a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.
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 5: —
Treville walked beside Athos down the streets from the garrison the next afternoon, both dressed in nondescript cloaks with their hoods thrown up. The raised hoods helped avoid being recognized and was easily explained off for the light drizzle that morning. The night before, Athos had returned to the garrison from his apartment as night had fallen completely and once again knocked on his Captain's door to give report.
He told of the boy's recovered fever. At the mention of the name d'Artagnan, Athos watched several things filter through his superior's grizzled eyes. Surprise at the name—recognition. Sadness. Resignation. Treville was distracted throughout the rest of the report, and Athos thought it best not to mention just yet the Inseparables' plan to expose Richelieu.
"What's wrong?" Athos asked as they stopped at the bottom of the stair that lead up to his apartment, to Porthos who was leaning against the outside beam.
"Sir." Porthos nodded quietly to the Captain instead.
"The boy is upstairs?" Treville questioned.
"With Aramis."
Treville nodded and headed up the stairs.
"Porthos?" Athos persisted.
"It's nothin'." Porthos said tensely. "It won't interfere." He promised and Athos had no other choice but to accept this as truth—for the time being. They mounted the stairs after their Captain.
Treville was paused outside the door, his head cocked as he listened to the quiet voices on the other side of the door, his hood lay on his shoulders.
"That sounds so beautiful," d'Artagnan whispered. "And… harsh."
"Because it is, just not in the traditional sense." Aramis agreed.
"Say it again?"
Aramis chuckled and did as requested, repeating the crude-sounding quote, though it didn't sound as such with the soft lilt of the Spanish words, "Comer, beber y ser feliz para mañana que nos podemos morir."
"Ah." d'Artagnan grunted softly. "Pa—" his voice hitched briefly. "Pa used to tell me: Transit umbra, lux permanet."
"My father said the same thing!" Aramis gasped in amazement. "What an incredible thing."
Treville inhaled, raised his fist—"Aramis, i—" and knocked. The conversation inside halted and Treville opened the apartment door, stepping in with Athos and Porthos. The older man halted at the sight of the boy straddling a chair backwards, bare-chested as Aramis sat on his right, tending his wounds.
Athos' description of the boy's wounds did not prepare even the battle worn man for the sight of the bites that covered the boy's exposed torso, arms and nape, even weeks healed.
"Captain!" Aramis said. He knew the Captain was coming, but he would have appreciated a little warning, especially for d'Artagnan's sake. He shot Porthos a look as if it were the man's fault. d'Artagnan was tense and wary as he looked over his shoulder at the older man.
Treville nodded, but found it hard to break his gaze from the boy's wounds. Aramis quickly handed around a shirt and the Gascon slipped it overhead, standing and breaking the spell. Athos had been able to borrow pair of breaches from the stable boy at the garrison without issue. A pair of old boots and shirtsleeves and jerkin completed the outfit.
There was a heavy silence in the room that started to make even Athos edgy.
"You're Captain Treville?" d'Artagnan spoke, quickly growing uncomfortable under the man's veiled stare.
Treville cleared his throat and nodded. "And you must be boy I've been hearing about."
d'Artagnan gave a tight smile, he gaze flickering over to Athos behind the man's shoulder. This was truly the first day that he had been up on his own, that Aramis had allowed. And he knew this moment here was coming, he just didn't expect it now. He'd been clear-headed for the first time in weeks, and every thing felt like it was flying passed him like a galloping horse.
"My Pa..." d'Artagnan started, "My Pa mentioned you on our way to Paris."
"Alexandre," Treville sighed sadly. "I was sorry to hear what happened to him."
d'Artagnan inhaled sharply, he heard the gunshot again. He was startled when Aramis pushed him back into the chair again and when the he looked over at the Spaniard, the man just gave him an encouraging look as he leaned back against the small table.
d'Artagnan looked uncomfortable as he said: "Pa said that you were a good and honourable man, that you would help us—despite you having last met seventeen-years before."
"Our original parting was left on shaky ground," Treville admitted. "But our last meeting rekindled our old friendship."
"Shaky?" d'Artagnan furrowed his brows. He never would have believed that, for the way his father had spoken of the man and his Musketeers.
He glanced at his men and looked awkward and embarrassed. "Alexandre and I met as young men, we became blood brothers, joined up for King and Country. But a rift came between us as we returned to Gascony and met a girl... your mother."
"My mother?" the boy gaped in surprise.
"Ella." He whispered softly, almost as if the name were a secret on his lips. He could see her and him both in the boy. "We both loved her greatly and our friendship was strong. But we couldn't both have her. She married Alexandre and he left soldiering to buy a farm and have a family. But I went in the opposite direction and soldiering became my life.
"We kept in touch with letters for a brief time, but they slowly petered out. We'd both moved on with our lives. Alexandre and Ella with the farm and starting a family, and I becoming a King's Musketeer and moving up the ranks." He paused. "It was good to see him, the year before. Any hard feelings that had been between us, vanished. They were both, truly amazing people... d'Artagnan." He whispered. "The world weeps at there loss, as do I."
"Mm." d'Artagnan nodded in firm agreement and they were quiet for a moment, man and boy remembering. The Inseparables said not a word, because though they shared in this moment, it belonged to the two Gascons.
Aramis knew what it was to love and respect his father, and d'Artagnan thought the world of his. That man had been all that the boy had, and for that old Gascon's sake, the Spaniard vowed to help and be d'Artagnan's friend for as long as he was able. Porthos never knew his father, but that was the way that he loved his mother, for the short time that he was allowed her. Athos' relationship with his own father wasn't boundless with love, nor was it filled with hate. Their grounds had been a middle one. It was the harsh loss of Thomas that grieved him most.
