I'm back! Thank you to all who are still reading this story, and a huge thanks to all who leave me reviews...they make this all worth while! Things are getting bad for our Gascon...I'm so cruel to the poor guy...but hopefully things will turn around for him, but not too soon ;) I'll just let you get on with it to see what I've decided to put him through this time!

Cindy

Chapter 4 – Regrets and Torture

Athos led the way along the stream, his eyes constantly searching the trees around them, his ears pricked for any sound that did not belong. Aramis was immediately behind him with Porthos bringing up the rear and they too had their eyes and ears on alert. They followed the stream for some time, stopping when Athos called for them to halt. He leaned slightly forward over his saddle as he scanned the trees on the other side of the stream.

"What is it?" Aramis whispered, his eyes searching the surrounding trees where Athos was intently staring. Though night had fully come now, the moon provided enough light for them to make their way without too much danger, for which the three were incredibly thankful.

Athos glanced at his friend before returning his gaze to the trees. "I saw movement, I'm sure of it," he replied.

With that, the three quickly, and quietly, pulled their weapons and prepared themselves. They waited several minutes and just when they thought that it had been a false alarm, two men burst through the trees, the first one firing off a shot from his musket, the shot narrowly missing Aramis' head, though his hat was not so lucky. The second man attempted a shot as well, but the shot went wide when he was hit with the force of a bull when Porthos threw himself from his horse and tackled the hapless rider. The two men rolled on the ground, but the smaller man didn't stand a chance. It took one punch to the side of his head to knock the man into oblivion. When Porthos pulled himself from the ground and looked around, he found Aramis picking up his hat, cursing colorfully as he poked his finger through the hole the first man's musket ball had put through the top. Porthos grinned before turning to find where his other brother was, sighing in relief when he saw that Athos had the swordfight he was currently engaged in fully under control.

"Musketeer scum," the attacker hissed as he dodged Athos' sword.

"Surrender you sword, Monsieur, and I won't be forced to kill you," Athos responded.

"Kill me, and you will never find your boy!" the man spat. He grinned when Athos flinched at his remark, but the swordsman immediately recovered struck out with his sword.

"We will find him with, or without you," Athos spat. "Now drop your sword!"

"But will you find him in time? He is in the hands of Auguste Amyot, a man both feared and respected! He will…"

Porthos and Aramis moved closer to the waning battle, the larger man tilting his head at the threat. "Never 'eard of 'im…must not be all that feared or respected," he quipped as he glanced over at the marksman to his right.

"He sounds like a dandy to me," Aramis added. "Athos, what do you think? Does Auguste sound like a dandy to you?"

Athos spared a glance at his friend and shrugged. "I don't know about that, but the name certainly does not strike fear into my heart," the swordsman answered.

The man's face turned red with rage at the slight to his boss and lunged forward as he brought his sword up over his head.

"Athos!" Porthos called in alarm.

Athos pressed his sword forward, catching the surprised man in the chest, just below his heart. His face went deathly pale as he lowered his eyes to the sword protruding from his ribs. He looked up at Athos and grinned, his teeth red as blood bubbled up over his lips. "You've just killed the boy," he wheezed, his eyes dulling as he spoke. Athos leaned close and bared his teeth. "We have your comrade to lead us to him, we do not need you," he hissed as reached up with his free hand and pushed the man off his blade. The man's knees buckled, his sword falling free from his grip as he hit the ground, his body swaying before finally toppling over backward. He gurgled around the blood in this throat, his eyes searching the star lit sky before falling shut, never to open again. Athos stepped back and turned toward his brothers.

"Tie the other one to his horse. We'll travel a few more hours and then make camp. We'll leave for Orleans before dawn. If we hurry we can still make our rendezvous with Ribault," he said.

"Wait? What?" Porthos exclaimed. "We're going after d'Artagnan, Athos! We'll get this bastard to lead the way and we'll get our brother back!"

Athos let out a deep breath and met his friends gaze. "We cannot stray from our appointed mission, Porthos," he said, regretfully, yet firmly.

"But, Athos, we have…"

"We have to stick to the plan!" Athos snapped. He brushed his hand through his hair and dropped his head. "Do you think I want to leave him there where God knows what is happening to him? Do you believe that I have not regretted having to make this decision…over and over again since we started down this stream? It is killing me inside to have to go on without him," he softly said.

"Athos," Aramis started, stopping when Athos lifted his head and looked at him with tear filled eyes.

