So this is the final chapter! :) Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, kudos and bookmarked! It's been amazing! :D
A/N : a tiny bit of offensive language - if that's your beef, apologises, it's nothing big, but thought I'd just let you know
~ d'Artagnan ~
The hollow clink of the chain echoed forebodingly as he was roughly dragged into the crowded courtyard. The midday bells tolled ominously in the distance, as the young musketeer was pulled ever closer to the wooden scaffold in the centre of the crowd.
It took all the courage he possessed to walk forth upon the scaffold unaided. He knew they were there, somewhere in the crowds of jeering strangers. Somewhere his brothers were watching him at his weakest moment.
Hate-filled cries of 'Murderer' cut through him, deeper than any blade could hope to achieve. 'Let 'im hang!' another cried out as he was positioned before the crowd.
'Burn in hell murderer!' D'Artagnan heard one clearly shout, though he doubted the grimy peasant even knew about the trial. He probably just wanted to watch the musketeer hang for an afternoon's entertainment.
"Charles d'Artagnan," an unknown official stepped forward, though he seemed to be addressing the crowded rather than the man he named. "You are charged with the murder of Comte Bertrand de la Marche, for which you have been found guilty. For these crimes you have been sentenced to hang from the neck until dead."
He prayed it would be quick, though he knew that there was little hope in that. Hanging was not an exact science and usually consisted of the victim struggling in vain as they died slowly. It was most likely that they wished him to suffer, to die choking upon his last breaths, the way they all thought he deserved.
"Do you have any last words you wish to confess?"
Confess? No. He would not confess. He would take their secrets to his grave, laying down his life so that his friends may be spared the horrors of the Baron's grip. After all they had done for him, he would not abandon them at the final hour, simply to save his own skin.
He closed his eyes, allowing a single tear to escape down upon his cheek. With hands tightly bound, the rope scratching his neck, balancing precariously upon the block beneath is feet – d'Artagnan made his peace, accepting the fate had he been forced into.
Lazily gazing a top the faces of the crowd, d'Artagnan caught sight of something that stilled his heart and mind. There amongst all those would had gathered to see him meet his fate, stood three unmoving forces, like large rocks against the wildest of storm swelled waves.
Porthos looked furious and terrified all at once, his hand upon the hilt of his rapier as if desperate to unsheathed the weapon and demand justice. Aramis looked distressed in a way that d'Artagnan had not seen before, he also seemed to be whispering something as he gaze up at d'Artagnan. And Athos. Athos looked as thought his heart hand been tore from his chest. His eyes were wide, brow furrowed in desperation and anguish. A small part of d'Artagnan wish he had got the firing squad instead, if only to spare Athos the torment of watching another person hang.
Closing his eyes, d'Artagnan attempted commit this image as the last he was to ever see.
But, yes, he had a few last words to give the world before he was forcefully pushed off this mortal coil. Ones that seemed to give him the strength to open his eyes and seek out the gaze of the three men he'd admired most in the world.
"All for one and one for all…"
– Two Days Earlier –
The garrison was horridly dull come midmorning. All the men had eaten and left to their duties, leaving a bare almost lifeless courtyard free of bawdy activity and entertainment. As most were away on assignment or on a two-day hunting trip with the King, the garrison was looking rather empty at the moment.
Having found himself with an unprecedented day's leave on Tréville's strict authority, d'Artagnan was at an utter loss as what to do.
"Monsieur Aramis?" A quiet yet authoritative voice spoke clearly as a young woman appeared in the archway of the garrison.
Rosalie, one the Queen's ladies stepped forth into the garrison, delicately removing her large hood to reveal her soft features. Technically, they had never met, but Porthos had pointed her out to him once, in hopes that the young Gascon would stop pining over Madame Bonacieux.
"I'm afraid he is away, accompanying the Duke and Duchess of Vendôme back to their residence," d'Artagnan offered with a slightly sour tone.
The Duke and Duchess' stay had been rather trying for all involved, though mostly for the young Gascon. It was not that they were terribly awful people; the Duke was a rather amicable gentleman and the Duchess was a beautiful woman in both face and soul. However their youngest son, François, was another matter entirely. The boy was rude, brash, arrogant and snobbish, but only to those he felt superior to – which included servants, stableboys and d'Artagnan.
Due to this, the two had felt an instant dislike for one another, one that did not bode well throughout the course of their visit.
Being only fourteen, François had developed an odious sense of entitlement and a deeply envious and possessive nature. Coupled with an obsessive fixation upon the King's Musketeers, the young lord had been drawn to Athos, Porthos and Aramis upon first sight. However upon seeing d'Artagnan interact so casually with his brothers, François' jealous qualities had taken hold.
This made for a rather awkward few days in the Palace as the King was eager to show off his young musketeer and was blind to the young noble's spiteful hatred that seethed and flared when ignored. And though d'Artagnan tried his best to remain civil with the young terror, François just seemed to be able to know all of d'Artagnan's triggers.
In the end the Captain had chosen to be diplomatic upon the matter, allowing the trio of musketeers to depart for Vendôme, whilst asking d'Artagnan to remain in Paris if only to keep the peace for the length of the journey. As the excursion was only a half-day's journey, d'Artagnan made not effort in protest. Truthfully he was rather thankful to be rid of the presence of the malicious little weasel.
However that did leave d'Artagnan to mope about the garrison with a full day to kill. Once there had been a time where he would have simply spent the day accompanying Constance with her daily chores however now these small moments seemed to drive the thinnest of blades into his heart; he would not notice them piercing until hours later when the pain of her absence would hit all the more harder.
And under Athos' stern instructions, d'Artagnan was forbidden to get himself into trouble while the trio were away. Though both Porthos and Aramis had sniggered rather vocally at these warnings – claiming they had a better chance of Hell's eternal flames freezing over than d'Artagnan staying away from trouble – d'Artagnan had promised nonetheless. And he was prepared to prove Aramis and Porthos wrong – he also had thirty sous riding on it.
So here he sat; bored, useless and completely out of harm's way.
However as he watched Rosalie's worried expression, d'Artagnan feared be may have to break his promise with Athos.
"Oh dear," the young woman paled slightly, trembling visibly, "her Majesty asked for the Monsieur directly, it is a matter of great importance."
"I am a dear friend of Aramis and am known to the Queen, if I accompanied you, I sure I could explain his absence and perhaps aid her Majesty in his place."
"Then follow me Monsieur," Rosalie nodded sharply.
†††
It felt completely unnatural to step into the Queen's lavish rooms. Every bone in his body was screaming to step away. These were her Majesty's private apartments and though Rosalie urged him to keep at her heels, d'Artagnan could not help feeling uncomfortable walking through the secluded halls of the Queen.
A small part of his mind wondered why the Queen was calling upon Aramis to visit her in her private quarters, though this thought was quickly brushed away.
"Your Majesty," Rosalie gave a small curtsey as she entered the room.
Anne of Austria stood as flawless as ever, bathed in a halo of sunlight at the window of her awe-inspiring salon. Though largely absent of a great deal of furniture, the room held a resonating welcoming presence. A large mirror hung over an intricately carved marble fireplace and several chaise lounges sat along the walls. Several of her Majesty's ladies in waiting were gathered around her, flittering about like small birds upon a windowsill. However the Queen stood with a powerful grace, turning slightly as she heard the two enter.
"D'Artagnan…?" The Queen frowned a little upon seeing him at her door, clearly disenchanted that d'Artagnan was not a certain charming moustache bearing musketeer. Well, she was not the first woman to be disappointed he was not Aramis and he suspected she wouldn't be the last.
"Aramis is away, es – " d'Artagnan began to apologise.
"Escorting the Duke and Duchess," her Majesty's face fell slightly and though she tried to cover her disappointment, d'Artagnan could read it plainly in her eyes, "how careless of me to forget."
"It's alright, I'd be worried if you did know Aramis' movements…" d'Artagnan snorted and then winced as he realised he'd spoken aloud, ducking his head down bashfully. Had he truly just said that to the Queen of France?
Far too much time spent around his fellow musketeers have given the young Gascon a talent at rapid fire retort, though d'Artagnan was quickly realising that a number of situations did not require this newly honed skill of his. Usually Porthos or Aramis would elbow him in the ribs or slap the back of his head well before he could finish those sorts of ill thought out sentences.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," the Queen said slowly with a diplomatic edge, though there were no signs of anger behind her tone.
"Thank you, that would be greatly appreciated," d'Artagnan replied quickly in a meek tone, horrendously embarrassed at the tactlessness he'd just displayed before the Queen. It was rare for the young musketeer to be in the presence of just the Queen by herself, rarer still that he was without the company of his brothers.
"Well in truth, my task is not something which Aramis is necessarily required," the Queen informed him quickly, brushing off the Gascon's carelessness easily, "I only asked after him as he has proven himself amicably in the past."
"Of course your Majesty," d'Artagnan nodded dutifully, taking great care to present himself as a respectable musketeer, rather than the idiot he'd proven himself to be earlier. "I understand that I am not half the musketeer Aramis is, but I am willing to aide you in anyway possible if I am able."
