A/N: Deepest apologies that it's been so long. I've been impossibly busy.
This chapter hasn't been edited or even just proofread once, so just try and muddle through it as best you can.
Many thanks to pallysdeeks, theredwagon, Debbie, criminally charmed, FierGascon and Tidia, all of whom took the time to review. To those of you who requested a continuation of d'Artagnan's flashback - much as I'd love to do something like that, it doesn't really fit with the way this story is going and instead I seem to be cycling through some of the most important moments the boys share.
Sorry again about the lack of action in this chapter. Next time something will happen, I promise.
Enjoy!
ON BROTHERHOOD
11
ARE WE PLAYING WITH FIRE?
D'Artagnan swallows.
He is lay on his side in a shallow ditch of sorts, naturally formed under a fallen tree so that he can roll under and hope to avoid detection - for a short while, at least. It is his fourth mission with the musketeers and might well be his last: everything has gone spectacularly wrong. The last he saw of any of the other three, Athos was unconscious, Porthos carrying him and not much aware of anything else and Aramis mysteriously disappeared, probably captured by the group of bandits who had, for better or worse, been chasing them for hours. A ferocious battle cry sounded from behind them and the three remaining scattered. Athos flopped to the ground, Porthos, with the package they are meant to be transporting, vanished into the trees and d'Artagnan found himself tumbling down a steep slope punctuated by trees and, by the feel of it, thorn bushes.
He made a wild run towards the village they came from, tripped, noticed the natural crevice, and rolled into it gratefully. A small group thundered over, unaware, but now another one has inexplicably decided to set up a camp, mere yards away and in plain view of his hiding place. For now, the darkness underneath the log and the fact that nobody is searching for him here has protected him, but all it will take is a well aimed glance towards the log and he is found. He cannot move without them all seeing him - and killing him.
By his estimations, there are six men, all of them armed and fit. One of them is lamenting the loss of his left boot - no, it has simply filled with cold, muddy water. It is hardly a terrible fate. The summer is a hot one, the air thick and still, and even stationary, d'Artagnan can feel the sweat trickle down his spine. His mouth is dry and he longs for a drink of water.
"How far d'you think he got?" one man says conversationally. They have settled into a circle of sorts by the fire.
"Not far. Mathieu's a good tracker."
"He is the last one, correct?"
"Yes. The others are being held back at the farm."
The farm. He has little idea of what they are talking about, but that is where his comrades are, and that is where he will rescue them from. He allows himself to gently let go of the dim, doubtful hope that was nestled in his chest, hope that someone might come and save him. It was never a given, anyway - Treville's words from the lessons the cadets had some months ago ring in his head (the mission will sometimes be more important than any of your lives) and from the way Porthos disappeared back there, he is starting to wonder if they ever really cared about him at all.
Considering his odds, he counts again: six men, armed. They are fully awake and in deep conversation. Even if he were to jump out and run quietly enough that their voices masked the sound of his escape, they would still see his movement, still be able to shoot him or catch him up and capture him. No, he is better off waiting to reassess when they are all sleeping. His sword and gun are gone, lying in the mud somewhere (he imagines), and he has only his slightly dented main gauche for protection. It will not be enough to keep six men away, but perhaps he could kill one and hope to slow the others enough to run into the forest.
It would be ineffectual to wonder whether or not they will find him, he decides - worrying only makes one suffer further. Instead, he focuses on keeping his breathing quiet and even, and looks around him as best he can for a way out of this mess. Perhaps he could dig his way out the other side of the fallen tree, so that he wouldn't have to clamber over the top? But that would risk bringing it down on top of him, and they would surely hear him trying to dig.
Never has waiting and hoping seemed such an impossible concept. He is afraid to fall asleep for fear that he will make a noise or change position, revealing himself.
Evening, eventually falls, and with it comes swarms of mosquitos. The bandits stack green branches onto their fire in an attempt to use the smoke to ward off the insufferable creatures and, for the most part, it seems to work. D'Artagnan, however, is defenceless against them, and can only let them land on his skin.
Without warning, the unthinkable happens: a mosquito, against all odds, manages to fly into his mouth, straight into the back of his throat. His throat spasms; unavoidably, he coughs.
At once six heads swivel round to his hiding place. Shit. The nearest bandit marches over, bends down, and seizes d'Artagnan's doublet, dragging him out of the shelter by his collar. He laughs manically while d'Artagnan fumbled for his main gauche, only to see it lying on the ground mere feet away. Wildly, d'Artagnan aims a punch at his face, only to find his hand caught and twisted behind his back. He lashes out with his feet but to no avail; they have him caught.
Then, quite suddenly, the mass pinning him drops. He falls with the dead bandit, somewhat dazed by the quick subsequent events, and by the time he scrambles to his feet, all six men are dead.
His three friends emerge from the trees, Athos with a tremendous gash across his temple, Porthos sporting what seems to be a gunshot wound to his side, and Aramis looking relatively unscathed. "But - " he stutters, bemused, "but the package, the mission - "
Porthos grins widely. "Did you really think we wouldn't come back for you?"
"Well, it's simple, isn't it?" Louis surveys them from his throne, as though he has real authority over them, and they none over him. "You Musketeers lie in wait for them a short way from Paris - you know which road they'll take, don't you? - and kill them before they make it here."
There is a beat of silence while everyone present (Treville, Athos, Porthos, the Cardinal and Queen Anne) stares at him in utter bewilderment. It is Treville who, eventually, speaks first: "Your Majesty, surely you cannot ... ?"
