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Maillard was almost obsessive in his determination to place as much distance as possible between himself and the Trémaux estate, his paranoia taking them away from the nearby town via a back road before rejoining the main route to Paris. To regain the time they'd lost due to their circuitous route, they remained on their horses even after the sun had set, the only consolation being that their pace had slowed substantially in deference to the near blackness of their surroundings. When one of the horses stumbled, Maillard finally pulled to a stop, the others moving up to join him, d'Artagnan kept at the rear of their convoy.
They looked around but could see little by the sliver of moon that hung above them; fortunately, one of the men found a large branch that he was able to turn into a torch and, under its light, they found a sheltered spot several hundred feet off to the side of the road where they could make camp. d'Artagnan was barely conscious by this point, the dual aches in his head and side competing for his attention, keeping his breaths short and his vision blurry. He'd managed to stay upright for nearly a half-hour and from that point, had begun to slump forward until he was laying along the horse's neck. While the position was certainly far from comfortable, he found that he didn't have the energy left to sit up and was at least assured that he would stay on the animal's back.
As the men set up the camp, Maillard approached with another and the two pulled the Gascon from his horse, catching him when his legs folded as soon as his feet touched the ground. Between them, they dragged him to a nearby tree, none too gently setting him down on the ground. His hands were quickly unbound and then retied behind him, pulled tightly around the trunk of the tree. d'Artagnan intermittently panted and coughed against the pain, still disoriented and not fully aware of what was happening. Maillard grabbed his hair, pulling his face upwards as the Gascon blinked, trying valiantly to focus. Apparently satisfied that his prisoner was sufficiently helpless, Maillard released his hold and d'Artagnan's head dropped back to his chest before he could catch himself, pulling a moan of pain from his throat.
Around him, he was vaguely aware of the other men's movements as a fire was built and food and drink were passed around. d'Artagnan's misery deepened as he concluded that he was too far away from the fire to benefit from its heat and, while he had little interest in food, his mouth and throat were unpleasantly dry. He shivered a little as his body cooled, still wearing only his thin shirt and robbed of the heat thrown off from his mount. The shiver pulled more coughs from his chest and he desperately tried to still the action as it pulled mercilessly on his ribs. When he'd managed to stop, his eyes were watering with unshed tears in reaction to the pain. He leaned his head back against the tree, keeping his eyes closed as he did his best to even out his breathing, doing all he could to avoid another coughing jag.
His mind drifted back to Brigitte and he wondered if she was alright and if she was mad at him for leaving. He regretted not asking her more questions, his curiosity piqued about what she'd told him about his real life. Would it matter to the hangman, he wondered, if he could not remember his crime? He guessed it was unlikely to make any difference. Would anyone mourn his passing or even be there with him when he swung from the noose? Again, unlikely; he couldn't imagine there being much interest from those he'd known before in wanting to give their support to a disgraced Musketeer.
The thought reminded him of Brigitte's assurances that his Captain had thought him innocent, speaking of his brothers who'd aided his escape. Perhaps there would be someone after all, despite the fact that d'Artagnan had no memory of these men, nor would he recognize them if they came to watch. As such, it was appropriate he thought, that he would end up in an unmarked grave, a man robbed of his future by an alleged murder, and robbed of his past by an unfortunate fall from a horse; a man without a name, other than the one shared by a stranger, and no family to miss him when he was gone. Idly, he recognized the melancholy that he'd fallen victim to, but was unable to find enough energy to care.
His gaze drifted back to his captors and he noted that the men seemed to have finished their meal and were now sitting around the fire, talking in low tones. As he watched, one of the men stood and walked toward him, a water skin in his hands, which he tipped to the Gascon's mouth. d'Artagnan drank greedily until his breath hitched and coughs erupted painfully from his chest. The man gave him an odd look, observing the paleness of his features before walking away. Moments later he'd returned, throwing a blanket over him, even tucking it around his shoulders so it would not slip in the night. "Thank you," d'Artagnan said breathlessly, revelling in the small amount of warmth that the blanket provided. The man gave a nod and left again, returning to sit with his comrades. Finally warming a little, d'Artagnan decided to stop fighting the fatigue that made his limbs and eyelids heavy; closing his eyes, he was asleep within moments.
It had been difficult to rest, knowing that d'Artagnan was in the hands of bounty hunters who viewed him as nothing more than a generous payday. Aramis and Porthos had been insistent, however, even threatening to speak with Treville until Athos had finally relented, laying down in the large bed where he and his two friends waited for him, one on either side. The estate house was large enough to contain sufficient rooms for all of them, but they had been inexplicably drawn together, just as they had been on the night when they had given up searching for the missing Gascon. The need to be in each other's comfort outweighed their physical needs, which resulted in them sharing a room and bed for the night.
