Chapter 13:
Author's Note: So, it's been really long again. I'm sorry. Honestly. I just couldn't get the words out, which is why this is so short. There will be one more chapter after this, and an epilogue, after that you won't have to deal with my atrocious updating skills anymore xD. Sooo, I hope this was worth the wait!
Night brings an all-encompassing chill. The ground hardens and the trees quiver in the meagre breeze as their leafless branches hide four shivering musketeers from sight. They lie close together, sharing the heat from their bodies as sleep almost eludes them. Only Athos still has his over-layers and he has already given half his clothing to d'Artagnan, who was left bare-chested by his latest torture. There is still a heat deep under his skin and the Gascon sleeps fitfully because of it. It's a strange contrast next to Porthos who sleeps like the dead. Courtesy of his concussion.
With a rub to his knee, Athos stares deep into the underbrush. He keeps out an ear for any approaching soldiers. Behind him, d'Artagnan tosses his head and whispers a broken 'no'. The comte stretches a shaking hand over to his brother and lightly grabs his shoulder. The Gascon stills at his touch, but the anger in Athos' stomach does not.
The thought of d'Artagnan's dreams send shivers down Athos' spine. The can scarcely imagine what the Gascon must have gone through during his captivity, but the wounds and the dreams on his brother alone make his blood thrum faster. Before this moment, Athos has never really understood the term 'bloodlust'. He has always thought himself too rational for such a notion, too steady and in control to let his heart be ruled by the need to kill. Even when Thomas was killed, he never lusted for his wife's blood. He had loved her too much to want her dead. What he feels when he thinks of Chassroi, though, can only really be described as that; bloodlust.
Judging from the angry glint in Aramis eyes when he wakes from d'Artagnan's moan, he feels the same. The Spaniard sits up gingerly, twisting to keep his weight off of his injured arm. He shivers.
"The cold will sap our strength." Aramis whispers softly. Athos hears the cold will sap d'Artagnan's strength.
"Yes. A fire would be ideal," Athos answers just as quietly, "But that would give away our position."
Aramis just sighs, staring out into the empty twigs. Then he moves abruptly and reaches out to Athos' leg. His hand hovers above the knee for a moment, questioning gaze pinning the comte down. A simple nod is all Aramis needs as permission to feel his brother's swollen knee.
Just then, a twig snaps in the distance and both musketeers whip their heads around. Voices sound through the forest, harsh orders and heavy boots. They wake Porthos. With the quick alertness that he has had since his very first night in the Court of Miracles, his eyes are open and his hand is on the closest weapon. He shares a sleep-drenched look with Aramis in an attempt to find out just how much danger there is at the moment.
Aramis shakes his head in a silent gesture to be quiet, and naturally d'Artagnan chooses that moment to start murmuring in his sleep as he is gripped by a nightmare. Within a second Porthos has his hand over d'Artagnan's mouth to stifle the sound.
Though Porthos expects the Gascon to wake up, he doesn't expect the startled flinch that runs through the man, nor the wide, frightened eyes or the painfully hard grip on his wrist. Only when he sees Porthos' face, does d'Artagnan relax. His eyes are no longer quite so wide, but his hand still holds the wrist.
The look twists something in the Parisian's heart. He doesn't know why the fear in his brother's face comes as such a surprise, but he finds that he is taken aback by it. He looks so broken, Aramis had said as they were walking down the chateau's halls. Back then, Porthos had denied it. D'Artagnan seems by his very nature impossible to break. No matter how hard he falls, how hard they work him, trick him and corner him, he always gets back up. Always with the same determined scowl. Always with a cocky saunter and a sarcastic quip. Now, Porthos can't help but feel that maybe the Spaniard was right. Perhaps this time, the Gascon won't get up. Perhaps this time he can't.
Looking towards his friends, Porthos can see the same fear in his brothers' faces. The fear that they were too late and that, though they have him back physically, they will still lose their youngest brother to the demons that Chassroi left behind.
"We should move out." Athos says quietly, "I do not like the feeling of sitting here like a duck waiting to be shot."
Though none of the musketeers particularly feel like walking, they know that that Athos is right. They may be hidden at present but it will not be long before the soldiers, who know this forest better than they do, find this hiding place. So, they nod in silent agreement.
