Chapter Text
There is yelling, and the sound of something breaking, and Treville opens his eyes with a sigh. Of course, a peaceful night’s sleep is too much to ask for these days.
He covers his eyes with his arm, praying that whoever it is will just rob him and then leave. But when are his prayers ever answered? And after a little more careful listening, it’s clear it's no mere thief who has entered his office. There are some very familiar voices arguing out there, and despite wanting nothing more than sleep, past experience has shown that when those men come to him in the middle of the night, it’s in Paris's best interest for him to find out what’s going on.
So, he leaves the warmth of his bed and dresses in trousers and a shirt, hoping it's something trivial, not another furious husband or a ruffian cheated out of his money. No matter what it is, he prays it’s something that can be resolved in no time. He has an early morning to look forward to, escorting the King and Queen to church.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he steels himself and opens the door to his office. He is in no way prepared for the sight awaiting him.
It is indeed the men he expected, but not in the way he’s usually greeted.
His desk has been pushed over, papers and ink now scattered all over the floor in a mess that nearly makes his eyes twitch. It would normally be enough for him to start yelling if it weren’t for the sight of Athos, bound and gagged, lying beneath both Porthos and d’Artagnan, while Aramis holds a pistol to his temple.
They all look up when he opens the door, stopping their little struggle to stare at him like children caught in a silly fight. Treville looks at the scene before him, eyeing his best musketeers and takes in the bruise on d’Artagnan’s cheek, the split lip on Aramis, the blood on Porthos’ doublet, and he asks the only question he can.
“What in heaven’s name is going on here?”
“Captain,” says Aramis, eyes and pistol still pointing firmly against Athos’ head. “We are here to report a fraud.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Treville, wondering if his men have gone mad. “Why is Athos bound like that? What is going on?” Athos looks up at him, eyes wide, but not with fear, more with a warning. Treville doesn’t understand any of this.
D’Artagnan shifts his position on top of Athos, who struggles a bit until Porthos presses down on him, keeping him immobile. Then d’Artagnan gets up from his comrade’s back and stands before Treville.
“This may sound insane, but we-” he gestures to both Porthos and Aramis, “have reason to believe that Athos… might not be… Athos.”
Treville stares at him, waits for him to give the actual reason for this madness. When none comes from the boy, he turns to Aramis and Porthos, only to find the same serious look on their faces. Athos still looks up at him from the floor, not able to voice the annoyance written all over his face.
“If this is some kind of joke-” Treville warns them, willing to believe this is a jest, but Aramis is quick.
“It’s not, I swear. This man is not Athos.” He says it with so much venom in his voice that Treville almost believes him then and there. Almost. This is still insane. The man lying on the floor is clearly Athos. Everything from the wild, untamed hair to the blue eyes flashing with rage is the pure image of his lieutenant. There is no question about it.
Still… they all look so serious.
“Please, Captain,” d’Artagnan says, holding up a hand. “Please just listen to us.”
Treville looks down at Athos, who shakes his head in warning, then at Porthos holding him down with his strength and weight. Aramis’ eyes never stray from the pair, following every little move Athos makes, his pistol steady in his hand.
D’Artagnan is watching Treville hopefully.
Treville realizes the situation could get dangerous. Once in a while, one of his men goes off in a rage. It happens, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He has seen it with all his men. Most go off like a pistol, their rage sudden and explosive. Treville remembers one instant with Porthos, who, once faced with a nobleman whose idea of fun was throwing children from the street into the cages of his wild animals, nearly broke the man’s neck with one hand. It had taken every ounce of skill to talk the king out of hanging Porthos.
Others, like Athos, are like slowly boiling water. It takes time to reach the breaking point, but when they do, everyone can get burned if getting to near.
No matter who is involved when it happens, it’s crucial to keep weapons out of the situation, or someone gets hurt. And that someone seems to be Athos at the moment. They are all armed, but it’s still the pistol in Aramis’ hand that’s his main concern. That and Porthos' strength, crushing Athos.
Something had happened that made these men snap. While he prays it never happens, he’s always like to think he’s prepared for it. He never thought he would be prepared to save them from one another.
