Aramis was jerked out of his brooding thoughts when Porthos poked him in the side.
"Are the accommodations not to your liking," Porthos said with a straight face.
Aramis shook his head, cracking the barest hint of a smile, and stretched, crackling the aching bones in his sore spine from hard riding over the past couple of days. He took a deep breath of fresh southern air and shifted in his seat by the fire. "I'll live."
"Athos knows how to take care of himself."
"I know that. Something just doesn't feel right."
"Something?"
Aramis looked over to find D'Artagnan still sleeping soundly next to them. He reached down and pulled the fallen cloak more securely around the boy before leaning back to whisper his thoughts. "Why would they have left Athos' sword for us to find? It is a fine weapon in its own regard, one that could bring a pretty penny to anyone who had a thought to sell it."
Porthos pondered on the issue and wound up shrugging his shoulders in answer. "Perhaps it was forgotten?"
Aramis shook his head. "Not likely. This was a planned attack, a planned kidnapping that we would have known nothing about if it hadn't been for those guards taking a detour they don't normally take on their patrol. These men knew where to look and where to strike. You heard Treville. They are more than skillful with just a sword. Why leave it there if not for some purpose?"
"You don't think the Cardinal has a hand in this?"
"No. But perhaps his guards were bought."
"Suppose that's the easier explanation."
"Indeed," Aramis said. "The real question is why leave D'Artagnan if their intent is to ransom a musketeer?" It was a thought that had plagued his mind as well, and though the answer was not forthcoming before, the words fell from his lips in sudden realization that seemed all too easy. "They only needed Athos."
Porthos turned to him and spoke quieter than before, more serious than Aramis had ever heard him speak. "Then why let the boy live?"
Aramis didn't have an answer for that, and part of him didn't think he wanted to know the reason why. God had taken mercy on them all by letting them keep their little brother. Aramis and Porthos didn't dare call D'Artagnan that to his face, for fear of inciting the boy's infamous Gascon temper, but in times like these, when their lives were directly threatened, Aramis couldn't help but fear he'd never see the day when he'd be able to call him such openly and perhaps even receive a similar title in return.
"Have you also noticed," Aramis said, distantly. "That they've kept to the main roads?"
Porthos nodded. "They want to be followed."
"It would seem to me that we are playing right into their hands," Aramis sighed. "But for who's benefit or detriment I cannot see. I do not like this, not at all. We are hunting blindly. Where are they leading us?"
"To a fight, obviously! One does not simply take a friend of ours unchallenged-and to take one of us, the three-"
"Four," Aramis gently corrected.
Porthos smiled with a soft look to their youngest. "Four Inseparables. To take one of us is asking for a meeting of blades and blood. Besides, Athos still owes me money."
Aramis finally smiled under his friend's subtle attempts to lighten the dark mood of the night. They were not left in companionable silence for long. One of the company that Treville requested they take with them came bearing news, and it did nothing for the gloom that hung over them like a cloud.
In hindsight, making an escape attempt was not a good idea.
And most definitely not on a bad leg.
His abusers dropped him in an empty stall in the far corner of the stables to keep from scaring the horses. Athos tried not to groan out loud or curl into a ball, but after the hour of punishment he received for such a stupid stunt he was hard-pressed to keep up his stoic façade for the sake of defiance. Sure, he called it stupid now, after getting caught, but it seemed logical and reasonable at the time. He didn't want to sit here and wait to be rescued like some damned woman, nor did he want his friends to walk into the trap set for them. If it there was one thing that never set well with Athos it was waiting.
"Get him up."
Now they were starting to aggravate the last of his nerves. Was one restful moment to deal with the pain too much to ask? Apparently so. They were shameless villainous underhanded dishonorable deceitful and despicable bloodthirsty murderous torturers after all. The two men who dragged him here hauled him to his feet again and pushed him backwards to catch his own weight against the wall. The impact sent a new ripple of pain across his bloody and fiery bare back. He looked up and saw their leader, Marcel Degare, with the bloody switch in his hand. Athos frowned. It hadn't been that man who beat and whipped him earlier. He had merely stood to the side and watched. While he certainly looked capable of dealing a good beating, he looked the type that let others do the work for him. To be strung up and made such a public example of made him burn with anger, but not shame. He only made one noise at the first lash, and after that had kept quiet, which had only angered his abuser further.
