Chapter Two

"I know you were behind this, you little imp," D'Artagnan groused. "So don't even think about denying it."

Planchet looked over at his master with the most innocent and angelic face he dared muster as they rode their horses further into the countryside. "I have never lied to you, master," Planchet replied, neutrally.

"Then you will admit your part?"

He looked into those glinting eyes of his master with the same courage in his heart that he had when he paid his master's captain an impromptu visit. He felt no remorse for it then, and he still didn't-even under the threat of a thrashing, which he likely deserved for his selfless efforts. "I do," Planchet admitted.

His master didn't promise retribution. Instead, he sighed, looked away, and stayed silent for the next half hour. Going behind his master's back wasn't that far from the coward's way out of things, but without any other options what else was the poor servant supposed to do? His master could ignore his sentiments all he liked, but he could never disobey a direct order from a superior. And it wasn't as if this was the first time he had dared do something drastic. He only hoped his master didn't put two and two together about his dear mother. But again, it was a necessary evil Planchet was willing to face. Things had gone well after that, for a time. Seeing him so worn down now was only proof that he had done the right thing.

"I haven't exactly made things easy for us, have I," D'Artagnan asked, softly.

Planchet looked at his master and chose not to respond. Instead he got a foreboding feeling that they should have stopped at the small town they passed a few miles back. "Would you like to stop for a rest, master?"

"No," D'Artagnan said. "Let's keep going. We're already over halfway there."

Even his master's horse didn't waver. The Italian-bred beast was a stubborn one, after all, sometimes more so than his master. It hadn't been a perfect match at first, but the beast had to be purchased out of need. The death of his master's previous horse struck him quicker than Planchet thought it would. The mare had been quite old and though she was a gentle and fiercely loyal one Planchet couldn't help but be thankful that she had quietly passed in the night from age. The alternative of his master having to put her down due to injury or illness would have been twice worse.

Phaeton, he had been so named, was entirely different. He was pure black, proud, and unusually brave. The horse's sudden and strange bouts of anger when threatened made him a true battle horse through and through. He had already seen his master safely through many battles. Planchet respected the horse for that fact alone greatly, so whenever the beast was in want of something Planchet gave it when he could. But now, the beast's steadfastness was no comfort.

"We are making good time, then," Planchet ventured.

"And all the better for it. I'm fine, Planchet."

Planchet turned his gaze back towards the road and wondered how far they would get before he had to start worrying when his master would fall off his horse.

"Master, I truly think we ought to stop for a rest."

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to sigh out loud. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Where would you propose we stop, the patch of poison oak or the holly underbrush?"

The servant shuddered. "For my part, master, if it please you, not the holly."

D'Artagnan chuckled despite himself.

Leave it to Planchet to have a particularly harsh allergy to the one overly abundant plant used during the winter holidays. But on his conscience he couldn't blame nor poke fun at the poor man for it. If he did that meant offering up his own health matters into play. And his own allergy to…apples, of all things, was no laughing matter in the northern part of France. Everywhere D'Artagnan seemed to turn in his first few months in Paris and the countryside there was another tree or orchard of them. Every bakery and inn around Paris seemed to have nothing but apple pies, apple tarts, apple cakes, baked apples, apple loafs, apple cider, apple spiced ale, apple flavored wine-the list continued to grow by day and by year.

And to make things worse Porthos had been overly fond of apples.

Suspiciously too fond, damn him.

"Master-"

"Planchet," D'Artagnan warned, even as the sweat was beginning to do more than drip down his neck. "Not again. Enough."

D'Artagnan blinked again and grit his teeth together to stay awake. He was far from sliding out of his seat, but the uneven road wasn't doing him or Phaeton any favors. And he was embarrassed to admit that he hadn't thought about the consequences to their journey beforehand. The pain from merely sitting astride a horse was nearing an excruciating level. He was thankful most of their way was through flat lands, but up and down the recent valleys was sheer torture. There were many times when he wanted to shout it out across the fields just to be rid of the tension and pressure built up in his chest, but his pride kept him stubbornly silent.

