Thank you for all the wonderful reviews on the last chapter and for sharing your reactions with me. A bit more angst ahead before we catch up to the prologue. Enjoy!
d'Artagnan had drifted in and out during the day, partly as his body dealt with the shock of having been sentenced to death, and partly out of boredom. The guards thankfully left him alone, apparently satisfied that he would be dead soon enough, and the first person he saw was a man bringing him his evening meal along with fresh water. He drank deeply, slaking his thirst, but eyed the food warily, remembering well the previous offerings. Startling as he realized that he hadn't eaten since he'd been arrested, the Gascon forced himself to consume a small amount of the food, closing his eyes and swallowing quickly after each bite, and washing away the flavour with more water. In this fashion, he managed to clear half the plate, pushing the rest away from him when his stomach lurched in protest.
That night, he endured a broken sleep, his mind occupied by thoughts of his pending execution, which roused him from his fitful rest and left him trembling after the occasional nightmare. He was grateful when a guard came by with more water and food, signalling the start of his second day. Soon after, a priest arrived, and he sat at the far end of the cell as the man was shown inside, before the door was closed behind them, the guard staying on duty outside.
"I've come to absolve you of your sins, my son. Confess and all with be forgiven," the priest counselled.
"Father, I have nothing to confess but I do have a request," d'Artagnan countered, watching the man's face closely to see how his words would be received.
"Surely that can't the case. You're to hang tomorrow for a man's death; you must seek absolution for his murder," the priest pressed.
"I know you won't believe me, but I didn't kill that man. I'm ready to face my death tomorrow, but I'd like to say good-bye to my friends. Is there any way you can petition the Governor to allow my fellow Musketeers inside for a few minutes?" d'Artagnan had often been accused of using his youthful and innocent face to get his way and, in this moment, he plastered his most sincere expression onto his face, praying that the man could be swayed to help him.
Nearly a minute passed in silence as the priest observed him, finally reaching his decision and nodding. "I will see what I can do, but I make no promises."
"Thank you," the Gascon hurriedly whispered, grateful that the man was at least willing to try.
As he turned to leave, the priest paused once more, "Are you certain you have nothing to confess?"
d'Artagnan shook his head, "Nothing. I did not kill that man and if I hang tomorrow, it will be to prevent a war."
It was not the priest's place to judge the man, but he couldn't help but be swayed by the earnestness of the young man's words and he found it difficult to believe that the Gascon might be lying to him. With a last nod, the man left, leaving d'Artagnan once more alone with his thoughts, facing untold hours alone, during which time he may or may not receive a last visit from his friends. Returning to his spot, he slid down the wall to the ground, no longer even aware of the filth that surrounded him, the state of his leathers of little consequence when faced with his own mortality. He'd spoken the truth to the priest; he had nothing weighing on his conscience and was comforted by the knowledge that his death would at the very least avert and long and bloody war with Spain. Others might see it as a poor excuse to lose one's life, but d'Artagnan had willingly entered the King's service and had known, without a doubt, that he would one day forfeit his life for the Crown.
He wondered what his father would say, if he'd still been alive, and whether he would consider d'Artagnan's death a noble one. He would be outraged, just as his friends were, but once the mantle of grief had passed, allowing rationale thought to once more prevail, would he have found comfort in the fact that his son's death saved the lives of so many others? And what of Constance? She was still a married woman and had decided to remain faithful to her vows, but d'Artagnan was certain she held feelings for him, just as he did for her. She would have no cause to grieve, no right in the eyes of those around her, but was it possible that, when no one was watching, she would shed some quiet tears for him and for the love that could never be between them? Sighing, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, the tedium of waiting and wallowing loathsome to him, but his captivity leaving him no other choice. Normally, he would engage in sparring and go for a horseback ride, but within the walls of the Chatelet, those options were denied him and that, he decided, was the worst part – having no control over his own destiny. Pushing against the wall with a hand, deciding that he could no longer sit still, he stood and began to pace around the cell, counting the paces as he went. The space was a small one, but the movement brought some semblance of peace and, as his body moved, his mind quieted and he allowed it to drift ungoverned as the physical motion soothed him.
