a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and any zombie concerns.
Chapter includes (warning/spoilers): Human cruelty,
Note: That for all the awesome reviews everyone! It makes me so happy! :) I hope you all enjoy this next chapter.
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
Life is Death is Dead
Chapter 3: —
As Serge had predicted, Captain Treville and his escort of Musketeers returned to the garrison from Louis' hunting trip the next afternoon; weary and worn from nearly a fortnight of being alert and on sensitive shift. Upon entry of the garrison yard, he dismissed his men to wash, rest, and eat as he laid his eyes upon his three returned Inseparables. He nodded to them and jerked his chin towards his office in silent invitation, even as he walked passed and mounted the steps to the balcony.
The three clambered to their feet and followed their Captain up the stair and into his office upon the second floor of the garrison.
They had lingered in the tavern still, after Lemay parted and headed back to Louvre. Even after Athos' decision to wait upon Treville's return, Aramis persisted on the matter until the older man set him silent with a sharp remark. The marksman had glared at him and Porthos both for a long tense moment, before he pushed from the table and stalked from the tavern, jamming his hat harshly onto his head. Porthos and Athos just shared a look and sighed, before Porthos drained his cup and Aramis' for good measure, and made after the man. Though it bore little result. Aramis had shut himself in his room, alone. Even now, as they had sat at their table in the yard with their breakfast, waiting and hoping for Treville immanent return, there was a underlining tension.
Treville set his bag at the foot of his bed and went to the side table to poor himself a glass of water from the sitting jug as his men filed in and his door was closed upon the four men.
He exhaled as he sat behind his desk, cracked his neck, and sipped his water. "What have you found?" he asked, skipping over the needless preliminaries. "Seeing as Cornet and his men aren't present, I assume it's what we've all suspected."
Athos nodded grimly, even as Aramis stood restlessly behind him. "The trail was cold. The entire time we were out there, we found no trace on their set course. It wasn't until we were headed home three days ago, that we came upon a spent fight on the main road. The attack appeared to have happened during that big storm. One of the bodies had on a pauldron," the Lieutenant stepped forward and placed said article on Treville's desk.
Treville leaned forward and his fingertips briefly brushed across the leather. "Cornet?"
"Paul Laudin," Athos corrected. "But that was not the man wearing the uniform."
Treville looked at him man with furrowed brows for a moment, before realisation dawn. "You think my men were ambushed and killed, and their uniforms taken?" Athos nodded. "But for what reason?"
Athos shook his head this time. "That is something we have yet to figure out."
Treville sighed, and put his glass down. "Cornet was a good man, a great Musketeer. He and his men's loss with felt and mourned." Silence filled the office for a moment of respect, before the Captain's gaze was drawn behind Athos' shoulder and to the fidgety Spaniard; Athos was surprised the young man was still silent this long. "Is there something else?"
Athos shot a look at Aramis. "Lemay. He came to us with urgent message regarding the Cardinal."
Treville straightened at that. "The Cardinal. It's been a while since Lemay has found reason to report—what did he have to say?"
"As we well know, Richelieu has been after some inoculation against the infection of the bite."
"Which is jus' a hoax," Porthos inserted. Aramis glared at the big man.
"Are you saying he's found it?" Treville asked in confusion.
"Milady came into possession—"
"Possession?" Aramis protested in disgust. "She kidnapped a boy, Athos!"
"Boy?" Treville was even more perplexed than before.
Athos sighed and rubbed his beard. "Lemay said that she had been following after a rumour that spread from Pinon a few years ago about a Gascon boy who was bit and survived the fever. She found him a fortnight ago."
"And you believe him?"
"Why would he lie?" was Athos' answer.
"Of course it's true!" Aramis muttered and Athos ignored him.
"He say's he's seen the boy survive the bite himself."
Treville leaned his elbows on the edge of his desk as he processed what he had been told.
"They're torturing him." Aramis spat impatiently. "We have to save this boy, Captain!" Aramis stepped forward, unable to contain himself any longer on the matter. Athos knew the look on the Spaniard's face well; the one that said he would go himself, regardless of Treville's or Athos' orders. "Before it's too late."
"I agree." Treville said eventually. "Lemay gave you details; on where this boy is being held and his condition?"