Treville carefully eyes the looks on his men’s faces. Their claim is insane, but he sees no other choice, so he nods slowly. The relief in the men’s faces, except for Athos’ that is, once again almost makes something inside him believe their claim, crazy as it is. But only almost.
“At least get him off the floor,” he says and gestures at Athos. Aramis doesn’t lower his pistol for a second as the two others get Athos off the floor with combined help, and into the chair Treville keeps for visitors.
Shaking his head and mumbling beneath his breath about retirement, Treville goes to his poor desk and puts it right, before finding his own chair. It has also been knocked over, but is at least whole. He picks it up, sits down, and runs a hand over his face as he sees the mess around him. Later, he decides.
Athos is now sitting up against the wall, still bound and gagged and with Aramis’ pistol pressed against his hairline, giving Athos a look Treville hasn’t seen since the Duke of Savoy was visiting.
Porthos is standing beside Athos, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed, clearly ready. For what, Treville has no idea. His men have gone crazy, and he wishes for nothing but his bed. This really is a daytime problem.
He rubs his temple, trying to kill off a building headache before it takes root. “I swear, if this is some kind of jest, I’ll have you all court-martialed in the morning.” There is no real heat to his threat, but he feels like it must be said anyway.
“No jest,” says Porthos.
“Then what is it?”
“Well…” d’Artagnan looks behind him at Porthos, silently asking for help. Porthos gives Athos a warning glare, which is answered with loathing of equal strength, and then looks at Treville. He opens and closes his mouth, clearly not knowing what to say.
“I’m going back to bed,” sighs Treville and rises from his seat. It has the desired effect.
“No, you have to listen to us,” insists d’Artagnan desperately, and Treville falls back into his chair again.
“Fine, fine,” he gestures for them to begin. “Tell me then, why Athos isn’t Athos.”
~*~
It rained as they stared miserably into the dark waters where the bodies had been found.
“All in the same place,” said Aramis, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself as rain dripped off the brim of his hat. “Pretty risky, isn’t it?”
“Someone must have seen the murderer throw them in,” d’Artagnan agreed, and looked around. There was nothing special to see about the place. A few small boats were tied to the bank, and rats were scurrying around in the rain. The street behind them was nearly empty thanks to the weather, and the few who lived in the area, including the few they had managed to talk to, had seen nothing.
“If this is even the place,” said Athos. “The current could have carried them from upriver.”
“And further downriver if they hadn’t been caught by the nets,” said Aramis. His eyes glided across the water, following the body of the Seine to where it disappeared around the bend.
Porthos frowned. “So basically, the killer can have thrown them in from anywhere?”
Aramis sighed. “Seems like it.”
“So where do we start?” asked d’Artagnan.
“With their bodies,” said Athos.
It was those times when Porthos was truly reminded of the cruelty of the world.
In the morgue, they found the poor souls, all as dead as they came. Porthos hovered by the door, not eager to take a look, which, judging by the smell, would be anything but pleasant.
Tracking down the families of the victims had been surprisingly easy. The time they had spent in the river had been short, so their features were still pretty clear. The musketeers had spread the word about the dead to the people of Paris, giving descriptions about each of them, hoping their families would recognize them.
They had, however, omitted certain details regarding the deceased. Like how they had been dragged from the filthy water, naked, strangled, and with their hair crudely cut. Three men and a young woman. There were cuts on their arms and legs, though it was impossible to say what had done it. Athos and Aramis took on the duty to talk with the doctor who had looked them over, letting d’Artagnan and Porthos stay just outside the room, away from the sight.
The young woman was the daughter of a baker. The poor father couldn’t speak as they sat in his home, delivering the terrible news. He sat by a table in his bakery; hands covered in flour and with traces of dough on his clothes and in his beard.
His wife was a tiny thing. Very small compared to her large husband, but unlike him, she didn’t show any emotion. She remained pale and silent while the news of their daughter’s death seemed to break her husband. He buried his face in his meaty hand and sobbed. As they, as gently as possible, told the parents what had happened to their daughter, the wife turned her pale eyes towards them, her expression slowly turning cold and resentful, as if it was their fault her child had been killed and humiliated.