He had wanted to reach Athos' house before supper and it looked like they were well on their way to achieving that goal. From his estimates they would reach the place within another hour, which was good time with the gathering clouds over their heads because the last thing D'Artagnan wanted was for them to get rained on or delayed any longer than necessary.

Irony, however, had a poor sense of humor.

Highwaymen jumped in from both sides of the road and blocked their way. D'Artagnan drew his horse up short, causing the animal to snort in protest. He laid a comforting hand on Phaeton and tried to calm him, though the horse continued to stomp his front hooves. Planchet cast a quick look over at D'Artagnan and he signaled the servant with a subtle twitch of his hand to be at the ready. Then, he turned his attention back to the grinning dirty men and barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Of course there would be highwaymen. Of course they would target him. And of course, on his first day off duty in too many months.

"Monsieur," the leader said, stepping forward. "Have you come to visit our country or pass through it?"

"Both," D'Artagnan replied. "This is your country, you say?"

"Why yes! And the laws of our country say that you must pay a fee to pass through."

"A fee," D'Artagnan said, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise. "How much?"

The leader pranced forward and circled both D'Artagnan and Planchet with an air of assessment. He made noises of affirmation, nodded his head a few times, and even ducked down to look at the underside of the horses. Planchet spared his master one curious and disbelieving glance from his firm attention on the rest of the men. D'Artagnan couldn't answer him because he never took his eyes off the leader, nor was he swayed by the snickering of the other men in front of them.

"Your horses," the man replied, in an easy-going tone. "Your money, your swords, and your clothes."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "You would have us walk to Blois in our undergarments?"

The man shook his head in seriousness. "Oh no, we would have you walk naked. We wouldn't do you and your servant a disservice by doing only half the job."

"That's completely ridiculous."

"Those are our laws."

"Then I have misspoken. Your laws and fees are ridiculous. And exorbitant."

"Our laws are laws. And our fees are still fees, sir. Laws must be obeyed and fees must be paid, else taken by force."

More men from the tree line came out and aimed second-hand pistols and muskets at them. That made the group of their aggressors at least twenty strong, or how it may have appeared to any of his skittish recruits in Paris. D'Artagnan hiked his grip on the reins a bit higher with one hand and slipped his other one into the small bag by his leg where his pistol was stashed, already loaded. Phaeton snorted in warning and dug his hooves into the ground, smelling the anticipation in the air just like his master did. One way or another, this was not going to end well for one side. "Force, you say?"

"How else would one run his country," the leader jeered. "You and your servant are lucky we can accept such worn clothes, dull swords, light change purses, and shoddy beasts-"

D'Artagnan aimed and shot the leader in the shoulder. The unfortunate man shouted and fell to the ground, groaning and writhing in pain. The rest of the men looked down at him in shock. No one moved or said a thing. When they looked back up at D'Artagnan he had another loaded pistol in hand, tossed to him by Planchet who was reloading the still smoking weapon he previously used. "Would anyone else care to add anything to that list?"

"You idiots," the leader screamed, bloody and in a rage. "Shoot them! Shoot them both!"

A second later the men regrouped and charged D'Artagnan and Planchet both. Phaeton didn't even need a kick in his side to charge forward. Most of the men scattered back into the trees and across the fields, but some brave and stupid souls stayed by their leader's side. It was a show of D'Artagnan's faith in Planchet that he didn't turn back to see if he needed help. Instead, he turned his attention to the main chess piece. When Phaeton turned about and charged back into the fray, D'Artagnan leapt from his horse and barreled into a group of three bandits reloading their muskets. Two of them were knocked unconscious, leaving D'Artagnan to dispatch the third.

Phaeton reared and kicked out against anyone who got too close to him and Planchet's mare. Planchet brawled with a couple of men not too far away, resorting to swinging a fallen musket into heads and unprotected shins. D'Artagnan drew his sword, having eyes only for the leader who had gotten back to his feet and drawn his own shoddy-looking sword. It was a simple weapon, but a sturdy one that did not threaten to break under any duress.

