Chapter 7:
Author's Notes: So, this chapter is longer than usual. See it an apology for updating so late last time… *grins awkwardly* Not much d'Artagnan in this one, but he'll be back next chapter... Anyway, hope you enjoy!
d'Artagnan rides next to DuPont in silence. They've taken the right hand road, which is wider and more accessible than the left one. Beside the road the trees are sparse, large distances between the them to allow for blankets of fallen leaves. There's more light, too, in this area.
DuPont scrapes his throat. "So," he says, "I couldn't help but notice that there is some… discourse between you and your friends."
d'Artagnan doesn't look away from the path in front of them. He's eerily aware that behind him Moreau and Vasser have also stopped their conversation to listen in. He does not want to have this conversation. At all.
Or maybe he does. He doesn't really even know anymore. A few things, he does know, though. He knows is that he needs to show the world that he can handle being a musketeer. He knows that his heart aches with anger at his friends. He knows that his heart is weighed with a worry for Constance. And he knows that there are a few words from Athos that the does not want to think about ever again.
All these things, he knows. They're hardly something he would usually share with anyone, not with his friends, and certainly not with anyone who is not an Inseparable, Treville, or Constance.
He has to say something, though, so he murmurs, "Yeah. We had an… argument."
An uncomfortable silence falls again, no one really knowing what to say.
DuPont awkwardly tells d'Artagnan, "If you wish to talk about it, you may. If you do not, that is also fine." It's clear from his slightly desperate tone that he would by far prefer the latter. d'Artagnan almost smiles at that.
Suddenly Vasser cuts from behind, "I can tell they still care, you know. And that you do too."
For d'Artagnan is feels like someone is lifting something heavy off his chest with one hand, and stomping down on it with the other. He doesn't know what to say. No one does.
And as Vasser's unexpected wisdom seems to have suddenly run out, they ride on in silence.
The air is slightly less tense, by the worry in d'Artagnan's heart is greater than ever.
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Porthos sees Athos' horse round the corner. That is the only way in that he can manage to follow the narrow path that they're on. At times the turns are very abrupt, or the path slants upwards in such an angle they almost doubt their horses abilities. Those are times when Porthos just follows whoever is in front of him because he simply cannot see where the path is going.
Aramis and Athos ride up front, Porthos and Petit in at the back. It strikes Porthos as funny for a moment that they seem to have automatically sorted alphabetically. Even funnier, is how large Petit is. Porthos can't help but think that there is no name that could have suited the man worse. Slightly disgruntled at being left behind by d'Artagnan, and being kept out of some large secret by his other two friends, Porthos welcomes the company of Petit.
When the wind picks up and the musketeers walk through a shower of fiery leaves Porthos lets himself forget for a moment the situation they are in. He loves autumn, its warm colours mixed with the grey of the emptiness of the trees. It's not something he got to see often as a child, and he revels in it now, when he can.
Petit speaks, suddenly, "I know you're worried about d'Artagnan." And Porthos really wants to punch him in the face for bringing that up right when he was trying not to think about it. But the man continues, "But I'll have you know that Vasser and Moreau are two of the finest soldiers I have ever seen, including you and myself. And DuPont can handle just about any enemy, you know that." He does know that, having fought alongside DuPont once or twice.
"As for d'Artagnan," Petit continues, "I saw him fight back at the manor, I'm pretty sure he can hold his own."
"So?" Porthos asks, though his heart already feels slightly lighter with something like pride at d'Artagnan's competence
"So, maybe you should stop worrying about him, and start worrying about us. We're travelling the more dangerous road after all."
Porthos nods with a laugh. Petit about as subtle as a hammer, but Porthos can't deny that the man's words do make him feel better.
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Aramis is squinting his eyes now to be able to make out the road. More like path. Or piece-of-forest-ground-that-looks-slightly-more-well-trodden-than-the-rest. It's not dark yet, but dusk is fast approaching, and under the cover of the trees it grows dark earlier than in the wide fields they passed before this. The leaves may have fallen from the branches, but the wood is still thick, an lets little sunlight through.
