a/n: Disclaimer: I don't own the Musketeers and general zombie concerns.
Note: So, another chapter aka more instanity.
Chapter includes (warning/spoilers): wtf is happening? LOL.
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 8: —
Athos left his two brothers before they could either acknowledge or deny his order. It wasn't often that he pushed his higher rank in the Musketeers over them, but in situations like this, he wasn't regretful. If Athos knew Aramis at all, the Spaniard would be convincing Porthos that they would jaunt d'Artagnan to a safe place and then return in fast pace for Athos. He did not feel guilty whatsoever in using Aramis' boundless and soft heart to get him, d'Artagnan, and Porthos away and to safety.
This was something that he needed to do himself. A wrong in the world that was done because of his own soft heart; no matter how many times Aramis and Porthos tried to convince him otherwise.
His step had steel in it as he followed the main street until he could take one of the side streets, cut across the square, before soon coming to the very entrance to the Court that d'Artagnan had exited from on his night spent lost in the city.
There were two Red Guards coming down the street straight towards him, but Athos step didn't falter or slow. He pushed through right between them.
"Hey—" they spun, one reaching to grab him.
"Leave me be, unless you want a mouth full of dirt and broken teeth." Athos said. And his blue eyes cut across the two men so cold and harshly, that he stalled them in their boots—and then he was around the corner, gone from their sights. He grabbed the lit torch at the corner before he turned off.
When he finally made it to the arch that led to the Court, he allowed himself to pause and contemplate exactly how stupid and reckless he was being. But not for longer than necessary. Athos had never stepped foot in the Court of Miracles. Not before, when it was whole and a bustling metropolis of its own accord tucked inside Paris. And not after it was turned into a mass grave, the bones of the dead buried in naught but thick ash of their own flesh and homes.
The passage was clear, which should not be the case. As Porthos had said back in Aramis' room, the whole Court had been boarded up and blocked. This was obviously Milady's doing. But he thought it odd that it hadn't been reported and boarded back up. Did she truly have that much influence with the Red Guards?
He stepped through and instantly, the atmosphere was changed into something more clouded and haunting. The light of the flame shimmered against the black charred close walls of the pathway. His gaze was drawn downward as he slowly walked forward, the thick ash underfoot disturbed by more than just Milady's foot—dozens and dozens. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise beneath his scarf.
He pressed forward into the dark streets with his small globe of light. The place had a feeling of depression, desolation and terror to it. An atmosphere that had become familiar to him back at his home in Pinon after Thomas' death. His home, peace, and heart had been shattered that day. He'd been a coward and fled from it, fleeing, trying to leave his past behind. But unbeknownst to him, it had been awaiting him in Paris, even as he tried to salvage his salvation in Aramis, Porthos, and Treville.
He didn't know where Milady was, but he knew that she was somewhere there. He came to a stop in the middle of the street, as in the distance father down, half hidden in the shadow, sat a lone chair in the middle of the street. His keen blue eyes quickly darted around the scenery as he placed his torch in the melted bracket on the charred brick wall of a store. The torchlight cast a glow inside the shutter-less window next to it. He could see the rounded-edge of a burnt ribcage, the flickering shadow of it a eerie after image. He turned from it and stepped back into the middle of the street and waited.
Athos ignored the itch between his shoulder blades. He didn't think that she would put a bullet through the back of his head, killing him before he even hit the ground. No. She would want to look him in the eyes first, rub it in his face, lash out. That was just who she was. She had tried to distantly kill him for some years now, in these elaborate schemes, covering her tracks—though he didn't rightly know just how many—none that had ever worked out for her. She was desperate now, at the end of her rope with d'Artagnan's escape, enough so that she revealed herself when she was of the belief that Athos still thought her dead, and wore that like a protective shield.
They didn't make a sound. They lumbered out of the dark shadows with barely a scuff of the ground. If he hadn't been hitched on fighting-mode, he might had been dead.
