Treville was taking a long and boring report from Etienne and Pierre when the messenger boy entered his office.
"Yes, what is it?" he asked, brusque in the face of yet another interruption during an afternoon which had already been fraught with them.
"Sir," the lad said breathlessly, "I'm to tell you that there has been a massacre at Savoy, on Good Friday. Twenty dead and two injured."
Pierre made a noise like an injured bird, and Etienne paled noticeably, but Treville scarcely noticed, such was the depth and breadth of the chasm that opened abruptly in the space between his own heart and lungs.
"Who sent word? Who were the survivors?" he forced out, while thinking I will kill the Cardinal, I will run my sword through his scrawny abdomen and gut him like a fish.
"I don't know, sir," said the boy. "Sorry, sir."
"Etienne, Pierre, you're dismissed," he said in a hoarse voice, feeling as if the words were coming from a long distance away, through a tunnel. "Pierre, pay the boy on your way out."
His actions mechanical and without thought, Treville donned his cuirass, cloak, and sword belt in moments, and rode for the palace as if the hounds of hell were upon his heels.
* * *
The Cardinal was in an audience with the King when Treville forced his way in, unannounced, to the fluttering dismay of several servants.
"Ah, Captain," the urbane First Minister greeted. "We've been expecting you, though I admit to some surprise at your ill-mannered method of entrance."
Treville strode up without pausing and grabbed Richelieu by the front of his ornate leather jerkin.
"I will kill you slowly and painfully, you spineless bastard, but first I want the King to know what you've done," he said, his face inches from the other man's.
"Stand down, Captain Treville!" the King ordered, looking mildly shocked by the threat of violence between his two advisors.
"Not until this snake answers for the death of twenty of my men, sire!" Treville shouted, punctuating it by giving Richelieu a sharp shake.
Richelieu looked down at Treville with a sneer of disdain. "And these would be twenty of the men whose position you gave away to the Duke of Savoy, I presume?"
A red haze drifted across Treville's vision. "After you told me to do so on the King's orders, you lying devil!"
"Enough!" Louis ordered. "Release the Cardinal this instant, Captain. He was telling you the truth; those orders did come from us."
Treville physically stumbled back a step as the ground seemed to disappear from beneath him. "Y-your Majesty?"
"That is what we were discussing, Treville, before your needlessly melodramatic entrance," said Richelieu. "News of the, ahem, unfortunate incident reached the palace only an hour ago."
"Yes," said Louis in his vague drawl. "Terribly sad, but quite necessary, I'm afraid. We needed a diversion to pull the Duke's troops away from his capital, you see. His advisor Cluzet was in possession of sensitive knowledge about our sister, the Duchess; he was about to expose her as our principal spy in the region. Fortunately, our operatives were able to capture Cluzet while the Duke and his forces went after your men, and I'm pleased to say that he is on his way to a French prison even as we speak."
Treville felt as though the foundations of his world had been turned upside down. Of all the questions clamouring for his attention-- How could you betray my faithful service in such a way? How can I possibly command these men if they discover that I sent their brothers to their deaths for a ruse?-- it was the least important one which spilled from his lips.
"Why would the Duke attack King's musketeers on a peaceful training mission?"
King Louis had the good grace to look faintly abashed. "Ah. As it happens, our contacts may have implied that the company was there on a mission to assassinate the Duke and place his infant son on the throne. I imagine he was quite put out when he heard that."
Words deserted Treville, leaving him gaping in silence for an awkward few moments.
"I must go," he said eventually, lacking anything to say which would even begin to address the reality of what he'd just been told. "I must see to my men."
He vaguely realised that he must have turned and started walking away without deference to his monarch when he heard the King exclaim "How rude!" to his retreating back, and Richelieu reply, "We must make allowances for the man, sire. After all, he has just received a nasty shock...".
* * *
It was completely inevitable that the news would have spread through the garrison like wildfire in his absence. Therefore, it was no surprise to find Athos and Porthos-- the two remaining Inseparables-- readying horses in the courtyard when Treville rode in.