Athos nodded. Lemay hadn't known when he would have been able to secret away again, and so imparted all that he knew to the Inseparables. The layout of the cells, how many guards were present, directions directly towards the boy's cell. What gap did lay in their knowledge, was the exact condition of the boy. Every time it was brought up, Aramis would grow visibly and verbally disgusted towards the doctor, who would shrink back in shame. All they were sure of, was that his condition was bad-off.
"Alright." The Captain nodded. "The three of you will extract the boy, using stealth tactics. I want no Musketeer-markings on you. The Cardinal must not know we are involved. As soon as you have the boy, your exit needs to be as stealthy as your entry. Richelieu will find out his prize is missing soon enough, but let's delay that as soon as possible—cover your tracks."
"Yes, Captain!" they all agreed.
"But if you should get there and the boy is passed saving—"
"Captain—!" Aramis jolted forward in protest, knowing exactly where that line of thought was heading.
Treville held him fast with an even gaze. "Aramis—you will do your best to save this boy. Immune or not, he should not be left there to be tortured. But if you cannot, then as hard as it may be, do not leave that boy there to suffer any longer. Send him towards peace."
Aramis panted with emotion, but after a moment, he finally nodded. He didn't like it, but he knew it was true. If he was in the same position, he would want someone to take the same mercy upon him. But he would do everything in his power to prevent it from happening.
"Do you know how the Cardinal plans to take on the immunity himself?" Treville questioned.
"Lemay didn't delve too deeply into detail with that." Athos answered. "I don't think he knows himself. Someone surviving the bite is a new concept. He's experimenting."
"Torture," Aramis whispered again.
"You're dismissed." He nodded. "When you complete the mission, I want a report."
Athos nodded and the three filed from their Captain's office, and the older man's gaze turned back to the lone pauldron sitting upon his desk.
"Let's make our plan," Athos said and clapped his hand on Aramis' shoulder, giving it a squeeze as they walked down the stair. "We move tonight."
Lemay had moved d'Artagnan from the table to the hook that afternoon.
The boy's day went like clockwork, not that he knew if it was day or night. It'd been so long since he had seen the sun. He'd long stopped questioning what the sun was. His brain didn't have the energy to think upon complex things, or much of anything at all. Like a cornered animal, all he had to him now was his base instinct and emotion.
His mind and body were constantly fevered, he was absolutely delirious. He hovered on a blurred line, but what lay on either side was something he did not know or realize. The blue eyes haunted him.
He'd been turned into something other than what he had been, and what he had been, he could not remember. An old grief chocked him, but it was fast lasting. An old and festering wound that withered his heart from something pure and passionate to something dark and hated.
His attention and energy were drawn outward as he heard the clip of boats coming down the hall; it was dinner-time. He slumped down on his toes as the gate opened and a single Guard docked the torch in the holder on the sidewall. His vision flared to the sudden introduction of flickering flames from dim darkness.
"Feeding time," he said grimly and approached, a bowl held in one hand. His eyes were blue.
He slipped the gag from between d'Artagnan's cracked lip and let it fall around his taut neck. The Guard grimaced at the foul smell of the boy's breath. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously as d'Artagnan pushed on his toes and back away from the feeder.
"Where do you think you're goin', freak?" the Guard barked and stepped forward, reaching for the boy.
With what strength d'Artagnan could muster, he lifted his head and lifted his feet the minimal amount required. His body did a small swing toward the Guard, and for a brief moment, as they collided, it was almost as if they were in an embrace. Before the Guard could stumble away, d'Artagnan opened his mouth and clamped down with a growl. The Guard howled and dropped the bowl of zombie-bits, it clattered to the floor as d'Artagnan's teeth sunk into the tender flesh of his throat.
Hot blood spurted down d'Artagnan's throat and up his nose, even as he choked, he refused to let go. He was like a starved dog playing tug-o-war with a piece of meat with another beast. He refused to be the loser. He was not hungry, he'd lost his appetite the moment his father died in his arms. Form then on, his only sustenance was to be vengeance, but that was soon lost to him as he woke up in these cells and realized there was no ford of escape for him.
And soon, a distorted voice over-powered that of his father's Charles, Son—Survive and filled him with Shadow, Monster—Kill. He had no choice but to obey, and this was the first chance it was afforded to him.