"You are too hard on yourself," Anne of Austria smiled warmly, "I have heard a great deal of praise attached to your name, largely from my husband and your Captain."
To this d'Artagnan felt his cheeks redden slightly under the Queen's flattery, catching her gaze timidly as he gave her a small appreciative smile.
"I require you to deliver a letter from myself to the Baron de Longepierre." Her Majesty informed him as she presented a small envelope to the young musketeer.
"Of course, your Majesty," d'Artagnan nodded with a wide smile as he took the missive graciously. It was perfect, something to take his mind off his boredom but just boring enough to keep his promise to Athos. "Was there anything else...?"
"Simply give Longepierre the letter, " The Queen told him carefully, "that is all."
"Then I shall see it done," d'Artagnan informed her with a short respectful bow, tucking the envelope into his doublet as he made to leave.
"D'Artagnan," her Majesty's voice stopped the young musketeer the doorway.
"Have care around the Baron, merely deliver the letter, nothing further."
"Yes, your Majesty," d'Artagnan agreed humbly, dipping his head once again in a half bow before exiting the room.
†††
The Baron's apartments were large and imposing, though there were nothing upon the beauty and splendour the Louvre palace held.
Its luxury was truly a mystery to behold. Rich lavish hallways were intricately detailed in a way unlike any of the noble apartments d'Artagnan had entered. Which was intriguing as Barons were not usually known for their over extravagance and abundance of wealth. Athos' status as a Comte was far greater than the Baron's and yet Longepierre's apartments seemed to reflect that of a Duke or Marquis.
What more, it seemed as though the Baron's apartments had not been used in some time. A small army of maids were quickly rushing past, stripping white sheets from the furniture, creating small clouds of dust to flitter about in the air like small creatures dancing in the rays of sunlight.
Upon entering the Baron's large apartments, d'Artagnan had been given strict instructions to wait in the hall until Longepierre was ready to receive company. This did not bother the young musketeer so much as the flurry of excitement around him as well as the lavishness of the hall in which he found himself provided ample entertainment for the time being.
Starring up at a large imposing painting in awe, d'Artagnan took a step back in hopes to see the enormous mural in its entirety. However as the musketeer moved, he unknowingly stepped right in the way of a small elderly woman trying to hurry past carrying an ornate blue and white delftware teapot.
Crashing into the old woman, d'Artagnan let out a small yelp with was followed by a gasp from the woman and a thunderous crash as the delicate crockery fell to the floor, shattering instantly upon impact with the marble tiles.
"I am so sorry!" d'Artagnan yelped as he saw the destroyed remnants of the teapot upon the floor, rushing to he knees to try and gather the pieces, in hopes that they would somehow miraculously glue themselves back together. "Let me pay for my damage Madame, how much was it?"
"Two hundred livre," the woman told him with a deadpanned expression as she too knelt down to retrieve the small pieces littering the floor.
"For a teapot?" d'Artagnan blanched, his eyes wide as he starred at the shards upon the floor. "How?"
"It is quite alright, my dear, it was a hideous teapot," she smiled warmly, placing a gentle hand upon the young musketeer's forearm to reassure him. "I am rather glad to be rid of it, belonged to my mother-in-law, dreadful woman," the old woman added with a small chuckle as she reached out to gather the sharp pieces from the floor, releasing a small gasp as it cut across her palm.
"I'm so sorry," d'Artagnan winced, cupping the woman's hand gently as he surveyed the damage, "now you have been injured."
"From my own clumsiness, nothing more, my dear, do not worry yourself," the elderly woman shook her head, "though perhaps I might acquire your services in tending to my wounds?"
"Of course," d'Artagnan nodded quickly, following the woman into a large kitchen.
"Well at least it was not my writing hand," the woman chuckled as she collected a bowl of water. "I have taken to writing for my husband as his hands are too weak do to do."
"Well, I'm sure you'll be good as new, soon enough, Madame," d'Artagnan promised sincerely.
"Pardon my manners dear, I am the Baron's wife, Magritte."
"D'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers, at your service, Baroness de Longepierre," d'Artagnan told her proudly with a bright smile as he carefully dabbed away the blood from the Baroness' small wound, in a way that would have made Aramis proud of his young student. Though he was a little embarrassed that he had broken the Baroness' teapot, the kind elderly woman seemed to care less about the shattered crockery.
"Oh please call me Magritte, dearest d'Artagnan," Magritte expressed casually, as though they were old friends, "if only to indulge an old woman wishing to feel young again."
"Magritte, then," d'Artagnan agreed as he began to wrap the small cut upon her palm with clean cloth, pausing as he came across a heavy cotton wrapping on the Baroness' wrist. "You are already injured," he frowned
"A simply accident," Magritte brushed off casually, "I wished for a little warmth in my quarters, but ended up a little too close to the flames."
"With all these servants rushing about, surely one could have spared a moment to tend your fireplace."
"True, next time I shall be less stubborn," the Baroness smiled with a tinkle in her eye, "Oh, but tell me, it must be wonderful, to be a musketeer," Magritte gazed at the young man in awe, effortlessly diverting the conversation back towards d'Artagnan, "your parents must be ever so proud."
"I hope they are," d'Artagnan replied honestly, his mood sobering slightly at the mention of his family. There had once been a time where his every waking thought had been upon how his father would have wanted him to live his life. Recently these thoughts had grown fewer, not that he had forgotten his father nor the values he had stood for, but rather d'Artagnan had come to realise the futility of these consuming thoughts – or in actuality Athos, Porthos and Aramis had all sat him down on separate occasions to discuss the ineffectuality of way of living.
"My parents are both dead," d'Artagnan explained softly, "the Musketeers are my family now."
"Then I'm sure your mother and father are watching over you, glowing with pride. Any parent would be blessed to have a son like you," Magritte told him, cupping his cheek in a maternal gesture of kindness. D'Artagnan felt himself lean into her touch, warmed by the tender affection the Baroness bestowed upon him.
"Oh but my dear, I have kept you with all my frivolous chatter, I do apologise."
"The Baron will simply have to practice the art of patience," d'Artagnan chuckled cheekily, "for I am engaged in a matter that requires my full attention; a wounded victim of a most terrible crime against crockery."
"I find myself feeling rather fortunate that my teapot broke at your feet and not that of another," Magritte noted with an almost melancholy tone, as though sadden by the joy of the moment. "I feel I have not smiled this much in years."
"Well you might not think yourself so lucky when you learn it was my friend Aramis who was meant to be here in my place," d'Artagnan informed the Baroness, "for if you were truly fortunate it would be his skilled hands tending to your wounds," d'Artagnan informed the woman with a smile, "he has a wonderful talent for medicine as well as being notoriously favoured by the ladies of the court."
"I thought I'd heard that name before…" the Baroness chuckled lightly for a moment before stopping abruptly, eyes wide as if coming across a shocking thought.
"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan paused with a small frown as he studied Magritte's troubled expression. "You are not hurt anywhere else are you?"
"Monsieur musketeer," the housemaid interrupted from the doorway, "the Baron will see you now."
Though it was highly disrespectful for a maid to interrupt her mistress, the Baroness did not seem to take offense to this interruption, nor did she even seem to acknowledge it.
"Aramis, of the King's Musketeers?" Magritte questioned, her complexion paling as her brow's furrowed with concern.
"I see his reputation precedes him," d'Artagnan grinned a little, trying to act unfazed by the change in Magritte's composure, though he was slightly perturbed by the rapid transformation. "He will be impressed, but unfortunately duty calls. I apologise for your teapot, Madame, but it was a pleasure making your acquaintance," he bowed slightly as he went to follow the housemaid.
"No," Magritte cried out as she took d'Artagnan's sleeve desperately, thumbing the leather absently as she bit her lip slightly. "Please – "
"The Baron abhors tardiness," the maid coughed sharply to prompt d'Artagnan's speed. This seemed to silence the Baroness completely and she made no further attempts to stall the young musketeer.
"Baroness," d'Artagnan nodded with deep respect, making his leave of the room. As wonderful as Magritte's company had been – it had reminded him of the treasured Sunday afternoons he had spent with his grandmother when he was a young boy – he had been sent to the Baron's apartments on the Queen's request and would see her Majesty's orders carried out.
†††
The Baron was a particularly odious looking man, rather like a mole-type creature who had only just crawled up out of the darkness to live among the gentry. Dark pit-like eyes shone like gleaming black buttons, sunken in upon his pale and weathered face. The man looked old and weak, white-grey hair dusted the tops of his head in a way that upon most gentlemen would have seemed distinguished, but on the Baron, it made the man seem elderly and decrepit.
Longepierre stood at the far left of the room, by the glass windows that seem to be the only light entering the heavily shadowed study. Unlike the rest of the Baron's apartments, his study seemed to be stoped in darkness and blackened timbres.
"I am here to deliver a missive from her Majesty the Queen," d'Artagnan spoke as he entered the dark room, he was a touch apprehensive though he did his best not the project this.
"Do come in," Longepierre waved d'Artagnan in though he did not even turn to acknowledge the musketeer's presence.
