The morning is quiet and solemn, each of them haunted by their own demons. The only one seemingly unaffected by the grim mood is Porthos, who is almost forcefully cheerful. As d'Artagnan and Aramis and Athos sit silently and eat their mealy porridge Porthos strides around their little encampment, rinsing out the pot they used to cook breakfast and packing away the rest of the food while humming a cheerful tune to himself. D'Artagnan can't help but wonder at the man's ability to ignore the dark atmosphere that hangs over their group like rain swollen clouds. Although, he has been friends with Athos for years so he probably has plenty of practice.
Today he rides with Athos, something which he is grateful for. He doesn't think he could handle Porthos' painfully bright disposition at the moment. Athos is content to sit in silence as they ride, not trying to start a conversation. His father's heart broken expression from his dreams won't leave him alone. And d'Artagnan knows his father would never say those things too him, knows that it was just a product of his fevered mind, and yet he can't shake the ring of truth in it and he'll never be able to ask his father now, never be able to truly know. He tries to stay silent, but the words echo in his ears like the tolling of church bells for a funeral and they drown out everything else. Eventually he can't and the question slips out of his mouth before he can stop them, and it carries in it a desperate plea, it carries hope.
"Do you think my father would like the man I have become?"
He regrets the question as soon as the words leave his mouth, they sound silly and weak to his ears. Athos is quiet for a long time and d'Artagnan waits, feeling his friends even breathing against his back and taking comfort in it. Finally Athos replies and his tone is solemn and measured.
"I never met your father, I cannot claim to know him and so I cannot give you the answer you need. I will say this, however. Alexandre d'Artagnan raised you, and if you are any measure of him then he was a good and honest man. I do not…I do not think a good and honest man could look at you and not respect, or love, what you have become."
And the words are simple, but from Athos lips they are worth more then all the gold and silver in the world. Because Athos is, if nothing else, a good and honorable man. His throat grows tight and he bows his head to hide the tears that well unbidden in his eyes.
"Thank you."
He breathes, and tries not sniffle. Athos shifts behind him, one of his hands dropping the reigns and moving to rest gently on d'Artagnan's wrist where it is laying against the saddle. He doesn't say anything, but d'Artagnan feels the reply in the feel of Athos fingers against his skin and he smiles.
They're a sad sight when they ride into the garrison, muddy and exhausted, d'Artagnan sitting in front of Athos and his mount trailing behind their group, riderless. D'Artagnan slips down on his own but stumbles when his feet hit the ground and would have fallen if Porthos hadn't caught him by the shoulders and pulled him upright.
At the commotion in the yard Treville emerges from his office. One look at their tattered appearance and d'Artagnan nearly held up by Porthos grip has him pinching the bridge of his nose and heaving a heavy sigh.
"My office, all of you."
Porthos' looks like he's about to protest but d'Artagnan gives him a little shake of his head, puts a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm fine."
And Porthos reluctantly shuts his mouth. He doesn't let go of d'Artagnan though, keeps a tight hold on him as they walk their way up the stairs and into Treville's office. D'Artagnan's glad of it too, because he's not sure if he'd have made it up the stairs by himself.
They gather in front of Treville and despite the weariness that seems to have settled itself in d'Artagnan's very bones he pulls away from Porthos supportive hands and stands straight, head high. Treville falls into the chair behind his desk and lets his eyes sweep over them, taking in the bedraggled mess. The cut above Aramis's eye that's still healing, the blood stained tear in the right sleeve of Athos' jacket, the way d'Artagnan can't help but list to the side a little, and he lets out another sigh.
"Nothing can ever be easy with you four, can it?"
They all exchange glances, and Aramis shrugs.
"Well, to be fair, it's not like we ask for this."
Treville just shakes his head, sitting forward in his chair and shuffling the papers lying out on his desk.
"Some days I'm not so sure… Anyways, the letter?"
Athos replies shortly,
"Delivered."
"The men who attacked you?"
He asks. Porthos answers that one, voice low and dangerous.
"Dead."
Treville nods.
"Very good. Now d'Artagnan, get out of my office before you pass out on my floor."
The words are strict, but the tone carries a rough edge of affection, and maybe even pride. D'Artagnan nods thankfully, and with a last look at his friends walks out the door. Treville watches him go and once the door clicks behind him and they hear d'Artagnan's footsteps fade away he turns back to the others.
"How bad was it?"
"Very bad."
Aramis says, and his voice is bitter and tight, shadowed with the memory of fear. Treville nods, and his eyes look tired.
"I see."
Athos takes a step forward and sets the signet ring down on the scratched oak of Treville's desk. Treville reaches forward and picks it up, examining it carefully and recognition blooms on his face.
"Is this the man responsible?"
He asks sharply, and Athos nods curtly. Treville sets the ring back down, face tight and drawn.
"Go. Bring him here. He will answer for endangering the lives of my men."
And Porthos smiles in a way that promises blood,
"It would be our pleasure, Captain."
When D'Artagnan reaches his room he doesn't bother undressing, just kicks off his boots and lets his sheathed sword clatter to the ground and falls gratefully into into bed. He's asleep nearly before his head hits the pillow. He sleeps for a long time, the heavy motionless sleep of the thoroughly exhausted. He dreams, wild and nebulous they slip from his mind as soon as he's finished dreaming them.
