Dispatched to Hell

Chapter Twenty-Four

Many issues required discussion over breakfast as Doctor Lemay examined his patients, including the King's wishes to visit his Musketeers later that day. Captain Treville thought it wise he remain at the Palace to supervise, or possibly deter Louis' visit till a later date to which Athos agreed. Although physically on the mend, with limbs and wounds healing well, both d'Artagnan and Aramis still remained steadfast in their peculiar dispositions.

The discussions also led to Athos and Porthos returning to the hamlet where they first encountered Pellisier while d'Artagnan sat with Aramis. Athos hoped the time alone would resolve any lingering issues and perhaps they would find solace in each other's company.

They left shortly after morning meal, and by midday as Athos and Porthos passed through the familiar rickety gate of the hamlet, the blazing sun assaulted them with afternoon heat.

Sweat dripping down his back, Athos led his horse toward the central square where only weeks ago Pellisier tended to the sick. He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow then returned it to his head. "Not quite as I remember it," he said.

"Let's start with the tavern," replied Porthos, pulling ahead. "At least it gets us outta the sun."

They tied the horses to the post of the tavern and stepped inside, the shade of the building granting only small reprieve from the heat. At the main counter stood a woman cleaning glasses so Athos approached. "Good day," he said. "We're looking for someone we met here awhile back. Can you assist us?"

The woman glanced at both of them then walked away, leaving Athos and Porthos alone in the tavern.

"Guess they don't like Musketeers here," said Porthos.

"They didn't have a problem the last time."

Athos patted Porthos on the shoulder, indicating for him to follow, then went after the woman who'd disappeared into the back room.

"You have no business here," spat the woman. "Now get out."

"Sorry, ma'am," said Porthos, removing his hat. He smiled and bowed forward. "Didn't mean to upset you, but…"

Athos rolled his eyes. "But… we need answers and we're not leaving until we get them."

~The Musketeers~

Aramis sat on the edge of the bed, his feet touching floor for the first time in days. An ache in his lower belly caused only minor concern, his right hand, still broken yet healing rested in his lap.

He dropped his gaze from the window, closed his eyes and reached out with his left hand to the one beside him on the bed. He squeezed and released it, but did not let go. "'I'm sorry, d'Artagnan," he said.

"For what?" asked the Gascon.

Aramis looked at him. "For trying to kill you."

"Already forgotten," replied d'Artagnan.

Aramis leaned forward, buried his face in his left hand. "Don't feed me lies," he said, sighing. "I haven't the patience for coddling or being patronized."

"I know what you mean," replied d'Artagnan.

Aramis sat up. "I'm sure you do," he said. "But what now? What are we to do with ourselves?"

"I don't know," said d'Artagnan. "Get through this somehow, I suppose."

"I agree," replied Aramis. He glanced surreptitiously at d'Artagnan, bit his lower lip. "What do you want to know? Ask me anything?"

When the words passed his lips, Aramis remembered Pellisier asking him the same question. Fireflies skittered about in his stomach, his throat clenched.

"What?" asked d'Artagnan, resting his hand on Aramis' shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Aramis hung his head. "Pellisier said the same thing to me." He turned slowly to d'Artagnan. "And I asked about you."

"You knew I was there the whole time?"

Aramis shook his head. "Not at first. I was alone, without food, water and… hope." The devil and his minions from hell entering his cell flashed into his mind and he flinched. "Then someone came," he said after a moment. "Pellisier. He spoke of another Musketeer, but did not divulge your name. I didn't know who, only that they… you… were punished for my disobedience."

D'Artagnan looked down at his bandaged hand, flexed his fingers.

"When did that happened?" asked Aramis.

The young Gascon sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Several days after I woke up. Maybe a week. These… guards I guess, came in and broke it for no reason. They just entered my room, said nothing and then one smashed it with their foot. I never knew why. It served no purpose. They didn't ask me anything…"

"I'm sorry," said Aramis. "It was my fault. I couldn't… I couldn't control my anger."

"And you shouldn't have had to," replied d'Artagnan.

Aramis took the young man's injured hand into his own, stroked his thumb over the sensitive injury. "But you were hurt because of me."

D'Artagnan pulled his hand back, hid it behind his back. Strange shadows crossed his face as he contorted it, and Aramis feared it reflected anger.

"Words can't express…"

"Bygones," said the Gascon. "We survived. That's all that matters."

The words did little to settle Aramis' guilt. "There's so much we don't know," he said, sitting up. "Understanding what happened might help us get through this, so please, at the risk of repeating Pellisier, ask me anything."

D'Artagnan's lips thinned, he stared at his lap. "Did you, uh… did you ever meet, Arnault?"

