Thank you again to all the folks who are spending their time folliwng this story and who have chosen to leave a review with their thoughts - much appreciated! Not sure if there's a tissue warning available in fanfic, but this chapter may need one...
Two days passed peacefully, the Musketeers doing some light sparring in between helping with minor repairs around the inn; Monsieur Brazeau was handy but not nearly as young and strong as he used to be and had been unable to fix everything that needed attention. Phillipe had become their constant shadow, admiring the men as they practiced their swordwork and fetching tools and materials when the four worked on the inn. Mealtimes found the young boy as their steadfast companion, with Madame Brazeau often shooing him away so the men could have some peace, but a gentle smile from d'Artagnan had her staying her words as the child slid closer to sit at the Musketeer's side.
Porthos looked at the two young men with an amused grin. "What's your plan for the afternoon?" he asked, guessing that d'Artagnan had some idea of how to entertain the child whose company he seemed to truly enjoy.
"I thought a ride might be nice and then Phillipe can help me check and clean the tack," the Gascon replied, looking at the child to find him nodding in agreement. "And what about you?"
The three men exchanged looks, Porthos shrugging, "Guess I'll go check out the tavern and see if there's a card game I can join."
"And we'll accompany him to make sure he stays out of trouble," Aramis added.
"Meet back here for dinner or at the tavern?" d'Artagnan queried.
"Check here first and find us at the tavern if we haven't returned," Athos suggested.
So decided, the men finished their meal and parted ways, d'Artagnan and Phillipe heading for the stable while the other three left for the tavern. The Gascon had guided Phillipe in the proper saddling of his horse, practiced hands making short work of the task and ensuring that everything was done properly, keeping both riders and horse safe and comfortable. Their ride took them into the fields outside of town and Phillipe was thrilled when d'Artagnan dismounted, allowing the boy to stay in the saddle while the Musketeer coached him on his riding skills. When they returned, Phillipe helped with the horse's care and enthusiastically fed the mare an apple that d'Artagnan had secured earlier. By the time they entered the inn, it was time for the evening meal and Phillipe trailed behind the Musketeer as he spoke with Madame Brazeau who informed him that his friends had not yet returned.
Turning to the boy, d'Artagnan knelt in front of him as he explained, "I won't be able to have dinner with you tonight. My friends are at the tavern and I promised I would join them there." The boy's face openly showed his disappointment so the Gascon assured him, "We will have time again tomorrow. Perhaps you can use the time tonight to decide what we can do?"
The boy nodded, wrapping his arms around d'Artagnan in a quick hug before he ran off to find his grandmother. The Gascon chuckled to himself as he stood and exited to find his friends. When he entered the dimly-lit tavern, he found the three men near the back, Athos and Aramis sitting at a table with a bottle of wine sitting on the table between them, while Porthos sat with another small group of men engaged in a game of cards. When they saw him come in, Aramis waved him over and pushed a chair out with one foot, and they could hear Porthos collecting his winnings in preparation to leave the card game.
d'Artagnan sat down, leaning back in the chair with his legs outstretched in front of him. "How was your day?"
"If the grin on Porthos' face is anything to go by," Aramis said as he looked up the man who'd just joined them, "I'd have to say it was lucrative."
Porthos chuckled at the comment as he sat down, placing his full purse on the table. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice as he stated, "They're not very good here. I didn't even need to cheat."
"Then you'll be happy to share your good fortune with us," Athos declared as he motioned to a barmaid to bring food to the table. Porthos made a sound of protest, but when their food arrived, he happily dipped into his purse to pay for the meal.
"How did you spend the day," Aramis asked the Gascon between mouthfuls of stew.
d'Artagnan shrugged and smiled, "We went for a bit of a ride and then I worked with Phillipe on his riding skills. He really is getting quite good for someone his age."
"He has an excellent teacher," Athos praised, the young man ducking his head as his face warmed at his mentor's words.
Seeing the boy's flushed face, Porthos drew the attention away from him, "Any idea when the messenger will be here?"
Athos shook his head, "Treville said only that he would arrive sometime between four and seven days; that gives us another two at the outside, possibly three if we decide to wait an extra day and hurry our return trip."
Porthos sighed at the news and looked around at the half-empty tavern, "Not sure I can find a way to keep myself occupied for two more days. Might need to start a fight with someone, just to entertain myself."
Aramis nodded. They all knew that the life of a soldier involved far more time spent waiting than anyone could possibly imagine, a task that was doubly difficult for men of action. Their conversation was interrupted by shouting in the street outside and the four took only a moment before Athos stood to stride toward the tavern door, his three friends falling into place behind him. When they emerged, they were passed by people running and Porthos grabbed a man by his shirt collar, forcing him to stop. "What's goin' on?" he asked.
