Chapter 11: The Same Kind of Innocence
In the end, it turned out to be one huge misunderstanding. Not that it makes much of a difference now, Athos scoffed as he watched d'Artagnan in sleep, face relaxed now and void of pain. Not much of a difference at all.
The mission itself had been fairly simple- go and collect the Count of Demoire for questioning, as he was witness to one of the serious "crimes" against the Cardinal who, of course, managed to coax King Louis into sending his Musketeers and spare the Red Guards the trouble. It turned out that they'd been provided with a false address by the Cardinal and it was a complete trap, and they were utterly outnumbered.
Now, d'Artagnan wasn't often beaten- hotheaded and impulsive, yes, but willing to retreat or give up? Never. It was his inflated pride that did this to him- something that Athos was determined to beat out of his young friend- and d'Artagnan often had problems following orders when they intercepted his code of morals.
Like now.
There was a man- not a hostage, a servant, and therefore something of property- being held at sword point, the blade insistently digging into his throat. It was their chance to get out of there and -by a stroke of immense luck- survive, but of course d'Artagnan, unable to leave anyone flat (an admirable, stupid trait) blatantly refused to leave the man behind.
"I won't leave him to die!" D'Artagnan shouted, eyes flashing. Athos' lips curled.
"D'Artagnan," he gritted, "that man is the Count's property- he will not kill a servant for no reason. Trust me on this."
But d'Artagnan was already running back, sword at the ready, launching into battle. "He's an idiot," Aramis hissed, pulling his own sword from it's sheath.
"What's worse," Porthos said, pursing his lips, "he's our idiot. Duck!"
And the battle began, and it took everything the Musketeers had not to just keel over and die right then- musket fire and swords clashing and blades singing and adrenaline dancing through his veins as shivers raced up his spine-
He ducked and dodged and jumped and tumbled and still it wasn't enough- wasn't enough-
A hoarse shout echoed as d'Artagnan slashed the man down holding the servant, and he fell; grunts and small screams continued until miraculously, unbelievable, amazingly, all their enemies were dead and they remained standing.
"Is anyone hurt?" Athos yelled to his companions, already running to d'Artagnan because that boy was just an astounding kind of stupid. "What," he snarled, "were you thinking, running into battle like that?" He grabbed d'Artagnan's upper arm in a harsh grip, and the boy didn't try to fight. "Come on. Mon dieu! You will be lucky if we ever let you out of the garrison on missions ever again." D'Artagnan lowered his eyes and Athos bypassed their companions, who made no move to stop him. "If you're going to jeopardize our lives and our mission, then don't come at all."
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them and knew he couldn't take them back.
D'Artagnan's eyes- which were moments ago ridden with guilt- ignited, the flames within them of hurt and even, Athos was surprised to see, betrayal.
"I'm sorry if I wasn't going to leave a poor man to die," d'Artagnan hissed, and Athos felt his anger bristling again from where it had been edging towards regret.
"You fool of a boy," he snarled and d'Artagnan flinched. Ever since he had been attacked by the Red Guards, he had been uncomfortable being called 'boy'. Athos realized suddenly that he was actually seeking to wound d'Artagnan, not rebuke him. He persisted anyway. "The man was a servant- the Count would not waste such a man on something so ridiculous-"
"Athos, I don't think you quite realize what 'not doing anything' means!" D'Artagnan shouted. "For God's sake! It reminded me of-" he cut himself off abruptly, eyes wide with what he'd just revealed.
Athos was stupefied, another insult frozen at his lips. Oh, of course...he was such a cruel person, thinking that d'Artagnan was hot headed when really he was acting on the instinct in his heart-
goodhearted like Thomas, you fool-
He took a deep breath, outstretched a hand. "D'Artagnan, I-"
But d'Artagnan shook his head, bangs flying into his face, and stormed away towards the horses, where he climbed upon his yellow speckled mare and clicked her into a gallop.
The Musketeers watched him go.
…
But that was another mistake, Athos thought quietly to himself as he returned the wet cloth to d'Artagnan's burning forehead. We did not have the good sense to go after him.
D'Artagnan muttered something in sleep and Athos found himself once again ducking down to hear the words that spilled from his young companion's lips- unbridled, unfiltered. Vulnerable and angry and hurt all alike, and they made Athos' heart twist.