~The Musketeers~

The interrogation of the barmaid led Athos and Porthos to the man who had previously greeted them in the village square when last they visited. The haggard clothed man grumbled as he attempted to shoe his horse with one arm.

"What do you want?" he asked, turning his back on the musketeers as they entered the stable.

"A moment of your time," said Athos, crossing his arms over his chest. "We're the King's Musketeers…"

"I know who you are," spat the man, the broken shoe he removed clanging as it landed in a bucket.

Porthos passed him one from off a table, which the man snatched from his hand.

"You're welcome," said Porthos.

"We have nothing to thank you for," said the man. "Now get on with y'er business and be on your way."

"Tell me about the physician who visits your village," said Athos. "Pellisier."

"He don't come 'round here anymore thanks to you kind sirs," replied the man. He stood back, rubbed his shoulder then spit on the ground.

"How did you come to know him?" asked Athos.

When the man didn't respond, Porthos approached and squeezed the man's good shoulder. "I believe my friend just asked you a question. You don't want to be rude, do you?"

The man flinched under the strain. "What difference does it make anyway?" he said. "It's over. You've ruined everything. Made everything I did mean nothin'."

Athos rolled his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"This, Pellisier, you seek," said the man. "He sought me out for his next… champion. If I fought in his matches, he promised to help my people with medicine and such."

Porthos looked the man up and down. "Why you?" he asked.

The man's gaze fell to the ground at his feet. "I make deliveries to the Comte de Ferette," he replied. "It seems someone there spotted me and a few days later Pellisier came 'ere and offered some of us men jobs in return for their… services."

The man looked around, his eyes drawn and body slumped. "As you can see, we needed it."

Porthos frowned, his head tilted to the side, but Athos stopped him before he spoke. "Thank you," he said, pulling his friend toward the door. "We'll bother you no further."

"See that you don't," called the man, as they left the stable.

As they walked toward their horses, Porthos kept looking over his shoulder. "Why does that name seem familiar?" he asked. "You know the Comte de Ferette?"

"No," replied Athos. "But we both know where to find him."

Porthos stopped, hitched his thumbs on his belt. "We do?"

"D'Artagnan and Aramis delivered a letter to him in Le Mans," he replied.

~The Musketeers~

"No," replied Aramis. "I never heard the name, Arnault. Who was he?"

D'Artagnan stood and walked to the window where he crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't know for sure if that's his name. I heard it spoken through a door."

"That's right," said Aramis. "I vaguely remember someone saying no one spoke to you."

"Not once," replied d'Artagnan. "Everyday, Arnault came into my room and sat on his little chair scribbling notes, but he never spoke." He glanced over his shoulder half smiling. "In hindsight, I guess it wasn't that bad."

D'Artagnan's gaze returned to the window. "But at the time… It was…"

"Frustrating," said Aramis. "The not knowing why anything was happening. The reasons for our capture hidden in mystery."

"Yeah," replied d'Artagnan. He turned from the window, sighing.

"And this, Arnault, he inflicted your punishments?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No, he had his goons do it," he said. "Two men, very large. Might even give Porthos trouble. They're the ones who broke my hand. Beat me… water torture."

The words gnawed at him, invigorating the ache of his belly wound, which he absently massaged. He gritted his teeth.

"He'll pay for what he's done to you," said Aramis.

"It's already taken care of," replied d'Artagnan. He explained to Aramis his trip to the morgue and of his tormentor's death from a large gash on his forehead.

"Then my penitence has begun," said Aramis, causing d'Artagnan's brow to furrow. "I vaguely recall lashing out at a man near your room who fits that description. He informed me of your escape and I took my anger out on him."

Aramis gripped his side and rose from the bed. Legs shaking beneath him, he approached his friend. "I thought you'd left me behind. I was so confused… lost… full of rage. I felt as if you'd betrayed me."

He reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of d'Artagnan's head and drew him near. "I know that is not true now," he said, wrapping his other arm around his friend. "Can you ever forgive me?"

D'Artagnan cleared his throat before Aramis felt his friend's arms wrap around him. That brief hesitation made him tense.

"Of course," replied d'Artagnan. "You weren't of sound mind. I cannot blame you for your actions."

Right mind, no, thought Aramis. But unfortunately, of my own will.

~The Musketeers~

Athos and Porthos left the village heading for Le Mans confident they would not be returning to Paris for at least another day. Athos wasn't sure what bothered him more, the possibility of his two recuperating friends not getting along, or the idea of the King visiting them with their minds still addled. Treville's presence at their sides settled him somewhat, but not enough to steady his hands as he held too tightly to his reins.