"I want to blame Treville…I want to curse his name for sending d'artagnan with us, but I can't do it. It's my fault he was taken. I should have never sent him alone, but I was punishing him…punishing him for something that was not his fault!"

"You didn't send him alone, Athos."

"No, I didn't. I sent Porthos to follow him when it should have been me, but I didn't want to deal with him. I was angry at him, and for what? For wanting to prove himself? For wanting to feel a part of it all?"

"You didn't know this would happen…"

"But it did happen and I made the decision to leave him and…God forgive me, but I still think it is the right decision, even though it's the hardest one that I've ever had to make…and believe me, I've had to make some hard decisions, and I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life…but we are musketeers and we have a job to do. We cannot risk the lives of thousands for the life of one, no matter who it is. We have to hope that this Amyot keeps d'Artagnan alive long enough for us to find him," Athos said.

Porthos glared at his leader, then shook his head. He turned away and did as he was told by lifting the unconscious man to his horse and securing him to the saddle. He took the reins in his hand and walked to his own horse where he swiftly mounted. He looked Athos in the eye and spoke. "If 'e isn't alive at the end of all of this, I don't know if I will be able to forgive you, Athos. I know lives could be at stake, but I don't know any of them…but I know d'Artagnan and I know 'e doesn't deserve to be forsaken by us, not for nothin' or nobody!"

Athos looked up at his friend and gave a short nod. "If he doesn't live through this, Porthos, I'll never forgive myself. It will be just another failure on my part to protect a brother," he said before he too mounted his horse and kicked it into motion.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a curious look as they fell in behind their leader.

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d'Artagnan gasped as the knife was ripped from his shoulder. Amyot smiled gleefully, relishing the pain he was causing. He was used to getting his way, and this young nothing of a man would soon learn what denying him felt like. He stepped back, watching as blood freely flowed from the wound, staining the formerly white shirt red. As the boy's gasps gave way to shallow breaths, Amyot turned to his men.

"Bring in wood and prepare a fire in the hearth," the man instructed before turning once again to gaze upon his captive. "Who has the letter?" he asked, his smile disappearing when the Gascon lifted his head and rolled his eyes.

"You w-will never find out," d'Artagnan breathed out, the mere act of speaking causing pain to shoot through his chest.

"So, you finally acknowledge that you know about the letter." Amyot tilted his head and studied the young man. "Why do you protect those who so obviously care nothing about you? Why would they send you out on your own, knowing that with what they carry there would be attempts to obtain it?"

d'Artagnan glared at the man, though he was certain he came across more pathetic than fearsome. He would not let the man know that he felt his doubts about his comrades as well. He had been certain that Porthos would find Athos and Aramis and together they would rescue him, but that rescue hadn't come. When Amyot had sent out his men in search of the others, d'Artagnan was sure that they would soon be taken care of and his whereabouts learned, but again, there had been no sign of any impending rescue. Had Porthos warned the others and instead of finding him, they fled to complete their mission? Of course, d'Artagnan understood the importance of delivering the letter, even when he had no idea what it contained or who actually carried it, but his innocent and somewhat naive nature compelled him to hope that they would first seek to free him. Amyot stepped forward and pressed his thumb into the stab wound, smiling when it drew out a hoarse scream. Movement at the doorway drew the maniac away as his men returned with the requested wood. Soon, a fire was blazing in the hearth that until now, d'Artagnan hadn't noticed. Amyot disappeared from the Gascon's view, only to come back into his line of vision a few moments later. The young man's eyes widened when he watched his tormentor place a long iron poker into the fire. After a few minutes, Amyot pulled the poker from the fire, it's tip blazing red hot, and turned to his prisoner.

"I can't have you bleeding to death before I've finished my questioning, now can I?" he asked matter of factly.

Amyot stepped up to the struggling Gascon and smiled. "Remove his shirt," he commanded. Nodding, one of his men stepped forward and ripped d'Artagnan's blood soaked shirt open, then took a knife and sliced up first one sleeve, then the other. The shirt was pulled away, leaving d'Artagnan bare from the waist up. The young man shivered as the cool air reached is bare skin, or perhaps the sight of the glowing poker being twirled in the hands of the mad man before him was what caused his body to quake.

"D'Don't," d'Artagnan breathed out, his eyes watching as the poker was waved before his face.

