Chapter Text
"You Have No Proof!"
“I don’t believe you! Lies. All of it. D’Artagnan would never do something as vile as that!”
“But do you really know him? Can you trust his every word?” the mercenary goaded with a twirl of his sword in the air.
“Yes! I know he is incapable of doing all that you claim he has done! He is honourable and loyal….to a fault at times.” The last words murmured under his breath.
Athos’ rage was only held in check by the restraints tying him against the tree. The forest was thick and the moonlight could only shine so bright, escape was futile. “Show me proof they're unharmed and well. Using brute force was not part of our agreement.” His commander’s voice brooked no room for a rebuttal, regardless of being friend or foe.
Sneering through the haze from the torch gave his cicatrice-filled visage an even deadlier glow. The sinister aura oozing from every fibre of his being came the two spine-raising words. “With pleasure.”
A well-worn brown leather pauldron with the unmistakable slash through the fleur-de-lis and splatters of blood sinking into the cut was tossed to his feet. It was d’Artagnan’s no doubt, for it was by his own hand which scored the leather insignia in a sparring match shortly after being conferred the honour.
“I know they made it out! This means nothing!” He tugged at the restraints again.
“If you say so, but I wouldn’t count on it. Do you think they’re waiting for you then?”
“Yes! Now do as you promised! Release me and I will see to return what is yours. Upon my word as a Musketeer. I promise. Unhand me, you vile insurgent.”
The insurgent merely left his prisoner as is and walked off into the shadows.
“You have no proof!” A voice bellowed, shaking the leaves. His silver armour flung streaks of moonlight around illuminating the thick brush underfoot. Porthos held his ground using every bit of his large stature to gain advantage.
“Show us!” Another voice chimed in, equally as menacing as the first one. He too was dressed to the letter in military regalia and loaded with ready weapons. “You coward, just a pathetic messenger! Meet our demands and we’ll return what is yours.” Aramis pointed a primed musket at the challenger’s face.
“You don’t know this,” A third voice threatened, younger sounding than the previous two. “He is too modest to say it himself, but he is the best. The best marksman. Never misses a target, regardless of the distance,” d’Artagnan pointed his rapier squarely at the foe. “ I would not want to be on the receiving end of his barrel, surely you wouldn’t either, I would assume, especially at a distance like this. He wouldn’t miss even with both his hands tied behind his back?” He looked at the man in question for a response.
“Eyes closed and hands tied. This is nothing compared to that one time I did more whilst standing on a precipice.” Aramis shook the musket for emphasis.
Before them stood a young man swept away in the illusions of grandeur, namely, to be living for themselves without the overbearing nobles and monarchy standing on their backs, taking away their hard-earned livelihood. It was the very war the sapling D’Artagnan once fought for when he set off from Lupiac in petition for lower taxation.
What a change of events that fateful trip gave him!
The freedom they all vied for came with a steep price, one that many wouldn’t dare to pay. For him, this young lad and his compatriots wanted only equality. Violence wasn’t part of the equation, but as all would know- gold and silver are very persuasive masters.
He knew there was no chance of gaining the upper hand against three battle-hardened decorated Musketeers, but to return without success to his superior was an outcome he did not want to toy with.
“Just as I thought. Bluffing! Run back to your masters, boy.” Porthos chided with venom in every single word. “Tell them we want our soldier back, unharmed by dawn. Or all of you will feel the full force of the King’s Musketeers strength."
"Make no mistake. We are not bluffing.” Aramis butted the handle of his main auche into the frightened boy's shoulder, " Do as you are told. Unharmed by dawn. No tricks. Now GO!"
~ Many hours later ~
Shadows crept across the plains, smothering the morning light in an unnatural, inky blackness. The scent of fire crept on the wind, and the roar of lone wildlife only added to the eeriness of the listless ambience.
A twinge of sorrow fluttered within his chest as Aramis set the bowl of steaming stew in front of Athos. The dirt had been scrubbed from their commander’s gaunt face, but he still trembled. The blanket draped across his shoulders had yet to take the bluish hue off his lips.
“Take all the time you need. As soon as you’re ready, can you tell us what happened out there?” d’Artagnan offered gently, adding two more blankets across those shivering shoulders. Athos nodded absentmindedly, his focus still lost in the void of snow and horrors he unfortunately had to witness.
Porthos held up a spoonful, locking gaze with Athos, “I vow on everything sacred to never let this happen again, never to any of our Musketeers.”
“Tell me what happened after I was taken away. Everything. I must know. They hurt you all. I told them not to, or I wouldn't give them what they wanted.”
“Eat first. Our wounds are nothing compared to yours,” Aramis pushed the bowl closer to the sickly one. “ I won’t have you fainting from exhaustion and malnutrition, we only just got you back. The captain has been kept apprised of our movements. I need you, here. With us, Athos. Regain your strength then we’ll head for the Garrison.”
He complied.
At first the words were bitter and tasted foul in Athos’ mouth, choking them out between swallows of stew and wine. They were harsh and self-condemning words about his plight. He gave not a single care to his health at that point, hitting his knees with every word that escaped his lips. True to its namesake, liquid courage loosened his tongue and soon more words came tumbling out.
“I should have protected my men better….They hurt you as retaliation." I should have, I, their commander. Their leader. Protector.
One after another.
And more.
One after another.
The momentum of the previous words pulling the ones following behind.
Faster and Faster.
They came barrelling out like a wild mustang finally free from the pen of captivity. The words revealed came from deep within his soul, ones that his brothers never heard before. Taken by force changes a man, and in no way for the better. Little by little his emotions steadied on, the three heard how they came in possession of a weary apothecary and his young apprentice and how they planed to care for them in the interim. Honouring his words, Athos did find a way for all of them to leave unharmed. It was not easy to escape with two civilians, so seeing the joy on their faces when freed was worth all the hardships.
Aramis paced the room in fury, how foolish of him to not have persisted going with Athos during capture. He could have protected his commander! He failed to realise the depth of guilt and self-loathing for how wrong their mission did turned for the worse.
I should have been taken away too. Where is there honour in letting my superior protect me at the cost of his own freedom?
Him of all people.
He should have known better. D’Artagnan grabbed his senior by the collar. “You’re scaring him. Sit down. Don’t do this to yourself. Not here, not now. It’s not your fault. Not yours alone- you were injured! Badly too. We are all to blame. We should have taken better care of him.”
"You're right, my apologies. Athos, we're sorry. Forgive us."
Athos said nothing, but in his eyes held more words than he ever uttered before.
"I'm ready to tell what happened. Bring me wine, please."