"'Thos," he moaned, his feet tangling in the covers as he thrashed, and Athos recognized the hand movements d'Artagnan was making. They were the drills Athos always mercilessly ran him through. "I'm s'rry, I'll- do-b-etter, I'm sor-ry, I'm-"
His eyes softening as his gut wrenched painfully, Athos soothed, "hush, d'Artagnan. There is nothing to be sorry for."
And trust d'Artagnan, even in a battered and fevered state, to be able to argue. "N-no, I'm- it- m'fault- so sorry-"
He smoothed back d'Artagnan's bangs away from his forehead, and the young man calmed almost instantly. Athos was not sure if the action was familiar to d'Artagnan before he'd begun to do it, for him to react so instinctually and calm, but it was effective and Athos didn't dare address it in the light of day. For him, it was something he'd always do to Thomas when he was frightened or ill or injured.
So alike, he and Thomas, Athos thought fondly, ignoring the swell of agony in his chest at the thought of his blood brother. Always getting into mischief.
"You know," he said aloud to a sleeping (unconscious- he tosses in sleep he is too still-) d'Artagnan, "Thomas was just like you. So full of life and energy. And I see the longing glances you get when Gascony is mentioned. I'm not as oblivious as people would say." He paused, but d'Artagnan remained still, wheezing breaths in and out of his lungs.
"Of course," he continued, "Thomas never knew Lupiac, Gascony, but he did so love the trees and the fields of our manor. There was this place he'd go when upset or sad or to escape- our parents did not know about it, and not even my...wife, it was so secret. He'd tugged on my sleeve one day and said, "Athos, I have to show you something!" like it was the most sacred thing in the world."
Still. He didn't know what he'd expected; d'Artagnan would not wake up for the memories of a scarred man. Still. "And he led me to this lake a few acres into our manor. It was beautiful, surrounded by huge wispy willow trees that barely brushed at some of the clearest water I've ever seen a lake have. Flowers were in blossom and the grass swayed with the gentle wind. I was astonished that, in all my years of exploring the land of my manor, I'd never come across it."
"After he died I followed the exact path he took me on, wishing for peace and solitude and the lightness of heart that the innocent place gave me. But for the life of me, I must have wandered around for hours before giving up. I could not find it."
He cast a thoughtful look to his companion, smoothing back hair again and wetting the cloth. "Perhaps you would be able to find it," he murmured. "Perhaps only people with the same innocence can find that place."
...
"Well, that was fun," Aramis said, wiping his sword and sheathing it. "Where do you think d'Artagnan's gone?"
"We should go find him," Porthos said. Athos tried to ignore the burst of shame that boiled his insides. "He's reckless and there are still some of the Count's men crawling these woods."
"Mm," Aramis agreed as he went and hoisted himself up into the saddle, "and it's not as though our young companion made a quiet exit, is it?"
Athos swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and his two friends gave him sidelong looks. "Athos," Aramis said quietly, "you know he saw his-"
"Yes, Aramis," he gritted, closing his eyes. "I know he saw his father."
Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, but said nothing, tailing the clear tracks that d'Artagnan gifted them with. He knew how to cover up horse tracks and still he left them there, for the Musketeers to find and follow. If possible, Athos felt worse.
They came across a small clearing with a stream running through it, and found d'Artagnan kneeling by the bank, cupping water into his hands and taking slow slips as the other held his water skin, refilling it. They jumped from their horses and made their way over to him, and he stiffened when he sensed them near.
"D'Artagnan," Aramis said agreeably as he came up beside his friend, refilling his own water skin in pleasant silence.
"Aramis," d'Artagnan replied, and it seemed to diffuse some of the tension. "What are we going to tell Treville?" Everyone heard the silent but not unspoken "I'm sorry" within the words. I'll return with you. You are my friends. I am sorry I did not listen.
Idiot boy, Athos thought, but it was filled with no malice.
...
D'Artagnan coughed harshly, and Athos could practically hear his lungs rattle in his chest. He tried to quell the panic rising into his throat.
"How is he?"
