CHAPTER 39
His brothers could see Athos' mood darkening as they rode along the dirt track heading back towards Paris. The man was keeping his horse slightly askew from the rest of them, making it pretty clear he didn't relish their company. After they had each made a few attempts to draw him out, which were politely and thoroughly rebuffed, they gave up and let the man brood in silence.
Unbeknownst to his brothers, Athos was doing more than his normal level of brooding; the musketeer was doing a full out castration of his mind and soul for the death of those five people at the Marquis Lemione's estate. He kept piling more and more blame and guilt on his soul for causing their demise. If only he had fought harder they might still be alive. It was his personal failure to be the best that had brought about their deaths.
His thoughts drifted to his childhood and his father who was always chastising him for not being the model son of a nobleman. The Comte had expected a perfect son and was woefully disappointed in the awkward boy who wanted to please, but often found his uncoordinated body uncooperative. As a child, Athos had been prone to awkwardness. His mind was sharp, easily able to absorb the multitude of lessons he was expected to learn. But when it came time to execute what his mind knew, he got tongue tied and literally tripped over his own feet, unable to be the regal and dignified son his father required of him. To make matters worse, he was his own worst enemy. Even if he knew what to do he would start doubting, feeling he was not measuring up to his father's standards and soon it would become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
His younger sibling, Thomas, was the bright, sunny child who was quick to smile, eager to please, abounding with natural grace, and possessing the silver tongue of a poet. Within five minutes of meeting someone, even as a small boy, Thomas easily won them over and had them eating out of his hand. His charm and elegance made his older brother seem even more like a lout.
As a young boy, Athos had been so eager to please his father that he threw his body and soul into everything he did, which often led to disastrous results. Wanting to make his father proud, he would try to do things he felt expected of him for which he was not yet ready. Many of his childhood disasters, which often resulted in cuts, bruises and broken bones, were because he pushed himself beyond his current capabilities. Even when he partially succeeded, but not to his father's harsh standards, there was no praise for doing his best. Instead, he was scolded, lectured and shunned by the man whose approval he so desperately sought. Athos spent many a dark night silently crying in the stable and cursing himself for not being the man his father expected.
As he grew older and his body and mind finally synched with each other, he learned to master his movement. A sword master had seen the natural talent the boy had with a blade and cultivated that into a finely honed skill. His riding, which had always been decent, became even better as he figured out how to control his limbs; he had a natural seat and an innate sense for bringing the best out of any horse.
He remained somewhat socially awkward, but learned to cover that by appearing aloof and standoffish. People took it as his right and privilege, as the first son of one of the noblest families in France, to act as their better. Few knew it was really a cover for an extremely uncomfortable man. However, all these changes were too late and his father could never see past the disappointing child he had been to the respectable young man into which he had grown. Thomas remained everyone's favorite, and Athos merely tolerated because of the birth order; people might have liked Thomas better, but Athos was still slated to be the next Comte de la Fere.
And what a mess he had made of being a Comte, after his father's untimely death. On his watch Thomas had died, murdered by his thieving and adulteress wife, Catherine's future had been destroyed, and the estate and her people driven to the brink of ruin. His father had been right, he was a failure.
Athos remembered after his mother's death when his father's temper had eroded either further, the harsh words he had spoken to his eldest son. His father had told him he was worthless and it would have been a blessing if Athos died and the estate went to Thomas. Within days of uttering those brutal words, Athos' father had died, never having a chance to retract those bitter words. Yet, considering how his life had turned out, his father was right. Athos had failed at his duty. That was one of the reasons being a Musketeer was so important to Athos; he felt, in a small way, it made up for his failure to his family. He didn't do his duty there, but maybe he could do his duty for his King and country.
Thinking over those words his father had uttered, the life he had led, and the horrible things he believed were his fault, Athos came to the conclusion his father was right. It would have been better if he had died. He had caused the death of so many, yet his miserable soul was still walking the earth. It was this loathing frame of mind that stayed with him as he rode throughout the day.
Late afternoon found them riding along the edge of the forest with Athos about twenty paces in front of the other three riders. They were moving at an easy canter when suddenly Athos' horse's front feet dropped into a hidden hole and the animal went down with a sickening snap and thud.
Instinctively, Athos threw his body from the horse to avoid being crushed by the falling animal. The breath was driven from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, and at first he didn't register the men running out from the forest yelling and banishing weapons.
Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan were instantly off their horses and running towards the attacking men, brandishing their swords and muskets. While the Musketeers were outnumbered, the highwaymen were not properly armed; none had guns and only a few had swords. What made them dangerous adversaries were the metal chains they were wielding. The six foot lengths of cruel iron whipped around the legs, arms, torsos and weapons of the Musketeers, making it hard to fight; the lengths of the chains had a longer reach than the Musketeer's swords. They used their pistols to bring down four of their foes, leaving four still standing.
One of the bandits with a chain ran to were Athos lay on the ground swinging his heavy chain at the prone man. At the last second with only inches to spare, Athos rolled to the side out of reach before scrambling to his feet. As he drew his sword from its' scabbard, the chain whipped forth again, catching his arm and causing him to drop the weapon on the grass. As he attempted to retrieve the fallen weapon, the chain snapped catching his wounded side. His felt a hot, wetness run down his torso as he was forced to scramble backwards in an attempt to keep out of the reach of the cruel iron links.
He did a quick scan of the battlefield and saw Porthos on his back on the ground with a chain tangled about his legs, d'Artagnan, weapon-less clutching his right arm to his chest in pain and both men had bandits harassing them. Aramis seemed to be the only one unscathed at the moment, and somehow holding two loaded pistols. Two shots rang out and the men dogging Porthos and D'Artagnan soon lay dead on the ground.
That left two bandits still on their feet, one was approaching Athos again, and the other was sneaking up behind Aramis.
"Behind you!" Athos shouted at Aramis, taking his concentration off his own stalker who used the lapse as an opportunity to strike out with his chain again. The links caught Athos on his upper thigh causing the Musketeer's leg to buckle. Athos fell to the ground as the man advanced on him.
Waves of pain wracked his injured body as Athos frantically tried to scramble to his feet, but his leg gave out and he landed back on the ground again. The chain snaked forth again and a desperate Athos made a grab for it as it slashed into his torso. Surprisingly, he secured a firm hold on it. However, he knew it was only a matter of time before it was ripped from his grasp; the standing bandit had a much better leverage point than he did on his butt on the ground.
Athos felt the links slowly being pulled across the palm of his hand as the bandit made progress on retrieving his chain. Gritting his teeth, Athos tried to halt the progress but was unable. At the point when his portion of the chain was about to leave Athos' bloody, torn hands, the point of a sword suddenly burst forth from his opponents stomach. As the bandit began to fall forward, Athos had the presence of mind to scoot sideway out of the way so the dead man fell next to, not on top of him. With the bandit no longer blocking his view, he discovered his savior was d'Artagnan who holding a bloody rapier in his hand.
The boy quickly moved next to Athos and knelt on the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern for his mentor.
Athos didn't immediately answer, but instead struggled to sit up and scan the area around them for any additional threats. He saw Aramis dispatch the last of the bandits with a decisive sword thrust to the chest. After ensuring the man was dead, Aramis moved to where Porthos lay on the ground and began examining his legs.
"Athos!" d'Artagnan repeated sharply to draw the man's attention back on him.
The Musketeer's eyes slid from his other brothers, to his youngest one, noting d'Artagnan was cradling his left wrist supportively against his belly. "You're hurt," he accused the boy as if he had been hiding something. "How bad is it?"
Even sitting on the ground, Athos managed to convey such a demanding presence that d'Artagnan found himself responding even though the man had never answer his inquiry. "A simple sprain. And it's not my sword hand."
"A good swordsman should be able to use either hand, though admittedly, one hand will probably have a higher degree of accuracy," Athos lectured from his seated position on the grass.
"Duly noted," d'Artagnan replied with a small tilt of his head and a little smirk at Athos turning this into a teaching lesson. "I shall strive harder to practice with both hands."
"Yes, you shall. I will personally see to it once you are thoroughly healed."
D'Artagnan had been discreetly scanning Athos' body while his mentor was imparting his wisdom. "And of course, after you are thoroughly healed too."
Athos ignored him as he fumbled, trying to stand up. "I am fine," he declared upon finally achieving a vertical status.
"Then what is that?" d'Artagnan fingertip pointed to a blossoming red stain on the lower portion of Athos' shirt that was visible because his leather doublet had been unbutton in deference to the heat.
As Athos dropped his head to follow d'Artagnan's finger, the world started spinning causing him to lose his balance and nearly pitch face first into the ground. Only the quick steadying hand from the younger man averted the disaster.
Pretending he hadn't almost toppled over, Athos shook off the supportive hand with an annoyed glare. "That is from days ago," he haughtily, yet dismissively, informed the younger man.