The pair moved forward to intercept him as soon as they saw him.
"Aramis was with the company in Savoy," said Athos in his usual level tone. "We're going there immediately, sir, to bring him home. Do not attempt to stop us."
"I'm not stopping you," Treville replied grimly. "I'm going with you. Serge!" The old cook poked his long face out from the kitchens. "Get rations for three days' hard riding. Renauld! Fetch me a pack and a bedroll from the quartermaster. We leave in ten minutes!"
* * *
Treville was confident that he had never in his forty-seven years covered as much distance in as short a time as he and his men did in the following two-and-a-half days. They stopped every few hours to trade their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, using Treville's own coin to pay. In this way, they had managed not to actually kill any horses on the frantic journey, though it had been a near thing on the outskirts of Lyon when Porthos' mare pulled up lame and blowing, sweat dripping from her flanks like rain.
Night and day they rode, stopping only for an hour here and there when one or the other of them was in danger of slipping from the saddle due to exhaustion. It was a ragged company indeed which rode into the little town of Les Avenières on the morning of the third day, a full hundred and fifty leagues from Paris.
Treville's joints and muscles reminded him with every stride of his advancing years, but he welcomed the pain as a distraction from his circling thoughts. There had been far too much time to think on the journey.
No doubt his soldiers' thoughts had been dedicated to grief and worry over the probable fate of their friend, and the sharp loss of twenty valued comrades. Treville's, however, spun in a storm of sick, impotent rage. The Spanish would no doubt be blamed for the massacre. Treville's loyalty to France, and the crown, prevented him from naming the Cardinal as the instigator... for to name the Cardinal would be to name the King.
Impossible. Unthinkable.
Even if his own role as unwitting traitor came to light-- which was unlikely-- there would be no punishment... except, perhaps, the loss of all respect from the men he led. The dead would never see justice. Never. He would have to carry the guilt and anger inside, unseen, for a lifetime. Never again would a day pass where he did not see the ghosts of twenty good men when he closed his eyes at night.
Now, though, it was time to deal with the aftermath. Eight days had passed since Good Friday. Two had survived; did they survive still?
Ragged or not, their uniforms caused whispers and sidelong looks as the three men entered the town. Making immediately for the inn, Treville summoned the landlord and asked the man if he knew of a massacre of King's musketeers in the woods nearby.
"Aye," said the man. "'Orrible business. All dead except one deserter who came through 'ere like the flames of hell were licking at 'is back, and another who's lost 'is senses, attacking anyone who tries to come an' clear away the bodies."
Porthos growled, and Athos looked as strained and pale as Treville had ever seen him.
"Thank you," he told the innkeeper. "We'll take care of him."
* * *
It was Aramis.
Whatever relief and joy Porthos and Athos must have felt upon discovering that their friend had survived the odds was quickly replaced by horror when the pale figure wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked bandages charged the three of them with a drawn sword, screaming hoarsely.
Fearing that the others were too overcome to react, Treville drew his own blade, ready to defend them from their deranged brother if necessary.
"Aramis, stop!" Athos' voice rang out, strong and commanding.
"It's us!" Porthos cried.
Whether due to his friends' voices or sheer exhaustion, Aramis' knees gave out beneath him and he crumpled into a heap on the cold, wet ground. The other two rushed to him, but Treville's gaze was drawn against his will to the scene behind the collapsed soldier.
Twenty dead men lay in neat rows at the edge of the trees, their cloaks covering their faces and upper bodies. Dead horses lay scattered around the clearing; one had been butchered for the meat of its haunch.
Eight days, Treville thought to himself, bile rising in his stomach. Eight days the lad has been here, surrounded by this hell of your making.
He dragged his eyes back to the living by force of will. Porthos was approaching Aramis as one might approach a wounded animal. The smaller man shuffled backward across the ground, weakly, shaking his head in violent negation and muttering a litany of "No, no, please, God, no". Athos stood frozen in place a few steps away.
