Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read, follow, favorite and review. I especially appreciated hearing the feedback about the descriptions of the shed and d'Artagnan's condition in the last chapter and am glad to hear they worked. Hope you enjoy this next chapter!
They'd spent several hours traipsing through some of the seedier streets and taverns, Porthos having gone off on his own to get his friends within the Court to do their own digging around for information or the location of their missing fourth. It was well past midnight when Aramis finally convinced Athos to stop for the night, the man's face wearing a harsh glower that matched his progressively worsening mood, until it reached the point that Aramis feared the older man might get himself shot because of his abrasiveness. He bodily pulled the man from the latest tavern, shoving him against the outside wall of the building and holding him in place so that the older man would be forced to listen to his words. "Athos, we cannot continue this way. We will find the boy, but it's time for us to get some rest. There's nothing more to be done tonight."
Aramis watched his friend closely, waiting to see if his words would be absorbed or dismissed, and when he felt some of the tension bleed out of Athos, he loosened his hold, shifting from one meant to restrain to one meant to comfort. "Athos, we will find him," he repeated softly, guiding the man away from the wall as they retraced their steps back to Athos' rooms. It was an unspoken agreement that the three men would meet there when they'd finished that night, either to celebrate the discovery of the Gascon or to commiserate his continued absence. Athos was quiet as they walked, lost in his own fears and guilt that he may have failed a second time to protect a younger brother. Rational thought told him that d'Artagnan was nothing like Thomas, but the desire to protect the young Musketeer drove him just as fiercely, making him single-minded in his need to find the boy alive and well. Aramis seemed to sense his melancholy thoughts as he knocked his shoulder gently against Athos', "This is different, you know, and d'Artagnan's certainly far from defenseless. You must have faith that he will stay alive until we're able to find him and bring him home."
Athos gave a noncommittal grunt, which could have been agreement or not, but Aramis wasn't the least bit bothered by the response. He'd been friends with the older man long enough to recognize the behaviours that were fueled by the man's worry, and knew well that Athos would act in a similar fashion if it was him or Porthos in the Gascon's place. That was part of what drew men to Athos in the first place – the unwavering loyalty and steadfast devotion to protecting his brothers, no matter the cost to himself. it was this latter part that Aramis and Porthos took issue with, making it their personal mission to ensure that the price exacted was never higher than any of them could live with.
Looking up, Aramis spotted the light coming from Athos' rooms, indicating that Porthos was already upstairs waiting for them, and he guided Athos to the door with a hand at the man's back. They trudged up the stairs, weighed down by the worry they carried for the young Gascon. Athos led the way into his room, unbuckling his belt and dropping his weapons on the table before falling heavily into a chair. Aramis followed, sharing a look with Porthos, and the large man moved to gather wine and glasses from a cupboard, setting the latter down on the table before he poured. Athos drained his glass immediately, replacing it on the table to be refilled. Porthos sighed but poured obligingly before taking a seat across from Aramis who was sipping at his own drink.
They sat quietly for several minutes before Athos looked questioningly at Porthos, already guessing at his news, "Nothing yet but I've got people looking for information. If anyone saw or heard anything, I'll find out." Athos tilted his head in acknowledgement, his previous experience with Porthos' contacts confirming the truth of his friend's words.
Aramis gave him a grateful smile, as familiar with the effectiveness of Porthos' network of contacts as Athos. "Sadly, we accomplished little more than wearing down the leather on the soles of our boots." Lifting his half-full glass in a toast, he said, "I propose that we try to get some rest and set out again at first light. I'm certain there are still some alleyways that we've yet to visit." He drank as he finished, his last words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as he voiced the fears that troubled them all. Paris was a large city, crisscrossed by countless streets and alleys and densely populated; it was possible that they could search for days and still find no trace of the missing man.
Athos gave a weary nod, motioning with a hand toward the bed, "Lay down and get some sleep. I think I'll stay up for a while."
The two men watched as Athos took another long swallow of his wine and Porthos cleared his throat before he spoke, "Don't feel tired enough to sleep yet."
Athos raised an eyebrow as Aramis echoed Porthos' words, "Nor I. I guess we'll just keep you company for now."
Placing the glass on the table in front of him, Athos looked at his two friends in exasperation. "Am I to understand that while I'm awake, neither of you will be tired enough to rest?" Athos asked, fondness for the two men coloring his words.
