The rain had not let up when the men of the Musketeers were called to assemble within the courtyard. A bench had been dragged out from the mess and now stood upon the flagstones beneath the outer wall, giving all a good view of the proceedings.
D'Melliuor stood upon the balcony with his son beside him, his mouth twisted in a small, yet haughty smile. Athos' steely gaze never left the man's face as Jussac read out d'Artagnan's crime and its punishment. From those assembled who had not been privy to the details there came a murmur of disquiet.
"The Captain, in judging that the transgression was made though wilful negligence, not malice, has granted the cadet a reprieve from the fullest measure of the penalty for desertion," Jussac read from the order, his voice a sneer.
Athos knew that none of the Musketeers gathered believed for a moment that d'Melliuor was being magnanimous in keeping d'Artagnan away from the noose. Even as strict as Treville could be, the same infraction – clearly nothing but an honest mistake – under his command would have meant no more than a bawling out and double duties, or a long, boring stint on guard. D'Melliuor's obvious delight in ordering the whipping turned Athos' guts sour.
D'Artagnan was trying not to shiver in his shirt and braies, lest it be mistaken for fear. Standing next to him, Athos offered him what comfort he could, though his face remained impassive. His hand about the boy's upper arm squeezed it gently; the thumb, hidden from view, rubbing the skin in an encouraging manner.
When ordered, Athos directed d'Artagnan to the bench, and took the clothes as the boy handed to him. He lay them, neatly folded, upon a chair at the side, under which he placed d'Artagnan's boots.
Once stripped, d'Artagnan laid upon the bench, his hands outstretched before him as if in supplication, turning his head to the side and pressing his cheek into the rain-slicked wood, his jaw grim-set but the fire in his eyes banked to prevent accusations of insolence.
Without betraying his rage, Athos swiftly tied the boy in place with cotton strips; one over the wrists, another at the neck, and another around the ankles. It was meant to be plain rope but Athos dared Jussac to make a point of his substitution. He made sure to fasten the strips tight so that Charles had something to strain against. By the end of the punishment he would need that help.
When finished Athos stood back, ensuring that he stood in the boy's line of sight, barely a foot away, and on the opposite side to Jussac.
As the second in command withdrew the birches from their bucket and squeezed the excess water from them, Athos gave d'Artagnan an encouraging half-smile. D'Artagnan responded in kind, one eye flickering for the briefest of moments in a wink. Athos nodded in return, glad that his brother was as yet unfazed by his ill-treatment
Jussac started at d'Artagnan's head, waiting for an unnecessary length of time before quickly swinging the birches up and down upon d'Artagnan's palms.
The boy flinched but did not cry out.
Taking a step to the side, Jussac landed his second blow upon d'Artagnan's back, over the shoulder blades where the skin was stretched tightest.
So that was how the bastard was playing it? Laying one blow per area to let the abused skin settle and prickle before the next. A perfect method to elicit the maximum amount of pain from the subject.
Athos kept the fury from his face, saying with his eyes what he could not with words, encouraging the boy as best he was able. D'Artagnan took the pain bravely, barely making any sound, even when the tender skin of his feet was whipped. The look he fixed upon Athos nearly broke his heart, so filled with trust and a desire to be brave. He felt his breathing quickening and forced himself to focus on a more settled rhythm. Anger would not serve their young brother well here.
At the second pass, d'Artagnan's teeth snapped together, his breath hissing through them with each strike.
Jussac made no attempt to pull his blows, the speed and force of the birches cutting with a whistle through the air and cracking down on the boy's flesh with a meaty sound that made Athos nauseous. He could feel Jussac's eyes upon him between each strike, daring Athos to meet them, to see the triumphant mockery there.
In his days as a Red Guard, Jussac had been beaten more than once in a tussle with the Musketeers: clearly he was not a man to let old grudges lie.
On the fourth pass, as the birches landed on his thighs, d'Artagnan gave a low whimper. His eyes were misted with unshed tears, the idea that he was losing this battle of wills clearly filling him with mortification. But it was not until the sixth pass that he let those tears fall. His gaze was still on Athos, refusing to close his eyes, his lips pressed firmly together against any further noise. His body, in the places where the blows fell, was flushed an angry red, raised welts standing livid white among it. He twitched and shook when the birches fell but otherwise remained still.
Athos continued breathing deeply and slowly, encouraging the boy with his eyes to mimic the rhythm. Breathe lad. It will soon be over. I am here. We are here for you, brother.
The birches landed with a crack against the crease of d'Artagnan's buttocks and thighs. The boy yelped, clearly unable to prevent it, his cheeks flushing with horror and shame as he realised his slip.
"Hold," Athos snapped. He marched forwards and dropped to one knee before d'Artagnan's head.
"What is the matter, private?" D'Melliuor drawled impatiently from the balcony.
"His tie has slipped, sir," Athos said, keeping his voice businesslike, unfeeling. "I must re-secure it."
"Be sure that you make a better job of it this time," d'Melliuor said dripping sarcasm.
Athos nodded mutely, his guts roiling, in desperate need of wine.
He took as long as he dared fixing the tie, letting one hand rest upon the boy's head as he tugged the material to test it, his thumb quite accidentally swiping tears from d'Artagnan's cheek in the process.
"All fixed, captain," he said, giving one final squeeze of the boy's nape before stepping back. D'Artagnan gave him a limp half-smile, which Athos returned in the form of the barest twitch of his lip. Half-way through. Their brother could do this.
"Sir," Jussac drawled, addressing the captain. "My arm is growing tired. May I request my second?"