"Aramis," Porthos pleaded.
"No, no, you can't be here; you are supposed to be safe," Aramis whispered. "Dear God, must I be haunted by your ghosts as well as the others? I cannot bear it!"
Porthos dropped to his knees next to the overwrought man, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Aramis flinched violently at the touch of solid flesh.
"How--?" he asked, wide, dazed eyes locking on Porthos' face. "H-have I finally died as well? Have you come to take me with you? If all of my brothers are truly dead, then I go willingly." Tears filled his eyes. "Forgive me! I tried to save you-- all of you, but I was too weak..."
Athos made a small noise of pain and moved to join his friends, crouching down as Porthos clasped Aramis other shoulder as well, shaking him once, lightly.
"Aramis, no," said Porthos. "Stop."
"We're not dead, and neither are you," Athos said in a hoarse voice. "We've come to take you home." Athos took one of Aramis' hands in his, lifting it to press against his chest, beneath his doublet and over his heart. "Feel that?"
Aramis gaze flickered from Porthos' face to his.
"You're... you're really here? Oh, God! Oh, God," he sobbed, undone, "is it over? Please let it be over..."
Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms as the injured man began to weep uncontrollably. "It's over," he said, his own voice none too steady. "We've got you. Shh... we've got you now."
Athos fisted a hand in the loose material of Aramis' shirtsleeve, curving his body over the other two protectively, and Treville felt another stab of pain in his already guilt-riddled heart that he should be a witness to such intimacy in the aftermath of his own unknowing treachery. Athos' eyes were tightly closed, but opened when Treville cleared his throat softly.
"I'll fetch men and carts from the town. Look after him," he told his lieutenant softly. Athos nodded once in acknowledgement, and Treville fled the sight of two of his strongest soldiers crying like babes in each others' arms, while the third hovered over them as if he could somehow shelter them from all the world's hurts.
* * *
Three hours later, when he returned with teams of draught horses pulling a motley assortment of wagons, and strapping boys from the town and neighbouring farms, Porthos and Athos had Aramis cleaned up and freshly bandaged, wrapped in blankets and propped in front of a warm fire with a cup of broth in his trembling hands.
The townsfolk made short work of loading the bodies and packing up everything worth salvaging from the camp. Porthos led Aramis to the last cart, and he and Athos lifted the injured man into it. Aramis clutched at their sleeves as they leaned back, his face pale.
"Don't leave me," he said. "Please, my brothers. I cannot face riding back with only the ghosts for company."
"Of course not, brother," said Athos, as Porthos covered Aramis hand with his own. "We won't leave you."
As one, Athos' and Porthos' eyes sought Treville, and he nodded, calling for two of the young men.
"Clear the back of this cart," he said. "Load it on two of the riding horses instead."
Once space was cleared, the two men climbed up, arranging their friend between them in a nest of blankets and canvas. As Treville approached to make sure they were settled, Aramis looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I failed you, Captain," he said. "I tried, but I couldn't help them. I couldn't even stop Marsac from leaving, after he saved my life. We should have gone back to fight, but I was injured and Marsac was trying to hide me. I should have stopped him..."
It took all of Treville's strength to hold Aramis' gaze and be the commander he needed, steady of voice and firm of resolve.
"It was not your fault Aramis," he said. "None of this was your fault. You behaved honourably, and with courage. You treated your fallen comrades with dignity. You protected them and stayed with them until help arrived. That you have survived is the one spot of brightness in this unimaginable tragedy. I am deeply proud of your actions."
Aramis' eyes skittered down and to the side, and Treville knew he was not ready to hear the words. With a final, meaningful look at the other two, he turned an mounted the driver's seat of the cart, shooing the boy who was sitting there off to one of the other wagons.