The Guard finally managed to free himself from d'Artagnan's eager and resolved chomp, and he stumbled backwards, his hand clamped to his neck. But it was too late, the flow of life had been torn. Blood spurted from between his fingers as he choked. d'Artagnan spat the hot blood from his mouth and watched unblinking as the Guard dropped to his knees shaking. The man looked back at d'Artagnan like he was a deader, the most evil creature, wide-eyed and trembling.
d'Artagnan stared back with utter dispassion until the man finally collapsed to his side. He gasped and jerked, the blood making a small pool around him to mix with the bits of inert zombie flesh, painting the picture of some witch's brew. And then he went still.
d'Artagnan watched him and watched him, his head hung low. He stared through half-lidded dull brown eyes, through the ragged curtain of his bangs. Blood dripped down his chin. His subconscious mind registered something that his conscious mind did not...
The blue-eyed Guard lay unmoving—the blue-eyed Guard lay dead.
As First Minister of France and the Cardinal, Richelieu was considered next to the King and the Queen. He had his own estate at Louvre Palace, and free reign to scheme and hatch him malicious, self-serving plans. And it was in this estate, that he had retrofitted the tunnels under the Old Seminary to fit his needs. Like cells. It was here, where d'Artagnan was being held prisoner and being experimented on in the Cardinal's fantasy to find a immunity to the disease.
As soon as night fell, Treville's three best-men, outfitted for stealth, left the garrison and headed for Louvre on foot. It was too conspicuous to ride, even if it would have been faster. As was there job to know, they waited for a hole in the Red Guards' patrol, and climbed the wall. Though this was their entry, it was far from their exit. No, they had something far more simple in plan for that.
As was their preoccupation, they easily made their way to the Old Seminary. They knew the scheduled patrols of the Red Guards and they were easily avoided, slipping from one cast shadow to the next.
It showed just what kind of man the Cardinal was, to do something so heinous in a place taught of God.
A single Red Guard stood sentry at the door that lead to the tunnels beneath the Old Seminary. Athos silently patted Porthos shoulder and with a flashing grin of white teeth in shadowed face, the big man approached the clueless man with a stealth that contradicted his size.
The Guard struggled for barely a minute under Porthos' punishing chokehold, before he passed-out from lack of breath. The big man dragged the unconscious man from immediate sight of the door. While they had no issue in killing Red Guards—and especially these ones—poor soldiers as they were, they had their uses around the city. Treville had said stealthy, and finding a bunch of dead Red Guards in the morning would cause an uproar, while unconscious ones would just be another embarrassment.
Athos retrieved the keys from the body beforehand, and unlocked the door. Immediately inside was a lit torch in a bracket, and stone stairs leading downwards into darkness. After a nod to his companions, he lead the way into its depths.
On hand the place had a eerie quality. It was so quiet and still. Every sound seemed magnified. Adrenaline rushed in their ears like crashing water. Athos quietly recounted the directions that Lemay had given them in the tavern the night before.
He halted suddenly at the disembodied sounds that greeted him, Aramis and Porthos barely stopped from crashing into him, but they were frozen as well. The older man nearly shook it off as they seemed to hold their breaths and silence greeted them, but then the inhuman sound met their ears again.
Athos finally kicked himself into action again, and took next stretch of block to the left as instructed. They stopped as they cam upon the first cell... The torch spat and flared as he held it aloft, and the darkened areas of the cells were lightened to reveal their contents.
Though Lemay had never stated out-right that d'Artagnan wasn't the only person being experimented on, it was an obvious thing to expect. It had been 16-years, had the Cardinal truly learned nothing? But suspecting something was never as depraved as the actual thing. In the world as what it was today, they were still not hard-pressed to find things that greatly affected and appalled them. The real thing had a effect that imagination didn't.
The sight, the smells, the sounds.
There were so many bodies packed into that first cell, that they seemed to overflow onto one another. The stench was nearly unbearable. What there was of breathing, was the ragged of the tortured and dying. There was to zero movement, but collectively, in the flickering light of the torch, their inhales seemed to cohere together and the movement was like a single, mutilated beast. Women, children, men. It was difficult to tell where one body started and the next ended.
The following cell was empty of people, but its walls were lined with chains and shackles, and in the center were two altered tables that were tilted and arrayed with straps and metal cuffs. The tools arrayed on the table at the foot of these, glinted dully and menacingly in the torchlight.