"Athos has been keeping me updated on you." Treville took a seat at the table in the chair facing the teenager. "How is it that you can survive the bite, d'Artagnan?" he questioned and the boy could feel the intensity that filled the room from the others. "Do you know?"
d'Artagnan shrugged helplessly. "I always asked Pa, but he always said that it was a gift from God and not something that we should rightly question." Aramis smiled at that, even as Porthos scoffed. "My mother was heavily pregnant with me when she and Pa were driven from the farm by a group of bandits who they had offered shelter and food to." d'Artagnan looked down at his hands in his lap, fidgeting. "They were attacked by zombies in the night and she was bitten. Pa... cut her arm off, but the fever took her anyways. My last days inside of her, she was ravaged by the fever. She held on for four days." Tears welled and blurred his brown gaze, and he gave a heavy sniff. "I came into this world as she left it." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. It felt like such a long time since he had spoken at any length. "Pa was left with a dead wife and a new born babe... knowing no other course to take, he held me to her breast." He swiped uncomfortably at his uneven bangs. "Make of that what you wish. Whether it actually caused my immunity..." Again, he shrugged helpless.
"And it is a gift." Aramis squeezed his shoulder carefully.
d'Artagnan scoffed at that. "It feels more like a curse! What good had it done me?"
Perhaps shocking or not, it was Athos who answered, "It gave your father fifteen years with his son. That's more than most can claim in a world like today."
"He's right," Aramis whispered. His own child would have been a little younger than d'Artagnan was now.
"You're a very brave lad," Treville said. He reached forward and patted his knee gently. "You've survive through what most grown men would not. Alexandre and Ella would be very proud of you."
d'Artagnan nodded. His father always said that same of his mother. It felt so strange to hear someone other than Alexandre speak of her. It was obvious just by the way Treville spoke her name, that he loved her. He found it both shocking and almost enlightening to discover something unknown of his father. This was a man he had known every single day of his life, had seen, spoken to, touched—every day—until a few weeks ago when the man was suddenly snatched from his life. But meeting with Treville, was like meeting another part of his father.
"Will I be able to stay?" d'Artagnan asked desperately, almost as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Will the Cardinal ever let me alone?" This was where Alexandre had wanted him, and damn if he wasn't going to stay.
Treville sighed heavily, the weight of this responsibility great. He could feel the weight of his men's' eyes on him. Alexandre was leaving the charge of his and Ella's only son in his hands. He only wished that the man could be there to help guide his hand. The answer was an obvious and true one, if complicated. He could not turn Alexandre and Ella d'Artagnan's son away.
It had almost been a week since d'Artagnan's fever had broken, and Treville couldn't spare his three best Musketeers any longer; he was already severely undermanned compared to the Cardinal's Red Guards, despite each of his own men being worth ten of Richelieu's incompetent soldiers. He'd sent them a days ride away for a check-in on one of the many smallholdings that Paris relied upon for supply.
d'Artagnan leaned against the sill of the open-shuttered window in the gloom of the single-roomed apartment, looking down into the street. They were strangers to him, strangers to each other even as they passed reciprocally, brushing shoulders. They avoided contact, they avoided connection. They were like drones. These people knew nothing of the world, knew nothing of the evil that resided in the city's very core.
For the first time since his rescue, he was alone. It was oppressing. It left him too much time to think and to feel. His entire capture had been mostly in a heated, ragging fever that had consumed him, distorted his thoughts and twisted his grief into something sinister. But now, he had no such things to cloud him and distract him.
Unable to look at the people with their oblivious freedom, d'Artagnan moved from the window and sat at the small table. More chairs adorned the table, but stood empty. He stared at the basket of food. Fruits, vegetables, bread, cheese. The only thing absent was meat—Aramis made sure of it.
Once Aramis had been satisfied that d'Artagnan was truly onto the road of recovery, he allowed the boy something more solid and heavy for his stomach. He brought the boy a stew with thick chunks of tender meat. Just the smell of it had made the boy's mouth water. He leaned over the bowl, and lifted the spoon laden with gravy and beef and chewed it eagerly. But as soon as his teeth sunk into the tender meat, his reaction was violently adverse. Zombie flesh—his frantic mind supplied. The Red Guard's neck. Aramis' wrist (the first time he discovered this, he was aghast). Hot blood gushing into his mouth like hot gravy! He spat the stew out, gagging and shoved the bowl away so violently that it shot off across the other side of the table. Porthos barely avoided jumping out of the way. The dish crashed to the floor, stew splattering over the floorboards. He grabbed the water jug and chugged the contents—rinsing, spitting, trying to get the taste from his tongue. But it did nothing to dissuade the feeling of flesh on his tongue and in-between his teeth. He lurched across the table for a surprised Athos' cup and threw back the contents of his watered brandy. The spirits burned his throat and he'd coughed and choked, making his eyes water. He fell from his chair, retching, chest heaving. Tears burned down his cheeks. Porthos had stood back shocked. While Athos and Aramis went to the shaking boy. It was only after d'Artagnan managed to choke out an explanation, did all three men look sick themselves. Athos made sure he never brought meat to the boy again after that.
d'Artagnan shuddered at the memory. He remembered the rabbit he had caught a week before he and Alexandre had been caught in the storm and the world had been torn asunder. Alexandre had skinned the animal expertly, and d'Artagnan had roasted it over the fire. It had been gamey, but delicious nonetheless. He remembered licking the juices from his fingers hungrily and eagerly. Revulsion played with him, making a good memory with his father into something tainted.
He picked up an apple that was growing soft and tossed it gentle from hand-to-hand, but had no appetite to consume it. Treville had agreed to let him stay, but he was confined to Athos' apartment until he and the Inseparables could ensure that the Cardinal would let him alone.
d'Artagnan had grown up surrounded by Mother Nature. The longest he had stayed in a place was when he was an infant, but he was to young to hold deep impressions of that time. The other was in Pinon for the two-years. But even then, he'd been allowed to roam, though coincidently it had been on one of these incursions that he had first been bitten. The two d'Artagnans had kept to themselves then—but it wasn't until now that he realized what Alexandre had truly foresaw.
He was feeling confined and compressed, but did he truly want to venture out into the crowded streets of this strange city, where in any shadow down any dark alley Milady or her men could be just waiting to grab him at the first opportunity?
A fear he didn't know when his father was alive clenched his heart. He'd never been afraid before, not when he had Alexandre's hand on his shoulder, a constant presence. He had no one left in the world, his only blood was dead forever—at his own hand.
