Title: A Restlessness in Common
Author: JenF
Chapters: 10 of ?
Disclaimer: I do not own the The Three Musketeers, D'Artagnan, their friends or their enemies. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine. I'm just having fun.
The first thing d'Artagnan notices when he finally prises his eyes open is the drummer who appears to have taken up residence at the back of his skull and is currently beating a marching rhythm. His first reaction is to close his eyes again as the involuntary groan he makes threatens to set the drummer off on an encore. His second action is to bring his hands up to his head to alleviate the pain.
Which is when he realises he's still bound as tightly as ever. As his memory returns in a rush of images and emotions, his stomach rebels. He can't remember the last time he threw up in public, possibly because it had been due to alcohol which he still can't handle like his comrades, or possibly because he'd only been a small child. Either way, he decides, he's about to do it again.
As his stomach heaves, d'Artagnan becomes aware of a shadow passing over him. It's definitely man shaped and he thinks he ought to be concerned at the way it stops by his side but the combined forces of his head and stomach have left him little capacity for worrying about anything else at the moment. He can hear voices but his still muddled brain makes little sense of anything.
But when a hand clamps itself around his ankle, he's all vigilance and he's vaguely surprised how quickly he can snap himself back into soldier mode despite his physical frailties right now. He kicks out instinctively and allows himself a grim smile as his booted foot makes contact with a solid object which gives slightly under the force of the impact. Somebody's leg, he thinks with satisfaction.
It's a short lived victory though as the same leg replies with equal force, catching him below the ribs with a brutality he wasn't really expecting but, on reflection, should have known was coming. He coughs violently and his stomach reminds him how unready he is for this sort of activity. Somewhere in the haze floating around his mind he can hear someone shouting, possibly Athos, possibly Aramis. Whoever it is, they sound angry which, d'Artagnan reasons, could be a good thing or could signify something altogether different. He really wishes the drummer in his head would allow him some space to think.
When the hand grabs his ankle again, he lets himself go limp. Going on the attack did him no favours so this time he'll submit. It will, he thinks, at least give him a chance to recover. His captor, or an accomplice, takes hold of his other ankle and he's flipped back onto his stomach where his face reacquaints itself with the dusty and rough ground. As he's dragged across the courtyard he tries to lift his head enough to preserve some of the skin on his cheeks and forehead. He thinks it's working but he just can't get his chin high enough to prevent some nasty contact with the pebbles and rock littering the earth.
As his head makes intermittent contact with the ground, d'Artagnan finds his attention drifting. The drummer is still in his head but he's beating a retreat now and d'Artagnan's concentration seems to be on its way back from its sojourn. Somewhere along the line, the dusty ground has become solid brick and straw is scattered about sporadically. Abruptly he feels his legs dropped and he doesn't quite have time to slow their impact with the hard brick. He will, he muses, feel those bruises on his shins for some time to come.
He lies quietly for a few minutes, getting his bearings as best he can without moving. He can't hear any other voices which is disturbing; if he's been moved out of the courtyard, where are Athos and Aramis? Surely they've been moved too. He takes a hesitant breath, experimenting with how deep he can inhale before his ribs, and head, raise too much of a protest. Relieved, he discovers he can fill his lungs to near capacity before a sharp remonstration from his torso prevents any further experimentation.
Several deep breaths later, d'Artagnan is still surrounded by silence. Maybe, he thinks, Athos and Aramis are with him but unable to speak for some reason. After all, he surmises, he was unconscious himself – it's not unfathomable that the same fate befell his friends. There is, he decides, only one way to find out.
He steels himself for the discomfort he knows is about to come and slowly rolls over on to his back. The exertion is more than he was expecting and he takes a moment to catch his breath and let the drummer fade back to a gentle tapping. He takes the opportunity to study the ceiling above him. The rafters are old and rotting away. In places d'Artagnan can see the sky peeking through holes, the stars affording him a little light over and above the fading dusk.
Hauling himself to a sitting position, d'Artagnan grimaces as his ribs protest and his shoulders take the time to remind him that they too would really appreciate a little freedom. He is, as he thought, in the abandoned stables and he is quite, quite alone.
