Sorry for the delay on this chapter – I struggled to get it right. Also feeling the need to do some one-shots. I'm loving The Musketeers and obviously d'Artagnan whump so if you have any prompts you want to read send me a message!
The moment D'Artagnan entered the barn he was met with a strong back hand to his face. He saw stars for a moment and struggled to keep his feet until he regained his footing and looked up to see the angry eyes of his captor.
'When I said get your horse I meant now, not whenever you felt like it,' Felix growled, throwing a swift punch D'Artagnan's way. Ordinarily he would have been able to dodge it like it was second nature to him and probably deliver a matching one of his own but his head felt like it was full of cotton wool and his side was screaming at him. D'Artagnan fell hard against the wooden wall behind him, slumping to the floor. He looked up to glare at Felix, turning his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood.
'Get on your horse and so help me God if you don't do it now I will kill you where you sit,' Felix spoke softly but there was no hiding the venom from his tone.
D'Artagnan's lips lifted in a smile and he scoffed at him.
'I don't think God is going to be helping you in any way,' He shot back, pushing himself to his feet and standing at his full height. 'And don't forget you need me. I wouldn't be thinking about killing me anytime soon if you want that letter.'
Felix all but snarled at him before stalking out of the barn and leaving Pierre in charge. D'Artagnan watched him leave with a glare. He walked over to his horse and started fixing the saddle to her back. He could feel Pierre watching him, could feel his pistol trained on his back, and the memory of the night his father was murdered came flooding back to him. It felt eerily similar; the rain pelting the roof of the barn, the gun pointed at his back, it felt almost overwhelming.
He glanced over his shoulder as he buckled the saddle under the belly of his mare. Pierre's eyes were darting around the barn, the pistol at the end of his arm trembling. D'Artagnan raised his eyebrow at him as he stood. Pierre's eyes shot towards him and he involuntarily smiled at him. D'Artagnan, despite his surprise, smiled back.
'You should have got your cloak, the rain doesn't seem to be letting up,' Pierre spoke softly with a smile. D'Artagnan regarded him for a moment. He didn't seem to be much older than himself, maybe 22 at the most. An ally perhaps?
D'Artagnan shrugged, wincing as he felt the stitches pull. He was sure at least one of them had ripped; he could vaguely feel the trickle of blood running down his side. 'It's not like I was given much of a choice by your boss.'
Pierre nodded, putting the safety back on his pistol and attaching it back onto his belt. 'He doesn't have a lot of patience. Maybe try not to make him angry?'
D'Artagnan scoffed, grabbing the reins of his horse and walking towards the door. 'I'm certainly not trying. My friends would say I just have a talent for it.'
Outside the barn, and unhappily back in the rain, D'Artagnan mounted his horse. Felix tossed a rope to Pierre and watched as he tied the Musketeer's hands together.
Struggling in the dim starlight the group set off, D'Artagnan's mind going into overdrive. He had to come up with a plan, and soon.
Back at the inn, Victor was pacing back and forth beside the stairs that led to the rooms on the first floor. He glanced up at the landing every time he walked past them before shaking his head and resuming his pacing.
He had spent several minutes after the bandits and the young Musketeer had ridden off sitting in the chair and composing himself. He was well aware how close he had come to losing his life. He righted the tables and chairs of the dining area and made sure everything in his room was as it was before the bandits had attacked.
His hands were in fists by his side as he struggled with the thoughts of what he should do. He felt as though he should wake the other Musketeers and let them know what had happened with the hope that they would chase down their friend and rescue him. However he was also not aware of how badly the other three were injured or if they were even capable of riding.
He could tell that the boy was injured; he may have been able to school his features but Victor had seen the sweat on his brow and the tremble of his limbs as he left the inn. D'Artagnan's purse of money weighed heavily in his pocket. He could faintly hear the coins jangling as he paced. He had promised he would keep the money safe for him and he would keep that promise. He knew that these were all the funds the boy had in the world and he wouldn't let the unscrupulous attackers take it from him.
It was the clinking of the coins in the end that made his decision for him. Creeping his way up the stairs he paused in front of the room where the three older Musketeers were housed. He knocked quietly and waited a few moments to see if there was a response. None came.
He inhaled sharply before opening the door as quietly as he could. One thing he was sure of was that he shouldn't sneak up on a trained soldier. He was likely to lose his life.
Noting that none of the soldiers had noticed him enter the room, he glanced around and took them in.
The young dashing looking one was curled up on the cot nearest the door, the blankets wrapped up around his chin, his breathing even. His face had a slight green tinge to it and his brows were furrowed with pain. Victor quickly grabbed one of the many cloths that were on the table and dunked it into the bucket of cool water. Wringing out the excess, he placed it on the man's forehead, noting that a small sigh of content escaped his lips.
Victor's lips quirked into a smile as he went over to the bed furthest from the door. The dark skinned man lay on his stomach, his limbs pointing in every direction, and loud snores escaping his mouth. He gathered that the three men had been on multiple missions together over their time for the other two seemed not to notice.
While the soldier had looked peaky when Victor had first seen him, his colour seemed relatively restored and Victor moved away from him towards the last soldier.
The eldest Musketeer lay on his back, a large lump evident under the blankets where the bandage was wrapped thickly around his thigh. The blood-soaked bandages that D'Artagnan had used on him lay to the side ready to be disposed of. He grabbed another cloth and no sooner had he wet it and placed it on the man's forehead than a hand shot up from under the blankets and grabbed his wrist.