From the crowd came the sound of Porthos' growl, mercifully covered by the general unrest of the Musketeers. Athos thought he heard Aramis snarling: "That little shit." He fought not to chuckle at that; the grim reality of the situation was so absurd that he felt light-headed. It was a high price for his insubordination with the ties, but still better than Jussac continuing to wear the lad's skin out like a fencer's dummy.
At d'Melliuor's authorisation he stepped forwards, trying not to snatch the birches when Jussac held them out, the man massaging his arm in melodramatic fashion. Athos was glad now that he had chosen to leave his knives in his chambers this morning; skinning the filthy turncoat would have given him no greater satisfaction but might have been frowned upon given the circumstances.
He cleared his mind of anger, however, knowing that his arm would respond in kind. His young brother did not deserve to feel Jussac's wroth from a second party any more than he had deserved it first-hand.
Without pause to allow the situation to unman him, Athos laid a smart blow upon d'Artagnan's thighs. He was not foolish enough to think he could get away with anything less than his full force, but without the vindictiveness behind Jussac's blows d'Artagnan had at least a small measure of reprieve.
He ignored the small whimper from the lad; ignored the way his heart wrenched and tore, flayed as rawly as the skin before him. He was swift, not allowing time between the strokes for pain to build within either party.
At the ninth pass the first flash of blood began weep from the interlacing welts. He avoided the thin flesh at the shoulders, moving to the untouched skin of the middle back. God strike him blind if the boy could not raise a sword thanks to this travesty.
D'Artagnan was yelping softly at each blow now, quietly enough that his voice barely reached the restless crowds. Less than twenty to go. If Athos moved faster it would be over very soon.
"Hold," Jussac called.
Athos stilled, his hand raised above him. He glared at Jussac for daring to interrupt, the murderous heat in his eyes strong enough to make the commander flinch. The wretch regained his composure swiftly, however, responding to d'Melliuor's inquiry as he strode forwards.
"He's biting his lip, sir," he said.
"Well stop him," d'Melliuor drawled, "wouldn't want the boy injuring himself."
"You're doing well enough for him," Porthos grumbled from the crowd. The words were low enough to be lost to all but the Musketeers in the courtyard, who gave a chuckling murmur of agreement at the rebuke.
"If you men find yourselves possessed with an overabundance of energy so that you cannot remain still, then I shall be pleased to find you more duties on which to expend it," d'Melliuor snapped. "Or perhaps a reduction in rations is merited?"
As one, the Musketeers stamped to attention with overly-enthusiastic vigour, remaining in position as rigid and sharp as glass. Their grumbling may have ceased but discontent rippled just under the surface like a shark scenting blood.
Jussac meanwhile had pulled a dirty, well-used handkerchief from his pocket. He twisted the rancid cloth into a thin line before forcing it between d'Artagnan's teeth to tie behind his head.
Athos was going to kill Jussac; slowly, over the course of many days. His hand gripped the birches so hard that his hand ached, wishing it was his sword that he could drive into the man's belly. He would writhe and scream for days before he died, poisoned by his own bile and shit.
Athos watched as Jussac retreated to his position, a triumphant sneer playing on the commander's lips.
He looked down upon the birches, collecting his courage and steeling his heart. A line of blood pooled on the tip of one of the stems, gathering and then falling to splash upon the stones.
Movement before Athos had him looking again toward his brother.
With effort, d'Artagnan turned his head until he was facing Athos.
Seeing the boy's brave, bold stare had the rage flood from him, and Athos gave the lad a purpose-filled nod, matching the boy's determined gaze.
"If I might be permitted to continue?" he asked, words laced with sarcasm.
"Get it over with, private," d'Melliuor snapped.
D'Artagnan didn't move for the next six blows, though the delay between them had surely re-ignited the full fury of their sting. His eyes were dry, his breathing rapid and sharp, yet steady. Athos could not have been more proud of him.
The blood flew at each blow now, flecking Athos' face and hands. God help the boy, but he was the best of them. Henri would die. Jussac would die. No man would ever live that caused pain to the noble spirit before him. Not whilst Athos drew breath. Not while a Musketeer remained in Paris.
D'Artagnan's eyes were glazed by the time Athos made the twelfth and final pass, his mouth hanging slack around that filthy rag.
Athos laid the last three blows down without pause. He ignored the words Jussac spoke to the crowd in conclusion of the farce, murder bubbling in his mind like a hot tar pit. He cast the birches to Jussac, interrupting the man and seeing with satisfaction the way the blood splattered over his face and torso.
As Athos cut the bindings over d'Artagnan's wrists he saw that Aramis and Porthos working upon those at the neck and ankles. He cut the handkerchief from the boy's lips, casting the ruined rag upon the ground. The smell of blood mixed with rainwater, and the sight of d'Artagnan's ruined flesh close to, made him bite back nausea.
"Easy lad, we have you," he whispered, stroking his hand – soaked in the boy's own blood – over d'Artagnan's sweat-drenched hair. His skin was cold and goose-fleshed from the rain, still falling as it was in a stingingly fine mist.
"Can you stand, mon ami?" Aramis whispered at his other side. "I have a cloak…"
"No…" d'Artagnan croaked a whispered reply, his voice raw. "No cloaks…" he pressed his eyes closed and with a shudder made to push himself from the bench, his weight upon his arms to save his punished hands.
Athos did not allow the lad to move more than an inch before he had swept him up. He held the boy's legs at the knee under one arm, tilting the lad forwards so that his chest leant most of his weight against Athos' own to support him. The hold was undignified, as one would cradle a child, but he would strike down any man who mocked his brother at this moment.
Not that the assembled Musketeers would have done so. The fury and discontent was palpable. D'Artagnan was well liked amongst the soldiers, thanks to his earnest yet easy-going nature, and penchant for harmless mischief.
In choosing d'Artagnan his whipping boy, D'Melliuor had made a most grievous error.