Porthos grinned ruefully as he admitted, "I think that's about right. Aramis?"
"Yes, that seems to sum things up nicely," Aramis agreed.
With a longsuffering sigh, Athos pushed himself to his feet, eyes darting sadly back to his wine glass. "Very well then. I believe I'll retire now. Won't you gentlemen join me?" he invited with mock politeness."
"I could sleep," Porthos stated with a wide grin.
"As could I," Aramis declared, standing. Wordlessly, he followed Athos over to the bed, recognizing the older man's need for comfort while their youngest was missing, the circumstances highly likely to bring up memories of Thomas' death and cause nightmares. Unrepentantly, he undressed down to his smalls, waiting until Athos had climbed into bed and then slipped in beside him, smiling cheekily as Athos rolled his eyes and then settled down to sleep. Porthos watched them fondly, knowing that Athos would never admit that his brothers' presence helped keep the nightmares at bay. When he was confident that his friends were comfortable and drifting off to sleep, he lifted his feet onto the chair across from him, tipping his own to lean against the wall behind him, and closed his eyes.
When awareness returned, he found himself wishing it hadn't, his mouth dry and body sore from the various aches he'd managed to accumulate. A small amount of effort had him lying on his back, and as he pried open sticky lids, he was surprised to be able to make out the features of his drab prison easily with the light coming through the cracks in the walls. It took him several moments to understand why he found that fact surprising, and then realized that this meant he'd either been asleep for a very short time or a very long time, night having already passed and given way to a new day. The thought panicked him and he found himself pushing upright, moving gingerly to the nearest wall so he'd have something to support his back.
d'Artagnan frowned as he spotted the crust of bread that had been left for him, noticing that the bowl he'd drunk from was nowhere in sight. It was then that comprehension struck. Even at his worst, he would not have been so deeply asleep as to have missed his captor's return when the bowl had been reclaimed. His swift descent into oblivion had clearly been aided in some fashion and the Gascon could only conclude that he'd been drugged. Sighing in frustration, he let his head fall back against the wall, cursing his stupidity at having allowed himself to be deceived again, costing him another opportunity to try to escape. Of course, that begged the question why his captors had decided to drug him in the first place. As his mind played with this new question, he was startled by a voice from outside, telling him to once more move away from the door. d'Artagnan stayed where he was, since his position was far enough away to be of little concern to his warden, and waited to see if the man would enter.
As before, the door was cracked enough to locate the prisoner, and then opened fully to allow entrance. It was the same man as before and he stalked forward a couple steps to deposit the refilled bowl of water. Backing away again, he stopped at the doorway and returned the Gascon's stare. "Figured it out, did ya?" he asked with a grin.
d'Artagnan grunted, "Why did you drug me?"
The man shrugged uncaringly, "Wasn't my idea but the boss thought it would be easier to keep you under control."
The Gascon waved a hand at the leg irons that encircled his ankles, "Because these weren't enough?" The man didn't reply but didn't seem ready to leave yet, so he pushed on, "How long have I been here?"
"Too long to go without food," his gaze shifted meaningfully to the full bowl, "or water."
"You honestly think I'm going to let you drug me again?" d'Artagnan replied hotly.
"Makes no difference to me," the man stated indifferently and turned on his heel as he exited, pulling the door firmly closed behind him.
The young man allowed another sigh to escape him as he battled the futility of his situation. The man was right about his need for food and water, and his stomach already felt as if it were turning itself inside out with hunger. He craved a drink of water as well, the smell of the liquid in the bowl calling to him tantalizingly, but he resigned himself to leave it alone until a time when he absolutely had no other choice. He would need to refocus his energy on trying to escape and satisfyingly he filed away the fact that his captor had trusted that his prisoner was away from the door when he'd opened it this time. Next time, d'Artagnan would be ready and waiting for him, and hopefully catch the man unaware as he entered.
