AN – Thank you so much for continued support of this story, in this chapter we finally find out what was really happening in the prologue.
Standing in Treville's office the next morning Athos simply could not believe what he was hearing.
"What do you mean, he's missing?" He demanded of Treville.
"His bed is empty, there is no sign of him anywhere, no one saw or heard anything."
"He couldn't have just gone to see a friend?" Aramis offered. "Perhaps to see if he could reconcile with the lovely Constance?
"There was blood on his bed sheets and on the stairs leading down into the courtyard." Treville admitted.
"So, where ever he went he didn't go willingly." Porthos surmised.
"Garnon." Athos growled.
He ran a hand angrily through his hair. This was his fault. He knew Garnon was still a threat. He should never have let the Gascon out of his sight.
"The Comte de Lyon has a townhouse in the rue de Saint-Guillaum," Treville told them. "I've had men watching it since dawn but there has been no sign of d'Artagnan."
"Garnon would be mad to take him there." Porthos observed. "He knows it would be the first place we'd look."
Aramis moved silently so that he was standing next to Athos by the wall. He could tell from the stiff set of his shoulders and the dark look in his eyes that his friend was presently more concerned with blaming himself than anything that would actually be helpful to them.
"I don't suppose you have a Parisian townhouse tucked away somewhere that we don't know about?" Aramis trod lightly.
"Sadly, nothing so convenient," Athos responded blandly, but set of his shoulders relaxed somewhat.
It would have been far too easy. Using Athos' family home would have appealed to Garnon's twisted sense of justice, but then they rarely got that lucky. Judging it was now safe to make his real point without getting his jaw broken Aramis reached out and grasped him gently by the collar, forcing Athos to meet his eyes, before speaking kindly but resolutely. "We are going to find him, Athos. And when we do Garnon will pay dearly for what he has done. Understand?"
"I never should have left him alone," Athos berated himself. "I knew Garnon was still a threat."
"He was surrounded by a whole garrison of musketeers. We had a right to expect he would be safe," Aramis moved his hand to grip Athos' neck firmly. "Do not add to your burdens my friend this was not your fault. As d'Artagnan will be the first to say when we find him."
"Ahem."
Porthos cleared his throat and the two men turned to see him and Treville watching them intently.
"Athos, if anyone is to carry the blame it should be me," Treville met his gaze. "The security of the Garrison is my responsibility."
"And we all left him," Porthos put in. "Not just you. All for one, right?"
"Perhaps," Athos swallowed hard at his friend's unwavering support. "Our time would be better spent looking for d'Artagnan than assigning guilt."
"Amen to that my friend," Aramis patted him on the back. "Amen to that."
Every available musketeer was set to scouring the city for any sign. Porthos went to Flea and organised the children and beggars of the Court of Miracles to be their eyes and ears across Paris with the promise of a large reward.
"Half now and half when we find him," He had told Flea.
"When we find your friend I'll take your money," Flea had closed her hand over the offered pouch of coins. She had liked d'Artagnan, liked the fact Porthos had friends watching his back, and she owed these musketeers for saving her life and her home. "Until then, keep your hand on your purse."
In the end it was one of Treville's sentries, who caught a glimpse of d'Artagnan being led across the courtyard of the Comte de Lyon's townhouse.
"Remarkable," Aramis observed, to no-one in particular even as they mounted up. "Garnon is even more stupid than we imagined."
As they approached the courtyard the sound of a whip cracking through the air caused them to reign in their horses and glance briefly at each other in horror before urging their mounts forward.
As they flung themselves off their horses each man had their sword out of its scabbard without conscious thought at the sight that met their eyes. As one their jaws clenched with unmitigated fury seeing d'Artangon tethered between two pillars. The bruises on his face and the mark of dried blood on his temple were evidence that he had not surrendered easily. The blood on his back was testament to his more recent suffering at Garnon's hands.
"Hold in the name of the King." Athos roared.
His words were enough to give the Comte's men pause. They exchanged reluctant looks, unwilling to do anything that might actually be construed as treason for of a man they followed out of duty rather than love or loyalty.
"Go now and we'll tell the Comte you were only following orders." Porthos advanced towards them, pure menace in his eyes.
No-one but Garnon was surprised when they fled.
"Stand your ground, hold fast I tell you, my father will here of this, I will have you dismissed from his service!" He protested cracking the whip in his right hand on the ground in frustration, as he realised they were leaving him at the mercy of the furious musketeers.
"I see the art of leadership still escapes you," Athos observed.
His face twisted with fury and hate Garnon turned on his heel and lashed out at Athos, not with his sword like a gentleman, but with the thick braided whip, which cut through the air with unexpected speed, catching Athos across his shoulder and neck.
"Oi."
Porthos moved faster than one might except from a man of his well-muscled build, coming up behind Garnon and grasping the whip in his large gauntlet, and using his grip to pull Garnon to his knees, before twisting the leather around his neck like a garrotte. He squeezed ever tighter as Garnon flailed, hands reaching weakly for his throat as his air was cut off.
"How do you like that, huh?" Porthos hissed in his ears. "What is it like to be on your knees before your betters? Does it make you feel helpless? Does it make you feel like the scum you are?"
Porthos paused. Over to his right, Aramis had moved to check on d'Artagnan, gently wrapping an arm around the younger man's waist as he used his knife to release him from his bonds, as he murmured soft comfort into the young man's ear. D'Artagnan sagged boundlessly against him seeming utterly spent. To his left Athos stood sentry, his sword at the ready, his eyes dark as he bore witness to the pain of his friends.