“I can’t imagine the pain you must feel,” said Aramis to the couple, his voice soft and full of a compassion that could only be truly heartfelt. “We will do everything in our power to find who did this and see him punished for his crime.”
The baker’s sobs grew louder. Porthos hung his head, both out of respect for their sorrow and because he found the situation uncomfortable. He stood by the door, hands clasped together in front of him, hating every second.
“Madam,” Athos urged, since her husband was lost in his grief. “Please tell us about your daughter. It will help us find whoever is responsible for this.”
Slowly, she turned her gaze from Aramis to Athos.
“She’s like light, my Louisa. Like light. Always smiling, always happy, she…” The poor woman broke off her tale to take a deep breath, tears gathering in her eyes. “She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Kind to everyone and everything. No one wanted to harm her.” She took a deep breath, and the tears dried, her eyes suddenly burning as she looked at each of them. “No one hated my Louisa. She was kind! You hear me? She was the most loving girl in the world. She doesn’t deserve to be in that river, to be…be…”
They hadn’t told her how her daughter had been found, but clearly rumors had reached the baker before the musketeers had. The poor woman finally broke.
Screaming like she was in mortal pain, she began tearing at her hair, tears flowing freely from her eyes. Aramis jumped forward and grabbed the poor, grieving woman by the hands, and gently but firmly lowered them so she didn’t hurt herself. Her husband looked up at her outburst, face red from crying, shocked into silence. He stared at her like she was a stranger.
“Madam, please, calm down…” Aramis hushed, gently holding the woman who, in return, clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder. He muttered words into her ear, low and comforting.
Athos, taking advantage of the husband’s sudden attention, turned to the man. “When did your daughter disappear?”
The baker answered, but he still looked shocked, his gaze on his grieving wife. “Twelve days ago,” he said, voice stripped of any emotion. “She went to sell bread at the market. She never came home.”
“Did she tell you about anything strange before that day?” continued Athos. “Did someone follow her? Had anyone threatened her? Anything unusual?”
“No,” said the baker. Then he frowned. “But she did act a little strangely. She forgot agreements and even some of her chores. She forgot to feed the chickens,” he said loudly and looked at Athos, tears once again running down his cheeks. “She never forgets to feed the chickens.”
They didn’t get anything else out of the poor parents. After Aramis had managed to pry the wife’s fingers off his doublet, they thanked them for their help and expressed their sympathies for their loss. Then they left the little bakery and stepped out onto the street of Paris.
“Poor folk,” Aramis said, hat in hand as he looked back at the bakery. “The loss of a child…” he trailed off, eyes growing distant.
Porthos didn’t miss the look Athos gave Aramis, strange as it was. Something had been going on between them lately, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. They hadn’t voiced anything to him. Yet.
“So, what now?” asked d’Artagnan, drawing Porthos back to the case at hand. He looked at the boy and noticed the look on his face, the way his shoulders slumped. Porthos didn’t blame him. This was a dark and terrible matter after all. And many of the killed were roughly the same age as him.
Athos looked at his piece of paper. “I believe we are only three streets from the next one."
Their next dreaded stop was Matthieu Pierre's home.
Matthieu had been a smith’s apprentice. He had been the easiest to recognize despite his horrible state. A large, dark red mark ran from the hairline above his right eye and all the way down to his cheek. A devil’s mark, Porthos had once heard it called, but knew it was merely silly superstition.
Still, the boy had not had an easy childhood with such a red spot covering a large portion of his face, so his father had sent him to the smith to learn a steady trade. Porthos had to be impressed by the man's cleverness. Smiths were always in high demand, and if one did good work, he could look like a roasted pig, and people would still buy his service.
But years in the smithy had made Matthieu strong and tall. How anyone could overpower such a man and throw him in the river was a mystery.
His father had no answer. Unlike poor Louisa’s parents, Matthieu’s were calm but angry. His father was a tall man with clever eyes. He had apparently pushed the grieving aside until the killer was caught. He answered each of their questions precisely and in detail. His wife, a small woman, was quiet during their talk, but she listened intently and watched them throughout.