After finishing the last bread from the basket, they head out. D'Artagnan held up by Porthos while Aramis strolls out in front with their remaining musket held at the ready and Athos limping behind them with a keen ear out for their aggressors.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
The cold hands of d'Artagnan's nightmare still lingers around him like a mist. Every time he closes his eyes to blink, he sees the flickering light of the torches in the dungeon, he sees flashes of red pokers and blinking teeth in a horrid grin. He swears that sometimes when he breathes in through his nose he is met by the smell of burning flesh, he feels an unbearable heat and stabbing pains in the slightest move of Porthos' arm on his back. Even the taste, sweat and pain like blood on his tongue, lingers between his teeth.
In his dreams, he had been back. Worse still, he had betrayed the king. He'd been brought to another room, just as dark, just as painful. From there he'd looked out over the court in front of the palace, he'd seen the King executed, the Queen and Constance following suit. His friends' heads had already been put on stakes before the palace gates and Chassroi had whispered a lilting, "All dead thanks to you. I'm going to have so much fun rewarding you for that."
That was the moment he had felt the hand snake around his mouth. For a moment, he had been absolutely terrified of Porthos, and that is what scares him. The fact that he was so far gone in his mind that he no longer knew his own friends. The thought that it can happen again in the future.
You're broken, a small voice whispers in his mind, and he bids it to disappear. He is not broken. He simply won't allow himself to be, won't give Chassroi the pleasure of that accomplishment.
They stumble over a particularly large root and d'Artagnan almost goes down. Athos hisses when he reaches out to catch d'Artagnan and his knee turns strangely and d'Artagnan hears the whistle of a whip in the back of his mind. He flinches, and Porthos digs his fingers into d'Artagnan's arm slightly harder than necessary.
"You alright?" The large man sounds worried, though d'Artagnan suspects the frown in his brow is mostly at the pain in his own head.
A simple nod doesn't seem to suffice as an answer because Porthos grabs his other shoulder.
"After what you've been through, you don't have to act strong. It's alright to not be alright."
D'Artagnan smiles slightly, "I know." He says, "But I will be alright."
And he will be, because Porthos is holding him up like a stone, Aramis is guiding him out of this horrid place and Athos is guarding his back. Just like always. Three protective musketeers on a mission.
That, d'Artagnan muses, is something Chassroi can never compete with.
CBB SREETEKSUM EHT
After two hours of walking, Athos is ready to chop off his leg. It would probably be less painful and they would certainly make better time than they are doing now. They're all tired, he notices. Aramis' breath is wheezing again, and d'Artagnan looks half dead. Even Porthos, strong and steady despite his head wound, has started stumbling over the solid ground.
They need to rest but with their pursuers hot on their heels they really cannot afford to. More and more, though, Athos is starting to think they may have to risk it.
Between the bare trees the ground disappears in a sudden drop, eight feet of empty air that has been hewn from the rock by the river far below. Aramis signals it to them with a cautionary wave of his arm as he tries to look for a way across.
"This was the canyon I jumped over with my horse," Aramis says with something like pride in his voice, "Would be good to have a horse now…"
Porthos snorts. "This was the canyon? I thought you meant an impressive jump, not a small hop."
One corner of Athos' mouth curls up. He's missed that careless banter over the past hours. D'Artagnan looks up with a gasp, something completely different on his mind.
"Buttercup!" he cries, "Did you see what happened to her?"
The other side of Athos' mouth also curls its way up now as he shakes his head. Of course d'Artagnan, who was kidnapped and tortured for days, is worried about his horse. Sometimes, he swears he's working with children instead of full-grown musketeers.
The thought is erased a moment later when an all too familiar voice sounds from behind them.
"Buttercup? That wouldn't be the yellow horse we captured would it?" Chassroi calls.
The four musketeers spin around immediately. They're met by ten soldiers with purple sashes, their weapons drawn and ready to attack. In the middle stands their leader, hideous smirk still plastered on his face.
Chassroi steps forward, predatory grin on his face, looking at d'Artagnan like he is a piece of particularly scrumptious meat. The Gascon himself is standing with Porthos' help, leaning into the man for support while Aramis has his musket raised and pointed right at Chassoi's face.
