Chapter Thirteen: Scenery of War Pt. 2

"Usted ha tomado esto demasiado lejos." (You've taken this too far.)

That was the first thing D'Artagnan heard when he came back to his senses. Instinct told him to keep his eyes closed, but he couldn't suppress a moan of discomfort. His head was spinning and his stomach felt like a citywide riot was happening inside. He tried to sit up straighter, but found his arms shackled behind him around a wooden beam. He frowned and tried to remember how he'd gotten here, but with his mind and body still sluggish, there was no luck. He could only wrap his head around his own discomfort and the fact that someone was speaking Spanish.

Spanish?

But whoever had been speaking had stopped.

D'Artagnan tried opening his eyes.

His vision was blurry.

And it was dark.

There were shadowy figures in front of him, but he couldn't get his eyes to focus on them. They were tall, thin, and pacing? Someone was throwing his arms around.

"Vinimos aquí para entregar un cargamento y cobrar el pago. ¿Para qué sirve ese chico?" (We came here to deliver a shipment and collect payment. What purpose does that boy serve?)

"Él sirve mi necesidad de venganza," a voice hissed. (He serves my need for revenge.)

That brought D'Artagnan quickly out of his stupor.

Revenge.

The Spaniard!

He'd followed them all the way to La Rochelle?!

This wasn't good.

How long had he been out? How long had he been gone? Where were Aramis, Athos, and Porthos? Where was he?

One of the men was stomping towards him in the dark, but was stopped by another.

"Lucio," the first begged. "Cazamos a los responsables de su familia. Este muchacho es inocente." (Lucio. We hunted down those responsible for your family. This boy is innocent.)

"¿Inocente?" Lucio growled, shoving the other Spaniard away. "Inocencio, ¿verdad?" (Innocent, is he?)

D'Artagnan felt the rope around his wrists, and tugged and twisted experimentally. It wouldn't be very hard for him to slip his small wrists out. Judging by the light, it was already well past sundown. He was in a barn of some kind, probably outside of the city given the lack of noise. There was really only one thing he could hear, and that was the sea. Not that it helped him, much, but to at the very least know what was near was a comfort. Perhaps they hadn't gone that far after all.

"Él es francés." (He's French!)

D'Artagnan stilled his work behind his back when Lucio came at him with a dagger. Lucio grabbed a handful of D'Artagnan's hair and yanked backward, exposing his throat. On instinct, D'Artagnan kicked out with his legs, but then stopped short when he felt the sharp blade dig into his throat. The truth was D'Artagnan was petrified these would be his last moments, but his Gascon upbringing wouldn't allow him to give Lucio the satisfaction of seeing it. There was a sting. A drop of blood was running down his neck, but D'Artagnan didn't close his eyes.

The look in Lucio's eyes dimmed. His face slackened. His eyes went blank.

For one heart-stopping moment, D'Artagnan thought Lucio would actually do it.

Then, mercifully, the other Spaniard grabbed Lucio and pulled him away.

"No tomamos este trabajo para que pudieran matar a todas las personas que te encuentras! Esto es una locura y hay que parar, si no fuera por su familia, entonces para mí! Usted es la única familia que me queda!" (We did not take this job so that you could kill every person you come across! This is madness and you need to stop, if not for your family then for me! You are the only family I have left!)

D'Artagnan forced himself to take a breath as he watched them. He didn't want to wait for rescue, and his gut told him he shouldn't anyway. If it had been hours since he'd been taken, odds were none of his friends knew where he was, and that didn't bode well against a mad man who only wanted blood. So, he redoubled his efforts behind his back as discreetly as possible.

"¿No es usted de mi sangre, Mateo? Tú mismo lo dijiste. Somos la única familia que nos queda. Un gran error fue hecho a nuestra familia." (Are you not of my blood, Mateo? You said it yourself. We are the only family we have left. A great wrong was done to our family.)

Lucio's attention was solely focused on Mateo, and that was when D'Artagnan slipped free of the final knot.

"Y un mal ya estaba hecho para mí. Llevo el peso y la fealdad diariamente a causa de ese chico y su compatriota. ¿No tengo derecho a solicitar el pago de lo que se hizo a mí? ¿A nosotros?"

(And a wrong had been done to me. I bear the weight and the ugliness every single day because of that boy and his compatriot. Have I not the right to seek payment for what was done to me? To us?)

D'Artagnan flexed his hands, his arms, and his legs too. The only obstacle, it seemed, that might prove troublesome to him was his head, which some of the aftereffects still clung to. There was a door to his left. It was cracked open just far enough for him to squeeze through.