Treville would drive this cart and its precious cargo home himself.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)
Date: 2014-05-07 09:59 pm (UTC)Treville was taking a long and boring report from Etienne and Pierre when the messenger boy entered his office.
"Yes, what is it?" he asked, brusque in the face of yet another interruption during an afternoon which had already been fraught with them.
"Sir," the lad said breathlessly, "I'm to tell you that there has been a massacre at Savoy, on Good Friday. Twenty dead and two injured."
Pierre made a noise like an injured bird, and Etienne paled noticeably, but Treville scarcely noticed, such was the depth and breadth of the chasm that opened abruptly in the space between his own heart and lungs.
"Who sent word? Who were the survivors?" he forced out, while thinking I will kill the Cardinal, I will run my sword through his scrawny abdomen and gut him like a fish.
"I don't know, sir," said the boy. "Sorry, sir."
"Etienne, Pierre, you're dismissed," he said in a hoarse voice, feeling as if the words were coming from a long distance away, through a tunnel. "Pierre, pay the boy on your way out."
His actions mechanical and without thought, Treville donned his cuirass, cloak, and sword belt in moments, and rode for the palace as if the hounds of hell were upon his heels.
* * *
The Cardinal was in an audience with the King when Treville forced his way in, unannounced, to the fluttering dismay of several servants.
"Ah, Captain," the urbane First Minister greeted. "We've been expecting you, though I admit to some surprise at your ill-mannered method of entrance."
Treville strode up without pausing and grabbed Richelieu by the front of his ornate leather jerkin.
"I will kill you slowly and painfully, you spineless bastard, but first I want the King to know what you've done," he said, his face inches from the other man's.
"Stand down, Captain Treville!" the King ordered, looking mildly shocked by the threat of violence between his two advisors.
"Not until this snake answers for the death of twenty of my men, sire!" Treville shouted, punctuating it by giving Richelieu a sharp shake.
Richelieu looked down at Treville with a sneer of disdain. "And these would be twenty of the men whose position you gave away to the Duke of Savoy, I presume?"
A red haze drifted across Treville's vision. "After you told me to do so on the King's orders, you lying devil!"
"Enough!" Louis ordered. "Release the Cardinal this instant, Captain. He was telling you the truth; those orders did come from us."
Treville physically stumbled back a step as the ground seemed to disappear from beneath him. "Y-your Majesty?"
"That is what we were discussing, Treville, before your needlessly melodramatic entrance," said Richelieu. "News of the, ahem, unfortunate incident reached the palace only an hour ago."
"Yes," said Louis in his vague drawl. "Terribly sad, but quite necessary, I'm afraid. We needed a diversion to pull the Duke's troops away from his capital, you see. His advisor Cluzet was in possession of sensitive knowledge about our sister, the Duchess; he was about to expose her as our principal spy in the region. Fortunately, our operatives were able to capture Cluzet while the Duke and his forces went after your men, and I'm pleased to say that he is on his way to a French prison even as we speak."
Treville felt as though the foundations of his world had been turned upside down. Of all the questions clamouring for his attention-- How could you betray my faithful service in such a way? How can I possibly command these men if they discover that I sent their brothers to their deaths for a ruse?-- it was the least important one which spilled from his lips.
"Why would the Duke attack King's musketeers on a peaceful training mission?"
King Louis had the good grace to look faintly abashed. "Ah. As it happens, our contacts may have implied that the company was there on a mission to assassinate the Duke and place his infant son on the throne. I imagine he was quite put out when he heard that."
Words deserted Treville, leaving him gaping in silence for an awkward few moments.
"I must go," he said eventually, lacking anything to say which would even begin to address the reality of what he'd just been told. "I must see to my men."
He vaguely realised that he must have turned and started walking away without deference to his monarch when he heard the King exclaim "How rude!" to his retreating back, and Richelieu reply, "We must make allowances for the man, sire. After all, he has just received a nasty shock...".
* * *
It was completely inevitable that the news would have spread through the garrison like wildfire in his absence. Therefore, it was no surprise to find Athos and Porthos-- the two remaining Inseparables-- readying horses in the courtyard when Treville rode in.