"What?"
"Well, actions of the sort are widely considered to be ... inethical, your Majesty," said the Cardinal silkily, unfazed.
"Well, they'd do worse, would they not?"
Treville seems to struggle to find the right words. "Yes, but as the King's men, you must understand that an honourable example must be set for the people. Perhaps a different course of action would be more appropriate."
"Hmm."
"Your Majesty, if I may ... ?" Porthos steps forward, ignoring Athos's warning glare. The older man does not like them speaking in court; whether it is because he is embarrassed or trying to protect them, Athos himself does not know, but it makes him uncomfortable, either way. Louis waves a frustrated hand in their general direction. "'Ow about we - " Porthos stops, and corrects himself - "what if we were to attack and take prisoners? Find out why they're attacking, put them in the Chatelet for a proper sentence when we're done?"
"I don't like the thought of bringing so many prisoners through the streets at once," says the King solemnly. Athos fights to hold back his derisive snort: the ruler, if he can truly be called that, has insisted on far worse plans being carried out, and had others blamed when they failed.
Richelieu clears his throat. "Perhaps Porthos is right. A demonstration of the king's power and goodwill might do the people some good."
Anything to create a little more chaos, Athos thinks drily. He has do doubt of the Cardinal's certainty that things will go horribly wrong. But with a good, strong team ... Raphalen, Hubert, Clement. Three strong leaders with one team of three each, as well as Athos and his three - but no. D'Artagnan will not be joining them. Not for this fight.
After hours, there has been no change, and, when Athos came to himself completely, the three soldiers left Aramis behind with d'Artagnan and Lemay and went to the King. Further than some restless stirring, the Gascon has shown no signs of progress towards waking. "As far as I can tell," Lemay told them quietly, "he is exhausted beyond measure. I have no idea how he managed to get here on foot, but he pushed his body past its limit. There's no telling whether he'll come back again."
It is too similar to the scene they all watched as if from a distance, what feels like months before. Disbelief still has their ears ringing numbly - how could they have mistaken that strange body for their brother's? But none of that matters now. What matters is the fact that they are reliving the nightmare he has fought so hard to forget, a strange candlelit vigil around a bed soaked with sweat and pain and fear and sorrow. Except this time it will not end in a fight, a disappearance, and a broken hope.
This time there are only two ways it can end, and Athos wants to be there when it does.
More conversation passes by, and he ignores it, until Porthos is gently tugging on his arm and he bows to the King and strides out. "We'll take twenty men, I think," says Treville thoughtfully, as they exit. "The three of you, of course, if you want."
"Of course."
Athos speaks unconsciously, not (regrettably) out of desire for revenge, but out of necessity: the need to protect, to fight, to prove himself as he has done time and time again to the other men. Perhaps in truth he is not brave but insecure - too insecure to do anything other than this. He is sure that other men have other motivations, but for him conflict comes as easily as breathing, and is every bit as well needed. Does Porthos rely on it so heavily? Does Aramis? Does d'Artagnan, and will he ever fight again?
It's thinking like that which loses wars, Aramis, newly commissioned, once announced solemnly to Athos on their first mission together. They were surrounded and trapped inside a small wooden shack they'd stumbled across during a mad run through woodland. Stupidly, they had gone inside, assuming they had lost their pursuers, and then were only able to watch helplessly as an inordinate amount of men closed in. Athos drily remarked that he'd like to die with his eyes shut, if at all possible, and Aramis's stern reprimand irritated him beyond measure. It was, in fact, Porthos who eventually united the pair, and after that the three of them were inseparable.
The garrison looms up in front of them before Athos knows it, and the other two are already at the door to the infirmary. For one fleeting moment panic threatens to overwhelm him and he can scarcely open the door for fear of what he might find, but an icy gust of wind propels him forward into the warm.
Little is happening and the vague air of horror has died away. Lemay's attendants are gone, and only the doctor himself, Aramis, and Treville and Porthos are here. A pot is boiling over the fire, presumably, from the smell of it, containing food. A second bed has been made up in the corner so that Lemay can observe d'Artagnan through the night, and they all seem to be conferring sat on the bed adjacent to the Gascon's.
He can barely see the boy, but he is there, half buried under a pile of sheets and blankets. The barest tinge of colour shines dully on his cheeks. His face is utterly motionless and for a moment it seems that he has passed. Then the mountain covering him rises slightly and he breathes quietly; satisfied, Athos tears his gaze away and tries to focus his attention on the others.
"It seems to me that he could slip away in his sleep, between breaths. He's barely strong enough to draw them in," says Aramis, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
Porthos adds, "That bloody scares me."
They all sigh and watch the gentle rise and fall of the blankets for a while. "Perhaps we ought to place him more upright," says Lemay, "to ease his breathing slightly."
Obligingly, Athos fetches some more pillows and tenderly lifts the boy's head to place them underneath. He is fearful that if he is too rough, he will snap the fragile body in half. Once he is done, he draws the blankets back up to d'Artagnan's chin, still cold despite the heat of the room, which has Athos's own cheeks glowing fiercely.
"No use sitting here worrying," Porthos remarks, pulling an infirmary pillow out of nowhere and placing it on a bed. He takes a swig of brandy from the bottle they have evidently been passing round and then settles down, eyes closed but head turned towards his brothers. Aramis, too, takes a hearty gulp, offers it to Lemay, who declines, and then pushes in the stopper and tosses it across to Atjos, who catches it one-handed.
Half the bottle is left and he drinks it all.