Finally, the came across the last cell in the block. The sight was just as horrific and overwhelming at the first. Except for more movement in this mass than the last. The mournful sounds seemed to notch up at their presence and light outside the cell. They were in too many states to properly recount. It was a sight that would forever be etched into their brains.
A small arm weakly outstretched towards them, and Aramis made a broken sound of his own as he saw that it was the arm of small girl. It dropped back down a second later, blending again into the main mass.
"We have to—" Aramis started, grasping the bars and staring desperately at the mutilated people before him.
"We can't." Athos said. He was as shocked and appalled as the other two, but he made his tone sound harsh for a reason—it was sometimes the only way to get through to the Spaniard when he was like this. It amazed Athos, after all these years, and all the tragedy that the young Spaniard had suffered through, how he was still so compassionate and soft-hearted. If it had been a numbers game, Aramis would have won above them all. He'd lost his entire family, his father, mother, and two older brothers; the countless family he had left behind in Spain; his new wife and unborn child. And all Athos had lost was his younger brother and his liar wife. But where Aramis had God, Athos did not. "The boy is our goal, he is what he came for and he is all we can afford to take."
Aramis breathed heavily for a moment, despite the stench of unwashed bodied and death. Finally, he nodded and forced himself away from the bars and turned down the darkened tunnels, making his feet take him away from the people he couldn't help and to the one that he could. He would save this boy if it killed him. And he would kill any who got in his way.
Athos and Porthos had to rush to catch up.
It was after the next three lengths and turns that they came upon the dead-end cell that they had been seeking. The gate was partially open, Lemay said they didn't even bother to lock the boy's like they had the others.
Aramis pushed the gate the rest of the way open and the three stepped into the lit cell. Athos placed the torch in the second empty bracket. A Guard lay dead on the floor in a puddle of his own blood at the feet of the boy. The boy was shackled to the wall and hanging from a contraption on the ceiling. They all looked at him in horror.
The boy hung limply, unmoving, his head hung and his chin touched his chest. He was stripped of nothing by his braies, which themselves had been cut short to further expose untouched flesh. His body became the canvas for some sick artist. Everywhere the eye turned, it seemed there was a bite there at one point or another. Soiled bandages wrapped some space of his arms, but the rest of him was left exposed. The flickering torchlight cast the deep gouges in his flesh in shadow, tricking the eyes into thinking they were endless pits.
The smell in here, like with the other cells, was malodorous. It smelt of the unwashed, human waste, decay, and hopelessness.
At the sight of him, Porthos was immediately sure it was better to just put the boy down and leave while they were ahead. He wished to unseen what he saw. After that first year in the Court of Miracles, and then watching as it was razed, the man thought he had seen the worst the world had to offer. But he couldn't have been more wrong. This boy, those nameless people in those other cells... this, this was the horror of the world in one place. It festered here. This was the place that needed to be razed to the ground. He would light the place himself.
A voiceless, broken groan emitted from the boy, a crack of breath. It startled the three men from their horror-filled reveries. Porthos immediately drew his main gauche and stepped to the boy.
"What are you doing?" Aramis exclaimed.
Porthos looked over his shoulder at him. "You 'eard the Captain. Look at 'im. It's better to put 'im down." He turned back to the boy and rose the dagger. "An' if I know my deaders, 'e's one of 'em."
"No!" Aramis rushed forward and grabbed the bigger man's arm, halting his killing stroke. "You can't, he's alive!"
"You only 'ave to look at 'im to see that 'e's not." Porthos growled.
Aramis pushed him away and turned to the boy. He reached forward without hesitation and lifted the Gascon's chin gently. His skin was hot with fever. His expression was slack. His skin was lacklustre. His face was relatively untouched; it appeared to be the only place not riddle with bites or cuts. His lips were dried, cracked, and split. Shadows painted his chin. Aramis wanted to cry at the sight of him.
Athos' focus kept being drawn to the dead Guard on the floor. It was obvious that his throat was torn out. He attention was drawn to the pool of blood, and the strange shadows that flickered across it from the torchlight. Brows furrowed, he peered closer and soon distinguished the grey and discoloured lumps, and the upturned bowl—and his stomach turned.
"They've been feeding him dead flesh!" Athos shouted and gagged in horror.