As he and the nameless leader danced back and forth, D'Artagnan staggered at points, exhaustion blaring a loud warning to every single bone in his aching body. He was only lucky to avoid serious injury due to the fact that the leader was a complete amateur with a sword in his hand. D'Artagnan would have spared the man his life and settled for humiliating him by knocking the weapon out of his hand and forcing him to admit defeat, but when he did just that the man kicked D'Artagnan's blade to the side (though the latter knew better than to let it fly out of his hand) and pulled out a dagger, swiping it deep and wide in arcs aimed at nothing short of a disabling and disemboweling fate. Luck saved D'Artagnan again by what must have been an inch's worth of air, and somehow he knew he wouldn't be granted another mercy such as that.

All gloves were then off.

This man would not back down because of his own pride and greed. This man was not afraid to play dirty. This man had killed before, how many was uncertain, but enough. And his limbs were starting to visibly shake from the exertion of what his sword master back in Paris would only have scoffed at and barely called a proper duel. He needed sleep. He needed food and rest. And he needed to not waste his time on scum like this man. Part of him hated to do it, but the other half had made a convincing argument. A firm decision in his mind, D'Artagnan used the hilt of his sword and gave the man a good knock under the chin and dealt the killing blow by running him through.

He had only just taken a breath after dealing the fatal blow when he felt another rogue surprise him from behind, pinning D'Artagnan's free arm behind him and pressing a sharp knife to his throat with every intention of slicing it open. He barely had the time to struggle against the unforeseen surprise and in those precious lost seconds he feared he would have been a dead man.

But not one second later the man at his back and the knife at his throat were gone. D'Artagnan staggered to the side after a firm shove into his back, but managed to whip around and regain some of his bearings. Half the company that ambushed them lay dead or dying. The rest had fled. Planchet sported a few bruises and superficial cuts, but otherwise appeared unharmed as he picked himself up from the ground with the aide of a battered musket. And then there was the one man D'Artagnan hadn't expected to see, the same one who saved his life and rolled the dead rogue who tried to kill his dear friend off of his person with a look of disgust.

"Athos," D'Artagnan gasped, falling to his knees in the dusty road with a hand over the stinging cut on his throat. He landed hard on his knees, and the jolt sent sharp pains up and down his lower spine. If it hadn't been for Athos' quick reflexes D'Artagnan would likely have fallen completely forward and blacked out in an undignified heap.

But there was one thing that kept him awake and his senses sharp. Those arms he so often dreamed about were around him again. And those warm strong beautiful hands were looking for obvious injuries that weren't there. D'Artagnan would have smiled if he could catch his breath first…perhaps after the ground decided to stop moving…and then if the stars on the edge of his vision would stop swirling. Yes, once those abated he would be perfectly fine.

When Athos lingered too long on the small cut on D'Artagnan's neck, the younger of the two grasped his friend's hand to divert his hard-set attention. "It's only shallow," D'Artagnan gasped.

"Too close for my liking," Athos said. "Are you injured elsewhere?"

D'Artagnan tried to sit up, but his other arm gave out from under him. "No, just…my pride."

But Athos wasn't set aside so easily from D'Artagnan's condition. The tone of his voice, among other things, was evidence enough. "Well, if you're not injured then you look ill. Would you care to explain or do I have to ask Planchet?"

Planchet intercepted the question with ease and frankness as he tended to their horses. "My master has worn himself ragged these past months, Monsieur Athos."

Athos turned back to D'Artagnan with a promising and threatening look. "Oh he has, has he?"

"Traitor," D'Artagnan hissed at Planchet.

The servant, to his credit, didn't cower. He calmly took his place by his master's side and helped Athos get D'Artagnan to his feet and steered them over to the nervous horses. "If you say so, master. But it is only because you are too kind to me."

D'Artagnan scoffed. "So this is my fault then, is that what you are saying?"

"I would say there lies much blame on your condition in this," Athos said. "Did my visit to Paris mean nothing to you?"

D'Artagnan winced and looked away, knowing he had nothing to say in his defense. "Your visit did not mean so little, no-"

"Then why do I find you here exhausted on top of injury?"

"Old habits are hard to break. I apologize. Might I now be left in peace to gather what's left of my dignity?"

Athos sighed. "Can you ride?"