It would hardly be the first time they'd done so and, while none would readily admit it, each of them slept easier pressed against the warm bodies of their brothers. d'Artagnan had been slow to accept the idea of sleeping in the same bed with them, and had been even more uneasy the first time he'd displaced one of the others, forced into bed due to an injury, thus driving another to sleep on the floor. But the three had been persistent in their efforts, soothing his fears with calming words and soft touches, and showing him through their actions that they would always take care of one another, the simple give and take between them just another demonstration of their deep bond. It was this thought that caused Athos the greatest distress in the early hours of the morning; the fact that d'Artagnan could not even recall their brotherhood, thinking himself alone and condemned. That d'Artagnan's memory had deserted him was desperate enough, but the fact that he was separated from his brothers, who would normally be there to guide him through his confusion and help him heal, was almost too much to bear.
It was this that finally drove Athos from the bed, Porthos opening one eye when the man got up, but then closing it again, deciding that the sleep the older man had gotten was sufficient. Athos moved to sit at the small table, quietly watching as Aramis rolled into the spot he'd vacated, Porthos comfortably settling his injured arm across the other man's chest. It never ceased to amaze him how well these men fit together and, even more incredibly, completed him; it made d'Artagnan's absence hurt even more keenly and had him glancing toward the window, grimacing in disappointment when he was greeted by the sight of full darkness, the hour still too early for the sun to be rising.
His eyes were gritty and dry, a clear reflection of the lack of rest he'd gotten, not just this past night but for so many days leading up to it as the need to clear the Gascon had consumed him. While he knew that his brothers shared his desire to see d'Artagnan's innocence proven, he'd felt a profound guilt that he hadn't been able to protect the boy, understanding better than the other two the politics of court. As such, he saw the young man's current situation as a direct reflection of his failure to foresee what was happening and to take the appropriate steps that would have the boy safe and with them, instead of in the hands of some ruthless bounty hunters.
He scrubbed his hand across his face, sighing deeply at his many failings, promising himself that he would do whatever was necessary to remove d'Artagnan from the others' grasp and ruin Rochefort so that he could never harm any of his brothers again. He was surprised when he looked up to see the first faint hints of the sun and, with an energy born of desperation, he pushed himself to his feet, moving to dress and prepare to leave, willing to allow his friends a few more minutes of sleep while he got ready.
When he'd finished and could find no more ways to distract himself, he returned to the bed to place a hand on each man's shoulder, calling to them softly to wake. They were quick to do so and were soon looking up at him from their positions on the bed. "Morning has arrived. We have far to travel and a most important task to complete; d'Artagnan will be in our midst before the sun sets." His declaration had the two men moving and Athos left them to their preparations, already exiting the room to see if Treville was awake, before heading outside to saddle their horses. Now that the new day had arrived, there was no time to waste.
d'Artagnan had prayed for the bliss of sleep to ease his suffering, but it was not to be. The darkness had brought with it a biting cold, not unusual for the fall months, but cruel when one was sitting on the exposed ground with nothing more than a blanket to keep the chill at bay, and the Gascon did not even have the luxury of curling his arms around himself to retain his meagre heat. The resulting chills had him shivering for most of the night, jarring his aching ribs and pulling coughs from his heavy chest, which was progressively feeling more and more constricted. At one point during the night, one of the bounty hunters had approached him, hissing at him to be quiet, but d'Artagnan could do nothing but moan miserably with the effort to stifle his coughs, swallowing desperately, but ultimately losing the battle against his lungs.
He was awake when dawn arrived, head leaning against the tree since he lacked the energy to hold it up. d'Artagnan watched through half-lidded eyes as the men came awake, moving slowly to counteract the stiffness of their limbs, and going about their business to take care of the morning needs and saddle the horses. He groaned as he considered the agony that riding would bring and he could only hope that he would pass out once mounted, providing him a short reprieve from the pain that seemed to have encompassed his entire body.
He was startled to feel a hand on his brow and realized belatedly that he'd closed his eyes at some point. Maillard stood above him and he looked almost concerned, making d'Artagnan crinkle his brow in confusion. "What?" he croaked out, his face screwing up in pain as speaking brought on another round of coughing.
"Why didn't you say you were sick?" Maillard asked.
d'Artagnan met his gaze as he replied, "Wasn't sick."
The bounty hunter sighed in frustration, "Well, you're sick now. You'd better be able to ride because we're not stopping for you."
