Disclaimer: I don't own anything belonging to either Alexandre Dumas or his descendents.
Chapter Eighteen: The Son of the Sign
"Come walk with me Louis." D'Artagnan motioned to the blonde and they left.
"Porthos," Aramis said when he saw the looks passing between Elizabeth and Athos, "why don't you help me gather up some of these soldiers?" Porthos acted as though he might protest, but was silenced by Aramis' warning glare.
"Of course, ahem, you two just… what I mean is…" he trailed off and followed after Aramis. Elizabeth choked back a laugh when she heard him say, "You are not the only one who can be discrete Aramis."
Athos patiently laid still and waited for the healer to wrap his leg before saying what was on the forefront of his mind.
"Medici? Why didn't you tell us?" Alright, that wasn't what was on the forefront of his mind, but it was a question he wanted an answer to nevertheless.
Elizabeth sighed, "You know why. I couldn't in good conscience put any of you in that kind of danger."
"You should have told us. We were in more danger by not knowing."
"Milord de Fère, you are not one to talk of secrets."
Athos couldn't help but smile as he pulled her closer to him, "Milord hmm? I like the way that sounds." He pulled her even closer until she was sitting on the edge of the table; their lips touched briefly before Athos' curiosity overcame him.
"Did you mean it?"
"Mean what?"
Athos swallowed but forged ahead, "You called me love."
Elizabeth sighed loudly, "I care deeply for you Athos." At his hopeful look she amended, "As I do for Porthos and Aramis and even d'Artagnan." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I want to love you I think it's just…"
Athos jolted upright, "For God's sake, you've lain with me Elizabeth and you still-"
"I have lain with you once of my own free will, and once not. You'd do well to remember that fact Athos." She said, her eyes hard. At the hurt look on his face she continued, "I just have a hard time convincing myself to trust you."
Athos winced and turned from her.
"Give me time, that's all I need." She reached out to press a hand against his cheek.
Athos was on the verge of making a demand he knew he had no right to. Thankfully, he was saved by the entrance of his friends, and Monsieur Trèville.
"Can you walk?" Trèville perfunctory asked.
Athos looked to his friends but they simply shrugged.
"Yes." He responded.
"Then come with me, you need to hear this."
Despite his assurances that he could, in fact, walk perfectly fine on his own, Aramis and d'Artagnan insisted on helping him from the tent.
"Well?" Porthos said once he had fallen back to walk next to Elizabeth.
She ignored his waggling brows, "Well, what?"
"How'd it go?"
"How did what go?"
Porthos sighed, "You… Athos…"
Elizabeth raised and eyebrow, clearly stating that whatever had gone on was obviously none of his business.
The tent looked like any other, saving the fact that six Musketeers stood attentive watch around it. From inside, Aramis thought he could smell cooking flesh.
"Elizabeth, perhaps you should stay out here."
Elizabeth shouldered past him to enter. Aramis shrugged, showing he had tried. He turned towards the entrance and was nearly knocked over by Elizabeth making a hasty retreat, the back of one hand to her mouth. She shook her head at the Musketeers and nearly ran the other direction.
Athos made to go after her but was stopped by Trèville, "You have other duties."
He sighed and ducked to enter the tent.
He instantly understood why Elizabeth could not be in it. He had a hard time holding his own stomach and this was by no means his first interrogation. Time had obviously been of the essence, the means of questioning showed the results, as did Philippe. He was hardly recognizable.
D'Artagnan was patently ignoring the hot pokers and knives strewn about. He knew that the Musketeers who served in the capacity of questioners did not enjoy their job, but that did not make them any less good at it. He leaned over to whisper to Athos, "Remember what he wanted to do to Elizabeth."
Athos' eyes went instantly hard.
Trèville walked over to the prostrate form of Philippe. "Tell my friends what you just told me."
Philippe began to whimper incoherently. Athos was disgusted that a grown man could go from such overbearing confidence to gibberish servitude in such short order.
Trèville was not so gentle as Athos, he laid a hand on a wicked looking hook, "Speak Philippe, your very life may depend on it."
Philippe began to speak, most of it babbling nonsense.
"Slow down man," Trèville scolded, "Start with your most recent plans."
