A/N: Thank you SnidgetHex, pallysd'Artagnan, and BrokenKestral for reviewing!
Chapter 2
Aramis galloped through the forest, wishing he had Rhaego with him. There was nothing like a fearsome dragon crashing down on the heads of unsuspecting ruffians to send them scattering like squealing swine. Not to mention a dragon's-eye view of the forest would help him track the girl more easily. He'd gone left around the group of men who'd set off to hunt her down like an animal, but if her path of flight took her right, he might not catch up to her in time.
He pushed his horse as hard as he dared, scanning the trees for signs of movement. He didn't know who these hunters were, but their cloth had looked upperclass, and he'd avoid a clash with the nobility if he could.
Though these scoundrels would certainly deserve a good thrashing.
A scream sounded ahead and Aramis urged his steed faster. He broke through the trees and onto a scene of a man aiming a crossbow at the girl, who was sprawled on the ground and crawling backwards in a futile attempt to get away. Aramis drew his pistol and fired.
The ball struck the crossbow, eliciting a yelp from the man as he recoiled his hands. Aramis yanked the reins and sharply turned his horse around.
"Come on!" he shouted at the girl, holding out his hand.
She scrambled to her feet and threw herself at his outstretched arm. Aramis seized her hand and pulled her up behind him, then kicked his horse into a gallop again. Multiple shouts rang out. A second later fire seared across his right arm. He didn't slow down.
Until his horse suddenly jerked and screamed, and then went crashing to the ground. Aramis was flung over its head and went rolling, his various weapons jabbing sharply into different parts of his body as he tumbled to a stop. He forced himself up immediately, wincing at a myriad of pains, and stumbled over to the girl who had landed in a similar heap not far from him. His horse lay unmoving, a bolt in its side. Aramis cursed under his breath as he reached to pull the maid up. Her eyes went wide at something over his shoulder and she screamed.
Aramis whipped out his second pistol and whirled, shooting the man that had been bearing down on him. Another was mere feet behind him, and Aramis dropped his pistol to draw his sword. The second hunter was armed with a rapier as well, which he brandished quickly to meet Aramis's blade with a strident screech. The burn in his arm screamed at him, and he was vaguely aware of warm wetness spreading quickly.
He ignored it and threw himself into the fight. They exchanged a series of thrusts and parries, both equally matched. Aramis pulled his main gauche and used it to catch his opponent's blade so his other was free to slip under the man's guard and pierce his side. A gasp passed parted lips before the hunter toppled sideways.
Aramis turned back to the girl. "Are you hurt?" he asked urgently as he sheathed his blades.
She gave a jerky head shake, cheeks smeared with dirt and leaves stuck in her blonde hair.
Aramis snatched up his pistols and clipped them back to his belt, then yanked his waterskin and medic kit from the saddlebags. He cast a regretful look at the horse before taking the girl by the arm. "Come on."
He led her away on foot. There were two hunters left, and Levesque. That Aramis knew of. There was no telling how many men they might call for reinforcements once they realized their "hunt" had been ruined. And while Aramis had gotten to the girl in time, they were not out of danger yet.
He could feel his sleeve clinging wetly to his arm and knew he had to stop to tend to it, but not before putting a little distance between them and their pursuers. He kept up a harried pace, urging the girl along, until they came upon a stream and an elevated embankment that would provide some cover.
"Over here," he prompted, helping her down to the bottom and gesturing for her to sit and catch her breath. He then turned his attention to his arm, craning his neck and picking at the jagged tear in his coat to get a look underneath.
Her eyes widened. "You're hurt."
"It's just a graze," he replied. Though it was bleeding rather freely. He'd have a hell of a time trying to clean and stitch it one-handed, so that wasn't an option.
Kneeling on the ground, he unrolled his med kit and took out a patch of linen. There was a tiny flask of spirits for medicinal use, and he wet the square bandage liberally.
"Can you come rip my shirt further?" he asked the girl. "I need better access."
Her throat bobbed, but she scooted closer and reached for the tattered ends of his sleeve. Though her fingers were trembling, she managed to rend the fabric of both his coat and shirt further with a few insistent tugs.