But what of the Musketeers that he had been in the constant company of this last week? They wanted nothing from him, expected nothing of him.
d'Artagnan had quickly grown attached to the spiritual man, with or without intention. He trusted the man explicitly. Aramis seemed to generally care for him, stranger or not. He exuded no ill intent towards him, but instead, a fierce protectiveness that could be overwhelming and heart-warming. He seemed to enjoy his company and d'Artagnan felt the same.
The big man seemed bitter towards him, and he couldn't grasp the reason. He didn't know what he had done to cause such offence. The quiet and sharp animosity between Porthos and Aramis seemed to be fettered with him in the middle.
Athos was a quiet and intense presence. He was a confusing molten of secretiveness, aloofness and roiling emotion tucked beneath a long-fought mask. d'Artagnan always became very conscious in the man's company. It took him time not to physically react when the man's name was mentioned, the man that killed his father but didn't kill his father. It wasn't Athos who had, but it seemed like the man's name would forever be associated with the death of his father. The man who had really done it was still out there.
He sighed despondently. The apple knocked the edge of his finger and tumbled to the floor, rolling across the boards in a awkward trail before halting at the rough brick of the slightly raised recess of the lit fireplace. The chair scraped across the floor as he stood and walked over to the fireplace to retrieve the lost fruit. Its flesh was deeply bruised from the impact and he wondered at the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach and heart.
The Inseparables were finally on their way back to Paris after the two days it had taken to journey to the smallholding, do a survey and inspection of the property, its security, and the food, before finally returning to the city. They were half a mile from Paris when they came upon a unexpected hoard of zombies. The sun was starting to set, casting the sky with interlacing waves of soft and vibrant colours, the abandoned ruins on the hill looked a black looming shadow.
"This is not good." Aramis commented. He shook his head in frustration and worry. "We should be back in Paris, not on assignment. Lemay's missing—d'Artagnan shouldn't be left alone at a time like this. It's too dangerous."
"I think you should concentrate on where you are right now." Athos said dryly, prying his sword from the skull of a fallen biter with a grunt, his boot on its forehead.
"I can do two things at once, you know." Aramis panted lightly as he swung his sword in a low cut, managing to sever the legs off three zombies to different extents that had been crowding him, effectively giving him the advantage. He promptly thrust the tip of his sword into each of their skulls, killing them even as they clawed at the ground in an attempt to still reach him. He pulled the strings to his shirtsleeves loose, letting the collar fall open to a V down his chest. It was hot work.
"I forgot 'ow fun this could be!" Porthos hooted as he shoved a walker against a tree, and put his dagger through its eye. He yanked it free and it dropped to the ground in a heap. It felt like it had been such a long time since it was just the three of them. It felt just like old-times, if he discounted the fact that Aramis kept bringing up d'Artagnan.
"You need a hobby," Aramis said dryly, "If you call this fun."
"What concerns me," Athos voiced, his sword coming in a downward stroke. It split the biter's skull right down the middle. He yanked it free and put in a reverse stroke at the eater breathing down his neck, scalping it through the brain. "Is how close this horde is to Paris."
Quickly, the three Inseparable's cut down the hoard until only a scattered few remained. Bodies of the walking dead lay in their final resting place at their feet.
Aramis shifted his stance as an eater groaned and snapped its teeth at him from the dim left, and the ground crumbled way underfoot. He was at the edge of the natural trench that ran along the face of the ruins, long dried out, without realizing it as he'd worked his way through the crowd of zombies. He let out a yelp, his upper body thrusted forward, even as he was being dragged down. His sword skewered through the biter's torso, dragging it with the man as he tumbled down into the ditch bed.
"Aramis!" his two brother's cried out in horror as they were just able to see him tumble down backwards. They made quick work of their distractions and rushed after their friend.
Aramis groaned at the weight on top of him, pinning him to the ground. A pain took his chest suddenly and he grunted in pain, but didn't immediately register the cause of it. The groans of the walker sounded pleased at his mashed on his flesh and the realization took him like a fist to the throat. With a scream, he shoved with all his strength, flinging the body from him, his sword still run through its body.
Aramis gasped heavily as he scrambled at his chest, feeling it slick with blood. In the dying light, it looked as if someone had splattered ink across him. The eater clambered back onto his feet, rasping eagerly for another taste of him. Porthos came barrelling into the ditch and flung himself at the creature with a roar of rage. Tumbling to the ground with it, paying no mind to the hilt of Aramis' sword knocking him in the ribs, he grasped either side of its biting head with gloved hands and bashed its head into the ground, even long after its brain was destroyed.
"Aramis." The Spaniard jumped as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "Are you alright?
"I—" He looked at Athos crouching beside his numbly. "I'm bit." He held out his shaking hand, fingertips covered in darkness. "I'm bit."
"You—" Athos grasped his hand and a choked sound built in the back of his throat. "Where?" he demanded harshly, released his hand and started to check the younger man frantically. "If we hurry, we can—"
"Athos. Athos!" The man finally came to a shuddering stop. "It's too late. It's..." with the same bloodied fingers he touched his chest through the open collar of his shirtsleeves.
"Porthos!" Athos shouted desperately. "Aramis—"
Porthos finally came back to himself at the tear in his friend's voice. He pushed from the dead walker and pulled Aramis' sword free and approached the still pair. "What is it?" he demanded, unnerved at the silence.
"I'm sorry, Porthos." Aramis whispered. He looked down at his chest. Porthos followed it and saw the dark, menacing shadow that now resided there. Just like the shadows of d'Artagnan wounds back in the cell with the flickering torch.
"No. No." Porthos shook his head in denial and dropped to his knees in front of his friends. "Jus' a wound from the fall." He grasped his shoulder. "Jus'—Y-you can't, Aramis—"
Aramis' heart pounded heavily in his chest as he gave them a wan smile. "I wasn't expecting this—not for it to happen so soon, at least." His couldn't help the tremor in his voice.
"You're not goin' to die!" Porthos denied him, tears choked his throat and eyes. "You can't."
"Porthos," Aramis hushed him, grasping his friend's hand upon his shoulder. "We always knew we would never live forever, that we would die eventually."
"Not like this." Porthos cried.
The Spaniard gave a hollow chuckle. "You're telling me! Dying in a ditch with the two of you? I always pictured it with a nice port and beautiful woman!"