Slightly angry at the rude nature of the Baron, d'Artagnan pushed down his pride and stepped forward, retrieving the Queen's letter from his doublet, smoothing the slight crease in its edge.
"Anne is not with you then…?" The Baron sniffed as he finally turned to gaze upon d'Artagnan, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the man he saw before him.
"Her Majesty, the Queen," d'Artagnan correctly sharply, irritated with the informality the Baron had taken when referring to their sovereign, "has more pressing matter to see to rather than delivering her mail personally," he continued cattishly.
"Pity," the baron cocked his head to one side as if examining d'Artagnan in a new light, "and you look like such wonderful young gentleman. Nevertheless, I have always wanted a soldier."
"Pardon?" d'Artagnan gaped a little, his brow's furrowed as he gazed at the Baron in confusion. The nobleman was completely rude and made no sense. No wonder the Queen told him to leave the moment he arrived, the man was probably not right in the head – though that would answer some of his early questions.
"Oh and look at you, aren't you quaint?" the Baron chuckled merrily, "all duty and righteousness, yet so pure and innocent."
"Your letter, Monsieur," d'Artagnan sighed in irritation. Even boredom was preferable to this. Handing out the Queen's missive directly, the Baron simply looked at it for a moment and smiled wickedly.
"What was your name again boy?" Longepierre licked the bottom of his lip in curious through as he surveyed d'Artagnan in an inquisitive fashion.
"D'Artagnan," he spat through clenched teeth, furious at the patronising attitude of the Baron as the musketeer pushed the letter out again, trying to get Longepierre to take it.
"D'Artagnan," the Baron tried the name out upon his tongue, "Yes… I do recall your name floating about the city. The Captain's precious new recruit." Longepierre smiled as if he had come across something wondrous, "you're that little puppy that has been following Tréville's golden trio, aren't you?"
D'Artagnan refused to verbally acknowledge the Baron's question, choosing to answer with a cold, warning glare, his jaw clenched tight.
"Tell me, do you love your brothers, boy?" Longepierre asked casually, dropping his interrogating tone, yet his intensity remained ever present.
"What?" d'Artagnan looked up at the Baron with a confused expression.
"Tis a simply question, do you love them, yes or no?" The Baron looked over at him from across the room.
"Yes."
"Wonderful," the baron clapped his hands together with a knowing smile, as he dug through a cabinet of rustling papers. "I have always loved the brotherhood of the soldiers, so tightly bound in honour and loyalty, beautifully romantic, don't you agree?"
Once more d'Artagnan refused to answer, deciding a far better use of his time was to stare blankly at the ceiling, ignoring the utter nonsense the Baron was nattering about. The young musketeer was now positive the Baron was mentally ill and felt rather sorry for the dear Baroness having to deal with this lunacy.
"Taking a blade for your brother in arms upon the bloodied fields of battle," Longepierre carried on, though d'Artagnan pretended not to listen, for the Gascon did not wish to encourage the Baron. "Utterly glorious. In this horridly politically age, it is easy to lose that romance in our lives, don't you agree? You know, I do believe that the battle field may be the last place for such acts of selflessness."
"Then why not join the ranks, yourself," d'Artagnan sighed, trying once more to hand the baron the letter, though Longepierre ignored it once again. "I hear the Cardinal's always looking for men."
"Oh my dear child," the baron chided with a condescending expression, as he shuffled a pile of papers upon his desk, "I could never be a solider, good heavens no. I am a director not an actor, the player of the game not the piece. I do not follow orders, I give them."
D'Artagnan took a step back from the Baron as he sensed the man's tone turn icy and intrusive. Somehow in the past few moments, Longepierre had mutated from a chattering loon to an eerie predator.
"Then what was all that about wanting to be a solider?" D'Artagnan wondered aloud, not following the Baron's meaning. Longepierre no longer took on a blasé demeanour as he stalked towards d'Artagnan from across the room. This only made d'Artagnan want to back far away from the man.
History would say that d'Artagnan was not the greatest judge of character at times. And true, he did not have Porthos' savvy in reading people, especially when they had set out to manipulate him. However, in that moment, d'Artagnan could read the Baron easily and he was turning out to be someone that the young Gascon did not wish to be in the company of.
"You misunderstand me," Longepierre chuckled airily before his tone turned cold and dark, "I do not want to be a soldier, I wish to control one, as master would his puppet, watch him carry out the scenes I have written, revel in the chaotic tragedy that I have created."
"Right…" d'Artagnan nodded in a , holding the Queen's letter out against the Baron's chest. "Here's your letter, good day."
"I shall enjoy destroying you, d'Artagnan, it will be beautiful, a masterpiece, all shall weep upon your tale of woe and I shall be your creator."
"What the hell are you talking about?" D'Artagnan yanked his hand out of the Baron's grip, furious at the confusing nature of Longepierre's madness.
"Punishment, child, I asked for the Queen and she sent you in her stead!" Longepierre barked with such a jolt in volume, d'Artagnan almost flinched. "I do not like to be disobeyed, especially by the inferior sex."
"She is the Queen of France, you are French, you best get used to it."
"How naïve of you to think so," Longepierre tutted absently, "Tell me, do you even know why you're here?"
"I am here to deliver – " d'Artagnan stated though the Baron quickly cut him off.
"Read it."
"The letter is addressed to yo –" d'Artagnan protested cordially, though he was barely containing the prideful anger that bubbled beneath his skin like a raging flame.
"Read it."
Glaring at the Baron for a moment, d'Artagnan sighed in frustration and tore the Queen's red wax seal, folding open the letter with great reluctance. He did not wish to read the Queen's private mail, nor did he wish to be involved with whatever issues the Queen and Longepierre had.
Peering down at the flawlessly formed lettering upon the page, d'Artagnan found he could not appreciate its skill as the words they formed began to cause a sickening thought to rise from the pit of his stomach. Sentences such as 'the crown does not bow to blackmail' as well as the phrase 'France will not suffer the delusions of madmen' drew his eyes instantly.
"What is this…?" D'Artagnan breathed out, his mind reeling over the den of secrets he had fallen into.
"I hold a particular interest in a great many things," Longepierre mused in a casual fashion as he moved away from d'Artagnan towards the large windows of his study. "I am a philosopher, a scholar, a devote man of God, but above all I am a collector and protector of the nation's most delicious and intriguing scandals and secrets."
"None of this explains why you are threatening the Queen!" D'Artagnan growled as he slammed the letter down against the Baron's desk. "You are not protecting her secrets, you are exploiting them."
"Her loyalties to Spain are bothersome to me," Longepierre sighed flippantly, "and have become an inconvenience to my work."
"That is no cause to try and bully your Queen."
"Ah my sweet little d'Artagnan," the man cooed in a patronising manner as if he had known the younger man all his life. "I can have brought the most honourable of Houses in France to their knees, do you truly believe the demands of one silly little girl could cripple me?"
"She is your Queen, her demands are to be obeyed no matter the consequence."
"You shall learn my meaning soon enough," the Baron gazed at d'Artagnan in a manner that send icy tendril down the Gascon's spine. "In a few moments, a gentleman of a rather upstanding family will walk through those doors," the Baron gestured at the doors behind them with a bright smile. "You shall then take your pistol and fire a single shot through his heart, and will accept the charge for his murder graciously."
"You are deluding yourself Monsieur," d'Artagnan shook his head, readying himself to leave the Baron's apartments. "I will not indulge your insanity," he added before storming towards the room's only exit.
Longepierre sighed dramatically as if it were all a game. "If you do not, you put the lives and the honour of your fellow comrades at risk…"
The words echoed gnawingly in d'Artagnan's mind as he paused at the door, his hand upon the handle. He knew he should leave, just at her Majesty had told him. Longepierre had the letter now; d'Artagnan's job was done. However with the unknown threat looming over his brothers' heads, d'Artagnan knew there was no leaving.
"What are you talking about?" The Gascon demanded as he turned back to face the Baron.
Longepierre's predatory grin seemed to lengthen tenfold as he knew d'Artagnan had taken the bait. "Remarkable isn't it, that a barren Queen should fall pregnant just weeks after an expedition with four strapping young Musketeers."
"Her Majesty went to the healing pools, it helped with her pregnancy," d'Artagnan shrugged, not knowing what the Baron was implying.
"Yes and I'm sure a night within a convent, in the arms of a handsome musketeer did wonders for her also."
"Athos would never –" d'Artagnan growled, defending Athos' honour fiercely.
"I never said Athos, child."
Suddenly images seemed to play back before his eyes; Aramis wearing the Queen's cross around his neck, the looks between them, Athos' silent fury and suspicious attitude toward Aramis after the events at the convent. It was all starting to piece itself together like a intricately woven tapestry he had only ever seen in tatters before then. Small blushes and smiles across the court, her Majesty's favour towards the musketeer and the way Aramis sometimes talked of her when he was overtired or near passed out from drunkenness.
Athos and Aramis had never spoken of what had spurred their anger after the skirmish at the convent, only brushing it off when pushed. Even Porthos told d'Artagnan not to bother them about it.
"Aramis would not do this," d'Artagnan held his ground, his jaw tight, though he could not push down the doubt rising in his heart.