"No. It's fresh and it's spreading," d'Artagnan countered, observing the growing stain.
This time Athos merely glanced downward with his eyes, not wanting to take a chance on causing lightheadedness again. The damn whelp was right. The stain was growing larger so he shifted his defensive tactics. "The tip of the chain was no doubt sharp and simply scored my side. Not even worth mentioning to Aramis."
"What's not worth mentioning to me?" Aramis asked as he strolled over to where Athos and d'Artagnan stood conversing.
D'Artagnan had all intentions of ratting out Athos, but the man beat him. "d'Artagnan has injured his wrist. Might be broken," Athos said gravely, as he gestured towards the boy's cradled wrist.
As Athos intended, Aramis immediately focused his attention on the boy and Athos took advantage of not being in the spotlight and covertly buttoning up his doublet to cover the red stain on his shirt.
"It's just a mild sprain," Aramis declared after finishing his examination and turning to face Athos, who stood there cooly as if he hadn't a care in the world. "A few days of keeping it immobile and resting it and all will be well."
"That is indeed good news." Over Aramis' shoulder, he saw d'Artagnan's eyes narrowing at his buttoned black doublet and Athos sent a warning glare at the boy who was about to open his mouth.
Aramis knew there was some sub-text going on around him, so he changed his position so he could simultaneously observe both of his brothers.
"How is Porthos?" Athos inquired politely, though his eyes never left d'Artagnan's face, almost as if they were being used to silence the boy, which they were.
"His right leg was wrenched by the chain. His ankle is sprained, as is the knee. However, if he keeps off it, I believe he too, will make a full recovery."
Athos quickly spoke, not giving d'Artagnan and opportunity to intervene. "Those chains were quite the lethal weapon."
D'Artagnan's mouth snapped shut as Aramis began to speak again. "Yes. Quite. I remember the bandits that were working for Paul Meunière. They too used chains. I caught one in the back. It was a most unpleasant experience. Athos..." But he never finished his thoughts, as a horse neighed with distress.
Athos immediately moved away from his brothers towards the source of the noise.
"D'Artagnan. Go help Porthos to his feet." The boy opened his mouth to protest, but Aramis held up a hand and halted him. "I know Athos is injured. I'll take care of it." The boy smiled in genuine gratitude. "Now go."
As d'Artagnan moved over to where Porthos lay on the grass, Aramis walked over to where Athos was kneeling in the dirt next to his horse's head, stroking the animal's face. It was obvious the poor beast had broken both front legs when he unfortunately plunged into the hole the bandits had dug as a trap.
Athos smoothed the horse's forelock as he muttered to the animal. "You were a faithful companion, even if you were at times a bit ill-mannered." His voice caught in his throat as the pain-filled, big, brown eye focused on him. A tear slid down his face knowing what he had to do. Even if it was a merciful act, it shouldn't have had to occur. "If it is any consolation," he told the gelding as he continued to stroke its' cheek, "those that dug that hole and did this to you are dead."
The horse gave a grunt of pain and Athos gave it a final stroke before rising a bit unsteadily to his feet. His thigh and side were protesting all the movement but he had a responsibility and duty to carry out.
Aramis offered a steadying hand on Athos' forearm as he rose. "I can do it, if you prefer," he kindly offered.
Vehemently, Athos shook his head pulling free from Aramis' grasp and walking to the side of the horse. "This was my doing and therefore my duty." His voice was flat and devoid of emotion, even though the tracks of his tears were still visible on his cheeks. He withdrew his pistol from its holder on his saddle before carefully checking it over. A misfire now would be a great injustice to the suffering animal.
Moving back to the horse's head, the big brown eye tracked him making Athos swallow hard. Leaning over one last time, he gave the animal a final stroke, whispering, "I'm sorry."
Straightening, he held out his arm and sighted down the weapon. The shot rang out, echoing thru the air as the horse drew its' last breath. Athos' arm dropped lifelessly to his side as the man's head bowed.
Aramis moved to his grieving brother's side and enveloped him in a hug. "You did what had to be done."
Aramis had meant his words as a comfort, but that was not how they were received. Athos pushed away and hastily wiped the back of his hand across his wet eyes. "Yes," he said staring straight at Aramis. "I am good at doing what must be done," he spat viciously. "Just ask my wife."
"Athos, I didn't mean it like that," Aramis apologized but Athos' face had already grown hard and closed.