They arrived outside the lands of the Comte de Ferette as the moon waned in the distance. Athos knew Ferette might be innocent, perhaps been blind to the affairs taking place on his estate, and knew to delicately address the forthcoming conversation.

"Do you think the letters from the King had anything to do with this?" asked Porthos.

Athos looked up. "What?"

"The King's letters..?" repeated Porthos.

"No," replied Athos. "I think it's a coincidence. We were not taken, and we delivered the same letter to another Comte."

Porthos bobbed his head up and down, frowning. "Makes sense I guess."

Athos returned his attention to the thoughts buzzing about in his head.

"Do you think this, Comte de Ferette, had something to do with all this?"

He loved his friend, but sometimes Porthos' need to talk came at the most inopportune times. "Perhaps," he said. "We'll know of his culpability when we get there."

"The element of surprise is on our side," continued Porthos. "Catch him before he can come with some sort of story."

"I planned to arrive after nightfall," said Athos, relinquishing himself to the conversation. "After evening meal, perhaps with drink in hand and full belly. He'll be more pliable."

The lanterns of the estate gate appeared and the two Musketeers passed through, arriving at the front door after a long ride down the driveway. By the time they dismounted, servants arrived to assist and announce their presence. As they waited in the dim foyer, Athos looked himself over, patted his chest to dispel the accumulated dust then turned to watch Porthos doing the same.

Hurried footsteps echoed from down the long hallway. Athos suspected the Comte and stood taller out of propriety. But when the man came around the corner, bowing profusely in greeting, Athos' shoulders slumped and his head fell forward.

Porthos pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me."

The stout man turned, poised ready to run back down the hallway, but Porthos' large hand caught him by the back of the neck and spun him around.

"What is… running away, really?" asked Athos, the corner of his lips curling upward.

~The Musketeers~

By the time Treville arrived in his room, Aramis had told d'Artagnan all he could stomach to divulge. The young Gascon did not seem satisfied, but Aramis decided that some secrets should remain locked away. He felt no need to relinquish further troubles on the young man, deciding instead to keep his longing for more coca buried behind a calm exterior.

They stood in opposite corners of the room, each in quiet reflection, and turned simultaneously when their captain entered.

"I cannot dissuade Louis from visiting," Treville said, walking to the bed where he turned and sat with his head in hand. "He insists on coming now." He raised his head, but not his slumped body. "Are you two ready?"

Aramis uncrossed his arms and came to stand before his captain. "This is not our first meeting with the King," he said.

Treville straightened and smiled up at him. "It's good to see you up and about, Aramis," he said, then glanced at d'Artagnan by the window. "You too."

D'Artagnan nodded, walked to the side of the bed to join them.

Treville stood and offered his seat to Aramis. "But I think it might be wise if you get back in bed."

Aramis ran his hand through his hair. "I may have stayed on my feet a little longer than I should," he said, "but I can hardly address, Your Highness, while lounging in bed."

"Normally I would agree," replied Treville, "but…" He scanned the marksman with raised eyebrows.

Aramis looked down. Bare chested and wearing only his braes, his body a canvass of swirling purples and blues broken only by bloodied bandages, he flushed and covered himself with his hands. "I'm hardly fit to be seen by anyone," he said, quietly.

Treville pulled back the covers on the bed. "Get in," he said. "The Queen may be accompanying him."

Anne. "The Queen?" Aramis' flush deepened, and the accompanying dizziness nearly collapsed him before he crawled under the covers. "Why is she coming?"

D'Artagnan stepped back, ran his hands over his body in an attempt to smooth his shirt. "I'm hardly presentable," he said.

Treville smiled at both of them. "I wouldn't worry yourselves too much," he said. "They shouldn't expect to see either of you in full health. But I'll see if I can find you men some new shirts."

D'Artagnan nodded and returned to the window as Aramis pulled the sheets over his chest. His nervous stomach caused his hands to tremble and he hid them at his sides. All his jewellery was gone, somewhere safe he hoped. Would the Queen's eyes search out her gift to him? Would she lay her gaze upon his battered chest looking for the cross she gave him?

Aramis shuddered. She couldn't see him this way, not with all his shame exposed. What would she think of him? What would the King think of him? Would he see he no longer appeared fit to wear the Musketeer uniform?

"Are you alright?" asked d'Artagnan.

Aramis closed his eyes, releasing his breath long and slow. "Yes, my friend," he said.

"You look flustered."

Aramis looked up at him, smiling weakly. "I guess I stood for too long," he replied. "I shall be fine."

D'Artagnan didn't look convinced, but said nothing as he stepped back. Moments later, Treville arrived carrying two white shirts and tossed one to d'Artagnan, then helped Aramis sit up.