Surely Aramis could not have done this? Athos would never had let him… Right? His brothers would have never been that stupid and reckless…
"I don't believe you," d'Artagnan told the Baron, swallowing his doubt with great effort. Aramis may be an incorrigible flirt at times, but d'Artagnan would be damned he was going to stand here and listening to this monster insult his brother so.
"Do you require further proof?" Longepierre asked in wicked glee as he opened a large cabinet of papers.
"Letters my dear boy, correspondents between the lovers," the Baron smirked triumphantly, as he brought out a large stack of letters bound in twine, placing them upon his large oaken desk like a victory trophy.
"How did you…?" d'Artagnan bit his lip, desperately. At every turn Longepierre seem to be pushing the young musketeer towards an unbearable truth.
"Ladies in waiting are so easily manipulated, so full of glorious secrets desperate to be told to a welcome ear."
D'Artagnan's entire body was near shaking with fear and anger. How could they not have told him this? Did they not trust him to keep their secrets? Athos had told him about Milady before either Porthos or Aramis – though looking back he had truly botched that up. Perhaps that had been their reason in not telling him.
But what he was truly afraid of was what would happen now. The Baron seemed overjoyed in holding the knowledge Aramis' secret and d'Artagnan knew this must be what the Queen was so desperately trying to conceal – asking specifically for Aramis so as not to widen the circle of the secret.
What would Athos do in this situation? Would he allow himself to be blackmailed? Taken in by these accusations as a fly in spider's web? Athos would probably have the sense and knowhow to avoid being drawn in by the like of Longepierre to begin with…
"Sit, dear boy," the Baron chuckled lightly, as if reading the inner turmoil in the young musketeer's mind. "You shall be here a while…"
"Those letters are proof of nothing," d'Artagnan snarled, though he knew his voice sounded desperate. "They could be forged, faked, they are nothing but slander."
"Ah but even without this proof I could stir such chaos with the Palace the likes of which shall never recover. For if I revealed this secret, it would plant something within the King's mind that could never be forgotten; a seed of doubt." The Baron whispered as if he were sharing some wondrous secret. "These letters may not convince the King completely, but it will make him suspicious, jealous. Perhaps jealous enough to disband his musketeers, maybe enough to annul his marriage, who knows what will grow?"
"You cannot do this," d'Artagnan pleaded, though he hated how weak he sounded.
"On the contrary, it is you who cannot, the fate of your beloved musketeers lies within your control, not mine."
"You have no proof!" D'Artagnan cried out in anger and frustration, his heart beating wilding in his chest as it constricted tighter with each breath.
"Aramis will hang, there is not doubt of that," the Baron smiled cruelly. "The Cardinal is already suspicious and would no doubt support my claims. Athos and Porthos will most likely follow in turn, for their concealment of the fact."
"No," d'Artagnan whispered, feeling an overwhelming wave of conflicting emotions threatening to drown him completely. He still could not believe that his brothers would do this and keep him ignorant to the fact, but the evidence the Baron was piling up around him was too much to be ignored.
However Longepierre was far from over with him.
"And after I reveal the events that all four of you have committed treason against the crown, well, the King will have no choice but to see you all for the traitorous, mercenaries you are."
"Treason?" d'Artagnan yelped, the sickness in his stomach rising to cover his heart with a burning wave of nausea. "We have not committed –"
"Sending Bonaire into Spanish custody may have eased your precious notion of righteousness, but by doing so you disobeyed the direct order of your King and cost him a rather lucrative investment."
"How could possibly know that?" d'Artagnan spat before realising he had just admitted to the crime where as he should have been denying all claims to it.
The Baron's grin was suddenly looking far too smug, "I pride myself on having a wide spread influence, Monsieur d'Artagnan, you cannot think a large tavern in La Havre is beyond my reach?"
"Perhaps the people of Paris also wish to know their heroic Captain Tréville knowingly sent his own men to their deaths in Savoy, or that one of their beloved musketeers married a treacherous murderess and let her walk free…"
D'Artagnan froze as he came to accept the horrible truths Longepierre was piercing him with. Was it such a stretch that Aramis had fallen for something beyond his reach? That the Queen had welcomed the comfort and charm of the loving musketeer in return?
"Why are you doing this?" d'Artagnan croaked in defeat, peering up at the Baron knowing that Longepierre had won.
"I dislike being ignored, child. Her Majesty must learn what happens when she disrespects my commands. Also your visit happened to arrive at a particularly fortuitous moment and I cannot ignore opportunities that fall so expertly into my lap."
At that moment, a timid gentleman walked through the door, peering nervously at the Baron and d'Artagnan as he stepped into the room.
"Ah, my dear Bertrand, how wonderful to see you," the Baron spread his arms wide in a theatrical display of welcome.
D'Artagnan did nothing to acknowledge the newcomer, hesitant to do anything in the Baron's presence. Longepierre now held all the cards, one wrong move and everything the Gascon had gained and treasured since arriving in Paris, could tumble down around him.
"Bertrand, am I right in believing you have betrayed my confidence?"
"I could not wait a moment longer," the Comte de la Marche cried out, "she was beginning to ask questions!"
"And now you have ruined six months of careful planning and cost me a potential agreement with Duke's daughter, his only point of pressure." Longepierre spat in anger, though he regained his temper a moment later.
"I would do it myself, but I have weak hands, you see," the Baron told the two men conversationally, displaying his hands for them both to see. The age-wearied digits had become slightly crippled over the years. "Have not been able to hold a pen nor pistol in my hands for four long years. Rather inconvenient to have to rely on others but I do so love when it all works out. So if you would be so kind, d'Artagnan."
"I will not kill an innocent man," d'Artagnan told them numbly, his heart racing into a sickening thud against his chest.
"Thank you, Monsieur!" the Comte sighed, though he was largely ignored by the others in the room.
"Then you condemn your beloved friends and your Queen to death," the Baron tittered humorously, "besides it is not as if he is truly innocent, he married a wealthy heiress simply to coerce her father."
"Because you ordered me to!" the Comte implored desperately.
"I did not tell you to kill her!" the Baron growled before turning back to d'Artagnan, "You are to play your part d'Artagnan or they shall die," Longepierre's tone revealed he had long since lost his patience with the young Gascon.
"Not if I were to kill you here." D'Artagnan snarled, pulling his pistol free and holding it out at the Baron with an anger he had not felt since he faced Gaudet.
"By all means, I am at your mercy," the Baron chuckled, stretching his arms out wide as if to give d'Artagnan a better target, "though it would accomplish nothing…"
D'Artagnan frowned a little as he held the Baron in his sights, it seemed the Baron was once more a step ahead of him.
"You do not think I wouldn't have insurance in these matters, do you?" The Baron laughed brashly, "I have several men at my beck and call at any given moment, if I were to die, they would simply carry out my plans for me."
D'Artagnan gave the Baron a cold, lifeless expression, as he realised he had no other option and swung the pistol's aim towards the Comte, hating himself for how weak and pathetic he had become in a singular act of cowardice.
"Please, monsieur, see reason!" the Comte begged desperately as the weapon was cast in his direction.
"Your fraternisations have irked me for the last time," the Baron smiled victorious, gloating through his bright tone.
D'Artagnan's hands trembled as he held the pistol out towards the Comte, every instinct screaming for him to stop what he was doing.
"Hold it steady, child, or do you wish to see your brothers hanging from a rope?"
"If I do this, you must swear before God that you will leave my friends, Madame Bonacieux and the Queen be, you will not go anywhere near them with any business, this or other."
"I swear, they shall be left in peace," Longepierre accepted, "now shoot."
D'Artagnan swallowed as his gaze turned back to the anxious Comte.
"Come now, you are a soldier, you have done this before," the Baron chided, wrapping his own hand the pistol's trigger, making d'Artagnan physically sick at Longepierre's touch.
D'Artagnan wanted to correct him, wanted to say that any man he killed had not been innocent nor had their deaths been pre-determined and calculated.
Before the young musketeer could ponder further, Longepierre had pushed d'Artagnan's finger back, depressing the trigger.
D'Artagnan felt his entire body go numb as the small ball of his pistol cut through de la Marche's flesh with a sickening sound. He barely noticed as the pistol slipped his grasped and fell onto the hard marble flooring, nor did it even register in his mind that he had fallen to his knees, his gaze never leaving the man had been murdered in cold blood.
Longepierre stood, towering over him, placing a hand upon his shoulder, like a proud father would his son, surveying his destruction will eerie fascination.
"What a good boy you are."
†††
The Châtelet was a different place without the protection of the Musketeers and a murder charge upon his hands. Rough, merciless hands had dragged him through dark corridors, pushing and pulling in all directions until d'Artagnan was unsure which way they had entered and where they had left.
Somewhere along the way, someone had relieved him of his weapons and his leather doublet – pauldron included – rewarding him with heavy iron manacles in his uniform's stead. It was a pitiful trade but d'Artagnan had become so numb to the chaos around him he did not protest.
The cell he was unceremoniously thrown into was similar to that of the one he had been in with Vadim, though d'Artagnan was rather glad for the lack of company – he wasn't prepared to deal with chatty roommates in his present state.