He jumped back from the grasping hands, ragged nails catching his fluttering cloak, and bowled right into another zombie. They tumbled to the ground in a heap—the advantage was his. He quickly threw his cloak back and drew out his main gauche. He plunged it through the forehead of the biter in a stroke. He didn't have time to fully register the discoloured eyes before he rolled from the corpse, onto his back. He was a quick draw, and the crack of the fired shot was almost deafening in the quiet but for his own breathing. The looming zombie collapsed to the ground, the back of its skull take half off. He held the third and remaining zombie off with a foot planted at the walker's groin, almost as effective as a palm against the forehead of a charging child. He grunted as it continued to push and strain against him, swiping with outstretched arms. It was silent, contrary to the usual grunting and groaning that was typical of a zombie; the click of its snapping teeth was all the sound that it emitted.
With effort, he shoved the zombie stumbling backward with a kick and quickly got to his feet, yanking his dagger still embedded in his first kill's forehead. The zombie charged him immediately again, and he met it. With his free hand, he reached forward, grabbing a handful of long tangled hair and yanking back what used to be a woman's head, and drove his dagger up under its chin. The eater died silently, looking into Athos' eyes. It hung limply from his grasp on its hair and the knife thrust up its chin. His eyes narrowed as he looked at it; it wasn't like any zombie he was used to seeing.
Its skin was jaundiced, pulled taut against the skull. It was pale and looked waxy. In the limited light of the torch and the moonlight overhead, they had looked the phantoms—if he believed in such a thing. The flesh didn't seem to be in any state of decomposition. A usual characteristic of the turned, was a disappeared iris; the colour completely drained, leaving the eye completely white but of the black pupil. But he could see the faint ring of the woman's iris, a shadow of a tint of the brown that her eyes used to be.
Athos finally pulled his dagger free, ready to drop the dead, when his eyes were drawn to its neck. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but for the long diagonal cut mark at the center of its neck. It was a cut purposefully made.
His heart beat in his chest as he finally dropped the zombie and spun on his heel, sheathing his dagger as he snatched up his pistol. Crouching, surrounded by three dead, irregular zombies, he quickly set about reloading his pistol.
He wondered if this was Milady's plan, to send zombies after him. But that didn't make any sense. It just seemed too outrageously dangerous to cart zombies to the Court just for him. So what was her plan?
"I know you're out there!" he finally called, his voice even, "Hiding in the shadows." Silence met him for a beat, and then she giggled. The sound sent a involuntary chill down his spine. His eyes narrowed and scoured the shadows but he could detect no one.
"What do you think?" she purred. "Marvellous, aren't they?"
"It's impolite not to come and greet an invited guest," he answered coolly. "Did you learn nothing as a Comtesse... Anne?"
"Hm." She finally sauntered from the shadows, the same distance away as the single chair placed perfectly in the middle of the street. "Still hooked on that, I see."
Athos slowly rose, his blue-eyes locked on her. She was still one of the most beautiful women that he knew, and he hated it. He just wished that her outside beauty could have reflected that of her soul. Things could have been so different.
"You look pretty put together for a dead woman." He commented.
One hand grasped the back of the chair as she stood beside it, looking back at him. "No thanks to you." He stared back and said nothing. "Aren't you going to say anything else? Aren't you going to ask how I am still alive? I honestly hoped for more of a reaction, but considering its you we're talking about—that may be asking too much."
"Perhaps I was shaken years ago when I first caught a glimpse of you in Paris," Athos allowed himself to admit, and a fast look of surprise flew across her face in the shadows before she could cover it. "But it was such long ago I don't quite recall. Perhaps there was a small part of me that hoped you had managed to survive, a piece of love that survived after everything—"
"I knew you would come." She whispered, sliding into the seat delicately.
Athos squared his shoulders, he was getting distracted. "So, any other surprises I should look forward to?" he questioned, stepping over the body of the zombie in front of him and slowly walking forward.
"Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise."
Athos stopped, still some distance between them, but far more intimate than before. Though the light from the torch was faint at this distance, he could still see her more clearly than before.
Milady sighed. "You never want to play. Down to business, I suppose." She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders, her hands rested over one another on her crossed knees beneath her skirts, and her red lips curved. "Where is d'Artagnan? He's special, as I'm sure you are aware. I want him back."
"He's a person, not a thing." Athos repeated Aramis' words to her. "He doesn't belong to anyone." Unlike you, he didn't add.
"Ah." She said in realization. "You've grown found of the boy, haven't you?" she laughed. "That is so... sweet, and so... sad."
"Haven't you figured it out already?" he replied in a cold condescending tone. "There is no cure."