Porthos knew that no-one would lift a finger to stop him from killing Garnon if he chose. The man deserved to die for his crimes and Porthos had suffered dreadfully at his hands. But he knew in his heart that this was not his fight. Garnon's hatred of d'Artagnan had stemmed solely from his relationship with Athos. And Porthos already owed Athos far more than he could ever repay. Loosening his grip, he planted his boot firmly in the centre of Garnon's back and tipped him face first in the mud, watching impassively as Garon frantically pulled at the whip cord to reveal the red raw marks beneath.
"That's gonna leave a mark," Pothos observed cheerfully. "Never mind, you won't live long enough to get vain about it."
Stepping back, he met Athos gaze. His eyes reflecting five years of brotherhood forged in battle and tempered by loyalty and love. Athos straightened slightly, unconsciously drawing up to attention as he had no trouble reading everything from Porthos's expression that he would not give voice to in front of a man like Garnon.
"You should be grateful that Porthos du Vallon was born a better man than you, Garnon." Athos did not break eye contact with Pothos as he spoke. "He has awarded you the noble death which will be a comfort to your father even though it is ill deserved."
"You are nothing but cowards," Garnon mocked foolishly. "So, in thrall to that puppet of the King, Treville, that even now you talk instead of fight and tremble in your boots at the thought of killing me."
"I was right," Aramis offered from the side lines, d'Atagnan leaning heavily upon him as they watched the proceedings. "He really is an idiot."
Athos glanced over feeling somewhat reassured to see that the young Gascon appeared at least aware of his surroundings, although his unusual pallor and the sheen on sweat on his forehead spoke their own story.
"D'Artagnan?" He asked a world of questions in his tone.
"Still breathing," d'Artagnan assured him bravely, lifting his head off Aramis' shoulder to meet his eyes, smiling with enough of a hint of his youthful cockiness to make Athos' chest swell with pride.
Aramis added something quietly in Spanish with had Athos' eyes flashing with cold fury.
"You know," Porthos voice rang with satisfaction, "All this time you're been wrong about Athos. Hee's never been a coward. He just doesn't like to kill people unless he must."
"But you have crossed a very important line," Aramis tipped his hat at Garnon, speaking with a deceptive lightness that had both Athos and Porthos hands unconsciously going to their sword pommels due to all the trouble that tone had landed them in, in the past. "He might have forgiven the slur to his own honour when you stabbed him in the back, he does tend to rather underestimate his own worth, despite the fact that he a man of great honour and bravery, an outstanding swordsman, a true friend and did I mention that he is a brilliant tactician?"
"Aramis," Athos raised a slightly embarrassed brow, even as his eyes softened with affection. "Now is hardly the time."
"My apologies," Aramis grinned brightly and utterly unrepentantly at his friend, before his voice hardened as he focused on Garnon again. "But you made the fatal mistake of targeting his friends, Porthos branded, d'Artganan whipped, for no other reason than your own selfish pride and that he will never forgive."
"You deserved it, all of you. Musketeer scum, a thinking you are my equals. You needed to be shown your place."
"I could not believe it was true," A voice rich with authority sounded across the courtyard as the Comte de Lyon strode into view with Treville at his shoulder. "The Captain warned me you have behaved dishonourably but I never imagined you could have sunk so low. You are no longer worthy to call yourself my son. I wash my hands of you."
He looked at the Musketeers and d'Artagnan in particular.
"My deepest apologies, gentlemen for what you have all suffered for his sake. Forgive a father's folly for being blind to a ungrateful child's faults for far too long. Captain Treville you may deal with him as you see fit." He left without a backward glance.
Treville stepped forward his expression hard as stone as he pinned Garnon with a look.
"Your actions have brought disgrace upon this regiment. You are no longer fit to serve. This is the very least that you deserve," With those words he bent down and ripped the pauldron from Garnon's right shoulder.
"You can't do this," Garnon cried, struggling to his feet. "I will appeal to the King."
"You forget the King values loyalty above all other qualities," Treville's voice was icy. "You were motivated solely by your own interests. His Majesty has already approved my decision. May God have mercy upon you because no one here shall."
With a gentle hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and a nod to Athos, Trevillle took his leave, the pauldron hanging uselessly from his hand.
A single glance at d'Artagnan, whose strength was clearly waning, was all the motivation Athos needed to now end this swiftly.
"Draw." His tone was pure menace.
Athos went at Garnon without mercy, caring little for grace or form as he fought not as a noble but as a soldier, with deadly intent. A few short, furious, parries were all it took.
"Please, don't," Garnon begged, as Athos drew back for the fatal blow. "I will give you anything you desire."
Athos pretended he didn't hear that. Nor did he look back as Garnon's body hit the ground. Instead he strode over to where both his friends were now supporting d'Artagnan.
His heart clenched slightly as d'Artagnan drew on the last of his strength to straighten up and greet him with a proud smile. Athos did not miss Aramis' frown as he noticed that the hand d'Artagnan was holding out was trembling slightly, or the way Porthos was reluctant to stand too far from the boy in case his own legs could no longer hold him.
"I'm glad you killed him." D'Artagnan offered. "It was what he deserved."
Enclosing the boy's offered hand in his own warm grip, Athos did not hesitate, pulling d'Artagnan hard against his chest as he wrapped his other arm around his lower back, carefully avoiding the welts as he held him fast, and buried his face in his hair.
After a small sound of pleased surprise d'Artagnan clung to him, his face in Athos' shoulder as he clutched at a handful of his shirt as if it was a lifeline. The two of them just stood like that for a moment, taking strength and comfort from one other.
Then d'Artagnan raised his head, his brow furrowing with concern as he looked at his fingers entwined in Athos shirt and realised they were stained with red.
"You're bleeding."