Food was delivered, though d'Artagnan knew better than to attempt to eat the sludge they called food. What did it matter anyway? He was a dead man walking. Though he had been told there as to be a trial, it would simply be for show, the Baron would watch his every move and force him to lie under oath. From there it was only a matter of time before d'Artagnan was handed over to the executioner, though it was still a mystery whether it be the noose or the firing squad, neither sounded particularly inviting.
His brothers were due to arrive back in the morning, though d'Artagnan wished they did not have to come back to the mess he'd found himself in.
Absently, detached from all that had occurred that day, d'Artagnan could not stop himself in thinking in a melancholy fashion that he had broken his promise with Athos.
†††
The courtroom was blur of unknown faces, all staring at him with suspicion and discontent. The courtroom was itself an unfamiliar location, for this was definitely not where Porthos' trial had been held. This room was large, echoic and imposing.
After his night in the Châtelet, d'Artagnan was not entirely sure he could concentrate on the proceedings around him, even if he wanted to. His head buzzed and hummed as if the noise was consuming him from the inside, his heart thudding painfully in his chest and temples. They had not removed the tight manacles from his wrist, though d'Artagnan had already known that was a luxury an accused murderer would not received.
"This is highly irregular!" d'Artagnan could hear a familiar voice shouting his outrage somewhere through his clouded vision, bursting through like a piercing ray of sunlight in the darkest of abysses. But for the life of him, he could not place it. He felt as though in a dream, his conscious struggling to grip hold of that situation at hand.
D'Artagnan could almost sware it was Athos' voice just now, but as he looked up through the sea of unidentifiable people his eyes could not focus upon the three he so desperately wished to see.
"Indeed, this is irregular, Monsieur," the Judge roared above the crowd, "this case, as I have learnt, is not one that requires my judgement. The boy confessed, I see no reason for a trial."
A cheer of support came from scattered members of the crowd. The crowds' negative encouragement did nothing for the pit growing in d'Artagnan's heart. It seemed to be expanding evermore, perhaps soon it would completely devour him.
"And how do you know this confession was not under duress?" The Captain's stern voice cut deep wounds into the young Gascon's heart, causing him to look up to see Tréville standing valiantly before the angry Judge.
D'Artagnan's eyes fell upon the man who given him a life truly worth coveting. Shame and guilt welled up inside him as he watched Tréville attempting to defend the Gascon's honour. But d'Artagnan knew the truth, he had none left.
Though the crime itself had been committed under threat, d'Artagnan could not admit to being innocent of de la Marche's murder. It had been his hand that had pulled the trigger, his ball that entered the Comte's chest, killing him instantly. True it was the Baron's grip that had spurred the final blow, but d'Artagnan had aimed the weapon, he could have directed it elsewhere. Instead he had chosen to allow the Comte to die in favour of keeping his brothers' secrets.
"The Baron has delivered his statement of the facts, he bares witness to d'Artagnan's crime," the Judge told the people of the court sternly.
"D'Artagnan is an honourable soldier in my ranks, it is completely out of character for him to commit such an act."
Was it though? D'Artagnan thought absently though his dream-like state. The first time he had met Athos he had tried to kill him. Had they all forgotten this or were they choosing to ignore the Gascon's more undesirable traits? Perhaps he should mention it the Judge himself? Perhaps he should reveal how he also bedded a murderess as well…
Though it was in that moment that d'Artagnan's gaze came across three faces that stopped his heart. He three brothers stood in the crowd, each looking confused and angry, Athos all the more.
"Charles d'Artagnan, how do you plea in regards your accused crimes?"
Did they think him a murderer? Were they ashamed of him? From across the room he had no way of correcting their judgments or seeking their forgiveness.
"Answer, boy," the Judge growled, alerting d'Artagnan's attention, though it did nothing to change the distance the musketeer felt between himself and reality.
D'Artagnan's gaze darted lazily around the courtroom; Longepierre was in clear view, standing beside the judge – who was no doubt under the Comte's thumb also. This was a mockery of justice, yet he was the only one who knew it.
A slow glance across the men he loved as brothers, sent a flurry of images to d'Artagnan's mind; Athos facing the rope, Porthos before a squadron of muskets, Aramis pleading for the safety of his unborn child. It gave d'Artagnan no other option than to reply:
"Guilty."
"This makes no sense!" Athos roared at once, barely being contained behind the gates of the court.
"Ask him why!" Aramis beseeched, "Demand he tell you why!"
Porthos simply growled menacingly as he slammed his open palm against he wooden railing.
"Keep your tongues, all or you, until you are called upon, or I shall have you have you all removed," the Judge ordered fiercely, quietening their rage, if only slightly.
"Charles d'Artagnan do you have anything else to say in your defence?"
"No," d'Artagnan ground out clearly. There was nothing he could say that would not condemn his brothers to his fate.
"In that case, Charles d'Artagnan, I see no choice but to find you guilt and sentence you to death, sentence to be carried out tomorrow midday."
A wave of violent outrage exploded throughout the room, cries of fury and anger rose as d'Artagnan was callously torn from the courtroom. Large hands gripped his arms; bruising with their tight hold as they pulled him away from the crowds, presumably back to his cell in the Châtelet, though he could not be certain.
"You were wonderful," the Baron's voice purred in his ear, causing d'Artagnan to physically shake at the repulsive man at his side.
"D'Artagnan!" Aramis' comfortingly familiar tones rang throughout the corridor and instantly d'Artagnan's eyes were alert, searching for his brothers.
"Aramis?" d'Artagnan looked up in hope, slightly shaking off the drowning feeling that had been rising within him ever since he had crossed paths with the Baron. Perhaps all was not lost. If anyone could solve this horrid mess d'Artagnan had found himself in, it was his three brothers.
"I don't believe that wise," the Baron smiled cruelly as he gave a sharp nod at the guards holding d'Artagnan in their grip.
D'Artagnan only caught the smallest of glimpses as the trio rounded the corner – catching the looks of worry and anguish in their eyes for but a moment – before he felt a hand grip his hair tight, forcefully slamming his head against the cold stone walls, darkness claiming him instantly.
†††
When he awoke it was dark. Though d'Artagnan could not tell whether it was due to the sun going down or simply the absence of light in his enclosed cell. His head throbbed wickedly where it had met the wall, but he ignored it, it was just one more thing on his list of woes.
The cell he had been dragged into seemed to be smaller that the one from the previous evening. Though it did not matter as d'Artagnan soon learned he could barely move about anyway. Heavy iron manacles held his arms to the walls, with little give, forcing him to stand. His legs were tired and aching, though the painful strains in his wrists from his period of unconsciousness were more so.
In the events after the trial, d'Artagnan could not even be sure that he was even in the Châtelet or another prison. Hell, he wasn't even sure if he was even in Paris anymore. He had no way of knowing, not that he care at this point.
Once the sun rose, d'Artagnan would face the rope. There was no other way. To try and fight it would only ensure that Aramis, Porthos and Athos died in his place and he would never allow this to happen, not after everything they had done for him.
There were things he would have liked to see, just one last time, things he still wanted to do – he never did beat Athos in a sparing match, Aramis would never explain the story of Madame Angel's, Porthos would never take him to see the sandy beaches like he had promised.
Promises would be broken all round.
Footsteps from the corridor outside echoed forebodingly as someone neared his cell door. Was it morning already? The dank cell had no windows so time was impossible to tell from within.
As the heavy door creaked open, d'Artagnan's heart sank as he recognised the figure.
"You're quite popular as it seems," the Baron chortled as he practically skipped into the room, his wicked featured illumined by a flaming torch in his hand, placing it in the holder by the door. "No less than ten of your musketeers brothers have come in hopes to speak with you this night, not including that of your dear Captain and a beautiful young woman by the name of Madame Bonacieux…"
Constance. D'Artagnan's heart throbbed achingly in his chest. In the chaos he had forgotten how this must have affected her. And now he would never see her again.
"Gorgeous young thing," the Baron noted lecherously, "tut tut little d'Artagnan, a married woman, you are full of surprises. Perhaps your dear friend Aramis is rubbing off on you…"
The musketeer refused to rise at the obvious attempt to anger him. Choosing to stare blankly at the wall, as if completely ignoring the Baron's presence.
"There's still something I don't understand…" d'Artagnan whispered in the cold dark shadows of his cell, shivering against the chill, though positioned as he was, he could not huddle against the night's frost. "You had the Queen in your grasp, why lose that simply to see me hang?"
"I believe Shakespeare said it best when he wrote 'All the world's a stage; the men and women merely players'," the Baron, "You are my chess piece, my player, you move where I command."
"You're obviously a terribly chess player," d'Artagnan spoke wearily, his voice lifeless and detached, speaking more out of habit rather than wishing it so. "Queen beats pawn."
"Intriguing," the Baron purred, "I had you as a knight."
Was this truly how he was to spend his final hours? If he were to scream and beg, if he pleaded upon his knees until they bled, would he be allowed to see his brothers once last time, could he kiss the lips of the only woman who had every held his heart? Where they still waiting outside perhaps, or had they left with the thought that d'Artagnan had truly betrayed them all?