When he wakes it is still light, but it is an evening light that filters through the slats and casts shifting stripes of shadow upon the ground. D'Artagnan sits, shaking his head muzzily. His limbs and eyes are still heavy, the last remnants of his dreams still cling to his mind like ragged ribbons of silk. He feels half asleep still, disconnected and hazy, and the world does not quite feel solid under his fingers. Somebody left a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread by his bed and he slides to the floor beside them. Sitting with his back against the frame of the bed he eats, spooning the rich broth into his mouth and wiping the inside of the bowl with the bread. The wooden floor is warm beneath his legs, and he can feel sun against his cheeks. The warm soup makes him drowsy and when he's finished eating he strips off his shirt and breeches before climbing back into bed. His last thought before he sleeps again is to wonder where Aramis and Porthos and Athos are. This time, when he sleeps, he does not dream.
The second time he wakes it is morning. Outside he can hear the sounds of the Garrison, the clang of metal against metal as the Musketeers practice with swords, heavy shouts of encouragement or mockery. He lays in bed for a while, eyes closed and just listens to the familiar noises, feeling at peace and at home. Finally he tosses his blanket aside and stands, carefully stretching out his back. Pulling on his shirt and breeches, slipping on his boots and buckling his weapons belt around his waist he heads to the door and out of his room. His stomach rumbles in hunger and he wonders how long he's been asleep.
D'Artagnan wanders down the stairs, drawn by the smell of food, nodding in greeting to the other Musketeers in the yard. He walks towards the kitchen and as he makes his way across the courtyard he glances at the table he and the others usually congregate at but it's empty. Slipping into the kitchen he starts to scrounge for something to eat but he's interrupted by Serge walking into the room with a bucket full of water and a wide smile.
"So you're finally awake!"
D'Artagnan smiles back and nods,
"How long was I asleep for?"
Serge shrugs, wiping his hands off on his apron and starting to rinse potatoes in the water he'd brought in.
"Little over two days. Slept like the dead you did."
D'Artagnan shivers a little at that, thought to close for comfort, but he shakes off the feeling and reaches for a one the apples sitting in a bowl on the counter in front of him. Serge slaps his hand away, tsking at d'Artagnan. He musters his best pitiful look, gazing dejectedly at Serge until he sighs.
"Go sit, I'll make you something."
He says, flapping a hand at d'Artagnan. D'Artagnan acquiesces readily, flashing Serge a cheeky smile as he walks out the door. Walking back to the Inseperables usual table he plops down on the rough hewn bench, eyes scanning the faces of the musketeers sparring in the courtyard but none of them are who he's looking for.
D'Artagnan's search is interrupted by the arrival of Serge carrying a steaming bowl of oats and boiled apples. He sets it in front of him, and turns to head back to the kitchen but d'Artagnan calls him back.
"Have you seen Athos and the rest?"
Serge shakes his head,
"They left the morning after you returned. Don't know where they were heading, but I'll tell you that they didn't look happy."
D'Artagnan nods and thanks him, and Serge walks off muttering something about reckless and headstrong under his breath. D'Artagnan eats his breakfast, musing about where his friends could have got off too. It's strange that they would leave again so soon after returning, and a little part of him is hurt that they didn't even bother to say goodbye. He shakes it off though, telling himself sternly that musketeer business trumps personal matters and he shouldn't be silly.
He's just finished his food when he hears a commotion at the entrance to the Garrison. Looking up he sees Athos and Porthos and Aramis pulling their horses to a halt, clustered tightly at the arch of the tunnel that leads in. He stands, about to walk over to them when a fourth horse comes into view, tethered loosely to Porthos' saddle. It's carrying a rider, a well dressed man in his mid forties. Upon closer inspection d'Artagnan sees that his hands are bound in front of him and there is deep purple blue bruising along the left right side of his face and his lip is split and swollen . He looks sullen and indignant, slouched deep into his saddle and there is an air of entitlement to the way he looks at the people milling in the streets about him, as if he is better then them in some intangible way.
Staying where he is d'Artagnan watches as a city guard rides up and Porthos hands over the end of the rope still secured to the fourth horse to him. The guard turns, starting to lead the horse away but then Athos lifts a hand up and he slows, pausing. Athos nudges his horse near to the bound man mount, leaning in close. He says something to him, face shadowed by the broad brim of his hat, and d'Artagnan is to far away to read the words on his lips but the other mans face goes white and still as Athos pulls away. He signals the guard and he gives the rope a sharp jerk and rides away, disappearing into the crowded streets of Paris. Athos and the others watch him go with looks of disgust and thinly veiled anger on their faces. D'Artagnan wonders what the man could have done to inspire such hatred.
After a few seconds Porthos turns, face widening into a grin when he sees d'Artagnan.
"D'Artagnan!"
He shouts out, and his cheerful voice echoes against the cobblestones. Athos and Aramis turn at his cry and D'Artagnan smiles and offers them a wave. Wheeling their horses around they ride towards him. And d'Artagnan is glad to see them, but there's a strange sense of apprehension that settles in his stomach, for what he does not know but he does not like the feeling. Swallowing away the unsettling feeling he affixes a smile and stands to greet his friends.