The pair moved forward to intercept him as soon as they saw him.
"Aramis was with the company in Savoy," said Athos in his usual level tone. "We're going there immediately, sir, to bring him home. Do not attempt to stop us."
"I'm not stopping you," Treville replied grimly. "I'm going with you. Serge!" The old cook poked his long face out from the kitchens. "Get rations for three days' hard riding. Renauld! Fetch me a pack and a bedroll from the quartermaster. We leave in ten minutes!"
* * *
Treville was confident that he had never in his forty-seven years covered as much distance in as short a time as he and his men did in the following two-and-a-half days. They stopped every few hours to trade their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, using Treville's own coin to pay. In this way, they had managed not to actually kill any horses on the frantic journey, though it had been a near thing on the outskirts of Lyon when Porthos' mare pulled up lame and blowing, sweat dripping from her flanks like rain.
Night and day they rode, stopping only for an hour here and there when one or the other of them was in danger of slipping from the saddle due to exhaustion. It was a ragged company indeed which rode into the little town of Les Avenières on the morning of the third day, a full hundred and fifty leagues from Paris.
Treville's joints and muscles reminded him with every stride of his advancing years, but he welcomed the pain as a distraction from his circling thoughts. There had been far too much time to think on the journey.
No doubt his soldiers' thoughts had been dedicated to grief and worry over the probable fate of their friend, and the sharp loss of twenty valued comrades. Treville's, however, spun in a storm of sick, impotent rage. The Spanish would no doubt be blamed for the massacre. Treville's loyalty to France, and the crown, prevented him from naming the Cardinal as the instigator... for to name the Cardinal would be to name the King.
Impossible. Unthinkable.
Even if his own role as unwitting traitor came to light-- which was unlikely-- there would be no punishment... except, perhaps, the loss of all respect from the men he led. The dead would never see justice. Never. He would have to carry the guilt and anger inside, unseen, for a lifetime. Never again would a day pass where he did not see the ghosts of twenty good men when he closed his eyes at night.
Now, though, it was time to deal with the aftermath. Eight days had passed since Good Friday. Two had survived; did they survive still?
Ragged or not, their uniforms caused whispers and sidelong looks as the three men entered the town. Making immediately for the inn, Treville summoned the landlord and asked the man if he knew of a massacre of King's musketeers in the woods nearby.
"Aye," said the man. "'Orrible business. All dead except one deserter who came through 'ere like the flames of hell were licking at 'is back, and another who's lost 'is senses, attacking anyone who tries to come an' clear away the bodies."
Porthos growled, and Athos looked as strained and pale as Treville had ever seen him.
"Thank you," he told the innkeeper. "We'll take care of him."
* * *
It was Aramis.
Whatever relief and joy Porthos and Athos must have felt upon discovering that their friend had survived the odds was quickly replaced by horror when the pale figure wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked bandages charged the three of them with a drawn sword, screaming hoarsely.
Fearing that the others were too overcome to react, Treville drew his own blade, ready to defend them from their deranged brother if necessary.
"Aramis, stop!" Athos' voice rang out, strong and commanding.
"It's us!" Porthos cried.
Whether due to his friends' voices or sheer exhaustion, Aramis' knees gave out beneath him and he crumpled into a heap on the cold, wet ground. The other two rushed to him, but Treville's gaze was drawn against his will to the scene behind the collapsed soldier.
Twenty dead men lay in neat rows at the edge of the trees, their cloaks covering their faces and upper bodies. Dead horses lay scattered around the clearing; one had been butchered for the meat of its haunch.
Eight days, Treville thought to himself, bile rising in his stomach. Eight days the lad has been here, surrounded by this hell of your making.
He dragged his eyes back to the living by force of will. Porthos was approaching Aramis as one might approach a wounded animal. The smaller man shuffled backward across the ground, weakly, shaking his head in violent negation and muttering a litany of "No, no, please, God, no". Athos stood frozen in place a few steps away.