"In answer to your first question," the Baron's conversation tones alerted d'Artagnan, "because I can. Because I wish to see the lengths my power and influence can stretch over my fellow man. Because it amuses me. But mostly because it was convenient. I needed to dispose of the Comte and you came so willing into my home, practically glowing with naivety and innocence, so dutiful and honour-bound. Practically begging me to take you apart. With such an opportunity, so freely offered, I simply could not refuse. Anne's affairs were nowhere near as delicious as your desire to shield your brothers from the consequences of their actions. The cards simply fell where they lay, it was too perfect for me to say otherwise." The Baron moved closed to the shackled Gascon, so that there was barely a few inches between them.
"I spoke true when I said I admire the bond between soldiers, truly a remarkable wonder to behold. I have had Dukes and Marquises, Comtesses and Viscounts all bent to my will, but none have I enjoyed so much as your misguided sense of honour," Longepierre mused as his hand came to rest upon d'Artagnan's throat, gently but making his threat clear.
"Some claim that the thrill of holding a man's life in your hands is unparalleled; watching as the light leaves his eyes, stealing away those last breaths from his throat as he slips away, grasping the power over life and death itself." The Baron squeezed his grip a little, cutting of d'Artagnan's air slightly, just enough to make the Gascon choke. Due to the Baron's weak hands, his grip was not as strong as another man's would've, but his fingernails were painfully sharp, digging into the skin like small sharp daggers.
"They are fools. True power is when you hand a man a pistol, tell him to kill himself," Longepierre whispered fiercely, tightening his grip for a moment before he released d'Artagnan's throat. "And he does."
"You're insane," d'Artagnan croaked hoarsely as he heaved deep breaths, his mind reeling at the remorseless evil surging through the man before him.
"I am a diplomat, a business man like any other. I simply deal in a more lucrative market."
"Why are you a Baron then?" d'Artagnan wondered, voicing his scattered thoughts without filtering them. "You could be a Comte or Marquis with the wealth and influence you've gathered."
"I prefer the anonymity, empires are forged in the shadows, little d'Artagnan; no one is what they seem at face value, not even the men you are so willing to give your life for." Longepierre tutted, threading his fingers through d'Artagnan's blood matted locks, tugging sharply making the young Gascon hiss at the pain that radiated through his skull. "It is rare for a man to die as nobly as your death will be d'Artagnan," the Baron pondered lightly, "you should be thanking me."
"I hope you burn in the deepest fires of hell," d'Artagnan snarled through clenched teeth, spitting viciously at the Baron's face.
"Do not disrespect me…" Longepierre spoke calmly as his grip upon d'Artagnan's throat once again, causing the young musketeer to grit his teeth as the sharp pain. "One word from me and I will see to it that Aramis is tortured mercilessly until he speaks the truth."
"You promised you would leave them be," d'Artagnan growled out.
"That I did.." the Baron frowned,"but I said nothing of your sweet little draper's wife…"
"Leave her alone," d'Artagnan spoke with the coldest of tones, Longepierre would not go anywhere near Constance. "You do not touch her!" The musketeer raged against his shackles as the Baron stepped just out of d'Artagnan's reach.
"Ah, so there is a little fight left if you, how delightful," Longepierre smiled a little, "I give you my word that I shall, so long as I see you stand upon that scaffold tomorrow…"
"Where else am I to go…?" d'Artagnan snarled as he sunk back against the wall, exhausted and weary from the past few days.
"Good boy."
†††
Dawn came both faster and slower than d'Artagnan would have liked. It was in these moments that the young musketeer finally understood why Athos had been so eager for the firing squad to take their shots all those months ago. For death was not the maddening part of a death sentence – it was the waiting.
Waiting to die was a feeling unlike any d'Artagnan had felt before. Sure, he had feared for his life on several occasions, not often enough in Athos' eyes, but there had been close moments where the young musketeer had been unsure if the next action would be his last.
But that was in the chaos of a fight, or upon an assignment for the King and their Captain. To die their would have been a soldier's death. To swing from a rope was a dishonour d'Artagnan had never thought to be associated with. His name would live in the grim and dirt of the Parisian streets, all his great deeds forgotten for the one that cemented his fate.
Once pulled from his cell, d'Artagnan learnt that he had indeed been in the Châtelet that evening, though in which part he could not be certain.
The crowd that had gathered in the courtyard of the prison was larger than most execution crowds he had seen, so there was something to be chuffed about – look at all the charming people who wanted to watch him die.
Positioned before the crowd with a noose around his neck he sighed and stepped up upon the block, ready to deliver his last words.
God knew his crimes and would punish him for it. Though d'Artagnan hoped he could seek forgiveness and join see his parents once again, he knew this may not be the case. He had met an Irishman one night in a tavern, who had told him as he left 'may you be in Heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead'. At this moment he was really hoping Irish sayings proved right.
At the corner of his eye, d'Artagnan could see the executioner coming closer, "see you in hell, musketeer," the hooded man grunted as he kicked out the block beneath his feet.
The split second of weightlessness was oddly serene before the sharp burn across his throat cut through him painfully, dropping him heavily, not enough to break his neck, but enough to hurt.
"D'Artagnan!" he heard Athos bellow across the crowd, though it only distantly as he struggled to breathe, he knew it was futile. This was his end, gasping, writhing against the roped and chains that bound him tight, stealing his breaths before he could even gasp onto them.
"Stop! Cut him down!" A woman's voice rang out high above the rumble of the crowd, "this man is innocent! I have proof!" She pushed her way past bustling shoulders and stoic bystanders, waving a piece of paper above her head as if it were a white flag before an invading army.
"Cut him down!" Athos roared as the three pushed the crowd back to allow the elderly woman through.
The executioner grunted but reacted quickly nonetheless, cutting the rope, allowing d'Artagnan to fall upon the scaffold like a bag of flour.
"Magritte?" d'Artagnan's eyes widened at the sight of the Baroness rushing up the scaffold's staircase, heaving gulped breaths as he struggled to sit upright.
"Take this wretched thing from him, at once," Magritte demanded as she knelt down beside him, though her hands were already loosening the noose and taking it over his head, tossing it away.
"No, what are you doing?" d'Artagnan's heart spiked with fear as he eyes looked around the crowds, "the Baron, he will –"
"Hush dear," Magritte sighed wearily, cupping d'Artagnan's cheek softly as she kissed his temple with all the affection of a loving mother, tears collecting in her eyes. "It is done. He cannot hurt us anymore."
"No his men, his spies!" d'Artagnan panicked.
"All is well," she soothed, threading her fingers gently through is hair, careful to avoid the bloodied gash, "just follow my lead in these matters, and say nothing of the Comte's death, it was the Baron who killed that man, not you, promise me."
"I promise," d'Artagnan found his mouth responding before he had even fully comprehended the words the Baroness spoke.
†††
"This is an utter mockery of justice!" The Judge from d'Artagnan's trial stood before the King, pacing angrily as he glared at the d'Artagnan.
Though Magritte had claimed him innocent, the guards had not been so easily convinced and as such had not removed d'Artagnan's manacles, nor had they allowed him to talk with his musketeer brothers. But Athos, Porthos and Aramis had not let d'Artagnan out of their sight for a moment, following closely behind as they made their way to the Palace.
"The trial has been conducted, this man has been found guilty of his crimes!" The Judge growled out as he pointed toward d'Artagnan.
"As this matter concerns one of my Musketeers, Judge Archambeau, I find it highly disrespectful that his trial be conducted and sentenced without my authority." The King looked down at the man before him from his chair with little
"But your Majesty –"
"Now," Louis turned to the others in the room, blatantly ignoring the Judge, "will someone explain why one of my finest musketeers was due to be executed while I was away?"
"He was forced into silence by my husband, Baron de Longepierre's wicked tongue." Magritte stepped forward, addressing the King with deep respect and reverence.
"And what could the Baron possibly have against a King's Musketeer that would cripple him so?" The Cardinal posed inquiringly, his icy stare surveying the young musketeer with a renewed interest.
D'Artagnan froze as all eyes turned upon him. His heart dropped slightly as he saw the corner he had been backed into. But he was in far too deeply now to stop now. He had been prepared to lay down his life for his brothers, if he must also lay down his pride and the honour brought by his name, then he would perform this task.
"The Baron…" he began, looking around the room, testing the words, his throat his hoarse as saw from the noose but he carried on regardless, "discovered a personal affair between myself and a lady at court – I beg you let her keep her dignity and anonymity," he quickly added, preying the King would not pry too deeply. "At the time we believed her to be with my child," d'Artagnan told the story slowly so as to keep the details vague and completely within his control. He kept his gaze directly at the King, knowing that if he were to look at Aramis or the Queen, his tongue may see his downfall. "This lady loves her husband dearly, your Majesty, and I couldn't bare to allow our brief flirtation to affect her and our child so."
"Truly?" The Cardinal purred as if somehow stumbling across some excitement within the Gascon's confession, causing d'Artagnan to mentally kick himself for how close his own lies had come to the truth. Had not Longepierre told him of the Cardinal's suspicions? Though better on him than Aramis, that was something at least.