"What?" Aramis looked over at his outburst in distraction. Belatedly, he noticed the gag around the boy's neck.
d'Artagnan showed his first signs of true life then, and he bit the closest thing to him—the Spaniard's wrist. Aramis cried out in shock and pain, and wrenched his arm free from the clamping teeth. He jumped back, holding his wrist. Porthos let out a bellow of rage and dove for the teen. Aramis stared at the teen in wide-eyes shock, and was shocked even further to find his eyes met with half-masted brown irises.
"WAIT!" Aramis' screech barely halted his friend. "Look! Look at his eyes!"
Reluctantly, Porthos peered into brown orbs instead of white, but still they chilled him to the bone. They seemed soulless. He fought the urge to drive the dagger into the boy's skull anyways. He was sure those eyes would haunt him, and he was only able to look away when the boy's head dropped back to his chest in exhaustion.
"Please." Aramis begged. "If we can't save him—he at least doesn't deserve to die in a place like this! Please!" his gaze bore into Athos, because ultimately, it would be his decision.
"He bit you." Athos said plainly.
"So what?" Aramis demanded. "His bite is just a bite. He's alive, look at him."
"Barely," Porthos muttered.
From what he had just seen, from Aramis to the Guard, and the zombie flesh in the pooled blood, Athos didn't think that there was anything left of the boy that he had been before being taken prisoner. He could understand fully now, the disgust that Aramis felt toward Lemay. He agreed with Porthos on the matter, the boy should be put out of his misery. He could also see that if either of them attempted such a thing, Aramis would be the one be the one attacking them.
"You're right," he said finally. "He doesn't deserve to die in a place like this."
Porthos compressed his lips in silent disapproval. Aramis ignored him as he wrapped a handkerchief around his bloody and burning wrist. He prayed to God that he was right about the bite (there was no telling what the consumption of zombie flesh might do) but either way, he was getting the boy out of this horror house.
"But the gag goes back in." Athos said firmly, and Aramis reluctantly did as he was ordered.
Aramis took off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy's frail and wounded body as Porthos and Athos came around and removed the pole from the chains. He lowered the boy to the ground and held his still form as the other two men picked a shackle-lock each.
"Let's go," Athos said, taking up the torch again. "We've wasted enough time and made enough noise."
Reluctantly, it was Porthos who was made to carry the boy out. He didn't even grunt as he hefted the slight body over his shoulder. He turned his nose at the smell. Naught but a scratchy breath left the lad and Porthos shuddered at the sound. He quickly followed at Athos' heels, and Aramis was all but up his backside in concern for the boy as he hung there limply.
They didn't stop as they passed the other cells, and Aramis spared them but a glance and sent a prayer to God for them; his focus was on the boy now. They could hear the distinct groan and gnashing that the biters made from another block, and they ignored it, even as it gave them the chills. It would always give them the chills.
They climbed the stairs back to the door, and Athos put the torch in its original bracket before he cracked open the door. The coast was still clear and they exited. Athos locked the door back up and tossed the keys to the still unconscious body of the Guard.
Now was there exit plan—they left straight out the front gate.
As Athos made himself aware, each night at a specific shift-change in Guards at the gate, there was a brief window in which the gate was completely unguarded. The Inseparables used this to their advantage. It was a shoddy work and couldn't stand; they really were going to have to address it at a later point in time.
They walked a single block before they were forced to duck into a side alley as a pair of Red Guards on curfew patrol came down the street, conversing loudly. If the pair looked down the alley, all they would have discerned were more unidentified shapes amongst the refuse. But what the Red Guards also didn't know, was that earlier in the evening, Porthos and Aramis had visited this very alley with a handcart in tow, and left empty-handed.
Athos and Aramis cleared away the refuse they had used as camouflage and pulled the cart around. Aramis glared at Porthos as he all-but dumped the boy into the bed. The Spaniard gently arranged the unconscious boy's limbs more comfortably before covering him entirely with the cloak.
Though there was a need to be off the streets as soon as possible, they went at half-pace. Porthos pushed the cart and Aramis was glued alongside it, keeping one-eye turned behind them. Athos trailed ahead to make sure the next street was clear, before he signalled back to them, before moving onto the next.
The rattle of the wheels seemed thunderous in the quiet night as they seemed to hit every rut and bump in the street. Aramis' ears pricked as he heard an undertone in the clatter. He thought it was just nerves, the adrenaline. There was no flickering light through closed shutters of the houses they passed. Athos kept calling the all-clear. His gaze switched back to the covered figure in the cart. The cart jolted as Porthos hit another rut, and he heard the undertone again.
