Aramis and Porthos barely had time to sit down at a vacant table for lunch before two of the Cardinal's guards sought them out. Both of the guards looked as if the messages they bore pained them to carry, and from the identical bored tones, Aramis started to wonder who had put them up to it and why. But that train of thought was soon forgotten.
"Your boy is lying in the gutter," one said.
"You'd best clean him up before we do," the other taunted.
Porthos' eyes flashed and he made to vacate his chair faster than he dismounted his horse in anticipation for lunch.
Aramis ignored the sharp fear that burst in his chest and quickly laid a hand on his friend before the anger could get the best of him and ruin what chances they still had. "Where," he asked.
Fervent prayers for the wellbeing of his friends were all that filled his mind as he and Porthos rode to the spot that D'Artagnan had been sighted with top speed. Casting wary glances around for any unseemly characters that may have been lurking about, the two cautiously entered the passageway that had been described to them. It didn't take long before they caught sight of their young friend lying face down in the dirty street. Once they reached his side, Aramis immediately pressed two fingers against the boy's throat. Though he felt a pulse, he also felt blood from a shallow cut. At the first sight of it, Porthos made the mistake of trying to move their young friend, to turn him over to check for the source. They were both rewarded with a loud groan of protest and bleary eyes that blinked open in pain.
Porthos grinned. "Welcome back to the living, lad."
Aramis struck Porthos on the arm, though he himself would have also laughed in relief if it hadn't been for the confused and dazed look in D'Artagnan's face. "D'Artagnan, what do you remember? What happened here?"
"Athos," D'Artagnan moaned, closing his eyes.
"No, D'Artagnan. It's Aramis and Porthos with you. Where is-"
"Aramis," Porthos said, quietly. "Tell me that is the wine or my imagination…"
Aramis followed his line of sight with trepidation and felt his heart freeze in shock. "His sword," Aramis whispered in disbelief. He turned back to D'Artagnan who was gaining a better hold over consciousness. "D'Artagnan, where is Athos?"
D'Artagnan coughed in discomfort. "Ambushed. They took him!"
"Who," Porthos demanded.
The boy shook his head, then abruptly stilled and moaned. "I don't know. There were ten of them, at least."
"Where are you hurt?"
"Just the wind…knocked out of me."
"No offense, lad," Porthos snorted. "But I'll believe that when I see it."
When they tried to get D'Artagnan to sit up they had to settle for letting him lean against the wall nearby for support. Aramis yanked his shirt up, ignoring the subsequent protests, and had a look at some nasty bruises already forming across his chest. He pressed two fingers at each rib and though none of them gave in to the pressure, a couple caused a few colorful curses from the young boy.
"Just bruised, I think," Aramis surmised. "They'll cause you some discomfort for some time."
"Wonderful," the boy gasped, trying his best to get away from his well-meaning friend.
"What is this?"
Aramis looked to Porthos' discovery on the ground near their feet and almost couldn't believe what he saw. He snatched it from Porthos hands only a moment after his friend had done the same. There was no doubt in his mind about the color or the seal upon it. "They wouldn't dare," he hissed.
"You know who they were," D'Artagnan prompted.
Aramis sighed and bit his tongue at first, but decided against his better judgment to tell the tale now and save precious time later. "They were musketeers at one time," he whispered. "The very first in fact, but they did not last long before they were disgraced and stripped of their titles by the King himself. They let themselves be swayed by the elite, by promises of riches and personal gain in exchange for knowledge that would have meant the end of the monarchy and the beginning of a reign of anarchy. Before they could be formally charged with treason they fled to the south. Rumors have given Monsieur de Treville and his predecessor headaches for years. By the time we entered into the King's service it was naught but a scandal swept under the rug that got nothing but blank faces and empty answers. This was one of them," Aramis said, holding up the seal of a defaced fleur-de-lis on a red armband.
"I don't understand," D'Artagnan said, sitting up straighter with a wince. "If they were once musketeers then what are they now?"
"Rogues," Porthos muttered, like a curse. "Aimless ruffians with not a single ounce of honor to their damned names."
"But why come back to Paris after so long? Why now," Aramis pondered. "Why kidnap a well-known musketeer and leave the other as a witness?" He shook his head at all the unconnected threads and came to a simple conclusion. "Monsieur de Treville must know of this."