And Aramis wants to hurry. He really does. He wants to get back to the palace, make sure Anne and the dauphin are alright. And the king, too, he adds as an afterthought. He's committed enough treason, and he's not going to let any other treacherous thought escape unnoticed. So, yes, he truly wants to make haste. But even he can see now that, well, that he can't see now, and that they should probably stop before they are enveloped by darkness.
He's just about to call back and suggest they stop when a shot rings through the forest.
All three musketeers duck guiding their horses to the side of the road in a desperate search for cover. There is none. Only sharp rock and trees that are too high up to reach. For horses at least.
Another shot.
"DISMOUNT!" Someone shouts. Probably Athos. "LOOK FOR COVER AND FIND THOSE MEN!"
The order seem completely at odds with each other. Hide away, and look for men… The contradiction does not seem to be a problem for the musketeers, they do exactly what Athos suggests.
They dismount, and Aramis sets himself up behind his horse, pointing his musket in the general direction that the thinks he heard the shots coming from. Porthos comes up behind him, handing him his own musket.
"Won't be needing this," he proclaims cheerily, "How about you work your magic on it?"
"What do you mean you won't be needing it?" Aramis asks, perplexed.
Porthos grins toothily, he points at Petit behind him and says, "Me and 'Petit' are gonna circle around and get them from the back, draw 'em out so you can shoot them."
Petit grins as well, and the two men stalk away. They look like boulders, tall, broad and virtually unbeatable. Aramis is almost sorry for their attackers, they're in for quite a scare.
Athos slinks up beside Aramis. There haven't been any shots in a while. The men silently wonder what their opponents are planning.
"What if they're on this side of the road as well?" Aramis asks Athos, suddenly worried of being subject to the same procedure that Porthos and Petit are giving their ambushers.
"They're not." The comte replies simply, and Aramis believes him. Not because Athos can know, but because Aramis can't afford it to be any other way.
A shout sounds over the hill that Aramis is aiming at. Men start emerging on the hill, some tumbling down it. In the background there's a gleeful, cackling laughter. He smiles, worries about his loved ones momentarily forgotten. Porthos is enjoying this a bit too much. He thinks.
Men start running and down the hill, now that their cover is blown. Their swords are out, and their ready to attack.
Aramis takes aim at a particularly fast runner. He blows at the fuse of this musket. I've been polishing you for a week, he thinks, you had better work, darling. He looks over the top of his horse, aims and shoots. Then he picks up Porthos' pistol and does the same. Two men go down gracefully. Another goes down, less gracefully, but very effectively, by Athos' shot.
They run out to the oncoming attackers, and fight.
Athos turns out to be right. They're only on one side of the road. While their skilled fighters, they have an absolute lack of tactics. However, they are persistent, not willing to stop until they're dead. Within 15 minutes they've won the skirmish. Six men dead, one dying, one running, and one their captive.
The captive is an unlucky man.
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The captive is tied up against a tree, blood seeping from a wound in his head, and his arm bent at an angle that, even trussed up, it should not be in. Four musketeers tower over him. Athos and Porthos up front, Petit slightly to the side – still unsure of his place in this tight-knit group. Aramis is pacing behind them.
"Question him already!" the Spaniard hisses impatiently. Not loud enough for their captive to hear, but loud enough for Porthos to send him an amused glare. The amusement is clearly not mutual, and as Athos starts talking, Porthos looks turns back to their prisoner, disappointed in Aramis' lack of humour.
"Who are you?" Athos asks simply, polite as always.
"Jean d'Aubier." The man replies cheekily.
"No. Not you specifically. You plural." Athos is completely unfazed by the man.
"We don't have a name."
"Then who do you work for?"
"That is none of your business." d'Aubier snarls back. Athos, apparently disagrees. He looms over the man, grabs his broken arm, and squeezes it slightly.