The man looked at him with fear, pointing to billowing black smoke that was barely visibly against the darkening sky. "Fire! Over at the inn. We're all headin' over to help."
At the man's words, Porthos released him, his three friends already running toward the inn with d'Artagnan in the lead. When they arrived, they could see a line of people stretching from the inn's well to the front of the building, buckets being passed from one person to the next to either douse water on the flames or to be refilled again once they'd been emptied. The Musketeers unstrapped their weapons, dropping them into a pile with their doublets, the heat from the burning building already bringing sweat to their faces. They joined the line, d'Artagnan scanning the faces of the people around him for the Brazeaus. His eyes finally found the couple standing well away from the fire, Monsieur Brazeau's arm around the shoulders of his sobbing wife. He watched them for several seconds, his brain telling him that something was amiss, but not recognizing what it was. As he passed another full bucket to the person standing next to him, his mind finally supplied the answer that had eluded him. He'd thought initially that Madame Brazeau was upset because of the loss of their inn, but what if it was something more, something that was more precious than a collection of wood and bricks and nowhere as easily replaced? He ducked out of the water line and ran to the couple, grasping the older woman's shoulders as he beseeched, "Where is Phillipe?"
The woman's eyes flickered to the burning building and the Gascon couldn't help but follow her gaze, staring at the flames for several seconds before turning back around to face the elderly couple. "He's inside?" he asked, horrified at the thought that the young child might be trapped somewhere inside.
Monsieur Brazeau could only manage a nod, swallowing heavily as he choked on his emotions.
"Where?" d'Artagnan asked. The old man merely shook his head, having no information to share, pulling his wife into a hug as she was racked again with sobs.
d'Artagnan shifted his gaze to find his friends and spotted Athos helping to refill empty buckets, while Aramis and Porthos were part of the group throwing water at the flames. He made eye contact with Athos for a moment and knew in that instant that he could not allow Phillipe to perish. With a nod to his mentor, the young man turned and ran at the doorway, throwing an arm up to protect his face as he dashed inside.
"No!" Athos yelled as he saw his protégé run toward the blaze, throwing down the empty bucket in his hands and leaving his spot immediately to follow. The shout got both Aramis' and Porthos' attention and they looked from Athos to the inn, catching a glimpse of the young man as he disappeared inside. They moved in unison to intercept Athos, Porthos grabbing him and holding him bodily to prevent the older man from going inside.
"Let me go," Athos growled, still struggling fiercely.
Aramis placed a hand on his friend's shoulder as he tried to cut through the haze of adrenaline and fear which now overrode the man's common sense. "Athos! Athos, calm yourself. You cannot go inside."
His struggles finally ceasing, the older man slumped against Porthos' chest. "d'Artagnan…" he said, his voice broken.
"I know, we saw 'im too. There's nothin' we can do but wait for him to find his way out," Porthos murmured to his distraught friend.
"Let's at least give him a fighting chance and help put out this fire," Aramis suggested, already tugging at the two men to move them back into the water line. Athos nodded numbly, his eyes fixed on the opening that marked the front door of the inn, praying that his protégé's impetuousness hadn't just gotten him killed.
d'Artagnan's lungs seized up almost immediately upon entering, his eyes watering as he squinted in vain through the heavy smoke that hung in the air. "Phillipe!" he called, coughing as his lungs protested the foulness that was drawn into his chest as he inhaled. He brought his arm up, pressing it to his mouth and endeavoring to prevent some of the noxious smoke from entering his lungs by breathing through the thin fabric of his sleeve. By memory he made his way inside, passing into the common room and turning around slowly, desperately looking for any sign of the child. "Phillipe!" he shouted again, noting how much worse his voice was sounding and worrying that the boy would be unable to hear him over the roar over the fire as it consumed everything in its path. He crossed the room and was about to enter the kitchen when a small movement from the corner caught his attention. There a child-sized shape hunched on the floor, pressing back against the meager protection offered where the two walls met, and one of the few places in the room that remained untouched by flames.
Had he had the breath to spare d'Artagnan would have sighed in relief, but as it was he simply put his head down and darted across the room, manoeuvering carefully around the spots where the ceiling above him burned and was in danger of collapsing on his head. He dropped quickly to his haunches in front of the boy, placing his hands on the child's arms as he examined him for signs of injury. "Phillipe," he croaked, pausing to cough, "are you alright?"