Porthos retrieved Athos' fallen sword and Aramis tried not to notice the pained look on D'Artagnan's face when he laid eyes on it. When they made to move the boy and get him to his feet both musketeers stopped when D'Artagnan gasped.
"Are you injured elsewhere-" Aramis started.
D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and far away in recognition. "No, no I…That seal, I remember it."
"You've seen it before," Porthos exclaimed.
"I was very young. My father wore it, the very same." Aramis felt his stomach drop out from under him at the unsaid implications. He shared a grim look with Porthos before turning back to a very pale and quiet D'Artagnan. "Aramis, where did Athos go while I recovered? He was gone for four days. Where did he go?"
Aramis sighed. "…To visit your father."
D'Artagnan bit his lip and slapped a hand against the wall in frustration. "Why-Why did he do that," he cried.
Aramis laid a hand on the boy's and kept it still. "We all know why he did it, D'Artagnan. The real question is this: Would your father retaliate if he were threatened?"
The previously unshed tears in the boy's eyes started to fall when he clenched his eyes shut and moaned in despair. "This is my fault!-"
"No-no it is not-" Aramis denied.
"How is it not?!"
"Lad," Porthos said uncharacteristically gruff-though Aramis suspected it was to gain his undivided attention. "Blaming yourself will either get Athos or yourself killed. Our brother is out there and he needs our help."
D'Artagnan hung his head in misery.
"If they did not kill him outright then it is likely we may be able to get him back," Aramis decided. "There is a power play somewhere in this, of that I am certain. And if we do not have the correct players, we will not succeed. Treville must be informed. And we must move quickly."
"Just tell me which way to go," the boy said, cold and emotionless. "So we can put an end to this once and for all."
Aramis and Porthos offered support, but D'Artagnan stubbornly refused their help and stiffly walked back out to the street.
Monsieur de Treville stood at the window of his office, momentarily lost in thought, thinking back to the innocent days of his youth and the friends he lost. Most dear in that unfortunate list was now a person, a longtime friend, that he never expected to lose, and it stung worse than any other that came before. He turned to face Aramis, Porthos, and D'Artagnan, confused for only a second before remembering that the fourth of their fellowship was indeed missing.
"Take a small company with you," Treville said. "If only for the ease of my own mind. These men are not likely to be captured, because when they fight they fight to the death. The country has likely hardened their resolve. Expect no mercy or honor from them when you duel because you will receive none. Be smart and come back in one piece. I'll not have my best fighters die victims of trickery."
When he received nothing but obedient nods in reply, he dismissed them, stopping at the invisible weight on the youngest's shoulders.
"I would speak with D'Artagnan alone before you leave."
Aramis and Porthos reluctantly left their companion behind. Once they were alone, the boy stood stock still with his eyes trained to the floor. Only the strong grip on the hilt of his sword betrayed his raging inner turmoil. It wasn't for the first time that Treville was stunned into silence by the resemblance between this younger D'Artagnan and the boy's father. Nearly everything but the young face would have convinced him that it was his old and dear friend standing before him to chase away the horrid accusations and harsh reality. This was also not the first time that he thought this boy was too damn young.
"They have poisoned his mind it seems," Treville said. "For I remember a different Bertrand D'Artagnan from my days. He was a man of honor and good repute. Fiercely loyal, recklessly so, and brave. To think that those villains have corrupted him beyond recognition does not strike a true chord with me." In a rare show of affection for any of his men, even though D'Artagnan was not yet one of them, he came forward and laid his hands on the boy's shoulders. D'Artagnan looked up at him and the lost look in his eyes nearly drove the words from the captain's mind, but he persevered for example's sake. "Know this," he said. "I do not know why your father decided to side with them. He would have had reason to, but your father's pride and honor would have prevented him. I cannot believe such a dear friend and admirable man such as your father is lost."
"It has been years since he was admirable, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said in a somber tone. "I did not reveal the source of my injuries when I returned from home because I did not wish to ruin any friendship between you and my father on his behalf."
"Are you telling me your father fought with you," the captain breathed.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He wanted me to give up my commission, and return home. For good."
Jealousy? A jealousy that turned into murderous rage? It was outrageous, and yet the broken boy Treville saw before him spoke the truth. "All your father ever wanted for you was to receive a commission. It was all he spoke of to me since you were born."
"I failed to notice when that changed, Monsieur, but rest assured it did and without my knowledge until the damage was done."