Hours later he still paced, his steps slowed considerably from their initial intensity, but he hadn't stopped, deciding that, if nothing else, his active day might allow him a small chance of rest during the night before he'd be hung. He'd held out hope that his friends might appear, but as the day wore on, he remained alone, and he no longer expected anyone to appear. When the door to his cell opened, he didn't even look up or stop his motion, expecting that the jailor would leave his food and depart again. When he didn't hear the cell door immediately close, he stopped and looked up from where he'd been staring at the point where the wall and ground met. Grinning, he exhaled, his heart filling as he drank in the sight of his friends. "Athos," he stepped forward to grip the man's arm, moving next to Aramis and finally Porthos, needing the touch to ground him and assure himself of their presence. "I didn't think you'd come." His friends' faces immediately dropped and he hastened to correct himself, "No, I mean, I wasn't sure you'd be allowed to come. I'm glad you're here."
"There's nothin' that could 'ave kept us away, lad," Porthos assured him, the warm, deep tones of the man's voice washing over d'Artagnan.
The Gascon grinned at the man's words, flushing slightly with embarrassment at the sentiment they conveyed. Not wanting the moment to end, but needing to know so he could prepare, he cleared his throat and asked, "Did you have any luck? Finding the killer, I mean…" he trailed off, watching his friends' expressions shift as the remorse of their failure appeared on their faces. "It's fine, don't worry about it. I know you did everything you could and I don't want you to feel guilty," he rushed to assure them.
Athos' expression seemed to shutter even further and he looked away, d'Artagnan looking helplessly at the other two for guidance. It was Aramis who stepped forward, gripping his bicep tightly, "It is not fine, d'Artagnan, and it will be our greatest failure if you hang tomorrow."
d'Artagnan gave a short nod, not having the words to be able to dissuade his friends and deciding that he didn't want to waste their last minutes together arguing. "I'm sorry, lad," Porthos spoke contritely, "Flea turned over every stone but the boy's just disappeared. We couldn't find 'im anywhere."
Aramis drew a breath, "Yes, and whoever our killer is, they've hidden their tracks well. The Captain received permission to search the Ambassador's rooms but anything of consequence has already been removed. We think Rochefort behind this, but again, we've no evidence to implicate him."
The Gascon swallowed, once more determined that these men would not carry guilt on top of grief and he dredged up a smile for the man, "I know you've done everything in your power, Aramis." He glanced at the other two, "you all have. I know its little consolation, but please know that I don't blame you for any of this and I'm content to know that my death will prevent a war with Spain."
Athos' seemed to blanch even further at the young man's words and d'Artagnan moved a step closer, placing a tentative hand on his mentor's shoulder. He was surprised to be drawn into a strong embrace, Athos clinging to him as though his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. This man had lost so much, been betrayed by those he'd loved the most, and it was only the brotherhood he'd found in the regiment that had saved him. Now, he faced another devastating loss and d'Artagnan feared his death might be the one that destroyed his best friend, the man he loved more dearly than any brother. He returned the embrace, finding it odd that he would be the one offering comfort, but willing to hold the man for as long as it took for the minor tremors he felt to abate, and for Athos to be able to pull himself together. The stood that way for over a minute until Athos stiffened slightly and began to pull away. d'Artagnan let him, waiting for the man to face him so he could confirm that his friend wouldn't fall apart. When their eyes met, the Gascon saw the deep anguish and pain still reflected there, but there was also a glint of the strength that d'Artagnan had always associated with the man and, while Athos was not alright, he was comfortable at least that with the help of his brothers, he would not recklessly go in search of a quick death as soon as d'Artagnan was gone. It was not much, but it was enough.
Clearing his throat again, he said, "I know you can't stay for long so I need you to promise me that you won't let this tear you apart." His friends looked ready to interrupt him and he shook his head, averting his eyes for a moment as he refused to acknowledge their desire to speak. "No, I know you well enough to know how you'll react and I know what I'd do if you were in my place. Do not let Rochefort have the finally victory by letting this destroy you. You must promise me." He face was fiercely determined as he met each man's eyes, "I cannot face my death with peace if you do not promise that you'll survive this."