"Longepierre threatened to go to the lady's husband if…" d'Artagnan met the Baroness' gaze, remembering her words upon the scaffold as he continued, "I did not answer for the murder he had committed before my very eyes."
"Longepierre's wife has a written confession signed by the Baron himself, it bears his seal." Tréville put forward, handing the letter over for the King to inspect. "In it he explains his blackmailing pursuits and his guilt over the part d'Artagnan was forced to play."
Written confession, d'Artagnan's ears pricked up at the words, though a sharp look from the Baroness had a veiled blank expression upon his face in an instant. Though he was suddenly so very grateful for breaking that expensive teapot that morning.
"At the time, you say?" Louis cocked his head to one side, looking at the young musketeer in an odd manner.
"Pardon, your Majesty?" d'Artagnan looked up politely.
"She is not with child, as you so thought?"
"I have very recently be informed otherwise," d'Artagnan finished, catching the Cardinal's eye deliberately in hopes that it would remove the suspicion upon him. "In the confusion, I had not spoken to her in some time, but she has just informed me that she was mistaken and there was never a child."
"And what of Longepierre?" The King wondered, "May he not make this confession himself?"
"He is dead, your Majesty," Magritte whimpered her response through weeping eyes, "the guilt of his misdeeds took a hold of his mortal soul and he killed himself early this morning, with naught but his confession to absolve him and Monsieur d'Artagnan…"
"Well then, this is simple," Louis shrugged, before adding in his casual cheerful manner, "d'Artagnan, I hereby absolve you of your accused crimes."
A cool breeze of relief swept over the young Gascon in such a wave that he would have fallen if not for the strong grip of the guards' hands upon his shoulders.
He was free. Just like that? How could that be so…?
"Dismissed," The King waved off, prompting the patrons of the court to shuffle towards the doors.
"Your Majesty – " the Cardinal tried, but the King cut him off.
"The matter is dismissed, Cardinal, I hardly see any reason to continue further…" Louis told his advisor sharply.
Richelieu's eyes stared sharply at d'Artagnan as if wishing to say something, but knowing it was neither the place nor the time.
A rustle of chains saw d'Artagnan freed on his metal shackles, causing him to rub his aching wrists. Two days in prison had not been kind on him.
"Come with me, dear," a small voice whispered by his side as d'Artagnan felt his elbow tugged toward the side door of the room.
Out in the vacant corridor, d'Artagnan finally had a chance to take a breath.
"You will probably be needing this back."
Tears formed in d'Artagnan's eyes as he saw the leather doublet in her hands, his pauldron shining brightly upon it. "Thank you." He told her whole-heartedly, scooping the older woman in his arms, hugging her tight.
"You saved my life." He whispered softly in her ear.
"It is I who should be thanking you, dear," Magritte cupped both side of the young Gascon's face, placing a gentle kiss upon his forehead as she delicately thumbed away the fallen tears upon he cheek. "You showed me a kindness I thought lost to the world."
"You saved them all, I don't know how I'll ever repay you," d'Artagnan told her as he shrugged on the leather doublet, utterly comforting in its familiar weight and feel. It was as if a part of him had been torn from him only to be finally restored.
"Perhaps you could visit me sometime," Magritte wondered softly, "I plan to stay in Paris now but I admit the company would be wonderful."
"Of course," d'Artagnan promised as he kissed her hands, only just realising how violently his own hands had been trembling as the Baroness thumbed them gently in attempts to calm him.
"You're alright dear, all is well…" she soothed gently, smoothing his wayward locks.
"D'Artagnan!" the young musketeer could hear Porthos at the end of the corridor.
"Athos, I found him!"
D'Artagnan ducked his head as he heard his brothers storm towards him. As much as he was desperate to be back in their company, he knew there was a lot he had to tell them and a lot he did not want to talk about.
"Madame," Athos eyed the Baroness with ample suspicion as they three rounded on the young musketeer and the elderly woman. "Who are you and how do you know d'Artagnan?"
"Charming as ever," Aramis sighed under his breath, though the others heard him easily.
"I'm the Baroness de Longepierre," Magritte told Athos without appearing intimidated in the least.
"I broke her teapot," d'Artagnan replied truthfully, his tone lacking of any humour or jest. He was still confused as to why he was not currently being buried in an unmarked grave outside the city walls. Everything had happened so quickly he had barely had a moment to understand it all.
"Please tell me that's not a euphemism…" Porthos smirked a little, attempting to meet d'Artagnan's gaze but failed.
"I am old enough to be the boy's grandmother," Magritte frowned deeply with an unimpressed expression.
"Perhaps not the time, my friend," Aramis noted quietly, as he patted Porthos upon the shoulder.
"I shall let you get back to your family," Magritte turned back to d'Artagnan who had not moved since the trio had arrived, "come by anytime my dear and once your dear brothers learn some manners, they are welcome also."
"Thank you," d'Artagnan told her sincerely as he watched her leave down the corridor.
"Are you alright?" Athos appeared right before d'Artagnan the moment the Baroness had left, checking over the young musketeer wearily.
"A few bruises, nothing more," d'Artagnan replied honestly, feeling guilty for the way that Athos' fingers immediately trailed the rope burn across the base of his throat. The line was barely noticeable and would disappear in a few days, but the anguish it must have caused the elder musketeer cause a guilt-ridden feeling in his chest.
Looking around at the trio it was clear these last few days had not been easy on them either. All three were showing signs of sleep deprivation and a bone deep weariness that came only with intense worry.
"What the hell are these?" Athos growled as his fingers found the crescent cuts along the Gascon's neck where the Baron had dug his nails in the previous evening.
"I'm fine, really," d'Artagnan brushed off meekly, really just wanting to crawl into a dark place and sleep for a week.
"You just narrowly escaped your own execution, of course you're not alright." Athos muttered tersely under his breath as his cautious touch reached toward the bloodied mattered hair that covered the small gash upon his head.
"Have you slept?" Aramis frowned, stepping forward as he caught Athos' gaze, "when was the last time – "
"D'Artagnan?" a gentle voice called out through the corridor, alerting their attentions as the Queen strode towards them.
"Your Majesty," all four nodded their heads in deep respect, stepping aside so that none show the Queen their back.
"Leave us," the Queen ordered her entourage of ladies, who quickly curtsied and left their Queen and the musketeers.
"Oh come here," she sighed, collecting the young Gascon in her arms much to the complete surprise of the three other men in the hallway. "Forgive me for the pain I have caused you."
"You…?" Athos frowned as he turned to look at a rather guilty looking d'Artagnan, who was blushing bright red at the outright affection the Queen had shown him, stepping back to stand beside his brothers.
"Longepierre was threatening me, I sent d'Artagnan to deliver a missive and somehow allowed him to be pulled into the Baron's cruel web," Anne explained with a tense expression. "I had no idea the extent of the matter until Tréville came to the throne room this morning, as soon as his Majesty returned from his hunting trip, demanding a stay of execution and a retrial," she told them softly. "I know I should have waited to confront Longepierre, but it was an urgent and timely matter."
"Better me than you, your Majesty," d'Artagnan offered quietly.
"I'll have none of that," Anne scolded, sounding rather like an elder sister to her rebellious younger brother. "I cannot begin to fathom what you said to sway his intentions."
"Indeed," Athos deepened his frown as he watched d'Artagnan with a guarded expression.
To this d'Artagnan shrugged, "I never really understood it, it all happened so quickly. But I don't think I did anything, I think he did it simply because he wanted to."
This revelation did not sit too well with the trio of musketeers surrounding him.
"Your Majesty," d'Artagnan suddenly paled as a particularly cruel thought jolted his heart, "the Baron, he still – "
"He is dead d'Artagnan, it is over," the Queen told him gently.
"He had letters, letters of yours sent to… an acquaintance," d'Artagnan stressed, meeting the Queen's gaze desperately as he sent a brief look at Aramis before raising his eyebrows slightly in a hesitant gesture. Though he was positive all those around him knew of the secret he had tried to protect with his life, d'Artagnan still couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. As if by speaking it would truly make it so. Also if he had learnt anything over the past few days, it was that the walls had ears, you could never truly be certain of whom was listening, particularly in the palace.
"I have never sent any letters of that kind, d'Artagnan," the Queen said slowly, clearly unappreciative of d'Artagnan's accusations and had he been anyone else in that moment, he was sure he would have been strung up once more in the hangman's noose.
"But I saw –" he began but the realisation hit him harder than a stiff right hook. "He…he lied…" d'Artagnan breathed as if all the air in his lungs had been pushed out.
It was remarkable after all the wicked and loathsome things the Baron had said and done, that lying was the one that seemed so unbelievable. That d'Artagnan had been taken in by the monster's lies so easily.
"What was that?" Athos questioned intently.
"Nothing, it doesn't matter now…" d'Artagnan sighed a heavy breath of relief; it was as thought he had been holding it in since Longepierre had whispered his cruel lies. Yet this relief gave way to something far more sickening –that the Baron had cruelly manipulated d'Artagnan into a noose for no reason.