"Mm." A smile curved the corner of red lips. "Whether there is a cure or not, I've grown quite fond of the boy, too." Even at this distance, she could detect the subtle tensing of his body in response to her words. "Jealous?"
"Disappointed." He corrected her and her lips flat-lined. Without even realizing it, she'd just revealed that she in fact did not know that d'Artagnan's bite was a cure. "Have you truly fallen so low, Anne? Seducing young boys... I believed you to be better than that. What happened to the woman that I married—"
"You never knew me! Don't claim to have!" she hissed at him, standing. "You are a heartless man. I've never known someone more selfish or self-centered."
"You murdered Thomas," he said soundlessly. "I should not have allowed you to go free, I should have—"
"Allowed me to be free?" she scoffed. "I am a person, not a thing!" she threw back into his face.
"The Cardinal owns you, Anne." He shook his head. "You're kidding yourself with this notion of revenge. Just give it up, turn yourself in—or leave. Leave Paris and go somewhere far away where he can never find you—while you have the chance, the freedom."
"My freedom vanished the second I met you." Her green eyes shone bright with unshed tears. She slowly walked towards him, he stood unmoving. "You stole my heart, Athos." She reached him, looking up at him as he stared stoically back. She placed her palms flat on his chest. "Everything inside of me, everything I did from the day I fell into your beautiful, cold blue eyes—was out of love." She stood on her toes. "Everything we ha—"
"You destroyed anything that was between us when you murdered my brother."
Her expression turned hard in an instant and she stepped back from him. "Was your friend's funeral as fun as it looked?" she mocked him lowly. "I guess that half those men that attended only did so out of Treville's orders."
Athos inhaled sharply at her jab. "You know nothing of what it means to love," he told her. "You were just using me. That wasn't love. You tricked me into believing you were something that you aren't!"
She sneered at him and turned her back purposefully, walking back to her placed chair. It was a prop to her, a viewing seat.
Was the show his death?
He should kill her now, he should—but he couldn't seem to will himself to do it, despite that being his whole reason for coming. Finally kill Milady; keeping d'Artagnan safe and perhaps, sealing the gaping wound of his past. "You're nothing but Richelieu's lapdog," he found himself saying instead. "What exactly do you hope to accomplish here?"
"To kill you!" she hissed, turning back to him and sitting in the chair. "...And test out the Cardinal's army." She added.
"Army?"
She smiled with a small chuckle. "You shouldn't have come alone, Athos."
"He's not alone!" the pair were both startled by the shout, and looked behind Athos to see d'Artagnan charging towards him.
Athos cursed both Aramis and Porthos. How did they let him get here? Why weren't they at the ruins like was agreed? If they were standing in front of him as well, he would throttle them. He kind of wanted to throttle the boy right then too to get his point across.
"Well," Milady said after a moment, "That saves me the time and fun of dragging the answer of his whereabouts out of you."
d'Artagnan halted beside him a bit breathless and fired up. Athos stared at him with a hard look. He seemed to be alone, but he surely hoped that wasn't the case. The teen shot him a glance and a short nod in assurance. So Porthos and Aramis were around, but out of sight and getting into position. That was something, at least.
d'Artagnan glared at her. "You won't be seeing your henchmen again, if you were curious. They fell to my blade rather quickly."
"Clearly, they outlived their usefulness." She just flicked her fingers casually in response. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, d'Artagnan."
"And I knew there was a reason I didn't like you." He shook his head. "You are an evil woman. And you will pay for the harm you've done to innocent people."
She gave a light chuckle. "Innocent—how boring. But they have their uses. As I was telling Athos a few minutes ago before you so helpfully turned yourself into me—would you like to say hello to those innocent's?"
d'Artagnan furrowed his brow in confusion and Athos tensed next to him.
"If you do this, Anne," Athos said. "You cannot take it back."
"The only regret I'll have tonight, Athos, is if you live." She dragged up the silver chain from around her neck, and from her bosom drew up a silver whistle. She put it to her red lips and blew.
Athos waited, but there was no piercing signal—there was no sound at all.
"Aah!" d'Artagnan cried out at the sudden sharpness stabbing through his brain.
"d'Artagnan!" Athos called in alarm, grasping the boy's shoulder as he straightened. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"What was that?" he gasped. "Didn't you feel that?"