"Wait!" Aramis hissed, "Stop." And Porthos halted instantly, tense.
"What is it?"
Aramis bent over the side of the cart.
"There's no time." Athos muttered sharply in warning, standing ahead of them.
The younger man ignored him, and flipped aside his cloak to reveal the dark head of the boy. There was a moment of stillness, and then he saw the twitch of movement. This time, he was able to hear the soft groan that issued from him in the silence. "He's waking up, we have to hurry!" he urged, covering the boy again.
Urgency replaced their caution. In d'Artagnan's state, it would not be a good thing if he awoke in an open place that he didn't comprehend with three strange men. If he caused a commotion and drew the attention of the residents, the Red Guards would soon be alerted and their plan foiled. The backlash would be harsh.
They passed the garrison. That was not their intended resting place. Treville said that the Musketeers could not have any connection with this, and outwardly they wouldn't. They made for Athos' apartment instead. Athos' apartment was in a part of town where people stuck to themselves and minded their own business. His landlord was a old widow, who left him to himself as long as he paid rent.
If caught, they had agreed to play Musketeers gone rogue if it came to that—but they knew that publicly, the Cardinal couldn't point the stinking finger. No, like all his treachery, it would be played in the shadows, for which there were many.
Porthos took the shifting boy in his arms again, and Athos was first up the stairs, unlocking his apartment door. They abandoned the cart at the building before Athos' apartment. By morning, it would be gone. The big man found it a relief when he finally released the boy onto Athos' bed. The Lieutenant busied himself with lighting the fireplace and the pot of water over it to boil, and the candles, brightening the room and giving it a warmth that the cell had never possessed.
Athos was the only man out of the three of them that had an apartment outside of the garrison. He needed to place to himself, where he wasn't overwhelmed by bodies pushing against him from all side. Where he could brood, and drink, and be at peace in the most thin of senses. His insides were in some form or another in turmoil over his past. It seemed to have integrated into his skin.
Porthos and Aramis were different. Porthos grew up in the push of bodies. He found being alone disquiet. Aramis lived his childhood surrounded by his family, but then they seemed to drop away like flies. His years traveling alone, while they afforded him a separation that he needed, it was a silence that he did not want. Finding Athos and Porthos, was the treasure that he had sought and craved—and found.
Aramis instantly dropped to the restless boy's side and he drew the cloak from his face.
"Your wound first." Athos broke over the rasp of the boy's breathing.
"It's fine." Aramis instantly responded.
"Aramis." His voice was hard and clipped.
"His wounds can't wait, mine can." Porthos grasped and pulled the younger man roughly to his feet. "What—?" The taller man spun him and pushed him into the chair at the small table.
"It's you we care 'bout." Porthos took Aramis' wrist and removed the handkerchief. Aramis hissed and jerked his arm away.
Athos popped the cork from a near empty bottle of watered-down brandy. "The sooner you let us do this, the sooner you can get back to the boy." That stilled the Spaniard right enough. Porthos grabbed his hand again, and the older man splashed some over the gaping wound. Aramis yelped. They wiped the wound down, and then wrapped it with the well-stocked supplies that Aramis had been sure to bring to Athos' apartment beforehand.
d'Artagnan grunted and flailed, flinging Aramis' cloak half-off and startling the three men. Aramis jumped to his feet and instantly went to the boy. He knelt by the bed and touched his forehead and felt the furnace. The boy moaned at his cool touch and his eyes fluttered.
"Cold water, Porthos." Aramis commanded, and Porthos knew to do what he was told when his friend got that look on his face and that tone in his voice.
Porthos turned to Athos' window and retrieved the bucket of water that he knew his friend hung out on the sill at night, and used in the morning for his shock-wave-hang-over cure. He poured some into the basin on the side table. He held the bowl for Aramis as the Spaniard soaked a cloth in the cold water.
Aramis wiped d'Artagnan's face and neck, before he brushed the boy's bangs from his face and placed the cloth on his forehead.
d'Artagnan opened his eyes and they seemed to graze right over Aramis and Porthos. Their faces were just a blur to him. Athos swallowed as a pair of fevered and hollowed eyes paused on him and locked with his own. The blue-eyes of his father's murderer. And suddenly, d'Artagnan's eyes widened and they filled with such rage and grief, the same that Athos saw in himself. Unsuspecting to them all, the boy shoved himself up and launched himself at Athos.