"Aramis," Porthos pleaded.
"No, no, you can't be here; you are supposed to be safe," Aramis whispered. "Dear God, must I be haunted by your ghosts as well as the others? I cannot bear it!"
Porthos dropped to his knees next to the overwrought man, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Aramis flinched violently at the touch of solid flesh.
"How--?" he asked, wide, dazed eyes locking on Porthos' face. "H-have I finally died as well? Have you come to take me with you? If all of my brothers are truly dead, then I go willingly." Tears filled his eyes. "Forgive me! I tried to save you-- all of you, but I was too weak..."
Athos made a small noise of pain and moved to join his friends, crouching down as Porthos clasped Aramis other shoulder as well, shaking him once, lightly.
"Aramis, no," said Porthos. "Stop."
"We're not dead, and neither are you," Athos said in a hoarse voice. "We've come to take you home." Athos took one of Aramis' hands in his, lifting it to press against his chest, beneath his doublet and over his heart. "Feel that?"
Aramis gaze flickered from Porthos' face to his.
"You're... you're really here? Oh, God! Oh, God," he sobbed, undone, "is it over? Please let it be over..."
Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms as the injured man began to weep uncontrollably. "It's over," he said, his own voice none too steady. "We've got you. Shh... we've got you now."
Athos fisted a hand in the loose material of Aramis' shirtsleeve, curving his body over the other two protectively, and Treville felt another stab of pain in his already guilt-riddled heart that he should be a witness to such intimacy in the aftermath of his own unknowing treachery. Athos' eyes were tightly closed, but opened when Treville cleared his throat softly.
"I'll fetch men and carts from the town. Look after him," he told his lieutenant softly. Athos nodded once in acknowledgement, and Treville fled the sight of two of his strongest soldiers crying like babes in each others' arms, while the third hovered over them as if he could somehow shelter them from all the world's hurts.
* * *
Three hours later, when he returned with teams of draught horses pulling a motley assortment of wagons, and strapping boys from the town and neighbouring farms, Porthos and Athos had Aramis cleaned up and freshly bandaged, wrapped in blankets and propped in front of a warm fire with a cup of broth in his trembling hands.
The townsfolk made short work of loading the bodies and packing up everything worth salvaging from the camp. Porthos led Aramis to the last cart, and he and Athos lifted the injured man into it. Aramis clutched at their sleeves as they leaned back, his face pale.
"Don't leave me," he said. "Please, my brothers. I cannot face riding back with only the ghosts for company."
"Of course not, brother," said Athos, as Porthos covered Aramis hand with his own. "We won't leave you."
As one, Athos' and Porthos' eyes sought Treville, and he nodded, calling for two of the young men.
"Clear the back of this cart," he said. "Load it on two of the riding horses instead."
Once space was cleared, the two men climbed up, arranging their friend between them in a nest of blankets and canvas. As Treville approached to make sure they were settled, Aramis looked up at him.
"I'm sorry I failed you, Captain," he said. "I tried, but I couldn't help them. I couldn't even stop Marsac from leaving, after he saved my life. We should have gone back to fight, but I was injured and Marsac was trying to hide me. I should have stopped him..."
It took all of Treville's strength to hold Aramis' gaze and be the commander he needed, steady of voice and firm of resolve.
"It was not your fault Aramis," he said. "None of this was your fault. You behaved honourably, and with courage. You treated your fallen comrades with dignity. You protected them and stayed with them until help arrived. That you have survived is the one spot of brightness in this unimaginable tragedy. I am deeply proud of your actions."
Aramis' eyes skittered down and to the side, and Treville knew he was not ready to hear the words. With a final, meaningful look at the other two, he turned an mounted the driver's seat of the cart, shooing the boy who was sitting there off to one of the other wagons.
Treville would drive this cart and its precious cargo home himself.
tbc