His words were met with silence and d'Artagnan could see each man warring against the desire to deny him, to offer meaningless platitudes that everything would be alright and to hang tightly to the last remaining shreds of hope that the situation could still have a positive outcome. He knew what he was asking them to do – to deny hope and come to terms with his death. It was a cruel request but necessary and he had spoken truthfully when he'd said that he needed that small bit of comfort from them in order to face the hangman's noose. It was Porthos would broke the stalemate first, his shoulders slumping, making him appear half the man he normally was as he gave a solemn nod. Aramis followed suit, his eyes welling with moisture as he tried offer a tremulous smile, failing after a few seconds and causing him to look away. The Gascon turned his gaze to Athos and he knew without a doubt that his mentor would be the most difficult of them all to convince, but he was also the one among them who received the greatest amount of d'Artagnan's concern and, as a result, it was Athos' promise that he needed the most. As if sensing the boy's need, Athos gave a sharp nod, the young man seeing how much it had cost him but knowing without a doubt that the man would not break his promise and do as he'd asked. "Thank you," d'Artagnan breathed out, suddenly feeling lighter with the knowledge that his friends would live on.
A loud voice from outside startled them, "Time's up!"
The men were unwilling to separate and d'Artagnan was certain that, if they'd been able, the three would have stayed at his side throughout his final night. Not willing to see his friends in trouble he stepped forward and embraced each man in turn, surprised when Athos whispered softly in his ear, "This is not the end." Without a backward glance, the older man followed the other two out of the cell and the door was promptly closed behind him. Satisfied that he now had no regrets, d'Artagnan returned to his spot and settled down to get some sleep before he was taken to the gallows in the morning.
He was startled awake when his cell door opened. He'd fallen asleep, comfortable in the knowledge that he'd said good-bye to his friends and had not expected anyone else to return, the jailor having been by earlier with his evening meal. As a result, he was groggy and slow to awake, his body heavy with the sleep he'd denied it over the previous days since his arrest. The men were upon him quickly, dragging him upright and holding him by his arms, while a third pummeled his side mercilessly. The only kindness was that it was over quickly, the men dropping him amidst their raucous laughter, exiting as suddenly as they'd arrived. d'Artagnan laid on the ground where he'd fallen, doing his best to slow his breaths as his left hand came up to rest against his aching ribs, bracing them against the rapid breaths that were expanding his ribcage further and more often than was comfortable. When he'd steadied his breathing, his rolled up to a sitting position, scooting backwards toward the wall as he cursed the fact that the guards had decided on one last act of vengeance against him, despite the fact that he was sentenced to die in the morning. There was no way that he would be able to sleep now, and he groaned at the thought of the long hours that awaited him.
When the door to his space began to open again, d'Artagnan tensed, a hand moving once more to his ribs as the contraction of the muscles there pushed painfully on his sore ribcage. The face that appeared, however, was not that of a guard; instead, Porthos grinned at him maniacally as he gestured toward the open door, "Ready to get out of here?"
d'Artagnan pushed to his feet, wincing with the movement, and he saw the grin on Porthos' face slip as he caught the look of pain. The Gascon waved his concern away with a hand, moving closer as he asked, "What are you doing here?"
Porthos looked at him with a gleam in his eye, "Isn't it obvious? This is a jailbreak."
The Gascon caught his arm as the large man looked behind him into the corridor, confirming that they were still alone. "Porthos, you can't do this. If we're caught, you'll be hung alongside me."
Porthos turned back to the young man as he said, "Then we'd best make sure we don't get caught. Now, come on, the others are waitin'." With that, he turned to look once more around the corridor and then pulled the young man out by his arm as he led the way.
His ribs creaked and ached in a most discomfiting way, but there was no time to think about that now. There was precious little time for him to make his escape so he clamped his jaw down more tightly against the sounds of pain that threatened to alert the guards to their position, resolutely following Porthos as they navigated the confusing labyrinth of tunnels. The larger man was as good as his word and minutes later he'd unerringly led them outside where d'Artagnan got his first breath of fresh air after several long days of captivity. The moon was high in the sky and cast deep shadows around the courtyard, further aiding them in their efforts to remain hidden from prying eyes. They kept to the outside walls where the darkness was deepest, d'Artagnan's breaths coming now in labored pants as he struggled to keep up with the Musketeer in front of him who seemed to effortlessly blend and prowl through the blackness with a speed and agility the Gascon currently envied.
