Musketeer, and recruit, every soldier, or soldier to be, answered by unsheathing their own weapons, almost simultaneously, the clinking sound of iron that rubs against the iron while swords were drawn, and the click of muskets loaded and ready to shoot, so strong and ominous to completely paralyze the courtyard.
For a full minute everything went still. D'Artagnan's eyes stared at all those men around him, cold eyes trained on the enemy, steady arms ready to fight shoulder to shoulder to defend a boy they considered one of them. And then he saw Athos, Porthos and Aramis surrounding him in a very protective stance, pistols in hands, fingers on their triggers, Porthos almost in front of him to guard him with his massive body, Aramis' arm brushing his chest so close the marksman was to him, and Athos pressed to his other side, one strong hand resting on his back to support him.
"Drop your weapons, gentlemen".
Athos' voice echoed so loud in the yard that D'Artagnan was brought back from his reverie so suddenly he jumped a little, the movement triggering a burst of pain in his whole body so mighty that he would have stumbled, if the Musketeer's arm had not tightened his grip on him.
But with his pain clouded mind already starting to shut down it took him awhile to register anything else, so he missed the moment when his pursuers, heavily outnumbered, surrendered, only to be tied up and locked up somewhere, waiting for the Captain to determine what to do with them.
Next thing he knew, Aramis was gently lowering his trembling arms, dark brown irises filled with concern, while Athos was now using both his hands to keep him upright.
"Can you hear me, D'Artagnan?"
Just then he realized that the marksman was talking. And that Porthos was handing a knife to Aramis, his brow furrowed and lips tight in anger.
"Thank you, my friend" nodded Aramis, accepting the blade before using it to cut the ropes wrapped at the youngster's wrists.
D'Artagnan hissed, the friction caused by the blade that cut the thick rope rather painful against his already bruised skin, but Athos prevented him from pulling away, and blissfully, a couple of seconds later he was free, his flesh throbbing but relieved from the pressure of his bindings.
"Better?" Aramis asked, flashing him a brief smile that didn't even try to reach his eyes. He was far too concerned to be jovial. But he could try, since Athos and Porthos at the moment were outstandingly personifying the Rage, still as statues even if their jaws were clenched so tight they could shatter at any moment.
"Yes, thank you" D'Artagnan mumbled, appreciating the Spaniard attempt to ease the situation. He could almost hear Porthos and Athos seethe with fury by now, and he didn't really look forward to meet his mentor's eyes…
"Come on, I need to take a look at your injuries" Aramis said, his dashing grin widening as he noticed his little brother's eyes morph into something very much puppy - like, as soon as they lingered on Athos ominous face.
An occurrence D'Artagnan would probably deny to the death, but the truth is, the more Athos oozed rage, the more D'Artagnan turned into a cute brown-eyed small puppy, so friggin endearing that even Porthos noticed it. And as he did, he couldn't help himself: his brow softened on his own accord and his rage dissolved in a heartbeat, crushed by that awfully cuddlesome image. So he wasn't scowling so much anymore as he helped D'Artagnan into the infirmary, the youngster's right arm firmly placed around his big shoulders to assist him across the yard.
Athos, on the other hand, remained mercifully unaware of his little brother's pitiful gaze, and even if he supported him the whole way, his jaw was still painfully clenched, while his mind was obviously brooding over the troubles that the young man must have encountered.
Therefore, no one said a word until D'Artagnan was settled on the small bed situated near the wall of the infirmary, Aramis already fussing over him to check his wounds. It wasn't until they stripped him down to his waist, revealing the extent of his injuries, that the storm blasted.
"What happened to you" Athos stressed, his voice gruff with rage and concern. The youngster's torso was black and blue, his side sported a dagger wound, and his forehead was coated in sweat and blood. Furthermore, by the look of him, D'Artagnan was a mere seconds away from collapsing.
"I'm fine" the Gascon murmured, far too exhausted to remember that those were the exact words to say if you wanted to infuriate Athos even more. Because his brothers already told him over and over: he must not try to conceal his wounds, especially when it was obvious that he was injured. It didn't matter that the three Inseparables were more or less reluctant to admit their own bruises too, usually not to worry their brothers, and, as a result, making them worry more. Lying was not admitted, and lying was exactly what D'Artagnan was doing.
"Try again" Porthos retorted firmly, anger seeping again in his voice even if he was bracing his little brother with his arms to help him sit upright very gently.