"This is disturbing news indeed," Treville whispered. "If I was not needed by the King's side, son, I would ride out with you. Something is very wrong and you must tread carefully. For them to attack you, practically a musketeer of the King's personal guard, and to kidnap another is seen as an attack upon the king himself. Treason. And if your father is found to be one of their company… are you prepared to act accordingly, D'Artagnan?"
"I am," the boy said firmly.
Treville tapped a finger under D'Artagnan's chin in a silent request for eye contact. "You are certain?"
For a moment, Treville swore he could see the denial on the boy's lips, but the vehement affirmation seemed to settle some of his fears and grow new ones. "I will do as you and the King command. I will do what is required of me."
"What is required of you is to bring this business to an end and bring your friends home as unscathed as all of you can manage. Safeguard your own life as well as you would theirs. And as a favor to me, if not for yourself, discover the truth and the depths of this possible betrayal of your father. A part of me cannot accept it while the other grows sick to the stomach at the thought."
D'Artagnan nodded once, with finality.
When he dismissed the boy Treville walked to the window to watch them depart. Even after they were gone he still stood at the window, dictating business to his clerk without ever turning his head, refusing the admittance of any and all petty disputes, because, in light of recent news, everything was petty. Nothing, absolutely nothing in the world, was more important than the grief of loss and potential betrayal of a dear and close friend.
Mere moments after their company left through the southern gates of the city, and turned onto the quiet main road down to the countryside, D'Artagnan spurred his horse into a breakneck sprint that left the rest of them trotting behind.
"Lad," Porthos called. "Slow down!" He might have tried to match the Gascon's reckless speed in efforts to not be left behind, but Aramis laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Let him go," Aramis said. "He'll slow for us eventually."
Porthos shook his head and adjusted his reins. "He's going to get himself killed. Then what good would it be in rescuing Athos if all he would do would be to kill us for letting the boy run headlong into an accident?"
Aramis didn't smile and kept his attention on the small spec of their friend on the road ahead. "D'Artagnan may be reckless, Porthos, but he is not brainless. Let him be. He needs this."
True to his words, D'Artagnan slowed enough to come back into their line of vision, which relieved Porthos because he knew what kind of trouble his cousin would cause for them if they all weren't careful. Though Athos had always been somewhat reserved, Porthos knew the man better than he sometimes knew himself. He preached solitude and detachment, sometimes lashing out in anger in his efforts to be left alone to his miseries, but inside he was looking for someone to pay attention and want him just like anyone.
It was because of his pride, and perhaps Porthos' own, that they never spoke of such things. Instead, Porthos pushed Athos to what he himself knew best. Worldly comforts. And that had satisfied then all for the years that followed Milady. Once D'Artagnan charged into their lives Porthos supposed the reminder of youth made it more difficult for Athos to cope. He and Aramis had done their best to temper the weathering storms, for if ever there was an opposite to Athos moodiness and misery, it was D'Artagnan in all his energetic glory.
Now though? The lad was a shadow of what he used to be. Porthos couldn't remember hearing a single word from him after they had left that desolate part of Paris. Somewhere along the line Athos' attitude to the boy had drastically changed. Aramis was no different. And now, Porthos was beginning to feel it as well, that strange heavy feeling in his chest that just wouldn't go away until this mess was over and done with. And once it was, they could all rest assured that they were going to be dragged out, by their ears if he had to, to the nearest bar for a night of pure revelry.
Porthos sighed to no one in particular as he daydreamed of happier times.
Waking without attracting attention takes an incredible amount of skill, especially when one is the victim of a splitting headache, and not the kind from drinking too much wine the night before. Athos was known for his restraint, but his current condition was severely testing that useful quality. He could deal with his hands being bound too tightly behind his back. He could deal with the soreness in his neck from the position his captors had left him in for too long. What he could not stand was his inability to see, courtesy of the foul smelling bag secured over his head as if he were some common criminal.
But he said nothing. He did nothing but lie there and feign sleep in hopes of discovering either something about his location or what plan his captors had that involved attacking, injuring, and kidnapping him. He remembered some of the journey, but not much. And he had little patience for trying to remember that hazy period in his memory because of the last clear thing he did remember.
D'Artagnan with a knife to his throat and fear in his eyes.