D'Artagnan pushed away from Athos. "Of course I can ride-"

The moment Athos let go of him D'Artagnan took a step forward to prove his point, but he staggered like a drunk man and nearly fell back to the ground. Athos and Planchet both took hold of him again, but not before D'Artagnan hissed, cringed, and fell towards Athos for support. "What's wrong?"

"Later," D'Artagnan whispered.

Athos frowned and didn't look the least bit happy with that response but passed over it as D'Artagnan requested, likely only out of respect for their friendship. "In this condition you'll fall off your saddle before we make a mile. It's not that much farther but you're riding with me-and don't argue."

Once Athos' attention was elsewhere, D'Artagnan gave into the childish urge to roll his eyes. But in the end he could hardly justify it and no longer deny the fact that he was in pain, and also in serious need of rest. The very idea of getting back on a horse again made him hesitate once Planchet brought their horses over to them. Planchet had already mounted his mare and taken hold of Phaeton's reins. Phaeton pulled forward despite the servant's efforts and nudged his human affectionately. D'Artagnan reached up and stroked the animal, offering what reassurance a human could. The intelligence and empathy of animals, horses in particular, had fascinated him as a boy and still did.

"I'll be all right, boy," D'Artagnan whispered to him.

Phaeton nickered and nudged him in the cheek one final time before he allowed Planchet to pull him away.

God almighty, even his horse was worried about him.

D'Artagnan turned back to Athos and his horse, took a breath, and looked his friend dead in the eye as he spoke. "You'll have to help me."

Wordlessly Athos did just that, noting the seriousness behind the request and the request itself, which couldn't be helped because for D'Artagnan it was either flail, fall, and cause further injury to himself or rise above his own pride and ask for aide. D'Artagnan felt his face burn in embarrassment at needing just the slightest help getting his foot into the stirrup, but he gritted his teeth and braced himself for the pain that was sure to increase. But he hadn't judged by how much it would truly hurt.

Pulling himself up onto the saddle was bearable, until he swung his leg over and had to sit down. He couldn't help but let out an agonized moan at the horrible stretching sensation between his legs. Nothing felt torn, but he sensed he was on the very edge of it happening. Such a sudden and harsh pain would have undone any man twice his size, but he kept his jaw firmly shut and tried to suppress the urge to let out another one, which wasn't an easy feat. Gripping the pommel of the saddle in both hands might have only helped to put his mind at ease rather than diminish the unmentionable pain itself, but the slight pain in his tightly wound hand, turning both of them a ghastly white like his face, helped to take some of the edge off.

But only some, and not enough.

Athos, in the mean time, hadn't moved an inch from D'Artagnan's side. He also hadn't taken his hand away from the small of the young man's back. He spared his other one to calm his own horse, who had begun to snort and move restlessly after smelling the fear and alarm in the air, but not for long. Once his own horse calmed down he covered the wrist of that tense white hand with his own and gripped it hard. "D'Artagnan? What is it? Damn it, speak boy!"

D'Artagnan swayed in the saddle, more than a little annoyed to see his vision still tilting and threatening him with an imminent faint. But, as he had done on the battlefield numerous times, he tried to lock it all away and convince himself that pain was only a trick of the mind. He'd seen men, some of his own, with ghastly injuries get up and walk with no pain at all to complain of, so who was he to not do just that? It was only a few miles more. "I'm fi-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence and tell me you're fine when it is stupidly obvious you are not!"

Ah, yes. But then there was Athos' temper to contend with. D'Artagnan would have answered it, but those two syllables that came from his mouth spent much of his control already. So it was Planchet who was to bear the brunt of Athos' anger instead. "What do you know about this," Athos demanded, pointing a deadly finger at the servant.

D'Artagnan didn't doubt Planchet would answer, and had to speak over him to prevent him from spilling the truth of the matter on his master's behalf. It wasn't a conversation meant for open air, nor was it a subject D'Artagnan was ready to divulge just yet. He needed more time to collect his thoughts and to find the right words. And he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he was also afraid of the consequences when he finally did come clean and tell Athos the truth. He wouldn't delay it longer than necessary, but now was simply not the time nor the place.

"Athos," D'Artagnan groaned. "Enough, please. The longer I'm up here the faster I'll fade."