"Hemos dado a estos protestantes lo que quieren. Hemos recibido el pago. Una vez que volvamos a Madrid, tienes mi palabra no voy a volver, pero primero quiero la sangre de mis enemigos."

(We have given these protestants what they want. We have received payment. Once we return to Madrid, you have my word I will not return, but first I want the blood of my enemies.)

D'Artagnan shot up, and stumbled for just a moment before righting himself and dashing for the opening. He slipped through easily and kept running. Then, without knowing how, he was face-first in the dirt. He groaned and turned his body to look up. There was another mean looking man staring down at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Vas a alguna parte, muchacho?" (Going somewhere, boy?)

Then he caught sight of Lucio and Mateo approaching him, the former with a thunderous and murderous look on his face. D'Artagnan scrambled to get up again, but was kicked back down. There was a short scuffle, and it was Mateo who approached to rain down vicious kicks to his mid-section. D'Artagnan tried to protect himself, but one stomp to the face stunned him, and one last kick ripped a scream from him as he felt something crack.

After that, the attack stopped. D'Artagnan moaned and curled himself into a ball as best he could. He could smell and taste blood on his lips. He chanced a look up at Mateo who was panting from the exertion, and pointing at Lucio.

"Bien," Mateo said. "Vamos a hacer lo que dices. Pero no tardará. Tenemos que salir de La Rochelle antes del amanecer." (Fine, we will do what you say. But we will not tarry. We must leave La Rochelle before dawn.)

Mateo turned his back and left. Lucio approached and looked down at D'Artagnan. D'Artagnan still refused to show any fear.

By a half hour after nine, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had torn the city of La Rochelle apart looking for D'Artagnan. None at the inn or the streets had seen the Gascon exit the stables, and the agitated state of Iris when they first set to find any clues only worried them. It was not like their boy to leave any animal in distress, no matter how upset he was himself. Athos leapt off his horse and tossed the reins to the stable boy with barely a look of acknowledgment on his way to the front door of the inn they were staying at. He found Aramis and Porthos dismally empty-handed and with their cloaks still on in front of the fireplace.

"Have you found anything," Athos asked.

Aramis and Porthos both shook their heads. Athos growled and very nearly threw a chair across the room in a fit of rage, but Porthos held him down. Athos briefly sagged in Porthos' arms. He could feel something was dreadfully wrong, but what were they to do? The boy had simply vanished. Was this one of the boy's moments of forgetfulness? Whether it was or not, it was Athos' fault the boy was gone. He had been the one who had given the boy time to himself, and Athos hated himself for it.

Athos shoved Porthos away. "I told you we shouldn't have come here."

"Athos," Aramis warned. "Don't-"

"Don't what," Athos shouted. "The boy is missing in the very place I swore he'd never return to again in this lifetime!"

"These are not the ghosts of last winter come back to haunt you, Athos," Aramis snapped. "This is pure circumstance! And you would do well to remember that and yourself if you want to be of any help finding D'Artagnan. You are not the only one with grief in his heart from that day, nor the agony of the past few weeks, or the gripping fear of this moment. Please, Athos. Lay it aside. Porthos and I need you."

Athos wanted desperately to punch the wall he found himself leaning against. His guilt and grief longed to pull him into their familiar embrace, but what Aramis said was true. Giving in would yield no progress in their search. "I almost lost him once," Athos whispered. "I can't face that again."

Porthos came to him and gripped his shoulder. "To find him, we may have to."

Athos glared at Porthos, and was just about to snap again, but a quiet trembling voice broke in behind them.

"Monsieurs?"

Athos looked around Porthos' bulky frame and saw the young proprietress of the inn holding out a letter. She was visibly shaking and kept her eyes to the ground. Athos would have felt guilty for frightening the poor girl, but his attention was taken by the note in her hands.

"This came for you," she said.

Porthos took it, gave it a look, and handed it to Aramis with grimly thinned lips. Aramis looked at the lettering and spoke softly to the woman. "Who gave you this?"

She shook her head and crossed her arms. "I did not see his face. But he threatened me. He spoke in broken French, but I could only make out 'Musketeers.'"

Aramis reached out to comfort the girl, but she turned and quickly left after that. He sighed and ripped open the letter, read it, and closed his eyes in what looked like defeat.

"Aramis," Athos demanded.

Aramis took a breath and then whispered, "It's in Spanish."

Heat flashed sharply up Athos' back and the sides of his head. He didn't exactly see red, but he was starting to understand what men meant when they described seeing the color when enraged. "What does it say?"