"It's not funny!" he sobbed.
"This—" Aramis choked on his words and gripped Athos' arm along with Porthos' hand, needing to feel grounded and connected in the dark night around them that made them distanced and disconnected from him. "I know."
Athos wore a cracked mask of control. "Porthos, stay with him. I'll get the horses. We'll shelter in the ruins until morning." He commanded, rising to his feet.
"Spend the night?" Aramis protested, his thoughts instantly turning to d'Artagnan even in his desperate situation. It felt like a undeniable force. "There isn't time! We have to—"
"We have no choice!" Athos snapped. "It's too dark to risk traveling back to the city, half a mile be that as it may!"
Aramis clearly wasn't happy about it, but he didn't have much choice in the matter—even if Athos was right—not with the two of them to contend with. Four days. That was how long d'Artagnan said his mother had lasted, and that was in her weakened state absent her arm and pregnant. He could last. He had to last.
Athos scrambled up the short incline and trudged through what felt like a wide expanse of deaders corpses to the copse of trees where they had tied off their horses for safety. The beasts snorted at his approach and after a cursory check in the dark, thankfully discovered that none were harmed. He took a moment, a brief instant, his arm wrapped around his mount's thick neck as he leaned his forehead against it.
A shuddering breath clamped tight with despair escaped him. Over the years, they had gone through many close calls. Not all necessarily from the biters, but of normal incidents. But they had always escaped with their lives. This time it was different. This was no stab or bullet wound that could be sewn or cauterized. This was no bitten limb that could be cut off like they had done for Serge. Aramis was going to die, it was just a matter of days.
Forcing the tears back behind his eyes, Athos straightened and untethered the horses, leading them back towards his friends. They were reluctant to tread through the dead corpses scattered around, but with some coaxing, he came upon Porthos and Aramis climbing out of the ditch.
Digging in his saddlebag, Athos created a makeshift torch and lit it. They crossed the short footbridge that reached across the ditch and up the small rise to the ruins.
The snicker of the horses alerted them to the walker, even before the circle of light and its groaning. Before Athos and Porthos could make a move towards the kill, Aramis was on the zombie, leaping onto its chest and forcing it to the ground, his main gauche buried into his skull even before they hit the ground. He gave a screaming sob in its face, his chest heaving as he slumped over the body. This was going to be him soon...
It wasn't that he was dying, though he thought that sucked. It was the timing of his death. Just when it was important that he lived—for d'Artagnan's sake.
He stumbled to his feet and wiped a hand across his face before he turned and walked back to the to silent men, putting his blade back into his belt after wiping the it clean.
"I might have a fatal wound, but I'm not dead yet." They both flinched at the context and wording, it was harsh but rightly put. He was the walking dead now, one foot over the line into his death. "Come on," he said. "The faster we find shelter and sleep, the faster the sun will come."
They found a room that had all its walls, it was big enough to house all three of them and their horses for the night. It wasn't clear either. There were the marks of other people having been there; a spent campfire, abandoned blanket... not more than a month beforehand had it been occupied (though they did not know it, by d'Artagnan and Milady).
Porthos helped settle Aramis and Athos worked on building and lighting the fire. In the light of the fire, they were able to better see the bite and its meaning hit them hard for a second time. Seeing it clearly, drove the fact of Aramis' death home even harder than before. The sharpshooter cleaned the wound with wine from Athos' skin, and dabbed at the wound, grimacing. Even after seeing d'Artagnan wounds for so long, he was not used to the sight. Aramis wrapped the wound—out of sight, better out of mind. He lay down on his side, curled under a blanket, a clouded silence settle between them—none knowing what to say now, just the horror of it stretched between them.
A bite was the mark of death. He had the mark of death.
He seemed to have accepted the fact of his death rather fast—definitely faster than his two brothers. He was going to die, there was nothing any of them could do about that. But before he went, he had the desperate need to see d'Artagnan. He had to make sure that the boy was taken care of, he was too important in more ways than the obvious one.
"Athos," Aramis looked at the blue-eyed man firmly. "You have to promise... that after I'm gone," he swallowed, "You'll look after d'Artagnan as if he were me. As if—"
"You're dying!" Porthos shouted. He jumped to his feet, his arms jerking wildly. "One of us is goin' to 'ave to kill you—and all you can think about is 'im?"
"You'll deny me my dying wish?" Aramis whispered, stilling Porthos' anger instantly.
Everything suddenly seemed to leave the big man, and he slumped back down to the ground. His shook his head helplessly, tears leaking from his eyes as he looked across at his best friend. "No," he whispered, "I won't."
They woke at first daybreak the next morning, though if either of the Inseparables had slept, it was fitfully done. As they readied their tack for departure, Aramis could already feel the bite's fever growing in his body. He had the sweets, and a weight felt inside his head. He was running out of time and they needed to hurry.
Athos looked around the room, a silent shiver going through him. This room was disquiet and he was glad to finally be leaving it.
They rode back to Paris at a canter, but they did not ride up to the guarded city gates for which they had departed. The Red Guards might be generally incompetent sons-a-bitches, but when it came to the Musketeers, they didn't let up. Aramis' condition was quickly deteriorating and even fools like the Red Guards would be suspicious. They could have easily forced their way inside, but then the alarm would have been sounded and they would have soon been overwhelmed. But they had Porthos on their side, who knew the ins-and-outs of Paris like no other.
He got them inside, horses and all, through the canal, and soon found themselves riding through the streets of Paris to the Musketeer garrison. Aramis blinked and the next thing his dazed mind knew, Porthos was helping him down from his horse in the garrison yard.
Treville came down from his office, alerted to the final arrival of his late Musketeers. He took one look at Aramis and the grim expressions of Porthos and Athos, and knew the cause. The Spaniard had been bitten.
"Take him to his room," he said sombrely. "I'll call for the Father."
"No." Aramis protested as Porthos started to lead him through to the barracks and his room. "Not here." But his bones felt tired and the big man easily steered his coarse. The fever was taking him faster than he had expected.
The stable boy came and collected their horses and Treville gripped Athos' shoulder in silent support. "I'm so sorry, Athos." He whispered.