"Thank you," he said, slipping the alcohol soaked linen inside and pressing it against the wound. He sucked in a sharp breath at the burn. "You didn't steal from Eleanor, did you?" he asked as he grabbed another strip of bandage and wound it around his arm.
The maid shook her head and wordlessly took the ends to tie them together for him. He offered her a kind smile.
"I'm Aramis."
"My name's Camille."
"We're going to get out of this, Camille," he assured her, packing up his med kit and stuffing it into the folds of his sash. He then leaned over to scoop up some water to drink, and then started to reload his pistols.
When he looked up again, Camille's eyes were full of tears.
"Hey," he said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "I'll protect you."
That only made the tears spill over. "My friend…"
"Martine," he filled in softly.
Camille nodded, voice breaking. "They killed her."
Aramis nodded grimly in return. "I know."
"They're going to kill us too."
Aramis finished priming his last pistol. "Not if I can help it. You ready to keep moving?"
Her face pinched with momentary despair, but then she swallowed hard and nodded. They both got to their feet with some effort, and then resumed their trek through the forest.
.o.0.o.
"I expect you have questions for me," Belgard said, rounding the desk in his study to take a seat.
Porthos shifted his weight in discomfort. Yeah, he had questions.
"Why would the captain tell you my mother an' I were dead?"
"Treville and de Foix hated your mother."
Porthos frowned. "Why?"
"Jealousy, or something worse. Who knows?" He leaned forward in earnest. "But they plotted with my father to dispose of her—and you. Of course, they said they cared only for my reputation and family name. They kidnapped you in the dead of night and told your mother they would slit your throat if she tried to contact me again."
Porthos shook his head in disbelief. "I've known the captain a long time. I don' recognize the man yer describing. I mean, he made me a musketeer." Treville was honorable, brave, and deserving of the respect he commanded. He was the kind of soldier Porthos looked up to and admired.
"Why do you imagine he showed you such favor?" Belgard pressed. "Might it have been the stirring of a guilty conscience?"
Porthos didn't know what to say to that. He'd never gotten a pass in the regiment, had never been shown leniency or special treatment.
"He came to you, I take it?" Belgard went on.
"I was in the infantry. I won myself a bit of a reputation. He turned up one day an' he…he offered me a commission in the Musketeers."
"And that never struck you as odd?"
Porthos hesitated as he looked back on it. No, it hadn't struck him as odd. He was good at soldiering, lots of people said so. He'd been involved in a skirmish where the Musketeers had come in as reinforcements at the end and he'd just assumed Treville had gotten a glimpse of him then. There had never been any indication that he felt guilty for something.
And yet he'd come to Porthos out of the blue with the identity of his father, something he'd known since the beginning and had kept to himself. What was the justification for that?
"Go to him," Belgard urged. "Ask him if it's true that he abandoned you in the Court of Miracles. Make him tell you why he picked you to promote, above all others."
Porthos's throat tightened. "Yeah, I will," he said.
"But remember," Belgard warned, "he will seek to paint himself the hero of a sordid tale."
Porthos clenched his jaw. He would like to see the captain try.
"Eleanor and Levesque…" he began carefully. "They bully an' abuse you in your own house. Why do you let them do it?"
"Should I exile them and end my days alone? I've already lost one family, Porthos. Must I renounce another?"
Porthos had nothing to say to that. He wasn't sure what to make of everything he'd been told, but he was going to demand answers from Treville, and he wouldn't back down until he got them.
Bidding a temporary farewell to his father, Porthos left. He did a cursory scan of the nearby rooms in search of Aramis but didn't see him anywhere. He headed outside next. The courtyard was empty.
"Hey," he called, spotting Eleanor across the yard. "Where's Aramis?"
"Your friend?" she replied disdainfully. "He rode off earlier."
Porthos frowned. Rode off? Turning away from his half-sister, he went outside to where he'd left his horse. Aramis's wasn't there. Porthos's frown deepened in confusion that Aramis would have left without letting him know first. But maybe he'd just wanted to give Porthos and his newfound family some privacy. Not to mention their reunion so far certainly hadn't been very…comfortable. Porthos couldn't blame Aramis for not wanting to stick around when he kept being dismissed and left to his own devices; he did get bored easily. And maybe he had informed someone he was leaving, but Eleanor, still in a snit as she was, had neglected to tell Porthos earlier.