He sighs and leans back against the wall of the stall into which he's been carelessly tossed. Maybe, he thinks, he's not as important as Athos or Aramis. He's surprised by the pang of insecurity that shoots through him. Although, he muses, this might be to his advantage. If he's not important, maybe Descarte will forget about him. But as he tests the ropes for the countless time, it appears his luck just isn't with him today. Destiny, it appears, has decided d'Artagnan needs company and conversation after all.
d'Artagnan freezes as he hears the old stable doors swing back, creaking and groaning with years of neglect. He shrinks as far back into the shadows as he can but Descarte's footsteps are sure and swift. Within seconds he's standing over the Gascon, a lighted torch in one hand and a dagger glinting in the other.
"Do you know why you're here, boy?" the older man asks, his tone soft and curious. For a moment d'Artagnan can almost imagine him to be concerned for his welfare. He raises his eyes to the man and wishes instantly he hadn't. Descarte's tone of voice does not match his face and d'Artagnan's breath catches in his throat. He has seen wickedness and evil many times but never so concentrated in one man.
Descarte smiles, cold and void of all emotion. "Well?" he asks. "Has Athos never spoken of me?"
d'Artagnan shakes his head, unable to tear his eyes away from Descarte's mouth, watching with fearful fascination as the man's pale lips move, creasing the skin around his cheeks, creating dimples where they have no business being.
"I'm disappointed," Descarte continues, moving nearer to d'Artagnan. He stretches out the arm holding the torch and d'Artagnan can't help flinching. Descarte spots the movement and laughs softly as he places the flaming beacon in a holder on the wall. "But not surprised," he finishes, squatting down by d'Artagnan's head. d'Artagnan can't help himself and tries to shuffle backwards, away from the man he's come to hate without knowing why.
Descarte, it turns out, has lightening moves and he reaches out, grabbing d'Artagnan by the upper arm, stilling any further movement the boy might attempt. His grip is far tighter than necessary and d'Artagnan can feel the bruises forming already.
"Let go of me," he hisses, stronger than he feels.
"Do you know where your friends are now?" Descarte continues, ignoring the way d'Artagnan tries to pull away from him. "They're still out there," he nods toward the door to the courtyard. "Athos and your other friend, the would be priest." He stops and looks at d'Artagnan as though he's just said something of great significance but whatever it was, d'Artagnan has no idea. He wonders if he should be showing some sort of reaction or not.
"Why?" d'Artagnan ventures when it appears Descarte is disinclined to say anything else. "Why Aramis? Why take him?"
Descarte laughs and removes his grip from d'Artagnan's arm. He gives the Gascon a gentle, pseudo friendly tap on the face. "Why indeed," he smiles. "Ask Athos."
"I would," d'Artagnan states calmly, "but in case you've failed to notice, I'm in here and he's out there. Hardly conducive circumstances for a conversation."
"No matter." Descarte dismisses the topic of conversation in a way that leaves d'Artagnan confused and unsettled. "Get up."
d'Artagnan tilts his head at his oppressor. He knows that were Athos with him, he would be telling him to comply, that there's a time to conserve energy and a time to expend it. So he follows his internal mentor and struggles to pull himself upright, using the wall at his back to help.
Except it doesn't help and Descarte is not a patient man. By the time d'Artagnan has tried, and failed, twice he lets out a menacing huff and grabs the musketeer roughly by the arms, pulling him to a standing position.
"Don't fool with me, child," he warns and d'Artagnan raises his eyebrows incredulously at being called a child. He opens his mouth to protest the endearment but Descarte is already hauling him across the stable to the stall opposite. It suddenly occurs to d'Artagnan that the man intends to chain him to the wall, probably for the night, possibly longer. It's undignified and something in d'Artagnan's mind snaps at being treated like an animal.
He stops dead in his tracks, causing Descarte to miss his footing slightly.
"I'm not a child," he hisses, "and I'm not an animal."
Descarte whirls around, fury written across his face and d'Artagnan recoils as the man spins him round, slamming him up against the wall, head bouncing off the wooden surface. Descarte raises his hand as though to backhand the Gascon but at the last minute he stops, instead leaning into d'Artagnan's personal space.
"You are what I say you are," he whispers, far too close for d'Artagnan's liking, "so don't you forget it." The threatened slap becomes a gentle, unwelcome caress on d'Artagnan's face.
"Men have died for less."