Athos just nodded through compressed lips before he stepped out from under his Captain's hand and followed after his friends. He came into the Spaniard's room as Porthos was settling the fevered man onto the bed.
"How is he?" Athos murmured as he went to the side table and poured water from the jug there into the basin and soaked a cloth.
"He's burnin' up like a hot fire." Porthos said, stripping the boots from the man, and his weapons belt. "I don't understand why it's takin' 'im so fast!" he tucked the Spaniard snugly under his blanket.
Athos handed him the damp cloth, and Porthos patted his sweaty face before laying the cloth on his forehead. Aramis' eyes flicked open at the cool feeling, and instantly he tried to sit up again.
"d'Artagnan!"
"Aramis, you need to stay in bed!" Porthos didn't need much effort to push the man down again, not that he rose far in the first place. "And think 'bout yourself right now."
Aramis moaned. "Please…"
Athos sighed. "I will go and bring d'Artagnan here. But you must promise to stay in bed and rest, Aramis."
The man nodded. "I will. I will."
"Look after him, Porthos."
"Don't I always?" Porthos whispered as the blue-eyed man turned and left, leaving the pair. He sat on the edge of the bed, and held his fevered friend's hand. "Oh, Aramis."
Three days passed, and d'Artagnan was sick with anxiety and worry. The Inseparables should have returned the previous day. Their assignment had been a simple one, nothing should have gone wrong, but...
They could have been delayed for a simple unconcerning reason. Or had more pressing concerns than easing his fear. Or something could have gone seriously wrong. If that were the case, would anyone have a care to tell him? The Inseparables, Captain Treville, the Cardinal, Milady, and Lemay were the only ones who knew of his existence, and half on that short list were his enemy.
But they were his friends! He was shocked at the unexpected vehemence he felt on the matter. He couldn't just let them alone to whatever fate God thought He had planned for them.
He had promised, sworn to Athos and Aramis before the three had left, that he would not leave Athos' apartment for anything short of a fire. It was simply too dangerous. He was fighting between heeding their request and finding answers. Yes, it was true, Milady's spies could be everywhere. The woman could be around the corner for all he knew—but his need to find the Inseparables over-powered that base fear and danger.
He buckled Aramis' cloak around his shoulders, already he felt safer, it a shield against unwanted eyes. He stopped at the door, his hand on the handle. As soon as he opened it, his promise would be broken. As soon as he did, he knew that he would push forward instead of moving back. Inhaling once, and exhaling the same, he opened the door and walked down the stairs.
He had never been in the streets of Paris before, and he instantly felt overwhelmed. He forced himself into the passing citizens though, heading to the right down the street. His goal was the Musketeer garrison, but for all his determination, he was only now realizing in the push of bodies, that he didn't know where it was.
After the first two turns from Athos' apartment, he was already lost. He couldn't keep on like this. It was killing his nerves. He couldn't find the garrison on his own, he had not other choice but to ask someone for direction and hope the were kind enough to assist him. He soon caught sight of a older man at a vender and approached, the man looked kind and reminded him of his father.
"Excuse me, sir." d'Artagnan touched a man's shoulder. "Can you tell me—"
An instant later, d'Artagnan was surprise to find himself looking up at the furious man from where he lay crumpled on the street, his tailbone aching. "Think ye can steal from me, huh?"
d'Artagnan looked at him with wide eyes, still shocked for the unprovoked attack. "I—"
"You're not gettin' away from me this time, ye hear me?" he reached down and grabbed the boy's sleeve, jerking him up roughly.
There was the tearing of fabric as the man's hold tore his sleeve. The man leapt away from him in horror. "He's bit! He's bit!" he shouted, seeing the sight of d'Artagnan's arm and the bites and cuts that marred the flesh. People drew to the commotion.
d'Artagnan backed away from the man frantically, tripping over his feet in his haste. He was encircled by curious and murmuring people. His head whipped around this way and that, feeling overwhelmed and oppressed. It wasn't until there were shouts for the Red Guards, that his head finally kicked into pace.
d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet and shoved through the crowd, bolting. He didn't know where he was going, not that he knew where he had been in the first place. Shouts followed him, running steps in pursuit, too. But he didn't look back, he focused on what was ahead of him. He dodged passed people and skidded around corners. He kept running, his feet pounding the earth. Long after the chase was lost on him, until his lungs were strangled and he was covered in sweet. His legs were shaking so bad that he could run no more and was forced to stagger into a abandon alley. He slid to the ground, breathing heavily behind a stack of crates. He looked up into the dimming sky with building dread.
This was not good, surely soon word of a boy bitten would spread through the city like wildfire and none too soon reach Milady and her spies. With the intention of reconnecting with the Inseparables, he'd just put a target on his and their backs. This had been such a mistake, and even if he decided to give up his pursuit of finding the garrison, he had no way of finding his way back to Athos' apartment either—and with night upon him, it was a futile venture.
Athos quickly made his way through the streets from the garrison to his apartment. On his way, little did he realize, or ever would, that he passed the very alley that d'Artagnan had hidden himself away it, overwhelmed with despair at the situation he had gotten himself into and what might be happening to his friends.
The streets were more busy than usual, this close to curfew, but Athos had more pressing business to be concerned about at the moment to wonder at the cause. He went up to the stairs to his apartment and knocked in the tattoo to let d'Artagnan know that it was a friendly. But when the boy didn't come to the door a moment later, and there was no sound of movement within, he started to grow concerned and suspicious. He reached for the door and it opened at his touch, unlocked. He grasped the hilt of his sword and stepped into the dim room, the fireplace burnt out.
"d'Artagnan?" he called, but there was no answer. He quickly lit a candle. The room was empty. The food basket lay virtually untouched, the room lay unmarred by a struggle, his cloak missing. "Where have you gone?" he muttered. He quickly blew out the candle and rushed down the stairs and onto the street, his head swinging this way and that, as if the boy would be confined to that short block.
He exhaled and forced himself into calm. It wouldn't do to be panicked, he reasoned. He started back towards the garrison, his gaze darting keenly to and fro as he tried to think it through, list the reasons. But he became distracted towards the amount of people and Red Guards with torches coming in and out of houses.
"Hey," he grabbed a young man who was rushing passed him. "What's going on?"
