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It had been a long, tedious day and, with the additional threat now hanging over their youngest, the three Musketeers were more than a little anxious to return to the garrison and confirm that the Gascon was safe. It was past time for the evening meal, the men having been delayed leaving when a particularly obnoxious courtier had insisted on regaling the King with exploits from his most recent hunt, the royal hanging on his every word, despite the lateness of the hour. By the time they'd been dismissed, it had taken all of their considerable resolve to bow politely before turning and leaving so they could hurry back.
As they entered the garrison courtyard, they were surprised to see that d'Artagnan was nowhere in sight. Although they hadn't expected the boy to delay his evening meal, they had anticipated that he'd be waiting for them at their usual table. Trading glances, they split up, Porthos heading for the kitchen to ask if Serge had seen the boy, Aramis heading for the Gascon's room, while Athos made his way upstairs to Treville's office. The older man knocked and waited for permission to enter, the Captain looking up at him in surprise as he stood in front of the man's desk. Noticing the expectant look on Treville's face, Athos questioned, "I was wondering if you have any idea where d'Artagnan might be?"
The Captain's brow furrowed in confusion, "Last I saw, he was cleaning his musket after shooting drills." Treville's eyes narrowed as he considered the older man, wondering if Athos truly had reason to be concerned or if his fears were making him paranoid. "Is there something I should know?" he asked, learning back in his chair.
Athos took a breath before answering, "Not that I'm aware of, sir."
"Then why are you in my office, Athos?" Treville pushed, knowing fully that his lieutenant would not be asking him about the boy's whereabouts unless something of note had occurred.
Athos looked uncomfortable as he admitted, "d'Artagnan wasn't downstairs when we arrived. We thought it strange that he wasn't waiting for us."
While others may have dismissed Athos' words as ridiculous, worrying simply because the boy hadn't patiently awaited the men's return, Treville understood that these four were different and had little doubt that after a long day apart, the Gascon would have waited all night, if necessary, for his friends' return. He gave a short nod as he stood, "The others?"
"Checking the kitchen and d'Artagnan's room," Athos replied, turning to lead the way out of the Captain's office. The two descended to the courtyard together, Porthos already waiting for them and giving a shake of his head to indicate that he had no additional information to share.
Above, they could hear Aramis' footfalls and he soon joined them, the look of panic clear on his face as he observed the three men waiting for him. "No sign of him," Aramis voiced what the men had already surmised. "Now what?"
"We'll start with Boudreau and Ménard and see what they can tell us," Athos stated, receiving a nod of approval from the Captain to continue. "Check with the men who were guarding the gates today…" he trailed off, glancing at Treville to supply the names.
"Fouquet and Thierry," the Captain interjected.
"And see if they saw anything. We'll need to check the rest of the garrison to make sure he's not still here somewhere and talk with anyone else who's around and may have seen something." Athos turned his gaze once more to Treville to see if the man had anything further to add. When the Captain remained silent, he tilted his head at his two friends and they once more divided, each taking one of the tasks Athos had outlined.
Less than an hour later, the men had reunited, this time meeting in the Captain's office, Treville having pulled out his good brandy and poured each man a hefty dose. The results of their investigation had produced little information, Fouquet and Thierry claiming that they hadn't seen the Gascon, although they'd left their posts for a few minutes to break up a fight outside the garrison gates and admitted it might be possible that the man had left during that time. d'Artagnan's sparring partners had been similarly unhelpful, indicating they'd parted ways after a morning of shooting, the young man having looked fatigued so they'd left him to rest for the afternoon. A thorough search of the garrison had revealed nothing and it was painfully clear that where ever the young man was, it was not here.
Porthos gripped his brandy glass tightly and Aramis winced internally with the fear that the man might actually crush it within his grasp. "So what do we do now?" the large man asked, completely unaware of the sharpshooter's scrutiny.
"We have to assume that this is connected somehow with everything else that's been happening," Treville stated, thinking out loud.
"Rochefort will have answers for us," Athos hissed lowly, his tone and demeanor a warning of the fury that boiled beneath the surface.
Treville nodded, "Probably, but you can't just confront him. Whatever feelings you have about the man, you must admit that he's smart and will have distanced himself from anything that points to his involvement."
"We could follow him?" Aramis offered, recognizing the likely futility of the action, but struggling to come up with any other ideas.