He nearly jumped at Aramis' voice behind him, and he sighed, bathing d'Artagnan's brow again. "Getting worse," he replied, sounding gruff to cover his worry. Aramis must have heard this.
"He's strong, Athos. He'll get through this."
"He cannot be strong with no hope," Athos pointed out, and Aramis shrugged.
"He may not have believed we were there to save him, Athos, but do you remember his words? 'I knew it'. He knew we'd come. He just hadn't believed we were actually there."
"Why is that?" Athos snapped, then calmed when d'Artagnan made a distressed noise, his hand returning to the long brown locks. "Why did he not believe we'd saved him?"
Aramis gave him a look. "Take heart, Athos," he said. "For perhaps he had dreamed it so many times, he could not believe his eyes."
...
The ride back was silent but not tense, the Musketeers and their friend slipping back into the familiar routine of coming back from a mission. They reported back to Treville their findings, changed out of their travel clothing, and went out drinking.
D'Artagnan was feeling guilty enough as it was for reacting so childishly, and was astoundingly grateful towards his friends for dropping it so easily. He promised himself that he would never disappoint them like that again, as he didn't want any of them to get hurt- emotionally or physically- and he certainly did not want to be a burden.
He was just returning with the extra drinks he'd been sent to fetch- another little brother duty, he imagined- when the voice he heard and the words he distinguished stopped him dead in his tracks, the ale sloshing in the mugs.
"He should not have done what he did," Aramis conceded, and Porthos nodded.
"Aye, the lad could have been killed, but you must say Athos-"
"It was a foolish move," Athos allowed, "and he was not willing to listen, the hotheaded child. But my comment back there-"
"Sounded incredibly sincere," Aramis pointed out, and Athos' head dipped.
"I think so too, but I did not mean it like that. If d'Artagnan is endangering us or the mission, we will have to be willing to-"
D'Artagnan had heard enough and, quickly placing the drinks on another table and ducking his head, slipped out of the tavern, his cheeks aflame and conscience heavier than it had ever been. But the way his companions had spoken about him- like he was cumbersome- made something inside him snap and fill with agony, and he forced his chin to stop trembling as he slowly made his way back to Bonacieux's in the darkness.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders, ashamed. Yes, he'd seen his father and reacted before he'd thought about anything, finding himself launching forward before he could think better of it. It had been an instinctive, not a chosen reaction, and Athos' words were right. He was hotheaded and arrogant, and did endanger them.
Perhaps it was too late to make it up to his friends- if he could still call them that. He could understand why they'd string him along before giving him up- to make the blow less harsh. They were gentle souls in that way, but d'Artagnan wanted no sympathy nor pity.
He found his hands trembling and angrily balled them into fists- he'd lost plenty of friends in his lifetime, and this would be no different. Friends came and went, sometimes without control or want, and that was merely the way of things. He could control it now no less than he could control anything else in the universe.
It still stung, though, and some deep, untraveled part of d'Artagnan's heart whispered to him that he was wrong and that their relationship went past friends.
For the sake of his feelings, he ignored it, and mustered up as much righteous anger as he could.
And the idea struck him so suddenly he was literally thrown off balance, his hands flying out to steady himself against the wall. Of course- that was so simple, he could do it in a heartbeat and prove that he could be useful-
Treville and King Louis had been extremely disappointed that they could not find the Count of Demoire to convict him of his crimes against the Cardinal (and thus against the King) and all d'Artagnan had to do was find the man, who was undoubtedly still in Paris spreading lies. D'Artagnan had experience- albeit a small amount, but experience all the same- with men of the sort, and he knew that they were the type to stick around until the job was done.
Nodding to himself and marveling at the fact the universe had, for some strange reason, granted him a second chance, he drew up every piece of information he could think of about the Count, from the clues he'd left at his false manor to the evidence provided by the Cardinal.
To be honest, it had been a complete accident, stumbling upon their hideaway- he'd seen a man who'd looked remotely like the description provided of the Count and followed him, and found a whole network of underground people spreading treasonous lies about the Cardinal and the King.
He didn't count on the Count having partners- seven of them, actually- but he supposed he should have considered it. After all, it wasn't possible to spread such lies on one's own- one needed witness to agree, people to start the mobs.
And he certainly didn't account on being caught as he entered.