Aramis threw his legs over the side of the bed, but didn't have enough time to throw the shirt over himself before the King and Queen entered.

A fanfare of servants escorted the Royal couple as they crossed the floor and Treville rushed to help Aramis cover himself before they were close enough to see anything.

On shaky legs, Aramis pushed up from the bed to stand, but a delicately raised hand from the Queen returned him to sitting on the edge.

"No," she said. "On this occasion, I'm sure the King will understand."

King Louis looked at her, frowned, then straightened and turned to Aramis displaying his youthful grin full of teeth. "Yes, please," he said, his voice jubilant. "On this occasion I will grant you leave of propriety."

The weakness Aramis felt before their arrival intensified under the Royal's watchful eyes. He wanted to hide under the covers, bury himself under layers of protection. Of course they could see what he'd done, what he'd become. How could they not see his vileness seeping through his pores, all his previous actions written across his face?

How could she not see the true nature of the beast before her?

"Thank you, Your Majesties," he said, bowing his head.

"My men appreciate your kindness," said Treville, standing next to the bed with d'Artagnan.

"You have been through so much," said the Queen, her pitiful expression tearing a hole in Aramis' heart.

"Yes," said the King. "And I wish to hear the full report. Spare no details."

King Louis looked about the room, his eyebrows raised in expectation. When his foot began tapping on the stone floor, a servant hurried to gather a chair and place it behind him. As he sat, his countenance resembled a small boy about to be told a great tale by his father. "Please," he said. "Tell me of your adventure."

Aramis clenched his jaw to stop from lashing out. Angry words stilled on his lips, he sat on his hands to stop them from forming fists. "Adventure isn't exactly the words I would use, Your Highness," he said.

The King's smile disappeared, he cleared his throat and Aramis feared he'd taken advantage of the situation by speaking his mind.

"Forgive me," said the King, patting his wife's hand that rested on his shoulder. "You have been through quite the ordeal. Please, tell me the details so I can get to the bottom of this and put it all behind us."

"I'm not sure that's possible," said d'Artagnan, whose face turned pale the moment the words escaped his lips.

Aramis looked at him wide-eyed and frozen by his friend's audacity.

D'Artagnan fidgeted. "Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "I didn't mean to speak out of turn."

"It's quite all right," said the Queen, smiling in his direction. "Louis is correct, you both have been through quite the ordeal and he understands your words of anger are directed at the situation, not at him. Isn't that right, Highness?"

The King smiled. "Quite right, my love," he said.

Aramis sensed hesitation in the King's voice and enjoyed watching him squirm. The King held no real power in this room. Aramis smiled, felt his strength returning and he sat up straighter. The Queen controlled Louis' emotions, and he and d'Artagnan controlled his attention. They held information he wanted, that he craved, as evident by his forward leaning stature and wide eyes.

Aramis glanced at d'Artagnan standing off to the side with Treville and amended his previous thought. No, he thought. I have the power.

As his eyes travelled back to the King they narrowed, his jaw clenched and the corner of his lips curled up. "What is it you wish to know?" he asked, his building strength feeding his voice.

King Louis leaned further forward. "The Musketeers, d'Artagnan and Athos, told me of the politics involved in this situation," he said. "Of the school and of this man, Pellisier's involvement, but I wish to know more before laying judgement. I don't wish to condemn a man whose only purpose was the betterment of France."

Aramis stood red faced with fists clenched, and both Treville and the Queen rushed to his side, steadying him before he fell over. Heat radiated from his face, his arms twitched.

Aramis breathed out, swallowed his anger and let Treville and the Queen ease him back to the side of the bed. "Your Majesty," he said calmly, "forgive me. I'm not quite myself."

"Forgiveness granted," replied Louis, his voice hesitant as leaned back. "Now tell me what happened?"

The words rung in Aramis' head exactly how Pellisier had spoken them. He closed his eyes, steadied his breathing till he could further control his anger. "Pellisier is no friend to France," he said.

"Why say you this?" asked Louis.

Aramis levelled his gaze on the King's eager face. "Because I saw what he is doing to your people, Majesty."

Louis slumped back in his chair, pursed his lips, and Aramis realized the true control which he possessed. He looked at everyone in the room, noticed how they each held their breaths, their bodies tense with anticipation for what he'd say or do next. Aramis smiled. He had complete control of them all. His next words would decide their actions, decide their emotions.

But most importantly, Aramis realized he could control his own emotions. He could let the outside world see him strong and confident while hiding the turmoil and shame deep inside himself. Pain seemed like nothing to him now, something he could push aside. The outside world would see him for the man he wanted them to see, honourable and obedient.

Inside, the beast would live, gaining strength while watching and waiting in eagerness until it could be set free.

To be continued…