The Captain shook his head, "No. We can't do anything that would give the man more reason to complain about us to the King." Sighing deeply, he scrubbed a hand across his face as he confessed, "I'm afraid that we'll have to wait for him to make the next move."
Porthos' growled lowly and Aramis was already moving to place a hand on Athos' chest as the man turned aggressively toward Treville. Aborting his movement and swallowing, Athos gave Aramis a short nod, indicating he understood and waited for the medic to remove his hand. "Captain, we cannot just wait for something more to happen. d'Artagnan could be hurt." He stopped again, not allowing himself to give voice to his real fears: he could be dead.
Glancing at Athos, Porthos suggested, "Let me see what I can find out through my sources at the Court."
"And we can conduct a quiet search of the streets on our own, although it would be far more efficient if there were more of us," Aramis added.
Athos looked at both men gratefully, while Treville observed the three in front of him. He could clearly see the tension in their bodies and knew that they would not willingly walk away from their friend, no matter how reasonable the option might seem. Finally, he gave a nod to indicate his permission. "Too many Musketeers searching would seem odd but you can take Fouquet and Thierry out with you in the morning. Porthos, see what you can find out through your contacts, but keep things quiet. If someone took him, we don't want to spook them into doing anything drastic."
"Thank you, Captain," Athos responded quietly in appreciation of the man's support.
"Go, find him, but be careful," Treville replied, watching as the men filed out of the room. He reached for the bottle of brandy, pouring a healthy measure before tossing it back in its entirety. As the fiery liquid burned its way down to his stomach, he tried to convince himself that the queasiness he felt was because of the alcohol rather than the dread he felt for the missing man.
The first sense that returned to him was smell, his nose crinkling in disgust without his awareness at the cloying scent of waste and decay that seemed to cling to the air around him. Next came his hearing, and he could discern the sound of ragged breaths, overlaying the much quieter sound of running water, which suggested to his foggy brain that the latter was somewhat further away. When a groan reached his ears, it surprised him and he lay without moving, waiting for the sound to repeat. Upon drawing a deeper breath, he heard the moan once more, this time feeling the corresponding timbre echo within his chest along with the realization that the sound came from him. With this new awareness, feeling came rushing back and he gasped at the ache in his side and the drum that pounded in his skull, pulling another groan from his throat as he grasped that he'd suffered a second head wound in less than two days. The realization opened a floodgate of memories and he recalled next how he'd been tricked into leaving the garrison and drawn far enough away so that he might be captured and brought here…wherever here was. As much as his body ached, his need to understand his situation was greater than his desire to stay still, so with a shaky exhale, he pushed his heavy eyelids open and blinked to bring his surroundings into focus.
The sight that greeted him did nothing to bolster his confidence, the space around him heavily shadowed, his only light coming in through the cracks between the crudely hewn slats of wood that made up the walls and roof. The space was not overly large and d'Artagnan imagined that it could have once been used as someone's workshop, the space far too small to house any animals. As he listened carefully, he was struck again by the silence around him, interrupted only by the water he'd heard earlier, suggesting he'd been moved beyond the walls of the city. The ground beneath his cheek was hard-packed dirt and he decided that it was time to lift himself up to at least a seated position. As he shifted himself, he was pleasantly surprised to find that his wrists were free, although his ankles were bound together by leg irons, a short length of chain between them, which would substantially limit his movements. Pushing himself to lean against the wall at his back, his scrubbed his hands across his face and hair, letting them drop to his lap once he was done. He took a second look around now that he was sitting upright, and noted the darkly stained ground a few feet away from him, where a furrow had been dug into the ground and disappeared under one wall of his prison. Suddenly the disgusting smell made sense and he realized that he was locked in what used to be someone's butchering shed, the trough used to carry the blood away and outside where it was likely buried deep in the ground so as not to attract predators.