Athos asked the same questions. Would anyone want to harm Matthieu? Did he act strangely in the days to his disappearance? And what his father told them was similar to what Luisa’s parents had said.
He had acted a little strangely. Forgetting things, behaving a little odd. But he was well-liked and did his work to perfection, never a complaint from customers or master. He didn’t drink or fight, and he returned to his parents’ home straight after work.
They thanked them and left the parents to their grief.
“Sometimes I hate this job,” muttered Porthos as they began the walk to the next home. They didn’t come very far as Madam Pierre suddenly called out to them. They turned and saw the small woman run towards them, skirts in her hands.
“Please wait!” she called. When she reached them, she grabbed d’Artagnan’s sleeve. “Please tell me who did this to my son. I beg you, sir!” The hysterical note in her voice made d’Artagnan take a step back, looking slightly frightened. He gathered himself quickly, though, and gently placed his hands over hers.
“We will find out who hurt your son, Madame, I promise you.”
Her husband came running after her. He gently grabbed her and carefully pried her fingers off d’Artagnan’s jacket.
“Please forgive my wife. She hasn’t been the same since our son disappeared,” he said, gently guiding the woman back to their home.
“Our sympathy for your loss,” Aramis said to them and brought his crucifix out from the folds of his clothes. He said a short prayer, and Monsieur Pierre nodded gratefully to him.
“So,” asked Porthos, feeling his mood scrape the muddy ground. “Where to next?”
~*~
The four of them returned to the garrison, where they sat down at the table in the yard.
After having spent all day talking to grieving parents, they were exhausted but still without a lead. All the families had told the same story, more or less. All the dead were liked by friends and customers. No one made any trouble, but had acted a bit strangely before they disappeared. While they lived in the same part of Paris, their path never seemed to cross. They had all disappeared while doing everyday tasks, like walking to the market or on the way home from work.
No one had seen them or heard from them until they were discovered in the river.
“So what now?” asked Porthos. Aramis took off his hat and ruffled his hair a bit.
“I don’t know. The strange behavior before they disappear is… well, strange.”
“And then they end up dead in the river,” muttered d’Artagnan darkly. The day had only gone from bad to worse for the lad. The last one had been a man younger than d’Artagnan, whose mother had slapped him in her grief. Aramis placed a consoling hand on his shoulder before continuing.
“Paolo was the first to disappear three weeks ago. Louisa and Etienne, two and seven days later. Matthieu then went missing about nine days ago.”
“They were starved,” said Porthos, not really wanting to remember how thin the poor sods had looked when fished out of the river. “But that wasn’t what killed them.”
“No, it seems like they were strangled,” mused Aramis unhappily. “After so long with no food, they would be weak as kittens.”
“If they were even aware enough to fight back,” said Athos.
In frustration, they realized they had absolutely nothing. Strange behavior was their only lead, which, to Porthos, amounted to nothing.
“Well, we might as well get something to eat,” said Athos and stood up.
After supper, they shared a few bottles of wine and then parted for bed. Porthos just hoped the morning brought brighter times with it and fell into a very short-lived sleep before Aramis came knocking on his door.
“A friend of Matthieu Pierre came to the garrison,” Aramis said hurriedly and threw Porthos’ discarded shirt at him. “Come along.”
Athos had been at the garrison, reporting their weak progress to Treville over a late glass, when the boy had arrived, and was waiting for them all at the bottom of the stairs with a nearly sleepwalking d’Artagnan.
“He said he had never seen Matthieu act this way,” Athos said as he led them from the garrison and out into the night. The few hours of sleep had made Porthos more tired than well rested, and he shuffled after his companions, wrapped tightly in his cloak against the mist already gathering in the streets. “He told me that the day before his disappearance, he visited a house.”
“So what?” mumbled d’Artagnan, who trailed after Porthos.
Aramis looked over his shoulder at the lad, a gleam in his eyes. “A house, young d’Artagnan. A house.”
It took a few seconds to land, but when it did, d’Artagnan stopped dead in the street, eyes wide and all traces of sleep gone from his face. “A what?” he asked in a very squeaky voice.