"No." Athos shook his head. He looked back to Milady and growled, "What was that?"
"A call to arms."
"Ar—" Athos' sharp gaze darted around the darkness of the street, the only light from the overhanging moon as his torch from down the street near the corpses of the three zombie, suddenly fizzled out. He couldn't be sure that that was planned on her part or just a coincidence, but decided that at the moment, it didn't really matter.
He drew his sword, releasing the boy as he faced the shadows. d'Artagnan straightened and drew his stolen sword from the same taken belt and turned his back to Athos, facing the other side. He didn't know what that whistle was, or exactly what that pain that only he seemed to feel was, but what he did know, what that it was trouble.
"Athos?" he asked.
"The Cardinal's been amassing a zombie army, apparently." He said.
"What?" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "How is that even possible? You can't control zombies."
"I don't know." He admitted. "We'll see in a minute. But the zombies I fought earlier," he looked over to the trio, "they weren't regular."
d'Artagnan looked at them too, almost noticing them for the first time. In honesty, when he ran in here, he wasn't really thinking about it, and he certainly didn't put any attention to the three bodies on the ground, not when Athos and Milady were right there. He was sure he'd hear about that later from the others—if they got out of this situation that was all because of him.
Any question that he might of had about these zombies not being 'regular' was put on hold as they suddenly seemed to swarm towards them from every shadowed room on the street. d'Artagnan was honestly surprised when they weren't there, and then suddenly they were, with no warning whatsoever.
The blood in his body crawled at the presence of them. It wasn't as if there was anything outwardly disgusting or evil about them, in fact, they were the best preserved zombies he had ever come across.
His sword moved fast and furious, slashing left and right, stabbing. Athos' movements were similar behind him. They moved differently. They didn't seemed to be jolting and halting, lumbering. They seemed a little faster, and a little more coordinated than regular zombies. Was that what Athos meant?
"Amazing creatures, aren't they? Fascinating," Milady said, greatly enjoying the show, but it didn't appear to be enough. Though she had the numbers, she knew it would take more than that to take her husband down once and for all. "And it's all thanks to you, d'Artagnan." She brought the whistle back to her red lips, and this time, instead of a single long note, she blew several short notes.
Again, Athos heard nothing. But each breath was a harsh pain inside d'Artagnan's brain that had his step faltering. The hybrid zombies reacted to it as well, and as one, they seemed to open their mouths it a silent cry that was linked to the Gascon's verbalisation. The entire thing put chills through the blue-eyed Musketeer. The speed of their movements, the fluidness of their attacks, they moved cohesively, like a unit based on command, rather than mindless beasts that the zombies usually were.
It seemed about then, that d'Artagnan realized something chilling of his own. For those several moments, as the whistle caught him unawares, he should have been completely overwhelmed by the zombies—but they hadn't. They seemed to want to amble over or through him—
"d'Artagnan." Athos barked.
—at Athos. "M'fine." d'Artagnan straightened and attacked the zombies with a renewed vigour. One hand his sword, another with the same main gauche he had used to kill Gaudet, his attacks doubly as fluid. And it hit him like a bucket of frozen blood as a zombie hurled towards him, knocking him into another as the tried to get at Athos. It was like they didn't even see him as he was right under its nose. He got an eye full of the incision on its neck as it was trying to crawl over him (and now knew why the didn't make a sound), saw the flash of colour that lingered in its eyes, its pulsing tongue. With a grunt of effort, he managed to roll them, having lost his sword in the tackle, he stabbed it through the ear to the brain with his dagger as it craned its head back towards Athos even then. He quickly leapt onto the back of the zombie that he and the other had dropped onto, its hands and knees giving out beneath the boy's sudden weight. He put his dagger through the back of its head.
He spun around and grabbed up his fallen sword again, leaping to his feet and back into the fight. Athos didn't seemed to have noticed what he had.
The reason why it felt like there were bugs crawling under his skin, why the whistle seemed to cut through him, why they weren't attacking him. Milady claimed that these zombies were because of him—because he was a part of them. All that blood that Lemay had cut from him, day after day as he was chained in that cell that he didn't think he had a hope of escaping from—was used on these people. Of course, it was the obvious path to go, to believe that the blood that flowed through his body held the cure to the disease. But as discovered, it was his bite—but these... things, theses odd zombies, were the result of his transfused blood into another person.
