CHAPTER 45

It was well after midday by the time Aramis and Porthos managed to get to the stream unable to get out of their assignment any earlier. It had been a particularly busy day in the old section of Paris near the Court of Miracle where they had been assigned to patrol. Desperate to get back to make sure Athos was alright, Porthos had risked his life to find an old acquaintance and ask them to cease robbing, for just one day, so he and Aramis could leave. Aramis had been concerned when Porthos told him his plan, and while the streetfighter was gone, Aramis spilt his time between worrying about Athos and fretting about Porthos. As a man of action, standing around waiting was agony for the marksman. Finally, Porthos returned, a deal struck though he wouldn't reveal the terms, and they were free to go, knowing that 'magically' the thievery in the area would halt, at least until the morn.

Quickly, they retrieved their mounts and headed for the stream. As they approached, Aramis let out a sigh of relief when he spotted Athos, curled on the grass appearing to be asleep. It seemed their friend had managed to bathe as evidenced by their eyes that could see him freshly dressed, his old clothes in a heap, and by their noses which detected no ungodly stench as they neared.

As they approached, they realized he wasn't as unaware of their presence as they thought at first. When they dismounted and walked to where he lay, they saw his left hand ready on his pistol. Had they been anyone else, they had a strong feeling they would be looking down the muzzle of the weapon.

"I see you bathed," Aramis said easily as he dropped to the ground near Athos' side.

The swordsman removed his hand from his gun, struggled upright and once he was sitting, he leaned backwards against the rocks behind him cradling his swollen right hand. Strategically, it was a good place to be, with the rock as a shield behind him. The other two musketeers were impressed by how much Athos had learned in his short time as a soldier; the man was a natural on many levels.

Porthos, who always had a nose for food, spotted the package that Serge had packed, unopened, on the ground a few feet away. Picking it up along with a canteen of water, he walked back to where Aramis and Athos were sitting in the grass. With a slight grunt, he dropped to the ground next to them.

"You forgot to eat your lunch," he said as he dug into the bundle to see what the old cook had packed.

"And your dinner and your breakfast for the last month it would seem," Aramis said running a practiced eye over Athos, whose open shirt allowed him to see a good portion of the man's torso.

Athos shrugged his shoulders so his shirt didn't reveal so much to the prying eyes of the medic-musketeer. "My recent accommodations were a bit…lacking," Athos said drily as he accepted the meat stuffed roll that Porthos held out to him.

Aramis, who could contain himself no longer, looked his friend straight in the eye declaring, "Roudon tortured you. Look at your hand. Your sword hand!"

Athos, who was slowly nibbling at the edge of his sandwich, knowing his system was not accustom to such food, did nothing to acknowledge he heard Aramis' outburst. He did not even glance down at his injured hand.

"He needs to be punished, kicked out of the musketeers for what he did and who he is," Porthos added between mouthfuls of food.

Knowing his friends weren't going to let this conversation drop, Athos felt he had to respond in some fashion. "I don't disagree that Roudon is…" he stopped, struggling for a word then gave up.

"How about a monster?" Aramis suggested as he rose, went to his saddle bags and brought back his medical supplies. "How bad is it?" he asked as he squatted in front of Athos.

"I had full movement up until the infection set in in the wrist. Now things are swollen so I don't really know."

Aramis went about examining, cleaning and preparing a poultice. Athos sat there, silently, putting up with Aramis' ministrations. The sandwich that Porthos had given him, forgotten, lying on the ground where he had dropped it during a particularly painful part of Aramis' cleansing process.

Unexpectedly, Athos blurted out, "I had time to…reflect while I was in prison."

"On what?" Porthos asked with curiosity as he dug through the generous pack that Serge had provided. The old cook was a wise man and knew when Porthos had asked for food for Athos, that the food would really be feeding all three of them. He tried to offer some apple slices to Athos who waved them off.

Porthos' question was a very good one, though Athos knew he couldn't or rather wouldn't enlighten them totally. One of the things he had been thinking about, back in that cell, was his life before he renounced his title and when his father was still alive. He had dwelled upon a good number of things, though mostly the disagreements between him and his father which were numerous and stretched back practically his entire childhood and into adulthood. It seemed he rarely could live up to the expectations of his father, no matter how hard he tried. If there hadn't been such a strong resemblance to his ancestors, Athos might have questioned his parentage. While it was clear they were father and son, they were cut from two entirely different pieces of cloth.

As a young lad, Athos studied history as part of his tutoring and he was intimately aware of the well-established class system in France. However, thanks to a rather enlightened teacher he had while he was in Paris studying, he had come to question if a class system was the only way to run a country. His instructor had planted seeds of change in his young students' minds based on the ideals of Athenian democracy, the Roman Republic and Magna Carta. The liberal minded teacher, who shared this knowledge with his students, was fired when the head of the academy got wind of his ideals. A school for the instruction of the sons of the nobility had no room for such radical ideas. These young men were expected to grow up and take their place in society, serving their King, running their estates and having children to raise as the next generation of nobility. The radical ideals of democracy and self-determination had no place in their lives.