...
D'Artagnan was murmuring in his sleep again, his fever steady but refusing to let up. Athos found himself growing desperate, raking his hand through d'Artagnan's hair almost harshly to calm him. It wasn't working and d'Artagnan seemed inconsolable.
The name he called out for was gut wrenching and made Athos' heart twist. "Mère, please-"
"Shh," he soothed, making a conscious effort to make his hands gentle. "Hush, d'Artagnan. Be at peace. I am here, and I will not leave."
"Mère-"
"Shh...Shh…"
The response was garbled but understandable, and sounded so genuinely frightened and confused. "Mère, où êtes-vous allé?"
Mother, where did you go?
...
The stinging on his cheek was painful but not unfamiliar as d'Artagnan roused himself from slumber, clawing his way to the surface of consciousness. Another slap. His eyes cracked open to reveal a dank, dark room bathed in only a sole glowing torch on the far wall. There were no windows and but one door.
"Well look here, mates," someone- the Count of Demoire- leered, "we 'ave 'ourselves a pet 'ere, now don't we?"
D'Artagnan's brows furrowed as he tried to recall how he'd gotten here. Oh right. Hit over the head after ridiculously going in without backup. He smiled wolfishly at his captors. "I hope for your sake you're talking about one of them." He jerked his head in the direction of the six other men.
"What're you talkin' about, boy?" Another hissed, and d'Artagnan took a deep breath. That term still bothered him. "We're in the secret layer of the sewers, you little bastard, and if you so much as-"
"Petre," another snapped, and the one called Petre fell silent. D'Artagnan tried to hide his smugness, but judging from the force of the punch he received, he'd failed. "Don't give the boy any ideas!"
"Ideas?" He asked innocently. "Oh, no ideas. After all, he can't give me any he's never had."
It took the seven crooks- not counting the Count of Demoire (who, obviously, was running the entire operation) to digest the fact that he had just insulted 'Petre'. Another snarled and raised his fist, and the onslaught of punches and kicks began.
D'Artagnan curled, and when he tried to throw his hands over his head he realized they were bound behind his back. Ahh. That's why his arms hurt so much, then.
A sharp punch to the cheekbone had his head snapping to side- ahn, his neck- and another kick to the stomach had him doubling over, falling to his side as the kicks and punches and jabs continued, and d'Artagnan tried to contain his pain filled grunts (whimpers, if was being honest with himself) but by the end his face was bloody and his whole body was aflame.
"Now," the Count leered once again, "what was that you said about not being a pet, Musketeer pup?"
D'Artagnan pursed his lips and took a deep breath, sending a silent prayer. If you're listening, I need some backup. Right about now would be nice.
And he couldn't help the hope in his heart as he peered around the Count's body, seeking Porthos' large frame by the door.
His heart sank when the beatings began again and his Musketeers were nowhere to be seen.
…
By now, d'Artagnan had been missing for two days, and his friends were beginning to panic, alarm always tinging the words about d'Artagnan. Constance claimed that her lodger had not returned since he'd changed the night he'd come back from the mission, but that she'd contact them right away should she see him.
Athos reported d'Artagnan's absence to Treville, who'd then put the Musketeers in the garrison on alert. The Musketeers had tried to track their young friend without luck; it seemed that this time, d'Artagnan did not want to be found.
They found his mistake around a week later in a paper under his mattress in the Bonacieux house. He must have crept past Constance and Bonacieux through his bedroom window or in the very wee hours of the morning, because Constance had need seen him for a week. Everyone was incredibly high strung, and the paper read all the evidence that d'Artagnan had mulled over that he'd collected.
"Oh, that idiot," Aramis said darkly as he threw down his gloves and ran frustrated fingers through his hair. "That idiotic child."
"Aye," Porthos agreed gravelly, glaring at the paper as if it had caused him personal misfortune. "But at least we know where the whelp has gone."
"We don't know where he's gone," Athos corrected. "We know what he was after."
…
Within the week, d'Artagnan had been given treatment fit for not even a prisoner- dry drowned, burned, whipped. His fingernails had been pulled clean off on the second day, and his hands felt raw. His wrists were chafed to blood from the too tight rope and his arms had gone numb in the fifth hour.