When at last they slipped through a small gate, Porthos turned and barricaded it firmly behind them, grasping the young man's upper arm as he chivvied them forward, first along the outside walls and then making a dash for the forested area, almost pulling a cry of pain from the Gascon's lips as his fragile ribcage was jostled with every step. Porthos continued to pull him forward another 100 meters beyond the treeline, where they finally stopped, d'Artagnan leaning over his knees as much as his ribs allowed as he caught his breath. Once he felt like his heart was no longer about to beat a path out of his chest, he looked up into the faces of his friends, Aramis' with a welcoming grin on his face and Athos', a sterner expression born of worry. The latter man stepped forward and the other two naturally drew back a step, allowing them a moment of privacy. With a hand on the young man's shoulder, Athos peered at him in the dim light and asked, "Are you alright?"
The intensity of the man's gaze almost had d'Artagnan turning away, but he forced himself to stand firm as he replied, "I'm fine, Athos."
Athos glanced at Porthos who stepped forward once more as he pointed to the young man's left side. "Ribs, not sure if they're broken or just badly bruised."
Athos gave a short nod, returning a pointed look to the Gascon who rolled his eyes at Porthos' betrayal, "They're fine, Athos, just bruised, I think. It's all been just bruises. Apparently they're too worried about saving me for the hangman to do anything more."
Athos stared at him for several seconds more, seemingly to discern the truth of the young man's words before he looked away, dropping his head to his chest for a moment as he drew a steadying breath. When he looked up, the soldier had reasserted himself and d'Artagnan found himself instinctively straightening his shoulders. "Aramis, if you please," Athos asked, his words clipped and precise, and the medic stepped forward. With an apologetic smile, he reached for the Gascon's shirt and with a last glance at the boy's face to confirm he had permission to proceed, pulled the hem of the shirt upwards to expose his bruised ribcage. As Aramis expertly pressed on d'Artagnan's ribs, Athos was busy speaking, "We've a horse ready for you and you'll find provisions in the saddlebags. There's a map as well and a letter from the Captain which you'll present to Madame Trémaux. Keep to the back roads and don't risk a fire. We'll send word once we've cleared your name."
d'Artagnan grimaced and then gasped as Aramis' fingers found a particularly sore spot, and he reached for the medic's hand, pulling it away from his flank. "Sorry," Aramis mumbled, stepping away and nodding to Athos – nothing was broken, although the medic was fairly certain that one or more of the ribs might be cracked.
The Gascon turned his glare on the older Musketeer, "I'm not running!"
The three men traded looks, communicating silently about the young man's stubbornness and prideful nature, having feared exactly this reaction. "Lad, there's nothing else to be done. If you stay, they'll hang you before we can clear you. We'll find the evidence but you need to buy us some time," Porthos pleaded.
"Porthos is right, d'Artagnan," Aramis agreed, laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "There is no shame in fleeing so that we may prove your innocence. The real crime would be allowing you to hang for something you didn't do."
d'Artagnan was clearly torn, looking from one man to the next, eyes finally landing on his mentor. "Athos?" he asked, his voice thin and needy.
"Run, d'Artagnan," Athos replied, his voice hoarse and low. "Please."
The young man swallowed thickly at the anguish in the older man's face; his mentor was begging him to leave and d'Artagnan found that he could not resist his request. He gave a shaky nod in reply, Porthos clapping him on the back as soon as he'd agreed. He followed them a few feet away where a nervous mount stood waiting for him and he looked at his friends once more, drinking in their faces as though a man lost in the desert. Porthos grasped him firmly in both arms, giving him a slightly gentler version of his bone-jarring hug in deference to his ribs. "Stay safe," he whispered into the embrace.
Aramis was next, pulling him in close and simply holding him for several seconds before pushing him away, still holding onto the Gascon's arms as he said, "Protect those ribs." Last came Athos, a man who seldom sought human contact but who was now gripping the young man fiercely, pulling d'Artagnan's head forward with a hand so it rested in the crook of his neck. Turning his head, he breathed out a quiet plea, "Stay alive." d'Artagnan nodded and Athos held him for a few moments longer, obviously as unwilling as the boy to part. When they finally did, the Gascon took a last look at his friends as he spoke, "Thank you." With that, he pulled himself onto the mount and wheeled it around, the three men moving away to give him room. Without a backward glance, he kicked the horse into motion, making his way out of the woods and on his way to being a fugitive.