"Haven't you heard?" his face was lit up with excitement. "There's a bitten boy loose in the city. We're all searching for him. Gotta find him before he turns!"
Athos let go of him, filling with dread. "Oh, no." He whispered in horror, his mind and heart filled with a blind terror. And there was nothing calm about him any longer as he took off running back towards the garrison. That boy could only been d'Artagnan.
"Porthos!" Athos hissed quietly and urgently at the man from the shadows of the doorway. He had managed to slip his controlled mask on by the time he arrived at the garrison, though it seemed hard-done.
Porthos jerked his head around and narrowed his eyes. "What're you—"
"Come here!" he interrupted, just as low, jerking his head.
Confused, the big man shot a look at his fitfully slumbering friend before he rose and walked across the room to Athos in the doorway. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"d'Artagnan's gone."
"What? What d'you mean?"
"I don't know," Athos gave a shaky breath. "The door wasn't locked, but it didn't look like there was a struggle."
"'E left willingly?" Porthos' expression scrunched.
"It seems that way. But if he thought to leave, I don't think he would do it so abruptly. No food was taken, either."
"Maybe 'e ain't in 'is right mind—'ow could 'e be after what 'e went through?" The big man shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe us leavin' was just the right trigger or moment for 'im to do what 'e always planned."
But Athos was shaking his head. He didn't think that was the case, at least the latter. No, he didn't believe that d'Artagnan had any intention to leave. He was desperate to stay in Paris despite the danger of the Cardinal and Milady. No, it was something else, he was sure of it. He was simply too attached to Aramis to just leave without a note of explanation or anything else. Porthos didn't seem as concerned, though.
He sighed. "He's pretty set on seein' the lad." Porthos looked back over his shoulder at Aramis. "What are we supposed to say when 'e asks?" he felt a bitter anger towards the boy. "It'll break 'is heart to think 'e just up and left."
Athos was quiet, his brow creased in concern. "Of his own decision or not—something happened and he was discovered bitten. The Red Guards are searching for him now." He carded his fingers through his hair. "It's only a matter of time before he's caught—a stranger to these streets."
"Missing, taken, wanted, of his own will—none of that matters." Porthos said vehemently, shaking his head. "I'm not leavin' Aramis' side."
"I know," the blue-eyed man whispered. "I just pray that no harm comes to him, for his own and Aramis' sake." One thing seemed clear for now though, d'Artagnan still had his freedom to him, otherwise there wouldn't have been such a frantic search.
d'Artagnan had a fitful sleep that night, plagued by nightmares. Wrapped in Aramis' cloak, the only warmth for him in the cold night. He came awake in the dawn with a cry and flailing. The crates he had been camped beside in the alley crashed down to the ground. He jumped to his feet, frantic and confused for a moment before his situation came back to him.
He frantically looked out into the street with the fear of the big ruckus drawing attention, but it was still too early, and people were still rising from their beds, the streets almost as empty as with curfew.
He looked at him torn sleeve and sighed. There was naught he could do to fix it, and resolved to keep his arm tucked under the cloak. With a deep breath, he took a cautious step from the alley, looked left and then right—and reeled back backwards into the alley at the sight of four Red Guards heading his way down the street. He looked around frantically for a place to hide.
He rushed further down the alley and much to his relief, the lane was not a dead end as he had first feared, but instead was blocked by a wood partition. There were no hand- or footholds and it was simply to high to climb. He quickly checked for a loose board, he nearly collapsed in relief as he found one. And then his heart jumped into his throat as he heard the shouts of the Guards getting closer. He kicked the board free with a few strikes, and squeezed through the small space. In his haste, his torn sleeve caught and he ripped it further, before he haphazardly tried to wedge the board back in place again.
He didn't wait around for the Red Guards to come and notice the inconsistency, so he turned and rushed off. It wasn't until he was breathless and forced to stop, that he realized something was very seriously wrong. The entire time he had been running, block after block, he'd met no resistance, brushed passed no other. There was no noise but his own rapid breathing. There was no din of numerous people going about their business on the streets. He looked around in confusion, and then horror came down upon him.
The buildings and homes were covered in scorch marks, the wood portions of the buildings were burnt down. The wood structures that climbed the walls were collapsed onto themselves. Each home was doorless, shutterless, abandoned.
"Hello?" he called tentatively, unsure why he did. His voice was swallowed and did not crack back to him from the burnt concrete. He felt so alone and deserted, but at the same time, overwhelmed and crowded. This place was desolate, but he felt a shiver go up his spine.
He started to back away, and something cracking underfoot made him jump. He looked beneath his foot, the dirt turned black with thick, old ash. The toe of his boot prodded the thing he had stepped on, kicking it from the ash. He bent and took it in hand, his fingers tracing the odd shape hidden under years of ash.
His breath hitched in his throat and with sickness, he threw the thing from hand. A bone. A human bone. Panic and fear claiming him, he ran. Just like in the streets of Paris and now here, he had no clue where he was heading. All he knew was that he needed to get out, and get away before this place crushed him. If he was reasonable, he knew this place was a part of Paris, but it felt like an entirely different world.
He couldn't see straight, think straight. The walls were closing in on him, the bones of the dead underneath his feet rising again from the ash to claim him. Left, right, straight. It did not matter. There was no order, just blind chaos. He was alone, trapped inside a nightmare.
Then he heard it. The bark of a dog, the clatter of a cart over the uneven road, the cluck of chickens, the shallow voices of people. He ran towards it like a lifeline. Because it was.
The stone archways was like an open wound, and on the other side was his salvation. He bowled himself through it and into another street, feeling the oppressing weight lift from his heart and shoulders. He gasped clean air, back to the streets of Paris and from that horrible ghost town. He could see people, real people, going about their business as they should have been. The streets of Paris were alive again.
He turned, and was knocked right to the ground.
"Hey, you alright there?" A man asked him, and before he could fully realize what had happened, he was grabbed and righted back onto his feet.
d'Artagnan blinked at the man in surprise, and then his eyes widened as they landed on the leather pauldron. "Musketeer!" d'Artagnan gasped.