Philippe swallowed, "I was going to take my army to Paris. Once there, we would overthrow the usurper king and I would take his place."
"Treason!" d'Artagnan gasped.
Porthos rolled his eyes, "I think we've already ascertained that particular crime d'Artagnan." The other Musketeer had the good grace to look abashed.
Aramis frowned, "You call Louis the usurper king, but what does your plan make you?"
"As the Count de Fère, it would make me the rightful king."
Athos spluttered, for a moment taken aback. "I beg your pardon?"
Even bound to a table soaked in his own blood, Philippe managed a weak sardonic laugh, "You didn't even know your king was the descendent of the bastard son of a whore? The Counts de Fère were entrusted with the raising of King Philip's true blood. The current Count is the rightful heir to the French throne." He paused, "Wherever he is."
Four sets of eyes turned to Athos, but he was as dumbstruck as they. In his entire life, he'd never heard a word mentioned of such a thing. Surely someone would have told him if he were the heir to the throne… wouldn't they?
Quite suddenly, certain events in his life began to focus into startling clarity; most notably Anne's insistence that they be married as soon as was possible, without his father's permission. No Count for centuries had married so far below himself as Athos had- and he'd paid dearly for it.
"What do you know of An- Charlotte Backson?" Athos blurted out.
A strange light came into Philippe's eyes; a frightening cross between adoration, longing and betrayal. Trèville beckoned for him to speak and the words poured out in a torrent, "The Backson's have worked for the Sons since its inception. Charlotte claimed to have knowledge of who the heir was; it's through her that we know he is the Count de Fère. She disappeared years ago, we don't know what happened to her." He paused and coughed spit speckled with blood, "She is… very special. To us." He amended after a moment.
"Was." D'Artagnan corrected.
Philippe's brows drew together in confusion.
"Charlotte Backson was executed more than three years ago for murder."
Philippe took the news like a blow to the stomach. His body convulsed on the table and his eyes rolled back into his head. "Charlotte!" he whispered. Quite suddenly he went still.
"Jean-Pierre!" Trèville barked and one of the inquisitors rushed into the tent, but it was too late.
"He lost his will to live." The man stated simply after a time, "With as far as we pushed him, I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did."
Aramis shook his head sadly, "Even from the grave, she claims another life."
Athos was still stunned. If these Sons of the Sign were right, he was the heir to the throne of France. Anne's involvement with him simply proved it. If, and it was a big if, they had the truth of it, was he perhaps obligated to…?
His friends were giving him considering looks and he knew immediately that a wrong answer now would not only cost him their friendships, but quite possibly his life as well. In such cases, is there really even a decision?
"I am loyal to both my king and my country. Nothing discovered here today has changed that." He stated plainly. And it was true; he had given up his title of Count, by no means would he seek the title of king. In fact, the only title he aspired to at the moment was that of Elizabeth's husband. The other two might be much more easily acquired.
"Monsieur Trèville," a Musketeer poked his head into the tent, "Sir, are you sure we can't just kill these men? They're traitors for one and disorganized to boot; it's like herding chickens out here."
Porthos waved the man aside, "No worries my good man, I- as always- excel in all situations." Porthos shouldered his way from the tent and bellowed, "Alright you scurvy dogs, I want to see some order here!"
"What are we going to do about that?" Aramis asked with a nod towards the body of Philippe.
Trèville opened his mouth but Athos' voice cut him short. "Bury him head first in a shallow grave. Let Lucifer see him coming."
"You're not taking this too well are you?" d'Artagnan commented.
It was the first indication that Athos had that he might, indeed, not be taking any of this well at all. He was a man with no past in love with a woman with no future… actually, he felt that given the circumstances he was taking the whole matter into stride rather well.
"I think I need to have a talk with my wife."
Aramis' eyebrows rose nearly into his hair, "I salute the happy occasion- however hasty it apparently was- shall I congratulate the bride?"
Athos stopped his limping at the entrance to the tent and turned back to his friends with a roguish grin, his first in a long while, "You ought probably wait until after I propose."
The guffaws from his friends followed him nearly all the way to the tent he was told held Elizabeth. She rose when she saw him and they spoke simultaneously.
"I am the Son of the Sign." "I'm with child."
"What?"