When Treville assigned the Inseparables the mission to deliver a document to the Falcon's Spirit, a ship bound for England, he thought he was being a kind and benevolent commander. In his mind, it was an easy assignment, one that would allow the team time to relax. The document was a simple invitation for the King's sister, requesting her attendance at the first birthday gala of her nephew, the crown prince of France.
It was an important missive to some he supposed, as anything bearing the King's seal was significant. But he seriously doubted it was a document that anyone would want to steal. The road to the harbor had been free of bandits for months due to rigorous patrols. It should have been an easy journey. But these were the King's best and brightest musketeers, who always managed to find trouble wherever they went. So, of course, the mission went awry.
Somehow the mighty foursome ended up rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress from brandy smugglers with the help of a straggly, orphaned street-boy, a farmer, and his wife. The misadventure had Aramis, Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan written all over it. Once again, the mighty musketeers triumphed over evil. There were pesky injuries, but thankfully they were minor in nature.
In wrestling with three smugglers, Porthos took a jab to his thigh, which probably hurt his pride more than anything else. D'Artagnan's ribs were black and blue from tumbling into the cargo hold of the vessel from a misstep during the heat of the battle. Athos, ironically, was grazed on the head with a casket of brandy. While momentarily dazed, he was struck across his back with an iron chain. Aramis swiftly came to his rescue and used the offending object to strangle the assailant. For his troubles, Aramis got a light slash on his left arm.
The smuggler who dared to slash his brother was quickly dispatched by Athos who, without ceremony, threw his dagger into the man's throat. Afterwards, Aramis gave his friend a grateful smile for two reasons: first, he was happy to be alive and second, Athos' head injury couldn't be too bad if he could still make a throw with such deadly accuracy.
After the battle was over, the harbormaster placated, the smugglers handed over to the town guards, the beautiful damsel in distress returned to her grateful parents, and the orphan street boy safely on the wagon with the farmer and his wife, headed out of town and to a new life, the four musketeers thought about their own situation. They were aching, tired, hungry, dirty, and disinclined to stay in the harbor town. They all felt the need for some time away from humanity.
Aramis, who had spent some time in Le Havre when he was younger, knew of a small secluded cove. It was a few leagues south of the port town, off the long bay from the Atlantic, which cut into the lands of Normandy. It had a fresh water source, a sandy beach, marsh grass for the horses and best of all, seclusion. They replenished their food and medical supplies in town, to include a keg of brandy from the smuggler's ship that somehow ended up in Athos' possession. Suitably fortified, they headed for the cove.
With the marksman leading the way, they arrived at their little slice of paradise slightly past midday. The other three agreed with Aramis after they saw the locale that it was a perfect place to spend a little time relaxing and recuperating. They knew Treville had given them more days than needed to complete this mission with the expectation they would take a few for themselves. He just didn't realize how much they would need that extra time after their harrowing adventure with the smugglers.
The musketeers leisurely set up their campsite on the sand in the shelter of some rocks. The horses were staked out within eyesight in the nearby marsh grass with access to fresh water. A ring of rocks surrounded the carefully stacked wood that stood ready to be lit to cook their evening meal. Saddles, saddlebags, and bedrolls were assembled in the shadow of the rocks for protection from the wind and near the fire-pit for warmth, should the evening turn cool.
Once all was settled, Aramis cajoled, or more accurately threatened, his brethren until they stripped and waded into the calm, ocean-fed waters to wash away the grime of the battle. The sun-warmed water in the cove, partially salt, partially fresh, felt exceedingly good on the musketeers' aching muscles and they lingered in the bay until their fingers and toes shriveled like prunes. Only after they finally waded out and headed back up the sandy beach to their campsite, did the musketeer medic remind them he still had to care for their wounds.
D'Artagnan's ribs were declared bruised, but not broken. Aramis rubbed a soothing compound over the colorful marks before wrapping the ex-farmer's torso in clean linen. Porthos' thigh wound was cleaned and irrigated with a cup of the pilfered brandy before being wrapped in a bandage. Neither it, nor the slash on Aramis' arm, which Porthos cleansed, was in need of stitches.
The last, and always most recalcitrant patient to be seen by the medic-musketeer, was Athos. After a few questions and studying Athos' sea green eyes, Aramis declared him free from a concussion. He then turned his attention to the chain marks on Athos' muscular back. The swordsman had taken three good hits and the skin was discolored in the shape of the links. However, because of the protective nature of his leathers, the skin had only been lightly scored in a few places. Aramis rubbed the same salve on the marks that he had used on d'Artagnan's bruises. A short grunt was all Athos allowed to escape during Aramis' administrations even though the medic knew what he was doing was somewhat painful. The salve, which had excellent healing properties, tended to sting on fresh wounds.
As Aramis was gently smoothing the healing balm on Athos' back, he studied the previous scars that were scattered across the broad surface such as the whip marks from the adventure in Dieppe, after which Athos became a musketeer. However, as the medic looked closer in the waning sunlight, he saw something more. A few very shadowy scars, also caused by a whip, he thought. They were even fainter indicating that Athos must had received them before Dieppe. Aramis filed the information away, but did not immediately ask the questions running through his curious mind. Later, after dinner and a few cups of brandy, Aramis was more likely to be able to pry the story out of his tight-lipped brother.