Athos wasn't stupid enough to think that he and the boy could have escaped that fray unscathed, if at all. But he hadn't planned on being kidnapped and used to some unforeseeable end. If all they had been after was him then he would have spared them both the trouble and given himself up freely. But, regrettably, in that anxious moment before an ensuing battle for their lives, he did know better than to expect that kind of generosity.
His sharp eyes had caught sight of the insignia their opponents wore seconds before throwing that one man away from D'Artagnan to keep the boy alive a second longer. Athos knew what kind of men they faced, and what they were capable of. He would have thought the odds only a little outmatched for them until more joined in the efforts. So when he told D'Artagnan to run it was with the sole purpose of saving the boy's life with no respect towards his own. That was what older, more experienced…friends did for one another. And though he'd gotten away with it before, occasionally with Aramis and Porthos in their direst of plights, he didn't expect to fail outright with the boy.
D'Artagnan was simply too selfless for his own good. And while that made for an admirable quality in the best of men, it was a damned nuisance when it came to trying to be selfless in return. He was the younger of them, and it was he who should know his damned place. After all, he flouts his youth almost every chance he gets, even if he doesn't know it. The least he could have done was act it and save Athos the trouble…and the relentless worrying.
For that was the thing currently torturing his mind, the whereabouts and condition of his young friend. They hadn't subdued D'Artagnan like himself…or maybe they had and he didn't remember. But if that were the case wouldn't they have put them both in the same place? If they were smart, and Athos knew they were, it wasn't likely. Surely the boy wasn't dead? And if he was…Rage began to simmer in his gut at the mere possibility, and Athos had an inkling that it wouldn't be satisfied until he had the blood of the men responsible on his own hands.
"I don't understand," a man cried. "If this plan centers around bringing my son home then why isn't he here?"
Athos grit his teeth together to keep from growling out loud.
"Calm yourself, my friend," another assuaged. "We've discussed this before, and in length-"
"You're not telling me something and I don't like it. You promised me-"
"I know what I promised you. It would do you better to remember what you promised us and follow through on it."
"You think I won't?"
"You are giving me doubts, yes!"
"You've told me nothing about how this plan of yours will return my son's affections and duties to me. If I do not know what part I am to play I can do little in improvising when the moment comes."
"It is as I said before," the other man whispered. "Once your son believes his friends are dead, that he is alone and will not be sought in ransom or character by his superiors, convincing him to serve under us and to return to your graces will be simple."
Now that made him angry, even worse than the rage at the thought of D'Artagnan lying dead somewhere. They were going to use Athos as a means of breaking the boy's spirit, and in all probability Aramis and Porthos as well. He'd heard stories before of these rogues vandalizing homes and murdering the parents in front of the children in efforts to make them soldiers for their cause, telling stories about generosity in adopting orphans. But he thought them only rumors…
"And my part?"
"You know his fiery spirit better than any of us. You must convince him of our views and the corruption of the monarchy he blindly serves."
"The boy and I are not quite amicable to each other anymore. I hardly see how he would listen to a single word from me."
"Then meet his blade and wear him down like you've done before," the man snapped-or leader, Athos guessed. "In order for our voice to survive and be heard we need a younger generation to keep it alive, to help us grow. Once your son realizes his foolishness in supporting such a perverted system it will be all the better for us, all the better for your family, and all the better for France. I need to know that you still support us, Bertrand."
Athos felt sick, not just physically sick but sick at heart and in mind for all the filthy words, names, and vile thoughts that he was thinking in revenge for these despicable men. His fists started to shake, but he didn't bother hiding it. If he hadn't known D'Artagnan's father was part of this union he would have laughed outright at the idea that the boy would fall victim to such a plot. This, however, was not the case. Though his eavesdropping confirmed his hopes that the boy was still alive, he realized they wouldn't last long. His friends were being led straight into a trap with him as the bait.
"He's awake," Bertrand whispered.
A lengthy pause followed that seemed to make the hairs on the back of Athos' neck stand on end. Punishment would surely follow, but Athos would welcome it to temper his fury. The leader spoke with a tone equally low and menacing, and Athos was unafraid.
"How long has he been awake?"
A/N: Somehow just two weeks in retail hell has lit a fire under my butt to get these updates done. I know I should be thankful I have a job, but it would be nice to actually be properly trained before getting thrown to the lions. *le sigh* Yay holiday hell. And on to the next chapter.