Without warning, Amyot pushed the end of the poker into the stab wound. The scream that ripped from the Gascon's throat quickly filled the room and echoed down the hallway outside of the room. The air was filled with the smell of burning flesh and that, combined with the sizzling sound as his skin was seared turned the young man's stomach and brought on heaving that threatened to rip the Gascon apart from the inside out. The fact that there was nothing in his stomach to purge made the heaving that much more painful and coupled with the inferno that was his shoulder, d'Artagnan's vision soon began to darken, until finally, he fell into the blissful, painless depths of unconsciousness.

Amyot pulled the poker away then tossed it to the floor. He fisted his fingers into the Gascon's hair and lifted his limp head, eyeing the now peaceful face. "Rest well, boy…you're going to need it," he whispered. He let d'Artagnan's head drop back down then turned to his men. "Notify me the moment he awakens." The men nodded and watched as Amyot left then they moved to sit on the floor, one on each side of the doorway. They watched their prisoner intently, one feeling only contempt for the young man and one, a man of about forty years, watching the boy with a conflicted and heavy heart.

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They broke camp well before dawn and were on the road to Orleans when most people were still snuggled in their beds. Their prisoner had woken a few hours after they had made camp, but refused to speak when Aramis had questioned him on the whereabouts of their comrade. By the time they were on the road again, they still knew as much as they had known the night before. They had thankfully seen no more trouble from any of Amyot's men, to which they were eternally grateful. They had a lot of miles to cover before they reached Orleans and all three were beyond antsy to be on their way to find their missing brother. Porthos swore as they rode along that he would know where d'Artagnan was held by the time they delivered the cursed letter, or their captive would start losing body parts, one by one. When the man had merely scoffed behind his gag, Aramis had assured him that the large man never made idle threats and that he should start praying that he started with his fingers and not other more vital and important appendages. The man had paled at the implication. That was two hours ago and they had not slowed their pace. They knew at some point they would need to stop to let the horses rest, but the overwhelming need to get to Orleans and deliver their letter so they could get to the task that mattered most to them drove them on.

Athos rode at the lead, their prisoner's lead tied to his saddle, while Aramis and Porthos rode behind. Athos had been quiet the entire morning, and it was clear to both men that the burden of guilt lay heavily upon his shoulders. Porthos was still angry, not so much with Athos anymore, but the situation itself. He had turned to blaming himself for not helping the young Gascon when he had first been captured, thinking himself a coward for watching from afar. He was supposed to be watching out for the boy, but instead he watched him being manhandled and hit and didn't make a move to stop it. He was pulled from his musings at the touch of a hand on his arm. When he glanced over at Aramis, the marksman smiled sadly.

"Stop it, Porthos," Aramis said.

"Stop what?"

"Blaming yourself for what happened."

Porthos shook his head and turned his gaze to their prisoner. "I was right there, Aramis! I did nothing to help d'Artagnan! Who else should I blame?"

Aramis squeezed his brother's arm in comfort then dropped his hand away. "There was nothing you could have done. There were too many of them, even for you, Porthos. You did the right thing by coming back to us to warn us," he soothed.

"I should have tried! At least the pup would've known that 'e wasn't alone!"

"You would have most likely been captured as well. Athos and I would not have known anything was amiss until Amyot's men found us. We could have very well been captured too, or killed all of the men, not knowing that we would need to keep one alive to lead us to you and d'Artagnan. We would not know what happened to you or where to even begin to look," Aramis explained. "Because you used your head, we know who has d'Artagnan, we have someone who can lead us to him, and our mission will still be completed."

Porthos glanced over, his eyes conveying the misery he felt. "I abandoned 'im, Aramis. What 'e must be thinking right now…that 'e is alone…that 'is brothers have forsaken 'im. I yelled at Athos when I'm the one who could've stopped it."

"No, Porthos. There were too many of them, you said so yourself. Yes, you would have been with him, but it would have only made it harder to forge a rescue," Aramis said. "d'Artagnan knows we will come for him. He knows we would never forsake him."

Porthos let out a stuttered breath and looked straight ahead. "I hope yer right, Aramis," he said softly.

Aramis watched his friend for a few moments then he too turned his gaze to the road ahead. "I do too," he said to himself, his heart heavy with doubt.

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It started with a twinge that turned into an ache which morphed into a fiery inferno of pain. This is what brought d'Artagnan straight from blissful unawareness to full wakefulness in a matter of seconds. He groaned as he lifted his head, his bleary eyes taking in what he could see of the room. His attention was drawn to the doorway when the two men who had been left to watch him pushed themselves up from the floor and eyed him curiously.