"I think it is." He suggests. d'Aubier cries out in pain, but stubbornly shakes his head. He continues to do so, even when Athos starts turning the broken bone.
"Doesn't seem like he wants to tell us anything." Porthos begins their charade easily.
"No, it would seem he's rather stubborn." Athos replies in the same neutral tone.
"Arm's not looking too good though," Porthos continues, "What do you think Aramis, you're our medic after all."
Aramis moves closer, his impatience and worry gone momentarily as he eases into a scenario that he is well-acquainted with. Squinting at the arm he winces slightly. Then he tuts.
"I can probably salvage the arm. But if he doesn't talk, I might as well not." Aramis states.
"Yes, a waste of time if you ask me." Porthos replies.
"Might have to amputate. That will keep him alive longer so we can question him." Aramis lies, obviously. Though it's not as obvious to their prisoner who pales significantly.
"Maybe he'll talk if we cut it off while he's awake!" Porthos suggests triumphantly.
Jean d'Aubier turns white as a sheet. His eyes scan between the two men looking down at him. They're discussing his amputation like it's something he does every day. They seem serious about it too. And suddenly, the man feels his loyalty towards his leader waning.
"Bernard Chassroi!" he practically screams, "I work for Bernard Chassroi! I'll tell you what you need to know, just leave me in one piece!"
The musketeers nod, and their captive launches into a long story. He's a recruit of Bernard Chassroi, a local lord who has connections with the Swedish earl who is planning the king's coup. Not much of a loyalist to Louis XIII, he decided to join this group for some money.
"What of the Queen and the Dauphin?" Aramis asks urgently. It is a good question, but when Athos shoots their friend a warning look, Porthos feels like he is out of his depth. He remembers, of course the budding romance between Aramis and Anne, but he really hopes that it has never gone further than romance. The look on Athos' face though shows a more than anything that the comte knows something about Aramis that he's not sharing. Porthos can't help but feel slightly offended. After all, he is usually the one that Aramis confides in, the closest of the Spaniards close friends. And that he hasn't done so… It makes Porthos nervous and slightly afraid of what he doesn't know. That is one reason he doesn't ask, hasn't asked over the past few months.
The second reason is that he knows Aramis will tell him once he needs to know.
"We don't kill children." Their captive bit out in disgust. Fair enough, Porthos thought. The man may be a treacherous scoundrel, but at least he has some feeling of honour. Athos will like that.
"And the queen?"
"We don't kill women either."
"She's not a woman, she's the queen." Athos replied easily, and Porthos suddenly remembered saying almost exactly those words to Aramis a year or so ago.
"Yes, she is the queen. But from what I've heard," even with his arms tied tightly behind him and his face black and blue, the man leaned in closer and said in an almost conspiratorial whisper, "And between you and me, I've heard quite a lot, the Scandinavian Earl in the castle's quite taken by the queen. Adores her even, 'ccording to my captain."
Petit was nodding in the background, the suddenly chipped into the conversation, "I've heard that said actually. The earl and the queen get along well. And the earl is childless, so he'll want to have the dauphin be his heir."
"Wouldn't the dauphin become king as soon as Louis died?" Porthos questioned, slightly surprised by the man's political knowledge.
"Yes, but the earl would be regent." Athos answered calmly. He kicked their captive, "Wouldn't he?"
The man nodded, grimace on his face. There was a truth to the man's words that the musketeers sensed automatically, being in search of it most of their lives. And the story fit.
The men shared a look and it was agreed quietly that their captor was telling the truth. Tension drained from Aramis features, his shoulder's slumping like a large weight had just been taken from them.
Then d'Aubier, nervous and still wanting to prove his honesty, decides to share another piece of information, and the tension is right back. He tells them that as second in command he was sent this way to capture or kill the musketeers, while Chassroi went the other way with the other half of the company.
Athos' heart jumps to his throat at the thought of d'Artagnan being ambushed. Porthos has to restrain himself not to shake the man to get information about the other half of the company's plans.