His blood was poison.
He shuddered at the thought. These creatures did not attack him because they had his blood. Just like how regular zombies didn't attack other zombies around them. These zombies didn't attack him because they recognized him as one of their own. He was nearly taken with the horror of it.
"No," he moaned quietly, too quietly for Athos to hear, despite how close they were, through the sound of their heavy breaths, the crunching of their blade cutting through bone and into brains, of the bodies hitting the ground.
"Need some 'elp?" Porthos asked, charging into the fray to join them, bowling several zombies over with a thick shoulder.
Athos acknowledge him with a nod, pulling his sword free from a zombie's chomping teeth, and elbowing the one looming behind him in the face, before turning on his heel and lopping its head off. "Where is—"
"Just going to thank the witch for the condolences on 'is death." Porthos flipped the zombie over a shoulder and put a hard stomp on its skull, crushing it beneath his boot. "What say we finish 'ere and join him in the sentiments felt?"
"He's just as bad as Athos!" d'Artagnan interjected.
Porthos paused a moment to send the boy a droll raised brow. "You're one to talk."
d'Artagnan glared at him, before his attention was distracted after being bumped aside as the zombies now swarmed after two targets in stead of one. But lucky, between the three of them, the numbers of the hybrids were quickly dwindling.
Milady wasn't stupid. It was clear to her that she had once again let her obsession rule her plan. She should have killed him when she had the chance, when it had been just the two of them like she had written in her letter. She knew he would come. And he had. And then, so had d'Artagnan. Everything she wanted was in front of her.
Another man suddenly jumping into the fray changed the outcome fast and drastically. One lucky move on her hybrid-zombies' part, and her husband would finally be dead at her hand after all these years. But it was as if God hated her, had put a curse upon her life since she was born into it.
But for a short while, she'd seen the light. She'd left the Cardinal, she found Athos. But soon, all too soon, she had been forced to kill Thomas. She gotten away with it for a short time, but then Athos found the truth, and had tossed her away. She had no other choice by to come crawling back to Richelieu and beg to be back into his good-graces. She had never felt so disgusted with herself in her life in that moment, it didn't seem worth it. And here they were now.
She stood, sent one last mixed look towards her husband, and fled the opposite way down the street. What she didn't noticed was the fourth man, flitting through the dark cast shadows after her.
She knew that Richelieu would not welcome her with open arms, perhaps once he found out how badly she had failed—exposing both of them and his plans in the process—he'd greet her with ordered steel through her back. She should have taken Athos up on his offer to run, but she was far to despising for that.
"And where do you think you're going?" Aramis questioned. He grabbed her and she instantly struggled, but the Spaniard had the upper hand and he shoved her back against a burnt beam pinning her in place. She seethed at the Musketeer.
"Who—" It took Milady a moment to recognize Aramis. Her eyes widened and she gasped, fearful and confused. "Ho—?" and then the realisation took her breath away. "You... you found a cure. How? What is it?" she leaned forward eagerly.
His brows just pulled together though. "What are you talking about?"
She narrowed her eyes and relaxed back against post, her red lips pursed. Handsome as he may be, and turn into more as the years passed, she wasn't buying it. She knew this was him, Athos' dead friend. She'd seen him around the man enough times over the years. It was rumoured that he'd been bitten, and a short few days later, they held his funeral. She scoffed as the realization hit her, but she said nothing further. It had been a ruse, a trick—but which part was the trick?
She spotted the bandage that wrapped his left wrist, peaking from beneath his cuff. Was that it? Was that the bite mark? Her green gaze flickered back to his face, he looked tired and a bit pale, and that mark on his forehead must smart a bit. A smiled flickered at the corner of her red lips, and without warning, she butted her head forward, smashing it into that pretty lump and bruise.
He stumbled backwards from her, tripping over his own feet in the harsh stab of pain, and crashed to the ground. The sudden mind-blasting pain that shot through his head and straight through his center. He was left stunned, his vision whited-out and his brain plummeted.
