Thank you to everyone who's decided to read, follow, favorite and review this story, and to the guests who I can't reply to personally. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.
The trip to the Chatelet was painful on so many levels as d'Artagnan's various aches reawakened during the long walk, but the embarrassment of being treated like a common criminal, apparent by the disgusted looks he received as they travelled the streets, pained him more than any of his physical hurts. He was surprised when the guards who surrounded him didn't take advantage of their position by harming him further, but once he'd arrived within the walls of the prison, he understood why – it was far easier to inflict pain once his hands were shackled in irons and he was hidden away from prying eyes.
It had begun with a hard shove as he'd been pushed through the narrow doorways that led to the cells. He'd managed to catch himself against a wall, the short chain between his wrists clanging as it struck the stone that now surrounded him. The walk to his cell was accompanied by the jeering of other prisoners, the worst among them enthusiastic at seeing another man joining in their suffering. When he turned his head after a shout from a particularly rowdy resident, he received a painful blow to his cheek that left his head ringing and clouded his sight for several seconds, forcing him to stumble along despite not being able to see his path as he tried to recover from the blow. When they reached his cell, the jailor opened the door and he was pushed forward with a booted foot on his backside. The strong shove had been expected but the follow-up strike that hit his lower back was not, and the pain of it brought him to his knees and was followed by another punch to the face. As he toppled to his side, he was vaguely aware of the men's harsh laughter as they turned away, firmly closing the door behind them.
d'Artagnan knew he should move but it seemed too overwhelming a task, so he laid on the filthy floor, feeling the cold seeping into his side, relishing the numbness that was permeating his tender and pounding head. He knew from previous experience that time was meaningless inside the prison and, as such, had no idea how long he lay there, gathering his strength and sufficient motivation to push himself to a seated position before crawling over to the wall nearest the door, where he collapsed against it. He knew that his friends would be working tirelessly on his behalf and he was grateful, but a part of him wondered if it wouldn't be easier to simply allow Rochefort his victory. Was it possible that with his death, the Comte might cease his aggressions toward the Musketeers, preventing the thing that he feared most, the dissolution of the regiment?
Inhaling shakily, he pushed the thought from his mind, recognizing that his friends would be outraged that he would even consider giving up. Porthos had vocalized what all of them felt when he'd ordered the Gascon to do whatever it took to stay alive and, in his heart, d'Artagnan knew that his was the easier task, simply having to stay out of trouble long enough for the three to clear his name. Having reached his decision and, once more mentally prepared for his confinement, d'Artagnan wrapped his arms tightly around himself, hands in his armpits, and allowed his eyes to close, letting sleep give him some reprieve from the cool, dark space that held him.
His respite was short-lived as the guards had apparently decided to take full advantage of the fact that they had a disgraced Musketeer in their midst, far away from the camaraderie and protection of his brothers-in-arms. He had men in his cell three times during what he believed to be the night, the cell having no windows which could aid the Gascon in keeping track of the hours. Instead, when a new jailer arrived in the morning with an extremely unappetizing meal, he deduced that a new day had arrived, bringing with it a change of guard. He breathed a careful sigh of relief, hoping the animosity that he'd been shown during the night was restricted to the men who'd harassed him throughout the evening hours, forcing him to stay awake and cower against the wall as he'd curled into himself time and again in order to protect his torso from the boots and fists that pummeled him.
He pushed at the plate that held his breakfast, moving it further away, as his other arm braced his sore ribs. He'd only been apart from his friends for a night and yet he felt their absence keenly, knowing that if he were at the garrison, he would be eating a good meal and Aramis would be fussing over his injuries. The thought brought a grimace to his face as he imagined the medic's reaction to the increasingly colorful tapestry that now covered his back and chest. The scolding he would receive would be worth it, he decided, as long as it meant that his name had been cleared and he could once more be in his brothers' company.
The sound of footsteps alerted him to another's presence, and d'Artagnan pushed himself further upright, staring at the entrance in preparation for another beating. When the door opened, he was surprised to see the Comte de Rochefort enter, the man looking around in disdain at the dank and grimy interior. When he'd finished his examination, his gaze landed on the Gascon, a mirthless smile on his face. "Good morning, d'Artagnan. I trust your night was uneventful?"
The Gascon's ire rose at the comment but Athos' words rung in his head and he maintained a calm demeanor as he replied, "I suspect it was similar to the time you spent in the Spaniards' hands."
A flicker of annoyance danced across Rochefort's face before the man could quash it. "I assure you, you are far more fortunate to be in a French prison." The comment seemed to serve its purpose, the Comte's arrogance reasserting itself. "You will stand on trial before the King and your peers tomorrow and will be found guilty of a most heinous act. It would be far easier if you simply admitted your part and saved your fellow Musketeers the embarrassment of a trial."
Again, d'Artagnan felt his blood stir as the man's words tried to provoke a reaction, but once more the Gascon resisted and offered a reasonable reply, "I'm certain my brothers would very vocal in their censure if I were to admit to a crime I did not commit. Therefore, I cannot accept your suggestion."