"They were to be ambushed too?" he asks instead, "When? Where?"
"I suggest you tell him." Athos says, his voice low but more dangerous than Porthos has ever heard it.
d'Aubier nods quickly, "Only in a day or so! I'll bring you there if you let me go!"
It's decided that they will spend the night sleeping here, and leave next thing tomorrow morning. d'Aubier will show them a short cut to the other road and bring them to their musketeer friends in exchange for his freedom.
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Athos dreams that night, vivid and emotional.
Athos eyes d'Artagnan. The boy looks back in frustrated defiance, obvious disagreement with Athos' previous remarks written all over his face.
It's the anniversary of Thomas' death. Years after his little brother was ripped away from him he has, through the mercy of a god he scarcely believes in anymore, been granted another brother. Not the same as Thomas, but so similar. So young and open and ready to take on the world. Thomas never got to take on the world, a consequence of his naivety.
And he needs to stop d'Artagnan from meeting the same end. Needs to make clear to the Gascon that he cannot die. If he does, he'll drag everyone around him down with him in their grief. If not in a literal, then in a figurative death.
It's these thoughts, desperate and painful that drag the next words out of him. With a thick tongue he stumbles over his words, they flow out with a slur as he says, "You've not changed much since you got your father killed," he takes a moment ponder the sentence, it having come out different than he wanted it to. But the words fade before he can change it, and he's launching into the next sentence, getting to what he really wants to say.
"You're too hot headed, and one day it will get us all killed." If Aramis doesn't manage it with the treason he's committed, Athos thinks bitterly.
"You don't mean that." d'Artagnan whispers, averting his eyes. Athos can hear the crack in the young man's voice, and he wants to take back his words. Of course that hot headedness will not get them all killed. But it will get d'Artagnan killed, and that in itself, is bad enough.
So he leans closer to d'Artagnan, tries to bring the point across, "It all ends bloody, d'Artagnan. We'll all die." d'Artagnan needs to realise how utterly mortal he is, how utterly terrible the world is, and how utterly devastated Athos will be if d'Artagnan dies before him. In order to bring the message across more clearly, the comte grabs d'Artagnan's shoulders, and moves their faces closer together, forcing the Gascon to look him in the eyes.
"Remember that there is no dignity in that. There is no dignity in death…" Athos intones. Please, he hope he brings across. Please. Don't. Die. Athos knows he cannot survive that.
At d'Artagnan's stricken look he lets the boy go. d'Artagnan coils back like he's been burnt, stumbling back and leaving the tavern. He can handle that, d'Artagnan leaving. Maybe, he relents, maybe it's not the hot headedness that killed Thomas, that will kill d'Artagnan. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's proximity to Athos and the danger he always seems to bring.
Yes. Athos tries to convince himself. He can handle a life without d'Artagnan, as long as he knows the boy is alive and well.
Athos wakes up cold with sweat. He sits up in an attempt to clear his head from the cobwebs of sleep, wishing fleetingly for the cold basin of water he always keeps by his bed. He hopes with all the hope he can muster that what his nightmare just now was nothing more than a dream.
But it doesn't fade, doesn't lose the drunken haze over it. And Athos knows. He just knows that that was a memory.
'You will get us all killed' he hears himself say, heart clenching at the truth that he bent to its very breaking point with that sentence. Still, that is not the sentence that is roaring in his head, drowning any cognitive thought or rationality.
'Since you got your father killed.' He said that. Athos told d'Artagnan that he got his father killed. He didn't mean to say those words, that is one thing he is absolutely certain of. Not because he thinks he can keep himself in control when he's drunk, or out of some form of kindness. No, he knows because there is not a single part of his being that ever thought d'Artagnan responsible for his father's death. In any way.
A slip of the tongue, that's all it was. It breaks cracks into his heart, though, and burns his thoughts in fiery anguish. Because d'Artagnan didn't hear a slip of the tongue, of that Athos is also sure. d'Artagnan heard a confirmation of his deepest fear and guilt. And Athos wants to punch himself for confirming it for the Gascon.