"Three-quarters past ten," Aramis translated. "The rock straights."

"That's specific," Porthos mused.

Pushing his anger aside, Athos tried to wrap his mind around the letter. "Three-quarters past ten…what's significant about that time?"

Aramis shook his head in bewilderment. "I do not know…"

Porthos shook his head as well and shrugged.

"It has to mean something," Athos said, snatching the letter and looking over the words himself.

Aramis paced with a hand to his lips, stopping close to the window that overlooked the shipyard. Moments passed where none of them spoke. Athos' Spanish was not as good as Aramis' and he could gain nothing more from the offending piece of parchment. He crumpled it up in his fist and threw it into the burning hearth in frustration.

"Oh my God," Aramis breathed in horror.

"What," Athos and Porthos replied in unison.

The former priest turned to them with a pale face. "Three-quarters after ten…that's high tide…"

Athos opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Fear struck him dumb and stole all the warmth from the room. He wanted to shout, to throw something, to run, but he had been immobilized when he understood.

"They're going to drown him," Porthos finished. There was a note of finality to Porthos' statement. And though it added to the sharp fear that cut its way so cleanly through Athos' chest, it also lit a fire in him.

"The hell they will." Athos stepped forward and grabbed Aramis by the arm, steering him outside. "Aramis, ride to the fort and raise whoever you can."

"There may not be enough time, Athos," the former priest argued.

"We cannot leave it to chance that this God forsaken Spaniard is alone. I want no chance of his escape again. We end this tonight. Porthos, you're with me."

Aramis grabbed Athos by the arm as he made to pass him. "You cannot plan to take them between the two of you until then! We don't know how many there are-"

"I would tell you to watch us," Athos said. "But you must get our brothers. D'Artagnan may not remember himself, but that makes him no less a musketeer in need. We will do what we must. Now, go!"

He heard Aramis muttering in Latin as he and Porthos set off at a hard run on foot. Minutes later he heard a horse dashing along the streets. Neither of them flinched as the rider passed them. Up ahead the gate guard had made to stop the rider, but was nearly trampled in trying to avoid the undeterred beast that vaulted over the low make-shift gate (a replacement after the bombardment of last winter). The guard started shouting after the rider, but when Athos and Porthos passed him without a glance back, he was silenced. They knew better than to announce themselves as Musketeers, or to count on any help from the very town they sieged last winter.

They were on their own, until Aramis returned.

No less than ten hours prior, D'Artagnan had been joyous in the salt-watered sea.

Now, he cursed it.

Two hours ago when they had chained him to the rock, the water barely reached his feet. Presently, when the waters calmed, it reached the top of his chest, but that was only because he was able to hoist himself up onto a rock with his hands chained behind his back. He was soaked head to toe and was certain his palms were well on their way to being shredded. He pulled desperately at the chains on his ankles, hoping to dislodge the chain from where it had been fixed to a partially rusted metal loop, but he had no luck even with the force of the rough surf.

Between the poundings of the surf, the rocks at his back, and the pain of his ribs he felt like he was breathing nothing but fire. He'd long stopped caring about the stinging in his eyes from the salt water and the sand. All he really cared about was timing his breaths properly so he wouldn't inhale any more seawater. D'Artagnan just thanked the heavens that it was a clear night with a full moon so that he could see in the darkness. Calling for help had been futile, but he couldn't help it after an hour of struggling against the restraints to no avail. By that point the water was already up to his chest and he knew there had still been another hour to go until high tide.

He tried using the incoming surf to lift himself up, and use the momentum against his restraints, but as the tide dragged back out it took with it his energy. After a while it was all he could do to not slip beneath the waves in exhaustion. Time was lost on him. Pain was a constant. And he was alone. That was probably what he feared most, being forced to die out here alone, away from any family or friends, whether their faces were familiar or not.

He didn't remember when he started praying.

His parents had taken him every Sunday. His Latin was abysmal, but his mother had taught him that no matter what language, God would understand. So he went into himself as far as he dared and started talking to whoever would listen.

Please don't let me drown. I'd much rather die with a sword in my hand instead of here. I don't want to die as a boy from Gascony. I want to die as a soldier. With a sword in my hands. Among friends.

He misjudged the force of the next wave and a spider web of pain lanced across his side and back. He groaned and tried to take a breath, but there was so much water. His hands couldn't grip the rock behind him anymore.

Please don't let me die here alone. I may not remember them, but I can make new memories. We can start over. I want to start over again. Please let me see my friends again.