The man nodded. "That's right. You should be more careful, lad. There's a person bitten on the loose, it's not safe to be on your own."
d'Artagnan nodded nervously; he was that bitten person. He made sure the cloak covered his arm. "Um," he gulped. "Could you help me find the garrison? I need to see the Musketeer Aramis."
"You know Aramis?" the Musketeers said in surprise.
"Yes," he nodded rapidly. "He saved my life."
"You're friends with Aramis?"
D'Artagnan nodded eagerly, feeling his luck swell at the man's word. "Yes! I'm his friend. I need to speak with him, it's urgent!"
"I'm sorry, lad." The man shook his head sadly. "You must not have heard… Aramis was bit. He's…"
"No!" d'Artagnan cried out. "It can't be! He can't—No!" he shook his head. "I need to see him, please! Can't you tell me where he is?"
"He's back at the garrison with Athos and Porthos." He sighed. "When I left for my patrol this morning, last I heard he was near the end."
"Please!" he begged.
"Alright," he agreed, seeing the tears on the boy's cheeks. He saw a poor boy, not a bitten one. "But we have to hurry."
The man turned and started to run and d'Artagnan rushed after him. Any tiredness he was feeling, vanished as a new batch of adrenaline coursed through his weary body. The life that those desolate streets had sucked from him, returned at the promise of Aramis. But he had a really bad feeling in his stomach, and he knew time was running out.
The man slowed down finally, as they approached a the garrison gates, with its held guards. The Musketeer showed him through to the barracks. "He's just at the end. I have to get back to my post. I'm sorry." He murmured to the boy and left.
d'Artagnan stared at the door down the hall, suddenly rooted to the spot. Aramis was bit. Aramis was dead. No. The teen shook his head rapidly. Aramis would not die. He would not let it.
Muffled voices down the hall spurred him on. And he bolted down the hall, bursting through the door. He took in the scene in an instant. Porthos sobbing over Aramis, a dagger in hand. d'Artagnan's body reacted faster than his voice, and he launched himself onto the big man's back before he could deliver the killing blow to their friend.
"What the—!" Porthos reacted instinctually to the attack and slashed backward with the knife.
"Porthos, no!" Athos yelled, but it was too late.
d'Artagnan gave small cry as the blade sliced through his breaches and cut into his thigh, making him bleed. But the boy held on.
Athos rushed over to the pair, over his shock at the sudden appearance of the missing d'Artagnan. He grabbed the Gascon's shoulders, and attempted to pull him off. "Let go, d'Artagnan!"
"No!" d'Artagnan screamed in refusal, clinging tighter to the enraged man. But he knew he was losing the battle. And he did the only that was left to him. He bit Athos' hand.
Athos reeled back in surprise with a yelp, looking down at the broken skin at his thumb joint.
Porthos heard his friend's cry of surprise and pain, and he reared back, ready to crush the boy between him and the wall, when he felt the pain at the back of his neck as d'Artagnan bit him. Porthos tore the boy off his back in white rage, and threw him away like a rag-doll. d'Artagnan skidded across the floor with a thump and landed in a heap.
Porthos spun on him in rage. "What in the 'ell do you think you're doin'?" he demanded, thunderous. "'Ave to do it before 'e turns!" Porthos breathed heavily, and brought his dagger back up to bear, turning back towards Aramis who would complete the transformation from his friend into a monster any minute now. He didn't want to remember his best friend as a biter, and he knew that was all he'd be able to see if the man changed.
"No! You can't!" d'Artagnan jumped to his feet and dove in front of Aramis' bed, blocking the big man's path with stretched arms.
"What the 'ell do you think you're doin', you little bastard!" Porthos shouted harshly at him.
d'Artagnan flinched but stayed firm.
"d'Artagnan," Athos said softly, stepping forward. "I know you care about Aramis and wish for him to live, but he's bit. And for us, that means death."
"You're wrong." The boy said vehemently. "He can't—"
"I'm sick of listening to you!" Porthos bellowed. "Aramis is my best friend, our friend. You know nothing of him. You have no right to be here, to do this." He grabbed the front of the boy's jerkin and hauled him from the floor as if he were a simple sack of laundry.
And then Aramis inhaled sharply, gasping as his eyes snapped open and he sat up, a hand pressed to his chest. He looked at them with confused brown eyes before collapsed back onto the bed, coughing, exhausted. Porthos dropped d'Artagnan and stumbled backwards in shock and distrust, Athos grasped his shoulder, staring wide-eyed.
He twisted on his knees to the laid man. "Aramis?" d'Artagnan gasped in relief, grasping the man's hand in his ash covered ones.
"d'Artangnan." Aramis smiled at the boy, pulling him up onto the edge of the bed. "I was waiting for you. What happened? I feel... better."
"A-Aramis?" Porthos stepped forward, slowly, unsure. "Is that really you?"
Aramis looked over at his friend. "Who else are you expecting it to be?" he mused, but it was tainted with confusion and fear. Porthos gave a chocked chuckle it response, reaching out for his friend, needing to feel that he was truly there, ignoring the boy. Aramis grasped his hand solidly.
"Its really you." He gasped, squeezing.
Athos stood, watching with eyes narrowed in thought as he looked at his friend, not dead, but alive. His blue gaze widened as the memory came to him through a haze of red and shadow as he traced the bite mark on his hand. He looked down at it, and saw the torn out throat of the Red Guard laying in d'Artagnan's cell, never to get up again even after hours passed, the blood coagulated.
"That Red Guard!" the older man blurted, and the others looked at him in confusion, but for d'Artagnan, who gave a small nod. "He had his throat torn out, had to have been dead for a while—but he never turned, he never changed! I knew something was bothering me about it, but at the time I couldn't see it, then I got distracted with the..." he quickly moved on. "But it was that there were no other wounds. The man was killed, but he didn't change, despite his brain being still intact!"
"'Ow is that possible?" Porthos questioned, helping Aramis sit up.
"The bite mark!" Aramis gasped, looking at his wrapped hand. The mark had been scabbed and was healing nicely, but it wouldn't do to flash the world a bite mark, whether from a zombie or a boy, even a healing one, so he'd kept it wrapped.
"So there is a cure?" Porthos asked incredulously, looking around at them all.