"Go get Amyot," one of the men said as he stepped toward the chained Gascon. The other man nodded and hurried from the room. d'Artagnan cringed back against the wall when the remaining man approached him. "Shh, don't worry…I won't hurt you," the man said. He walked out of d'Artagnan's view and came back a moment later with a cup. "Here, drink this," he said as he brought the cup to the young man's lips. d'Artagnan turned his head, refusing the liquid even though his body cried out for it.

"It's only water," the man said. "Please, drink…and hurry. If Amyot knew I was doing this he would have my head."

d'Artagnan met the man's eyes then gave a short nod, his thirst winning out over his fear. The man once again put the cup to his lips and d'Artagnan began to drink. "Careful, do not spill any or he'll know," he cautioned. The man lowered the cup when it was empty and met the Gascon's eyes. "Thank you," d'Artagnan whispered weakly. The man nodded then returned the cup to wherever he had retrieved it from. He went back to the door and a few moments later the second man returned.

"Amyot is on his way," he said with a grin. "He is not in a good mood at all," he added gleefully, his eyes raking over the shivering form of their prisoner. The first man did not have time to reply as just then, Amyot strolled into the room, an angry scowl on his face. He went straight to his prisoner and backhanded him hard across the face. d'Artagnan's vision darkened at the edges from the blow, but he didn't lose consciousness. He gasped when his hair was grasped and his head yanked up from where it had dropped.

"Now that I have your attention…tell me who carries the letter," Amyot hissed.

"I d-don't know about any letter," was d'Artagnan's pain filled reply.

Amyot released the Gascon's hair, only to grip his face and shove his head against the wall. "You will tell me what I want to know, or when your friends are finally brought here, I will make them suffer like you couldn't even imagine," he snarled. His face turned red with rage when his captor merely smiled at him.

"Get him down!" Amyot shouted. The two men who had been d'Artagnan's guards rushed forward, one catching a key that Amyot tossed. They unlocked the shackles from his wrists and pulled him free. He screamed in agony as his arms dropped, aggravating the stab wound on his shoulder. His knees buckled and he would have dropped to the floor if not for the man who had earlier given him water catching him.

"Take him to the barrel," Amyot commanded.

d'Artagnan felt another set of hands join those of the man who held him before he was roughly dragged across the room. His eyes widened when he was where he was being taken and he fought against the hands that held him. A punch to his side took the fight out of him and he was swiftly dragged to where a large barrel full of water sat. A short platform sat in front of the barrel and d'Artagnan was forced into a kneeling position upon the platform. While the men held him, Amyot grabbed his injured arm and pulled it forward, eliciting an agonizing scream from the Gascon. The man secured his wrist to the wall above the barrel by a single shackle, then moved around him and secured the other wrist in the same fashion, leaving the young man with his arms spread just past shoulder width, his head hanging over the barrel of water. The two men stepped back as Amyot came to stand behind d'Artagnan. The Gascon gasped as his head was yanked up by his hair and twisted to the side. He glared up into the eyes of his tormentor.

"Tell me everything that you know about the letter…who carries it, where is it to be delivered and to whom will it be handed over," Amyot spat.

"Go to hell!" d'Artagnan spat back.

Amyot screamed out in rage as he shoved the Gascon's head beneath the surface of the water. d'Artagnan struggled with all his might, desperately pulling at the shackles around his wrists, tearing the flesh that hadn't already been shredded. He held his breath and fought against the weight holding him down, but soon his vision began to gray and his strength began to ebb. Just when he thought he would pass out for lack of air, he was dragged up out of the water, the grip still tight in his hair. He sucked in large breaths then coughed up the small amount of water he had sucked in when his head had been dunked. He continued to gasp and sputter until finally he felt as though he was getting some air into his lungs.

"Tell me what you know," Amyot commanded.

"Never," d'Artagnan replied, his voice weak from screaming and lack of air.

Amyot shoved his head into the water again, this time so hard that d'Artagnan's chest would be bruised as it was pressed against the edge of the barrel. The young man struggled, but it was no use. He felt himself begin to drift away and stopped fighting against the hand that held him. Maybe it was better this way, he thought idly as the darkness came.

Okay, let me have it! I know, quite the cliffy, but I like cliffies :D Please let me know what you think and I'll get started right away on the next chatper. Thanks for reading!

Cindy