Having decided on his plan of action, there was little else to be done other than sit and wait, and he moved into position next to the door before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. He had no intention of sleeping, but the sight of the bread and water did little to fuel his resolve to avoid both so it was easier if he didn't see them. Instead, he catalogued his injuries, noting that his head was feeling better, the dizziness from before having passed and his headache dialing back to a dull throb. His ribs were still tender but he knew from past experience that it would take several more days before the bruises lightened and the soreness disappeared. Overall, his injuries were more of an inconvenience than anything else, and would not hamper his ability to fight or run away.
d'Artagnan opened his eyes occasionally and stood to stretch his stiff muscles, watching the passage of time as the shadows in his prison moved with the sun, returning each time to his spot by the door. When a sound finally reached his ears, he estimated that several hours had passed. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, he pressed back against the wall, readying for the moment when the man opened the door to check the location of his captive. As he'd expected, the man yelled for him to move away from the door and d'Artagnan stood with bated breath, praying that the man would not break routine. Seconds later he heard the first shifting of the door and prepared himself to attack. As soon as the door was moving, he pushed his hands against it, pulling the door into the room and dragging the off-balance man with it as he held onto the doorknob. He wasted no time in pressing his advantage, taking a half-step forward to deliver a punishing blow to the man's face, which had his nose crumpling. The dazed man began to fall to his knees and, as he did so, d'Artagnan moved in behind him, capturing the man's throat in the crook of his elbow, effectively cutting off his air supply until the man fell unconscious.
The Gascon was elated as he allowed the man to fall the rest of the way to the ground, hands moving through the man's clothing immediately as he searched for the keys to his leg irons. The man's pockets revealed nothing useful and d'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Having no other choice, he moved to the doorway, resigning himself to an escape while his legs were still restricted. As he began backing out of the doorway, he pulled the door towards him, the bottom corner catching on the man's legs. Leaning over, he began pushing at the man's limbs so he could lock him into his former prison, missing the soft movement of fabric behind him. He had only a momentary realization of the pain that echoed through his skull as he was struck, falling in a heap across his former warden's legs. "Didn't really think it would be that easy, did ya?" a voice above him asked, grinning cruelly at the Musketeer's unconscious form.
It was their fourth day of searching for the missing man and, as each hour passed, the men turned progressively more inwards. Athos was barely speaking and hadn't eaten or slept properly in the days since the Gascon had disappeared, despite his friends' efforts. Porthos' good nature had turned ugly, his strength being used callously against anyone thought to have any information about d'Artagnan's whereabouts and his knuckles were bruised and sore as a result. Aramis' silver tongue had turned poisonous and he lashed out at anyone who had the gall to suggest that the young man might be dead, or who criticized his or his friends' actions as they tirelessly searched for even the barest clue of what might have happened. And yet, as they searched, they knew that they faced an unbeatable enemy – time. As each minute inexorably passed, it drew them closer to the possibility that they boy had been killed and brought them nearer to the point where Treville would have no choice but to declare the boy dead, forcing them to return to their duties.
"Captain, we just need more time. You know as well as we that d'Artagnan has the most incredible luck. Not always of the good kind, I'll admit, but he has the wits and strength to overcome whatever has happened to him – we can't just give up on him," Aramis pleaded, knowing his words had the greatest likelihood of swaying Treville, Porthos too distressed to remain polite and Athos too overcome by fear and sorrow to adequately to voice his thoughts.
Treville pinched the bridge of his nose, looking down at his lap for a moment and steeling himself for what he needed to say. A moment later he looked up as he spoke, "I'm truly sorry. I have no desire to give up on the boy, any more than you do, but news has reached the King and rumours have begun to circulate suggesting that d'Artagnan's absence is of his own doing." He held up a hand as Porthos drew breath to speak, clearly preparing to defend the missing Gascon. "I don't believe it either, but at the same time I must be sensitive to the King's beliefs. It places us into a precarious position, deploying the King's resources to find a young man who was recently placed on restricted duties and then mysteriously disappeared. You must understand how it might seem to those who don't know d'Artagnan as well as we do."
"But, Captain," Porthos protested, stopping as Athos placed a hand on his forearm.
"How much time do we have left?" Athos asked, voice low and thick with emotion.
Treville's own concerns for their missing fourth were reflected in his eyes as he replied to his lieutenant. "You have today. The others have already been recalled and assigned other duties and, if you are needed, tomorrow you'll be reassigned as well. I'm sorry, we're simply out of time."
The three men had left Treville's office disheartened and solemn, not even waiting for the man to dismiss them as they trailed out after Athos who was determined not to waste a moment of the time that remained. The knowledge that they might soon be forced to abandon their attempts made them desperate in their efforts to find any information that might give them even the slightest chance of finding their friend, and they had been especially aggressive in dealing with those who might have any clues to offer. Despite their resolve, late afternoon was rapidly slipping into evening and the three weary men had nothing to show for their efforts.