The young boy looked at him with wide, red eyes, obviously having been crying, likely from a combination of fear and the smoky atmosphere that surrounded them. He gave a short nod before launching himself from the corner, throwing his arms around the Musketeer's neck, nearly overbalancing the young man. Dipping his head down so his mouth was next to the boy's ear, d'Artagnan explained, "I'm going to carry you out of here. Hold on tightly, keep your face turned in to my chest and your eyes closed." When he felt another nod he stood and cast a critical eye over the path they'd need to take back to the door. Striding quickly, he again found his way mostly be memory, feeling heartened that he'd found the boy safe and would now be able to reunite him with his grandparents. A portion of the ceiling ahead of him came cascading down, accompanied by sections of half-burned timbers and bright sparks that danced and flared in front of him. Stepping deftly to one side the Gascon increased his speed, making all possible haste to exit the burning building before it collapsed around them.
In one instant he was surrounded by the heat and roar of the flames, in the next he found himself suddenly weightless as the floor disappeared from beneath his feet. His only conscious thought was to tighten his arms around the precious bundle he carried and turn his body so that it was underneath the boy's; moments later he felt a tremendous pain as he impacted with the ground. As darkness descended over his senses he prayed that his friends and the Brazeaus would forgive him for failing in his task to keep the boy safe.
It was difficult to tell if their efforts were finally producing results or if the fire had simply begun to burn itself out, having devoured most of what had sustained it earlier as it consumed everything flammable in its path. The three Musketeers had worked tirelessly alongside the townsfolk to extinguish the flames which had turned the modest inn into a burned-out shell that was barely standing, one entire side of the building haven fallen in on itself. All three men were sombre, having waited for the Gascon to reappear at their sides and growing progressively more concerned as the minutes passed without any sign of the boy. Madame Brazeau had long since collapsed, overcome by the certainty that the young Musketeer had perished along with her grandson, and she and her husband had been escorted away from the burning inn by a kind neighbor. As the last few buckets were applied to the fire, finally extinguishing the monster that had earlier seemed unbeatable, Athos' heavy feet took him to the stables which sat off to the side, incredibly untouched. His gaze was unfocused as he leaned his back against a wall, sliding to sit with his knees bent, hands scrubbing across his face and through his hair. As he allowed his hands to drop to his lap, Aramis and Porthos flanked him, dropping to the ground to sit on either side. The silence was oppressive but none of them had the words to express the sorrow they felt at their youngest brother's absence. They had no idea how long they sat in this fashion, each consumed by their grief as the last flames sputtered out, allowing darkness to descend upon them as the townspeople dispersed and returned to their homes.
"Excuse me," a voice cut through the fog clouding the men's minds and Aramis and Porthos looked up from where they sat. "I don't mean to interrupt but Monsieur Brazeau asked me to check on you." The Musketeers stayed silent, Athos not even acknowledging the man's presence. The man dropped his voice as he spoke, "I understand that your friend tried to save Phillipe. I'm very sorry." The man paused and Aramis nodded in response to the man's words. When it became clear that the men on the ground had nothing to say, the man cleared his throat, explaining, "I would be honored to welcome you into my home. It is not much, but I have an empty room…"
Porthos recognized not only the graciousness of the man's offer but the necessity of finding alternate accommodations and was quick to accept, "Thank you, that's very kind." Glancing at his two friends, he saw Aramis' quick nod while Athos remained unresponsive, "We'd be happy to accept."
The man nodded, seemingly relieved. "My house is across from the tavern," he said. "I will go prepare the room. Please, come when you are ready." Aramis and Porthos nodded again, the man turning to walk away, and then stopping again. "I'm Alain Carre." With that, the man moved away and Aramis and Porthos turned their attention back to the elder man.
"Athos," Aramis placed a hand on the man's knee. "We should go; there's nothing more to be done here." Athos swallowed thickly and shook his head, allowing it to drop in defeat. "We know, Athos, we share your sorrow."
Porthos placed his arm around the man's shoulders, pulling him close. A sob racked the older man's frame and he closed his eyes, unwilling to open them to the reality that the young man was lost to them. Aramis reached around Athos' shoulders from the other side and they pressed together in their shared anguish, trying to draw strength from one another as they faced a future without the Gascon who'd boldly stormed his way past their walls and inserted himself firmly into their midst. By the time they were ready to leave, all their faces were damp with tears and the first pink tendrils of dawn were appearing on the horizon. The three men staggered to their feet, still overcome by emotion and exhausted from the time spent battling the blaze, pausing briefly to pick up their discarded clothing and weapons. When they arrived at Carre's house the man opened the door and stepped aside to allow them in, leading them wordlessly to a small but clean room that contained extra pillows and blankets and clean water and towels so the men could wash away some of the grime and soot that covered them. They stripped to their smalls so they could get clean, Alain coming back to deposit a tray of food on the small dressing table, and leaving with their filthy clothes, knowing that they had nothing clean to change into. None of the men felt like eating and they soon found themselves cocooned on the floor in a nest of pillows and blankets, bodies pressing against each other in a desperate bid to find comfort in each other's arms.
A/N: Just to let you know, I do NOT write death fics.