"I…. – D'Artagnan's voice faltered as Aramis started to tend the gash on his forehead – I… he wasn't alone and when I tried to sneak in his room they attacked me. I escaped with the documents but… ow!"
"Apologies my friend" Aramis amended, wincing in sympathy as he prodded his brother's head mindful of his gash. It looked painful enough. "No concussion, thankfully, but this gash will need stitches, as your side".
"I know" D'Artagnan nodded tiredly. A bad idea, since the movement caused him a wave of dizziness so strong that he went limp against Porthos.
"Oi" the bigger Musketeer yelped in alarm, thinking he passed out. Thankfully Aramis stopped him before he could shake D'Artagna too much, already concerned by his pallor.
"Easy, my friend, D'Artagnan is dizzy, but conscious. Try to keep still, he had already upset his body too much".
"I'm fine" D'Artagnan repeated, earning three eye rolls from his older brothers, his voice was so weak that it was enough to contradict him.
"I'm going to speak with Treville" Athos sighed, realizing that it was useless to talk to D'Artagnan right now. He was far too wiped out to understand anything. He knew without a doubt that it was solely his sheer force of will that was keeping D'Artagnan conscious. The Gascon was stubborn, Athos mused while crossing the yard to reach the Captain's office, especially when it came to ignoring his own injuries, a mix of pride and mulishness he found admiring and annoying at the same time, and he needed his full attention to try and reason with him, to drive his point home. After all, it wasn't the first time they had that particular conversation. And no matter how hard Athos tried to make the boy understand, he remembered all too well the resolute flare in the Gascon's eyes when he spoke to him before. Or when Aramis and Porthos tried to stick the notion in his head. As if he thought that asking for help would make him look weak in their eyes, a burden to bear instead of an asset to rely on. A nonsense, especially among soldiers. Why, be injured went with the job, it happened. One day it was Athos the lucky one, next day it could happen to Porthos. And still, D'Artagnan felt the need to prove himself worthy so strong sometimes it clouded his judgment. Something that worried Athos more than he cared to admit.
He remembered all too well the first time D'Artagnan concealed his injuries. It was the morning after they cleared his name, saving him from being executed. D'Artagnan had joined them at the garrison and he was sparring with Porthos when, out of nowhere, he fainted, collapsing to the ground so suddenly that they had no time to grab him. Only when they carried him to the infirmary, stripping him to his chest so that Aramis could examine him, they learned about his wounds. What they found had left them speechless. His side was a big, black, bruise, and not only they could count his ribs, so thin he was, but a couple of them were cracked. How they boy had managed to help his brothers to save him in those conditions was still beyond him. And when he came to he still had the nerve to tell them he was fine…
Athos grinned slightly while entering his Captain's office, Porthos' snort at that blatant lie had been so loud that had startled D'Artagnan…
"I was told D'Artagnan has returned injured, bringing the spy and his men with him" Treville stated, raising his stare from paperwork as his Lieutenant entered the room, noticing the way his lips were slightly curled upwards.
"Yes sir – Athos nodded, positioning himself in front of the big mahogany desk covered with papers and folders – from what he reported, he was able to track the spy ad retrieve the stolen documents, but the man had a backup and they pursued him".
"Did he brought the documents back?" Treville asked, rising from his chair, a flash of concern blazing in his grey-blue eyes.
"He did" Athos confirmed. "He is in the infirmary at the moment, Aramis is seeing that his wounds are tended".
"Very well, I shall see him then".
Athos led the way out the door, and the two men crossed the courtyard in silence, reaching the infirmary just a minute later. Athos was surprised to find D'Artagnan still conscious despite, meanwhile, Aramis had stitched up the cut on his forehead and was now dealing with his side, and yet his stubbornness had prevented him from collapsing, as his body would have obviously wanted to do.
Still, that was a virtue for a soldier. Being able to stand no matter what could mean the difference between life and death of a comrade in arms. So he nodded as his eyes met the Gascon's ones, positioning at his brothers' side to keep an eye on him.
Treville too took notice of his younger recruit too, and he couldn't stifle a pang of… something in his chest as soon as his gaze fall upon D'Artagnan's body. And he frowned. The lad was slim, too much actually, and between his forehead and the wound in his side it was a wonder how he could have reached the garrison conscious…he was also pale, very much indeed, and even if he was keeping his jaw locked under Aramis' ministrations, he was limp in Porthos protective arms, wrapped around his shoulders with such a care Treville found himself grinning a little.