"Are we back to not speaking, Monsieur Athos," Degare asked. "I seem to remember a handful of colorful words you threw at us earlier. Pray tell, those aren't the only words you know, are they?"
The group of them snickered in unison.
"I'd be afraid," Athos spat. "That you wouldn't know half of the terms I have stored for simple-minded abhorrent curs like yourselves."
Degare, still smiling, stepped forward into the stall and moved towards him. "Tell us, then, who you are to speak on such high boughs with such pretty words?"
"A loyal servant of my master, the King of France, who is also yours."
Degare grabbed his throat and slammed his head back against the wall, making Athos see nothing but a dizzying array of stars while the man shouted at him.
"We have no king! We do not bow to a boy half our ages with half the intelligence of a farmer scraping his way through the seasons to make a decent profit from the harvest! I am my own master, free to come, go, and do as I will. Here, we answer to no one. We use our hard-earned money to better the community and feed the poor, not serve a house of thankless feeble puppets parading around in excessive wealth!"
Athos glared, but stilled his tongue.
Degare leaned forward, pressed the blunt end of the switch into Athos' still injured leg, and whispered in his ear. "I know who you are, Comte de la Fère. There's no use in this petty wordplay between us. You are a man of honor and so am I. We are simply…neighbors in thought and ideals. I am not foolish enough to think you can be easily swayed, so we won't bother. But know this: it will be all the more sweet for me once this business is settled to know that a link of that golden chain of the aristocracy suffered and died at my hands personally."
"Then end it now," Athos gasped. "And save us both the trouble."
Degare smiled as he backed away. "You would want that. But what you fail to realize is that you are not a pawn in this game of ours. You are a piece that is far more important."
Important, he thought. What's important is making sure you die a slow death for what you're planning to do. Athos wracked his brain for a solution, for some way he could stop this and save his friends from this vile mind game, but nothing came. His eyes spotted D'Artagnan's father in the back, looking on disinterestedly.
"His loyalties will not waver," Athos growled.
Degare raised a confident eyebrow. "We'll see, won't we?"
As Degare left, two men had Athos chained to the wall above him. Thankfully he could sit on the ground, but leaning his back against the wall was out of the question because of the pain. Had his back been left alone he might have been able to fall asleep, but the pins and needles feeling in his arms was truly starting to sting after being restrained for so long. Later that night it was Bertrand who came to give Athos his ration of river water. He set it down at the edge of the stall but didn't leave.
"I expected to see my son," Bertrand said. "Not you."
"I seem to be the only one thankful that he yet lives."
Without a word, Bertrand stepped into the stall, and dumped the bucket of water over Athos' head, throwing the pail into the side wall with a loud clang. "You broke into my house," he accused.
Athos glared up at the man. "I was welcomed-"
"Liar," Bertrand shouted, grabbing Athos by the hair. "Did you threaten my wife? Did you?!"
"She welcomed me to deliver the sense I had come to deliver to you because of what you did to your son!"
Bertrand shoved Athos' head against the wall and attempted to leave.
"They will put a knife in your back," Athos groaned. "If you think their loyalty to you will last."
Bertrand turned and looked more surprised than angry at what Athos had implied. "What does my fate matter to you?"
"Much as I am loathe to admit it, you are D'Artagnan's father. And I would like the pleasure of seeing you on your knees before him one day. Consider it insurance."
Bertrand narrowed his eyes. "You break into my home, threaten my life, and now you warn me to keep it safe? You don't know me, Monsieur. And you certainly do not know my family nor my son."
"How can you care so little when it is your son's life that is at stake," Athos roared.
"This is entirely for him."