Athos grasped D'Artagnan's hand again. "I'll only leave this matter alone for now if you tell me that whatever this is is not life-threatening-and I swear to you before God and this earth that if you lie to me and tell me it is not when it is-"

"It's not. I promise you. Please?"

Athos didn't look the least bit convinced, but either way he pulled himself up behind D'Artagnan, pulled the younger man firmly against him, and started them off at a slow pace toward his estate. The stony silence lasted for a mile, and then Athos leaned forward and whispered in D'Artagnan's ear. "Would side-saddle be better for your back?"

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and reluctantly changed positions. It had been on his mind since sitting in the saddle, and even though it didn't relieve much of the pain and tension throughout, it took a bit of the edge off. "I must have angered God greatly in a previous life," he joked.

"Why is that?"

"Man and nature have declared war on my pride today. I can't imagine there's much left to lay me completely bare."

"I wouldn't speak so yet. The day's not done. And don't think you've heard the last of this matter, D'Artagnan."

"You'll get your answers…I swear it."

"But not before you've had some supper and rest," Athos relented. "Take some rest now if you can. I have you."

D'Artagnan wanted to argue, but he was well past the point of putting up a formidable front. Athos had his arms around him and the feeling of being back to chest was not just comforting but lulling. Before he knew it his eyes were closed and he was starting to feel the strong tug of sleep. But he never knew true rest. The pain was just too much to ignore. Perhaps it was the delirium that inevitably accompanies such large amounts of agony, but it became a live thing that grasped something deep in his chest and squeezed it in an unrelenting vice.

He was in the arms of the friend who he'd do anything in the world for. He was being held by a friend who would do anything for him in return. If he could have no other comfort in the world, then D'Artagnan decided somewhere in those dark waves of pain that he could satisfy himself with this. He pined after those letters Athos sent to him, most of the time unknowing of what it was that he truly wanted from his dear friend. He spent hours reading them and rereading them, imagining Athos' voice speaking them to him and tempting him into an ever-evasive peaceful sleep.

And…D'Artagnan had, somewhat selfishly, imagined that it was Athos' touch he was feeling and his lips he was tasting last night.

Fingertips traced his cheekbones so faintly he almost missed the sensation. He turned toward the touch in his dazed state and sighed. Traces of a smile lightened his own face, and for a moment the sense of peace was so overwhelming that he thought he was dreaming. And if he was dreaming-

"Who is he?"

D'Artagnan dragged his exhausted eyelids open and the memory of where he was and who he was with came back to him. The satisfaction of what could only have been minutes prior, though perhaps it had been a couple of hours due to the now cool sheets, still held his body, and though he felt the twinge of disappointment that he wasn't lying next to who he really desired, he was not altogether unhappy. His lover was awake, looking at him and searching for an answer. All he could return in reply was a groggy and soft-spoken, "Who?"

"The man you are thinking of."

D'Artagnan didn't say anything. What could he say? Was there a truthful answer that wouldn't hurt? Was there a lie that wouldn't do anymore harm than his silence that was already growing too long? He rested his hand against his lover's face, touching and then generously massaging the small hollow spot between the corner of his jaw and neck, the place that he learned made the man shiver and sigh in need. It was a pitiful form of an apology, but D'Artagnan was at a loss for how to be honest (they had agreed upon nothing less, but accepted that there were secrets to be kept about them and between them) and…what, kind? Considerate? Thankful?

He sighed again, this time in regret because it seemed that no matter how, or how much he tried, he could not hide the truth or spare his lover the pain of it.

His lover smiled regardless and placed a soft kiss on his lips. There was no judgment, no sadness, no anger. Not even the slightest hint of bitterness. "I envy him," he whispered in D'Artagnan's ear.

He denied the truth of the matter for so long that now, faced with the blatant proof of his skin prickling and aching for more personal care and knowledge, his shame became something tangible. In all reason he had no right to even fuel those long-drawn fantasies he comforted himself with, not after what he had done in the name of them. If nothing else, he at the very least owed Athos the truth of his nature. D'Artagnan had tried rehearsing the possible conversation in his head many times before, but never settled on what words to use, how to possibly bring it up, and how to execute it. Now, it seemed, he would have to find those answers very soon.