His captors did so love to torment him, and d'Artagnan had learned on the fourth day that not responding got him water, whereas retort brought burns. They littered his torso in batches, the crooks having heated up their blades and pressed them carelessly, remorselessly to the sensitive skin.
He was fairly sure he had a severe concussion, if the way they kept smacking him in the head with their guards to knock him out was anything to go by. He missed many time spans that he couldn't recall later, and it constantly felt like he was rocking back and forth even when he was sitting. The world was distorted and dizzy and he was nauseous, but he was hit so hard when he did throw up that he didn't dare to do so again, swallowing it instead.
All in all, d'Artagnan was having a really terrible week.
The hope that kept him alive and going on, though, was the knowledge that his friends were looking for him out there and wouldn't give up. He knew that he'd been a disappointment and he knew that it was probably unlikely that he'd become a Musketeer now (not when he'd proved to be so incompetent, so weak) but he trusted their friendship more than he trusted himself, and he held onto his faith.
After the sixth day and the door remained closed, though, d'Artagnan was losing it.
His skin grew alabaster with blood loss, as another favorite torture of the Count's was to "slash and burn" he'd said. He'd slash d'Artagnan's skin to the bone and then, when the Count felt he'd bled enough (to the point where d'Artagnan was seeing dark spots in the corners of his vision) he'd "cauterize" it.
And then on the third day Petre, Alain, Aldric (the second in command, d'Artagnan learned quickly) Cyril and Quille discovered that they could break bones and, well, d'Artagnan could not hold it in any longer.
He screamed a lot on day three.
His abused muscles quivered, unstoppable in the damp, miserable cold of the secret passage under the city, and d'Artagnan's mind wandered back to somethings in the past- sometimes he'd think he'd see his father, sometimes he'd see Constance. Mostly he'd see his Musketeers and feel guilty that he'd worried them.
He'd dreamt about his rescue so many times- an escape in his subconscious that he did not receive during the day- that when he'd wake up to his torture again, he'd wished he'd never have those hopeful dreams at all. They only made him long for something that was just barely out of reach: comfort.
D'Artagnan, in the rare times that he was alone when the Count of Demoire and his team were spreading more lies, would catalog his new injuries. It was a way of keeping himself sane and keeping track of the days- the more he'd had since a few hours- or minutes, there was no way to tell time- let him know what day it was. If they paused for what seemed like a while and came in and wailed on him for several hours, that counted as a day.
His original injuries were easy, as they were the ones he'd had to remember the most frequently (though remembering things were sort of hard at the moment). He had a concussion, that much was obvious; he was sure his arms were dislocated now at the shoulders, and that he had at least six broken ribs that rattled every time he breathed. He had various burns and lacerations all over his body, but the one that hurt the most was in the center of his back, where it brushed against his jacket every time he moved or shifted. He was fairly sure he broken something in the region of his arm, too.
He was positive his ankle was broken or sprained- it was terribly sore with the position he was stuck in- and he thought that the opposite knee was dislocated, though he couldn't be sure. Bruises littered his body like splatters of paint from an idle artist on canvas, and he truly wasn't sure what his face looked like. It was just one constant throb.
He found himself praying- begging- pleading for rescue.
Please, Lord. Please help me. I know that it may be hard to help me, after all I've done- but I thought we were all the children of God. Please.
There was no answer.
...
They discovered the base by accident. Once they realized it was there, though, they didn't hesitate to tell Treville and get a few extra men from the garrison. They went in, guns blazing and swords at the ready, fighting the eight pathetic men- including the Count- who were standing over a beaten, battered, and barely recognizable body- but Athos' heart flew to his throat as he saw the mop of hair atop the head.
"Mon dieu," he whispered, and Aramis followed his gaze.
"Lord in Heaven," he breathed, running forward as the other Musketeers took care of the rest of the men and Porthos guarded the doorway into the room. The chance that there were more men was all too evident. "D'Artagnan!" The body remained still and silent. "Please," Aramis whispered, gently turning his friend. D'Artagnan was pale as sheet and as cold as ice, and Athos felt his blood freeze in his veins.