The water dragged back out, not for long, but long enough for him to cough up all he'd accidentally inhaled. He took a breath before slipping under the surface. The chains around his ankles were starting to feel heavy.

Please let me see my parents again. I want to see my mother. I want to see my father. I want them to be proud of me when I tell them I'm a soldier. I don't want them to grieve for me so soon. Not yet. Please, not yet.

He needed air. He pushed himself up once more and barely broke the surface. He would have to readjust. More time. More energy. And so little left.

I want to know what makes Porthos laugh. I want to know what makes Aramis laugh. I want to know why Athos is afraid to smile. I want to make him smile. I want to make them all happy. Please.

He used an incoming wave to break the surface again. He gasped for desperately needed air. It burned.

Please help me.

Please let someone help me.

Please.

Porthos and Athos had been combing the trees and underbrush near the dunes. They knew D'Artagnan was likely down on one of the jetties that ran out into the water, but were not willing to take a chance on which jetty it could have been yet, not until they were certain of their Spanish friends' whereabouts. Seven, one each quarter mile, had been constructed during the siege of La Rochelle. They'd learned the hard way that the steep incline of the ocean would only allow them to build so far out. So, instead of constructing a physical blockade in the small amount of time they had, like the king had wanted, they had used the jetties as outlook posts, to signal to their own ships farther out and to also watch for any incoming supply ships from the north or south. Barricading the city had been a nasty business, and in Porthos' opinion, downright cruel.

But Porthos served the king.

Porthos served France.

As did his brothers.

Being a Musketeer again meant serving another's will, not just his own. Porthos had to believe that loyalty counted for something towards the greater good. Even if that loyalty cost them too much at times. D'Artagnan had reminded each of them the worth of their own honor, that what they did counted, that it mattered, and most importantly that it was still needed. Carrying the fleur de lis again made Porthos proud. Fighting alongside his brothers again made him joyous inside. But without that boy at their side, something in Porthos still felt dead and buried.

He'd seen the effect D'Artagnan had on Athos. The man was practically in shambles because of this boy. It disturbed Porthos to see his cousin so shaken, but he also dared to believe it may be for the better, because Porthos couldn't remember the last time Athos cracked a bloody smile. There was no doubt in his mind that if they didn't find D'Artagnan in time, it would be the end of them yet again, and perhaps permanently.

"There's too much ground to cover. It's nearing the allotted time," Athos ranted. "What if they don't mean to drown him-what if they mean to kill him?!"

"Athos," Porthos hissed, shaking his head. "There's no protection out there-"

"Neither is there for D'Artagnan in this wind!-"

"You and I both know they're hiding in these trees. It's suicide to break cover-"

"There's no more time! He could be under already! They need to be drawn out, and I am doing that for you."

Before Porthos could grab him, Athos was off, dashing across the dunes toward the first jetty. Porthos slammed his fist against a tree in frustration. Athos was right. But so was Porthos. He just hoped Aramis returned soon with at least half the regiment. The hairs on the back of his neck were starting to prickle. And Porthos knew from experience that meant things were about to get ugly.

"D'Artagnan!"

He coughed and turned his head.

A wave caught him off guard, but he managed not to slip down again.

"D'Artagnan!"

Someone was calling for him.

He wanted to turn and see for himself that he wasn't losing his mind, but he didn't dare with so little strength left. He tried calling out himself, but could barely shout. "I'm over here," he gasped. "Please! Over here!"

More shouting.

Farther away or closer?

He pulled on his legs and strained to turn around, every muscle in his body screaming at him to stop, but he ignored it. He knew that voice. He had to answer him. Once another wave cleared he looked overtop of a rock and nearly cried in relief when he saw Athos steadily making his way along the rocks toward him. D'Artagnan never wanted more in that moment to know what he had done to deserve friends like Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

D'Artagnan tried calling out to Athos, but the waves drowned out his voice. He had let his body sag a little bit in relief and nearly lost his hold on the rocks after another wave, but tension quickly returned to his poor body when he heard a loud crack above the waves.

A musket shot.

Athos made a noise of pain and fell.

Onto the wet rocks.

Hard.

"Athos," he shouted in terror.

Athos didn't move.

A/N: *cringes* Sorry! Originally, I meant for this all to be one long chapter, but given all that's left to happen, it makes more sense to split it up into two chapters. Sooooooooo. The next chapter is halfway done. Not sure I'll get it up before Christmas-I will certainly try-but I didn't want to keep anyone waiting on this installment. Even if it's another cliffhanger… *runs and hides* Happy Holidays!