Rochefort's expression turned sour, as though he'd tasted something foul as he continued to consider the young man in front of him. "Despite their disapproval, surely there are some things that are more important. The ongoing wellbeing of the regiment, for example."
d'Artagnan schooled his features as he countered, "Is that a threat, Comte?"
Rochefort offered a cool smile, "A threat? d'Artagnan, I am the Captain of the Red Guards and advisor to the King. What reason would I possibly have for threatening an already discredited Musketeer who is destined to be swinging from the end of a rope in two days?"
The Gascon's hands clenched into fists, his emotions closer to the surface than he wanted to admit as the man continued to goad him. "Then I wonder why the Captain of the Red Guards would be wasting his time within the walls of the Chatelet."
Rochefort stared at him for several long seconds and d'Artagnan waited to see if the man would reply, but he simply turned on his heel as he headed for the door. "Remember, d'Artagnan, I gave you the opportunity to forgo the humiliation of a trial. I will not make such a generous offer again."
With those words he was gone and the door clanged closed behind him, d'Artagnan letting out a shaky exhale at the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. Despite the lack of proper rest and food which made his limbs weak and his head pound, he struggled up to his feet, needing the release that only physical activity could provide. His steps were hesitant and disjointed, his focus on replaying the conversation with Rochefort, trying to figure out the motive behind the man's visit. From what he'd been told, the evidence against him was damming and his best chance lay in his friends' ability to find the real killer. This was the only situation d'Artagnan could conceive where his admission of guilt would supersede anything else the three men discovered.
Was Rochefort concerned that the true murderer would be discovered? Would the man's identity implicate the Comte in some manner? The longer he thought about the odd situation, the more he believed himself to be correct, bringing with it an overwhelming need to speak with his brothers so he could pass his conclusions along. Stepping to the cell door, he called out, "Jailor! I need to speak with you." He allowed several long moments to pass and was finally rewarded when the door to his prison opened and a guard appeared. "I need to speak with the Musketeer Athos."
The guard grunted his displeasure. "Think you're in a position to be makin' demands, do ya?" the man jeered at him.
d'Artagnan raised his hands in supplication, trying to reason with the man, "No, I just need someone to get a message to the Musketeer garrison."
The guard didn't wait for him to finish, striding forward to strike at the Gascon with a wooden club, forcing the young man to turn away as the blows landed on his back. After the third one, he found himself dropping to his knees and the man swung a last time before barking in laughter. "Stupid Musketeer," he said as he exited, locking the door behind him. d'Artagnan allowed himself to slump against the wall as the new bruises on his back blossomed and he breathed heavily from the pain and frustration of his situation; clearly, help didn't lie within these walls and he would have to wait and hope that his friends were able to piece together the puzzle that wrongfully imprisoned him.
Morning brought with it little of the usual hope that the dawn of a new day usually did. The three Musketeers had had little interest in their usual distractions and instead ended up at Athos' rooms, their drinking sombre and centred on easing their guilt and worry about d'Artagnan's situation. When they awoke from their wine-induced slumber, it was no surprise that Athos announced that he would be travelling to the Chatelet with the intention of checking on their youngest. All of them knew that the guards could not seriously harm the boy, since he'd need to be able to stand trial the following day, but that didn't mean that his time inside the prison would be anywhere close to pleasant.
The older man knew that the Gascon was better prepared than either of his other friends to handle the ordeal of being locked up, having successfully survived once before; he also knew that one's state of mind played a large part in one's ability to bear the despair and humiliation present inside the bleak stone walls, and this time the young man was likely to be understandably lacking in optimism for a positive outcome. Athos didn't judge him harshly for that, recognizing that it was no reflection on him and his friends, simply the realism of the situation which meant that if the real killer was not found, the King would condemn d'Artagnan to die in order to maintain peace with Spain.
The three ate a subdued meal, more at Aramis' insistence than because of any real appetite, until Athos' glare finally silenced the medic and the man gave a reluctant nod of understanding as the older Musketeer pushed away his plate. They departed the garrison together, Porthos moving away from them after a few streets as he made his way to talk with Flea, while Athos and Aramis continued on to the Chatelet. When they arrived, the Governor of the prison was less than pleased to see them but eventually agreed to allow them inside to see d'Artagnan after Athos persuaded him by handing over the majority of his purse.
The two men ducked inside the narrow doorway, stepping down into the dim corridors that led to the cells, Aramis shuddering involuntarily at the thought of their youngest having spent the night in such a place. Athos gave him a look of understanding, grasping his arm for a moment to reassure him, Aramis nodding back in thanks to let him know that he was alright. Athos didn't believe him and expected the man to be even more unsettled once they'd seen the boy, especially if his concerns regarding d'Artagnan's treatment proved true. When they arrived outside the young man's cell, the guard hesitated until glared into submission by Athos' cold stare combined with the hand that lay menacingly on the hilt of his sword. The guard opened the door and then backed away warily, allowing the two men to enter.
d'Artagnan leaned against the far wall, apparently having decided at some point that being further away from the door was a safer alternative. The men could tell that the Gascon was awake although fatigue weighed on him heavily if his slow reactions and half-lidded eyes were anything to go by. Despite his weariness, d'Artagnan's face lit up at the sight of his friends, and he pushed himself to his feet, warily looking over their shoulders at the guard who hovered by the door. Turning to the man, Athos ordered, "Leave us. Wait outside the door if you wish, but we'd like a minute alone." Again, the man hesitated for several seconds, but finally decided he could stand guard just as well outside as he could inside the cell.