"They were ready to kill him when I was abducted! And now you led him and his companions to a slaughter that is supposed to return his affections to you? You are his father. You know full well he will not break under these dogs until they kill him. Can you be so honorable as to watch that happen? To watch them break his spirit and pick up the pieces?"
"There is little I would not do for my son. If I had to trade my life for his I would do it without a second's thought!"
Athos scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. "You truly believe that, don't you? That this ludicrous scheme for political power will return your family to you? There was a time I bore much hatred for who I believed you to be. Now, I have only pity. Pity for what you once were and obviously have no capability of being ever again."
"And what is that?"
"A man."
Fury twisted Bertrand's face. Athos watched the man storm off and bark orders at the guards by the entrance. Athos shivered, but tugged on his chains again in vain hope that when the time came he wouldn't be useless bait. He refused to stand by and watch doom fall down upon his brothers.
D'Artagnan stood apart from his friends and fellow guards, gazing out across the expanse of country below them, his country. The wind picked up and blew through his open jacket, causing gooseflesh to dance across his skin under the thin shirt he wore. At first he didn't feel it, then when he did he decided he didn't care, or couldn't. He felt numb in every other respect, so what was the point in adding one thing more?
"We have to move on," Aramis said, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.
D'Artagnan turned without a word or glance of acknowledgment. He heard Aramis muttering about one Athos being enough for the group of them but he paid the comment no mind. He saddled his horse, yet again, and they set off to cover more ground before nightfall. A brief but heavy rainstorm made them stop earlier than they planned and snuffed out the little light past sunset that they had relied on for another mile or two of riding.
D'Artagnan took care of his horse and without a word to anyone went to sulk among the drenched trees. With each day that passed the sickly feeling of worry and guilt churned worse. If he hadn't been so quick to chase after that man who knocked them down in the streets…If he had enough sense to get them out of there sooner…If he hadn't been slow in deflecting that blow that struck Athos…If he had never told him about his father in the first place…he would still be here, they would be back in Paris, patrolling, drinking, and talking endlessly about women if Porthos had his way.
He stopped underneath a large tree, punched the unyielding trunk, and sunk to the dry ground beneath it. The pain felt good, and even the sight of blood from where the skin broke made him less tense. Because of one stupid mistake the man who was practically a second father to him-or dare he suggest, a real one-was suffering. He wasn't sure who to be angrier at, himself or his father.
His father. How long had it been since he felt comfortable admitting that out loud? And to know that for years he had been a part of some rogue group of country vandals, openly defying the monarchy? It just didn't make any sense. All his father had told him when he was a child was how honorable it was to serve the King, or to even be considered to serve. Whatever had changed his father's mind had also changed his person, and not in a good way.
But did it matter?
A branch snapped. When D'Artagnan's head shot up towards the noise he saw a man aiming a small-sized musket at his head, with that damned red armband over his shirt. D'Artagnan started to reach for his sword, but stopped when he heard the unmistakenable sound of multiple guns cocking.
"There are fifty men over that hill with dry muskets waiting for my signal," the man said with gleaming eyes. "Unless you want the blood of a massacre on your hands I suggest you come with us, boy."
"Why would I do that," D'Artagnan asked, defiant despite the spike of fear in his chest for his friends not far away.
"You do it or we kill your friend, the Comte de la Fère."
D'Artagnan sucked in a quiet breath, but forced himself to think things through for once.
"How do I know you won't give the signal when my back is turned?"
The man smirked. "You don't."
Perhaps it was his own stupid faith in honor that made him surrender his sword and allow them to bind his hands behind his back. D'Artagnan wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he did know was that if they were taking him to see Athos, even as a prisoner, he welcomed the mistreatment. What other way did the musketeers have at finding Athos anyway? Though Aramis and Porthos were likely to be livid with him at what he was doing…Athos too for that matter, if he could find some chance at getting the both of them out of this alive, he would happily turn into a churchgoing man for the sake of it.
"Move, runt!" Someone kicked him from behind, and though he couldn't help himself from casting a nasty look at his assailant he said nothing.