It is with an almost clinical eye that Athos assesses their situation, which is dire. There is no way that they will be able to fight their way out of this and it is rather unlikely that a the soldiers will suddenly change their minds and turn on their leader. Also, despite his words to the contrary, Athos knows that de Mausin was unaware of who attacked his lands and didn't divulge any name in the letter. There are countless scenarios, but there will be no rescue and any other situation can only end in death. Because Porthos has his hand wrapped so tightly around d'Artagnan's arm that it is clear he will only let go when the fingers are broken off one at a time. Aramis, too, will greet death with a last shot from his musket. A shot right between Chassroi's eyes.
"I see you've salvaged my favourite toy," Chassroi spits, with a frenzied timbre to his voice that is new to everyone but d'Artagnan, "I'd like to have him back."
A shiver runs down Athos' spine as he wonders when Chassroi's business with d'Artagnan went from gaining information to inflicting pointless pain. The Gascon pales considerably, his mouth snapping shut on the retort he was about to make.
Athos steps protectively in front of his friends, hand on his rapier, more than ready to meet his end if it gives his friends even a second more time. The sheer thought of d'Artagnan back in this maniac's hands makes Athos' blood boil. Though the Gascon has one of the strongest characters he has ever met, Athos doubts he can handle another second with Chassroi. D'Artagnan doesn't have the experience, the callouses and elephant skin in his psyche to handle a blow like this. Not yet. And it is Athos' duty to protect him from ever growing out of his youthful naïve countenance.
It's with a voice so calm that he surprises even himself that Athos says, "You will have him over my dead body."
"Over our dead bodies." Porthos adds in a growl, "And we'll take you all down with us."
"Don't worry, there will be plenty of corpses here. But first you will tell me where that letter is." Chassroi says.
The silence that follows is only broken by Aramis absentmindedly blowing to reignite the lit fuse of his musket.
To Athos surprise, d'Artagnan speaks. He's hoarse, and an almost manic sound colours his voice, "The letter? That letter is at the palace, King Louis is in all likelihood already sending out his men to kill you."
"You cannot possibly know that. That is just a guess made on pure faith." Chassroi tells him sweetly.
"Is it? I have faith in my brothers honesty. I have faith that my fellow musketeers will fulfil their mission. I have faith that King Louis will punish you," d'Artagnan speaks with so much heat that he has to draw in a gasping breath, "Mostly, I have faith that once you have met your sticky end, you'll be falling straight to hell."
Chassroi narrows his eyes and takes another step forward. Athos raises his rapier as a warning not to come closer.
"You have a lot to say for a man who conveniently kept his mouth shut when he was at my mercy." Chassroi whispers and a snarl rips from Porthos' throat as Aramis' finger twitches on the trigger.
"Unless you want to be at our mercy," Athos drawls, rapier still raised, "I suggest you do the same and hold your tongue."
Chassroi simply shakes his head in denial, "You tell me where the letter is and I'll be merciful."
"He just told you, it's in the King's hands." Porthos grouses, his grip on d'Artagnan never loosening, "You're a dead man walking."
Then Aramis cocks his head, "Ah, but it's not about the letter anymore, is it?"
Understanding dawns on Athos now, too. Aramis is right, the letter is no longer the most important part of this conflict. For a moment Athos shaken by the dawning realisation that d'Artagnan has pissed off this man enough to make him throw all caution in the wind in an attempt to punish him.
Then Athos narrows his eyes at Chassroi. He understands, like every landlord does, the importance of a man's name among his subjects, "It's about reputation among your men. You can't have your people thinking that you are soft, you cannot have them whispering behind your back that a young musketeer managed to challenge you without consequences."
"This is about reputation. The reputation that has been slandered in that letter." Chassroi spits, motioning for his men to move in closer. Before anything can happen, though, d'Artagnan is speaking again. His legs shake and his face is the colour of death but his voice manages to stop the soldiers in their tracks with its fury.
"Athos is right. I know your type, Chassroi. Vicious landlords who believe they own not only the land, but also the people living on it. You collect too much taxes and sent too little to the King, then when the King complains you speak of revolution and unfit monarchs as you run your own land to the ground. Really though, you don't care how he speaks of you, so long as you can keep your tenants in hand with an iron grip of fear and poverty." The words are spoken with an unexpected strength and ferocity.