The thought had him gagging as the combination of the powerful smell and his second head injury made his belly churn and, moments later, had him turning his head to vomit weakly, unable to control the sickness that spewed forward. The bout had him shaking and covered in cool sweat, as the pain in his ribs and head spiked with the force of his stomach's contractions. He spit weakly to rid his mouth of the sour taste and sagged against the wall, tipping his head back as he closed his eyes. For several minutes, he focused on slowing his breathing, inhaling through his mouth to avoid the stench that surrounded him. When he felt like he had control over his nausea, he wiped a sleeve across his face to remove the sticky sweat that was drying there and opened his eyes again. The severity of his situation was beginning to take hold and, if he had truly been taken into the countryside, it would make it doubly difficult for his friends to find him. He had no doubt that they would be looking for him as soon as they found him missing, but knew he couldn't just wait for rescue; instead, he would need to do what he could to escape and return to the city. He pushed his way to his feet, steadying himself with a hand against the wall as he waited for the black spots in front of his eyes to recede. When he was comfortable that his first step wouldn't bring him to the ground, he took a tentative step, testing the range of motion the chain between his ankles allowed. His gait was awkward but with care he was able to make his way over to the single door which, sadly, looked like the sturdiest part of the building that held him. He pulled on the handle, then tried pushing, neither action providing any indication that he would be able to exit through it. Knocking his shoulder against it only had him gasping in pain as his ribs protested the action and had him slumping down to the ground in defeat. Pulling his legs toward his body, he rested his arms on his knees, settling down to wait with the hope that whoever had kidnapped him hadn't done so with the intention of imprisoning him and leaving him to die.
He was startled awake by a loud pounding on the door at his back, and he jerked forward as a voice shouted at him to move to the wall furthest from the door. This was the opportunity he'd been hoping for and he quickly pushed himself to his feet, feeling his way forward with a hand against the wall as his vision tunneled and dimmed before finally settling into something more coherent.
"Are you away from the door?" the voice from outside called.
"Yes," d'Artagnan croaked, shocked at how hoarse his voice sounded, suggesting that he'd been without water for quite some time. As he watched, the door was pushed open, a face peering around to confirm the prisoner's location before opening widely to allow the man entrance. He watched d'Artagnan warily as he advanced a couple of steps into the room, laying down a bowl filled with water along with a small crust of bread. Seeing the man's intention to leave again, d'Artagnan called to him, "Wait, who are you? Why have you taken me?"
The man observed the Gascon for a moment before grinning widely, "I'm the man who's gettin' paid to keep you alive."
d'Artagnan scowled at the cryptic reply, "Paid by whom?"
"That's none of your business." The man turned back toward the door to leave as the Gascon weighed his options. The man was several feet away and it was unlikely that he could cross the space between them in time, but he had no idea when he'd have another chance so he needed to take advantage of every opportunity. Decision made, d'Artagnan pushed himself away from the wall, moving as quickly as his chains allowed, but the man had been expecting the Gascon to try something. Turning swiftly, he brought up the two-foot length of wood that he'd hidden beneath his cloak, waiting a moment until the young man's staggering steps brought him into range, and then swung it viciously, bringing the boy immediately to his knees. A follow-up blow struck the Gascon's sternum and had him dropping to his side, gulping for air. The man grinned dispassionately at the boy at his feet, noting how his face was screwed up in pain, "They said alive, but no one said anything about what condition you had to be in." With those words, he turned and left, the door slamming solidly behind him as d'Artagnan lay gasping on the ground.
The other man's blows had been delivered with such force and suddenness that he'd had no opportunity to prepare, the shock of the hits driving the breath from his body and paralyzing his diaphragm for several long moments, making him fight to draw breath. While he knew that his escape attempt was a long-shot, he was stunned at how spectacularly he'd failed, apparently playing into his captor's hands and managing to add more injuries to his growing list. He placed a hand on the ground, pushing himself upright, breathing slowly through his mouth as the nausea flared again at his most recent mistreatment. When his stomach had settled, he crawled over to the food and water he'd been left, eyeing the old bread critically and reaching for the bowl of water instead. He studiously ignored the way his hand trembled, telling himself that it just due to a lack of food, recalling now that he'd missed lunch and, depending on how long he'd been in captivity, likely missed dinner as well. He tipped the bowl to his lips, relishing the cool, sweet liquid as it trickled down his throat. Common sense told him he should ration the live-saving fluid, but his thirst burned sharply and he found himself tipping the bowl to get every last drop before placing it back on the ground. He knew that he might come to regret his decision later, but for now he felt better as the taste of sickness was gone from his mouth and he felt somewhat refreshed. He stared at the bread, considering whether or not to eat it when he realized that his vision was wavering, no longer able to clearly discern the shape of the crust he'd been given. d'Artagnan shuddered as he put a hand on the ground, blinking rapidly, then giving his head a gentle shake, but the world around him continued to soften and tilt out of focus. Moments later he was vaguely aware of falling to his side, eyes closing of their own volition as he lost his hold on consciousness.