Porthos had just shook out his wet cloak when a thought to offer the boy the same comfort came to his lips, and disappeared when he couldn't find him. He turned to Aramis who had been resting and silently praying against a tree and found that his friend had already been voicing his thoughts.
"Where's D'Artagnan," Aramis asked.
A younger musketeer than him stepped forward and pointed to the tree line. "My men saw him walk off in that direction."
Aramis shot the poor man an accusing look. "Alone? We are in dangerous country and no one had the decent thought to follow him," Aramis hissed in question as he passed.
Porthos was behind him a moment later when they both started scouring the forest for any sign of their young friend. Angry or concerned, which did he feel more of at the moment? Hunger. Yes, that was it. Hunger for knowledge that their young friend hadn't befallen some tragic turn of events.
They marched him across a couple of barren fields and then led him up the riverbank to a stone bridge. D'Artagnan could see in the distance, from lamp light on the bridge, that there was a group of men waiting for them. He tried to see their faces, but the darkness of night didn't help him. And soon enough they were already walking on it. They met in the center and stood in silence.
Impatience nearly set his tongue loose, but the group they met finally spread out. Behind them were two men, one was his father, and the other D'Artagnan could have identified from his clothing alone. His father removed the black hood from the other's head and D'Artagnan nearly smiled in relief when he saw that Athos was alive.
But his face fell when he noticed how Athos had been treated, and more importantly that his hands were tied behind his back, a dirty cloth that covered his mouth was tied at the back of his head, and a bag of rocks was tied to his bound feet. More worrying was his precarious position on the ledge of the bridge. The slightest push would send him over. Into the river. And from the looks of things, D'Artagnan would be helpless to prevent it or be able to go after him.
Yet again, there were just too many men.
He nearly gagged on his sudden inability to swallow and bit his lip in efforts to calm his shaking. He couldn't appear as weak and vulnerable as he felt because Athos' life depended on it. So when he locked eyes with his friend he forced a strong look on his face for both their sakes. One way or another he would find a way out of this. Athos looked back at D'Artagnan strangely, as if he were trying to tell him something.
"Son," his father greeted.
D'Artagnan said nothing in reply, and fixed his father with a cold scowl, until someone shoved him from behind. "Father," he said between gritted teeth.
A dark look flashed through his father's face, but disappeared as quickly as it came. "I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind," he said, grabbing Athos by the back of the collar. "About your loyalties."
D'Artagnan took a deep breath and prayed that his patience would hold out long enough, because seeing Athos like this was wearing his nerves thin. "I'm listening."
Another man stepped forward, clapping his father's shoulder as he passed. D'Artagnan regarded him with caution and tried to keep an eye on all three. "Tell me boy," he said. "Whom do you serve without yield, the King or yourself?"
D'Artagnan studied the face of the newcomer who expected a quick answer. He had scars and age lines, skin not dark enough to show southern roots, and dark deep-set eyes that reminded him of a predator. "I serve whom I deem worthy of serving, and if it is honorable."
The man smiled. "That is a good answer. What if I were to tell you that you're fighting for the wrong side?"
"The wrong side?"
"You're young, not yet a musketeer, and not yet corrupted by the fallacies of the monarchy. Do you think it's right that one family should live in luxury while the poor starve to death not ten blocks away? What of their money, spent on clothes made in the world's finest silks, while roofs of poor houses and orphanages crumble to ruin? The King's musketeers fight in the streets over petty issues of trading insults while men are murdered, women raped, and children lost in darkened corners of a city that can do nothing but leave them forgotten for their own security."
Athos words came to D'Artagnan in a fit of inspiration and before he could stop himself, he was speaking them aloud. "The musketeers are employed for bravery, honesty and-"
"Your occupation is based on a foundation of fraud. The entire regime is rotting from the inside out. Your livelihood would serve better the simple people of these lands than someone who has never seen a hard day's work in his entire life."
"Well, thank God simple men like you are not charged with governing this country." D'Artagnan could feel his patience wearing out, but he dared not take his eyes off the man he was arguing with. If anything were to happen, it would clearly come by his order, and D'Artagnan was in a position where he could have some influence over what was to happen…if his temper would stay in check that is.