But as soon as he parted his lips to question the lad about his mission… well. They immediately understood why D'Artagnan was clinging to consciousness with that much resolution.
"I'm sorry Captain – the younger of the group croaked, his voice strained by pain and exhaustion – I failed to notice that the man wasn't alone, and when I sneaked into his room to retrieve those papers they caught me off guard. I.. – he gasped, squinting to swallow a burst of pain due to the needle that was stitching his wound – I managed to… escape but… I was unarmed and I couldn't risk being… captured, so I thought to bring them here…".
Treville regarded him with a long stare, impressed by the young man fast thinking. Then he nodded, moving closer to D'Artagnan, who was, by now, panting.
"You did good, D'Artagnan – he said, his voice firm but not unkind, wincing when he saw the young men squirm slightly in pain – and since the spy had been captured, the mission is not compromised. Rest now, I shall have a full report in the morning".
"Yes sir" D'Artagnan managed, before hissing in pain.
"Take care of him, I don't want to see you in the yard for a couple of days. I suspect you'll have your hands full keeping him confined to bed rest as much as he needs. Gentlemen" the Captain said amusedly, before turning and leaving the room.
"Captain" was the unanimous reply, as the trio watched him leave. Well… almost unanimous…
"I don't need bedrest" the fourth of them retorted, trying his best not to whine even if he was pouting.
"Of course you do" Aramis contradicted him, bandaging his waist tight enough so that his wound would be protected.
"And if you try to move before Aramis gives you his permission you'll have to answer to me" Porthos added for good measure, his voice gruff though he was already burying his hand in his little brother's locks to soothe him.
"P'thos…" D'Artagnan complained
"None of that, D'Artagnan – Athos shut him up – you will do as we say, or I will make you".
The young Gascon pouted again, unhappy, and when he looked up at his mentor Athos almost groaned out loud. Why the lad must necessarily turn into the exact copy of a lost puppy when he pouted was beyond him. It was simply unfair.
Aramis couldn't stifle a chuckle as soon as he noticed his older brother predicament. Exchanging a knowing glance with a very amused Porthos, who was glad that he wasn't the only one who found hard enough to keep composure when D'Artagnan looked at him in that way, he decided to intervene, before Athos' ice fortress melted completely robbing him of his dignity in the process.
"Athos is right, D'Artagnan. You promised you'd be careful, and since you came back injured, you'll have to face the consequences" the marksman stated, ruffling his little brother's hair before moving to tend his damaged wrists. Unlike what happened with Vadim they weren't lacerated and bloody, but his flash was slightly rope burned and he didn't want to fight an infection later.
"I didn't mean to get wounded" the youngster retorted, a little less forcefully that he intended.
"We know" Porthos conceded. "But you're injured none the less, and you'll behave".
"Or..?" D'Artagnan blurted out, mostly because he felt really worn out. Otherwise, he would have never challenged his friends that way. He knew, deep down, that they were just worried about him, and he felt beyond grateful for that. For their brotherhood. But he was young, and inexperienced, and every time they fussed over him he feared they would start considering him a burden. Someone to care for, but not an equal.
Nevertheless, he had done it. He had challenged Athos. What a stupid mistake…
D'Artagnan cursed under his breath as soon as he saw his mentor's eyes narrowing, and then overcasting, wincing visibly when they pinned him firmly in place, light blue irises turning paler and paler, almost a hurricane shade. Now he had no way out the hole he dug himself into.
"Or – Athos replied, stressing each syllable in the process while staring at him unwavering – I will tie you up, and I won't release you until you will be recovered. Understood?".
D'Artagnan nodded widely, like a child properly scolded, before lowering his gaze in shame.
Too bad, or he would have seen how his brothers' eyes softened immediately, Porthos chortling fondly as he moved to help him lay down, while Aramis rolled his eyes amused.
"Now rest, little one" the marksman grinned, supporting his head so that D'Artagnan could drink his medicine before covering him with a thick blanket and positioning himself in a chair nearby, legs propped on the bed.
Obediently D'Artagnan closed his eyes, thoroughly exhausted.
But he fell asleep only some time later. Specifically when he felt Porthos move on the floor next to him, his warm shoulder pressing lightly on his right leg. And when Athos took place on the bed with him, a rough hand stroking his hair with obvious affection.
He fell asleep leaning in the warmth of their touch, his lips curling on their own accord even if he was mostly unconscious by now.
Athos might have grounded him. But D'Artagnan knew he would bear whatever punishment if that meant having his brothers at his side.