But the ideas had stuck with Athos and when he had returned to the de la Fère estate, he had tried to implement a few small changes. Changes which gave the people of Pinon more say in their lives. But it had failed badly on both sides. His father, when he found out, had been furious and practically called him a traitor. And surprisingly, the inhabitants of Pinon were no readier for the freedoms Athos had offered them than his father was to accept the ideas. It had struck him as odd at the time, and strangely enough, that is what he had contemplated on the long days in his cell. And probably foolishly, he attempted to share those conclusions with his friends now.

"People don't like change. What Captain Treville is doing, mixing on an equal level the nobility and the common, neither side knows for sure if it's good."

Porthos frowned as he stopped eating and looked over at Athos, clearly upset. "Are you saying Roudon is right? That we don't belong in the musketeers because we aren't nobility!"

Athos didn't answer, couldn't answer. He never should have started a conversation like this when his mind was in such a muddled state. He had a point he'd set out to make, but his thoughts were too jumbled to articulate it clearly. So, he did the only thing he could think to do which was to shrug his shoulders a gesture which was further mis-understood.

"That man tortured you, Athos! It was bad enough he convinced Captain Treville to put you in jail, but then Roudon deliberately went out of his way to make your life hell. How can you defend him!" Porthos demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

Aramis raised Athos' right hand, holding it aloft. "Porthos is right. How can you defend him? Look at what he did to you! To your sword arm. It's bad enough your palm was skewered by that crazy Spaniard, but now one of the men who is supposed to be on your side mangled your wrist. What if it doesn't heal correctly? What if the infection spreads up your arm and you lose it? What about that change!"

Athos looked at his wrist, then from one friend to the other. He was so tired, so drained and he knew he wasn't making sense to his friends. Wearily, he dropped his chin to his chest. "Change is scary," he murmured before closing his eyes and drifting off.

Porthos was about to say something more but Aramis gave him a quick head shake to ask him not to speak. Aramis lowered Athos' wrist gently, letting it come to rest in the swordsman's lap. Rising, he motioned for Porthos to follow him towards his horse.

Once out of Athos' hearing, Porthos grumbled, "He's not making sense."

Aramis, who had reached his horse, began rooting through his saddlebags. "Torture can do strange things to a person's mind."

"You don't have to tell me that," Porthos replied darkly, the timbre of his voice dropping ominously. "I've seen him tortured before."

Aramis suddenly remembered what Porthos and Athos had faced on their first journey together. Turning back to face his friend, he said, "Yes. You have. I'm sorry."

Porthos brushed aside the apology for it was not needed. "And he didn't break then. Why would he now?"

"He's not broken, Porthos. He's simply unwell, not thinking clearly. He'll be fine after some rest."

They returned to Athos where Aramis went about applying the poultice and wrapping his friend's raw wrist while he was unconscious. The medic was fairly confident, if the wounds were kept clean, the swordsman would make a complete recovery. None of the ligaments or tendons seemed injured and there was still good mobility despite the swelling.

When he was done, Aramis recommended they all rest for a while before heading back to the garrison. They still had few solid hours of daylight left. Athos was rolled onto his side, wrist carefully cradled. Porthos too stretched out on the grass in the sunshine to doze. Aramis stayed awake, unofficially on guard, though there really wasn't a need. However, his mind was a whirling mass of 'what ifs' and 'how tos' and he doubted that he could fall asleep even if he wanted to. Roudon's actions were haunting him, so he sat, watching the water running in the stream and tried to think of a way out of this intolerable situation.

Two hours later as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, he roused his friends, for it was time to be getting back. Athos woke, still quite groggy, and his friends had to help him a little in mounting Roger. But like the consummate rider he was, once in the saddle he had no trouble; riding was as natural as walking to him.

The ride back to the garrison was a quiet affair, each musketeer lost in his own thoughts. As they entered under the gate, Aramis glanced up at Treville's porch, hoping that in their brief absence their Captain had returned. However, his hopes were dashed when the door opened and a frowning Roudon stepped out onto the porch.

It was as if a dark shadow dropped over the courtyard and though he said nothing, the three musketeers felt the icy cold, disapproving stare of Roudon on them. They dismounted and handed their horses to the stable lads before making their way to their quarters. Only after they were safely out of sight of Roudon's prying eyes did they feel they could breathe freely once more.

The days that followed were similar in nature and not pleasant. Everywhere they went, the Inseparables felt Roudon's disapproving gaze upon them. Athos wouldn't elaborate on what he said down at the stream, no matter how hard Aramis cajoled him and eventually the marksman gave up, at least for the moment. They did decide, collectively, that their best course of action was to lay low and wait for Captain Treville's return. While it might have been a sensible idea it was hard to implement. Roudon was going out of his way to make their lives miserable, along with all those whom he deemed not worthy of being a musketeer.

In spite of all their horrible assignments, Athos' wrist and hand did begin to heal, though slowly.

Roudon made sure that on any assignment there was never any more than two 'commoners', as he came to call them, as a part of the effort. He also arranged that the commoners' shifts were split up to keep their numbers low and scattered. As for Aramis, Porthos and Athos, he never let them be on any assignments together. Given that in a regiment of sixty there were only ten soldiers who were not nobility, this wasn't a hard feat. Roudon's rationale was to keep the commoners apart, giving them no chance to congregate, where they might come up with ideas. He felt it would be easier to get rid of them once and for all if they were kept separate. Isolate them. Drive them out of the musketeers. This became Roudon's obsession and when it didn't work fast enough, he took it a step further.