As soon as he was gone, Aramis stepped forward, hands on the Gascon's upper arms as he looked for signs of injury, eyes narrowing at the dark bruising that painted the right side of his face. The normalness of the act brought a smile to d'Artagnan's face, which only broadened when Aramis gave him a confused look. "Nothing," the young man shook his head, "it's just so very good to see you."
Aramis returned the smile at the boy's words, but he didn't remove his hands. "How are you?" As d'Artagnan drew a breath to reply, the medic interrupted him. "The truth, d'Artagnan. How are you?'
The young man's smile turned rueful as he looked down for a moment before meeting his friend's eyes, "I'm not fine, but I am alright. They've been careful not to do any permanent damage." Aramis' hand moved to the bottom of d'Artagnan's doublet, intending to lift it but the Gascon caught his hand and locked gazes with the man, "No, Aramis. It's just bruises and there's nothing to be done about them while I'm in here. The best way to help me is to find the Ambassador's killer." Aramis held the boy's gaze for a moment before letting his hand drop, not liking the Gascon's words but recognizing the truth of them. He stepped back allowing Athos to move closer, knowing that the older man also needed to confirm that d'Artagnan was largely whole. Before he could so much as greet the young man, d'Artagnan was speaking, checking furtively to confirm their relative privacy. "Thank you for coming, Athos. I wasn't sure my message would reach you."
"What message?" Athos asked, his brow furrowed.
"Didn't you get my message that I needed to speak with you?" d'Artagnan queried, now confused as well.
"d'Artagnan, there was no message. We're here to make sure you're alright." Aramis clarified.
Aramis' reply confirmed d'Artagnan's earlier suspicions that he could not rely on any help at the prison, and he filed the information away, determined to share his thoughts while he had the opportunity to do so. "No matter. Rochefort came to visit me earlier." Athos immediately stiffened at the mention of the Comte's name and d'Artagnan gave him a look that let him know he was alright, needing to keep him calm and focused. "He tried to get me to give him a confession, suggesting that it would be in the best interests of the regiment."
"But he has overwhelming evidence of your guilt. Why bother with a confession?" Aramis puzzled.
"He's afraid that our investigation will uncover something that implicates him," Athos stated with confidence.
Aramis threw Athos a sharp look, but a glance in d'Artagnan's direction confirmed the older man's statement. "You concluded the same," the medic stated to the Gascon.
The young man gave a small dip of his head, "That's what I wanted to share with you. It's the only reason that makes any sense."
"Clearing you may have the secondary benefit of having Rochefort fall out of favor with the King," Athos said thoughtfully.
"Or, at the very least, lessen some of the pressure that he seems to be exerting against the regiment at present," Aramis added.
"That will be our line of investigation, then," Athos concluded. "d'Artagnan, Porthos was able to identify the child who deceived you and is at the Court now, trying to find and question him." Motioning to Aramis, he said, "We'll work from the other end and try to find evidence of Rochefort's involvement. Trust that we'll find what's needed to clear you."
d'Artagnan gave his mentor a smile that he didn't really feel, not wanting his friends to be distracted from their mission by his morose mood. He'd been able to push his feelings of dread away as he'd spoken with his friends, but knew that they would shortly have to go, leaving him once more alone with his thoughts. Swallowing, he forced himself to nod at Athos' words, even as he emotionally distanced himself in preparation for their departure.
As if sensing his mood, Athos addressed him again, "d'Artagnan…" He trailed off, uncertain what he could say to the boy so that he didn't lose hope.
Aramis stepped in, putting into words what the older man couldn't, "d'Artagnan, what Athos means to say is that we've faced these odds before and prevailed. Have faith that we will do so again."
Athos nodded gratefully in agreement with the medic's words as well as the sentiment, even as the stiffness in the Gascon's shoulders eased just slightly. Clasping the young man's shoulder for a moment, he said, "It's unlikely that we'll be allowed back in here again, but we'll be at your trial tomorrow. Just…keep yourself safe until then."
d'Artagnan nodded, his hand lifting to momentarily cover Athos' where it still sat on his shoulder. Aramis stepped closer and squeezed his other shoulder, offering an encouraging smile before turning toward the door, Athos following a moment later. The Gascon kept a smile on his face as he watched the two depart, his face falling again when they were gone. He exhaled slowly, looking around his drab surroundings, resigned that his fate rested in the hands of his friends. As he moved back to his spot at the wall and slid down to the ground, he tipped his aching head backwards and let his eyes close, hopeful that his future would look brighter the next time he opened them.