"How can a man simply disappear into thin air?" Aramis questioned in frustration, removing his hat with one hand while his other tugged through his matted curls.
Porthos glanced at his friend, knowing well how simple it was to lose someone in Paris, having experienced it many times during his years in the Court; as he looked at the sorrow on his friends' faces, he couldn't bear to point this out, seeing that they were already suffering so keenly. Instead, he said, "Look, maybe there's something we missed. Someone we should talk to, who we've forgotten?" Even as he said the words, he recognized the futility of his suggestions – they were out of ideas and grasping at straws.
Athos turned his head to the sky, noting distractedly how the blue was already darkening with nightfall, signalling the end of another day of fruitless searching. He was loathe to end their pursuit of the young man, but was completely out of ideas and recognized the empty feeling that was beginning to take hold in the pit of his stomach – grief. He was no stranger to its cloying hold, overpowering any remnants of hope that could help a man find his way out of the darkness and back into the light. He'd felt its grasp before, first with Thomas' murder and then later upon discovering that his brother had been killed by the hands of his beloved wife. In the days that followed, he'd fallen into an abyss of loneliness and despair, praying for death to take him so he might escape its hold. But fate had been cruel and had not provided the escape he'd sought, and somehow he'd lived and found his way to his brothers at the garrison. He'd felt its pull again when word reached them about the massacre at Savoy – twenty men dead and no survivors. He had little recollection of the journey he and Porthos had undertaken, sent with the others to bring the bodies of their fallen comrades home. By the time they'd arrived, grief had nearly engulfed him, wrapping itself so firmly around his heart that he thought he might soon find himself gasping for breath. But again, fate had interceded, and upon their arrival they'd found their friend alive, although terribly ill. In that moment, Athos had decided that grief would have no further opportunities to court him, protecting his brothers fiercely so they would come to no harm, and building a barricade around his heart so that no else could breach it.
Then d'Artagnan arrived. He was a brash and passionate young man, full of life and overflowing with grief at the loss of his father; Athos had recognized that grief and had not had the heart to kill him as a result. He'd thought that would be the end of it, but the Gascon was not so easily dismissed, stating that he had the heart of a Musketeer and would be steadfast in his training and pursuit of the King's commission and again Athos had recognized the emotion – hope. In the face of such overwhelming hope, he'd crumbled, his defenses being no match for the young man's loyalty and determination and Athos found himself having to expand his circle of protected brothers from two to three. Now, in this dirty Parisian street, hope had been ripped cruelly from his grasp and in its place only sat the cold misery of grief. Grief at a young life lost too soon; grief at the senselessness of his disappearance; grief at the knowledge that they might never know what happened to the young man and that they might never have the comfort of laying him to rest. It was in this moment of grief that Athos' eyes welled and the sky above him blurred, tears falling shamelessly down his cheeks as he silently raged against the injustice that would have the three of them wallowing in grief.
Aramis and Porthos moved in unison, capturing their older brother between them as they gave in to the fear and worry that had been their resolute companions since d'Artagnan's disappearance. There were no words of comfort that would be sufficient to ease their shared sorrow, so they remained silent, holding on to each other and drawing strength from their brotherhood, all too aware of their missing member. It felt like time stood still around them, the universe swallowing them and whisking them away to a place where things fell silent and the only things that mattered were the three of them and their deep need to cling to each other lest they be overcome. In truth, it was only a minute, the Parisian streets too busy to allow the group to invade its presence for long, and when sound returned, it was both far too loud and too soft, making the men cringe as they wiped away the remnants of their tears. They waited for Athos to speak, knowing without a doubt that the choice to retreat to the garrison would have to be his. Long moments passed as they watched the older man compose himself, digging down deeply to the strength of his core before drawing a breath to announce, "It's time for us to go home." Aramis and Porthos both longed to keep looking and knew that Athos would willingly join them if they asked, but the price exacted would be too high, only extending the agony that they were now experiencing. The three turned in the direction of the garrison, naturally falling into step, positioned so closely that their shoulders bumped and rubbed every few steps, offering some solace as they tried to accept the loss of their fourth.