The Gascon was unsurprised at the man's statement and offered a small nod, "I'll be fine." For some reason the words seemed familiar and his face clouded for a moment with the flicker of a memory, but then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
Maillard was speaking again and d'Artagnan forced himself to focus, not in any hurry to return to Paris, but fully aware that his fate rested in this man's hands. "You'd better be. They want you back dead or alive, but the bounty's more if you're alive."
With a last threatening look, the man walked away and d'Artagnan continued to observe the group as they broke camp and finished with the horses. When they were ready, the Gascon was at last untied and it took two men to raise him to his feet and get him into the saddle. The brief exertion had him sweating with effort and then shivering once more as his damp skin cooled in the chill of the morning air.
Surprisingly, they left his hands untied and d'Artagnan gratefully pulled the blanket around himself, thankful that he'd been allowed to keep it. Too tired and feeling awful, he didn't even try to stay upright in the saddle but immediately laid down along the horse's neck, revelling in the warmth he found there. The even motion of the horse soon lulled him to sleep as he huddled into himself as much as he could, his wheezing breaths growing more painful with every minute that passed.
He had no idea how much time had passed when he felt himself being prodded awake and he forced gummy eyelids to raise, looking blearily at the man beside him. It was Maillard and he was saying something, but the Gascon was not yet aware enough to comprehend his words. With a start, he was lifted upwards by his shirt as Maillard raised him to an upright position. The gasp the movement prompted sent d'Artagnan into a coughing fit and he was nearly bent in half again by the time it had ended. Maillard pulled him up once more, this time holding him for a moment to be certain he was steady and then passed him a water skin. d'Artagnan took it with trembling hands and managed several small sips before he had to stop in order to catch his breath. The bounty hunter took the skin from him and continued to examine him. Irritated by the attention, d'Artagnan huffed at him, "What?"
"Why did you do it?" At the Gascon's puzzled expression, Maillard clarified. "Why did you kill the Ambassador?"
d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise; this was the first he was hearing about the man he'd supposedly killed. "Dunno," he said, "don't remember anything."
"How can you not know?" the bounty hunter pressed, unwilling to accept his prisoner's answer.
He offered a slight shrug, "Hit my head in the accident. Didn't even remember my name until Madame Trémaux told me."
"And now you'll hang for a murder you don't remember and for a reason you can't recall," Maillard stated, a mirthless grin settling on his face. "I believe that's what they call irony."
d'Artagnan threw him a look of disgust, revolted by the fact that this man revelled in his misery. He began to lean forward, intending to lay down once more, but the bounty hunter caught the back of his shirt, stopping him. "What?" he asked irritably.
"How are you feeling?" Maillard asked.
The Gascon glared back at the man, certain that his only reason for asking was to protect the bounty he'd sworn to collect. Truthfully, d'Artagnan felt terrible. He couldn't recall every feeling so achy and cold, and he knew that drawing breath was far more difficult than it should be. A part of him prayed that he succumbed to whatever was wrong with him, robbing Maillard of at least part of the price on his head and saving him from death by hanging; although, as he struggled to inhale, he wondered if the experience might not be similar to what he now endured. "Fine," he gritted out, unwilling to give the bounty hunter an honest answer.
Maillard seemed disinclined to believe him and was reaching a hand toward his forehead when one of the others called out to him. "Maillard, riders approaching."
They pulled their horses to a stop, turning to face the road behind them as they waited to get a better look at the advancing group. As they drew closer, Maillard's keen eyes spotted the blue of the cloaks that fluttered behind the men and knew instinctively that they were Musketeers, likely planning to take back the condemned man. Grabbing the lead of d'Artagnan's horse, he kicked the flanks of his own mount, moving further down the road and away from both groups of men. "Take care of them," he called to his comrades as he pushed both horses to move faster, d'Artagnan flopping helplessly forward onto the horse's neck as the animal's gait ratcheted up the pain in his side.
The Gascon was holding on for dear life, his breaths coming in painful gasps as his cheek pressed into the animal's neck. At some point, his blanket had fallen, and the air they displaced as they rode slipped wickedly cool tendrils under his shirt, making him shiver as it touched his overheated skin. "Stop," d'Artagnan pleaded when he had sufficient breath to speak, but Maillard paid him no attention, continuously glancing between the road ahead and the road behind them.
The Gascon repeated his words as his vision narrowed dangerously, his breaths coming in shallow puffs that barely met his body's needs. "Stop." The bounty hunter was ignorant of his prisoner's deteriorating condition as he focused on escaping their pursuers and d'Artagnan relaxed more deeply onto the animal's neck. Allowing his eyes to slip closed, he was unaware of losing consciousness and falling from the back of the horse, barely missing being stepped on by the animal as he rolled to a boneless stop.