Over the low burning fire Aramis shoots him a concerned look, but the Spaniard doesn't pry. God knows the man has enough on his mind at the moment. Athos shakes his head for good measure, though. He realises now that d'Artagnan's need to prove himself lies not just in his friends being overbearing, but in the need to prove to Athos, and probably to himself that he can rise above the death of his father. Maybe relieve the renewed guilt he feels over his father's death.
He looks around at his three fellow travellers, unaware as they are of being in the vicinity of a monster.
He doubts Porthos and Aramis will ever forgive him for this.
He knows he will never forgive himself for this.
He also knows that d'Artagnan probably will.
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Athos does not sleep a wink that night. When the sun rises, pale and cold, he's already up and about, gathering the few supplies he unpacked and getting ready for the journey. Porthos shoots first him, then Aramis a quizzical look. He gets a shrug from the Spaniard, and a shake of the head from the comte. Great.
It is a good thing that the whole group is in a hurry, or Athos would probably have left on his own. It's unnecessary to do so though, they all wanting to get back as soon as possible to their friends. Their friends hopefully have not been ambushed. Who hopefully are not dead.
The worry is in all their eyes.
Don't be dead, d'Artagnan, Athos thinks with as much power as he can muster. He feels a vague guilt in his gut that he's worrying so little about the Gascon's fellow travellers, but the feeling is overshadowed by the clawing monster in Athos' chest that will not grant him any piece. Athos has rarely felt so much fear and guilt simultaneously. Only when he hung his wife and when he found Thomas broken on the floor did Athos ever feel like this.
He hopes that this time the feeling will not end in someone's death.
Usually one to measure his words, careful and unwilling to offend anyone, Athos is almost surprised that it is a careless sentence that will be his undoing. But clearly, that is exactly what his words will be, and Athos sees a strange sort of justice in that.
He needs to tell d'Artagnan he didn't mean it. Needs to assure the young man that his guilt is unfounded.
But first, he has to find the boy alive, or everything will be for naught.
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Half a day's ride from the edge of the forest, the Western road narrows. The forest grows denser and the rolling hills that they've travelled the past few days grow steep. It is here that the path's narrowest point can be found. This point is what locals call les machoîres du bois, in other words the jaws of the forest. The name is apt. Riders are forced to pass through it one at a time, while tall hills topped by even taller trees tower over the path, casting a macabre darkness. Some of the trees have cracked half way up and fallen to bridge over a higher part of the passage.
Passing through, d'Artagnan feels like he's going to get swallowed whole by the forest, crushed, perhaps by the wood's jaws. He can sense that the same claustrophobic fear also hangs over his fellow travellers. Not merely out of a sense of dread, but more rationally, because this passage would prove an ideal place for an ambush.
Once past the jaws, the path broadens again, allowing them to ride side by side. The musketeers are so relieved that they made it through that they do not see the shadow that steps away from a large tree at the top of the hill they just passed.
The shadow leaves with a message.
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Bernard Chassoi knows the woods intimately, having grown up in the area. He is well aware of the effect of les machoîres du bois, knows the dread you feel passing through it, and the vigilance, fuelled by fear that remains in your body for hours after passing the place.
When he saw the musketeers enter the forest, he knew that the kings men were doomed. He knew they would split up, and he knew exactly how long it would take the musketeers to get precisely where he wanted them. He was not disappointed by his abilities
The other half of the group had probably already been ambushed by the rest of his men. They were traveling the path that seemed more dangerous. But the most dangerous part of this wide and safe looking road was yet to come for the remaining musketeers.
Here, the path turned up over a hill. Here, there was a multitude of cave, some of which were unknown even to him. Here, the brush was thick and the trees were close together.
Here, he would finally get his hands on the musketeers, and with a bit of luck, on the letter.
TBC
Time for some action next time! Thank you again for everyone you reviewed, you keep me going ;)