He jumped back but the hand had a tight grip on his arm and he was unable to move far. He looked into the face of the soldier on the bed and the ice blue eyes glared back at him.
'Who are you?' The soldier all but growled, tightening his grip on the man as he looked around the room for his comrades. Seeing two of them sound asleep his shoulders relaxed a little.
'I am Victor and you are in my inn. Do not worry, I am here to look after you,' Victor explained, thankful when the man released his wrist. He could see the confusion on the soldier's face as he pushed himself into a seated position, biting his tongue to stop the groan that wanted to escape his lips.
Victor darted over the table and poured him a cup of wine, helping him drink it when it was obvious his hands were shaking too badly.
'I am Athos. Apologies for attacking you monsieur,' Athos mumbled, his eyes drooping closed.
'No need for apologies, I understand you have all been attacked recently. It is only natural that you would want to protect yourself.'
Athos nodded, reaching his hand out and taking the cup half filled with wine from Victor's hand. He was feeling more awake now and thankfully felt free of any fever.
'Are my friends well?' Athos asked, taking another gulp of wine and resting his head against the headboard behind him.
'Fighting fit,' a voice groaned from the corner before Victor could answer the question. Porthos pushed himself upright, sitting at the side of the bed and stretching his back. He sighed as he felt the bones crack, turning his head from side to side to check his concussion. While the headache remained, it was a dull ache rather than the sharp stabs he had been subject to earlier.
'Clearly,' Athos smirked, nodding at Porthos when he met his eyes.
'More importantly how are you? We were worried,' Porthos stated as he stood from the bed to pour himself some wine.
'Sore,' Athos admitted, 'but I will survive. What happened to you two?'
'Concussion. Bastards got us good,' Porthos growled as he remembered the sound Aramis had made when his shoulder had been injured.
As though Aramis could tell what Porthos was thinking, he let out a moan as he peeled his eyes open.
'Why are you so loud in the mornings?' He whined, pulling the blankets closer to his body and nuzzling his head further into the pillow beneath his aching head.
'It is not morning yet,' Porthos confirmed, pulling back the covering to look into the dark and rainy night, 'Besides you should really be used to us by now.'
Aramis scoffed and rolled his eyes at the larger man.
'I could never get used to you dear Porthos.'
Porthos grinned, downing the wine before lying back down on the bed. He looked over as though noticing Victor standing by the door for the first time.
'Thank you for your help and hospitality monsieur, I promise you will be rewarded before we leave,' Porthos assured the smaller man, his eyes already closing as his headache started abating.
'Where is D'Artagnan?' Athos asked, stretching his legs to test the pain. He was surprised to feel that, apart from the obvious burning from the pull of the stitches, the pain was almost bearable. D'Artagnan had done a good job, he thought, silently beaming to himself.
'He must be in one of the other rooms. There are only 3 beds in here, and he would need to rest. He exhausted himself taking care of all of us. I'm also not convinced he wasn't hurt himself,' Aramis explained, reluctantly pushing himself out of the bed to go and check his brothers. While he had undoubted faith in D'Artagnan's abilities at fixing his brothers' wounds, he wasn't a trained medic and Aramis wanted to be sure that there would be no complications.
'Aye, the lad did well to stitch you up,' Porthos agreed as Aramis came over and checked him over.
'Concussion is still there but your pupils are looking much better. I think you will survive,' Aramis joked, squeezing Porthos' shoulder.
Porthos scowled light heartedly, shoving Aramis off his bed and towards Athos.
Victor suddenly felt his mouth go dry and wasn't sure how to get the words out. He reached into his pocket and pulled out D'Artagnan's leather purse, holding it firmly in his hand.
Athos seemed to notice the movement and glanced down.
'That is D'Artagnan's,' Athos stated, pushing himself upright as Victor nodded.
'Tell me the lad isn't going to try to pay for all of this,' Porthos shook his head, 'I know I jest about him paying his fair share as the youngest Musketeer but the boy barely has 2 sous to rub together.'
Victor shook his head, handing the purse over into Athos' outstretched hand.
'He tried to but I refused.'
Aramis smiled brightly at him.
'Thank you monsieur. We will ensure that you are paid. Could you please return this to D'Artagnan and ask him to join us if he is awake?'
Victor felt a cold chill rush over him. How was he supposed to tell these men what had befallen their friend.
'D'Artagnan isn't here,' the words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. Athos' brows lowered as he stared at him.
'What do you mean he isn't here? Where would he go? It's the middle of the night.'
'The men who attacked you on the road came looking for you. They attacked me and I was outnumbered. They were going to come and hurt you further but D'Artagnan agreed to take them to get the letter that you had hidden,' Victor explained, wringing his hands in front of him.
Athos felt ill as he reached over to where his doublet lay on the ground beside his bed. He opened the hidden pocket and pulled out the sealed envelope.
'Oh God,' Victor whispered as he looked at the soldiers in front of him.
'Stupid boy,' Porthos cursed, running his hand through his hair.
'Get dressed, we have to get him,' Athos struggled to push himself up.
'You're not able to go anywhere,' Aramis scolded, attempting to push him back down.
'It's D'Artagnan,' Athos simply stated, staring deep into Aramis' eyes. The medic nodded and rushed over to his cot to get dressed. Athos was right. This was D'Artagnan.