Porthos laughed.
~*~
A house it was indeed. The Golden Bird was the name over the door, and Aramis jokingly noted that there apparently still were houses he wasn’t familiar with. D’Artagnan sputtered at the comment, and Porthos slapped him on the back, nearly choking on his laughter.
They weren’t allowed inside, but the mistress had agreed to come outside in the chilly night air. She was an impressive woman, Porthos thought. Not because of her profession, scantily clad figure, or her beauty. But because she held herself proud and looked at them with, not defiance, but with a look that promised, should they offend or harm her, she would give it back double.
This was not a woman who rolled over for a man, no matter what he paid her. Porthos liked her instantly.
“May I ask your name, Mademoiselle?” said Aramis with his charming smile. He took off his hat and bowed deeply to her. The woman remained unimpressed by his flatteries.
“Madam Cygne is the name I use,” she said and crossed her arms across her large bosom. Aramis cleared his throat, clearly a little disappointed that his infamous skills failed him here.
“Well, Madam Cygne, will you tell us about the young man who came here last week?”
“Which one?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. Porthos smiled at d’Artagnan, who seemed to take extra care in not looking at how much was actually visible of Madam Cygne.
“I believe you have heard of the unfortunate men who were found in the river?”
She seemed hesitant, but then Athos dug out his purse and handed her a few coins. She took them without hesitation and stuffed them into her shirt sleeve.
“If you’re talking about the black-haired one with the mark on his face, then there isn’t much to say. He came, paid good money, and spent a few hours here.”
“Did he at any time act… strangely?” asked Athos.
Madam Cygne shook her head. “Not at all. He wasn’t into anything weird. Didn’t want to be whipped or dressed up. Didn’t want my girls to act like his mother or talk to him in strange languages. He just wanted them and paid good money for it.”
Porthos couldn’t help but grin at d’Artagnan. The lad had turned a bright crimson at hearing Madam Cygne’s words. With his skills with a blade and knowing the horrors he had seen, it was sometimes easy to forget how innocent the boy still was in some ways.
Athos didn’t seem fazed by the details the Madam gave him; he just looked thoughtful. “Did he say anything strange? Did he mention names of any kind?”
Madam Cygne frowned a bit. “No, he did his thing and then left.”
Porthos sighed. Dead end again.
“Did you happen to see which way he went?” Aramis asked politely, not a hint of his usual charm in his voice, just politeness. Madam Cygne gave him a look less cold than before.
“That way,” she nodded down the street. They all looked the same way.
“To the river,” muttered d’Artagnan.
“Thank you, Madam,” said Athos and bowed slightly. Madam Cygne nodded and disappeared quickly back into her house. Porthos noticed several pretty faces peeking at them through a window as they left.
“Should we tell his parents?” asked d’Artagnan, looking uncertain.
“Who? Matthieu’s parents?” asked Aramis. D’Artagnan nodded. “I don’t think so. Being murdered and thrown naked in the river is enough for now, I believe. No need to tell them about this.” He gestured to the house.
Porthos agreed. Let them hold on to their memory of a good son. But something still bothered him. “It’s just strange,” he muttered.
“What is?”
“His parents, his mentor, his friends. They all said he was dedicated to his work. Never spend a coin on… entertainment like this. It’s just strange.”
“Indeed,” said Athos and stoked his beard thoughtfully. “Maybe I should speak with his parents again. If he visited other houses regularly, they wouldn’t tell us even if they knew. Maybe they didn’t tell us other things.”
“True, but it’s a bit too late, don’t you think?” said Aramis. Dawn was still hours away.
“In the morning then,” said Athos.
“Want me to go with you?” Porthos asked. Athos smiled gratefully at him but shook his head.
“No, use the hours to sleep. The more of us who are rested, the better.”
“It’s settled then,” said Aramis and clapped his hands together. “We met in the garrison at eight in the morning. Agreed?”
They all agreed and walked together until they parted ways for their individual lodgings. Porthos walked with Athos to his home and bid his friend goodnight before heading out into the starting rain again, eager to get back to his own bed.
He would forever curse himself for having left Athos that night.