"It appears so." Athos agreed.
They all looked at the unkempt boy.
He shifted uncomfortably at the attention. "I don't remember it exactly." d'Artagnan admitted softly, hesitantly. "All I saw was his blue eyes, and I wanted to kill him." He shot Athos an apologetic look, picking unconsciously at his torn sleeve. "My teeth were all I had." He shuddered. "The blood... it went down my throat and up my nose." He inhaled and raised his head. "But when I discovered that Aramis had been bitten, I just knew that I couldn't let you kill him when you thought he was going to turn."
"Well, it's a good thing you did." Aramis muttered.
Porthos rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace as he thought about it, about what he had almost done. If they hadn't saved d'Artagnan in the first place, and he hadn't bitten Aramis, than his best friend would be dead right now. His fingers came smeared pink with blood. He looked at it in confusion, and then at d'Artagnan in disbelief. "Did you bite me?!"
"Uh..." the boy looked awkward. "You gave little option with that."
Aramis laughed. "I think you should be more happy, than mad, Porthos."
The big man was incredulous. "'E bit me!" it was the indignantly of the thing.
"And one day, it'll save our lives." Athos said soberly. He then turned blue eyes onto the teen and raised a brow, "I trust you knew that when you did so?"
"Yes." He said, but a little too slow for the other's liking. "I stopped you from killing Aramis though didn't I?" he protested. "That was my first intention."
"If they haven't said it yet..." Aramis grasped d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Then, thank you, d'Artagnan."
"You saved me, Aramis. Returning the favor was the least that I could do—I'm just so happy that I was right."
Porthos looked at the boy, tensely and stiffly through narrowed eyes. He had nothing to be angry at d'Artagnan with anymore, but thankful because the boy, though inadvertently, saved Aramis. But it seemed unnatural. And completely unnerving to know what kind of power this boy had, to see his friend come back from something that had been killing people left and right for more than half his life, no matter how strong they were. The truth was, he had been afraid of the boy for the longest time. He had been a monster, soulless, a demon—but here, now, he seemed the innocent boy he truly was.
"But is it a one-off or permanent?" Athos murmured.
"I for one, truly hope not to find out," Aramis said. "I do not want to go through that again." They all nodded in agreement on that.
"Yes," Athos drawled after a moment, a spark of humour lighting his eyes. "Perhaps... watch your step next time?"
"Yeah," Porthos piped in after a moment, hoping to put in a bit of normalcy back into the situation. "Maybe you don't 'ave that whole multitaskin' thing as up to par as you thought.
Aramis compressed his lips and looked sly as he turned his gaze from Athos to Porthos. "I just want to thank you both... for giving me something to pla—I mean, think about—while I'm stuck in bed." He cleared his dry throat.
"Always glad to 'elp." Porthos muttered, but grinned nonetheless and the Spaniard returned it.
Aramis gladly took the cup of water that Porthos handed him, taking a much wanted and needed drink for his parched and chalky throat. He handed it back when finished, and furrowed his brows at the dark smears on only his right hand. He rubbed at it. "What's this?" Then he saw the same smears blackening both of d'Artagnan's hands. He took them in his. "What's—?"
"A-ash."
"Ash?" Aramis shook his head in confusion.
"There's this horrible place..." d'Artagnan whispered, clenching his hands. "It's filled with ash and bone... clogged with the souls of the dead..."
Porthos knew instantly of what horror that the boy was speaking. "What were you doin' in the Court?"
d'Artagnan looked at him in confusion. "The Court?"
"The Court of Miracles." Athos explained. "It's the first place where the infection took its hold. The King ordered it razed after the first year." He glanced at Porthos in concern.
"It's bordered off. No one goes there. It's a mass grave with the dead are left unburied. You shouldn't 'ave gone there!" Porthos growled.
d'Artagnan looked at him with wide-eyes.
"Porthos," Aramis chided, giving d'Artagnan a comforting touch. "He doesn't know. You can't blame him."
Porthos let out an explosive breath, running a hand over his short fuzz. "I know," he sighed. "I know. It's just..." he sat heavily in the chair next to the bed.
"I know." Aramis whispered in turn, reaching out and his fingers grazed his friend's sleeve.
Porthos nodded at him. He still had nightmares about that place, even as they held some of the best memories of his life. Of his mother, Charon and Flea. But who would not be haunted by the screams as people, healthy and alive, were condemned to death simply because they were poor and lived in squalor?
"I'm sorry, d'Artagnan." Porthos said finally, and he wasn't sure who was more shocked out of them all. First he apologized, and then said the Gascon's name for the first time since they had known each other. "The Court of Miracles was my 'ome. And I 'ad to watch, able to do nothin', as the people I had grown up with were burnt alive. They did not care who was infected and who was not. It didn't take a genius to see it was a tact of population control ordered by the King, but perpetrated by the Cardinal." He took an uneven breath. "It's a wasteland now. Where it used to be crowded with people, families, children, jus' tryin' to survive in the world like anyone else... it was 'ard livin' but there was always laughter." He sighed and looked at the boy, pushing the clouded tears back. "I know I've treated you unfairly, it was something that you didn't deserve, but was driven from my own fears and protectiveness of Aramis and Athos."
d'Artagnan shook his head, flabbergasted. "No, no. I-I understand."
Aramis sat back in relief; there was no more hostility in the room. But he paled suddenly as he realized something else. "Do you think the Cardinal realizes about the guard? There's been no sight of Lemay"—d'Artagnan flinched at the name still, and the Spaniard gave him an apologetic look—"for days now. Milady must have realized his involvement, and she never plays nice with her toys. How long can he hold out?"
"You're right." Athos carded his fingers through his hair with a heavy sigh. "It's only a matter of time," he agreed and the following silence in the room was loaded with a precariously immanent unknown future.
[tbc]
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
Aargh! I really curse myself with that scene with d'Artagnan, Treville, (& Ella, Alexandre). I feel like I want to stab myself in the face, but I hope that the rest of the chapter made up for it.
Translations:
Spanish/English:
Comer, beber y ser feliz para mañana que nos podemos morir. = "Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die."
Latin/English:
Transit umbra, lux permanet. = "Shadow passes, light remains."
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