"We need to move on, if we are to reach the inn before dark. I imagine Porthos and d'Artagnan, given their injuries, would rest better indoors." He glanced about the area seeing that the other two Musketeers had made it over to stand by their mounts. He glanced over his shoulder at the dead horse that had been his faithful mount. When he spoke, his voice was tight with emotion again. "I'll ride with you, so as not to aggravate Porthos' or d'Artagnan's injuries."
"And yours?" Aramis demanded, stepping directly in front of Athos, only a few hand-spans separating them. Green and brown eyes clashed in a battle of wills, neither side giving an inch.
Athos started to open his mouth but Aramis swiftly cut him off. "I swear Athos, if you say you are fine..."
"You'll punch me so hard I'll beg you to kick me?" Athos caught one side of his lower lip in his teeth in pain. He sighed as his eyes softened. "Please. Let it go. For now," he pleaded.
Aramis stepped back with a slight tilt of his head. "Let's go get my horse. Mount up boys!" he yelled over at Porthos and d'Artagnan. "That is unless you want to be sleeping on the cold, hard ground tonight."
"It isn't cold. It hot," Porthos reminded him.
"Yes. But I felt the need for two descriptors."
"Hot, humid, sweltering, boiling, burning, scorching, sultry," Porthos suggested helpfully.
"Thank you. I will keep all those excellent choices in mind for next time. Do you need assistance mounting?" Aramis innocently inquired, which earned him a fierce scowl from Porthos.
"It's my right leg that is sore, not my left." To prove his point, he placed his foot in the stirrup and swung onboard, albeit a tad clumsily.
Grabbing the reins of his own stallion, Aramis led him over to where Athos was standing after having gathered his belongings from his deceased mount. Athos motioned d'Artagnan over and swung the saddle bags on the rear of his horse. One gun he handed to the boy to store in his saddle holder and the other he clipped to the back of his weapons belt.
After the gear was stowed properly, d'Artagnan mounted his horse, which left Athos and Aramis on the ground.
"Don't!" Athos warned, holding a hand in the air to stop Aramis' forthcoming comment. "I don't need assistance, either," he firmly declared.
With a subtle grin, Aramis sprang on his horse then looked expectantly at Athos who was still on the ground, though as requested, he kept his mouth firmly shut. The man on the ground cocked his head and tilted an eyebrow at the left stirrup where Aramis' foot resided. "Sorry," Aramis apologized as he removed his foot, moving it forward out of the way.
Like ripping-off a bandage stuck to a wound, this wasn't going to be a pleasant event, but going at it slowly wouldn't make it any less painful. Gritting his teeth, Athos bent his knee, raised his leg, and stuck his booted toes in the left-hand stirrup. As he sprang upwards, he reached over Aramis' leg to secure one hand on the pommel and the other on the cantle. With a bit of a 'humph' he settled on the horse's back, shifting his weight slightly too either side until he felt centered. He'd let go of the pommel as he settled in, keeping only his left hand on the high cantle.
"I would not be offended, if you wanted to secure a hold around my waist, though I must warn you I am a touch ticklish." Lowering his voice to a sly whisper, Aramis added, "The ladies love that."
Athos was rethinking these riding arrangements, when Aramis nudged his horse in the ribs moving him into an easy walk.
"Would you like to use the stirrups?" Aramis innocently asked his co-rider. "I have been told I have an excellent seat. Firm and sturdy."
'Not if I smack you in the head and push you off,' Athos thought but he kept his comments to a small, "No... thank you...I'm good."
"Ah yes," Aramis reminisced about another time he heard his brother use a similar polite lie. "Surely, riding tandem with me for a few miles isn't as bad as choking down the Queen's cooking."
Athos allowed a small snort to escape his lips. "I seem to recall you told her it was delicious."
"I was being polite. I like to be...polite," and a wordless thought passed between the two men at another 'politeness' that had occurred later that night, one that could have them all hanging from a noose. After that, conversation died out as each man concentrated on making it to the inn.
It was a long and hot ride not made any better by the injuries they were sporting. After a while, Athos did take Aramis up on is offer as he wrapped his arms about the man's waist. Aramis glanced down at Athos' blood encrusted hands clinging to his waist and vowed when they stopped for the night, he would clean them properly to ward off infection.
Aramis was very relieved when the inn finally came into view. Porthos and d'Artagnan were pale and he knew they were in pain though neither would ever admit it. Though he couldn't see Athos, he could feel the heat emanating from his skin, as he rested he upper body against him and knew his brother' fever had returned. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.