"Take off your jackets, all of you," Aramis commanded, his voice steady but his pale and frantic complexion giving away his sheer panic, "and hand them to me. We need to get him warm." Athos had never shrugged his jacket from his shoulders faster in his life, and Detries and Malloy handed theirs over as well, tying the Count's hands behind his back and leading him out. Finally.
Porthos' was the heaviest and that went over d'Artagnan's upper body as Athos cut the bindings on d'Artagnan's hands. They were blue.
"Rub those, Athos," Aramis instructed sternly and Athos scrambled to do as told. Aramis managed to get d'Artagnan in all the layers, gritting his teeth as his hands hovered over his young friend. "I don't even know where to start," he said softly, and for the first time in a long time he sounded lost.
"Get him to wake up," Athos said, then gestured with his chin towards the puddle of blood under d'Artagnan's head. "And check that out."
His heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he thought he may break a rib. Aramis complied, drawing d'Artagnan's hair away. There was undoubtedly a gash, proven by Aramis' exhale of disbelief. "He must have been tortured," he said quietly, and Athos recognized the fire in Aramis' expression. His blood, from when it was frozen, began to boil. There was going to be hell to pay.
"D'Artagnan," Aramis whispered, cupping d'Artagnan's cheeks in his hands and rubbing his thumb over bruised and cut cheekbones, "please, d'Artagnan, wake up."
It took a moment for Athos to realize that Aramis was pleading with their friend, and Athos felt a new sort of fear. If Aramis was so frightened and panicked...it was bad.
Very bad.
D'Artagnan started so violently that Athos jumped to help hold him down, but he thrashed and flung in the older Musketeer's grip. His eyes widening in remembrance as he took in Athos' features, then his face fell and he turned away. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye. "I am tired," he sobbed weakly. "Let me be now. Torment me no longer, please."
Confused and blatantly full of terror, Athos choked, "we are here, d'Artagnan. We are here to help. It is us."
D'Artagnan shook his head. "It is not you- not actually. I am tired of these dreams and waking to hell. Please...go away. You cannot save me. I know now-"
"D'Artagnan!" Athos snapped, and d'Artagnan turned towards him wearily as Athos clutched at d'Artagnan's hand, "does this feel fake? Does this feel like it is imaginary?" He clutched it tighter and d'Artagnan winced.
"No…"
"Exactly. You are fine. I swear it." Hope swelled in his chest, but was dashed as d'Artagnan turned away again.
"I knew it," he whispered, his eyelids fluttering closed. "I...knew…"
Athos cursed, turning to Aramis and crying, "help him, Aramis!"
"I'm trying!" His friend shouted, his hands a blur as they set bones and dislocations and inspected burns- burns- on d'Artagnan's battered body. D'Artagnan was either so out of it that he felt nothing, or he was simply too exhausted to cry out. Either way, he was silent.
"I cannot treat him here," Aramis muttered urgently, and Porthos was suddenly there and lifting d'Artagnan with tender arms and cradling him against his chest and then they were racing, racing to Aramis' apartments and calling for physicians and asking to him to just hang on, d'Artagnan-
Don't lose him he is your chance please Thomas come on help him help him I was supposed to protect him-
When they arrived and d'Artagnan was placed (gently, oh so gently) onto the bed and stripped down to his smalls, the damage was revealed and made all of them- from where they were all scrambling to do something- pause in horror.
"Oh God," Aramis whispered again, taking burn cream and smearing it on any place d'Artagnan had a one, placing a copious amount in the center of his back. Then, bandaging his middle and accounting for his broken ribs, Aramis moved onto his ankle, hissing in sympathy and wrapping it. "Broken," he murmured, moving to his knee, "dislocated," he moved to d'Artagnan's wrist, "sprained."
Athos' eyes welled up with tears, but he blinked them away and stroked his hand through d'Artagnan's hair.
"And all of these are infected," he sighed as he smeared more of a different paste on d'Artagnan's cuts.
D'Artagnan remained still and silent, and Athos had worry festering deep in his heart.
And then Aramis had fallen silent and looked up, and tears had caught in the firelight.
"He's dying."
…
And Athos' thumb stroked across the back of d'Artagnan's hand, more for his own comfort than d'Artagnan's. "Come on, d'Artagnan," he whispered. "You must make it."
D'Artagnan was still.