"I am glad you are safe," the Queen smiled warmly, as she gave him a small nod in thanks, "I am in your debt, d'Artagnan."
"I was simply doing what any musketeer would have done," he informed her modestly, though his heart and mind still reeled from his carelessness.
A nauseatingly horrid thought crawled up through the dark pit in his stomach. He had been mere moments away from being hanged for a stupid lapse in judgement. His own stupidity and gullibility had almost cost him his life. Had it not been for Magritte, he would have died that morning, simply because he had fallen for the Baron's wicked lies.
His breath quickened in his chest as his ear rung above the dull thud of his heart. The only thing that had kept him partially sane these past few days was the knowledge that he had been protecting his brothers, protecting them just as they had always protected him. His determination and self-assured righteousness against the Baron had only held strong because he knew it was for them.
But to discover that it had all been a pointless trick – that his sacrifice would have been for nought, only aiding the Baron's sick desires to watch him hang – almost crippled him.
All of a sudden the walls were too enclosed, all four slamming into him as though they were taking all the air from the room. The heat was stifling; constricting him as those that noose was still around his idiotic neck.
"Are you alright?" the Queen frowned as she watched the young musketeer grow paler.
"Excuse me," d'Artagnan choked as felt he could not contain the nausea rising within him, dashing away through the corridor with three musketeers quickly on his trail.
†††
He ran.
He needed to get out, needed to leave, needed to get away from it all. He was so angry and frustrated that he felt he might burst.
It a few minutes before his speed slowed and he found himself in avenue of tall trees. Heaving in short, sharp breaths, d'Artagnan yelled out in frustration, body trembling as he paced back and forth, utterly at a loss as to what to do.
The Baron was dead, it was not as if he could seek his revenge. To tell anyone of his stupidity would put the Queen and his brothers at risk. To tell them would reveal his doubt in them…
It was a mess and he couldn't deal with keeping it bottled up inside. Secrets were not in his nature, he just could not do it.
"D'Artagnan!" Athos cried out as he ran towards the boy, gathering him up in his arms in an attempt to sooth this violent anger.
"He lied, he fucking lied," d'Artagnan growled into Athos' chest, vibrating physically with the anger that coursed through his entire body, tears rolling uncontrollably down his cheeks as he clenched his teeth.
"You're okay," Athos lulled the boy in his arms softly, though whether it was for d'Artagnan or himself remained unknown, "you're okay."
"Calm your breaths," Aramis said soothingly as he appeared with Porthos by their side, sounding a little out of breath themselves. "You'll pass out if you keep breathing this way."
D'Artagnan tried to ease his heaving breaths, stepping away from Athos to allow the air into his chest.
"You okay now?" Aramis asked softly.
D'Artagnan starred at the three men before him for a moment, wishing he could somehow stop the maddening emotions coursing through his body.
"Argh!" d'Artagnan growled in frustration as he went to punch is white-knuckled fist into a nearby tree, however Porthos quickly caught the fist in his larger hand, pulling the young angry musketeer away from his leafy target.
"Not a good idea," Porthos told him gently, moving so that he should stood between d'Artagnan and the tree, "you'll only break your hand that way."
"I want to kill him," d'Artagnan gasped, dropping his hands against his knees as he bent over, trembling. "I want to kill him."
"I could've, I had the opportunity, but I didn't," d'Artagnan revealed.
"Then that makes you a better man than he," Aramis told the young musketeer.
D'Artagnan laughed at this, but it was hollow and jaded, unlike his usual laughter, "no, it really doesn't."
For d'Artagnan knew in his heart that had he known the Baron was simply bluffing, he would have killed the Baron that day, without a touch of remorse.
Feeling a jolt in his gut, d'Artagnan forced himself into the bushes, retching though there was nothing in his stomach to bring up, so it was just sickening bile that burnt his throat. Aramis was by his side instantly, comforting the younger musketeer.
"What did the Baron say that would force you to the gallows?" Athos asked after a moment, as d'Artagnan's gagged quietened. "You lied to the King and court just now, why?"
"It doesn't matter, it was true…" d'Artagnan moaned meekly, his complexion almost tinted green.
"Leave him be," Aramis sighed, rubbing d'Artagnan's back in hopes to quell the younger's nausea. "You of all people should allow him his privacy, after all the secrets you've had."
"I also know the danger in keeping them," Athos shot back.
"Look, I understand your concern," Aramis stood up as he addressed Athos, Porthos kneeling down to relieve Aramis' care of d'Artagnan, "but this is no time for an interrogation."
"When's the last time you ate lad?" Porthos sighed wearily as he helped the young musketeer off the ground.
D'Artagnan paused in thought as the question washed over him, leaning heavily against Porthos. "What day is it?"
"See?" Aramis turned to Athos, "let him be, he needs sleep and food."
Athos nodded without another word, moving off through the tall trees back toward the palace, with Aramis followed.
D'Artagnan knew this was his chance to seek forgiveness from his brothers, Aramis especially.
"Longepierre claimed that the Queen…" d'Artagnan began softly causing the them to pause and turn back to the stoic Gascon, "and Aramis –"
"Aramis?" Athos growled his voice suddenly cold and undistinguishable as he glanced at the musketeer by his side.
"I'm sorry," d'Artagnan turned to Aramis, seeking the older musketeer's forgiveness in his eyes and with his words. "I should've known, I should have trusted that you would never…" he trailed off, losing confidence in his voice as he felt a heavy dagger of guilt pierce his chest.
"Never what?" Porthos asked softly, slightly confused.
"The Baron said he had evidence to prove that the Queen's child belonged to Aramis…" he revealed quietly, brows knitted, beseeching absolution for his doubt.
"And that is what kept your silence?" Aramis paled visibly, his voice had gone eerily hollow.
"This is what you almost gave your life for?" Athos' tone was both cold and tight, straining to comprehend the information revealed.
"He said you all knew, that you would all surely hang for the allowing it to happen…" d'Artagnan revealed guiltily, kicking himself for having been manipulated so easily by the Baron, "I should've known he was lying, but he seemed to know everything, he knew about Athos' marriage to Milady, he knew about Bonaire, Aramis, he even knew about Savoy…"
"Lies are easy to swallow when they are swaddled in truth…" Porthos muttered darkly with frustration, looking as if he wanted to punch something - possible the tree he had stopped d'Artagnan from hitting earlier.
"God…" Aramis' voice wavered noticeably. He looked as though he would stumble upon his feet, though Athos' tight grip upon his shoulder held him upright. Perhaps a little tighter than necessary if the wince upon Aramis' face was anything to go by.
"I'm so sorry," d'Artagnan tried again, trying to get Aramis to look at him so that he could show him his apology was sincere.
"Please, do not apologise," Aramis said quietly, his head hanging limp against his chest, seemingly held up only by Athos' white-knuckled grip.
D'Artagnan was unsure whether Aramis' shock was simply for the Gascon's stupidity at being duped by the baron, or if he was deeply offended at the him doubting the elder musketeer's character. Would he wish to duel over the offense to his honour?
"Why did you not seek one of us out, to find the truth?" Porthos wondered in frustration, "A single word would have set this slander right."
"There was no time," d'Artagnan, "before I knew it the Comte lay dead at my feet and I was in irons bound for the Châtelet. Once there I had no way of reaching you before the trial…"
"Where the Baron stood watch…" Athos growled under his breath, clearly disturbed with the entire sequence of events.
"I couldn't risk it," d'Artagnan said meekly, knowing it was rather poor as excuses went.
"Lad, know this," Porthos eyed the younger man, placing both hands upon d'Artagnan's shoulders, "we would not hide something of this calibre from you. You are one of us and we would never risk your life for the concealment of a secret."
"I know," d'Artagnan smiled meekly as the larger man pulled him in for a playful hug. "I'm sorry."
"Also you owe me thirty sous," Porthos added with a sly grin as he put his arm around the young musketeer.
"What? Why?" d'Artagnan frowned.
Porthos gave the Gascon a hard look, "this," he gestured around them, "definitely counts as getting yourself into trouble."
"Oh, right."
"Yeah, and you should also go around to the Bonacieux residence tomorrow, after you've slept, eaten and bathed," Porthos chuckled, "Constance wasn't too impressed when she left the garrison yesterday."
"Oh…"
"She slapped Athos," Porthos told him, "hard."
D'Artagnan winced at the thought, "sor –"
"Is not a word I'm allowing you to say at the moment," Porthos gave him a stern look as they made their way back to the palace, with Aramis and Athos trailing behind a little way, involved in some quiet discussion the others could not hear. Porthos allowed his gaze to peer back at them from time to time, but he kept his focus upon the young Gascon who was falling asleep against him as they walked.
Though the tension between Athos and Aramis grew slightly over the next few days, d'Artagnan let them be, he knew whatever their issue would pass in time. He was just glad to know that his brothers were safe and far away from the manipulative hands of the late Baron de Longepierre.
Thanks again for reading! And thank you to everyone who has followed this story :) I really hope you enjoyed them :) Review and let me know what you thought :D
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