She took her moment, and grabbed his wrist. It was a risk, but she needed to know. She tore the bandage from his wrist and inspected it. And right there, gleaming in the overhead moonlight, she saw the clears marks of a bite wound well on its way of healing. Glee took her. She rose from the Musketeer, a grin curving her lips. There was a cure! Oh. Now that she knew the truth of it, whatever it was, and the Cardinal didn't… There was almost a skip in her step as she started to make her way down the street and from the fallen Spaniard.
Aramis bottomed out—and then the world kicked back into focus. He rolled up on his side with a grunt, and pulled the hook free of his belt, his arm steady as he directed it towards the retreating back.
The cocking of his pistol had her halting in her steps.
"Move, and I'll shoot."
"If you were going to shoot, you would have already done it." She replied calmly, and was judging whether she should risking taking that bold step forward when the Spaniard spoke:
"True as that may be, we'll be wanting answers from you. It will be Athos' decision what happens with you. But you should as well know... I'm the best shot in Paris. So go ahead, take that step you're thinking about, Madame, but do not curse me for what happens next."
After a moment, Milady did move, but it was to turn slowly on her heel to face the young Musketeer. "Tell me, Musketeer... what was it like to die?" she remembered watching d'Artagnan back in the ruins, watched as he stopped breathing and died for a moment, and wondered if it was the same for this man, though the remark was cutting.
"It's great fun," he said tersely. "You should try it some time."
"Yes, please!" she smiled and silently cheered. "Just hand d'Artagnan over—"
"Not in a million years," Aramis cut her off coldly. "You will never lay another hand on him, so long as I breath and after."
Milady narrowed her green eyes. "That 'after' part appeals to me. Lower the pistol and we'll give it a try."
"Trust me, it's the pistol keeping you safe, not the other way around." His voice was low and deathly and the expression in his brown eyes caused the assassin to pause.
Would he truly? she thought. "Well, then..." she wondered, "What now?"
"Now, you tell us everything we want to know." Athos answered, coming to stand next to Aramis with the others.
Milady laughed at that. "And why would I possibly do that?"
"'Cause we asked nicely?" Porthos took a stab.
"Try again."
"'Cause you don't wan to feel what 'appen's next if you don't."
"And who do you believe I am more afraid of, hm?" Milady asked. "Three lowly Musketeers and a boy, or the First Minister of France who doesn't have a heart in his chest? Please, I'd like to hear your thoughts." She rolled her eyes sarcastically.
"Rethink your position, Anne." Athos told her genuinely. "Who stands before you? Who has your fait in their hands? Do we look the desperate men to you?" he stared at her levelly. "I was in a despaired state when last we met... I won't make that same mistake again."
Milady swallowed quietly from where she stood, a light distance between them. She carefully crossed her arms over her bosom. By all rights, they had her, it was true. But what they didn't know, was that she still had a play up her sleeve.
Her move was blink-fast before they could react. And her whistle was between her red lips, the slim silver tube laying parallel against her lips as she blew. Porthos yanked the chain off from around her neck with such force that it snapped and left a thin, red welt mark on her pale milky neck. But it was too late—she grimaced at the sting, but was satisfied.
d'Artagnan gave a low groan at the swimming inside his head. He pushed his fingers from one hand into his hair, palming the side of his skull almost like he could stabilize it. This silent sound had a different piercing affect than the others.
"d'Artagnan!" Aramis exclaimed in concern, turning his focus to the boy. He grasped his shoulder in worry. Unlike Athos and d'Artagnan who knew, or Porthos who had caught a glimpse of the woman using it before the zombies' frenzy was renewed, Aramis had taken longer to get into his position than Porthos after d'Artagnan had dashed off into the darkened archway of the Court. It was a miracle that both men had arrived in time.
"What did you do?" Athos demanded of his wife, and grabbed her upper arm roughly as Porthos seethed next to him, the whistle fisted in his large palm.
Milady just smirked and shrugged. "I told you I didn't want to ruin the surprise." Her expression levelled out, "Let me go, Athos—before it's too late."
Athos ignored her, his grip on her arm a bruising force as he looked around like the others into the shadowed and dark street warily. "That's not going to happen."
"Just wait and watch," she muttered.
He sent her a glare but addressed his men, "Porthos—Aramis: get some light in this place. There's a torch back down the street on the left. It'll be easily to spot—just look by the walkers."