"Are you so sure of yourself, Charles?"
D'Artagnan didn't flinch. "You're the ones with muskets pointed at us." That wiped the smile off the leader's face, and D'Artagnan couldn't help but let loose a small smile of victory. "The last thing I would ever do would be to betray a promise, my loyalty, because once I give it, it is my life. And that is everything any man ever has."
The leader turned his back and paced a little ways away. D'Artagnan chanced a look over at Athos and swore he saw a glimmer of pride in his eyes. Then he looked to his father who was scowling and glaring daggers at him. The funny thing was he didn't feel a shred of disappointment; he felt nothing but pride and success at finally being able to stand up for what he believed in. Before this moment it had always been about what his father believed, or what his father currently believed compared to what he used to believe.
"I think," the leader said, with his back still tuned. "It is friendship that you put too much faith in. It is a vain and fickle comfort. Friends fight, they betray one another…they die."
D'Artagnan was already starting to feel wary, but when he heard the telltale sounds of muskets, of gunshots and men shouting in the distance, he started to feel afraid. He turned a disbelieving look back from where he came and felt his hope for the safety of Aramis and Porthos wane. They would have had no warning…
"Your father is the testament to putting faith in such fantasies."
D'Artagnan turned back and saw that the leader was telling the truth. He then looked at his father for an answer, feeling some of the mystery start to open up. But his father wasn't looking at him. He was looking somewhere far off, trapped in thoughts that D'Artagnan knew he wouldn't voice.
"You should know the consequences of such faults. For when you risk everything, you lose everything."
The leader stood beside D'Artagnan's father. They shared a look with each other before both glancing at Athos. The leader had barely laid a hand on Athos before D'Artagnan acted, doing the one thing his mind was screaming at him not to do.
"Wait," D'Artagnan cried.
Athos looked at him but D'Artagnan ignored it, focusing instead on the leader, who gave his undivided attention. "I will do anything you ask," he surrendered.
Athos, predictably, didn't stay silent at that declaration, but no one heeded him.
"In return for," the leader asked.
"Just set him free-Let him live," he pleaded. "I swear to you that I will do whatever you want as long as you let him live!"
It sounded horrible to his own ears, but D'Artagnan was past the point of caring about his own character. If bowing down to these men meant saving the life of his friend, his mentor, then he would do it shamelessly. The leader said something to his father, and surprisingly, his father released his hold on Athos. He felt his heart soar in relief.
Until the leader spoke again.
"Living," he said. "Now that is up to him!"
Shock momentarily paralyzed him.
"ATHOS!"
It took him a second to realize that scream had come from his own lips because he was too busy fighting to get loose with everything he had. The splash of water wasn't loud enough. They were alone-No one knew where they were-No one would know what had happened-The last thing he saw was the face of his enraged father, then insufferable blackness as he was hooded and carried away, kicking and fighting less and less the farther they went.
The sound of D'Artagnan screaming his name would have worn others into a heartbreaking desperate agony, and though it cut at his own to hear it he knew that if he didn't focus on trying to free himself that misery would forever be imprinted on his soul. A quick slight of hand at that last moment before he fell over the side of the bridge gained him a blade to try and free his hands, so he worked…and not without a little fear when the cold dark water made it difficult to cut the ropes. While the bag of rocks dragged him further down he felt the small breath he took from up above begin to fade.
How long had he been under-Too long-He needed more time-More air-What he needed to do was focus!
He pulled at the ropes again, straining his tired muscles to cut through the material, and nearly gasped as the force from his efforts flung the blade out of his hands. He reached behind and below him and found nothing but water. He tried twisting around but knew it was fruitless. It was too dark for him to see. His limbs were starting to go numb from the cold. And the burning need for air in his chest was becoming too much.
All that went through his mind was a successive string of vehement denials as he struggled to get loose. Then his body started acting of its own accord, jerking and gasping for air on reflex. But there was nothing but water.