"I'Ki'You!" d'Artagnan bellowed around the soiled gag.
Athos reared back, holding up his arms. d'Artagnan came flying at him like a bat out of hell, his boney knee knocked into Aramis' shoulder, knocking him back into Porthos, who lost his grip on the basin, spilling water on the floor, himself and Aramis.
Athos crashed to the floor, the raving boy in his arms, the back of his head smacking against the wood floor .
Everywhere he grasped, his fingers dug into the weeping torn flesh of the bite wounds, but the boy didn't even flinch. One of his knees dug into his thigh, the other his pelvis. Athos struggled to contain the boy's wrists as he reached for the man's throat, but it was hard to keep a hold on the wrenched and torn flesh, slick from fresh blood.
"Die! Die! Die!" his gaze was blind. Athos stared into the eyes of a wild beast, not a human, a person—a 15-year-old boy.
"Athos!" Aramis and Porthos shouted, scrambling to get the boy off him.
Porthos managed to wrench him off Athos. He continued to struggle, trying to get free and back at Athos. He was howling and yowling. Porthos jerked around, back towards the bed, and all but collapsed onto the boy in order to pin him still. The boy bucked and writhed, and managed to twist around in his grasp. His stench was overwhelming, and the big man fought the gag—he smelt worse than the deaders!
"Aramis!" he bellowed.
Aramis scrambled for his bag, he quickly found a small bottle with clear liquid inside and dumped some on a rag. He rushed over to the bed, and dove into the fray, clamping the cloth over the writhing boy's mouth and nose. d'Artagnan screams were muffled, and quickly, his struggle weakened until finally, after a few jerks, his eyes rolled up into his head and he went completely slack.
They all took a moment to gather themselves after the unexpected episode.
Athos climbed to his feet. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. It had been such a long time since he'd felt that startled. His heart still felt in his throat. He swallowed as he looked down on the boy and the horrors done onto him.
"It must be your winnin' personality." Porthos tried to joke, but there was no laughter.
"I think it's best if I'm not here the next he wakes," Athos said quietly. "I'll report in to Treville." He turned for the door.
"Athos." Aramis said and the man paused. "Your head?"
"A headache. Nothing I'm not used to." He shut the door behind him, leaving the two men with the unconscious boy.
"I know what you're going to say," Aramis said as he dumped more water from the bucket into the basin. "But I'm not going to let you." He returned to kneel by the bed, soaking a cloth in the water, before wiping the boy's sweaty and dirty face and placing the cloth on his fevered forehead once more.
Porthos continued to say nothing as he stood sentry. He knew Aramis was soft-hearted, but why was he so determined to save this boy? He was better off put down, if the attack on Aramis and now Athos was anything to go by. What had happened in that dungeon had changed him. Even if Aramis could work his magic and heal the boy's body... what of his soul? What of his mind?
The cool night-air and the stillness of the street seemed to help the ache in his head, and clear his thoughts a bit. His mind stayed on the unexpected attack.
Athos didn't feel as if this was some tortured, fevered reaction that the boy had. No. He'd had nearly no reaction to Porthos and Aramis, but as soon as his eyes landed on Athos, the game had changed. It was like a switch was flipped inside of him. It had been frightening to watch. It was like the boy had looked and seen him. He had wanted Athos dead, but why?
Athos returned to the garrison unmolested, and he climbed the stair to the balcony. He gave a soft knock on the Captain's door, his room which acted as both his office and his quarters. Moments later, Treville answered the door in his shirtsleeves and stockings. He stepped aside and allowed his Lieutenant in.
"It is done." Athos reported simply and Treville nodded.
The older man went to his sideboard and grabbed two glasses and a bottle of half-finished golden brandy. He poured two fingers each and handed his best man a glass. Athos took it gratefully with a nod.
"His condition is poor." Athos took a sip. He gave a quiet exhale; it wasn't the watered-down stuff either. "I'm unsure how long he will survive—if he'll survive."
[tbc]
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
Well, I just want to wish everyone Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas. I hope to have the next chapter by next Tuesday, fingers crossed.
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