There was nothing for it now, in any case, and Porthos had important business to see to. He climbed onto his horse and set off on the ride back to Paris, making the journey quicker this time at a cantering pace. This was one confrontation he was impatient to have.
Athos and d'Artagnan were in the garrison yard with Savron and Vrita when Porthos rode in.
"Where's the capt'in?" he practically growled as he dismounted swiftly.
D'Artagnan blinked in surprise. "In the mess, I think…"
Porthos stormed past him, heading for the kitchen. He didn't even stop to think whether anyone else was in there before he barged in like a raging bull. Fortunately, the mess was empty save for Treville. The captain's back was to the door, but his shoulders stiffened just slightly at the intrusive entrance.
"So," he spoke in a tempered tone. "You've met your father."
Porthos didn't know why the apathetic manner infuriated him, but it did. "He told me things."
Treville slowly turned to face him. "Nothing good about me, I'm sure."
"He told me you were friends once. He said you broke wit' him because he married my mother, that that's why you turned against him." Porthos took a step forward, years of grief and questions and useless wondering fueling his ire. "He said you kidnapped us…an' told him we were dead."
"It's not as simple as that."
"Did you or not?" Porthos snapped.
Treville gazed back at him for a brief moment, then dropped his gaze a fraction. "Yes. I did. To my shame, I did." He looked up again. "But there were reasons."
Porthos gritted his teeth; he'd heard the reasons.
"Why am I a musketeer?" he demanded.
Treville quirked a confused brow. "Because you are a great warrior."
"Did you pick me because you felt guilty?" he pressed.
"No," Treville answered incredulously. "That's ridiculous. No man has ever worn the uniform with more dignity and courage than you."
Porthos clenched his fists at his sides. "Did I earn my place in the Musketeers on merit alone?"
Treville shook his head in a show of exasperation and started to turn away.
"Answer me!"
Treville drew his shoulders back, donning that authoritative mantle that made him a commanding leader. "You're not listening to me."
But Porthos no longer felt a draw to respect the man standing before him. All he could see was the truth of things shattering everything he'd thought he'd known. "All these years…I thought I got there on my own. But it was all a lie, just a fig leaf for your guilt," he spat.
"You're wrong."
Porthos reached across his chest to touch the pauldron on his shoulder, something that had meant more to him than anything, a symbol of belonging and family. But it hadn't been real. "I didn't earn this. You jus' gave it to me."
"This is what Belgard does!" Treville exploded. "He turns things round and fills your head with lies and half-truths. He did it to me and now he's doing it to you! Porthos," he implored, "trust me."
Porthos's jaw hardened and he unbuckled the pauldron from his coat. Tearing it off, he shoved it in Treville's chest, then turned and walked out. The captain didn't follow him.
Athos and d'Artagnan were still in the yard when he emerged, as was Vrita. Ever attuned to his moods, she immediately straightened and walked toward him, eyes open with concern and a desire to offer comfort. Porthos's heart clenched painfully with the realization of what all he was losing.
He reached up to lay a hand on the side of her neck. "I'm gonna miss you, old girl," he said mournfully. They'd made a good team together.
D'Artagnan visibly stiffened. "Hang on, what is that supposed to mean?"
Athos, the more quietly astute, studied Porthos carefully for another beat. "Where is your pauldron?"
Porthos forced the feelings of betrayal and loss down and steeled his tone. "I'm no longer a musketeer."
D'Artagnan's brows shot upward while Athos's eyes narrowed. Vrita made an indignant squawk.
"What happened with the captain?" Athos asked.
"I learned the truth," Porthos said bitterly. "I have no place wit' the Musketeers."
"What are you talking about?" d'Artagnan sputtered.
"Porthos," Athos interjected. "What's going on?"
"I told you," he snapped. "It's over." He pushed past them, pausing to cast one last regretful look at Vrita.
Then he forced himself to turn away and walk out of the garrison, trying to ignore the confused and shattered looks left behind him.