Porthos snorted at that but nodded and handed the whistle and snapped chain over to the Musketeer Lieutenant. Aramis reluctantly released d'Artagnan, who seemed to have collected himself back up, before Porthos guided him away back down the street from where they had come, where you couldn't step and not find it on a corpse, with a hand on the back of his shoulder.
"I don't think 'e could 'ave been more specific that that." The big man deadpanned.
d'Artagnan slowly started to move in a circle around the man and woman, his eyes trained outward into the darkness, his hand on the hilt of his sword. The quiet was more nerve-wracking than if another hoard bore down on them for a second time that night.
"Nothing is happening, Athos." he addressed the man and attempted to ignore the woman. "Maybe it didn't work, or she's just screwing with us!" he sighed in frustration and carded his fingers through his unevenly cut locks. "This whistle was different from the others, it—" he made a wishy-washy gesture with his hand or perhaps a boat on crashing waves.
Athos turned to him at that. "What do you mean: different?"
"I—I don't know." He shook his head. "It didn't have the same affect as the others."
Athos looked down at the innocent looking, small, silver tube in the palm of his free hand before he clenched it and stuffed it in the pouch on his belt. "Perhaps, because Porthos cut it off—"
He stopped when his words were tripped over by Milady's low and amused chuckle at listening to them. If only they knew! "You sweet fools, the both of you."
d'Artagnan grimaced with twisted lips and turned his back on the woman, stepping away in the opposite direction.
The fear and anger that he held for the woman since his awakening in the cell, had mutated and changed into something even more conflicting and confusing ever since he'd found out that Milady was Athos' wife. No matter what the woman had done to him, that she had brought his world down into ruins—he could not kill her like he had Gaudet. Whatever Milady's fait, it was ultimately Athos' decision. She was his wife, he knew her longer than any of them, she had murdered his brother and for years had been attempting to kill him as well. d'Artagnan just hoped that whatever the outcome, it put her far away from him and left him to the life that Alexandre had hoped by bringing him to Paris.
He tried to ignore her, but she wasn't making it easy. He put some distance between him and the pair. Athos' blue glare at her spoke volumes. d'Artagnan really wanted to be from this place…
Without realizing it, his thoughts carried him further from the husband and wife, and out of Athos' unrealized sight. Milady watched him go from the corner of eye and turned head, with a smirk that she smothered as she faced Athos.
d'Artagnan remembered the bearing and oppressive influence of the Court when he'd fled into the place for an altogether different reason than he had raced into it tonight. He was starting to feel it again, now, like a physical presence as he stood alone at the end of the street that turned into a small three-way court cast into complete shadow.
He felt the weight of it on his chest again, pressing down, heavy as it pushed upon his mind.
The shadows wavered like a live thing and he shook his head and rubbed his eyes. His anxiety was just playing tricks on him. With one last look into the dark court, he lifted his heel, intent on turning a heading back to the others before his absence was noticed and he got yelled at for it later—when there was the crunch of charred bone underfoot. He froze, his own foot still raised. There was a scuff again, but he hadn't moved.
His breath exhaled shallowly and he carefully returned his foot to the ground. He eyes narrowed as he tried to peel back the layers of shadow in the square, his grip tight on the hilt of his sword.
A cloud filtered over the moon then, and whatever light it had cast, vanished, leaving him in near completely darkness…
A slick fear took over him and he didn't know why. He was frozen in the darkness, his breath stuck in his throat. Before finally, the cloud slithered passed over the moon, and the dim silver light took the inkiness away.
And from the darkness,
like a demon—
Lemay appeared.
[tbc]
the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht
I couldn't resist the: ("You shouldn't have come alone,"—"He's not alone!") bit once it presented itself. The whistle—well, I was having a troubling time trying to come up with a way that Milady was supposed to 'control' the hybrid-zombies [between verbal commands, lip-whistles, etc...] and suddenly, the dog-whistle just hit me, because they are supposed to be 'commendable like dogs'. ;) So, as you know the Cardinal found out about the cure upon having that Red Guard autopsied, but obviously didn't share that little tidbit with Milady, who believed that their goal now is to harvest d'Artagnan's blood and make more hybrid-zombies for his army. She discovers on her own that there is a cure, but not what the cure is—and starts to make plans of her own.
I dreaded doing this chapter for the sole reason of the Athos-Milady confrontation, but after some heel-dragging it turned into some more insanity. Yay!
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