In the weak afternoon sunshine, the four musketeers decided on a quick siesta before dinner. Athos and Aramis slept the longest and while their brothers were still dozing, Porthos and d'Artagnan went into the woods and caught a brace of bunnies to add to their evening meal. The delicious smell of roasting rabbit wafted through the air waking the dozing duo, who gently stretched as they appreciably glanced at the dinner preparations.
As the sun dipped into the horizon, plates of hot food and cups of water were handed round to the hungry men. They all did justice to their splendid repast, including Athos, who was known to prefer drinking rather than eating. After they cleaned up and added some additional wood to the fire, for the night air was turning chilly, the four settled against their saddles on their bedrolls to watch the flickering flames. The brandy had been placed by the edge of the fire to warm and soon the mugs were filled and distributed.
After a few rounds of libations, Aramis glanced over at Athos, who appeared relaxed and mellow. He decided to see if the swordsman would engage in a fireside chat. It had become a tradition, when the Inseparables were isolated around a campfire, for Aramis to start what often turned out to be soul-searching conversations. Athos swore it was a way for Aramis, who was extremely curious, to have a form of entertainment. However, the medic insisted it was not for his benefit, but for that of their souls. D'Artagnan was usually willing to go along because it gave him a chance to learn more about the three men he admired. Porthos participated because he usually supported Aramis' whims. And Athos would tolerate the intrusion, if he was allowed to imbibe enough to get past his self-imposed walls.
"Athos," Aramis started off, his deep brown eyes seeking out Athos' green ones across the fire. "I have been meaning to ask. When I was cleaning the wounds on your back earlier…"
Although Aramis was only halfway through his sentence, Athos already felt a sense of dread crawling up his spine.
"…I noticed you have a few very faint old scars on your back. If I had to make a guess as to the origins, I'd have to say they are from a previous whipping."
"How's that peculiar?" Porthos rumbled, his tone holding a hint of annoyance. "Surely you haven't forgotten what happened to us in Dieppe. I sure as hell never will. Still have nightmares."
D'Artagnan had heard the tale, or the parts that the three musketeers would speak about, and he knew it had been a very trying, almost deadly ordeal for Athos and Porthos. He also suspected there was a lot of the story that was never shared beyond the three Inseparables and d'Artagnan never pushed them. He respected their boundaries.
D'Artagnan glanced over at his mentor to see what his reaction was to the words spoken by Aramis and, as usual, Athos' face revealed little of his inner feelings. A slight darkening of his eyes was the only telltale sign that the swordsman was not comfortable with where this conversation was headed. That, and the fact, he drained his mug in one gulp then sat up and refilled it.
"Those scars appear old, much older than Dieppe." Aramis took a small sip of the smuggler's brandy, which was surprisingly smooth. The unspoken question hung in the air amongst the chirps of the night insects, the swishing of the waves on the shore, and the crackling of the fire's embers.
Aramis pushed a little harder on his friend to try to get him to unburden his soul. Markings like that had to have left not only a physical scar, but also a mental one. The medic was determined to try to heal what he deemed was unresolved, hidden trauma. "Were they from some battle before you joined the musketeers? For the most part, I thought you led the life of a gentle nobleman," he lightly teased the brooding man.
Again, Athos remained silent, though a small frown marred his complexion, indicating he had heard Aramis' jibe and had not appreciated it.
"Are you sure they aren't from the nails of some overly enthusiastic female?" Porthos asked with a huge wink trying to lighten what was becoming an oppressive atmosphere.
"This is Athos we are talking about," d'Artagnan mock-scolded the streetfighter. "A Comte would not let a wench mark him in such a manner."
Athos took a sip from his refilled cup and let the corner of his mouth curl slightly to say he was taking their teasing in stride.
Setting his cup to the side in the sand, Aramis propped his elbows on his bent knees and rested his chin on his fists. "You haven't often spoken of your father and when you do, you have indicated he was a strict disciplinarian. Were these marks made by him?"
Raising his mug to his lips, Athos closed his eyes tight and drank deeply as he tried to drown the memories that were starting to creep around the edges of his mind.
Aramis pushed a little harder on his friend. "It might help to talk about it. You do tend to repress memories."
A small snort came from Porthos and d'Artagnan who couldn't help themselves. That earned them a definite evil eye from Athos as he drained his mug once more before leaning forward to refill it. The brandy was taking the edges away and he thought, after a few more, he might be able to deal with Aramis' probing.
"Give me free access to the brandy with no nagging and perhaps I can tell the tale, though it is a dark one," Athos declared in a somber tone as he set forth his conditions to bare his soul.
Aramis leaned back against his saddle as he spread his arms wide. "Far be it for
me to get between a man and his bottle, though you do know you will wake with a horrible headache."
After taking another large mouthful, Athos replied, "There is both a river and an ocean nearby. I can dunk my head and indeed my whole body come morning as a restorative. And, I think we will not depart this place for a few days. So, I am willing to risk the consequences."
The chirping of the crickets and the waves on the sand seemed to grow quiet in anticipation of the tale about to be spun. Athos drained and refilled his cup before beginning his tale in a voice that sent shivers down the spines of his listeners.
"Like many children, I had felt the sting of the leather strap for actions that displeased my parents. My father believed in the adage 'spare the rod and spoil the child'. I had my fair share of the rod. But those marks of shame were made upon my buttocks. The marks on my back, made by a whip, I received at the age of thirteen when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."