For a moment Athos is taken aback by the insight that d'Artagnan is portraying, not just into this awful man, but into the politics of France. His words speak of experience. Perhaps the Gascon is not quite as raw as Athos expected, perhaps he has invisible callouses and scars outside of his father's death.
Then d'Artagnan addresses the soldiers around them, "He keeps you on his hand in the same way, threats and empty promises… Whatever he promised you today, don't expect too much of it."
"He promised us your head on a stick, you think he'll come back on that?" One of the guards snarls.
"That he may give you." Concedes d'Artagnan with a cynical smile Aramis hopes never to see on his face again, "But nothing more. That is how men like Chassroi protect their capital."
"Says the farmboy." Chassroi mocks.
Though is voice is raspy and his body is tired, there is a fire in d'Artagnan's eyes when he raises them to Chassroi.
"Says the farmboy from Gascony. My home has been under so many hands and so many rulers that it doesn't know better than to tear itself apart. And no one really ever helps, because we're not quite France and we're not quite Spain and even the English had us at some point. What never changes, though, is the lying and the stealing. It's not the king that tears us apart, it's lesser nobles like you who fill their pockets over the backs of their people, that destroy us."
Silence fills the forest then and Athos wishes he can turn to look at d'Artagnan, but he cannot risk to let down his guard. He can practically feel Porthos raise his eyebrows, though, as the man lets out a surprised huff. Aramis simply chuckles.
"I always knew you had more brains than we gave you credit for." He says.
Chassroi ignores him and addresses d'Artagnan, "Being the 'lesser noble' that I am, I would like to make a deal with you. You hand yourself over and in return, your friends leave freely."
Aramis jumps in immediately with a, "I just told you d'Artagnan is not as stupid as you would expect. He won't do- "
"Yes." D'Artagnan replies, already stepping forward.
The reactions are instantaneous, the voices of three musketeers rising up indignantly.
"Never mind, he is stupid." Aramis says darkly.
"He'll have to rip you from me." Porthos says through gritted teeth as he pulls his brother closer.
Athos merely lets out a warning "d'Artagnan…"
One of the guards allows is sword to drop and turns to Chassroi in fury. "You promised we would get retribution!" he growls.
Chassroi simply shrugs, "You will get retribution on the Gascon. The rest is just a price to be paid."
The soldiers grumble, but they listen to their lord. Chassroi is still standing in the same place, head cocked and impatiently tapped the seconds away with his right foot. Athos' eyes never strayed from the man's face, ready at any moment to protect the friends standing behind him.
There's an aborted growl, and suddenly Porthos is limping forward with d'Artagnan. He passes a surprised Athos, then gingerly releases the tight grip on his brother's arm. With a death glare in Chassroi's direction he watches their Gascon move towards his tormentor. Aramis cocks the hammer of his musket in warning, a soft sizzle sounding as a spark is sent through the fire-arm. Beside him, Athos moves forward to intercept d'Artagnan on this foolhardy mission, but Porthos stops him with a heavy hand against his chest.
Struck dumb by the move, Athos stops in his tracks while betrayal curls in his stomach. Even when the larger man shakes his head, Athos cannot quite wrap his mind around the fact that Porthos - the most fiercely loyal of them all – is willing to sacrifice their youngest. He pushes against the strong hand that's holding him back, words of protest on his lips as he opens his mouth. But he's too late.
Because d'Artagnan is standing right before Chassroi and he's going to be killed. All Athos' fears are going to come true.
Then four things happen at once. The small dagger that d'Artagnan was given to protect himself slides gracefully from the Gascon's sleeve. Porthos lets his hand fall from Athos' chest as he swings a large fist at the nearest guard and, as d'Artagnan lunges forward with his weapon, three shots ring through the air.
In a movement so automatic that Athos barely realises he's doing it, he parries the blade that swings by his chest. As metal hits metal, Athos finds himself hoping four things with the desperation of a madman.
One; he hopes they all survive this.
Two; he hopes one of the shots he heard was Aramis'.
Three; he hopes Chassroi is still alive when he finishes with this opponent, because he wants the pleasure of personally ending the traitor for all he has done to their youngest brother.
Four; he hopes that it will hurt.
TBC